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From Kabul to California: Khaled Hosseini writes home away from home.

‘One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls’ — a Persian line quoted by Khaled Hosseini in his celebrated novel A Thousand Splendid Suns, to conjure an image of a Kabul he can no longer call home. Writing novels that primarily explore life in Afghanistan through time, Khaled Hosseini shares poetic visions of the country he was born into. The reality of his own experience however, has been one of separation and distance from his home nation. Being forced to seek asylum in the US as a teenager, Khaled Hosseini’s exile led him to pick up the pen and write his way back home. Today, he is an acclaimed author of four novels, raising awareness globally for the experiences of the people of Afghanistan, and displaced communities.

Khaled Hosseini was born on 4th March 1965, in Kabul, Afghanistan. The Afghanistan Hosseini was born into looks strikingly different from the Afghanistan we see in contemporary media today. At this time, Afghanistan was not engaged in any conflict, though this is not to say it was entirely stable. In 1973 the king was overthrown by prime minister and president Mohammad Daoud Khan, and Afghanistan became a non-democratic authoritarian republic. Between the sixties and early seventies, however, Kabul was considered a growing and liberated space. It was a popular destination for travellers, taking a spot on what was known as the ‘hippy trail.’ As a master of words himself, it is perhaps best to use his own to paint a picture of the country in 1965. In an interview with Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, Hosseini describes it as ‘a country at peace with itself [...] a growing, cosmopolitan city.’

In 1976, his father’s work at the Afghan Foreign Ministry prompted a relocation to the Afghan Embassy in Paris. At eleven, Hosseini found himself moving away from his home, expecting a temporary stay. Little did he know, a trip that was intended to last only four years, would result in the family never going back.

The Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan closed the door on any quick return. Beginning in December 1979, the Soviet Union took military and political control in Afghanistan, starting with Kabul and other parts of the country. The Soviet Union had become closely allied with the communist government in Afghanistan, and aimed to keep a communist grasp on the country in order to limit the influence of the US in the Middle East. However, the communist government was facing resistance from the largely Muslim anti-communist Mujahideen groups operating in rural regions. Fighting between these two groups produced one of the largest refugee movements of the twentieth century. For Hosseini’s family, it turned a temporary diplomatic posting into a permanent displacement.

The escalating tensions in Afghanistan made it impossible for Hosseini and his family to return home, and they had no choice but to divert their journey. Instead of heading to the Middle East, they swung west — Hosseini and his family sought political asylum in the US. Hosseini expresses in interviews that he believes himself and his family to have been more fortunate than many of the other Afghan refugees who fled the country at this time. Many of these individuals were placed in refugee camps in neighbouring Pakistan or given roles as labourers in Iran. Estimates for the era put total Afghan refugees and displaced persons in the mid-millions (commonly cited figures are roughly 5–6 million displaced overall, with around 2 million into Pakistan and about 1 million into Iran).

Hosseini settled in California, and found himself thrown into adolescence in a country where he couldn’t speak the language, and was forced to pick it up as he went. Moving into adulthood, Hosseini completed a BA in biology at Santa Clara University and later earned an MD from the University of California, San Diego. It was alongside his work as a doctor that he began storytelling. From speaking no English at 15, Hosseini not only picked up the language but mastered it, using it to give a voice to the experiences of people in Afghanistan.

Themes of displacement and diaspora remain central for Hosseini, and these find themselves becoming prominent in his work. His fiction career began with The Kite Runner (2003), followed by A Thousand Splendid Suns (2007) and And the Mountains Echoed (2013). Each of these explores themes of memory, connection, and the private costs of public violence. The Kite Runner focuses on the relationship between a privileged boy from Kabul and his friend against the backdrop of the tumultuous political climate of the country. The equally poignant A Thousand Splendid Suns takes a different perspective on life in Afghanistan: in this novel he turns to the female experience, a shift he later attributed to returning visits to Afghanistan in the early 2000s. His most recent novel about Afghanistan, And the Mountains Echoed, tracks similar themes through generations of an Afghan family. Looking at the entirety of his discography, Hosseini paints a vivid image both of the life he left behind in Afghanistan, and the aftermath of the various conflicts that have prevented him from returning home.

Using his pen to advocate not only for those living in Afghanistan, Hosseini has also engaged with refugee crises globally. In 2018, he published a short story titled Sea Prayer. This was inspired by the tragic death of Alan Kurdi, the three-year-old Syrian refugee who drowned in an attempt to cross the Mediterranean. Subsequently, this story takes the form of a letter from a father to a son, as they prepare to undertake a similar journey. Hosseini discusses the significance of this story with NPR:

“It speaks to the experience of so many refugee children, whether we’re talking about Syria or Afghanistan — an entire generation of children who are being raised amid turmoil and violence and war, and have no personal connection to the beauty and the richness of their country before all the turmoil began.”

With this text, Hosseini’s work has expanded from a sole focus on life in Afghanistan through time, to a wider reflection of the refugee experience. He frames displacement in a direct, accessible form aimed at a wide audience.

Beyond fiction, Khaled Hosseini works to change the lives of refugees through charitable means. Since 2006, he has been a part of the UN refugee agency, acting as a UNHCR Goodwill Ambassador. As part of this work, he has travelled globally to document the experiences of refugees, making field visits to Afghanistan, Lebanon, Italy, Uganda, Jordan, Chad, and Iraq. As well as this, in 2008 he established the Khaled Hosseini Foundation, an organisation dedicated to giving humanitarian aid to vulnerable groups in Afghanistan. Taking a particular focus on the protection of women and children, this foundation works to provide healthcare, education and shelter for families. Khaled Hosseini has both written stories demonstrating the need for global attention both to Afghanistan and the refugee experience more widely, and he continues to make efforts to enact this aid through his various humanitarian commitments. His humanitarian work and his books operate in tandem: the novels humanise large-scale suffering for international readers while his advocacy supports direct aid on the ground.

In this post Leya highlights the arty refugee experience of Khaled Hosseini. She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

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The article explores the long-term consequences of the Yazidi genocide after ISIS’s defeat in Iraq. It highlights ongoing displacement, contested identity, and unresolved questions of belonging, especially for women and children born in captivity. Despite legal recognition and rebuilding efforts, Sinjar remains fragile, with justice, trauma, and identity still deeply intertwined.

Where Do You Belong After Genocide? The Story of Yazidi Women and The Fight for their Home

In August 2014, ISIS stormed northern Iraq and launched a coordinated attack on the Yazidi community in Sinjar. Thousands were killed and more than 6,000 women and children were abducted. Entire villages disappeared within days. The United Nations later recognised the assault as genocide. Five years later, in March 2019, ISIS lost its final territorial hold and the self-declared caliphate collapsed. For much of the world, this marked the end of a chapter. Headlines moved on.

For the Yazidis, however, the story did not end there. Nearly a decade later, between 250,000 and 300,000 Yazidis remain in displacement camps across northern Iraq. Sinjar is still politically unstable and economically fragile. The war may have ended militarily, but the struggle over identity, justice, and belonging continues in everyday life.

The fall of ISIS removed the immediate existential threat. Families are no longer fleeing mountaintops and large-scale massacres have not returned. Yet stability in Sinjar remains uncertain. The 2020 Sinjar Agreement between the Iraqi federal government and the Kurdistan Regional Government was designed to unify security control and rebuild governance. In practice, progress has been uneven. Militias remain present, administrative authority is contested, and reconstruction projects move slowly. Electricity and water services function inconsistently in some districts. Many Yazidis hesitate to return without firm guarantees of long-term security and employment. Physical safety has improved, but political and economic stability still feel fragile.

To understand why rebuilding remains so complicated, you need to understand Yazidi identity itself. The Yazidis are an ancient ethno-religious minority with deep historical roots in Sinjar. Yazidism does not allow conversion. One is born into the faith, and belonging is inherited through lineage. Tribal affiliations and hereditary religious castes shape marriage, ritual participation, and community life. For centuries, these boundaries protected the Yazidis during repeated waves of persecution, including forced displacement under Saddam Hussein. Identity was never only cultural. It was a strategy for survival.

The genocide of 2014 fractured that protective structure. When women escaped ISIS captivity and returned home, the community faced a defining moment. In a landmark decision, Yazidi religious leaders publicly welcomed these women back into the faith. In many societies, survivors of sexual violence are blamed or excluded. That did not happen here. The decision signalled that what had been done to these women did not redefine who they were. Recognition, the basic human need to be seen and accepted, was restored in principle.

Yet reintegration also revealed a deeper tension. Some women returned with children born during captivity. Under traditional Yazidi religious law, belonging is determined by inherited lineage, and conversion is not recognised. This created a painful question that remains unresolved: can children fathered by ISIS fighters be considered Yazidi?

For many tribal and religious authorities, the answer remains no.

Supporters of this position frame it as preservation. Before 2014, the global Yazidi population was estimated at around half a million. Thousands were killed and many migrated permanently to Europe. After genocide, fears of demographic extinction intensify. Reinforcing lineage rules can feel like safeguarding survival. However, protection can clash with belonging.

For mothers raising these children, the debate is not abstract. It shapes daily life, from access to education and participation in religious ceremonies to social acceptance and future marriage prospects. Some women remain in displacement camps rather than return to villages where their children’s identity may be questioned. Others have migrated abroad, particularly to Germany, which now hosts the largest Yazidi diaspora outside Iraq. Tens of thousands have resettled there since 2014. Migration offers safety and opportunity, but it also transforms Sinjar’s future. Entire neighbourhoods remain underpopulated, and youth emigration slows economic recovery. Two decades from now, the social structure of Sinjar may look very different from what it once was.

The consequences of genocide are not only demographic. They are psychological. Studies estimate that between 70 and 90 percent of Yazidis suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. More than 90 percent of women who endured captivity experienced multiple forms of violence. Mental health professionals describe widespread depression, chronic anxiety, and survivor’s guilt. Suicide rates have risen in some communities. Trauma continues to shape parenting, relationships, and trust within the community.

At the same time, rebuilding is taking place. Women’s centres in displacement camps now serve as safe spaces for counselling, education, and vocational training. These centres do more than provide therapy. They rebuild confidence and restore connection. Research shows that empowerment through earning income, gaining education, and rebuilding social networks significantly reduces symptoms of PTSD and depression. When women open small businesses, complete literacy programmes, or mentor younger girls, recovery becomes visible. Survival gradually turns into agency, even if the process remains uneven.

Economic rebuilding, however, remains fragile. Agriculture, once central to Sinjar’s economy, was disrupted during ISIS occupation. Fields were destroyed or mined, and investment has been limited. Youth unemployment remains high. Camps originally intended to be temporary have become semi-permanent communities. Children who fled Sinjar in 2014 are now entering adulthood after spending formative years in displacement. Education has resumed in many areas, yet interruptions carry long-term consequences for economic mobility and stability.

Justice has become another crucial dimension of recovery. In 2021, Iraq passed the Yazidi Survivors’ Law, promising financial compensation and formal recognition for survivors of ISIS atrocities. The law represented an important institutional acknowledgment. However, implementation has been slow. Survivors often face bureaucratic obstacles when applying for compensation. Recognition exists legally, but delivery remains inconsistent.

International accountability efforts continue alongside domestic processes. Several European courts have prosecuted ISIS members for genocide and crimes against humanity. In contrast, many Iraqi trials focus primarily on terrorism charges rather than genocide classifications. The distinction is significant. Terrorism charges punish acts. Genocide charges acknowledge the intent to destroy a people. For survivors, naming the crime accurately is part of restoring dignity and affirming identity.

Nadia Murad, Nobel Peace Prize Laureate and Yazidi survivor, has played a central role in this global pursuit of justice. In conversation with the Cambridge Journal of Law, Politics, and Art, Murad emphasised that justice must extend beyond compensation. “We want accountability,” she said. For her, testimony itself is a form of justice, a way to preserve truth and confront denial. She has criticised the gap between international recognition and domestic enforcement, arguing that survivors deserve full legal acknowledgment of genocide. In this sense, justice is not only about punishment. It is about voice and about being heard.

Media coverage often freezes Yazidi women in the moment of violence. Research analysing UK newspapers found that they were frequently portrayed primarily as passive victims. That narrative overlooks the present. Today, Yazidi women are activists, educators, community organisers, and legal advocates. They speak at global forums, negotiate internal debates about identity, and lead grassroots initiatives in Sinjar and abroad. They are not only survivors. They are active participants in rebuilding their community.

Governance challenges continue to complicate progress. Political fragmentation between Baghdad and Kurdish authorities slows reconstruction. Armed groups retain influence in certain districts. Without unified governance, investment remains cautious and infrastructure rebuilding remains incomplete. Electricity, healthcare, and water systems operate inconsistently. Stability exists, but it remains delicate.

The Yazidi community now finds itself between two conflicts. The first was external and violently imposed by ISIS. The second is internal and structural, centred on identity and belonging. Protection seeks to preserve religious continuity that ensured survival for centuries. Adaptation acknowledges the realities shaped by genocide and displacement. Both impulses reflect the same instinct: endurance.

The deeper question facing Sinjar is not whether ISIS will return tomorrow. It is whether the community can rebuild the full spectrum of human needs, including safety, dignity, justice, participation, and belonging. Infrastructure can be reconstructed within years. Debates over identity may last generations.

The war ended in 2019, but the negotiation over belonging continues. Between preservation and change, Yazidi women remain at the centre of that negotiation. They are rebuilding homes, demanding accountability, supporting one another through trauma, and shaping the future of their community. Survival ensured continuity. The next few years will determine what that continuity becomes.

Accessed sources:

Ali, M.H. (2022). The Forced Displacement of Ethnic and Religious Minorities in Disputed Areas in Iraq: A Case Study of the Post-2014 Yazidi Minority. AlMuntaqa, [online] 5(1), pp.76–89. Available at: https://www.jstor.org/stable/48677172.

Hesford, W.S., Licona, A.C. and Teston, C. (2018). Precarious Rhetorics. [online] Ohio State University Press. doi:https://doi.org/10.2307/j.ctv1wsgqjn.

Lobanov-Rostovsky, S. and Kiss, L. (2022). The mental health and well-being of internally displaced female Yazidis in the Kurdistan Region of Iraq: a realist review of psychosocial interventions and the impact of COVID-19. Global Mental Health, 9, pp.508–520. doi:https://doi.org/10.1017/gmh.2022.55.

Nicolaus, P. and Yuce, S. (2017). SexSlavery: One Aspect of the Yezidi Genocide. Iran & the Caucasus, [online] 21(2), pp.196–229. doi:https://doi.org/10.2307/44631115.

Nicolaus, P. and Yuce, S. (2019). A Look at the Yezidi Journey to Selfdiscovery and Ethnic Identity. Iran & the Caucasus, [online] 23(1), pp.87–104. doi:https://doi.org/10.2307/26626714.

Sarac, B.N. (2020). UK Newspapers’ Portrayal of Yazidi Women’s Experiences of Violence under ISIS on JSTOR. Jstor.org, [online] 13. doi:https://doi.org/10.2307/26907413.

van Zoonen, D. and Wirya, K. (2017). Yazidism and its Community in Iraq. [online] JSTOR. Available at: https://www.jstor.org/stable/resrep13635.5.

Women for Women International (2024). A decade of transformation for Yazidi women but the Trauma continues | Women For Women. [online] Women for Women International. Available at: https://womenforwomen.org.uk/blog/yazidi-genocide-tenth-anniversary.

In this episode Diana discusses the post conflict experience of Yazidi Women and their issues with re integrating into society. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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Ten-year-old Marjane Satrapi saw Iran transform overnight during the 1979 Revolution. Forced into the veil and eventually exiled to Vienna, she struggled with racism and lost identity. Satrapi reclaimed her story through Persepolis. Her graphic memoir uses stark art and humor to turn personal trauma into a global symbol of resistance.

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How Marjane Satrapi Turned Revolution into a Global Story

In 1979, as Iran erupted into revolution, a ten-year-old girl watched her world change overnight. Schools closed. Veils became mandatory. Friends disappeared. The rules of everyday life from what to wear, what to say, even how to think, shifted under the weight of a new regime.

That girl was Marjane Satrapi. Years later, she would transform those memories into Persepolis, a graphic memoir that would become one of the most recognisable accounts of revolution, exile and identity in the modern world.

Today, Satrapi is a globally celebrated artist, filmmaker and writer. At the heart of her work lies her personal experience of displacement- not just from a country, but from a sense of belonging.

Childhood, Rebellion, and the First Loss

Before she became the voice behind Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi was a child standing in a prison visiting room, saying goodbye to her uncle for the last time. He had been imprisoned for his political beliefs and had chosen Satrapi as his final visitor before he was executed. Satrapi was only ten years old.

It’s a moment that lingers in Persepolis- not dramatised, not exaggerated, just quietly devastating. And it marks the point where childhood, for her, begins to fracture.

Satrapi was born in 1969 into a politically engaged, middle-class family in Tehran. Her parents were outspoken critics of authoritarian rule, deeply embedded in political life, and committed to raising a daughter who would question everything. Dinner table conversations were rarely small talk; they were about revolution, justice, and what kind of future Iran could become.

When the Iranian Revolution began, there was hope. Like many families, hers believed it might bring freedom. Instead, it ushered in a regime that quickly tightened its grip on everyday life.

For Satrapi, this shift wasn’t distant or abstract, it showed up at school, on the streets, in what she was allowed to wear. Her bilingual French school was shut down. The veil became mandatory. Rules multiplied overnight.

But if the regime demanded conformity, Satrapi pushed back in the only ways she could.

At school, she developed a reputation for being outspoken, stubborn, and, in her own way, rebellious. She challenged teachers, questioned authority, and refused to quietly accept the version of the world she was being handed.

In Persepolis, she doesn’t present herself as a passive observer of history. She is argumentative, curious, sometimes naive, but always thinking for herself. One moment she’s dreaming of becoming a prophet; the next, she’s debating politics with adults.

That tension, between innocence and defiance, is what makes her story so compelling.

At such a young age, Satrapi was trying to figure out something so complex: where she belonged. In a country that was rapidly changing, in a system that demanded obedience, and in a childhood that was slipping away faster than it should have.

Through her eyes, history doesn’t feel distant. It feels immediate, confusing, and deeply personal.

And that is where Persepolis begins.

Growing Up Under Fire

The situation worsened with the outbreak of the Iran-Iraq War in 1980. Bombings, air raid sirens, and constant fear of death became part of daily life. In Persepolis, Satrapi captures this reality with stark, simple imagery: black skies, crumbling buildings, and silent figures absorbing loss.

One of the most haunting moments in the memoir is the death of her friend’s family in a missile strike, depicted through the shocking image of her friend’s hand wearing a turquoise bracelet in the rubble. It is a reminder of how suddenly life could be erased.

Fearing for her safety and future, Satrapi’s parents made a difficult decision, they sent her to Vienna at the age of 14. It was an act of protection, but also the beginning of exile.

Sent Away at Fourteen

In Austria, Satrapi faced new struggles. Removed from her family, her language, and everything familiar, she found herself caught between worlds. At fourteen, she was expected to rebuild a life from scratch, navigating a culture that didn’t fully understand her and, at times, didn’t want to.

She faced racism, isolation, and the quiet pressure to assimilate. In Persepolis, she recalls hiding her Iranian identity to avoid judgement and then wrestling with the guilt that followed. If she distanced herself from where she came from, who did that make her?

This is where one of the central ideas of her work begins to take shape: identity is not something stable or fixed, but something constantly negotiated, especially in exile.

The reality of her life in Vienna was far from the idea of escape. She moved between unstable housing, experienced periods of homelessness, and struggled with depression. The freedom she had been sent to find often felt like abandonment.

Eventually, she returned to Iran. But home no longer felt like home.

Instead, she found herself in a space many refugees and migrants recognise- where home exists in two places, and yet in neither. Not entirely Iranian anymore, but never fully accepted as European either.

That in-between space- uncomfortable, unresolved, and deeply human- became central to Satrapi’s voice as an artist. It is what gives Persepolis its emotional depth, and what allows it to resonate far beyond her own story.

Persepolis and Humour in the Face of Oppression

Persepolis, first published in 2000, is not just a memoir, it is a political and cultural intervention.

At a time when Western narratives about Iran were dominated by headlines and stereotypes, Satrapi offered something radically different: a human story. Through black-and-white drawings and sharp, often humorous dialogue, she presented Iranians not as distant “others”, but as relatable humans living through extraordinary circumstances.

The visual style of Persepolis is deceptively simple. The bold, high-contrast illustrations strip scenes down to their emotional core. This simplicity makes the story accessible and universal. Readers are not overwhelmed by detail, instead they are drawn into the emotional truth of each moment.

Satrapi has said she chose the graphic novel format deliberately. mages, she believed, could communicate across cultures in ways words alone often could not.

One of the most striking aspects of Persepolis is its use of humour. Even in the darkest moments, Satrapi finds space for irony and wit.

She writes about buying illegal Western music on the black market, arguing with authority figures, and navigating the absurd contradictions of life under strict rule. These moments do not diminish the seriousness of her experiences, instead, they make them more real.

Humour becomes a form of resistance and a way of maintaining individuality in a system that demands conformity.

From Memoir to Global Impact

Persepolis has been translated into dozens of languages and is studied in classrooms around the world.

The success of Persepolis led to a film adaptation in 2007, which Satrapi co-directed. The film was nominated for an Academy Award and brought her story to an even wider audience.

Since then, Satrapi has continued to work across different media, including film and illustration. But Persepolis remains her most influential work, not only because of its artistic merit, but because of its timing and impact.

In a world increasingly shaped by migration and displacement, her story resonates with readers far beyond Iran. It speaks to anyone who has experienced the tension between home and elsewhere, between identity and expectation.

Why Her Story Matters Now

Satrapi’s work feels particularly relevant today. As tensions around Iran continue to surface in global headlines, conversations about the region are often reduced to politics, conflict, and statistics.

Persepolis pushes back against that, quietly, but powerfully, by restoring the human dimension.

In many ways, the world Satrapi writes about does not feel distant. The questions her work raises about freedom, control, belonging, and resistance, are still being lived in real time.

More broadly, global conversations around refugees and migrants continue to flatten lives into labels and numbers. Persepolis pushes back against that flattening of lives into labels, insisting instead on the messy, human reality behind them.

Importantly, Satrapi does not present herself simply as a victim. Her story is not one of passive suffering, but of agency. She questions authority, challenges norms, and ultimately tells her own story on her own terms.

By turning her life into art, Satrapi does something powerful; she reclaims control over how her story, and by extension the story of her country, is told. Instead of being spoken about, she speaks for herself.

That refusal to be simplified, to be reduced to a headline, is what gives Persepolis its lasting power.

Because while the context may evolve, the experience of displacement, of being misunderstood, of searching for home, remains strikingly unchanged.

And in telling that story, Satrapi asks readers not just to observe, but to understand.

References -

Satrapi, M. (2003) Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood. London: Vintage.

Satrapi, M. (2004) Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return. London: Vintage.

Satrapi, M. and Paronnaud, V. (2007) Persepolis [film]. France: Sony Pictures Classics.

NPR (2008) ‘Marjane Satrapi: Persepolis, Politics And Art’, NPR. Available at:

https://www.npr.org

(Accessed: 25 March 2026).

Chute, H. (2010) Graphic Women: Life Narrative and Contemporary Comics. New York: Columbia University Press.

In this UGC post Rebecca highlights the arty refugee experience of Marjane Satrapi. She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Like most conflicts and wars in the world, what most people see are footages of fallen buildings, collapsed roads, and displaced civilians. However, the lasting chronic impacts of wars often happen once the cameras leave; when societies are left to themselves with broken infrastructure and collapsed systems. Yemen’s story is no different. What began as a civil war in 2015 has now left Yemen with a chronic conflict, broken infrastructure, and a constant fight for survival.

Backstory

Before it’s too late!

When missiles stop firing and political leaders stop making statements about the kinetic conflicts and military strategic objectives, unfortunately, these conflicts stop making news on global headlines. This article tries to look at how Yemen has been surviving the impacts of the conflict which now seldom receives the footage on global news, but still very much struggles to survive.

One country, two economies, both failed.

After the Yemeni Internationally Recognised Government (IGR) relocated its operations from Sana’a to Aden, Yemen is split into two parallel economies. The split in the Central Bank of Yemen and consequent running of two parallel economies has had a strong impact on Yemen’s economy. The World Bank’s 2025 Yemen Economic Monitor reveals that the GDP is projected to decline by 1.5% in the financial year 2025-26 (World Bank Group, 2025). As of June 2025, the price of a basic food basket was 26 percent higher than a year earlier (ibid). As of September 2025, only 19 percent of the USD 2.5 billion required under the UN Humanitarian Response Plan for Yemen had been funded, marking the lowest level in over a decade (ibid). With limited donor support, high food prices, and shrinking job opportunities, more than 60 percent of households in both IRG- and Houthi-controlled areas report inadequate food consumption, with many resorting to negative coping mechanisms such as begging (ibid).

Before the conflict, Yemen imported up to 90% of its food. Commercial banks facilitated transactions for these crucial economic activities. These basic economic activities are no longer done by commercial banks. Informal and unregulated credit chains which not just extract value at every stage of business but also every basic transaction is the unfortunate reality, and evidence to the broken system that Yemen functions in.

Honey trade, which is one of the most pursued occupations in Yemen is severely affected by this. The markets and buyers for the Sidr honey, which is a premium commodity in European markets very much exist, but the structure to support the running of this business does not. The question, therefore, is not whether economic activity exists in Yemen. It is whether that activity is building anything or is it simply the sound of people running to stay in the same place.

What does the honey and the cooperative tell us

Hadhramaut produces between 30 to 40% of Yemen’s total honey output (Live Beekeeping, 2025). The Sidr honey that comes from here is one of the most premium commodities in European as well as Gulf markets.

The beekeepers who produce it have organised themselves into cooperatives. Not because cooperation is an ideology, but because it is a survival strategy. A Hadhramaut beekeeper individually has no negotiating power with a Gulf buyer. Collectively, they can set a floor price. They pool risk, that is, if one member’s supplies fail because of displacement or illness, the group absorbs it. They run informal credit chains between each other because formal credit does not exist. They sell through diaspora networks in Saudi Arabia and the UAE because the formal export infrastructure has collapsed. On the surface, it appears like an impressive success story in the middle of a war. It is rather a survival effort to survive a failed system. This ecosystem is fragile and the prospects of its sustainability are rather bleak.

Labour trauma

The people building Yemen’s economy are the same people who lived through its destruction. Participation in these cooperatives is uneven. Members support each other because everyone is facing displacement, illness care responsibilities and trauma. Economic participation here does not mean recovery; it is a daily fight for survival.

The disappearing floor

A significant portion of Yemen’s economic activity runs on humanitarian aid. This is not real market, and it is shrinking too, as discussed above. These cuts are landing on the communities that were trying to build on these aids.

The generation that is growing in the gap

Nearly half of Yemeni children under five suffer from stunting, a chronic malnutrition disease (UNICEF, 2024). In 2025, 3.7 million children aged 5 to 17 are out of school. Those still attending endure overcrowded classrooms with teachers who are overworked, unsupported, and unpaid since 2016 in the northern areas of Yemen. In addition, 94.7 per cent of 10-year-olds in Yemen are unable to read or understand a simple text, an issue called learning poverty (United Nations Yemen, 2025).

When the A4R talks about what happens 20 years down the road, this is what we are talking about. These children are already on the road.

What resilience looks like

The cooperative model looks like a silver line amidst all of this, to some extent it is, but its sustainability is fragile. Resilience in Yemen is not a triumph story, but an account of daily thrive for survival. The cooperative is trying to compensate for missing banks, missing roads, missing certification and documentation bodies- something that does not come in its ambit. The centuries long knowledge of beekeeping is still being passed on, but with diminished prospects of recovery.

Resilience in Yemen does not look like hope. It looks like a group of traders deciding, again, to show up, because the alternative is not showing up at all.

What comes next?

Tomorrow, the Hadhramaut beekeeper will reopen his stall. He will continue to sell his honey through unofficial routes that shouldn’t be necessary, at prices that should be higher, within a system that ought to function better. He has done this for years, so many, that most people outside Yemen have lost track. The central question this article cannot resolve, the one that underlies everything: how long a survival mechanism can stand in for the infrastructure needed for genuine recovery? How much longer until informal credit collapses? Until diaspora support dwindles? Until the generation who remembers pre-2015 Yemen disappears? Yemen does not need pity from the world; it needs enduring, informed, and honest attention. Not the fleeting concern of crisis headlines, but a sustained commitment to understanding what it means to survive without the systems that true survival demands. The honey remains excellent and the beekeeper knows this already. The real question is whether those responsible for rebuilding the systems around him will recognize this before it’s too late.

References

Live Beekeeping. (2025, October). Why Yemeni honey is expensive, how to choose it, and whether it is worth buying. Live Beekeeping. https://livebeekeeping.com/honey/yemeni-honey/

Pragma. (2020). Economic Recovery and Livelihoods Program (ERLP) – Pragma. Pragmacorp.com. https://pragmacorp.com/erlp/

UNICEF. (2024, March 26). 9 years into the conflict in Yemen, millions of children are malnourished and stunted. Www.unicef.org. https://www.unicef.org/press-releases/9-years-conflict-yemen-millions-children-are-malnourished-and-stunted

United Nations Yemen. (2025). UNICEF Yemen: Providing safe learning space for children in Yemen. Yemen. https://yemen.un.org/en/294567-unicef-yemen-providing-safe-learning-space-children-yemen

Wabar, M. B. (2024, January 8). Yemeni Honey Production: An Ancient Craft Drawing Modern Attention. The Washington Institute. https://www.washingtoninstitute.org/policy-analysis/yemeni-honey-production-ancient-craft-drawing-modern-attention

World Bank Group. (2025, November 18). Economic Hardship Deepens in Yemen. World Bank; World Bank Group. https://www.worldbank.org/en/news/press-release/2025/11/17/economic-hardship-deepens-in-yemen

In this episode Sameeran discusses the expereince of Yemeni expereince of rebuolding their country and their lives. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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Ciao Trailblazers,

30 GenZ from War Studies Department at King’s College, London, were accepted on to our vocational training programme this month. Yup, that’s another 30. So far this year that bring the overall numbe to 62. Compared to last 2 years 100 for the full 12 months.

During their time with us they completed a professional journalism course like professional journalists normally would during their careers. Thanks to Thomson Foundation - they can access this training at no cost themselves. To complete their vocational training with us the Vibers then use the learnings to research and write about what happens when the war ends. How the communties are rebulding to themselves. What kind ofgrassroots iniavtivs are evolving to help people take owernship of their own lives.

Some of the feedback from the Vibers -

This time thes Vibers also got to chance to write for Impact Entrepreneur Magazine as well. This allows them the oppurtunity to get their articles published in an industry magazine as well. Well, so did the last team I hear you say? Yup, but now we are out of the test phase of this relationship with Impact Entrepreneur Magazine. 14+ articles were submitted to the magazine. Can’t wait to share them with you once posted. They cover some really interesting topics on how jobs and wealth are being created in these communties.

Here are some of the Vibers -

Your move now:
👇 Read, react, and tell us which story hits hardest
🔥 Best responses get featured
👀 And yes—top contributors get priority access to the next cohort

If you know someone who should be part of this—send this to them.

This isn’t just content.
It’s Gen Z tranforming into Vibers. They are rewriting how the world understands what happens after conflict. So, don’t be shy.

Raw & Real from GenZ - unfiltered updates

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Don’t forget to scale our impact we need your support. You can make a direct donation - these are tax deductible only for US tax payers at the moment. Start here.

It’s great to have you with us along this journey. Till next month — enjoy our vibers work along the way. 😊

With gratitude,

Zufi, Michael & the Vibers.

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The Unhealed Wound: Living Among the Killers in the Shadow of Srebrenica’s Graves

Drive three hours east of Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia-Herzegovina, and you’ll come across a small, rather non-descript town nested in the dip of a valley. Its houses are capped with red-tiled roofs, and the bell towers and minarets that crown its shabby skyline appear tiny beneath the watchful mountains. Dusty streets meander past derelict buildings and café terraces where old men sit around rickety tables, sipping Turkish coffee and taking languid draws on cigarettes. A little ways away from the town, rows on rows of white gravestones march up a gentle slope. Beside them, giant slabs of marble rattle off the names of the dead.

This is Srebrenica. In the 1990s, its name became a byword for hatred, horror, death and destruction. In July 1995, Serbian forces cordoned the town off from the rest of the world, massacred some 8,000 Muslim men and dumped the corpses into shallow graves. The Srebrenica massacre is the most famous of many communal killings that took place over the course of the Bosnia War, which pitted Orthodox Serbs against Muslim Bosniaks. The war in Bosnia was one of the many spasms of violence that accompanied the downfall of Yugoslavia, a multi-ethnic, pluriconfessional communist republic in the Balkans that ended up fissuring along ethnic lines. A peace agreement signed in Dayton, Ohio, in 1995 put a lid on the conflict by inventing a new country, Bosnia and Herzegovina, which it divided into two administrative regions: the Federation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, populated mostly by Bosnian Muslims, and the Republika Srpska, populated mostly by Orthodox Serbs.

For thirty years, the peace has held. But Bosnia remains a divided society. The central government is largely ineffectual, and its decisions are subject to the scrutiny of an unelected, foreign-appoined High Commissioner, empowered to strike down laws and fire ministers. Ethnic spats are not uncommon. A more authoritarian, Russia-friendly Serbian government has galvanised separatist movements in Republika Srpska, barring the road to greater integration with Western Europe. For many Bosnians, the wounds of 1995 are still raw. Resurfaced allegations that wealthy clients paid Serbian officials to go on human safaris in Sarajevo has caused an umpteenth re-examination of the ethnic violence many wish to brush aside.

Srebrenica embodies the contradictions of the Bosnian peace and the difficulties of healing a nation in trauma. Thirty years have passed since the slaughter, and in some respects, the town has not changed much since the pre-war days. Orthodox children still pile into church for Sunday mass, and the muezzin’s voice rings out high and clear over the terracotta tiles. But much of what was destroyed in the war has never been rebuilt. Bombed-out apartment blocks slouch along the dusty high street; giant holes in their walls gape where the windows once were. Restitution for property damage has never been paid. Corruption and neglect trap reconstruction efforts in slow molasses.

Other troubles loom. Despite being a majority Muslim Bosniak town, Srebrenica is located deep within Republika Srpska, near the border with Serbia. Its population, thousands-strong before the Bosnian War, has shrivelled to a mere 800. Since the war’s end, ethnic Serbs have peopled the houses abandoned by fleeing Bosniaks, heightening the sense of isolation among the Bosniaks who have remained. Young people have trickled away, enticed by better prospects in Berlin, London and Paris, and left an old, poor population. When the town’s population does swell into the thousands, it is on July 11. That, families gather at the Srebrenica Genocide Memorial, before those interminable rows of obelisk-shaped gravestones. Often, they come together to rebury what remains of their dead loved ones–a bone, a spare leg. Tensions with Serb officials flare around this time, as much of the Serbian leadership and population deny that the killings took place, or glorify it in song. The leader of Republika Srpska, Milorad Dodik, referred to the killings as an “arranged tragedy,” and a hacker renamed the Genocide Memorial to “Ratko Mladić Park” on Google Maps. As head of the Army of Republika Srpska, Ratko Mladić personally oversaw the killings at Srebrenica. He is currently serving a life sentence at The Hague for genocide and crimes against humanity.

Where justice and retribution exist, they are limited and minimal. Many of the leaders of the Republika Srpska forces faced trial and imprisonment, usually by international tribunals. Soldiers who took part in the massacres, however, often got off scott free, or overturned their convictions on appeal. Some 100,000 Bosnian children were born of war rapes, fathered by rampaging Serbian soldiers who seldom faced any punishment for the exactions they took on Bosnian women. Abandoned, some of these children–like Alen Muhic, the subject of a profile in Le Monde–were taken in by other families and cut off from their native communities.

In processing group trauma, memory plays a crucial role. Recovered artefacts, testimonies, photographs and journals firmly ground the atrocities in the realm of fact. Take an obvious example: as his forces liberated Buchenwald concentration camp, U.S. army general Dwight Eisenhower ordered his men to meticulously document the horrors, so that there could be no doubt as to the nature or severity of Nazi crimes. Museums, memorials and exhibitions serve not only to collect and pass down the knowledge of crimes; they also exist as loci of remembrance and healing. For victims and perpetrators, and their relatives and descendants, these memorials offer the opportunity to decant their sorrow, shock, grief, guilt, anger and hatred into a collective memory-building project.

But when one side–the perpetrators–refuses to admit its role in the killings, the healing can only ever be half complete. Serbian leaders’ refusal to own up to their history means that the Muslims of Srebrenica, engulfed by Orthodox Serbs, are forced to live alone with the grief, anger and resentment of having survived the killings, or of having lost family members to them. Some Bosniaks have chosen to return to their old villages, braving encounters with Serbian neighbours who participated in atrocities against their people. Their anger–against their Serb neighbours, of course, but also against the Dutch-led UN troops that stood by as Bosniaks were being massacred–still simmers. But the fraught political situation means that the remaining Bosniaks have to go about commemorating carefully. The Genocide Memorial has been threatened with bombs, and closed on various occasions, on orders of the Republika Srpska government.

That is the situation of the Bosniaks who stayed. Other Bosniaks have gone away for good, leaving Srebrenica and its rows of obelisk-shaped gravestones to the ghosts.

In this episode Baybars discusses the post conflict experience of Srebrenica and the "half-complete" healing process of a nation where the physical scars of war remain visible. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

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Brushstrokes of Resilience: Marwan Mousa’s Journey from Refugee to Artist

It is the 15th of March, 2011. The air in Damascus is dry- Syria is undergoing its worst drought in modern history. The dry heat is perfect kindling for the firestorm of dissent that is about to explode in Syria. In protest of Bashar Al-Assad’s government, and despite the regime’s anti-demonstration laws, hundreds of protesters are gathering in Damascus, Aleppo, and other major cities. They are protesting the arrest and torture of a group of teenagers who painted revolutionary slogans on a school wall. Before long, the protests are violently dispersed- state security forces attack and detain men, women and children. A 10-year-old boy is detained alongside his father. The police have opened fire on protesters, and by the end of the day, 3000 people have been detained. Some are known to have been killed, although official figures are hard to come by. The next day, protests erupt again. The protests grow, and the extreme police force only strengthens resolve. By July, the protests are hundreds of thousands strong. These protests are the foundation for what will become the Syrian civil war.

Marwan Mousa was born in 1967 in northeastern Syria. His family is Kurdish, the largest ethnic minority in Syria. In spite of their prevalence, they are routinely subject to discrimination. In 1962, in a highly controversial move, the government stripped 20% of Syria’s Kurdish population of citizenship after claims that Kurds from Turkey were illegally migrating to Syria, although evidence for this is unclear. A process of registration was enforced on the Kurdish population, leading to up to 200,000 ‘stateless’ Kurds denied citizenship. Roughly 500,000 stateless Kurds live in Syria today, with no access to education, limited employment opportunities, and an inability to emigrate due to lack of documentation. By 1973, areas with majority Kurdish populations were being resettled under government plans to ‘Arabise’ Syria, involving the replacement of Kurdish place names with Arabic ones, and the deporting of 140,000 Kurds to a southern desert region.

The erasure of Kurdish culture continued, often through violence. In March 1986, a few thousand Kurds gathered in Damascus, wearing traditional dress, celebrating Newroz, a Kurdish new-year festival. Police fired on the crowd, killing one, and at a similar celebration in Afrin, three Kurds were killed. The government would later ban Newroz festivities. In 2011, against a backdrop of anti-government protest, Kurdish politician and advocate Mashaal Tammo was killed. It is not entirely clear who is responsible for his death, but at his funeral procession, when 50,000 people gathered in Qamishli to mourn, police opened fire on the crowd, killing five.

The Syrian civil war was a vast and complex conflict, with numerous factions and interest groups fighting for their own interests. The historically disenfranchised Kurdish population of Syria participated in this.

The conflict disrupted the life and livelihood of Marwan Mousa, a husband and father of four. He owned a cellphone repair shop in Syria, but the war soon forced him and his family into exile. In 2013, Mousa and his family fled to Iraqi Kurdistan, a majority-Kurd region, where they spent two years in a refugee camp. While they were safe from the Syrian civil war, times were still incredibly challenging. Iraqi Kurdistan faced extreme repression, and the Kurds suffered genocide under Saddam Hussein during the 1988 Anfal and Halabja military campaigns. In late 2012, tensions rose along the autonomous Kurdish border, resulting in skirmishes between state and Kurdish forces. However, beyond the political tensions, times were particularly tough for Mousa and his family. They lived in a tent in the camp for two years, during which time Mousa began to create art. One of his paintings from the period depicts their tent, reflecting the struggles of living in a refugee camp, “especially in the winter, when the conditions are really bad.”

Beyond the difficulties of the camp, the family faced a pressing medical issue. Mousa’s son, Mohammed, was suffering from Thalassemia, a genetic blood disease that leads to a lack of hemoglobin, an enlarged spleen, and brittle bones, making individuals more susceptible to infections and broken bones. Treatment is costly and demanding, requiring regular blood transfusions, chelation therapy (the removal of excess iron from the blood), and sometimes stem cell treatment. Mousa was unable to access his son’s much-needed treatment in their refugee camp in Iraq.

In 2016, Marwan Mousa and his family were resettled in the UK under the Syrian Vulnerable Persons Resettlement Scheme, which was launched in 2014 to bring high-risk people from Syria to the UK. This involved “people requiring urgent medical treatment, survivors of violence and torture, and women and children at risk.” In 2015, the scheme was expanded to resettle 20,000 Syrians in the UK. Mousa and his family were resettled in Belfast, becoming part of the 632 Syrian refugees in Northern Ireland. The journey was crucial for Mohammed, who was able to access treatment.

Mousa began creating art in Iraq. Once in Belfast, however, his artwork became both richer and more joyful. His son was receiving treatment, his family had a home, and the local council supported their integration into Northern Ireland. While the family was being supported by the children’s charity Barnardo’s, Mousa’s work was introduced to Deirdre Mackel, an arts programme manager at a Belfast trust supporting marginalised groups. Through Mackel, Mousa was able to put on his first exhibition in Belfast in 2017. He put on another at St Mary’s University College, Belfast in August of 2017, displaying paintings that reflected the difficulties of life in Syria and the refugee experience. He has continued to paint since then, putting on another exhibition in September of 2019.

He has also contributed to the Belfast community by volunteering with Action Ability, a group supporting disabled people in the city. He attends their art classes, helping young people with painting.

Marwan Mousa’s story is one of resilience. In spite of the difficulties he has faced, he has made a home for him and his family in Belfast, where he indulges his passion for art and passes it onto others.

In this post Camille highlights the arty refugee experience of Marwan Mousa She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

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Following the 2024 conflict, Lebanon faces a profound mental health crisis. Severe trauma, displacement, and re-traumatization affect millions, especially children. Recovery is hindered by destroyed infrastructure, "brain drain," and cultural stigma. To ensure long-term stability, the government must prioritize sustainable mental health reform over temporary NGO-led aid.

Healing Lebanon: Addressing Trauma and Mental Health Challenges During Post-Conflict Recovery

From October 1st to November 27th 2024, Israeli forces launched an invasion into Lebanon as part of its escalating conflict and eventual war with Hezbollah over a year-long period. A ceasefire was subsequently brokered between the two parties. Many are hopeful that the ceasefire will become permanent and will prevent further destruction, injury and death in Lebanon. However, Lebanon faces a difficult future ahead, with a severe mental health crisis on its hands. If the ceasefire becomes permanent – or, if not, then when the war concludes – what mental health challenges does Lebanese society face, and what pathways can it take to recover?

The immediate post-conflict challenges: Physical injuries and healthcare infrastructure in ruins

As of November 25^th 2024, the Lebanese Ministry of Health has reported 3768 deaths and 15,699 injured since the beginning of tensions in October 2023, most of which occurred after tensions escalated into war. The destruction of Lebanon’s medical infrastructure was particularly severe. On November 26^th, the Lebanese Ministry of Health reported that 222 healthcare workers had been killed and 67 hospitals had been attacked. As of November 15^th, Israeli attacks had damaged 40 hospitals and 249 emergency vehicles, and eight hospitals are non-functional due to critical damage.

Rebuilding Lebanon’s healthcare infrastructure and providing treatment for physical health and immediate injuries are obvious first steps towards recovery. However, to sufficiently support Lebanese society with their health and with healing in the long-term, the government must also examine and prioritise Lebanon’s troubling mental health crisis.

Lebanon’s post-conflict mental health crisis in children and adults

Beyond physical injuries and their compromised physical health, the war in Lebanon has also culminated in a major mental health crisis, especially in terms of trauma, among civilians.

The war has been particularly traumatising to children and adolescents. The forced closure of schools has deprived them of education, and they are forced to grapple with a lack of basic necessities such as food and water, scenes of violence and the sudden deaths of family members and friends. Younger children, who experience trauma differently due to an inability to express their feelings, can suffer from long-term issues in their development, such as poor cognitive development and behavioural issues. Parents have described their children as having grown up quickly to deal with the death and destruction.

Displacement is also a traumatising experience to both children and adults: a UN report estimates that 1.5 million people were displaced from their homes as a result of airstrikes, which includes 400,000 children. Displacement and the experience of being a refugee have been linked to higher rates of PTSD. The slightest sounds remain triggering to traumatised individuals, who are constantly on edge and prepared to flee, fearful that they could be hit at any moment.

Re-traumatisation in Lebanon and a lack of mental health services

Lebanon’s history of previous wars within living memory creates an added layer of complexity to mental health problems. Lebanese people who lived through the Israeli invasions in 1978, 1982 and 2006 and the Lebanese Civil War (1975 – 1990), as well as Syrian and Palestinian refugees in Lebanon who have fled violence and war, speak of being re-traumatised by the 2024 war. Prior to the 2024 war, studies have found that a quarter of the population was suffering from at least one psychiatric disorder, such as anxiety and depression, and especially PTSD (25%) linked to war trauma. We can expect these rates to be even higher in the aftermath of the 2024 war.

Re-traumatisation will have undone any progress achieved in healing or learning to cope with trauma, anxiety and depression, which was already a difficult process in Lebanon. Previous post-conflict reconstruction efforts by the Lebanese government appear to have focused primarily on physically rebuilding and upgrading infrastructure, such as the Downtown Beirut restoration and upgrade project with Solidère, which began within four years of the end of the Civil War. The government has largely overlooked and delayed reshaping Lebanon’s healthcare system to provide for the newly emerging need for accessible mental health services among Lebanese citizens post-conflict, which will now once again be critical. Public services funded by the government for mental health did not really exist before 2013 despite repeated traumatic wars in Lebanon; mental health, instead, fell to private practitioners. This situation highlights how mental health has largely been neglected during post-conflict periods in Lebanon.

Affordability is a major barrier to accessing existing public mental health services in Lebanon, as these services are mostly only available through these private practitioners that can be expensive, as the government only provides small subsidies for private care. The limited public services that exist – and are restricted to three hospitals – are riddled with problems, from receiving poor government funding amid Lebanon’s economic crisis (only 1% of government funds are allocated to mental health services) to a lack of trained professionals (particularly due to the emigration of professionals abroad for better opportunities, a phenomenon known as brain drain). NGOs, such as Embrace Lebanon, have previously stepped in to fill the large gaps in Lebanon’s mental health services. However, NGOs can only provide temporary relief, as their services are not widely accessible due to limitations in funding and their capacity. These limitations make it difficult to address psychological needs and fill the gaps in Lebanon’s mental health services on a sustainable, long-term basis.

Trauma is a double-edged sword. Individuals and communities suffering from poor mental health face higher rates of poverty, which can further entrench Lebanon’s economic crisis, thus worsening poverty. In turn, impoverished people also face higher rates of poor mental health, creating a vicious cycle that exacerbates both poverty and mental suffering. Lebanon’s need to address its mental health crisis post-conflict is urgent to also bolster their economic recovery as a society.

The issue of stigma

Access to mental healthcare in Lebanon is hindered by the stigma that surrounds mental illness and treatment on different levels.

On a religious and cultural level, it is typical for someone who is struggling to consult a religious leader for advice or to consult religious passages and deepen their prayers for comfort and alleviation. While these strategies may help, some find it difficult to accept that therapy and mental health services can also support someone who is struggling and can be undertaken alongside religious methods.

On a social level, discussing mental health issues is still not as widely normalised in Lebanon as in other parts of the world. Culturally, seeking professional mental health support, as opposed to turning to family and community, is also not as common in many Arab societies, where external support is sometimes viewed as a Western approach. MSF, which is currently providing emergency support in Lebanon, has observed that people are reluctant to speak about their mental struggles.

Gender conventions also contribute to the stigma surrounding men’s mental health in Lebanon. Traditional cultural norms emphasise masculinity, often interpreting it as the need to be emotionally and mentally strong. As a result, seeking professional mental health support may sometimes be seen as a sign of weakness or contrary to ideas surrounding masculinity. This stigma creates additional barriers to accessing mental health support in Lebanon. However, the Lebanese government has recently made efforts to challenge these stigmatic beliefs, including through the launch of the National Mental Health Strategy in June 2024.

Situating government mental health initiatives at the centre of post-conflict recovery

In terms of Lebanon’s immediate needs – rebuilding or restoring healthcare centres and providing emergency support surrounding physical care – NGOs and foreign governments have already mobilised the relevant aid.

As for mental health, it is NGOs that have so far taken the first steps in assisting civilians in Lebanon. MSF is providing services such as therapy sessions and hotlines with specialists. War Child, an initiative that has been providing mental health support to affected children through play, is currently the only organisation providing specialist support for children with war trauma. However, overreliance on NGOs beyond the short-term cannot address Lebanon’s long-term mental health needs, especially as donations and aid tend to dwindle once the emergency recovery period ends.

While it is too early to expect the Lebanese government to fully address the current mental health crisis, especially given the country’s already fragile state following the Israeli invasion, the uncertainty surrounding the ceasefire’s permanence and severe economic crisis, the 2024 war has undeniably exposed critical gaps in public mental health services. These gaps, alongside the lack of development in public mental health infrastructure during past post-conflict recovery efforts, highlight the urgent need for reform and development.

The upcoming recovery process presents an opportunity for Lebanon to prioritise and integrate mental health support into its post-conflict policies, especially as seeking mental health support has become more widely accepted globally and especially among young people, with initiatives already in place to support destigmatisation in Lebanon. The international community must rally together to support Lebanon financially in this task. Situating mental health support at the heart of Lebanon’s long-term post-conflict recovery plans can help to address long-standing issues, improve the well-being of civilians in Lebanon, and circumvent the cycle of poverty and mental suffering born out of trauma.

In this episode Tasneem discusses the mental challenges Lebanon faces in the aftermath of its civil war. She is a student journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services. This article was edited using Lex.page. Image with Napkin Ai.

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Jafar Panahi’s 2025 Cannes victory for It Was Just an Accident cements his legacy as a defiant auteur. Despite decades of Iranian state censorship, imprisonment, and filming bans, Panahi continues to shoot clandestine, innovative cinema. His work remains a powerful tool of political resistance, demanding freedom and national unity.

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Jafar Panahi: cinema as resistance

“It is very difficult to speak,” Jafar Panahi confessed, standing on stage at the Cannes Film Festival last year. Indeed, when the director came to be awarded the Palme d’Or for his 2025 film It Was Just an Accident (Yek tasadof-e-sade), the audience’s reaction made up for his own reticence. The 65-year-old was met with an almost eight-minute standing ovation - to which he responded by basking in the moment with his hands behind his head.

To the many Iranians watching, both in the Grand Théȃtre and across the world, the applause was the recognition of, not simply a single film, but a broader struggle against decades of censorship after the 1979 Islamic Revolution. Following the inauguration of the Islamic Republic, many predicted that new restrictions would kill Iranian cinema. Instead, it is recognised today as one of the most innovative and distinctive film industries - formed of adversity and necessitating extraordinary measures in order to escape the deadening hand of state repression.

For this we have Jafar Panahi - and his illustrious forebears, such as Abbas Kiarostami and Mohsen Makhmalbof - to thank. Of the world’s currently active filmmakers, only he has won the Golden Bear at Berlin (Taxi, 2015), the Golden Lion at Venice (The Circle, 2000), and now the 2025 Palme d’Or at Cannes. Yet not only does Panahi boast creative mastery, but political zeal too, having participated in virtually every anti-government movement in Iran and been imprisoned several times.

Much of Panahi’s acceptance speech struck an activistic tone, as he urged his compatriots to unite: “What’s most important now is our country and the freedom of our country,” he said, “Let us join forces. No-one should dare tell us what kind of clothes we should wear, what we should do, or what we should not do.” This demand carries the weight of Panahi’s own resistance, exhibited throughout his career, and reflects his own defiance of Iran’s authorities.

Unsurprisingly, this stance is maintained in the darkly absurdist fable, It Was Just an Accident. “It really begins,” Panahi explains, “with a small sound: a prosthetic leg tapping against the outskirts of Tehran.” Vahid (Vahid Mobasseri), a diffident mechanic and former political prisoner, stiffens. He recognises the limp as belonging to the interrogator - dubbed ‘Peg Leg’ because of the distinctive squeak of his prosthetic limb - who once tortured him in captivity. Or so he believes - the rest of the film captures his anxious attempts to determine whether this is true or not.

It is really the final scene which lingers, long after you have left the dark enclosure of the auditorium and returned to reality. We see Vahid’s van parked somewhere remote. We hear the sound of a prosthetic leg. Is it the oppressor’s? Real or imagined? Has he escaped? As we ponder, the film cuts. Vengeance collapses under its own weight, and the film refuses to resolve - instead settling into an ambiguity that sets up more universal questions about the peace after bloody vengeance.

The Cannes-winning film, Panahi’s first since he was released from the notorious Evin Prison in 2022, was shot without an official permit and filmed almost entirely in secret. It also contains scenes with women who aren’t wearing the hijab, outward defiance against a mandatory dress code established after the 1979 Iranian Revolution.

Panahi’s connection to Cannes is long-standing. His debut feature, The White Balloon (1995) won the Camera d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival, conferring the early recognition that enabled him to bear and nourish the dual status of auteur and democracy campaigner. In a 2018 interview with Jamsheed Akhrami, he spoke about the incompatibility between independent filmmakers and the Iranian state authority: “We have always”, he said, “tried to avoid the government and shield ourselves from its interference. But the hardliners have failed to silence independent filmmakers. When they’ve kicked us out the door, we’ve jumped back in through the window to do what we needed to do.”

In 2009, Panahi’s incarceration while shooting a film about Iran’s street protests provoked international uproar, forcing the government to release him. In 2010 he was arrested again, with the court issuing a six-year prison sentence along with a 20-year ban on filmmaking and travel outside of Iran.

Far from being deterred, Panahi has recrafted his practice under these new penalties. Since the ban, he has completed six feature-length films and several shorter works; under varying degrees of restriction, they often use confined interiors, nonprofessional actors and skeleton crews. This Is Not a Film (2012) - shot on a digital camcorder and iPhone for just €3200 - and Closed Curtain (2014) were filmed entirely indoors, while Taxi (2015) unfolds solely within the confines of a car. Nowadays, all of Panahi’s films released after 2000 have been effectively banned from official release in Iran; he now works clandestinely to find channels for international exhibition - one being smuggling films out of the country on a USB thumb drive.

In December 2025, the government sentenced Panahi “in absentia, to one year of imprisonment, two years of prohibition from leaving the country, and a ban on membership in any political or social groups or organizations, on the charge of propaganda against the regime,” his lawyer said in a statement on X. However, he still vows to return to Iran - where both his mother and son still live. During last year’s Cannes Film Festival, he told EL PAÍS: “I will return home. It may sound strange to you, but the Iranian people have much more at stake. The most important thing is our country and achieving its freedom.”

So, when Jafar Panahi confesses, “It is very difficult to speak,” his remark resonates beyond the nerves of an awards stage. Rather, he speaks for a nation enduring a wave of merciless destruction - a nation whose true representatives are not in the corridors of power, but in the society that their art reflects.

In this post Camille highlights the arty refugee experience of Marwan Mousa She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Côte d’Ivoire is replacing colonial street names with local figures to foster national unity following decades of civil conflict. While critics cite the $17 million cost, the project aims to boost economic development through formal addressing and replace French linguistic dominance with Ivoirian pride, reclaiming the nation's post-colonial identity.Change on the Streets of Abidjan: A New World Approaches

There’s a photo. One man balances on a ladder. Another, standing below, holds up a new road sign to be drilled into place. Others watch on as the placard is carefully lifted and positioned. Avenue Noel Nemin it reads - Côte d’Ivoire’s minister for Justice between 1987 and 1990. His name replaces one of a colonial official now lost to history. This is just one example of a wider road renaming programme, which aims to generate national unity and to boost the country’s growth and development.

Until 2002, Côte d’Ivoire was the leading economic force in West Africa. However, in September of that year a coup erupted, splitting the country along North/South lines. The election of President Gbagbo in 2000 had brought about an era of divisive politics. Gbagbo exploited the concept of ‘ivoirité’ to marginalise Northern Muslim and immigrant communities. After two years, many had had enough. An initial rebellion led by a few soldiers in the North spiralled into a full blown civil war, displacing 800 000 people.

A tenuous peace was reached in 2007. But the situation broke down again in 2010 when President Gbagbo refused to recognise the victory of his rival, Ouattara, in the voting booths. In 1999, Ouattara had been disqualified from running due to his Burkinabé origin. But in 2010 he was internationally recognised as the electoral victor. This sparked the country’s second civil war, leaving around 3 000 dead. After 10 years of unrest, disruption, and division Gbagbo was arrested in 2011. Ouattara then assumed the presidency. Nevertheless, division remained. In 2008, amidst the ongoing crisis, a street vendor named Prospère told American sociologist Jordanna Matlon, “I was born in Abidjan [...] I have never known my country but I know I am Burkinabé”.

According to anthropologist Professor Sasha Newell, “national identity for the average Ivoirian was more a relationship of alterity than identity, a negotiation with the culture and language of the former colonizer.” Today in Côte d’Ivoire, many have adopted inferiority complexes towards their ethnic languages. In a Keynote Address delivered at the Annual Conference of Linguistics, Professor Alamin Mazrui stated, ‘Centuries of French colonialism have resulted in Ivoirians feeling lesser of themselves’. In a recent study conducted in the city of Bouaké, 34.37% of students said they cannot speak their ethnic language, while 59.37% usually speak French. There are four major groups of ethnic languages in Côte d’Ivoire: Mandin, Gu, Kry, and Kwa-Akan - yet the dominance of the French language has not changed since independence sixty-five years ago.

The exploitation of ‘ivoirité’ by Gbagbo, the North/South divide created by the civil wars, and the country’s colonial legacy have meant there remains a deeply entrenched sense of division and fragmentation in the Côte d’Ivoirian community, despite almost fifteen years of peace. In order to progress on the pathway to recovery the Côte d’Ivoire needs to generate a sense of Ivoirian identity. An identity which is not predicated on exclusion or alterity, but which rather unites its citizens.

There is one project currently addressing this problem. As of March, Côte d’Ivoire’s largest city, Abidjan, has changed many of its street names as well as adding in new ones. Roads once named after French Presidents like Général de Gaulle and colonial administrators such as Triechville now celebrate Ivoirian figures: Philippe Yacé, a post-independence politician, and author Germain Coffi Gadeau. The project is directed by Alphonse N’Guessan. He believes a name ‘must reflect our history, our culture’. Acknowledging Ivoirian politicians, scientists, artists, and athletes encourages pride in the Côte d’Ivoire. Another urban planner commented ‘it is important for Africans to identify with the city’s development’. It is at this moment that Côte d’Ivoire has the chance to reshape its identity. With such a young population, 75% under 35, the country can establish an identity based on its post-colonial history and achievements. An identity that includes all Ivoirian citizens regardless of ethnicity or immigrant status.

However, some are critical of the government’s $17 million spend. The country’s healthcare system ranks 31 out of 55 African countries, youth literacy rates (ages 15-24) are at 67%, and the country is 162 out of 189 on the Human Development Index (HDI). Questions are rightly being asked as to whether there are not other priorities which come before road names. However, calling this project symbolic not only underestimates the value of national identity and pride, but it also overlooks a whole wealth of social advantages the overhaul will indirectly support.

The project is on track to finish in 2030 and will give 14 000 routes formal addresses in fifteen towns and cities. To understand why this is so crucial to Côte d’Ivoire’s development it is helpful to use a human needs model. Seven fundamental human needs have been identified, they are: safety/security and survival; understanding; connection and acceptance; contribution/participation; esteem, identity, and significance; self-determination, freedom and justice; self-actualisation and self-transcendence. These needs should be present in all societies, but often in post-conflict communities they are lacking and hinder recovery. By fulfilling these needs governments and leaders can rebuild a stable community, leading to a more contented population. Côte d’Ivoire’s decision to change its street names fuels each of these seven categories.

Starting with the first human need: safety, security, and survival. In a city with addresses, emergency services will be much more efficient. Able to reach more people more quickly, survival rates and public safety will improve. Addresses will also benefit delivery and communication services. Parcels, packages and letters can be distributed efficiently and accurately. This will make the Côte d’Ivoire more attractive to business, stimulating the economy.

Largely due to fraud, the tax burden is only around 13.6% in the Côte d’Ivoire. This is significantly below Africa’s 16% average. However, addresses will help the government to conduct a housing census. This will facilitate accurate assessment of residents and their assets, leading to a better tax system. Proper addressing will facilitate effective taxing. Leading to more funding for schools, hospitals, and public services.

Many Abidjan residents welcomed the development. They looked forward to helping the younger generation learn about and understand their past. Frank Herve Mansou, a thirty-one-year-old technician, said he was pleased that ‘in the future, we can explain to our children who is who’. Jean Bruce Gneple, a salesman, stated, ‘President Félix Houphouët-Boigny was and will remain in the memory of all Ivoirians as the first man of Ivory Coast, so this is a tribute to him, and we are also proud of it’. This way, Côte d’Ivoire can create a communal sense of identity. Younger Ivoirians will feel connected to their history and to other citizens, generating pride for their country and a sense of belonging.

With an address, banks will lend money, boosting self-determination, freedom, and self-actualisation. With the support of a bank loan, Côte d’Ivoirians will be able to pursue passion projects and embark on business ventures. They can decide the trajectory of their lives and reach their potential.

Replacing colonial figures also gives a sense of justice, and replacing them with Ivoirian names drives self-actualisation and self-transcendence. Although this may seem idealistic, it is nevertheless important to show citizens that achievement is possible. Reminding Ivoirians of their predecessors’ successes may boost confidence and motivation, fueling a unified drive to grow and develop the country.

However, the one question mark that hangs over the project is exactly how representative of marginalised communities it will be. The results are currently looking mixed. Although there’s some emphasis on celebrating female Ivoirians, like champion sprinter Marie Josée Ta Lou-Smith and Côte d’Ivoire’s first First Lady Marie-Thérèse Houphouët-Boigny, other marginalised groups appear to be lacking. There has been criticism of the predominance of politicians in the renaming process. And no LGBTQ+ people have been recognised yet either. However, the project’s collaborative nature is often emphasised. Officials underline their consultation of experts, local figures, civil society groups, and local traditional authorities. And significantly, people of differing ethnicities are being represented. Yacé was Baoulé, the country’s central/Southern ethnicity. Whereas, celebrated musician DJ Arafat was Mandé, a Northwestern ethnic group. By encouraging contribution and participation from a wide range of people and representing differing ethnicities, this project is tackling Côte d’Ivoire’s biggest division. It is creating a sense of belonging for all, and helping to stabilise and solidify an inclusive Ivoirian identity. Ivoirians finally have the chance to tell their nation’s story their way.

Changing the street names in Abidjan is not just a symbolic gesture. It is a major motivator for Côte d’Ivoire to achieve self-actualisation. Not only enhancing economic growth, but boosting Ivoirian national pride, esteem, and belonging, creating a community that drives people to make Côte d’Ivoire thrive.

Bibliography

https://africabriefing.com/cote-divoire-drops-french-street-names/

https://www.fratmat.info/article/227527/economie/ministegravere-de-la-construction-du-logement-et-de-lurbanisme/adressage-des-rues-du-district-dabidjan-les-noms-devoiles-tres-bientot

https://www.france24.com/en/africa/20250501-no-more-boulevard-de-france-ivory-coast-colonial-street-names-get-a-rebrand

https://biographycentral.com/biography/philippe_yac%C3%A9

http://britannica.com/place/Cote-dIvoire

https://www.ft.com/content/687a9518-0edc-4e2c-bfd6-ceff06bce353

https://www.servantsuniversity.com/the-7-fundamental-human-needs/

In this episode Nancy discusses the post conflict experience of Côte d’Ivoire and the issues of identity in healing process of a nation. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

In 2007, the Taliban banned girls' education in Pakistan’s Swat Valley. Young Malala Yousafzai refused to be silent. She blogged for the BBC and survived an assassination attempt. Today, the Nobel laureate fights for 122 million girls still out of school, proving that one book and one pen can change the world.

Back Story

The Girl Who Risked Her Life to Fight for the Right to Education

The Swat valley in northwestern Pakistan is known for its scenic views. The Swat river flows through lush green forests against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. Malala Yousafzai was born in 1997 in the Swat District. In 2007, the Pakistani Taliban took control over the valley, transforming it into a war zone. This jihadist militant organization is designated as a terrorist organization by the United Nations and the Government of Pakistan. The organisation has a highly conservative interpretation of Islam. The Pakistani Taliban banned residents from owning televisions, playing music, and dancing. They targeted schools. The Taliban blew up more than 100 schools for girls in an attempt to limit girls’ access to education.

Malala Yousafzai spoke out against the ban on the education of girls. She began her activism journey in 2008, at the age of 11. Malala delivered her first speech called “How Dare the Taliban Take Away My Basic Right to Education?” which was covered by newspapers and television channels all over Pakistan.

Malala’s activism began at a young age with the encouragement of her father Ziauddin Yousafzai. He founded Khushal Girls High School and College. Malala’s father advocates for education for all, in particular for girls who are often denied an education in Pakistan.

Malala began writing about her experience at a young age. She began a blog for the BBC called Diary of a Pakistani schoolgirl under a pseudonym at age 11. Malala shared her daily life under the Taliban. Writing became a form of resistance. She expresses her fear of being killed by the Pakistani Taliban. But Malala refused to be silent and continued to fight for the right to an education. Malala famously said “if people were silent, nothing would change.” In her first diary entry, Malala writes “I was afraid going to school because the Taliban had issued an edict banning all girls from attending schools.” But she continued going to school even when the Swat valley became a war zone.

In 2011, she was awarded Pakistan’s National Youth Peace Prize. On the 9th of October 2012, on the way home from school, Malala was talking with her friends about schoolwork. Two members of the Pakistani Taliban stopped her school bus. One of them boarded the bus and asked “Who is Malala?” He shot her in the head for speaking out against Taliban restrictions on female education. Her murder attempt received worldwide media coverage. Malala became an international symbol of the fight for girls’ education.

Malala was moved to the United Kingdom where she recovered from her assassination attempt. She was lucky to survive. But Malala was unable to return to her home country for six years. She wrote her first memoir with journalist Christina Lamb. In I Am Malala: The Girl Who Stood Up for Education and Was Shot by the Taliban (2013), she tells the story of her childhood in the Swat valley as it gradually came under Taliban control. Malala wrote about surviving a Taliban attack and her fight for girls’ education. The book became a best-seller. Pakistani private schools banned Malala’s book.

Malala’s activism did not stop after her assassination attempt. In 2013, she spoke at the United Nations Youth Assembly, calling for all children to have access to education. Malala argued that “one child, one teacher, one book, one pen can change the world.” Girls’ education allows them to choose their own futures, reaching their full potential. Education for all promotes gender equality.

She founded the Malala Fund with her father. The organisation campaigns globally so that girls can access at least 12 years of free, safe, and quality education. Over 122 million girls are still out of school today, primarily in low-income countries. Girls are stopped from getting an education by gender biases, conflicts, and poverty. Women still represent around two-thirds of all illiterate adults according to UNESCO. The Malala Fund helps to provide schooling for girls in countries including Pakistan, Afghanistan, and Nigeria. In 2015, she opened a girls’ school in Lebanon for refugees from the Syrian Civil War. Investment in education should be increasing. But in some countries like Pakistan, it is decreasing. This motivated Malala to launch the social media campaign #booksnotbullets in 2015. She called on world leaders to increase funding for education, rather than wars. Malala emphasises the importance of education in building peace.

Malala became the youngest Nobel laureate at the age of 17. She was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 2014 for her fight for the right of every child to receive an education. During her acceptance speech, Malala said “this award is not just for me. It is for those forgotten children who want education. It is for those frightened children who want peace. It is for those voiceless children who want change.” She dedicated the prize money to the Malala Fund.

She wrote the picture book Malala’s Magic Pencil (2017) which was based on her childhood, inspiring young readers. As a child, she made a wish for a magic pencil to solve her problems. In We Are Displaced: My Journey and Stories from Refugee Girls Around the World (2019), Malala writes about her experience as an internally displaced person in Pakistan and her visits to refugee camps. As a child, her family lived as displaced people in Pakistan when they were forced to flee Taliban rule. Malala also shares the stories of nine other displaced people from countries including Syria, the Democratic Republic of Congo, and Columbia. She gave a voice to those who are often silenced. Malala famously said “I tell my story not because it is unique, but because it is the story of many girls.” More than 68 million people are currently living as refugees or internally displaced people.

In 2020, she graduated from the University of Oxford where she read Philosophy, Politics and Economics. Her most recent memoir Finding My Way (2025) tells the story of her life in high school and university. She tells the story of smoking a bong at Oxford which brought back the trauma of being shot by the Taliban. Malala remembered “my school bus. A man with a gun. Blood everywhere. My body carried through a crowded street. Strangers hunched over me, yelling things I didn’t understand. My father rushing toward the stretcher to take my hand.”

This year a new portrait was unveiled at her Oxford college Lady Margaret Hall to celebrate her. Malala spoke at the 2026 United Nations’ International Women’s Day commemoration. In her speech, she expressed concern about the situation in Afghanistan. Girls have been unable to go to secondary school or university since the Taliban took over the country in 2021. Women cannot go to work, leave their homes without a male chaperone, or even speak in public. Women and girls in Afghanistan are being erased from public life under Taliban rule.

Malala gives voices to those who are often silenced. Her story reflects the experiences of many girls who are denied an education and internally displaced people. Malala inspires a generation through her speeches and books. Through her storytelling, she highlights the importance of education in a world where a quarter of a billion children remain out of school. Malala continues to fight for girls’ education around the world today.

Why Girls’ Education | Malala Fund

Malala’s Story

Out now: Malala’s new book, “We Are Displaced”

Malala Yousafzai at the UN: Justice Cannot Be Selective

Malala Yousafzai | Biography, Nobel Prize, & Facts | Britannica

I Am Malala | Story, Summary, Author, Themes, & Facts | Britannica

The Inspiring Story of Malala Yousafzai’s Fight for Education | Britannica

Malala Yousafzai: Portrait of the girl blogger - BBC News

Malala portrait unveiled at her Oxford college

New Portrait Celebrates LMH Alumna Malala Yousafzai | Lady Margaret Hall

Malala Yousafzai’s book banned in Pakistani private schools

Finding My Way by Malala Yousafzai review – growing up in public | Books | The Guardian

How smoking a bong brought back the trauma of being shot by the Taliban – an exclusive extract from Malala Yousafzai’s memoir

Malala Yousafzai | United Nations

Education emergency: now or never | UNICEF Pakistan

Malala Yousafzai – Biographical - NobelPrize.org

Malala Yousafzai wants leaders to invest in #booksnotbullets - Los Angeles Times

In this post Laura highlights the arty refugee experience of Malala Yousafzai. She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Shared Threads: Gendered Violence and Collective Reconstruction in Post-Genocide Rwanda

In a workshop in Kayonza, eastern Rwanda, the steady rhythm of sewing machines fills the room. Women sit closely together, measuring fabric, guiding thread through cloth, and pausing occasionally to speak to one another. The work is careful and continuous. For the members of the Abasangiye Cooperative, this shared space is not simply a place of production, but part of a longer process of rebuilding in the aftermath of the Rwandan Genocide.

The Rwandan genocide, in which an estimated 800,000 to one million people were killed in approximately 100 days, was marked by the widespread and organised use of sexual violence. Between 250,000 and 500,000 women and girls are believed to have been subjected to rape, often perpetrated by militia groups, soldiers, and civilians, frequently within their own communities.

This violence was not incidental. It formed part of a broader strategy to terrorise, displace, and dismantle social structures. An estimated 10,000 to 25,000 children were born as a result, and many women have since lived with chronic health conditions, including HIV. Survivors and their children frequently navigate stigma and exclusion, even as they build relationships and communities that reflect resilience and care.

Rwanda is often presented as a model of post-conflict recovery: economic growth has been sustained, infrastructure expanded, and women now hold over 60 percent of parliamentary seats—the highest proportion globally. Yet these national indicators only partially capture the realities of recovery. Experiences remain uneven, particularly in rural areas, where economic opportunity is limited and many women rely on informal or cooperative-based work.

For survivors of the gendered violence of 1994, recovery is an ongoing condition, shaped by long-term health needs, access to resources, and social attitudes that do not always evolve in step with state-led narratives of reconciliation. In this context, reconstruction has often taken place not through institutions alone, but through small, collective structures embedded in everyday life. The Abasangiye Cooperative, a sewing and artisan group of 25 women in Kayonza, emerged within this context. Supported by organisations including Survivors Fund (SURF) and Indego Africa, the cooperative brings together victims of the genocide’s sexual violence, many of whom had previously been part of the widows’ association AVEGA Agahozo.

At its inception, the women who would form the Abasangiye Cooperative had little access to formal employment, financial services, or vocational training. What began as a small training group of 25 women learning textile and artisan skills has since developed into a space where economic participation and personal recovery are closely intertwined. Through the cooperative, members have gained skills not only in sewing, but also in literacy and financial management, enabling them to engage with both local and international markets. Programme data reflects this shift: the proportion of women earning at least one US dollar per day rose from 7 percent in 2008 to 67 percent in 2011.

Yet these figures only partially capture what the cooperative represents. Members often describe an immediate recognition in one another; a shared understanding that does not require explanation. As one member explained, “We all come from different villages and everyone has their own individual problems and lived in isolation, but when we met in this group we talked about our problems and shared our problems, which makes us feel relieved”. Within this space, experiences shaped by violence can be acknowledged and support becomes embedded in the rhythms of daily work.

In rural contexts where formal mental health provision remains limited, such networks take on additional significance. Care circulates informally —the act of gathering, of speaking and of being heard— woven alongside the production of textile goods. What emerges is not only a source of livelihood, but a community for healing.

Abasangiye’s spirit to income distribution is of similar vein; rather than linking earnings to individual output, the cooperative shares income equally among members. This model reflects the realities of its participants. Some women can work consistently, while others face periods of illness or reduced physical capacity. As one member explained:

“Some are sick with HIV or have trauma or body weaknesses, while others are strong...we share equally despite ability.”

Equal distribution ensures that all members remain included, regardless of fluctuations in their ability to produce. Such an approach challenges conventional economic assumptions about productivity and value. Instead, it reflects a system shaped by interdependence, where stability is prioritised over individual output.

Despite these structures, financial stability remains uncertain. Income from handicraft production is tied to fluctuating market demand, with monthly earnings ranging between 20,000 and 50,000 Rwandan francs (approximately $15-$40 USD). Such variation makes it difficult to plan for essential costs, and even short gaps in orders can place immediate strain on households already operating within narrow margins. This instability is not unique to Abasangiye. Studies of similar cooperatives in Rwanda point to a broader pattern: while participation can improve earnings over time, it does not fundamentally resolve the structural conditions of poverty or reliance on informal labour.

The cooperative also sits within the unresolved social dimensions of post-genocide justice. International prosecutions, including those conducted by the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR), initially faced significant challenges in addressing sexual violence. Although the ICTR ultimately issued landmark judgments recognising rape as a constitutive act of genocide, such cases formed a relatively small proportion of its overall docket and were often constrained by evidentiary and procedural limitations.

Alongside international efforts, Rwanda introduced extensive domestic mechanisms, most notably the community-based Gacaca courts, which operated from 2002 to 2012. While these courts handled a vast number of genocide-related cases, sexual violence was frequently underreported and, in many instances, addressed outside public proceedings. As a result, many survivors continue to navigate stigma and social exclusion even where formal legal processes have taken place. This gap points to a broader limitation of post-genocide justice: legal accountability does not automatically translate into social recognition, reintegration, or material security.

It is within this gap, between formal recovery and lived reality, that the significance of Abasangiye lies. The cooperative does not resolve the economic or social consequences of violence, nor does it claim to. Instead, it operates as a practical response to their persistence. Through shared labour, collective income, and embedded systems of support, it enables members to navigate conditions that remain uncertain.

The Abasangiye cooperative therefore reflects a form of reconstruction that is ongoing rather than complete. Its relevance extends beyond Rwanda: it points to the limits of state-led recovery models, and to the importance of community-based structures in sustaining life after conflict. What emerges is not a singular narrative of recovery, but a cumulative one; built through routine, interdependence, and the continued work of maintaining community in the present.

In this episode Agatha discusses the post conflict experience of Rwanda and the Abasangiye cooperative. It goes into the role the collective played in rebulding lives and communites post genecide. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Back Story

Post-war Sri Lanka left 300,000 Tamil refugees in harsh camps. Women and children faced severe overcrowding, sexual violence, and acute malnutrition. Yet, they refused to be passive victims. Children formed camp parliaments to solve resource problems. Women bravely testified to the UN and led protests to rebuild their community.

For the full article and podcast click here.

In this post Cal created this micro game to make the Tamil Women and Children’s story interactiv. He is a gaming and marketing intern on a placement with us organised by Virtual Internships.

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Ciao Trailblazers,

How was your quarter? Ours was busy.

Here’s a quick round up. Let’s start with GenZ.

This quarter we worked with 32 Vibers. Yup — Vibers. We coined the term for the GenZ who build their vocational skills with us. Over 350 have now dedicated their time and energy to bringing positive change. We think they’ve earned it. Don’t you?

So, 32 Vibers in three months. 100 over the full last year. Interest is growing — and fast. Don’t forget to tell your friends.

What were they doing?

28 joined our Citizen Journalism programme. 19 from King’s College London. 9 from Oxford University. They started with professional journalism training. Then they used those skills to highlight the experiences of communities recovering from conflict. They also created interactive stories about refugees who changed the world through art.

The others.

Adeola led our first agentic AI project — making stories interactive. We have an MVP. Full details here.

Cal and Victoria built micro games to raise awareness of our content. Watch this space — they’re coming next quarter.

Our official profile as content providers on Impact Entrepreneur Magazine is now live. Link here. Every article our Vibers submit and get accepted will appear there. Stay tuned.

Raw & Real from GenZ - unfiltered updates

Click here for more.

Click here for more.

Click here for more.

Don’t forget to scale our impact we need your support. You can make a direct donation - these are tax deductible only for US tax payers at the moment. Start here.

It’s great to have you with us along this journey. Till next month — enjoy our vibers work along the way. 😊

With gratitude,

Zufi, Cal, Adeola, Victoria & Michael.

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Click here to play & learn.

Back Story

Bearing Witness: Art, Memory, and Survival in the Work of Vann Nath

The first thing that struck me at Tuol Sleng was the quiet. Not the reverent hush of a memorial, but the stillness of an abandoned schoolyard at midday. A basketball hoop leaned over cracked concrete; climbing frames remained where children had once played. Without context a visitor might assume the place had simply been deserted. On closer inspection, a photograph fixed to the wall revealed the truth: the same hoop had been used to suspend prisoners during interrogation. Tuol Sleng, or Security Prison 21, was a secondary school in central Phnom Penh until 1975, when the Khmer Rouge converted its five buildings into one of the regime’s most notorious prisons. It is within this space that the work of Vann Nath acquires its full force.

Born in 1946 in Battambang province, Vann Nath grew up in a poor rural family with little access to formal education. He came to art outside institutional pathways, first encountering it through temple murals and later developing his skills through informal study. Before 1975, his life followed a modest course: he painted landscapes and cinema posters, earning a living within a small, local art economy.

This trajectory was violently interrupted by the rise of the Khmer Rouge. On 17 April 1975, the Communist Party of Kampuchea seized Phnom Penh, inaugurating a radical political project under Pol Pot. Influenced by Maoist agrarianism, Stalinist centralisation, and anti-colonial nationalism, the regime sought to dismantle urban society and construct a rural, classless utopia. Cities were evacuated, intellectuals targeted, and perceived enemies systematically eliminated. In 1978, Vann Nath was arrested and accused of being an “enemy of the state.” He was transferred to S-21, the regime’s central interrogation and torture facility, where an estimated 15,000-20,000 prisoners were processed. Only a handful survived.

Vann Nath’s survival was precarious, and in many ways accidental, but it was also bound to his ability to paint. His name appeared on an execution list before being altered by the prison commandant, Kang Kek Iew, with the brief instruction: “Spare the painter”. He was then made to produce portraits and sculptures of Pol Pot—images designed to project authority and reinforce the regime’s ideology. In this context, art became something else entirely: not an act of expression, but a form of labour imposed under threat. It was both a tool of the system that imprisoned him and the reason he remained alive.

Following the Vietnamese overthrow of the Khmer Rouge in 1979, Vann Nath emerged as one of the twelve recorded survivors of S-21. He was found at Choeung Ek shortly after the prison was abandoned, severely weakened from starvation and illness, and later began to recover in Phnom Penh. But rather than distancing himself from what he had lived through, Nath returned to it repeatedly within his work. In the early 1980s, when the new authorities began commissioning visual documentation of Khmer Rouge crimes for the newly opened Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, he was asked to reconstruct scenes from memory. These works draw directly on what he witnessed inside the prison: interrogation rooms, shackled prisoners, forced confessions, and executions carried out in and around S-21.

He often worked from specific, repeated memories revisiting the same spaces and events in multiple paintings. The result is less interpretation than reconstruction—images that sit closer to testimony than representation. Nath recollected “I told myself I did not care any longer because I could die any time and I’d rather die than live in such conditions.” Many of these works remain displayed in the former classrooms of the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, installed within the very rooms they depict. During my visit to S-21, that proximity becomes difficult to hold at a distance. The boundary between image and site collapses: what is shown is also what surrounds you. The paintings give form to experiences that resist articulation, while also insisting on the physical reality of what occurred within those walls.

Elsewhere in the prison, inscriptions remain carved into the walls, carefully indexed, ‘Building C, First Floor, Room Four, Cell Nine, South Wall, Square 264’. One engraving reads: ឥឡូវនេះខ្ញុំចង់និយាយលាហើយ…ខ្ញុំសូមជូនពរឱ្យអ្នករស់នៅដោយសុភមង្គល “Now I would like to say goodbye…I wish that you live in happiness”. Another, carved into the same wall, one brick across, reads: អូយសម្លាញ់អើយ លាហើយ “Oh my darling, goodbye”. These lives are not merely statistics; they are people reaching forward through time, leaving proof that they have lived, loved, and hoped someone would one day bear witness.

Vann Nath’s work operates within the same impulse. His paintings return to these same spaces of detention and disappearance, refusing abstraction in favour of precise, located memory. Like the inscriptions on the walls, they function as acts of witness—ensuring that what happened is neither reduced to numbers nor allowed to fade into distance.

Nath’s 1998 memoir, A Cambodian Prison Portrait, was among the first detailed written accounts by an S-21 survivor. At a time when documentation was limited and many perpetrators remained unchallenged, the text provided an essential narrative record, bridging personal memory and historical archive. This commitment to testimony extended beyond both memoir and artistic production into direct engagement with justice processes. In collaboration with filmmaker Rithy Panh, Nath appeared in the documentary S-21: The Khmer Rouge Killing Machine (2003), which brought together former prisoners and guards. In the film, Nath confronts those who once oversaw his imprisonment. His questioning is measured, controlled, yet persistent: less an expression of anger than a demand for acknowledgment.

Later, Nath became the first survivor of S-21 to give testimony during proceedings at the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia in 2009. On Day 35 of the trial (29 June 2009), he appeared as a prosecution witness against the former prison chief Kaing Guek Eav, known as Comrade Duch, and his paintings were entered into evidence. While photography captured the Khmer Rouge takeover of Phnom Penh in April 1975, the years that followed were defined by the systematic restriction of imagery as a means of control. Within this evidentiary gap, his paintings moved beyond personal recollection to become part of the tribunal record, submitted as visual evidence in the prosecution of Duch.

S-21 resists the distancing effect of history. What occurred there was neither inevitable nor confined to a singular moment in the past. Standing within its rooms, and seeing Nath’s works in situ, makes clear that memory alone is insufficient; it must be actively maintained, interrogated, and sustained. Through his painting and writing, Nath turned survival into testimony that continues to shape how the Cambodian genocide is understood. His work prevents the past from settling into abstraction, insisting instead on presence—the visibility of what occurred, and the responsibility of those who encounter it to bear witness.

In this post Agatha highlights the arty refugee experience of Vann Nath. She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to visit our gaming art here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

Conflict is over, how did the Taliban treat minorities in Afghanistan

“I don’t believe the Taliban, because I think they’re a terrorist group,” said Sitara, a university student currently studying in Hong Kong. Sitara belongs to the Hazara community, one of the most persecuted ethnic minorities in Afghanistan.

Just weeks before the Taliban’s takeover of Afghanistan in 2021, she made a final visit to her home in Ghazni province. Before the trip, her family warned her about the risks, given the country’s increasingly unstable political situation. While she was there, Sitara recalled hearing gunfire near her home almost every day. “People still believed in the government,” she said, “but sadly, the government practically sold the country to the Taliban.”

Sitara explained that although the Taliban initially promised to allow women to work and study, she never trusted their intentions. “I don’t believe the Taliban because I think it’s just a short-term strategy to make the international community accept them as a legitimate government,” she said.

The situation, she added, is especially dire for women and minority groups. “They’re killing minorities and people on the streets,” she said, describing the violence that began as early as 2021. Out of fear of persecution, Sitara’s mother even burned all documents that could reveal her daughter’s education or foreign connections.

Tragically, Sitara believes that visit may have been her last. “I don’t think I can go back now,” she said quietly. “If I go, there’s a possibility I’ll be killed.

Afghanistan has a turbulent history spanning centuries. The modern state was founded in 1747. Civil war of succession and fighting against British colonialism ensued. The hard-fought independence of Afghanistan, unfortunately, was short-lived--it only lasted half a century. After a revolution led by the Afghan Communist Party, backed by the USSR, the country was occupied and heavily influenced by the USSR between 1973 and 1989. Once the Soviet Union had left Afghanistan, the population was wary of centuries of war and unrest, so they did not resist Taliban rule. However, due to the Taliban’s connection with Al Qaeda and Osama Bin Laden, the US invaded and soon took over the country and established an independent Government in 2004. This finally gave women and the underrepresented ethnicities a voice.

But the progress ended in 2021, after US troops withdrew from the country and the Taliban regained power. Just like Sitara predicted in 2021, the Taliban’s promise to protect the rights of women and minorities is indeed just window dressing. Under Taliban rule, women lost the right to work, go outside, get an education, and even to speak in public. Ethnic and religious minorities and the LGBTQ community in Afghanistan faced escalating levels of persecution. They became subject to arbitrary arrest, torture even execution.

Afghanistan is an incredibly ethnically diverse country, home to many ethnicities and religions. It includes Pashtuns (42 percent), Tajiks (27 percent), Hazaras (9 percent), Uzbeks (9 percent), Aimak (4 percent), Turks (3 percent), and Baloch (2 percent). Among this diverse population of 41 million, Pashtuns are the dominant ethnic group in Afghanistan. Taliban rulers are also Pashtuns. Although the official religion and most of the population are Muslims, a variety of religions are practised among the minorities, such as Christians, Sikhs, Hindus and Baha’i. However, since the Taliban came into power in 2021, religious freedom has been severely restricted. Nowadays, the entire population is being coerced to live under the strict interpretation of Sunni Islam.

“Afghanistan is a nightmare for religious freedom—and other fundamental human rights.” Out of the minority groups, Hazaras are the most persecuted since the establishment of the empire. This can be due to their practice as Shi’a school of Muslims. After centuries of systematic discrimination and forced migration, the population in Afghanistan declined sharply. Their situation has only worsened since the Taliban came to power in 2021. They lost their representatives in government, and also faced escalating violence from the Taliban as well as ISIS-K ( Islamic State – Khorasan).

“There is a genocidal campaign against the Hazara under the Taliban’s authority.” Said Azra Jafari, the first female mayor in Afghanistan’s history from the Hazara community. She voiced her concern regarding the treatment of ethnic minorities in Afghanistan. In her youth, she fled to Iran under the first Taliban rule from 1996-2001, and she constantly feared Taliban and ISIS attacks during her time in office as a mayor. In another interview with EWTN, she also said that being a woman from the Hazara minority made her a “third-grade person”. Although she is currently in exile, she encouraged minority women in Afghanistan to keep fighting for their rights.

Indeed, since the Taliban takeover, Hazara women faced ‘intersecting forms of discrimination’--are targeted on the grounds of both their gender and their ethnicity and religion. Talibans used ridiculous excuses like ‘bad hajab’ to arrest and abuse Hazara women. Mursal was a Hazara woman who was detained due to ‘ bad hijab’. She was beaten, had her head submerged under water and taunted with racially discriminatory remarks. In the videos released to show the arrest of Hazara women, they are all wearing hijabs covering their whole face. Unfortunately, even within women’s rights groups, Hazara women faced discrimination from other ethnic groups of women. “There is no solidarity with Hazara women, and we have faced insult and humiliation.”

To make the situation worse, Hazara women is also facing deadly violent attacks from ISIS-K. Since Taliban takeover of the country in 2021, there have been 13 attacks against Hazara community, killing more than 700 people.

Taliban leaders were criticised for a complacent attitude towards ISIS-K attacks on Hazara communities.

The Taliban’s restrictions on the media made it nearly impossible for journalists to record the plight of ethnic minorities and share it with the outside world. Youtuber Joe Fazer, who recently travelled to Afghanistan, revealed that he had to leave the country within 24 hours due to fear that he might be arrested for filming. Indeed, since 8^th Oct, the Taliban has begun imposing restrictions on social media platforms, severely curtailing the right to freedom of expression. Independent journalism remains vital for exposing abuses, supporting UN and ICC investigations, and giving voice to marginalised communities..

The violent attacks on ethnic minorities in Afghanistan had a devastating impact on their mental and physical health. Taliban withdrew financial support for victims of the violent attacks. For instance, a 16-year-old Safia became deaf and unable to speak after ISIS suicide fighters set off a bomb near her home. Her father, on a meagre wage, cannot afford to send her for hospital treatment. The mental scars of these violent attacks prevented the Hazara and Shia communities from exercising their fundamental human right, such as going to places of worship, work and education, for fear of an attack happening.

Although numerous government and NGOs are doing their best to help ethnic minorities in Afghanistan through exerting pressure on the Taliban government, the humanitarian assistance is far from adequate. Many NGOs like Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International have highlighted the fact that ethnic minorities in Afghanistan, especially the Hazara community, are facing crimes against humanity and even genocide.

Currently, there is a case in the International Criminal Court regarding Afghanistan, for its alleged crimes against humanity, and an arrest warrant has been issued for the supreme leader of Afghanistan, Haibatullah Akhundzada. However, ICC lacks the power to enforce this jurisdiction, making it a merely symbolic gesture

Without international pressure, ethnic minorities and marginalised groups in Afghanistan face a bleak future. Richard Bennett, Special Rapporteur on the human rights situation in Afghanistan, warned in early 2025 that “Intensifying Taliban repression, expanding discrimination against women and girls…violations against ethnic and religious…are stark warnings that things in Afghanistan are only getting worse.”

Continued global attention and press coverage are essential. Governments worldwide must hold the Taliban accountable if it seeks international legitimacy. Expanding refugee and asylum programs is also vital to protect those fleeing persecution.

And for readers who feel moved by these stories — you can help too. Donate to organizations such as Afghanaid, the Refugee Council, or ARAP (Afghan Relocations and Assistance Policy). Start a fundraiser, sign a petition, or raise awareness on social media.

Your action today can help make the future a little brighter for Afghanistan’s minorities.

Article written by Lisa Shi, Nov 2025

Biblipgraphy

Afghanistan: ISIS Group Targets Religious Minorities | Human Rights Watch. 6 September 2022. https://www.hrw.org/news/2022/09/06/afghanistan-isis-group-targets-religious-minorities.

Afghanistan: New Restrictions on Telecommunications Raise Further Rights Concerns, Say UN Experts. 2025. https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2025/10/afghanistan-new-restrictions-telecommunications-raise-further-rights.

Afghanistan’s Hazara Community Needs Protection | Human Rights Watch. 13 September 2024. https://www.hrw.org/news/2024/09/13/afghanistans-hazara-community-needs-protection.

Amit Kumar & Aayushi Malhotra. ‘Factoring Ethnicity in Taliban’s Quest for Legitimacy | GJIA’. Georgetown Journal of International Affairs, 17 April 2024. https://gjia.georgetown.edu/2024/04/17/factoring-ethnicity-in-talibans-quest-for-legitimacy-an-anthropological-rewiring-of-the-power-structure/.

Amnesty International. ‘Afghanistan: One Year of the Taliban’s Broken Promises, Draconian Restrictions and Violence’. 15 August 2022. https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2022/08/afghanistan-one-year-of-the-talibans-broken-promises-draconian-restrictions-and-violence/.

Amnesty International. ‘Human Rights in Afghanistan’. Accessed 12 November 2025. https://www.amnesty.org/en/location/asia-and-the-pacific/south-asia/afghanistan/report-afghanistan/.

Campbell, Lisa J., Pamela Ligouri Bunker, and Robert J. Bunker. ‘The Islamic State – Khorasan Province (ISK): An Assessment of Current Operations’. Small Wars & Insurgencies, 12 August 2024, 1–26. https://doi.org/10.1080/09592318.2024.2388897.

EWTN, dir. As Afghanistan Faces Famine, 1st Female Mayor Azra Jafari Discusses the Taliban | EWTN News Nightly. 30 August 2022. 5:38.

Fereshta, Abbasi. Religious Freedom in Afghanistan: Three Years After the Taliban Takeover | Human Rights Watch. 20 March 2025. https://www.hrw.org/news/2025/03/20/religious-freedom-afghanistan-three-years-after-taliban-takeover.

Joe, Faser . ‘I Travelled To Afghanistan... And Left Within 3 Hours’. 22 October 2025.

Kerami, Kaweh. Silenced Voices: The Fall of Press Freedom in Afghanistan | OHRH. n.d. Accessed 12 November 2025. https://ohrh.law.ox.ac.uk/silenced-voices-the-fall-of-press-freedom-in-afghanistan/.

Moradi, Farkhondeh Akbari, Kobra. ‘Hazara Women: How Gender and Ethnicity Intersect in the Taliban’s Repression’. Just Security, 7 March 2024. https://www.justsecurity.org/93123/hazara-women-how-gender-and-ethnicity-intersect-in-the-talibans-repression/.

Newsweek. ‘Afghanistan’s First Female Mayor Speaks Out as Others Can’t | Opinion’. 9 October 2024. https://www.newsweek.com/afghanistans-first-female-mayor-speaks-out-others-cant-opinion-1966453.

Nina, Evason . ‘Afghan - Religion’. Cultural Atlas, 1 January 2019. https://culturalatlas.sbs.com.au/afghan-culture/afghan-culture-religion.

PBS News. ‘A Historical Timeline of Afghanistan’. 4 May 2011. https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/asia-jan-june11-timeline-afghanistan.

Poya, Dr Fawad. The International Criminal Court’s Pursuit of Accountability for Gender Persecution in Afghanistan: A Landmark Step for Justice (Part II) | OHRH. n.d. Accessed 12 November 2025. https://ohrh.law.ox.ac.uk/the-international-criminal-courts-pursuit-of-accountability-for-gender-persecution-in-afghanistan-a-landmark-step-for-justice-part-ii/.

Religious Freedom in Afghanistan: Three Years After the Taliban Takeover | Human Rights Watch. 20 March 2025. https://www.hrw.org/news/2025/03/20/religious-freedom-afghanistan-three-years-after-taliban-takeover.

Richard, Benett. UN Expert Warns of Intensifying Human Rights Crisis as Repression Deepens in Afghanistan. UN Human Rights Office of Commissioner. February 2025. https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2025/02/un-expert-warns-intensifying-human-rights-crisis-repression-deepens.

Situation of Human Rights in Afghanistan - Report of the Special Rapporteur on the Situation of Human Rights in Afghanistan (Advance Edited Version). A/HRC/55/80. UN Human rights , 2024. https://www.ohchr.org/en/documents/country-reports/ahrc5580-situation-human-rights-afghanistan-report-special-rapporteur.

South China Morning Post . ‘Afghan Student in Hong Kong Fears for Family Caught up in “Heartbreaking” Crisis Back Home’. 4 September 2021. 5:43.

In this episode Lisa discusses the post conflict experience of Afghanistan and the experience of minorities under the Taliban. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

Thank you for reading an A4R 🎨 Post. Don’t forget to try out gaming art NFT’s here. Every purchase scales our impact and pays our bills.

In an era of information overload how do we find clarity? In this age of snippets and influencer subjectivity how do we know what is real? Fake news is now a significant threat to us all - not just some from people who don’t like us. But, also from people who have no understanding of why credible data matters and its impact on decision making.

The problem with traditional journalism is it often presents a static, top-down narrative. You, the reader, consume information in a structured way. You are expected to logically work your way through the written article. But what if that doesn’t work for you? Or you feel you prefer non-linear ways to process information. After all, in the age of mass innovation there must be other ways to process and absorb the same message.

At A4R Media, we believe overcoming this challenge is the future. The future where you decide how much information you want to consume and in what order. By making journalism interactive you can consume and appriciate it like a tasty dessert - in small doses that you can process and absorb quickly and on demand. So, as the reader, you are no longer just a passive consumer, but an active researcher.

Today, we are thrilled to unveil our latest milestone: the A4R Research Lens.

Our Backstory: From Vision to Agentic Reality

The idea for the Research Lens began with a simple observation: the volume of reporting on global displacement is massive, but your oppurtunity to process it is as ancient as Plato himself. We wanted to move away from static archives and towards a living, breathing curiosity based on demand research approach.

We knew we couldn’t do it alone. We sought out a partnership with GenZ as we usually do. This approach allows us to support the next generation of talent. They get to build their skills and expertise while still at Uni. So, when Adeola from DePaul joined us in Jan. we felt this would be a great opportunity for all of us. Over the last 10 weeks she has devouted 10 hours a week on this project.

The Co-Creation Process

For 10 hours a week, Adeloa became the technical lead of this project, working alongside our editorial team. This wasn’t a standard internship; it was a high-stakes, iterative experiment in Interactive Journalism.

Together, we wrestled with a core question: How can we use agentic AI to make complex data readable and actionable? We didn’t just want to build a database; we wanted to build an agent that could “understand” the context of global reporting from the citizen journalists we work with.

Through our weekly sprints, we moved from raw data ingestion to an intuitive, map-based interface. This process allowed us to test and refine how an AI agent should surface information, ensuring that the tool remained as useful to a student as it is to a seasoned policy analyst.

This MVP represents our commitment to hands-on, collaborative innovation: we aren’t just reporting on the future of journalism—we are building it alongside the next generation of journalists and techys.

Moving Beyond the Headline

The Research Lens is an interactive data dashboard that transforms how you engage with the global refugee crisis. By leveraging Agentic AI—autonomous systems designed to scan, synthesize, and categorize vast amounts of global reporting in real-time—we’ve built a tool that does the heavy lifting for you.

Instead of waiting for a single article to cross your feed, you can now navigate the global landscape through our interactive map. Whether you are tracking emerging trends or deep-diving into specific regional developments, the Research Lens gives you the agency to uncover the stories that matter most.

Explore the Lens Today

This is an MVP (Minimum Viable Product) that represents the first step in our commitment to data-driven advocacy. We invite you to be a part of our development process. Click, explore, and let us know: what trends do you see? What regions are you most concerned about?

Explore the A4R Research Lens Here - if you would like access we ask you to become a premium member to cover the operating costs.

Project Data Sheet

To assist researchers and automated systems in indexing this project, we have provided the core technical specifications below:

• Tool Name: A4R Research Lens

• Primary Technology: Agentic AI, Data Visualization

• Category: Interactive Data Journalism

• Collaboration: 10-week Co-Creation Lab (Adeloa from DePaul University & A4R Media)

• Primary Goal: Democratizing access to global refugee research

• Platform: A4R Research Lens

• Development Status: MVP (Private Beta)

This post highlights the work of Adeloa with us developing Agentic Ai to make journaism interactive. This co creation helps our supprters, memebrs and readers to use interctive journalism as the new norm. She is a machine learning speiclaist from DePaul University, Chicago, U.S. She is on placement with us from Virtual Internships.

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Post-Conflict Pop Culture: A look into how Youth-Cultural Diplomacy is shaping the international view of Kosovo and building bridges in the Balkan region

On the 1^st August 2025 in Prishtina, Kosovo, Dua Lipa stepped out on stage at the Sunny Hill Festival. Greeted with a roaring reception, this was not her first appearance; it was her idea in the first place.

Alongside her father, Dukagjin Lipa, a native Kosovar who moved to London in the 1990s following the war in the region, Dua launched the festival 2018 with the aim of bringing together not only Kosovars, but the wider Balkans and diaspora. Featuring performances from local artists to international names such as Miley Cyrus and Fatboy Slim, Sunny Hill has helped unite audiences through music while projecting Kosovo as more than just a post-conflict society.

The Balkans has long been a contested region of southeastern Europe. Once part of the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian Empires, and later incorporated into socialist Yugoslavia, it has been shaped by overlapping identities and territorial tensions. The violent breakup of Yugoslavia in the 1990s exposed these fractures, producing wars in Croatia, Bosnia and ultimately Kosovo.

Landlocked between Serbia, Albania, North Macedonia and Montenegro, Kosovo holds deep historical significance for Serbia, particularly through the symbolism of the 1389 Battle of Kosovo. By the late twentieth century, however, Kosovo had become overwhelmingly ethnically Albanian. In 1989, Serbian leader Slobodan Milošević revoked Kosovo’s constitutional autonomy, placing it under direct rule from Belgrade and marginalising Kosovo Albanians from public life.

By the late 1990s, an armed resistance known as the Kosovo Liberation Army was in heavy conflict with a harsh Serbian counterinsurgency. The conflict led to mass displacement and more than 13,000 deaths or disappearances between 1998 and 2000. Amid fears of ethnic cleansing, NATO launched a 78-day air campaign in 1999, forcing Serbian withdrawal.

Kosovo declared independence in 2008 but remains unrecognised by Serbia, as well as by Russia, China and five EU member states. This partial recognition has prevented membership in the United Nations and the European Union. Tensions persist, particularly in the divided city of Mitrovica, where ethnic separation remains visible. Economic strain, emigration and political fragmentation continue to shape the state’s trajectory. Yet this diplomatic stalemate does not fully capture the direction in which Kosovo’s society is moving.

Youth-led cultural initiatives suggest a different dynamic. Artists such as Rita Ora and Dua Lipa have amplified Kosovo’s global visibility. More significantly, they have reframed it. Non-state actors and digital networks have begun to influence perception in ways that formal diplomacy has struggled to achieve.

This new generation of cultural ambassadors born directly after the conflict, are often described as the Post-Memory Generation. They were raised on stories of the war, in households shaped by trauma, but they themselves have no lived memory of it. Today, anyone under twenty-six in Kosovo was born after 1999, and anyone under thirty likely has no personal recollection of the violence. Having the youngest population in Europe, with approximately fifty-three per cent of the population under twenty-five, over half the country has no direct memory of the conflict.

Rather than lived trauma, many carry transmitted trauma. Research suggests that children of parents suffering from war-induced PTSD are more likely to experience intergenerational psychological effects. Through family narratives, school curriculums and memorial days, the past remains the present, even for those that did not experience it.

This distinction matters. Identity formed through direct trauma tends to be anchored in survival and loss. Identity formed after trauma has other influences. Kosovo’s post-war generation has grown up not only with recent history of loss, displacement and anger, but also with the internet, a large diaspora network and a much more global culture surrounding them. The youth of Kosovo today may be the first post- conflict generation to grow up almost entirely online, and this gives them a unique opportunity. It could be possible that the digital environment is able to dilute inherited grievance. While war remains a strong part of the national narrative, it competes with other networks: global music scenes, friendships across borders, diaspora networks and a shared European youth culture. Identity is no longer constructed solely through memory but also through digital participation and global pop cultures.

This shift has consequences beyond the individual. A generation that does not define itself through victimhood is more likely to project confidence, modernisation and a push forward. Rather than arguing for recognition through the language of grievance, they signal normalcy through what they build, organise and create, and a willingness to move beyond history. In this sense, Kosovo’s post-memory generation is emerging as a form of informal cultural diplomacy. Through festivals, art, music and digital platforms, they present Kosovo not as a frozen conflict but as a functioning, creative, contemporary society.

Nowhere is this more visible than at the Sunny Hill Festival. What appears on the surface to be a music event is also a performance of national self-definition. Lipa and her father have brought international artists, diaspora communities and local youth into a shared space that feels global. It has no focus on politics, international or domestic, instead, it presents Kosovo as connected and youthful. For a generation born after the war, this is not an attempt to live in history, it is an effort to live beyond it. Ultimately, Sunny Hills acts as an influence beyond the state.

Each summer, the festival draws thousands of visitors from across Europe and the Kosovar diaspora. Flights into Prishtina are full, hotels are at capacity, the city comes alive and the economy booms. For members of the diaspora, Sunny Hill offers a chance to immerse in cultural heritage, and for international visitors, it is often a first encounter with Kosovo. This encounter is seen not through conflict reporting, but through music, crowds and a bustling capital city.

In a state still navigating partial international recognition, that visibility matters. Formal diplomacy remains slow and constrained by geopolitics. Cultural gatherings operate differently. Artists speak about performing in Kosovo, visitors share images online, and alternative narratives circulate without being framed as political argument. The country appears less as a frozen dispute and more as a functioning society. This does not resolve structural tensions, nor does it replace political dialogue. But it subtly shifts perception.

Sunny Hill therefore operates beyond the state. It brings international artists, regional audiences and diaspora communities into the same physical space, creating familiarity where distance once defined the relationship. In doing so, it expands how Kosovo is seen, both abroad and at home. For a generation born after the war, this is less about rewriting the past than about establishing a different baseline for the future. Recognition, in this context, is not demanded. It is normalised.

Peace has held in Kosovo for over two decades, but normalisation is still unfolding. While questions regarding sovereignty and recognition remain subjects of formal diplomatic negotiation, a quieter transformation is taking place outside of these negotiations. On stages, in cultural spaces and across digital networks, a generation without a lived memory of war is now reshaping how Kosovo is seen. This shift is not loud, and it is not official, but it is having an impact just as powerful.

Bibliography

Goff, Patrica, “Cultural Diplomacy,” in Nancy Snow, Nicholas Cull (eds.), Routledge Handbook of Public Diplomacy (New York, 2020), 30-37.

Nitaj, Laberion, “Art Festivals: A Bridge Between Serbia and Kosovo”, New Social Initiative, (August 2024), https://newsocialinitiative.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/10/Policy-Paper-Laberion-Nitaj.pdf, accessed 13 February 2026.

Rosney, Daniel, “Sunny Hill: Dua Lipa’s Family Festival ‘Changing’ Kosovo’s Image”, BBC News, (30 July 2024), https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c72v40pmgv1o, accessed 13 February 2026.

Sassi, Lorenzo and Amighetti, Emanuele, “Kosovo: A young country, being shaped by its youth”, Politico, (2018), https://www.politico.eu/interactive/in-pictures-kosovo-10th-anniversary-future-being-shaped-by-its-youth/, accessed 13 February 2026.

See the Kosovo Memory book at: https://www.hlc-rdc.org/en/loss-database/kosovo-memory-book/

In this episode Alexia discusses the post conflict experience of Kosovo and how today’s youth are are taking ownership of their country using festivals and the arts to rebuild their nation. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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Back Story

The Flight from Cambodia and the Plight for Justice: Dith Pran shows history from the human perspective

Photographer Dith Pran lived through one of the most tumultuous periods in Cambodia’s history and one of the most devastating consequences of the Cold War. When he was 26, the communist guerrilla group Khmer Rouge began attacking the Kingdom of Cambodia. This triggered a civil war in which the United States—supporting Cambodia’s pro-US government—conducted massive bombing campaigns against the insurgents. These bombings devastated rural regions and displaced roughly a quarter of the population, pushing many people into the arms of the guerrilla movement. In April 1975, after seven years of conflict, the pro-US Khmer Republic fell to the Khmer Rouge, a dire turn for Cambodians like Pran who had cooperated with American forces.

Pol Pot’s brutal “re-education” programs targeted anyone with ties to the former government or to foreign powers. His regime decimated the educated, persecuted religious minorities, and killed people of non-Khmer ethnicity. In all, approximately two million people perished. This is the story of how Dith Pran not only survived the torture and starvation inflicted by the Khmer Rouge but ultimately went on to campaign for justice and advocate for truth through his photographic art.

Dith Pran was born in Siem Reap, Cambodia. After learning French at school and teaching himself English, he began working as a translator for the United States Army. During this time, Pran also became a photographer for New York Times reporter Sydney Schanberg. As Schanberg later described, ‘His mission with me in Cambodia was to tell the world what suffering his people were going through in a war that was never necessary’. In 1975, Pran and Schanberg decided to stay behind in Cambodia to cover the fall of the capital, Phnom Penh. Although, fortunately, Pran had managed to get his wife and four children out of the country, Pran was then prevented from leaving. As a man who had worked closely with the US government and US citizens, Pran knew he was in extreme danger. So in order to hide his education from the government, he pretended to have been a taxi driver.

By 1975, Cambodia was in dire economic straits. It had suffered a civil war, the communist government’s closure of banks, and the confiscation of private property. Pol Pot decided the answer lay in a ‘Four-Year Plan’. A programme which stressed the collectivisation and expansion of rice farming. The government demanded an average of three tons of rice per hectare. An unrealistic target, which nevertheless required the mass conscription of labour. Consequently, Dith Pran, alongside many other citizens, were shipped into Labour Camps. There, Pran endured four years of starvation and torture. As one survivor testified, ‘Every day, people died in the village. Every morning, they were hauling away a corpse.’ Pran and his fellow prisoners worked from dawn till dusk. They had to cultivate fields, dig canals, and erect dams with rudimentary equipment on just one spoonful of rice a day.

Vietnam overthrew the Khmer Rouge in 1979. Pran then managed to escape from the labour camp. He trekked forty miles on foot to return to his home town and family, coining the infamous phrase, ‘the killing fields’ as he walked through a countryside covered in clusters of corpses and skeletal remains. His return to Siem Reap was also not the joyful reunion Pran had hoped for. Fifty of his family members were dead. Seeing no reason to remain in Cambodia and fearing his US connections may still cause him trouble, Pran decided to flee to Thailand. After Sydney Schanberg learned that his old friend had managed to escape Cambodia, the reporter flew over to bring Pran back to the US. In 1980 the Cambodian refugee joined the New York Times as a photojournalist.

During his time in the US, Pran used his art to raise awareness about the horrors of the Cambodian genocide. His famous book, Children of Cambodia’s Killing Fields, is a compilation of twenty-nine memoirs from victims of Pol Pot’s brutal regime. The book examines the suffering and loss experienced by the contributors as children under the Khmer Rouge. Alongside the book is an online gallery. It consists of photographs taken by Pran during the Cambodian Civil War and the Khmer Rouge’s rule. The images are a moving mixture of deeply human stories. They tell of suffering and loss, but also keep intimate records of the crucial moments of the war. They preserve its terrible events in perpetuity. In one photograph, children are scattered in rubble after the accidental bombing of Neak Long. Another shows a man, Keo Chan, breaking down in tears after losing his wife and ten children. A third depicts a boy soldier, his body barely as big as the gun he’s holding. These images are interspersed with shots of actions and events: a truck full of marines fully clad for battle; Ambassador John Gunther Dean exiting the embassy, suitcase in one hand, Embassy flag rolled under the other arm. These deeply insightful photos tell both a macro and micro story of one of the most turbulent moments in Cambodia’s history. In that way they capture something approaching the essence of the Cambodian experience. Pran’s art brought home the reality of war, both the events and the emotion. His photographs capture the loss, suffering, fear and bewilderment of those who find their lives torn apart. He reveals the unbearable uncertainty faced by people thrust into the fray of history and depicts a world turned upside down, as heavily armoured marines scramble across a children’s football pitch.

After arriving in the US, Pran worked as a staff photographer for The New York Times, focusing on domestic news and human-interest stories. His time in Cambodia honed his skill for empathetic, compelling images in the midst of human chaos. Pran focused on immigrant experiences, such as the 2006 immigrant rights rally in New Jersey. His compositions highlight the individual experience within wider public scenes. In 2002, he photographed children climbing Nathan Rapoport’s “Liberation” sculpture in Jersey City’s Liberty State Park. The photograph evokes themes of hope, freedom and arrival, concepts strongly linked to the immigrant/ refugee experience.

Pran also used photography to help Cambodian refugees directly. As the founder of the Dith Pran Holocaust Awareness Project, Pran campaigned for the recognition of the Cambodian genocide. This project contributed to the legislation of the Cambodian Genocide Justice Act in 1994. Another crucial part of Pran’s organisation was to use photographic records to help Cambodian refugees find missing family members. Not only did these photographs help to track down lost loved ones, but they were also used to educate the public about the shocking reality of conditions under the Khmer Rouge.

Dith Pran worked for years to bring the perpetrators of the Cambodian genocide to justice. He ensured the story reached as wide an audience as possible. For this work, he received many awards such as the Ellis Island Medal of Honor. He was also appointed as a goodwill ambassador for the UN High Commissioner for Refugees in 1985. Pran died from cancer in 2008, but his legacy lives on. A man who fought for the recognition of atrocities, justice for his people, and to expose truth through his photographic art.

Bibliography

https://www.beyondthekillingfields.com/the-book-in-pictures-2/chapter-six-vietnam-pow-coverup/

https://grokipedia.com/page/Dith_Pran

https://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/31/nyregion/31dith.html#:~:text=Though%20he%20and%20his%20wife,years%20of%20terror%20as%20children.&text=SKIP%20ADVERTISEMENT-,Dr.,my%20spirit%20will%20be%20happy.%E2%80%9D

https://www.dithpranfoundation.org/

https://www.govinfo.gov/content/pkg/CRECB-2008-pt6/html/CRECB-2008-pt6-Pg7699.htm#:~:text=Dith%20worked%20to%20help%20pass,taken%20place%20around%20the%20world

https://www.ushmm.org/genocide-prevention/countries/cambodia/forced-labor-and-collectivization

https://hmh.org/library/research/genocide-in-cambodia-guide/

https://www.ebsco.com/research-starters/biography/dith-pran

https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2008/4/3/killing-fields-photojournalist-dies#:~:text=%E2%80%9CPran%20was%20a%20special%20person,in%20the%20US%20in%201980.&text=%E2%80%9CPran%20was%20my%20brother%2C%20that’s,for%20those%20who%20still%20suffer.%E2%80%9D

In this post Nancy highlights the arty refugee experience of Dith Pran. She is a citizen journalist on a placement with us organised by Oxford University Career Services. She also organised the micro game to make the journalistic experience interactive.

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From Rainbow Nation to Unfinished Freedom: Postmemory and the Search for Justice in South Africa

More than 30 years after apartheid’s legal end, South Africa remains one of the least equal countries in the world. The country once referred to as the “Rainbow Nation” is today a vivid reminder of apartheid through spatial and economic legacies: under-resourced townships, stark education and employment differences, and concentrated wealth. For the second and third generations of black South Africans, apartheid survives not only as testimony but as inherited spatial arrangements and inequality that continue to shape their everyday lives. That inheritance turns formal freedom into a symbolic condition and renders the Freedom Charter’s promise of redistribution, autonomy, and freedom an unresolved demand.

Context

In 1994, South Africa held its first democratic elections, resulting in the African National Congress (ANC), led by Nelson Mandela, emerging victorious (Gumbi et al., 2024). This event marked the end of apartheid (Afrikaans for “separateness”), a racial segregation system established in 1948 by the Dutch settlers’ National Party (NP). During apartheid, black people were forced to live separately from white people, denied access to many jobs, and discriminated against in wages and rights (such as voting), leading to widespread poverty. When the ANC came to power, this system was legally dismantled, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu famously coined the country as the “Rainbow Nation”: an ethnically and culturally diverse, equal, fair, and cooperative South Africa (Nelson Mandela Foundation, 2024).

However, present-day South Africa is far from being a “Rainbow Nation”. Although all South Africans are now legally free and equal, the legacy of apartheid still affects the economy and spatial distribution. This makes South Africa one of the least equal countries in the world, with 10% of the population controlling 80% of the wealth (Lawal, 2024). The economy grew after apartheid, but, since then, only a small portion of the GDP reaches black households (Lawal, 2024). Furthermore, gross debt reached 71.1% of the GDP in 2022 due to corruption and government inefficiency (Lawal, 2024). This has resulted in the absence of a middle class, highly unequal land ownership, and a wage difference between white and black households of $5,586 per month (Lawal, 2024). In early 2023, black unemployment was around 40%, while only 7.5% of the white population was unemployed (Lawal, 2024).

In addition, public schools lack resources and face persistent racism, while limited transport access makes it difficult for low-income families living in remote areas to reach former white schools, which continue to offer better facilities and resources (Lawal, 2024). Likewise, black students are still underrepresented in higher education (Lawal, 2024).

Another facet of apartheid’s legacy is housing. While there’s been a redistribution of population across the country, allowing black South Africans to move closer to city centres and business districts, rural and poorly equipped townships, where black populations were relocated to during apartheid, still exist. These townships, which remain racially segregated and are continuously growing, are separated by buffers from predominantly white, high-income neighbourhoods (Lawal, 2024). Government funds providing homes for low-income families contribute to this spatial inequality, as such houses are far from economic centres, with poor transport networks, making rural unemployment twice as high as in other parts of the country (Lawal, 2024).

The Freedom Charter and Human Needs

The persistence of structural inequalities contrasts sharply with the aspirations that once defined the anti-apartheid movement: the Freedom Charter of 1955. This document was adopted by the Congress Alliance, a coalition between the ANC and other liberation movements. It called for equal rights, democratic participation, economic redistribution, freedom to choose where to live, free and equal education, and the end of racial segregation (African National Congress, 1955). Although formal dismantling of apartheid occurred, the transformative vision outlined by the Charter remains distant in today’s South Africa.

To unpack this vision, we must trace three interlocking human needs at the heart of the Freedom Charter’s anti-apartheid struggle: social justice as the demand for economic redistribution and equal life chances; freedom understood not merely as legal rights but as the real capacity to shape one’s life; and autonomy as the capacity to live and work within dignified space. First, social justice questions whether legal change transformed into material equality or whether existing wealth patterns persisted. While the Freedom Charter promised a radical wealth transfer, the post-apartheid transition involved an elite pact between corporate capital and the ANC, leading to the adoption of neoliberal policies rather than a wealth redistribution to meet human needs (Gibson, 2012). As a result, these policies have led to the so-called Black Economic Empowerment (BEE) which has created a new elite of “black diamonds” whose wealth is entrenched in the dynamics of capitalism and quick profit rather than national accumulation (Gibson, 2012).

Second, while justice addresses redistribution, freedom highlights the gap between legal equality and material conditions, the latter essential to truly experience equality under the law. Although apartheid has been legally dismantled, the economic realities outlined above – 10% of the population controlling 80% of the wealth, massive black unemployment, and the continued relocation of poor black communities to peripheral townships – demonstrate that formal freedom doesn’t translate into substantive freedom, equal opportunities, or lived equality. Third, autonomy focuses on the spatial and economic barriers preventing people from controlling their own lives. Due to neoliberalist policies, a large proportion of black South Africans are forced to relocate to expanding state-funded townships outside economic centres and big cities. These cities, therefore, have been “deracialized” through a “bourgeois” phenomenon, as access to them is granted by money (Gibson, 2012). Spatial segregation thus continues in the post-apartheid era, showing how Fanon’s argument that colonial domination is inscribed in the “ordering and geographical layout” of societies remains true in a postcolonial society (Gibson, 2012). As black populations are relocated in these poor townships, they lose autonomy to live, move, and work with dignity, limiting their actual choices.

Apartheid Postmemory

Economic and spatial inequality become in this way a material form of postmemory. New generations inherit not the apartheid itself, but the urban structures and poverty through which its divisions continue. In this case, postmemory does not only take the form of indirect stories on the periphery of new generations’ consciousness but also acquires a real and vivid form through which second and third generations experience those stories first-hand.

The memory of the “Promised Land” – the vision articulated by the ANC and embodied in the Freedom Charter – also becomes central to apartheid postmemory. For new generations, freedom is not just a lived struggle, but an inherited narrative of hope: a promise of an equal and just country, where everyone has access to the same opportunities regardless of skin colour. Yet the persistence of economic exclusion, government corruption, and spatial inequality have turned this hope into disillusionment and anger. In this sense, postmemory operates not only through inherited trauma but through inherited expectation of justice that remains unfulfilled.

Nigel Gibson (2012) argues from a Fanonian perspective that the post-apartheid transition did not transform South Africa’s economic structure, resulting in an “incomplete liberation.” The degeneration of the “Promised Land” manifests itself in rising frustration among the poor, who experience freedom as symbolic (end of apartheid and political rights) rather than substantive (material transformation). The symptom of this frustration – xenophobia – has been directed towards “black foreigners” rather than political leaders or economic elites, as seen in the 2008 riots, targeting poor African migrants, while white foreigners – viewed as investors or tourists – have remained untouched (Gibson, 2012).

Nearly three decades after Desmond Tutu coined the term “Rainbow Nation,” the ideal remains aspirational. The ANC faces accusations of self-enrichment and of failing to deliver on material justice (BBC, 2024). While South Africa boasts linguistic and skin colour diversity and progressive rights, persistent inequality and racism contrast with the promise of equality, unity, and justice (Nelson Mandela Foundation, 2024).

Thus, in contemporary South Africa, apartheid postmemory isn’t confined to past suffering stories. It’s embedded in inherited spatial divisions, economic exclusion, and the expectation of justice yet to come. The born-free generation doesn’t experience apartheid directly, but inherits its spatial, economic, and affective legacies.

Bibliography

African National Congress. (1955). The Freedom Charter Congress of the People, Kliptown. https://www.anc1912.org.za/the-freedom-charter-2/

BBC. (2024). Thirty years since apartheid ended: What was it, how did it end, and why did it start? Retrieved 10/02/2026 from https://www.bbc.co.uk/newsround/68937527

Gibson, N. C. (2012). What Happened to the “Promised Land”? A Fanonian Perspective on Post-Apartheid South Africa. Antipode, 44(1), 51-73. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-8330.2010.00837.x

Gumbi, K., Kumwenda-Mtambo, O., Kongkunakornkul, P., Sen, S., & Sachdev, V. (2024). Thirty years after the end of apartheid, equality eludes South Africa. Reuters. Retrieved 10/02/2026 from https://www.reuters.com/graphics/SAFRICA-ELECTION/ECONOMY/egpbonzrgvq/

Lawal, S. (2024). South Africa: 30 years after apartheid, what has changed? Al Jazeera. Retrieved 10/02/2026 from https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2024/4/27/south-africa-30-years-after-apartheid-what-has-changed

Nelson Mandela Foundation. (2024). The Rainbow Nation ideal: an ever-distant promise. Retrieved 10/02/2026 from https://www.nelsonmandela.org/news/entry/the-rainbow-nation-ideal-an-ever-distant-promise

In this episode Laura discusses the post apartheid experience of South Africa. What the situation on the ground is decades down the road. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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