After the 1974 division of Cyprus, identities among Greek Cypriot and Turkish Cypriot communities were shaped through inherited memories, education and imagination. Yet since the border reopened in 2003, young people’s encounters, friendships and shared spaces have begun reshaping belonging, showing identities can evolve beyond conflict’s legacy for future generations.

Backstory

Beyond 1974: Reimagining Youth Identity in Post 1974 Cyprus

Growing up in a divided home, she has never seen the other side. Most children find a sense of belonging in everyday routines, schoolyards, neighborhood games, and shared celebrations that help them understand their origins. She moves like a shadow between stories she did not choose but inherited. Surrounded by tales of separation she cannot fully grasp, she feels something in her home is still unfinished. A single question haunts her: Where do I truly belong?

Cyprus has been divided along ethnic lines for a long time. On one side are the Greek Cypriots. They have lived on the island since ancient times and mostly associate with the traditions of the Greek Orthodox Church. On the other side are the Turkish Cypriots, whose ancestors arrived during the Ottoman rule starting in the sixteenth century. Most are Muslim. Although they share the same island, the two groups gradually developed different political goals and cultural identities. Over time, they became like distant friends—close enough to see each other daily, yet unable to imagine a shared future.

The biggest disagreement between them was about how Cyprus should be governed. Many Greek Cypriots favored enosis, the unification with Greece, while many Turkish Cypriots preferred taksim, the partition of the island. These conflicting views affected political life throughout the twentieth century and set the stage for the crisis that began in 1974. What started as a constitutional dispute turned into a conflict that reshaped the island’s geography, politics, and emotional landscape.

In July 1974, a coup by the Cypriot National Guard, supported by the military junta in Greece, overthrew President Archbishop Makarios III. The coup aimed to push Cyprus closer to union with Greece. In response, Turkey invoked its rights under the Treaty of Guarantee and launched a military intervention. Turkish forces moved into the northern part of Cyprus, eventually taking control of about one-third of the territory.

The capital city, Nicosia, became physically divided by what is now known as the Green Line, a buffer zone managed by the United Nations that separates the two sides. Although a cease-fire was reached with international help, tensions remained high. Fighting resumed within weeks, and Turkish forces pushed further into the north. The island has stayed divided ever since.

In 1983, the northern part of the island declared itself the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. To this day, it is recognized only by Turkey. The southern part, governed by the Republic of Cyprus and made up mainly of Greek Cypriots, is recognized as the legitimate government of the entire island and later became a member of the European Union. Shared land became divided by borders, languages, flags, and political systems. Cyprus was not just geographically split; it was emotionally divided too.

Imagine hearing these stories from your parents and grandparents, picturing the other side you have never seen. How would you see yourself in such a setting? A sense of belonging is seen as a basic human need, yet children growing up in Cyprus negotiate their identities daily. Who are they really?

For many young Cypriots, the events of 1974 exist only as inherited memories, not lived experiences. The conflict belongs to history, but its meanings still influence the present. Instead of learning about the division through personal experiences, they hear about it through stories shared at dinner tables, school textbooks, and national commemorations. In this way, identity is not just lived; it is passed down. These inherited tales shape how children view themselves and the people on the other side of the island.

Maria grew up hearing such stories. Turkish Cypriots were often described to her as enemies, sometimes even as dangerous outsiders. Schools reinforced identities through national narratives, focusing heavily on Greek history and culture, which deepened her connection with the Greek Cypriot community (Anagiotos and Schied, 2013). Similarly, Turkish Cypriot children heard tales that emphasized differences and threats. Language also reflected these divides. Terms like gavur were historically used to refer to non-Muslim “others,” deepening the separation between communities (Mertan, 2011).

As a result, many children strongly identified as either Greek Cypriots or Turkish Cypriots, while the idea of a shared “Cypriot” identity felt distant or abstract. Identity seemed set, inherited, and unchangeable. But this began to shift in 2003 when a political decision unexpectedly opened new possibilities.

Thirty years after the division, Turkish Cypriot leader Rauf Denktash eased restrictions on movement across the buffer zone (Chrisafis, 2003). For the first time in decades, people could cross the previously closed border. What once seemed permanent suddenly became reachable.

On the first day the checkpoints opened, thousands crossed the divide. Some searched for homes they had been forced to leave long ago. Others wanted to see if the “enemy” they had imagined truly existed. Many approached with hesitation; many left in tears.

Nicosia gradually started to change. It was no longer just a symbol of division but also a place for encounters. Streets that were once marked by barriers slowly became places to meet. For many children and young people, these first crossings were emotional and surprising. The “others” they met did not feel completely foreign. They felt oddly familiar.

At bicommunal youth events organized in places like the Home for Cooperation, young people started to find unexpected similarities. One participant discovered that he and his supposed enemy both listened to the same Cypriot songs (Anagiotos and Schied, 2013). Others laughed together while playing bilingual games like Minilingo, which mixed Turkish and Greek words (Home For Cooperation, n.d.). Maria herself later joined a study-abroad program, forming lasting friendships with Turkish Cypriot classmates (Anagiotos and Schied, 2013). Through shared conversations, routines, and experiences, the assumptions she carried since childhood began to change.

These encounters did not erase differences. Language, religion, and political views still mattered. Yet they created space for something new: the idea that identity could be negotiated instead of just inherited. Young people started to see themselves not just as part of separate communities but also as individuals who could shape their relationships with one another.

Today, Cyprus remains physically divided, but more young people are becoming active in redefining what identity means on the island. Their interactions across the divide encourage them to question the stories they inherited from earlier generations. Instead of viewing the past as fate, they explore new ways to belong.

For them, 1974 is no longer a personal trauma but a historical reference point. This distance does not lessen its significance but allows for reinterpretation. Without direct memories of displacement or violence, younger Cypriots are sometimes more open to imagining coexistence. Their experiences suggest that identity can change through contact instead of remaining stuck in conflict.

Unlike their parents, today’s young Cypriots are learning to navigate identities that balance both difference and connection. They are discovering that belonging does not require choosing one side over the other. Instead, it can arise from dialogue, shared experiences, and everyday interactions across boundaries that once seemed unmovable.

Maria’s story reflects this broader change. Her search for belonging is both personal and generational. Like many young Cypriots, she manages inherited memories while creating new meanings for herself. For her generation, the answer to “Where do I belong?” may not be entirely defined by the borders drawn in 1974. Instead, it may lie in the relationships they are building across those borders.

In this sense, the future of Cyprus is shaped not only by discussions among political leaders. It is also quietly influenced by the daily choices of young people who are learning to see each other in a new light (Dizdaroğlu et al., 2026). Through friendship, curiosity, and shared spaces, they are gradually redefining what belonging means on a divided island. In doing so, they remind themselves—and perhaps the world—that identities formed by conflict can also be reshaped through connection.

Bibliography

Anagiotos, Christos and Fred M. Schied. “Learning of National Identity in Areas of Conflict:The Case of Greek-Cypriot Young Adults in Cyprus.” New Prairie Press (2013) :7-12

Chrisafis, Angelique. “Dazzled Cyprus fears a false dawn.” The Guardian. Published 3 May, 2003. https://www.theguardian.com/world/2003/may/03/cyprus.angeliquechrisafis [acessed 21 April 2026]

Dizdaroğlu, Cihan., Özen, İlhan Can., and Şenyuva, Özgehan. “Navigating From Negative to Positive Peace: A Quantitative Analysis of Youth Attitudes in Cyprus.” Alternatives Global Local Political (2026)

Home For Cooperation, “Minilingo!Bilingual Cards game.” (n.d.) https://www.home4cooperation.info/our-work/minilingo-bilingual-memory-game/

Mertan, Biran. “Children’s perception of national identity and in-group/out-group attitudes: Turkish-Cypriot school children” European Journal of Developmental Psychology, 8(1)(2011): 74–86

In this episode Ariel discusses the Cypriot expereince of rebuolding identity now that North and Sputh Cyprus have opened their brders to one another. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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AT A GLANCE - This article examines how Libya's 2020 ceasefire failed to deliver safety for ordinary citizens. Through the 2025 Tripoli clashes, the 2023 Derna floods, and the experiences of migrants and women, it shows that conflict's consequences - violence, neglect, and vulnerability - never stopped.

Backstory

Peace on Paper: The Daily Fight for Survival in Libya

In the Ain Zara area of Tripoli, a 21-year-old women was killed after a shell fell on her family’s house. She was the only female child, surrounded by brothers and due to be wed within the coming months. Upsettingly, this is not a lone story. Brothers Salem and Nagib al-Tajouri were killed in similar fashion that same week whilst other innocent citizens were targeted on the streets and fatally injured (Human Rights Watch, 2025.).

This may seem like a description of a war-torn country, entrenched in conflict but this is in fact a description of Libya’s Capital between 12 and 14 May 2025 – five years after a ceasefire was signed (UN, 2020.).

For the citizens of Libya, peace was never anything more than a promise on paper.

The Failed Ceasefire

Libya has been in a state of turmoil since 2011, where there was an armed revolt against dictator Muammar Gaddafi which resulted in his death of October that same year (Reuters, 2025). Since then, the country has been in turmoil with the rise of rival factions: The Government of National Accord based in Tripoli and the House of Representatives based in Tobruk. After 6 years of regional rivalry, a ceasefire was signed on 23 October 2020, promising a return to democracy with planned elections in December 2021 (Brooke-Holland, 2024.).

There were high hopes for the agreement with Acting Special Representative of the Secretary-General, Stephanie Williams saying:

“I hope that this agreement will contribute to ending the suffering of the Libyan people and enabling the displaced, both outside and inside the country, to return to their homes and live in peace and security.” (UN, 2020.)

This was not the case.

The promised 2021 elections never took place. The interim government overstayed its mandate, reigniting tensions between east and west due to their lack of legitimacy. Within little over a year of the agreement being signed, it had already unravelled and with it, any prospect of the safety it had promised.

The Daily Realities

The 2025 Tripoli clashes provide a valuable insight into how perilous Libya still truly is for the average citizen. Dr Mustafa Fetouri, Tripoli native, writes:

“Residents live under the constant threat of sudden, brutal clashes that have become part of their daily routine for years now. The sprawling capital stands precariously on the edge of renewed violence.” (Fetouri, 2025.)

After the death of militia leader, Abdulghani Kikli, rival factions started to jostle for control over Tripoli, leading to the city being plunged into conflict in May 2025. This meant that again the innocent population had to fear for their lives, even though peace had been promised. Many residents came forward, describing the heavy gunfire that echoed around their neighbourhood whilst others reported seeing “red lights in the sky.” The situation became so precarious that the government enforced a lockdown to make sure residents weren’t caught in the crossfire (Reuters, 2025.).

Dr Fetouri’s writing also highlights something much harder to measure mental trauma. Residents now must live with constant fear of conflict, forever wondering if themselves and their loved ones will survive to live another day. Security, both mentally and physically, is sadly more of a hope than a guarantee.

The lack of unity in Libya hasn’t only made the country more prone to violence but has also deeply hampered the way the country responds to issues, with the 2023 Derna Floods being a devastating example.

In September 2023, Storm Daniel crossed the Mediterranean and wreaked havoc on the coastal city of Derna. The storm had destroyed old dams which exacerbated the flooding, causing the estimated death of 2000 people and a further 5000 people to go missing on the first day (England, 2023.). This is a harrowing tragedy mostly caused by environmental issues, but most of the blame can be placed on the country’s continued conflict. The dams in Derna were built in the 1970s and were in massive need of refurbishment, but the continuance of violence meant no focus could be placed on renovation of infrastructure. It has been estimated that, across the multiple days, 20,000 may have perished. The ongoing rivalry doesn’t just mean more conflict, but it also means the abandonment of other pressing issues that could cause the deaths of thousands (Al-Atrush, 2025.).

The separate factions also made it highly difficult to coordinate effective responses. This is best put by Tim Eaton, Libya expert, who said:

It also made it very difficult for the international community, Britain in particular, to provide aid as they don’t want to show preference to even faction, making it extremely difficult to help the guiltless citizens that deserve help. Journalist Alex Crawford understood the predicament and said:

“There’s got to be some sort of way of getting round this bureaucracy and tiptoeing through this minefield of politics because the actual Libyan people are crying out for aid.” (Baker, 2023.)

Libyans are at constant risk. Even after the ceasefire, conflict has been very present with many uninvolved citizens getting caught in the middle whilst others are forever traumatised. Even in areas when there is very little conflict, their safety is still at jeopardy due to the very little focus there is on things such as infrastructure. There is no assured safety in Libya.

The Most Vulnerable Groups

Not all groups within Libya are treated the same, with migrants, asylum-seekers and refugees experiencing extreme levels of abuse. Many escape to Libya, hoping to escape war torn countries like South Sudan to either, reach Europe or to start a new life in Libya. Instead, many fine themselves trapped in human trafficking schemes whilst young girls and women find themselves facing sexual violence and exploitation. A Kenyan national labelled George outlined his experience:

“They would call our families using different telephone numbers, asking them for money. There was a boy who rebelled — he was beaten and killed. We were told we would be beaten until our people paid the ransom. If they didn’t, they would kill us, abandon us, or throw us into the desert.” (Headly, 2026.)

Having already been touched upon, the rivalling governments makes women much more vulnerable to sexual crimes and even death. Women find themselves prone to the violence of armed groups who are supposed to protect them, meaning there is a lack of people to turn to for help. This has led to increased rates of femicide with the deaths of Khansa Al-Mujahid, Amani Hajja and another unidentified woman in quick succession (Alatrash and Holleis, 2025.).

Libya is riddled with various systemic issues such as abuse of migrants and unfair treatment of women but due to the discord between the East and the West, these issues are put to the side and neglected. These groups already live in apprehension but due to things they can’t control they have to worry further. Their little security is only decreased further.

Conclusion

The ceasefire in 2020 was supposed to make Libya safer and ensure the safety and security of everyone who resides in the country. It has failed to do that as citizens again find themselves at the mercy of conflict. Whilst innocent residents die in Tripoli due to aimless shells, residents in Derna find themselves at risk of being drowned. Migrants find themselves at risk of being trafficked whilst women find themselves increasingly susceptible to sexual crimes.

The agreement has done very little, and peace was nothing more than a promise on paper.

Bibliography

Al-Atrush, Samer. “‘All should resign’: Derna disaster unleashes wave of anger in Libya.” Financial Times, September 15, 2023. https://www.ft.com/content/7cd8d5f0-39a9-4594-b021-e80dcada5ace?syn-25a6b1a6=1.

Alatrash, Islam., Holleis, Jennifer. “Femicides in Libya spark calls for tougher laws.” DW, January 12, 2025. https://www.dw.com/en/libya-femicides-laws-womens-rights-feminism-violence-un/a-74970845.

Baker, Tim. “Libya floods: Civil war makes it ‘incredibly difficult’ to get help to flood victims in divided country, Cleverly says.” Sky News, September 17, 2023. https://news.sky.com/story/libya-floods-civil-war-makes-it-incredibly-difficult-to-get-help-to-flood-victims-in-divided-country-cleverly-says-12963322.

Brooke-Holland, Louisa. “Libya: Political developments since 2011.” House of Commons Library, October 1, 2024. https://researchbriefings.files.parliament.uk/documents/CBP-10103/CBP-10103.pdf.

England, Andrew. “Libya flooding leaves hundreds feared dead.” Financial Times, September 11, 2023. https://www.ft.com/content/a05f7b93-7a67-4c76-adac-288f7874c4a1?syn-25a6b1a6=1.

Fetouri, Dr Mustafa. “The excruciating wait: Tripoli on the brink of a war that may never happen.” Middle East Monitor, September 12, 2025. https://www.middleeastmonitor.com/20250912-the-excruciating-wait-tripoli-on-the-brink-of-a-war-that-may-never-happen/.

Headly, Anthony. “Libya: A pattern of systematic human rights violations and abuses against migrants.” OHCHR, February 17, 2026. https://www.ohchr.org/en/stories/2026/02/libya-pattern-systematic-human-rights-violations-and-abuses-against-migrants.

Human Rights Watch. “Libya: Civilians Caught in Militia Clashes.” Human Rights Watch, May 20, 2025. https://www.hrw.org/news/2025/05/20/libya-civilians-caught-militia-clashes.

Reuters. “Armed clashes erupt in Libya’s Tripoli after reported killing of armed group leader.” Reuters, May 13, 2025. https://www.reuters.com/world/africa/armed-clashes-erupt-libyas-tripoli-after-reported-killing-armed-group-leader-2025-05-12/.

Reuters. “Libya’s crisis: A timeline of events since the 2011 uprising.” Reuters, May 14, 2025. https://www.reuters.com/world/africa/how-libyas-years-crisis-unfolded-after-2011-uprising-2024-08-28/.

United Nations. “UN salutes new Libya ceasefire agreement that points to ‘a better, safer, and more peaceful future’.” UN News, October 23, 2020. https://news.un.org/en/story/2020/10/1076012.

In this episode Richan discusses the Libyan expereince post 2020 ceasefire and how it failed to deliver peace and security for the ordinary citizens there. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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After the fall of Bashar al-Assad, over a million Syrians returned home, but return is fraught with hardship. War has devastated infrastructure and the economy, while years abroad have reshaped identities. Many refugees feel torn between two “homes,” facing pressure from host countries yet uncertainty in Syria, making return a complex, often temporary, and deeply personal decision.

Backstory

To Return or not to Return? The dilemma faced by Syrian refugees post-conflict

When Khalid al-Shatta stepped off a plane in Damascus in early 2025 — thirteen years after fleeing with his wife and infant son — he described a feeling that most of us would struggle to name. “The moment Syria was liberated, we made our decision,” he told Al Jazeera (AJLabs, 2025). And when he finally arrived, he felt like he had never left. But there was one difference, he added: a new sense of belonging to the country, the nation, the land. After thirteen years, home no longer felt like home by default. It had to be chosen.

That feeling — the act of choosing a place that was once simply yours — sits at the heart of what is happening to Syria right now. Since the fall of Bashar al-Assad in December 2024, over one million Syrians have returned from neighbouring countries and beyond, joining nearly two million internally displaced people who have made their way back to their areas of origin (UNHCR, 2026). It is one of the largest return movements in modern history. But a return movement is not a resolution. For the millions caught between a country that displaced them and the countries that never fully accepted them, the question of where they belong has become the defining human challenge of post-conflict Syria — and it does not have a clear answer.

Home is not what they left it

The war has scattered Syrian people all over. 7.4 million Syrians are internally displaced, and approximately 6 million are abroad, living in countries such as Germany, Türkiye, and Lebanon. Imagine, after years of being forcibly separated from your home, you finally have the opportunity to return. A no brainer, right? Surely anyone would jump at the occasion to come back to their own house, their own community, their own country.

For Syrian refugees it is not so simple.

The nearly 14 year bloody civil war has left Syria devastated. Cities, roads, hospitals, houses, schools have been destroyed. Infrastructure essential to survival such as water management systems and power plants are damaged or missing. The World Bank estimates reconstruction will cost $216 billion — nearly ten times Syria’s annual economic output (Group, 2025). Syria’s economy has contracted by more than 50% during the conflict. Gross National Income per capita was just $830 in 2024, and over 90% of the population lives below the poverty line (Afaghani, 2025). Jobs exist, but wages are often insufficient to sustain a family. Entire neighbourhoods are now rubble. What would once be a Syrian person’s must familiar environment is unrecognisable.

Remain or return?

For those who did choose to return, the experience has been genuinely mixed. “It’s an amazing period, I’ve never experienced the same freedom,” said Osama Mufdi, a Syrian entrepreneur who returned from Europe to open a charity and new business in Damascus (Holyoke, 2025). His experience captures something real: there is genuine energy and opportunity in the new Syria, a sense of freedom that many returnees describe as unlike anything they experienced under Assad.

However, most refugees are unwilling to make a permanent move back to Syria.

Research from the International Rescue Committee (2026), who conducted three rounds of surveys among 17 thousand Syrian refugees in 4 countries, shows that only 29% of respondents said they intended to return. 34% said they had no intention of going back at all and 37% were unsure. There is still little urgency for many people who are thinking about going back; only 9% of those who aim to go back, aim to do so immediately, and 16% to do so within six months. The fact that more than half (56%) of respondents were uncertain about when they would return suggests a significant level of reluctance or reliance on outside variables like better situations in Syria or modifications to the conditions in the host nation. Barriers to return include having suitable accommodation, which only 10% of respondents said to have. Being able to live with the dignity accorded by basic services and infrastructure was said to be the most important aspect, as it was cited by 72%.

Dual identities

What the return debate underplays is the identity dimension – the fact that more than a decade of displacement has changed people in ways that are not easily reversed. Indeed, over 80% of refugees in have lived in their host countries for over a decade (International Rescue Committee, 2026). These people had no choice but to rebuild their lives, working new jobs, building new relationships, learning new languages, ways of communicating, everything. Some became citizens of their host countries; between 2021 and 2023, 143,000 Syrians obtained German citizenship (McGuinness, 2024). Anas Modamani, who arrived in Germany at seventeen, captures this complexity perfectly when he speaks of having “two accessible ‘Heimaten’” (homelands)—a sense of belonging to both Berlin and Damascus (Connolly, 2025).

Indeed, someone who has lived in Berlin for a decade, raised children there, navigated the language, built friendships, experienced both welcome and hostility — that person does not simply “return.” They arrive as someone new, in a place that has also changed, and they have to figure out whether those two changed things still fit together.

Many of the people who did go back to Syria, did so on a temporary basis, and reserve the the possibility of leaving if conditions in Syria worsen. These are generally people with dual nationalities and who have the means to travel back and forth. Kefah Ali Deeb, a human rights activist living in Berlin since 2014, told Euronews; ““After al-Assad fell, I booked a ticket and went back immediately,” saying for her, “it was like a dream” (Holyoke, 2025). However, Ali Deeb did not stay, despite wanting to, deciding to monitor the situation in Syria before moving back, recalling her husband saying “Everything now is chaotic” (Holyoke, 2025). However, the decision to stay or not in Europe may soon be out many non-citizen refugees’ hands.

The political pressure from host countries

In Europe, right-wing governments are leveraging Syria’s political transition to push refugees out. Minister President of Bavaria Markus Sköder, said “If the reason for asylum disappears, then there is no longer any legal basis to stay in the country” (McGuinness, 2024).

The rise of the Alternative für Deutschland (AfD) AfD, with its explicit claim that “Islam does not belong in Germany,” created an atmosphere in which Syrian integration is publicly contested. When Assad fell, the push to return became part of the political campaign. Within hours of Damascus changing hands, AfD co-leader Alice Weidel announced that anyone celebrating the new Syria “clearly no longer has any reason to flee” and “should return immediately.” (McGuinness, 2024). Chancellor Friedrich Merz’s government hardened migration policy and entered talks with Syria’s interim president about the terms of return.

Syrians are caught between a country that cannot yet fully receive them and host countries that no longer want to fully keep them. And this is before accounting for the economic reality that many Syrians in Germany are, right now, lifelines to family members still inside Syria — sending remittances that substitute for the absence of functional public services. When those remittances stop because someone is pressured into a premature return, the family on the other end loses their safety net.

The final word

Khalid al-Shatta chose to return and felt, finally, like he belonged somewhere. Ali Deeb wants to return and cannot yet bring herself to. Anas Modamani is somewhere in between. They are all, in their own way, doing the hardest possible human thing: figuring out where home is, when home was taken away fourteen years ago and neither the place they left nor the place they fled to has fully held them since.

Bibliography

Afaghani, R. (2025). From Crisis to Recovery: Securing Peace and Stability in Syria and Beyond. [online] UNDP. Available at: https://www.undp.org/syria/blog/crisis-recovery-securing-peace-and-stability-syria-and-beyond.

AJLabs (2025). How many Syrians have returned home one year since the fall of al-Assad? [online] Al Jazeera. Available at: https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2025/12/8/how-many-syrians-have-returned-home-one-year-since-the-fall-of-al-assad.

Connolly, K. (2025). The Syrian refugee whose selfie with Angela Merkel changed his life. [online] the Guardian. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2025/jan/04/anas-modamani-syrian-refugee-selfie-angela-merkel.

Group, W.B. (2025). Syria’s Post-Conflict Reconstruction Costs Estimated at $216 billion. [online] World Bank. Available at: https://www.worldbank.org/en/news/press-release/2025/10/21/syria-s-post-conflict-reconstruction-costs-estimated-at-216-billion.

Holyoke, G. (2025). Syrians in Europe weigh up going home one year after al-Assad’s fall. [online] euronews. Available at: https://www.euronews.com/2025/11/28/syrians-in-europe-weigh-up-returning-home-one-year-after-al-assads-fall.

International Rescue Committee (2026). Syrians on the Move: Regional Refugee Intentions Briefing - Executive Summary | The IRC. [online] Syrians on the Move: Regional Refugee Intentions Briefing - Executive Summary. Available at: https://www.rescue.org/report/syrians-move-regional-refugee-intentions-briefing-executive-summary.

Jenna Le Bras (2026). Turkey’s economy hit as Syrians return home. France 24. Available at: https://www.france24.com/en/turkey-s-economy-hit-as-syrians-return-home.

McGuinness, D. (2024). Germany’s one million Syrians at centre of fierce political debate over future. BBC. [online] 11 Dec. Available at: https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/cy7kxn6p878o.

Osseiran, N. (2025). Hard homecoming: Syrian refugees return to a devastated land. Thomson Reuters. 5 Jun.

UNHCR (2026). Syria Factsheet - January 2026. [online] Available at: https://www.unhcr.org/sites/default/files/2026-03/syria-factsheet-january-2026.pdf.

Vollmer, R., Dinçer, O.B., Şahin-Mencütek, Z. and Engelberth, S. (2024). The Politics of Syrian Refugee Return in Germany: Balancing Rhetoric and Reality. [online] Bicc.de. Available at: https://bicc.de/Cosmos/Peacebits/The%20Politics%20of%20Syrian%20Refugee%20Return%20in%20Germany.

In this episode Maud discusses the Syrian refugee returnee expereince of rebuolding their country and their identities. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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AT A GLANCE - Mostar’s Stari Most bridge, destroyed during the 1990s Bosnian conflict, was rebuilt by 2004 and symbolizes resilience. Though physically restored, the city remains ethnically divided post-war, with visible scars—bullet holes, ruins, mosque destruction—still present. Yet activists like Irma Baralija and local artisans champion Mostar’s multicultural identity, showing enduring commitment to unity despite lasting demographic and political fractures.

‘A Rainbow Arch As High As The Sky’: The Bridge Holding Together A Community.

Put ‘Mostar’ into any social media search bar – like I did – and you’ll find yourself drawn into a visit images of the beautiful Stari Most, arching above the glittering waters of the Neretva river. Each year hundreds of daring tourists attempt to jump from it into the freezing waters below, seduced by the stunning scenery and the adrenaline rush of a 24-metre drop. It makes a great clip for your Instagram, and completing it earns you a page in the special book of those who have made the leap. But don’t forget that the ‘Old Bridge’ also stands proudly as a symbol of the city to which it gave its name; it represents not only the beauty of the city but the character it is determined to show in the face of disaster. Barely over 30 years ago, Mostar was under siege, its streets ravaged by conflict, its people catching pigeons to stay alive, and its bridge in pieces on the riverbed.

The fall of Yugoslavia in 1990 catalysed a complex conflict between the various ethnic, national, and religious groups in the Bosnian ‘melting pot’: Bosnian Serbs, Croats, Bosniaks, Muslims, Jews and Orthodox Christians. Mostar itself fell under siege first in the summer of 1992, defended by the Croatian Defence Council and the Army of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina against the Yugoslav People’s Army. Once this was lifted, the fragile alliance between Bosniaks (a majority Muslim Bosnian population) and Croats broke down, and another year of violence fell upon the East of the City. Many Muslim families were forced to flee across the river, streets and buildings scarred by bombs and bullets. A community once characterised by cohabitation was broken up by atrocity, and the bridge which had stood as a symbol of this connection crumbled into the river under the weight of artillery fire.

When the conflict ended Mostar began, gradually, to rebuild. Tanks had destroyed three quarters of the housing in the West of the city and much of its infrastructure – it would be no small feat to restore it. International support was significant and UNESCO itself was part of the appeal to rebuild the bridge, launched as soon as fighting stopped in 1994. Works were completed in 2004, and it attained status as a world heritage site the following year. The city had voted to restore the ‘Ottoman Necklace’ in its original style rather than construct a new bridge, its bricks even cut from the stone of the same quarry which had provided for the original in 1566. The decision to do so reflected a commitment, despite disaster, to the values of unity and friendship which the Stari Most had stood for. Architecture had for hundreds of years reminded the people of Mostar of its tolerance and cultural diversity, and would do so again.

Yet the stones were undeniably very clean, very white, and very new. The city could be repaired, but the community could not simply go back. The war had forced its residents to flee, and altered the once diverse makeup of its municipalities; areas that once held slight Croat or Bosniak majorities became almost entirely made up of one group or the other. Many of the refugees never made it back; the International Crisis Group noted that “the narrow Bosniak plurality of 1991” had “become a substantial Croat majority”. Most of Mostar’s mosques were destroyed in the fighting, disfiguring a beautiful skyline once dotted with minarets and providing a definite example of how the built environment itself reflected the demographic shift. Even when reconstructed, the location of those buildings would remind its citizens of how they had been divided.

Today, the memory of war lingers both in the memory of those who lived through it and in the physical spaces they occupy. Those clips of excited bridge-jumpers don’t show the walls pockmarked by bullet holes, the houses reduced to rubble, or the fact that if you were to wander from a path in the mountains surrounding the city you might come across a stray landmine. The legacy of war might be buried under the ground, but the memory of it is not. For most of the population the war is a lived experience, and one they won’t shy away from – its memory grows more important as time passes, because the world cannot be allowed to forget. Signs of what happened remain because they’re important, not because they’ve been neglected. You could, for instance, walk through the Old Town and buy yourself a toy tank or a keyring made of replica bullets, just as a light-hearted souvenir. There’s a reason for that.

Mostar itself is a particularly powerful example of the undying desire for a united community growing from the ground up, its people committed to upholding its multiethnic identity despite political conflict. There were no elections in the city between 2008 and 2020, because there could be no agreement between the Bosnian Croat ethnic-oriented Croat Democratic Union (HDV) and the Bosniak ethnic-oriented Party for Democratic Action (SDA) over a new electoral system. What changed in 2020? As a mother and a Master’s graduate, Irma Baralija sued the state of Bosnia and Herzegovina, winning a judgement that forced the parties into the design of new democratic law. Baralija is a brilliant representative of the will of Mostar’s citizens not to be divided along ethno-national or religious lines, and to instead define themselves by their tolerance and commitment to cultural diversity.

This isn’t something you need to be involved in politics to see; go to Mostar for yourself and any tour guide will proudly tell you how their city is the stunning outcome of both Eastern and Western heritage. Better yet, they might take you to a little copper workshop in the Old Town which sits on the Neretva’s bank, just a stone’s throw from the Stari Most. Its owners will show you, amongst their other work, a particular style of copper plate featuring that famous bridge which has come to symbolise their city. On one end of sit the spires of a mosque, on the other the tower and crucifix of an orthodox church. Above the bridge flies a dove with an olive branch: the mark of peace. Bosnia and Herzegovina is decades removed from a war that rocked the nation, but not so far removed that the man who made the plate couldn’t look down the street and picture it lined with rubble and sandbags. It is the resilience of love for the diverse community shown by this man, by Irma Baralija, and by those like them that ensure that those scars of war remind the world of the need for peace.

So be drawn into a visit by the stunning scenery of Mostar’s famous bridge, see it for yourself, see the bullet holes and broken buildings. Hear both the pride with which its people describe the multicoloured history of its amazing architecture, and their reminder of the importance of remembering a war not yet distant in memory. Take in the history you can see around you, and have a go at leaping from the bridge, if you’re sure.

https://theroamingrenegades.com/mostar-discovering-scars-war-rocked-bosnia/

https://see-whistleblowing.org/how-one-mother-brought-voting-rights-back-to-a-post-war-city-a-close-look-at-irma-baralija-and-the-case-of-mostar/

file:///C:/Users/Fin/Downloads/Rebuilding_Mostar_Urban_Reconstruction_in_a_War_Zo..._----_(12_Conclusions).pdf

https://www.re-thinkingthefuture.com/city-and-architecture/a6453-rebuilding-the-city-mostar/

https://whc.unesco.org/en/story-mostar-bridge/

https://www.dailysabah.com/life/historic-mostar-bridge-defies-war-celebrates-20-years-rebuilt/news

https://reliefweb.int/report/bosnia-and-herzegovina/bosnia-herzegovina-reconstruction-proceeding-slowly-mostar

Bollens, Scott A. (2007). Cities, Nationalism and Democratization. London and New York: Routledge. ISBN978-1-134-11183-1.

In this episode Finabr discusses the post conflict experience of Mostar. He highligts life after the war there. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

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Planting Seeds of Prosperity: Agricultural Challenges in Vietnam’s Post-War Recovery

Rolling fields. Arcyteryx jacket on. Romance with your Easy Rider budding. The Ha Giang Loop is one of the most talked about destinations for backpackers travelling through South East Asia. However, what often goes undiscussed in these travel recommendations is the way of life in the Ha Giang region, and the utility of the region for the country’s economy. Ha Giang is one of the poorest provinces in Vietnam, and yet it is an essential part of Vietnam’s agricultural industry. Rich in rice, maize and fruits, Ha Giang is populated by communities who employ traditional farming techniques to harvest these products. The contrast between these two images of Ha Giang is striking, and this article aims to draw attention to this second, less-discussed picture.

This piece focuses on one of the most basic human needs—food security—and asks how war, policy and environmental damage has shaped Vietnam’s ability to meet it. Agriculture was an essential tool in rebuilding the Vietnamese economy after the war, and a series of different initiatives implemented by the Vietnamese government in this period led the sector on a journey through scarcity to surplus. The effects of the war, however, lingered through this process, and still impacts the agricultural industry today.

The Vietnam War spanned twenty years, officially beginning on November 1st 1955 and ending on April 30 1975. The conflict took place between the divided North and South. The North Vietnamese government aimed to establish a communist system for the country, and this government had the support of some in the Southern Region, known as the Viet Cong. In opposition to this, the government of South Vietnam was vying for a system more closely aligned with the countries in the West. Subsequently, they gained the support of the US, who entered into the conflict in 1965. With the USSR and China pouring weapons into North Vietnam, and the aforementioned US presence in this conflict, the Vietnam War is considered a manifestation of the Cold War.

During this conflict, agriculture was central to warfare. In North Vietnam, produce was reserved for fighters, with the popularised slogan, ‘every grain of rice and every soldier was ensured for the frontline’ prompting a surge in rice farming. Agriculture became a key factor in keeping soldiers alive and strong, and subsequently it became a symbol of strength.

Countering the necessity of food for the war effort, the US involvement in the conflict fought against this production with the employment of chemical weaponry. With multiple different chemicals used, the most famous and impactful of these was dubbed Agent Orange - a herbicide intended to destroy crops and remove vegetation that was helping to cover North Vietnamese soldiers and the Viet Cong. This was the biggest deployment of herbicidal warfare in history. However, Agent Orange was found to produce a toxic byproduct, called dioxin TCDD. This product poses risks to human health, and has been linked to a wide range of complications including cancer and cardiovascular diseases.

These lasting effects of Agent Orange meant that not only did agriculture and farming play an essential part in the war strategy itself, but the employment of chemical weaponry by the US would go on to affect the agricultural systems of the nation for the foreseeable future.

After the war ended, the newly instated communist government turned to agriculture as a means to boost the post-war economy. As part of a wider movement to a centralised socialist economy, the government introduced an initiative to collectivise farmers. Individual ownership of land was revoked from farmers, and instead they were grouped into cooperatives. They were instructed to work on the premise that any surplus crop they produced would be turned in and redistributed centrally. The theory was that this would increase production and resources for the nation. This initiative, however, had the inverse effect. Low incentives resulted in low yields, and low harvest numbers forced the government to start importing food.

The failure of this system was then overridden in 1986 when the Doi Moi reforms were put in place. With the country falling into economic crisis as a result of the centralised economy, the government elected to change their approach, turning to a market-centred, socialist economy. Part of this movement was to decollectivise farming in Vietnam. The state restored private land use rights and allowed individual farmers to sell on the market. As a result of these reforms, the agricultural industry began to flourish. This policy re-aligned incentives — motivated by the idea that they could keep and sell surpluses, production rose quickly. Vietnam moved from importing rice in the late 1980s to becoming a leading exporter within a decade. Looking at rice production alone, for example, in 1989, Vietnam exported 1.4 million tonnes of rice.

This flourishing agricultural industry has only grown in the last 30 years, contributing to the strengthening of the Vietnamese economy post-war. According to The Ministry of Agriculture and Environment of the Socialist Republic of Vietnam, in 2025 Vietnamese rice was exported to over 160 countries across the globe.

However, the booming agricultural industry now is not entirely free from the ghosts of the Vietnam War. The use of Agent Orange throughout the conflict has led to long term effects that echo in the agricultural industry even today. Dropping an estimated total of 19 million gallons of chemicals over South Vietnam, hectares of farmland were affected in the millions. One of the problems with the dioxin TCDD in Agent Orange is that its half-life can span up to 100 years. Its persistence means much of the land remains contaminated today, and still unsuitable for farming. Olson and Morton have undertaken research into the impact of Agent Orange on the landscape in Vietnam, and note that dioxin TCDD from the herbicides made its way into the environment in Vietnam. The problem with this chemical is, once it has entered the landscape, it can take between decades and centuries to leave.

Not only does Agent Orange leave the land unsuitable for farming, but Olson and Morton have also explored how its absorption into the soil has resulted in the contamination of marshes, lakes and rivers. As a result of this, it is not only crop directly grown through this land that poses a risk to citizens, but fish and livestock living from contaminated waters and fields. Ingestion of any of these foods can prove seriously harmful. These two levels of localised and lower-level contamination mean some communities have been faced with acute exposure whilst others have lived with elevated long-term risk. As a result of these layers, the agricultural industry is experiencing the effects of Agent Orange on multiple levels.

The scar that Agent Orange has left upon the agricultural industry serves as a reminder of the time in which agricultural production was not flourishing in the way it is now. The war’s environmental imprint complicates Vietnam’s agricultural success story: production and exports have risen, though risks from contamination persist.

Bibliography

• National Center for Biotechnology Information (NCBI). Chapter (online): “The U.S. Military and …” in Veterans/Agent-Orange–related volume. https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK236347/#:~:text=3The%20U.S.%20Military%20and,nature%20of%20their%20job%20assignments. Accessed 20 Mar 2026.

• Olson, K., & Morton, L. T. “Long-Term Fate of Agent Orange and Dioxin (TCDD) Contaminated Soils and Sediments in Vietnam Hotspots.” (report/working paper). (n.d.). https:// (please supply year, publisher, DOI or link if available). Accessed 20 Mar 2026.

• Socialist Republic of Vietnam, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. “Vietnam’s agriculture shifts from quantity to quality to win new markets.” https://en.mae.gov.vn/vietnams-agriculture-shifts-from-quantity-to-quality-to-win-new-markets-9039.htm. Accessed 20 Mar 2026.

• WTO Center. “80 years on: Vietnam emerges from rice importer to top 3 global exporter.” https://wtocenter.vn/chuyen-de/28581-80-years-on-vietnam-emerges-from-rice-importer-to-top-3-global-exporter. Accessed 20 Mar 2026.

In this episode Leya discusses the post conflict experience of Vietnam. She highligts the food security issues the local population face decades after the war ended. 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.

At a Glance - Displaced Syrians are using digital platforms to reclaim their identities following the devastation of the Syrian Civil War. Social media enables refugees to preserve culture, maintain family connections and share their own narratives beyond statistics. While inequalities in access persist, digital spaces offer essential opportunities for belonging, visibility and cultural reconstruction.

Backstory

More than a statistic: How Syrian Refugees are Reclaiming their Voice Online

Culture is made up of many aspects, including language, food, customs, land and values, just to name a few. It exists in both intangible and tangible forms, shaping how we see ourselves and where we belong. However, what happens when war and conflict infiltrates that culture, destroying your land, disrupting the processes of customs and making food and forcing you to flee to places where the language, values and sense of belonging are no longer the same?

For millions of Syrians displaced by the Syrian Civil War, this question is not theoretical, but in fact it is their reality. With more than 12 million Syrians forcibly displaced and millions more still living in unstable conditions, the conflict has not only reshaped the country physically but has deeply fractured its sense of identity. In a context where collective trauma has ruptured national belonging, identity is no longer something stable in Syria, but something that must be rebuilt.

This article explores how displaced Syrians are navigating this loss, not just through physical rebuilding, but through digital spaces. In a world where being seen and heard is increasingly tied to an online presence, social media has become an extremely powerful tool for reclaiming one’s voice, preserving culture, raising awareness and in rebuilding a sense of identity in the aftermath of a conflict.

For many young people in the UK, identity is something we express daily, through what we post, what we wear, the music we listen to and the communities we are a part of, both online and offline. Social media has become a space where we shape how others see us and in turn, how we see ourselves. Now imagine that being taken away, except it’s not just your online presence, but your home, your livelihood, your community and your everyday routines that make up who you are. Considering aspects like choosing what to wear to best represent ourselves as an active daily determining factor of our identities is a privilege. For displaced Syrians, identity is not just about self-expression but about something that requires rebuilding.

War does not just destroy infrastructure, it disrupts meaning. In Syria, years of conflict have fractured what researchers describe as ‘collective identity’. This is the concept of a national identity of a nation as a whole or the shared sense of belonging that binds people together. This rupture is not only physical but deeply psychological, creating collective trauma, where the very idea of what it means to be Syrian is thrown into question. As a Syrian woman, named Fadia, reflected, “our identity as Syrian women has become intertwined with this narrative of war”. It is inevitable for culture to evolve and undergo massive transformations over time, whether it is a culture of a specific city or a whole nation in question. This change is natural and results due to the fact that culture is malleable. It is a dynamic and adaptive system, in which people adjust according to their environments, technologies, ideas and social behaviours. However, what occurred in Syria was far from natural, leading to the loss of people’s identity, as a result of politicization.

In Syria, this disruption was not caused by conflict alone but also by years of political control that shaped how culture could be expressed. Cultural identity was often tied to state narratives, limiting how freely people could explore and share their traditions and perspectives. When conflict escalated, this already fragile cultural space was further damaged, through destruction of cultural landmarks and communities. As a result rebuilding culture is not simply about returning to the past but about redefining what it means to be Syrian in this completely new context. Only recently, in the aftermath of the conflict, have Syrians begun to reclaim these spaces, using art, literature and storytelling to redefine what their culture means. The Ministry of Culture has taken steps to help reignite cultural institutions by co-ordinating exhibitions and festivals and cultural centres have even reopened.

For many displaced Syrians, rebuilding their identity is no longer confined to physical spaces. It is now happening online as social media platforms have become vital tools for communication and survival. Digital platforms that many take for granted in their daily life are necessary lifelines for some, that allow refugees to maintain connections with family, document their experiences and share these stories with a global audience. This is helping to rebuild Syrian culture in many ways, firstly being able to maintain a connection with their family means that they can maintain their language and the recognition of customs, whilst feeling less isolated in a new foreign country. Having the autonomy to be able to document and share their own experiences, displaced people or refugees can take control of their own narrative and show that being Syrian is more than the war and conflict that unfortunately took place.

In many ways, this mirrors how Gen Z already uses digital spaces. Platforms like Instagram or Tiktok are not just for entertainment but where identities are shared and validated. The difference is that for refugees it does not follow a monetary purpose of building a personal brand and gaining followers but about maintaining a sense of self in the face of displacement and possibly raising awareness for their country and its people. What might feel like a casual scroll past a pose could be a lifeline for another person.

Instead of being reduced to statistics, individuals are able to present themselves as students, artists, workers and creators. In this sense, digital spaces fulfil a fundamental human need, which is the need to be heard. As one refugee described, being able to see and speak to their family through social media makes it feel “as if they live with us”, highlighting how technology can restore a sense of closeness even in displacement. Additionally, social media can also further the reconstruction of culture within Syria through raising awareness and online funds and resources.

Beyond voice, digital platforms also help rebuild another essential human need: connection. Displacement often means losing entire support systems, which can even happen overnight, including family, friends and community networks. Social media helps bridge this gap, allowing refugees to maintain relationships and form new ones across borders. Studies show that refugees rely heavily on digital tools to navigate daily life, learn new cultural norms, keep in touch with family and integrate into host communities, with over 80% of Syrian refugees in Turkey in a 2023 social media study reporting increased knowledge of their new environments through social media use.

Belonging is one of the most fundamental human needs and it is also one of the easiest to lose in a conflict. Displacement often means stepping into environments where you could be seen as an outsider, where your language may not be understood or your experiences are difficult for others to relate or respond to. In these moments, digital spaces can offer you a sense of familiarity and community. A shared post, a message from a friend that does understand, hearing your own language online even if it is through a TV show or being able to speak to your family can provide immense levels of comfort and continuity. These small moments help to rebuild a sense of normality, reminding individuals that they are still connected to something larger than their immediate surroundings.

However, digital identity is not a complete solution. Access to technology is uneven and not all refugees have the resources or stability needed to maintain an online presence. Research suggests that many feel the need to appear ‘resilient’ or ‘deserving’ in order to be accepted by host societies, shaping how they construct their identities digitally. This raises important questions on whose voices are truly being heard and whose are left out? While digital platforms offer opportunities for visibility, they can also reinforce inequalities and expectations. It cannot be ignored that some refugees may not even wish to present themselves online.

Despite these challenges, digital identity continues to play a growing role in how post-conflict communities rebuild. As technology becomes more integrated into everyday life, these online spaces may increasingly shape how culture, identity and belonging evolve across borders. For younger generations of Syrians, particularly those who have grown up in displacement, their concept of identity may no longer be tied to a single place, both physically and digitally.

The story of Syrian refugees is often told through facts and numbers, millions having been displaced and billions needed in funding for post-conflict reconstruction, but these figures fail to capture what is also at stake: identity, belonging and their basic human needs of recognition and connection. In the aftermath of the Syrian Civil War, digital spaces have become more than just tools and instead places where people have the opportunity to rebuild who they are. These platforms cannot replace what has been lost but can offer something essential, which is the chance to be seen, heard and to remind the world that behind every statistic is a human story not yet finished.

Bibliography:

Al-Daher, Yaser. “Syria in Transition – the Return of Syrian Culture.” Syriaintransition.com, 2026. https://www.syriaintransition.com/en/home/opinion/the-return-of-syrian-culture.

Aldamen, Yasmin. “Understanding Social Media Dependency and Uses and Gratifications as a Communication System in the Migration Era: Syrian Refugees in Host Countries as a Case Study.” Social Sciences 12, no. 6 (June 1, 2023): 322. https://doi.org/10.3390/socsci12060322.

Bachleitner, Kathrin. “Collective Identities amid War and Displacement: Syrians and Syrian Refugees Re‐Imagine Their Country.” Nations and Nationalism, December 14, 2021. https://doi.org/10.1111/nana.12788.

data.unhcr.org. “Country - Syrian Arab Republic,” n.d. https://data.unhcr.org/en/country/syr.

Sciaf.org.uk. “Rebuilding Lives in Syria: Fadia’s Story | SCIAF,” 2022. https://www.sciaf.org.uk/about-us/news/14-rebuilding-lives-in-syria-fadia-s-story.

Udwan, Ghadeer, Koen Leurs, and Amanda Alencar. “Digital Resilience Tactics of Syrian Refugees in the Netherlands: Social Media for Social Support, Health, and Identity.” Social Media + Society 6, no. 2 (April 2020): 205630512091558. https://doi.org/10.1177/2056305120915587.

In this episode Anachal discusses how displaced Syrians are using digital platforms to recliam their identities given the devistation of the cicvl war there. 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.

Nearly a decade after the 2016 peace deal with FARC, Colombia shows that ending conflict does not ensure sustainable peace. Former fighters continue to face insecurity, stigma, and unstable livelihoods. Reintegration remains incomplete, as fundamental human needs (safety, acceptance, and self-determination) are unevenly met in everyday life.

Backstory

Peace on Paper, Uncertainty in Practice: Life After FARC

After five decades of one of the longest-running armed conflicts in modern history, the Colombian government and Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) signed a 2016 peace agreement that formally ended fighting and committed to transitioning from war to peace, from instability to reconstruction, and from rebellion to citizenship. Formally, the framing holds, ending the conflict and demobilizing close to 14,000 fighters and establishing institutional mechanisms supported by the UN and EU such as the European Union Trust Fund for Colombia and the Agency for Reintegration and Normalization (ARN) to support recovery, stabilization, and reintegration post conflict (ICG 2021, 2) (EEAS 2016, 1). Such efforts depict a clear halt to armed conflict. However, to treat this formal agreement as a definitive end to all forms of violence and instability, is a large misjudgement. Nearly a decade later, Colombia illustrates this reality to be more complicated; its peace is ongoing, uneven, and social, and cannot be reduced to political design. So, how is the illusion of peace actually experienced now? Is it meeting fundamental human needs that make peace sustainable? What does it reveal about human nature?

Colombia is often presented as a post-conflict success story. However, its lingering effects and social fractures still shape everyday life, particularly for those trying to transition and reintegrate. For former FARC members, reintegration and acceptance into society has proved scarce and uneven.

From Demobilization to Dispersion

As part of the reintegration program, former fighters were settled in designated Territorial Areas for Training and Reintegration (TATRs), accessing programmes of education (academic and vocational) and state support (ReliefWeb 2018, 1). They served to help with citizen transition and reintegration, allowing a supported shift from armed life to civilian identity. Despite initial successes, the system suffered from poor infrastructure, limited funding, and security concerns. With limited viable economic opportunities within the zones, most participants left, ultimately hindering the conditions of reintegration (Suárez 2024, 3); by 2024, the majority of former members lived outside such zones, being dispersed across different cities, with only about 16% remaining on site (Sabogal 2024, 609). Consequently, without direct support, reintegration becomes contingent and dependent on variant factors depending on region and presence (or often, absence) of state institutions. In some areas, cooperative projects such as farms employing ex-fighters and other structures have created relative stability. However, in others, they face similar structural inequalities that caused the conflict in the first place. Therefore, stability is no longer dependent on existing structures named in the peace agreement and is instead shaped by where individuals end up and what resources are available.

Persistence of Violence After “Peace”

Despite cited demobilization and terminance of violence, security after war remains scarce. With the dismantling of FARC and direct conflict between the state and the group, power vacuums emerged, now being filled by other dissident groups and criminal organizations such as the National Liberation Army (ELN) and the Gulf Clan (AGC) (Helen 2018, 2). This has directly affected former combatants, with over 460 being victims of targeted murders, forcing them out of TATRs, endangering, and displacing them (Sponsel 2023, 2). With delays in housing displaced ex-fighters, many became, according to ex-rebel, Antonio Pardo, “sitting ducks for other armed groups looking to settle old scores,” stating that “there were failures on the part of the government, failures they described as delays. But those delays could be deadly for us,” (Buschschlüter 2022, 3). As community spokesperson Jasbleidy Cabana explains, “the dissidents see us as traitors to Farc’s struggle,” making them victims of persisted violence beyond formal peace (Sponsel 2023, 2). This depicts how the assumption of demobilization leading to security is flawed, and rather makes citizens vulnerable in a society where they are no longer fighters but not fully protected civilians either. Although the war has ended at a national level, the basic human need for security is uncertain for these populations. Peace is not sustainable when safety is inadequate.

The Social Limits of Reintegration

“Most people don’t want us to work for them, because of what we were,” (Brigida 2016, 2). Alongside challenges in security, former members struggle to be accepted into society. Post-conflict transition policies and programs often focus on logistical aspects of reintegration, paying little attention to social inclusion and assuming that economic participation will facilitate reintegration into society. While this assumption is in part valid, it underestimates the depth of social fracturing produced by prolonged and violent conflict which hinders reconciliation. The five decade long conflict has significantly damaged communities, causing collective loss and destabilization. Consequently, distrust is a lived reality between conflict-affected communities and former fighters. Former members face large stigmatization, threats, distrust, and struggle to be accepted into their communities. According to a 2025 Harvard survey, “many choose to conceal their past for fear of being excluded,” and that “70% of respondents report (...) risks tied to their reincorporation, and threats against themselves and their families,” (Duque 2025, 11).

Thus, reintegration must recognize such struggles and focus on policies beyond economic productivity. They must engage with “families, receiving communities, and society,” to provide resources and use “dialogue, compensation, guarantee of nonrepetition, and acknowledgement and repentance for the damage done” in order to create “an atmosphere of acceptance to ensure there are opportunities for former combatants to reintegrate,” (Gluecker 2021, 361, 270). Overall, the human need for acceptance is not easily restored from policy, and requires social interaction and time. Therefore, formal reintegration programs still leave transitioners vulnerable. Sustainable peace does not exist when society does not accept them.

Economic Reintegration and the Search For Agency

Efforts to support economic reintegration have often come unevenly and perpetuate structural inequality. Despite efforts of workforce inclusion, through systems such as Economía Social del Común (ECOMUN), a cooperative with the aim of promoting “the reintegration of former combatants into territories through their cooperatives and associations,” its focus on access to economic activity rather than access to functioning and stable economic systems has limited the development of sustainable and autonomous lives. Although businesses exist, they are unstable and have difficulties generating stable incomes. In agricultural areas, cooperative projects such as farms employing ex-fighters lack sustainable incomes due to fluctuating harvest cycles, prices, social stigma, and inconsistencies (Morales 2022, 6, 7)(Duque 2025, 11). In others, irregular demand, weak value chain positioning, low investment, and an overall lack of social acceptance continuously undermine stability and long-term viability, forcing many to rely on precarious, short-term income strategies with unpredictable income and revert to illegal sectors such as drug trade (Otis 2021, 3). Additionally, former fighters also face systemic barriers associated with financial exclusion, with restricted access to banking services, stigma preventing economic reintegration in communities, and struggles to access “important financial services such as credit and loans,” (Valencia 2022, 3). Moreover, economic focus on efficiency ignores post-conflict realities, where participation is shaped by insecurity, trauma, and health conditions. While programs enable participation and provide some level of income, transition to independent economic actors is not consistently stable; income and market integration remains limited, irregular, and dependent on cooperative structures. Thus, Colombia’s reintegration model hinders self-determination, as agency depends on not only access to work, but the capacity to exercise economic autonomy and stability.

From Distance to Reality

At first glance, the issue may feel geographically, politically, and socially distant to readers. Despite the specific focus on post-conflict Colombia and its effects on ex-FARC members, its dynamics and what it reveals is familiar. The search for safety, acceptance, stable sense of identity, and agency are not unique to post-conflict societies. Despite different contexts, these human needs are in reality, universal. Furthermore, the focus is not only Colombia’s process of rebuilding after long conflict, but what it reveals about real peace, institutions, and human nature universally. The idea of ‘peace on paper, uncertainty in reality’ is present in various different contexts such as, for example, the failure of a simple ceasefire in Syria that did not address key grievances. Peace, therefore, is not about only ending direct violence, but about restoring basic human needs and conditions.

Conclusion

Historically, in fragile and post-conflict societies, it is evident that solely stopping physical harm (through methods of ending conflicts by ceasefires or peace agreements), does not prevent instability, resentment, grievances, or renewal of conflict. In 2015, a survey of scholars identified key elements of sustainable stability beyond violence: well-being, quality of social relations, cooperation, interdependence, access to resources, equality, and human security (Coleman 2020, 4). It is important, therefore, to address all aspects of peace when peacekeeping.

Nearly a decade after the 2016 agreement, Colombia illustrates the complexity of post-conflict recovery and peacebuilding. For former FARC members, progress is evident, but is not complete, involving continuously navigating unstable and uncertain conditions. Reintegration and peace does not occur within a defined timeframe as it deals with deep-rooted societal transformations. Overall, it is evident that peace cannot be fully achieved with a single document or moment. It requires the implementation of “positive peace”, otherwise known as the creation of sustainable, harmonious societies beyond the mere absence of war through attitudes, institutions, and resolution of root grievances (Positive Peace n.d., 1). It is within this condition where human needs such as safety, acceptance, and self-determination are met.

Sources:

Brigida, Anna-Catherine. “Turning Guerrilla Fighters into Entrepreneurs.” BBC News, March 24, 2016. https://www.bbc.com/news/business-35873206

Buschschlüter, Vanessa. “Colombia Ex-Fighters Brew up New Lives After Giving up Guns.” BBC News, April 7, 2022. https://www.bbc.com/news/world-latin-america-60993769

Coleman, Peter T., Joshua Fisher, Douglas P. Fry, Larry S. Liebovitch, Allegra Chen-Carrel, and Geneviève Souillac. “How to Live in Peace? Mapping the Science of Sustaining Peace: A Progress Report.” American Psychologist 76, no. 7 (November 12, 2020): 1113–27. https://doi.org/10.1037/amp0000745

Colombia, UN Verification Mission in. “Former FARC-EP Members Are Transforming Their Lives with Education.” ReliefWeb, July 27, 2018. https://reliefweb.int/report/colombia/former-farc-ep-members-are-transforming-their-lives-education

Duque, Juana Garcia. “Peace Advancements and Challenges in Colombia.” ReVista, January 27, 2025. https://revista.drclas.harvard.edu/peace-advancements-and-challenges-in-colombia/

European External Action Service (EEAS). “EU Trust Fund for Colombia.” December 12, 2016. https://www.eeas.europa.eu/node/16984_es

Gluecker, Andreas, Andrea Correa-Chica, and Wilson López-López. “The FARC in Colombia: Collective Reintegration and Social Identity Transformation.” Political Psychology 43, no. 2 (May 20, 2021): 359–74. https://doi.org/10.1111/pops.12765

Helen, Murphy, and Luis Jaime Acosta. “Violent Rivals Rush into FARC Void in Colombia: A Fractured Peace.” Reuters Investigates, April 26, 2018. https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/colombia-peace/

International Crisis Group. A Fight by Other Means: Keeping the Peace with Colombia’s FARC. November 30, 2021. https://www.crisisgroup.org/rpt/latin-america-caribbean/colombia/092-fight-other-means-keeping-peace-colombias-farc

Morales, Mauricio. “From Fighting to Farming: Colombia’s Ex-FARC Seek Alternatives to War.” The New Humanitarian, December 7, 2022. https://www.thenewhumanitarian.org/news-feature/2022/12/07/Colombia-FARC-alternatives-peace-guerrilla

Otis, John. “Many of Colombia’s Ex-Rebel Fighters Rearm and Turn to Illegal Drug Trade.” WHQR, April 9, 2021. https://www.whqr.org/2020-05-19/many-of-colombias-ex-rebel-fighters-rearm-and-turn-to-illegal-drug-trade

Positive Peace. “What Is Positive Peace?” n.d. https://positivepeace.org/what-is-positive-peace

Sabogal, Laura Camila Barrios. “From Cantonments to Settlements: Lessons for Reintegration of Former Combatants from the Colombian Peace Process.” International Peacekeeping 31, no. 5 (August 27, 2024): 599–637. https://doi.org/10.1080/13533312.2024.2391765

Sponsel, Christoph. “Colombia: Former FARC Fighters Who Signed 2016 Peace Deal Now Live amid Threats and Assassinations.” The Conversation, September 7, 2023. https://doi.org/10.64628/ab.ck4eav3s7

Suárez, Astrid. “Dozens of Former FARC Fighters Abandon ‘Reincorporation’ Village in Colombia after Death Threats.” AP News, August 21, 2024. https://apnews.com/article/farc-colombia-displaced-former-fighters-1bd52aebb43e3464cdb7570c531dad43

Valencia B., Wilson. “Barriers to Entry: Understanding Labor Market Attitudes towards Ex-Combatants and How the Private Sector Can Help.” 2022. https://revistas.javeriana.edu.co/files-articulos/PaPo/27%20%282022%29/77772006009/index.html

In this episode Anh discusses the Vietnamese expereince of rebuolding their country and the kind issues they have been dealing with. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, King’s College, London.

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Memoricide in Nagorno-Karabakh: the Fading Identity of the Artsakhtsi

They fled Nagorno-Karabakh, buried loved ones, and rebuilt lives from scratch, eventually gaining citizenship, housing, and work. Now a new threat looms for the Artsakh people: the deliberate erasure of their cultural history. Towns are being renamed, sacred sites destroyed, and with those losses the region’s distinct dialect risks vanishing within a generation. This is a memoricide, a killing of Artsakh history, delegitimising the claims of these people to their homeland.

The Nagorno-Karabakh region is an ethnically Armenian enclave located within the internationally recognized borders of Azerbaijan. Its Artsakh population, which uses a local Armenian dialect, has long identified culturally and politically with Armenia rather than Azerbaijan. That divergence between the inhabitants’ identity and the region’s geographic position has been a central source of tension between Armenia and Azerbaijan, contributing to repeated conflicts over control of the area.

Under Soviet rule, Nagorno-Karabakh was placed within the Azerbaijan Soviet Socialist Republic as the Nagorno-Karabakh Autonomous Oblast. In 1988, the region’s ethnic Armenian population began pressing for transfer of the oblast to Armenian jurisdiction; that demand was opposed by both Azerbaijani authorities and the Soviet government. After the Soviet Union collapsed, Armenia and Azerbaijan fought a full-scale war. In the 1990s, forces from Nagorno-Karabakh and Armenia took control of much of southwestern Azerbaijan, including Nagorno-Karabakh and a land corridor linking it to Armenia. A ceasefire followed, but negotiations produced no lasting settlement; the region’s authorities then declared the Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh, a state that no UN member recognized.

Azerbaijan, supported by Turkey, renewed large-scale fighting in 2020, producing the worst clashes since the early 1990s. Armenian forces suffered heavy losses, and a ceasefire was soon arranged that significantly curtailed Armenian military presence in parts of the disputed area. A further Azerbaijani offensive in 2023 consolidated control: by then more than 100,000 Artsakh people had fled and the self-declared Republic of Nagorno-Karabakh (also known as the Republic of Artsakh) announced its dissolution. No comprehensive peace treaty has been signed; both sides accuse the other of ethnic cleansing, and Azerbaijan says it will not agree to any deal it believes legitimizes Armenian claims to the territory.

The exodus of the Artsakh people from Nagorno-Karabakh is considered one of the most complete displacements in human history. Most found refuge in Armenia, yet further challenges still plagued refugees. Secure, affordable housing is scarce as rents rise under increased demand; legal status and citizenship, essential for stable employment and access to services, are often slow to come. Many have depleted their life’s savings in funding their flight and many report feeling a slight tension with the Armenian population over the added pressure on public services.

Integration with the wider Armenian population is vital if Artsakh refugees wish to re-build their lives; but it comes with a hidden cost. Refugees from Nagorno-Karabakh brought with them a unique dialect, distinct to the Artsakh people. It bears similarities to standard Armenian, but this dialect is now confined to the homes of refugees. While Artsakh people from Nagorno-Karabakh try to keep it alive at home, podcast host Tatevik Khachatryan says that words from the Yerevan (Armenian) dialect are being added to her son’s vocabulary. Education in Armenian schools means that Artsakh children are less able to use their dialect and face the possibility of teasing from other children. As the Artsakh people and the wider Armenian population assimilate, it is likely that the dialect will disappear altogether.

That loss would be more than linguistic. Known as “Mer lyuzun”, our language, by Artsakhtsi, the dialect has ancient roots. It preserves words of classical Armenian missing from the standard tongue, and contains unique sounds and loanwords picked up from neighbouring countries. For people from Nagorno-Karabakh, the Artsakhtsi, this language is a living memory and a source of pride. Losing it would mean losing a piece of identity and those words and expressions which bind their people together.

Language is only one casualty of a wider cultural erasure facing the Artsakhtsi. Their religious sites, monuments and burial grounds, tangible anchors of memory and identity, are being systematically destroyed and replaced. Since Azerbaijani authorities assumed control of the region, satellite imagery has documented the flattening of sacred places: Kanach Zham Church in Shusha lay in ruins, St. Sargis Church in Mokhrenes has been razed and new construction is already emerging. Historic cemeteries in Shusha and the village of Mets Tagher have suffered the same fate; even tombstones have been removed to make room for infrastructure, severing visible links to generations past.

Armenia has a strong Christian identity, claiming to be the first nation in the world to adopt Christianity in 301AD. The reported destruction of historic churches erases their long communal memory. These structures have provided centres for Artsakh communities for generations, holding memories of years and years’ worth of marriages, baptisms, funerals, and festivals. For the displaced people of Artsakh, losing these sites and being having no means to protect them is another step towards cultural identity loss, making the reality of returning increasingly uncertain. If they went back, would they even recognise their homeland?

Beyond the loss of monuments, Artsakh family history is being erased through the removal of tombstones and cemeteries. The heartbreaking reality is that as well as wondering whether their homes still stand; refugees worry that graves of loved ones have been destroyed. Tombstones testify to a family’s continued presence in an area, demonstrating the deep ties to their homeland. The destruction of cemeteries like those in Shusha removes the ability to trace family history or to pay respects to those who have passed away and is just another way in which physical traces of the Artsakh people’s presence in the region of Nagorno-Karabakh are being eradicated.

If Artsakhtsi were to return to Nagorno-Karabakh today, they would find their homeland profoundly altered. Many familiar places have been renamed with Azerbaijani toponyms. Stepanakert, once known for its 19th-century Armenian architecture, has been physically reshaped by new buildings and roads and is now referred to as Khankendi (Azerbaijani: Xankəndi). Stepanakert originally took its name from the Bolshevik revolutionary Stepan Shaumian; removing the name serves to delete erase the history of that place, rendering the past of the Artsakhtsi invisible; it severs the linguistic and historical link between the land and its former inhabitants.

The effects of these changes are profound. Artsakh refugees are finding that the place they considered home can no longer even be found on their documents. Aren Hayrapetyan, a displaced Artsakh, received Armenian citizenship but was horrified when he found that his birthplace was listed as “Azerbaijan”. He says that this is an incorrect reflection of his identity, and he will not swear allegiance to Armenia while his documents label him Azerbaijani. For Aren, seeing ‘Azerbaijan’ on his official documents feels like a state-sanctioned eviction from his homeland, as if the Armenian authorities seek to formalise his displacement.

The home of the Artsakh people no longer exists, it has been systematically renamed, and the places they once knew and loved have been destroyed. Traces of ancestral presence are being wiped out through the destruction of cemeteries, and new infrastructure, part of the ‘smart cities’ project, is replacing it. Nagorno-Karabakh is becoming unrecognisable. Not only is the region which lives in the memory of the Artsakh people is no longer their home on paper, it no longer physically exists. The survival of their cultural history is in jeopardy, further worsened by the inevitable loss of their unique Artsakh dialect, which is already becoming redundant, being supplanted in favour of standard Armenian.

There is hope, however. Several programmes are being developed to salvage cultural memory where possible. TUMO’s Armenian Cultural Heritage Institute, launched in early 2026 uses 3D scans of Artsakh monuments to create virtual reality experiences for refugees and researchers. A similar programme attempts to preserve the “architectural DNA” of the region, to ensure that the proportions of buildings and many of their unique carvings can be preserved and reconstructed in the future. The “We Exist” initiative held a major festival in January of this year to celebrate Artsakh culture, featuring carpet weavers and chefs, to ensure that their “intangible” heritage, like Zhengyalov hats (stuffed flatbread) survives. Furthermore, podcasts and oral-history projects are recording Artsakh dialect before it dies out.

The Artsakh people are fighting their cultural erasure. Their efforts demonstrate their resilience and will to survive. While the physical presence of their homeland may be being altered, digital records form a cultural archive, an indestructible record of cultural history. Likewise, making use of oral records and popular media such as podcasting will continue to make Artsakh dialect accessible to young people. Celebrations of Artsakh culture within Armenia are testament to its living force and ability to reform a broken community. There may be efforts to erase this culture, but the spirit of those who carry it with them are not letting it disappear.

In this episode Harriet discusses the post conflict experience of the Artsakh people of Nagorno-Karabakh. She highligts life after the war there. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services.

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Peace Without Prosperity? Child Poverty in Northern Ireland Since the Troubles

The Good Friday Agreement of 1998 is widely credited for bringing about the end of ‘The Troubles’ in Northern Ireland. It granted Northern Ireland a degree of self-determinism and achieved self-governance, while also beginning a process of demilitarisation. While sporadic violence in Northern Ireland is ongoing, the Agreement was a key step towards peace. However, it did not dismantle deep structural inequalities, resulting in entrenched child poverty- defined by UNICEF as the deprivation of basic needs such as nutrition, shelter, education, and healthcare- in communities most affected by the Troubles.

The Good Friday Agreement arose from three decades of armed ethno-nationalist conflict. Known as the Troubles, the conflict was fought between the overwhelmingly Protestant Unionists on one side and the Catholic Nationalists on the other, and had a seismic impact on the structure of Northern Irish society, which became segregated along sectarian lines, something that we will explore using the example of Belfast.

This segregation was often physical. ‘Peace lines’- large walls separating Protestant and Catholic communities -were constructed to reduce violence, many of which still exist today, such as those between Shankill Road and Falls Road. While effective in limiting direct conflict, these barriers reinforced social and economic isolation. As a result, communities became increasingly insular, and areas already affected by violence experienced deepening urban decay and economic decline.

The Troubles’ spatial impact extended beyond neighbourhood division. Belfast city centre was protected by a ‘ring of steel,’ a network of security measures designed to prevent paramilitary attacks. This ensured the city’s economic core remained relatively stable and attractive to investment, while suburban areas - exposed to violence and military presence- saw infrastructure degrade and businesses withdraw. The urban-suburban division was cemented by many factors. Belfast’s secure city centre attracted investment, while conflict-affected suburbs saw disinvestment and decline. With economic infrastructure, human capital, and business premises degraded by conflict, Belfast’s GDP fell by as much as 20% between 1966 and 1998. As a result, the spatial and economic inequalities created during the Troubles were not resolved by peace, but became embedded in Northern Ireland’s post-conflict landscape.

The late 1990s and early 2000s saw efforts to regenerate Belfast by investing in the city centre and waterfront. However, this only perpetuated the divide between the city centre and peripheral working-class areas. Ken Sterrett, a Northern Irish urban planner and designer, describes the approach to Belfast’s development as neoliberal urbanism, a market-first approach that often results in the most wealthy areas becoming increasingly wealthy while underdeveloped areas are left behind. Furthermore, the unique issues faced by Northern Ireland in comparison to the rest of the UK have meant that councils have been forced to spend much more on public order and public housing than in other parts of the country, necessitated by the ongoing need for policing and intelligence and the legacy of colonial housing discrimination.

Relative peace in Northern Ireland, therefore, has not generated the economic revival that may have been anticipated. These spatial and economic divides did not disappear after 1998, and they continue to shape everyday life. For children growing up in Northern Ireland today, this legacy is particularly stark. For one, it means that the social stratification of the Troubles will often dictate their home, social group, and class. As the Belfast Mobility Project explores, Protestant and Catholic communities remain divided not only in residence but also in movement, with many individuals living and socialising within confined geographic areas. This is a form of spatialised inequality, where the geography of conflict continues to determine life chances.

These divisions are also reflected in patterns of deprivation. Nine of the ten most deprived areas in Northern Ireland are predominantly Catholic, highlighting the persistence of historical inequalities. Consequently, many children grow up in environments characterised by limited economic opportunity, inadequate housing, and reduced access to services. In this way, child poverty is not simply a contemporary issue, but the direct legacy of conflict-driven inequality. Joseph McNeill runs the Ardoyne Youth Club in north Belfast and describes how “the infrastructure and the support from the government is definitely not here at the minute,” and how the children he works with “don’t have the same support mechanisms” as children from wealthier parts of the city. Oral testimony corroborates existing statistics. Around a fifth of Northern Irish children live in relative poverty, according to the Northern Ireland Audit Office (NIAO), and this is cemented by some of the worst childcare provision in the UK; Northern Ireland has the lowest level of nursery provision in the United Kingdom, a barrier to workplace entry for parents.

The consequences of poverty are broad and can be lifelong. In regards to education, the NIAO states that “Evidence shows that the gap in attainment between children growing up in poverty and their peers starts early and lasts throughout school. By the time they reach primary school, children from low-income families are already up to a year behind middle-income children in terms of cognitive skills.” Evidence of academic underperformance in Northern Ireland is clear- the percentage of school leavers with five or more GCSEs at grades A* to C is 37% amongst Protestant boys from low-income households and 47% amongst low-income Catholic boys. This attainment gap reproduces the economic divides created during the Troubles, limiting social mobility across generations. Children who grow up impoverished are therefore less likely to achieve academic success, limiting their ability to break out of the cycle of poverty. As one study described, marginalised groups such as BAME students and students from travelling families were also far more likely to be marginalised within the education system, leading to lower attainment and lessening the ability of these students to escape the cycle of poverty.

The impacts of childhood poverty in Northern Ireland stretch further than the classroom, however. As the NIAO describes, “Research has shown that childhood poverty is linked to higher levels of infant mortality and death in early adulthood, as well as poorer mental health, obesity and chronic illness.” Indeed, children living in poverty are up to four times more likely to develop a mental health condition by the age of 11 than their peers. The health consequences of poverty are unsurprising, when it is considered that by 2024, the number of children in Northern Ireland who lived in households experiencing food insecurity had risen to 130,000. As Joseph McNeill describes, around 70% of the children in the Ardoyne area are recipients of free school meals. The systemic roots of poverty, therefore, can have dire consequences for children and young people. They will often grow up lacking economic stability and security, meaning that they can be vulnerable to food insecurity. Similarly, as education and self-development become secondary to survival, they may lack the ability to achieve their full potential.

Has peace in Northern Ireland brought prosperity, therefore? In short, no. While certain areas of the country have had funding poured into them, neoliberal urbanism has meant that other parts of the country have struggled to develop at all. Peace ended violence, but it did not equalise opportunity, and in Northern Ireland, the geography of conflict has become the geography of poverty. For children growing up in its shadow, the legacy of the Troubles is not history: it is a lived reality.

In this episode Camille discusses the post conflict experience of the Children in Belfast following the Good Friday Agreement. 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.

Measuring Peace Beyond Conflict: Women’s Recovery in Post-War Ethiopia

In a makeshift clinic in Mekelle, a woman waits three hours for care for a wound that never healed during the fighting. The Pretoria Peace Agreement of November 2022 ended formal hostilities, but it did not restore the services, livelihoods, or daily safety that make life livable. For many women in Tigray and neighbouring regions, the ceasefire marked the start of a different fight: regaining access to healthcare, justice, social belonging, and economic stability. The transition from war to peace has therefore been uneven and deeply gendered, revealing how the end of violence does not automatically lead to recovery.

Post-conflict recovery is often framed in political or military terms. Sustainable peace is not. It is measured at the household and community level: can a woman seek medical care without fear, secure legal recognition for abuses she suffered, find work that supports her family, and be welcomed back into community life? These everyday questions capture the lived experience of peace more accurately than diplomatic milestones or ceasefire monitoring reports. For women in northern Ethiopia, the answer remains: not yet. The gap between formal peace and lived security continues to shape daily life, limiting the potential for long-term stability and reconciliation.

Health and bodily integrity

The physical toll of the war is visible and ongoing. Nearly three-quarters of health facilities in Tigray were damaged, looted, or rendered non-functional. As a consequence, many survivors live with untreated injuries, obstetric complications, and heightened risk of sexually transmitted infections. Women who were pregnant or gave birth during the conflict often lacked skilled medical support, increasing long-term maternal and infant health risks. In rural areas, distances to functioning clinics remain significant, and transport costs or insecurity continue to prevent access.

One striking estimate from post-conflict assessments found that roughly three quarters of documented sexual-violence survivors did not receive timely medical support. Those numbers are not abstract; they are wounds that complicate childbirth, make daily work harder, and carry stigma. Untreated injuries and chronic pain also reduce women’s capacity to work, care for children, and participate in community life. Rebuilding health systems is therefore not only a humanitarian priority but a foundation for recovery, economic participation, and dignity.

Mental health and social reintegration

Psychological harm is equally persistent. Clinicians and NGOs report elevated levels of insomnia, panic, intrusive memories, and social withdrawal among survivors. In areas where mental-health services are scarce, trauma becomes a quiet engine of social breakdown: people withdraw from reciprocal networks, caregivers burn out, and children grow up in households without emotional repair. The intergenerational impact of trauma is particularly concerning, as unresolved distress may shape the wellbeing and socialisation of children for years to come.

Addressing mental health is not an optional add-on; it is essential to restoring the capacity to work, parent, and participate in community life. Community-based support, peer counselling, and culturally appropriate healing approaches are especially important in contexts where formal services are limited. Strengthening these systems can rebuild trust and help restore the social fabric damaged during conflict.

Justice, accountability, and trust

Health without justice leaves many survivors exposed to continuing harm. Without transparent investigations, survivor-centred legal processes, and reparations, suspicion and impunity persist. Reports of renewed localised violence in Amhara and Afar have deepened fears that abuses could recur beyond Tigray, eroding confidence in the peace process. Survivors may be reluctant to report violations if they believe that perpetrators will not be held accountable or that doing so may expose them to retaliation.

Practical justice must include medical-legal referral pathways, access to legal aid, protection for witnesses, and support for community dialogues that centre survivors’ rights and choices. Equally important is the recognition that justice processes should prioritise dignity, confidentiality, and agency. When survivors feel heard and protected, trust in institutions can gradually be rebuilt, contributing to reconciliation and long-term peace.

Social belonging and information harms

Recovery is social as much as infrastructural. Survivors frequently face stigma, shaming, or forced silence. These dynamics can isolate women from their families and communities, undermining their ability to rebuild their lives. In some contexts, women may be blamed for violence they experienced or pressured not to speak about abuse in order to preserve community cohesion.

Online disinformation and ethnic polarisation amplify these dynamics: distorted narratives can isolate survivors, expose them to harassment, or block avenues for reconciliation. Social media and digital communication can spread harmful rumours or deepen divisions, especially in fragile post-conflict environments. Rebuilding social belonging therefore requires local, survivor-led reconciliation processes, safe public messaging that counters stigma, and protections that prevent doxxing and online abuse. Community leaders, religious figures, and civil society organisations can play a key role in shaping inclusive narratives and rebuilding trust.

Economic stability and dignity

Economic recovery enables agency. Many households lost assets and breadwinners; women often absorbed new caregiving burdens while trying to find income in a broken local economy. In rural areas, agricultural disruption, displacement, and destroyed infrastructure have reduced livelihood opportunities. Urban areas face unemployment, inflation, and weakened markets, further constraining women’s economic participation.

Simple interventions — targeted cash assistance, labour-intensive public works that prioritise women, and seed grants for women-led businesses — can create space for recovery. But economic programs must be paired with childcare, health access, and legal protections to preserve dignity and long-term gains. Without these complementary measures, women risk being trapped in informal or precarious work. Economic independence not only strengthens households but also enhances women’s decision-making power and resilience in future crises.

Effective recovery for women requires more than promises or isolated programmes. Rebuilding healthcare, creating legal protections, supporting livelihoods, and addressing mental health must happen together to restore dignity and agency. In practice, this means that clinics must reopen, justice mechanisms must be accessible, and economic opportunities must reach women managing households in fragile conditions. When these systems work in concert, women—and communities—can move from surviving to thriving.

Why this matters

The Pretoria truce removed guns from the streets. It did not, by itself, remove the daily threats to safety, health, and dignity that determine whether people can rebuild their lives. Measuring peace by the absence of conflict is necessary but insufficient. If we want peace that lasts, we must centre the lived realities of women whose bodies, livelihoods, and social ties were broken — and design programmes that restore not only services, but agency, justice, and belonging.

Restoring dignity is not sentimental. It is practical: reach women with health, legal, and economic services, and the whole society becomes more resilient to relapse. Evidence from other post-conflict settings shows that when women have access to healthcare, income, and legal protection, communities recover faster and the risk of renewed violence declines. The test of Ethiopia’s peace will be whether women can access care without fear, seek justice without retaliation, rebuild livelihoods with dignity, and re-enter their communities with belonging rather than stigma. Sustainable peace ultimately depends on whether recovery reaches those most affected by conflict.

In this episode Faiza discusses the post conflict experience of Ethiopia and the restoration of dignity for the women. 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.

Reunification in 1975 brought official unity to Vietnam but left families grappling with "re-education" camps and silenced histories. Without explicit reconciliation or public closure, healing emerged through endurance and practical adaptation. Today, stability exists not through resolved memories, but through the quiet necessity of moving forward together.

Backstory

They Told Vietnam to Forgive. But No One Explained How.

The first rocket attack hitting Saigon struck the town center and set fire to 150 wooden houses. Fourteen died and over 40 people were injured in the attacks. Inhabitants of Saigon woke up to the devastation of war on April 21, 1975. Jacques Pavlovsky

On a humid evening in Ho Chi Minh City, a grandmother folds away a photograph she never displays. In it, her older brother stands in a uniform that no longer exists, the army of South Vietnam. He disappeared in 1976, taken to a re-education camp after the war, and never returned. His grandchildren do not know his name, not because it was forgotten, but because some stories are easier to live with when they remain unspoken.

For many families in Vietnam, the war did not end cleanly in 1975. Officially, reunification marked a moment of closure, a transition into unity and stability. On paper, it was a clear outcome: one country, one people, one future. But beneath that narrative, reality unfolded differently. Families had lived on opposing sides of the conflict, not only geographically, but politically and emotionally. For some, reunification brought a sense of victory. For others, it introduced loss, uncertainty, and a quiet redefinition of identity that could not be openly expressed.

In the years that followed, hundreds of thousands of people connected to the former South were sent to re-education camps. These were not distant or abstract institutions; they were deeply personal disruptions that reshaped families and communities. Men disappeared for months or years, often without clear information about their fate. Those who returned carried experiences that were rarely spoken about, shaped by hardship, surveillance, and a lingering sense of vulnerability. Over time, these experiences were not erased, but absorbed into silence. Stories became fragmented, softened, or withheld entirely, creating gaps that would later define how younger generations understood, or failed to understand the past.

This silence did not emerge by accident. It became a way of navigating a reality where certain histories were difficult to explain and, at times, risky to articulate. Within families, it shaped conversations, defining what could be shared and what remained unspoken. Children grew up sensing the presence of something unresolved, learning indirectly that some questions did not have simple answers. In this way, memory itself became uneven, carried forward not through open dialogue, but through absence, hesitation, and partial understanding.

At the same time, the broader context of post-war Vietnam made emotional reconciliation even more complex. The late 1970s and early 1980s were marked by severe economic hardship, international isolation, and systemic inefficiencies. Daily life was defined by scarcity of food, of resources, of certainty. Under these conditions, survival became the primary concern, and when survival dominates, abstract expectations about forgiveness or reconciliation begin to lose their immediate relevance. People were expected to follow the system, but the system often struggled to meet basic needs. As a result, adaptation became necessary.

Informal markets emerged. Personal networks became essential. Decisions were shaped less by ideology and more by practicality. These were not acts of resistance, but responses to constraint, ways of navigating a system that could not fully support everyday life. In this environment, the idea of forgiveness did not disappear, but it became secondary to more immediate concerns. The question was no longer how to reconcile the past, but how to continue living in the present.

What developed in Vietnam was not a visible process of reconciliation, but a quieter form of coexistence. People lived side by side, worked together, and rebuilt their lives, even when trust was incomplete and memories remained unresolved. Conversations were often shaped by what was left unsaid, and relationships were maintained through a careful balance of acknowledgement and avoidance. This was not the kind of reconciliation that appears in official narratives or international frameworks. It did not rely on public apologies or collective moments of closure. Instead, it relied on endurance, the ability to maintain stability without fully resolving the past.

By the mid-1980s, however, it became clear that adaptation at the individual level was not enough to sustain the country as a whole. The economic system was under increasing strain, and the gap between policy and reality had become impossible to ignore. The introduction of the Đổi Mới reforms in 1986 marked a turning point, opening the economy and allowing forms of market activity that had already been taking place informally. These reforms are often described as a strategic shift, but they can also be understood as a recognition of lived reality. People had already been adapting, already finding ways to survive beyond rigid structures. The reforms did not create change as much as they acknowledged it.

This moment highlights a broader pattern in Vietnam’s post-war recovery. Transformation did not begin with ideological consensus or moral agreement. It began with practical adaptation, with individuals making decisions based on necessity rather than principle. When policy eventually aligned with these practices, change accelerated. Economic growth followed, cities expanded, and Vietnam gradually reconnected with the global economy.

Today, the contrast is striking. Vietnam is often described as dynamic, youthful, and forward-looking. Urban spaces are filled with energy, with students, entrepreneurs, and new forms of creativity. Cafés, businesses, and cultural spaces reflect a society that is increasingly connected to the world. Relationships with former adversaries, including the United States, have evolved into partnerships, shaped by shared interests rather than historical divisions.

And yet, the past remains present, though not always visible. It exists in the spaces between conversations, in the stories that are not told, and in the silences that continue to shape family life. The absence of open confrontation with certain aspects of history does not mean they have been resolved. Instead, they have been integrated into everyday experience, influencing how people relate to one another and how they understand their own histories.

This challenges a common assumption about post-conflict recovery—that healing requires closure, that reconciliation must be explicit, and that forgiveness is a necessary condition for peace. Vietnam suggests a different possibility. It shows that stability can emerge without full resolution, and that coexistence does not always depend on shared narratives or mutual understanding. Rather than eliminating differences, people learn to live with them.

The grandmother still keeps the photograph. It is not displayed, not discussed, but it is not discarded either. It remains as a quiet reminder of a past that cannot be fully explained, a memory that exists without being fully articulated. For younger generations, this creates a different kind of inheritance—not one defined by direct experience, but by partial knowledge and unspoken histories. They grow up in a Vietnam that feels open and full of opportunity, yet shaped in subtle ways by what came before.

What emerges from this is not a story of complete reconciliation, but of continuity. Life continues, even when the past remains unresolved. Families rebuild, relationships form, and societies move forward, not because everything has been healed, but because it becomes necessary to keep going.

This reframes the idea of healing itself. Rather than a clear endpoint marked by forgiveness or closure, healing appears as an ongoing process which is uneven, incomplete, and often invisible. It can take the form of silence, not as denial, but as a way of managing complexity. It can appear as compromise, as the decision to prioritise stability over confrontation. It can exist in the ability to carry unresolved memories without allowing them to dominate the present.

There is an uncomfortable truth in this. The belief that moral clarity leads to action—that if something is right, people will follow it does not always hold. Vietnam reveals the distance between ideals and lived reality, showing that human behaviour is shaped not only by values, but by constraints, pressures, and the need to adapt. Forgiveness may be desirable, but it is not always possible, and it is not always necessary for societies to move forward.

In the end, Vietnam was not rebuilt through a single moment of reconciliation or a collective act of forgiveness. It was rebuilt through countless small decisions, choices to stay, to adapt, to remain silent, and to continue. These choices did not resolve the past, but they made it possible to live with it.

And perhaps that is what healing often looks like. Not closure, not perfect understanding, but endurance. Not the absence of pain, but the ability to carry it. Not a finished story, but one that remains open, and still, somehow, allows life to go on.

In this episode Anh discusses the Vietnamese expereince of rebuolding their country and the kind issues they have been dealing with. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.