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.

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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.

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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.

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

Backstory

Before it’s too late!

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

One country, two economies, both failed.

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

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

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

What does the honey and the cooperative tell us

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

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

Labour trauma

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

The disappearing floor

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

The generation that is growing in the gap

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

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

What resilience looks like

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

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

What comes next?

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

References

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Article written by Lisa Shi, Nov 2025

Biblipgraphy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bibliography

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Context

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

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

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

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

The Freedom Charter and Human Needs

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

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

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

Apartheid Postmemory

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

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

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

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

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

Bibliography

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Forty-one years of conflict and 6 months of peace: Kurdish life in Türkiye after the PKK.

Figure 1: Turkey Vs Syria’s Kurds: The short, medium and long story (BBC, 2019)

Saida was 19 when drone strikes hit her village in Ghuzare, near the Turkish Syrian border, as Turkish authorities targeted the region for terrorist militants. Interviewed by Radio France, she described the rubble in her garden and the dust in her eyes. These attacks were common during the decades-long conflict between the Turkish government and the Kurdish Workers’ Party or PKK, labelled by that government as a terrorist organization. In May 2025, a ceasefire was declared, and the PKK announced its dismantlement after the imprisonment of its leader Abdullah Öcalan. However, questions remain about the Kurdish people and their rights in Türkiye after the long fight for cultural freedom and independence. How can populations that have been at war for so long finally coexist on the same territory, and what challenges do they face today?

The PKK was founded in 1978 as a secessionist group seeking Kurdish self-determination and socialism. Their original goal was to create a new State: Kurdistan, covering parts of Syria, Iran, Iraq and Armenia, but primarily in Türkiye. This desire for autonomy clashed with Turkish national interests, leading to armed conflict soon after its creation. This conflict lasted 41 years, causing the death of an estimated 40,000 people and a near coup in 2016. The conflict and the PKK’s creation stemmed from centuries of oppression of the Kurdish people, who were not recognised by their governments, and faced generations of assimilation and repression. Türkiye was especially harsh after World War I and the rise of Kemalist ideology, which called for a unified State. In the post-war period, laws were put in place to perpetuate what was seen as Turkish cultural domination. These laws prohibited Kurdish people from speaking their language, forming political parties, or having their own educational system. This situation persisted until around 2008 when there was a momentary desire for cooperation between the authorities and the Kurdish population. However, tensions remained. Although the PKK had abandoned the idea of a completely independent Kurdistan by the 21^st century, they still aspired to a semi-autonomous region, with the freedom to practice their customs and teach their children their language. With the dismantling of the PKK after their defeat in combat, there are uncertainties regarding these demands. This article will cover concerns such as political representation and interests, cultural freedoms, and community rebuilding in the post-war period.

Figure 2: Turkey’s PKK Conflict: The Death Toll | International Crisis Group (2016)

Recep Tayyip Erdogan has been Türkiye’s president since 2014 but has been in government since 2003. He is a central figure in the battle against the PKK and the fate of the Kurdish people. His Justice and Development Party is conservative and emphasizes Turkish nationalism. Initially, there was lenience towards the Kurdish, leading to pro-Kurd parties like the People’s Equality and Democratic Party (DEM), now third in the polls. This advancement of pro-Kurdish sentiment is significant for Erdogan’s hold on power. Securing Kurdish support is vital for winning the next election, as they represent one fifth of the Turkish population. With the capture of the PKK’s founder Abdullah Öcalan, Erdogan has depicted himself as the sole hero against the PKK. Much of Erdogan’s notoriety rested on the perception that he was the only one who could defeat the PKK, often sacrificing democracy to do so. In 2016 after the attempted coup in the capital Ankara by the PKK, the government set out policies regarding Kurdish government officials. Around 100,000 Kurdish people were fired from mayoral or journalism positions. Approximately 50,000 people were detained without trial, and many newspapers and local parties were shut down. The Turkish court has also attempted on several occasions to pursue the DEMs for PKK affiliation, without evidence. These political purges damaged relations between the Turkish government and the Kurdish populations in the southeast. These regions are isolated by mountains and vulnerable to foreign influence from Syria and Iran, as well as the People’s Protection Unit, a PKK branch still aspiring to fight. The Turkish government must integrate the Kurdish people into the Turkish political sphere to regain popularity in these far-off regions. Today, there is anxiety regarding the peace process. The people are tired of ongoing tensions, and most of the Kurdish people no longer support the PKK; however, one in three Turks distrusts the peace process with the militants. The general conservatism and prejudice ingrained in Turkish society cannot be overlooked when discussing peace processes between communities. Most of the Turkish people still remain reticent about integrating Kurdish people, who are still greatly underrepresented in Turkish politics.

How then, can people live together on the same territory after so many years of political tensions and violence? After the attempted coup in 2016, 24,000 people were curfewed before being displaced in the district of Sur in Diyarbakir. Many testified to Amnesty International, detailing the conditions of their displacement. Most of the people who left saw their homes destroyed by drone strikes or pillaged. Although leaving home at the risk of returning to nothing is frightening, fleeing was unavoidable. During the curfews and lockdowns, it was reported that people had little to no access to food and water and could not go out due to imminent threats. Autonomous weapon systems indiscriminately target civilians and fighters, as well as civilian infrastructure such as homes, businesses and heritage sites. Many demands were made by Kurdish communities to the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO) to help protect and rebuild classified edifices from warfare. The destruction led to the downfall of Kurdish culture as a whole. A shepherd interviewed by France Culture in the region of Qandil near Iraq reported that when Turkish soldiers took over rebel bases in the mountains, they would also cut down century-old fruit trees that were typical of the region and part of Kurdish heritage. Assimilation does not simply occur through policymaking; it is also a fight to undermine a culture by breaking down its communities and depleting its resources. This includes the resources necessary for survival and customs. After displacement, most people who had lived as tight-knit communities were now dispersed across Türkiye, mostly in big cities where they were culturally minimized, and 60% of homes were targeted for upscale refurbishment plans by the government. Fighting for rights and representation is much more difficult from a position of isolation. The Turkish government demoralised the Kurdish people by perpetuating systemic poverty. They lived in poor conditions with little access to education or high-paying jobs.

Peace is difficult when resentment persists. The war against the PKK was a particularly deadly one. The 2025 British Home Office report estimates 6,677 deaths since 2016, including 614 civilians and 4,409 PKK members. Most civilian casualties were due to bombings by the Turkish government, suicide bombers, and mass shootings. These attacks occurred almost daily and affected all members of society. As for the combatants, returning home post-conflict is incredibly difficult. Turkish authorities reportedly used torture, leaving serious psychological scars, but the most damaging impact of all is the enduring hatred for the government, which is difficult to shake after 40 years of belligerence. Artis International’s concept of devoted actors is important in understanding the state of mind of the 70,000 demobilized fighters. These individuals, often young men, have been indoctrinated in a hate campaign against the Turkish government for four decades. Getting rid of that anger will prove to be difficult. A mayor in the region of Diyarbakir who was suspended for putting up flyers for Kurdish self-determination told of how his son left to join the PKK promptly after his demotion due to a feeling of uselessness in “doing politics.” Living next to your neighbour when a child or parent has been killed in a government drone strike or in a suicide bombing is a struggle that endures after the ceasefires. Living with the reality of death and conflict becomes more difficult if the scars cannot heal in a world of repressed speech and forced cooperation.

The solutions needed are transitional justice and accountability from both sides for the atrocities committed. The Turkish government allows for only one form of memory, that of a collective national story. By classifying the PKK as a terrorist organisation, the State has total control over public discourse and the arrangements for dismantling the rebel group. If deemed necessary for citizens’ safety, the government can and has shut down most of the Kurdish voices of autonomy and cultural freedom, deciding by itself what can and cannot be said against it and the country. There is a pressing need for the Turkish government to recognise the Kurdish people, their language and their customs. Without this recognition, there can be no proper representation. Through quotas in government and policies that move towards higher education of Kurdish people, Türkiye can exist as a diverse multi-ethnical country. Until the veil of silence is lifted, communities will linger in their anger, and peace cannot prevail.

Bibliography:

After the PKK: Peacebuilding challenges in Turkey, Syria. RUSI (2025). https://www.rusi.org/explore-our-research/publications/commentary/after-pkk-peacebuilding-challenges-turkey-syria.

Amnesty International (2021) Turkey: Displaced and dispossessed: Sur residents’ right to return home - Amnesty International.

Conflict between Turkey and armed Kurdish groups | Council on Foreign Relations (2025). https://www.cfr.org/global-conflict-tracker/conflict/conflict-between-turkey-and-armed-kurdish-groups.

Danforth, N. et al. (2016) Turkey and the PKK after the failed coup. https://warontherocks.com/2016/08/turkey-and-the-pkk-after-the-failed-coup/.

Lazo, L. (2025) ‘Irak : après la dissolution du PKK, les Kurdes dans l’attente de la paix,’ France Inter, 20 May. https://www.radiofrance.fr/franceinter/podcasts/le-reportage-d-un-jour-dans-le-monde/reportage-du-mardi-20-mai-2025-4099718.

Les Kurdes, peuples en colère (2023). https://www.radiofrance.fr/franceculture/podcasts/serie-les-kurdes-peuples-en-colere.

Q&A | Disbanding the PKK: A turning point in Turkey’s longest war? | ACLED (2025). https://acleddata.com/qa/qa-disbanding-pkk-turning-point-turkeys-longest-war.

In this episode Sophie discusses the post conflict experience of the Kurds. She looks at life after the 41 year conflict between PKK and Turkey She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, KCL. This article was edited using Lex.page.

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Past, Present and Future: Integrated Education as a Tool of Post-Conflict Reconciliation

Conflicting narratives and identities have always been at the forefront of conflict, continuing cycles of hatred and entrenching the idea that one group of people is somehow bound to eternal enmity with another. This was apparent in several conflicts in the 1990s, from the Troubles in Northern Ireland to the Bosnian War and Rwanda; all of which possessed a strong ethno-sectarian dimension. Yet, as the ashes faded in the aftermath, the question of recovery inevitably went beyond simply reconstructing people’s lived environments. Homes can be rebuilt, but post-conflict societies soon find that revitalising community and individual relations involves a long, complicated process.

Simply ending strife does not eliminate the views and identities of different communities. Each may hold a differing perception of history that influences how they relate their experiences to society. Reconciling these views and bringing about mutual acceptance and understanding, is vital. It is necessary not only forging an equitable, durable peace but ridding the very roots that originally incited the conflict. To that end, integrated education has shown potential where it has been implemented. Designed to foster an environment of mutual respect and open-mindedness through an inclusive, well-thought curriculum, integrated education allows children to meet several human needs and truly move beyond the past. However, it remains a disproportionately underused tool in post-conflict settings even today. Practically, it can be difficult to implement, requiring a large infusion of money and specialist knowledge. This is most apparent in three well-studied post-conflict zones: Bosnia, Northern Ireland and Rwanda. Each has each pursued different, sometimes limited, approaches to integrated education, to secure the shared future that their citizens deserve.

Northern Ireland: Looking Beyond the Surface

CC: Pupils at a Northern Irish integrated school demonstrate their various nationalities, 2022, Integrated College Dungannon.

At its core, integrated education allows children to meet the fundamental human need of understanding both themselves and others. Mutual acknowledgement and acceptance of different traditions and views is one intended outcome of this unique system. Northern Ireland, which has had a long history of segregated education between Catholics and Protestants before and during the Troubles, began to pursue integrated education by transforming sectarian schools into mixed ones after the Good Friday Agreement in 1998.

Most students in integrated schools reported feeling at ease with discussing the aspects that formed their identities, whether religion or ethnicity. Through shared activities such as sports, the invisible, superficial fault lines that had once separated individuals were broken down. Misconceptions were addressed, critical discourse between students over differing views took place and a climate of co-operation and understanding was cultivated. As one student remarked, ‘I just identify with whoever talks to me.’ Despite this, the limited scale of implementation has meant that the benefits of integrated education remain restricted to a minority of Northern Irish schools.

Fifty such institutions have reportedly considered an integrated system but are a small proportion of the thousand schools present. The transition to integrated education is not a simple, linear process. It requires financial capital, thorough and systematic re-training of teaching staff and an overhaul of local curricula. As such, implementation on a national scale remains a difficult endeavour. Regardless, the net positives of integrated education in Northern Ireland are abundant, especially in the sphere of encouraging a culture of open-minded critical debate.

Rwanda: Schooling From Above

CC: Rwandan children consult a textbook, 2025, Global Partnership Education.

In the case of Rwanda, which suffered from a brutal genocide during a civil war from 1990-94, integrated education has been pursued as part of a state-mandated ‘Unity and Reconciliation’ programme. Where it differs from the integrated system in Northern Ireland is that it is a state-driven initiative. Emphasis is placed on a top-down narrative of Rwanda’s national history. By 2006, simple labels like ‘Hutu’ or ‘Tutsi’ that had once marked enormous rifts had been transcended. Instead, a shared Rwandan identity was cultivated, but, crucially, at the expense of being able to openly discuss different views of history. The Rwandan government defended this approach, framing any scrutiny of history as a potential hindrance to reconciliation efforts, a possible way of dredging up old wounds. This has discouraged students and teachers alike from engaging in history as a subjective discipline in favour of following a rigid, more authoritarian system of education that serves the state’s interests.

By 2020, this system was still in place with two challenges. Firstly, the inability of students to develop skills in critical thinking leaves them vulnerable to the inception of ethno-centric narratives that reinforce divides. Almost 10% of Rwandans believe that the family was the main source of old hatreds still disseminated amongst the younger generations. Second, a singular, brittle state narrative can be easily hijacked by a potential group seeking to reincite ethnic hatred. Students are therefore deprived of a key human need – that of participation. How can young people truly develop intellectual independence without the opportunity to be exposed to and critique different viewpoints? As Rwanda has demonstrated, integrated education features several different components that contribute to its efficacy.

Bosnia: The Key To Reconciliation?

CC: UWC students demonstrate their nationalities with flags, 11^th October 2024, UWC.

Integrated education can nurture a culture of understanding and identity that goes beyond those defined by simple hereditary cultural or religious characteristics. Above all, it can help to produce individuals capable of strengthening and enriching their nation’s democracy and society. Unlike Northern Ireland or Rwanda, Bosnia lacks a mainstream form of integration within their education system. The Dayton Agreement in the aftermath of the Bosnian War created convoluted administrative divisions across the country. These were formed along semi-ethnic lines that has resulted in a highly decentralised education system. Segregated education is the order of the day, except for UWC, the only integrated institution in the whole country.

Where integrated education has been prioritised for younger students in Rwanda and Northern Ireland, UWC comprises students aged 17-19, meaning its student body has experienced their formative years in segregated education. Students are expected to bring their engagement beyond the classroom through to community service such as helping at refugee camps. The physical contact with often homogeneous and insular communities can serve to break down psychological barriers that are invisible and far more pervasive than often thought. For example, Bosnian Muslims who had grown up with one dominant narrative met with Croats who followed their own. This opportunity was created through something as simple as community projects. This challenges the conception of integrated education as a purely academic tool and broadens it into a multidimensional model of reconciliation. Furthermore, student exposure to integrated education will pay long-term dividends by producing skilled leaders that can play a tangible role in constructing a genuinely pluralistic society.

A Tool In The Workshop of Peace

In conclusion, educated integration aims to facilitate reconciliation, not just through the mutual acceptance of the diversity of opinions, views and identities, but through the creation of an organic culture of co-operation and critical thinking. In the case studies that we have looked at, it has been a relatively local undertaking. Yet there has been a consistent demonstration of its effectiveness in contesting ethno-centric narratives that had once been the norm. The approach to the past is not one that buries it but rather examines it from varying perspectives to uncover the conditions that allowed conflicts to happen at all. The difficulty remains in making integrated education feasible on a community, and indeed, national scale.

As evident in the three countries, it is both fiscally costly and requires individuals willing to break ranks with their community’s conceptions of history and society. Neither is integrated education a panacea or a one-size-fits-all solution. Each post-conflict society is highly contextual, with sociocultural and geographical characteristics that must be taken into consideration. Instead, integrated education must be seen as part of a wider strategy to reconciliation; one that is slow and expensive but vital in ensuring an enduring, diverse peace. Through it, individuals are empowered to remember the past, manage the present, and prepare for the future.

Bibliography

Hodgkin, Marian, “Reconciliation in Rwanda: Education, History and the State” Journal of International Affairs 60, no. 1 (2006): 199-210. https://www.jstor.org/stable/24358020

Abbott, Lesley and Samuel McGuinness, “Northern Ireland pupils transcend cultural difference through transformed integrated schools: we don’t think about religion when we’re passing the ball, we just do it” International Journal of Inclusive Education 28, no. 28 (2024), 2072-2087. https://doi.org/10.1080/13603116.2022.2052194

Statista, “Number of schools in Northern Ireland from 2015/16 to 2025/25, by type.” Accessed 1 November, 2025, https://www.statista.com/statistics/385474/schools-in-northern-ireland/

National Unity and Reconciliation Commission. Rwanda Reconciliation Barometer 2020. 2020. https://www.rwandainthenetherlands.gov.rw/fileadmin/user_upload/Netherlands_user_upload/Documents/Updates/RWANDA_RECONCILIATION_BAROMETER_2020__N.pdf

Osler, Audrey and Irma Pandur, “The right to intercultural education: students’ perspectives on schooling and opportunities for reconciliation through multicultural engagement in Bosnia and Herzegovina” Intercultural Education 30, no. 6 (2019): 658-679. https://doi.org/10.1080/14675986.2019.1626576

In this episode Eban discusses the complexity of using integrated education to reconcile community differences in post conflict communities. He is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, KCL. This article was edited using Lex.page.

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As a fragmented Syria struggles to take shape, the shadowy threat of the Islamic State is re-emerging

Since 2011 Syria has endured a brutal civil war under the iron fist of Bashar al-Assad. More than half a million people have been killed and twelve million displaced. (ShelterBox, n.d.) However, this came to an end in December 2024, a historic turning point in a decade-long war, when Sunni rebel forces under Hay’at Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) launched an offensive and seized Damascus. Despite the fall of Assad, the situation remains unstable. The rebels who stormed Damascus have a complex history, and as new power dynamics continue to take shape, all eyes are on interim President Ahmed al-Sharaa to see how he is going to govern a fragmented region and prevent a resurgence of IS. (ICCT, 2025)

While HTS maintains majority control and enjoys popular support, they form the de facto government. This depends on political legitimacy and economic reconstruction. However, while al-Sharaa pledged to protect all citizens, the recent attacks by IS has made people doubt their capacity to maintain stability. This will only be further hindered, as Sharaa, who formally led Syria’s offshoot of Al-Qaeda, Nusra Front, only broke away from the network a decade ago. As a result, HTS is still considered a terrorist organisation by nations such as the UK and the US. Various sanctions have been imposed making it very difficult to navigate Syria’s future given the region’s severe poverty levels. The EU has lifted some sanctions, and pledged €2.5 billion during the 9^th Syria Conference. However, this is conditional on the pledge that the rights of ethnic minorities are safeguarded in the new Syria (ICCT, 2025) (PRIF, 2025)

In the first few months of 2025, al-Sharaa’s legitimacy has also been questioned by a steady increase in sectarian violence. The Syrian Observatory for Human Rights estimated that more than 1,400 civilians have been killed in Latakia, mostly from the Alawite community. A minority religious group considered an offshoot of Shia Islam. (France 24, 2025) The Assad family belonged to this sect, who ultimately enjoyed disproportionate influence inside the former regime. (Reuters, 2025) These events took place during a period of unrest in the region due to armed clashes between Sunni Islamist-led government forces and insurgency fighters that are still loyal to the deposed regime. The conflict led to thousands of families seeking refuge in a remote Russian military airbase. This is the last Dalaal Mahna saw of her 25-year-old son, before being shot dead by gunmen. (BBC, 2025) Ethnic divisions intensified by decades of an authoritarian regime have left devastating lasting grievances, highlighting the deep polarisation that the new government has yet to overcome. As the interim government struggles for authority nationwide, these remote, poorly governed areas are becoming a fertile breeding ground for IS to exploit, to regroup and train new recruits with relative ease. (PRIF, 2025)

ISIS (The Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant), more commonly known as Da’esh or the Islamic State (IS), is a Salafi Jihadist group, with its origins in Al Qaeda in the security vacuum in the early 2000s following the US invasion of Iraq. Under the leadership of Abu Bakr Al-Baghdadi, IS broke away seeking to exploit the instability in the region during the war. In 2013 it began seizing territory, and by 2014 it had overrun the Syrian government, declaring a global Caliphate, claiming religious and political authority over the Muslim world. In the following years, IS would control a region the size of England, governing more than 12 million people, with 50,000 fighters from over 100 nations. Enforcing a rigid interpretation of Sharia law, committing mass atrocities, and displacing millions of Syrians. Posing a grave threat to regional stability, the U.S. led Global Coalition Against Daesh spent the next five years recapturing 95% of the region, with the final stronghold falling in 2019, reducing IS to a desert pocket with few insurgent cells. (PRIF, 2025) Despite the collapse of the self-proclaimed caliphate, signs of a gradual IS recovery is evident, with the danger of a resurgence due to a 10-fold increase in attacks. (United Nations, 2025) (BBC, 2015)

Following the collapse of the caliphate, IS has undergone a transformation from a territorial regime to a decentralised insurgent group. This has been made possible by the caches of gold and cash hidden in the Badiyah desert. Furthermore, as the Assad regime collapsed, they were furnished with a fresh supply of weapons from abandoned Syrian army stocks, allowing them to intensify their operations. In 2023, IS was responsible for more than 200 attacks against Assad’s forces and their Shi’a allies, killing more than 285 soldiers and 231 civilians. (Counter Extremism Project, 2023) However, by 2024 this number tripled with more than 750 deaths, illustrating the persistent and growing threat in Syria. (PRIF, 2025)

Walid-Basit Sheikh Mousa was only 21 years old when he was killed fighting IS in Northeastern Syria in February. Mousa was killed during a battle near a dam, with his body eventually being found by his family when searching the front lines. His mother, when speaking to the BBC said, “We buried so many of the young. May Daesh be wiped out completely. I hope not one of them is left.” (BBC, 2015)

Milad was just 40 years old when we was killed trying to push a suicide attacker out of a building. A further 24 people were killed at the Greek Orthodox Church in eastern Damascus in June 2025. The attacker, belonging to IS, began shooting indiscriminately before setting off an explosive injuring 60. The first attack since HTS overthrew Assad’s regime, and the first targeting of the Christian community since 1860. The attack was an attempt to undermine the security and stability of all religious communities. Milad’s family members expressed this opinion stating, “We are not safe here anymore.” (EURACTIV, 2015) (BBC, 2025)

The shadowy threat of the group remains severe in Syria, as the U.S. Government estimates that 1500 to 3000 active fighters remain. The group has been forced to abandon the dream of the caliphate and has undergone a radical structural and operational change. The group now relies on a less hierarchical structure and a more decentralised network of regional affiliates who operate with greater autonomy than ever before to enhance the chances of survival. (ICCT, 2025) The old battle against IS mostly continues in the Kurdish-controlled regions in the Northeast, as 10,000 fighters are currently being held in detention camps, where 75% inside are estimated to still be deeply committed to the ideology. A further 60,000 IS- affiliated individuals remain in ticking- time bomb detention camps, where they are arguably increasingly vulnerable to radicalisation. (PRIF, 2025)

The group is seeking to rebrand itself behind bars, as in camps such as Al Hol and Roj, a new generation is being raised through the ‘Cubs of the Caliphate’ programme. These children were separated from their families, often experiencing the brutal murder of their parents, and herded into re-education camps, where their traumas were moulded into rage. The early indoctrination of these young male soldiers became an integral component of the army of the future, due to the notion that they would be more hardline than their predecessors. (PRIF, 2025) As a result, Kurdish authorities are reporting breakout attempts and mass rioting at the centres, as IS remains determined to free an important aspect of their fighting force. A humanitarian source speaking to Reuters stated that “IS will come for the people they’ve wanted to come for.” (Reuters, 2025) This was evident in January 2022, when IS blasted a hole in the exterior wall of al-Sina prison camp, triggering a 10-day battle against allied forces. By the time the prison was back under the control of Kurdish forces, 500 were dead, and hundreds had escaped back into IS. This was the deadliest IS attack since they lost their last stronghold. (The Washington Post, 2025)

US-funded organisations have been integral in closing the gap in basic provisions and countering the threat emanating from IS today, as the government struggles to secure the camps after the conflict. (Margolin, 2025) However, recent aid cuts of $117 million by the Trump administration poses a severe security threat, as these camps hold the “potential next generation of the Islamic State.” If destabilised, IS will be able to reinforce its ranks, restore their operational capabilities, and destabilise Syria’s new government. (BBC, 2025) (ICCT, 2025)

The defeat of IS marked a significant turning point in the fight against terrorism, IS ceded to control swathes of territory, but is now clear that its “enduring defeat” is not assured, as its threat persists globally (BBC, 2019) Following the fall of Assad’s regime in December 2024, the tenuous control of the de facto government and ongoing sectarian violence has led to a security vacuum in the region. IS is actively seeking to exploit this, allowing them to regroup and reorganise to pose a lethal and adaptive threat. All eyes are on HTS in the fragile environment. If instability persists and hostilities continue, there is a severe risk of an IS resurgence.

References

BBC, 2019. The rise of fall of the Islamic State group: The long and short story [online] Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-middle-east-47210891 [Accessed 10 November 2025]

France24, 2025. Hundreds massacred in Syria casting doubt on new government’s ability to rule. [online] Available at: https://www.france24.com/en/middle-east/20250310-massacre-of-1-500-in-alawite-heartland-casts-doubt-on-new-syrian-government-s-ability-to-rule [Accessed 3 November 2025]

Gol, J. 2025. Inside an Islamic State camp shaken by US aid cuts [online] Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cglyg1wdee3o [Accessed 6 November 2025]

Guerin, O. 2025. Inside Syria’s jail for IS suspects as officials say attacks by group a rising. [online] Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cze6y5x8np8o [Accessed 1 November 2025]

Hakari, M.A. 2025. Without a Caliphate, But Far From Defeated: Why Da’esh/ISIS Remains a Threat in Syria in 2025. [online] Available at: https://blog.prif.org/2025/04/07/without-a-caliphate-but-far-from-defeated-why-daesh-isis-remains-a-threat-in-syria-in-2025/ [Accessed 2 November 2025]

Killani, F. 2025. BBC finds Syrian families sheltering at Russian airbase from sectarian attacks. [online] Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cyve9prq3qjo [Accessed 5 November 2025]

Margolin, D. 2024. U.S. Funding Cuts Risk Jeopardizing Counter-Islamic State Operations [online] Available at: https://www.washingtoninstitute.org/policy-analysis/us-funding-cuts-risk-jeopardizing-counter-islamic-state-operations [Accessed 5 November 2025]

Mehra, T. 2025. The Threat of ISIS in a Fragmented Syria. [online] Available at: https://icct.nl/publication/threat-isis-fragmentated-syria#:~:text=As%20new%20power%20dynamics%20in,from%20a%20prison%20in%20Hasakah. [Accessed 1 November 2025]

Michael, M. 2025. Syrian forces massacred 1,500 Alawites. The chain of command led to Damascus. [online] Available at: https://www.reuters.com/investigations/syrian-forces-massacred-1500-alawites-chain-command-led-damascus-2025-06-30/ [Accessed 2 November 2025]

Michalopoulous, S. 2025. ISIS suicide bomber kills 22 at Orthodox church in Syria [online] Available at: https://www.euractiv.com/news/isis-suicide-bomber-kills-22-at-orthodox-church-in-syria/ [Accessed 6 November 2025]

Loveluck, L., and Cahlan, S. 2022. Prison Break: ISIS fighters launched a brazen attack to free their comrades [online] Available at: https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/2022/02/03/syria-hasakah-isis-prison-attack/ [Accessed 2 November 2025]

Reuters, 2025. Terror Threat by ISIL ‘remains volatile and complex,’ Security Council Hears [online] Available at: https://news.un.org/en/story/2025/08/1165692 [Accessed 1 November 2025]

Reuters, 2025. US aid cuts risk riot, breakouts at Islamic State-linked camps in Syria [online] Available at: https://www.reuters.com/world/middle-east/us-aid-cuts-risk-riots-breakouts-islamic-state-linked-camps-syria-2025-02-14/ [Accessed 4 November 2025]

Sinjab, L. 2025. ‘We’re not safe here anymore’ – Syria’s Christians fear for future after devastating church attack [online] Available at: https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/c79q8p8qx1do [Accessed 3 November 2025]

ShelterBox, 2024. The Syrian Conflict Explained. [online]. Available at: https://shelterbox.org/where-we-work/syria/conflict/ [Accessed 1 November 2025)

Waters, G. 2024. The Central Syria ISIS Insurgency in 2023. Counter Extremism Project.

In this episode Cerys discusses the post Asad experience of Syria and the potential of ISIS re-merging. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, KCL. This article was edited using Lex.page.

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Gacaca: A lesson in justice.

History

Neighbours, colleagues, friends, and family members, killing neighbours, colleagues, friends, and family members. No safety within homes or communities. No aid from governments. No apparent end to ongoing human tragedy. Incomprehensible atrocities for those who didn’t experience it. This was the horrific reality that characterised a long 100 days for the Tutsi people of Rwanda.

The Rwandan genocide marks a truly dark moment in human history. It was the culmination of decades of conflict and division, sparked in the late 1800s by German and Belgian colonisers who promoted interethnic division. In the years following, an increasingly hostile divide formed between the Tutsi and Twa minority groups and the Hutu majority.

Throughout the 1900s, Rwanda faced much conflict and political instability. The 1959 Rwandan revolution replaced the Tutsi monarchy with a Hutu-led republic, forcing many Tutsi to leave the country. These circumstances led to Rwandan discontent that in turn triggered the 1990 Rwandan civil war between the Tutsi Rwandan Patriotic Front (RPF) and the Hutu government. The war lasted almost four years before President Juvénal Habyarimana established a tenuous peace agreement (the Arusha Accords, 4 August 1993). However, this wasn’t to last.

On April 6, 1994, President Habyarimana was killed when his plane was shot down. The culprits are still unknown, and it’s debated whether the RPF or Hutu extremists killed him. Regardless, this event was instrumental in the start of the Rwandan genocide. Hours after his death, the government’s crisis committee ordered the systematic killing of Tutsi people throughout the country.

The genocide was carried out by the Rwandan Armed Forces and extremist Hutu militias, who killed an estimated 800,000 to 1,000,000 Tutsis and politically moderate Hutus over the course of about 100 days. Furthermore, it is estimated that during the same time frame between 100,000 and 250,000 women were raped. The atrocities only ceased when the RPF overthrew the Hutu government in July 1994.

Recovery in the form of Gacaca courts

With the Hutu government overthrown and the genocide now at an end, the new Rwandan government had the monumental task of bringing the perpetrators to justice in a torn nation. One of the most difficult problems was the sheer amount of Rwandans accused of genocide-related crimes. Due to the high number of Hutu civilians involved, by 2001 over 120,000 Rwandans were awaiting trial - far too many for the official justice system to handle in a reasonable time.

The establishment of Gacaca courts was the solution for this process of justice. These community courts, held throughout Rwanda, aimed to swiftly address the multitude of accused perpetrators and uncover the truth of the genocide.

The model of the Gacaca courts was a unique one. Originally a way of dealing with local disputes in small communities, they were set up in outdoor spaces for community involvement so victims of the genocide and other community members could be involved in deciding the fate of those involved in the murder of Tutsis. The judges (Inyangamugayo) were locally elected and decided the fate of the accused after hearing evidence from witnesses and the defences of the accused themselves.

Four categories of genocide-related crimes were outlined: Masterminding the genocide and committing acts of sexual violence, participating in the killings, physical assault, and destroying Tutsi property. If the offender was found guilty of the first two crimes, they would be placed within the traditional court system, but if guilty of the latter two, the punishment was in the hands of the Inyangamugayo.

However, what was perhaps most unorthodox in this system was the focus on restorative justice (a focus on reconciliation between victim and offender). The Gacaca courts gave perpetrators an opportunity to explain themselves, confess, and ask for forgiveness from their communities - often leading to reduced sentences.

Were Gacaca courts effective?

Gacaca courts were effective in establishing societal cohesion and in preventing renewed violence. Through the communal aspect of the courts, victims were able to gain emotional security by learning the truth of the events of the genocide. In this sense, the courts were effective in achieving restorative justice

However, the courts were flawed. Rigorous legal processes weren’t followed, evidence was only presented in the form of spoken testimony, and above all, a confession of guilt and an expression of remorse allowed perpetrators to have reduced punishments. From a retributive justice perspective (where punishment for perpetrators is at the forefront of the process), this simply feels wrong.

The 7 Fundamental Human Needs

In answering whether the Gacaca courts were effective in producing real healing within Rwanda, we can look to the 7 fundamental human needs to pinpoint the effectiveness of the courts. These are essential needs for human flourishing that are believed to be cross-cultural and timeless.

Safety/security and survival - The Gacaca courts’ justice acted as a deterrent for future similar crimes and removed dangerous members of society.

Understanding - A key feature of the Gacaca courts was the understanding they provided. By creating an environment for victims to hear offenders speak and hear evidence given, they were able to get to the truth (such as who committed which acts).

Connection (love) and acceptance - As the courts were based in communities and verdicts were reached on a community basis, a deep connection was established within the communities. However, connection was not only found within innocent members of the community, but with guilty members also. And, of course, through the reconciliation, acceptance was also achieved in both victims and offenders.

Contribution/participation - The role of community members (particularly the Inyangamugayo) in the courts is a testament to the contribution people were able to achieve. Furthermore, since the courts finished, people have been able to live in a socially cohesive society that allows them to work as a community.

Esteem, identity, significance - This is an area in which, unfortunately, Rwanda’s recovery from genocide is less successful. Though esteem is not neglected, in the sense that Rwandans are not restricted in their capacity to be recognised as competent and capable, parts of identity are restricted. In the interest of societal cohesion, all references to ethnicity are discouraged within Rwanda. This is problematic as ethnicity is an integral part of identity, particularly after a joint struggle like Rwanda’s.

Self-determination (Autonomy), Freedom, and Justice - Though Gacaca addressed urgent post-conflict needs, lasting autonomy and freedom has not been seen within Rwanda. Rwanda is currently run by an authoritarian state that limits individual freedom significantly through surveillance and political suppression.

Self-actualisation and self-transcendence - Due to the lack of freedom in Rwanda, the ability for self-actualisation and self-transcendence is significantly limited.

Philosophy vs practicality

The use of the Gacaca courts then begs the question: what can we learn from them? And, upon further reflection, we can ask what they teach us as they raise large questions about moral philosophy and justice, and the trade-off between principle and practicality. Should we do things because they are practically useful, even if they are dubious in philosophical principle and consistency? Perhaps the retributive “an eye for an eye” approach is not morally correct.

It’s important to recognise that the negligence of retributive justice in Rwanda was for the sake of societal healing. If Rwanda was to have taken a retributive approach to justice, there is no guarantee that victims would have been able to find peace and that perpetrators would have been able to be reintegrated into society.

Rwandan recovery in a global context

Despite the merits of the Gacaca courts in meeting some fundamental needs, they did not achieve a perfect solution to the country’s issues. Rwanda is under an authoritarian government that greatly limits the political and personal freedoms of its people. It is then up to us to ask whether the authoritarian control of Rwanda is worth the societal cohesion. Furthermore, we should also consider how much of the current social cohesion is due to Gacaca, and how much is due to suppression of freedom?

Other countries that have experienced similar conflicts aren’t in the same position as Rwanda. For example, after the war and genocide in Bosnia and Herzegovina, the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia was set up. This did prove to be effective in dealing with perpetrators, but compared with Rwanda, Bosnia and Herzegovina lack reconciliation as the justice process was retributive and lacked mechanisms to ensure reconciliation. Here justice and principle were placed above societal practicality.

We can also look to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission established after apartheid in South Africa to investigate human rights abuses. Though this was beneficial for reconciliation through open dialogue between victim and offender, the commission resulted in hardly any punishments for perpetrators, leaving victims feeling unsatisfied. This contrasts with Rwanda where both punishment and reconciliation were achieved.

The point in comparing these countries’ responses to conflict is not to determine which is best, but rather to consider where we draw our moral lines. When and why should we abandon practicality? Principles? Justice? What should we favour?

Conclusion

Regardless of the answers to my questions (if there are any), we can certainly learn from the Gacaca courts. Faced with some of the worst crimes, Rwanda prioritised restorative justice, cohesion, and truth over procedural purity. Yes, Rwanda still has problems, but we must give credit where credit is due, and in the case of the Gacaca courts, they provided moral necessity when the country faced societal collapse. The lesson of Gacaca, then, is not that we should always prioritise practical benefit over philosophical consistency, but that in desperate times it may be necessary to focus on practical healing as a moral priority.

Resources list

Acha, D.K., MD and DMin. (2015). The 7 Fundamental Human Needs | Servants University | Training Servants for Christ. [online] Available at: https://www.servantsuniversity.com/the-7-fundamental-human-needs/.

Department of Public Information (2014). The Justice and Reconciliation Process in Rwanda. [online] Available at: https://www.un.org/en/preventgenocide/rwanda/assets/pdf/Backgrounder%20Justice%202014.pdf.

Ted-ED (2023). What caused the Rwandan Genocide? - Susanne Buckley-Zistel. [online] www.youtube.com. Available at:

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Al Jazeera English (2012). Rwanda’s gacaca courts questioned 10 years on. [online] YouTube. Available at:

.

In this episode Oliver discusses the post conflict experience of Rwanda and the experience of Gacaca courts and how well they have served the need for justice. 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.

Surviving Fragments: Navigating the Experience of Displacement Through Objects

Behjat Omer Abdulla, a refugee artist from Kurdistan, fled his home in the 1990s due to escalating conflict. After he settled in Sweden, he created Unidentified Objects (2015), a series of graphite drawings focused on unidentified archaeological artifacts left behind after ISIS looted the Mosul Museum. Each object is held in latex-gloved hands against black backgrounds.

Abdulla’s portrayal of unnamed and damaged objects represents evidence of life disrupted by violence, of stories told from the fragments left behind. Abdulla communicates the importance of reframing conflict stories through the objects that populate them, returning autonomy to the storytellers by returning their possessions in this work.

The refugee experience is surrounded by loss. Displacement includes the loss of possessions, beyond the emotional loss of home, culture, and connection. Everyday objects can hold incredible emotional value, especially when you are forced to leave them behind.

This article will explore two post-conflict communities where objects have helped refugees adjust and regain autonomy. Examining these stories through the objects can provide new perspectives on balancing post-conflict survival with rebuilding.

The Soccer Ball in Kakuma Refugee Camp

The Kakuma Refugee Camp, established in 1992, is a large-scale UN-organized settlement in Kenya. It was founded for the ‘Lost Boys of Sudan’, around 20,000 Sudanese boys displaced after the Nuer and Dinka ethnic groups faced persecution during the Second Sudanese Civil War (1987-2005). It’s home to refugees from Sudan, Somalia, and Ethiopia.

The football has become a symbol of hope, resilience, and community for the inhabitants of Kakuma Refugee Camp, transcending its role as sports equipment or toy. Starting from an informal group of boys playing football together after significant losses, the soccer ball now represents more than just a piece of inflated rubber.

In 2018, Kakuma United was officially registered with the National League, supported by the UN Refugee Agency and the Lutheran World Foundation. In a recent UNHCR article, Tayyar Sukru Cansizoglu, UNHCR’s Head of Sub Office in Kakuma, says that in the camp, ‘football goes beyond sportsmanship – it has become a symbol of unity, peace and love for refugees and the host community.’ [1] The soccer ball serves as a catalyst for social cohesion, allowing individuals to forge connections, build friendships, and reclaim agency and autonomy in their post-conflict lives.

The soccer ball in Kakuma Refugee Camp is more than entertainment. It’s a path to empowerment for refugees rebuilding their lives after conflict. The team has flourished, becoming the best in the league in their first year and only losing one match in 2018.

Refugees in Kakuma use the sport to turn adversity into opportunity on the camp’s pitches through soccer tournaments and informal matches. They empower themselves through the soccer ball, reclaiming agency, shaping their destinies and defying displacement to pursue a future filled with hope and possibility.

Immaculée Ilibagiza’s Rosary and the Rwandan Genocide

The Rwandan Genocide occurred between April and July 1994. It was triggered by ethnic tensions between the Hutu majority and Tutsi minority. After the assassination of President Juvenal Habyarimana on April 6, 1994, the conflict escalated into widespread violence by the Hutu-led government and militia against the Tutsi. It is estimated that between 800,000 to 1 million people were killed in three months, leaving a trail of trauma and destruction shaping the country’s history.

Immaculée Ilibagiza survived with seven other women in a bathroom, hidden behind a closet in a Hutu pastor’s house, for 91 days, while most of her family was killed.

Since then, Ilibagiza found refuge in the United States and became a successful author of several books. In her works, she details how her faith and prayer helped her during the ordeal and shaped her post-conflict adjustment and ability to forgive the perpetrators.

Ilibagiza’s book The Rosary: The Prayer That Saved My Life” is of interest. She highlights the physical rosary as a symbol of hope throughout her experience. It protected and guided her through despair and gave her courage to endure and survive the genocide violence.

Immaculée emerged from hiding, her rosary remaining a tangible reminder of the importance of faith and forgiveness to overcome hatred and adversity. It inspired her to share her story and advocate for healing and reconciliation after the genocide.

What We Take with Us: Understanding People Through Things

The soccer ball at Kakuma Refugee Camp has inspired humanity in the face of adversity. It goes beyond a play object, becoming a catalyst for social cohesion, empowerment, and autonomy among refugees rebuilding post-conflict lives. Through sport, individuals in Kakuma find connection and reclaim agency and belonging in a world marked by displacement and uncertainty.

Amid the horrors of the Rwandan Genocide, Immaculée Ilibagiza found solace, strength, and spiritual resilience in her rosary. Her story has resonated with countless others, adding a new dimension to the rosary as an object of faith. For Ilibagiza, the rosary serves as a reminder not only of her displacement and loss but also of her post-conflict experience. It is a symbol of healing, adjustment, and forgiveness inspired by her struggles.

These are two examples of significant tools in the lives of refugees in and after conflict. The soccer ball in Kakuma Refugee Camp and Ilibagiza’s rosary remind us of the resilience and humanity of refugees and conflict survivors. Examining refugee experiences through everyday objects helps us understand how these reminders of humanity and home can aid in increasing autonomy and adjustment in post-conflict areas. Objects serve as practical reminders of self-hood and humanity, despite their small presence amidst conflict.

With the rise in refugee populations over the past three years, more attention has been given to the experience. The International Rescue Committee released an article in 2015 entitled, What’s In My Bag? [2] In it, they interview refugees from different conflict areas and ask them to reveal the contents of their bags.

One thing becomes clear. Despite the often limited space for refugees, many carry objects like phones, documents, and an SD card full of family photos from home. Whether these objects make it through the arduous journey is left to chance, but their inclusion amongst the necessary items speaks not only to a desire for connection, but also to a hope for the future. A hope embodied in objects.

In this episode Elysia discusses the importance of objects and their meaning in communties rebuilding themselves once the conflict is over. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Oxford University Career Services. This article was edited using Lex.page.

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

A Landscape Still at War: Cambodia’s Ongoing Battle with Landmines

Cambodia’s long peace is still haunted by weapons buried just beneath its feet. Three decades after the return of the monarchy and the birth of multi-party democracy, remnants of war are still very much present in the beautiful landscape of a country with a brutal history. Landmines contaminate the landscape, shaping the country’s physical and psychological terrain.

The northwest region, especially along the Thai border, remains a hotspot (Taskdal, 2011). It was here that some of the heaviest fighting unfolded. By 1995, Cambodia earned the grim distinction of having “a mine for every man, woman, and child” (Feingold, 1995). Many of these devices were planted indiscriminately across farmlands, forcing farmers to choose between feeding their families and risking their lives. The consequences ripple outward with reduced agricultural output, stunted economic growth, and communities trapped in cycles of fear and poverty. Even Cambodia’s cultural treasures weren’t spared. Angkor Wat, a UNESCO World Heritage site, was once surrounded by hidden explosives that deterred visitors and complicated preservation efforts.

Angkor Wat, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, 2025

Their danger lies in their simplicity. Most landmines rest just five centimetres below the surface. A few kilograms of downward pressure - far less than the weight of a child - can activate a spring-loaded firing mechanism. This mechanism strikes the detonator, triggering the explosive core. The resulting blast unleashes a brutal upward wave of force, causing devastating injuries in an instant (McGrath, p. 33, 2000). Planting a landmine costs as little as three dollars. Finding and destroying that same device can cost between $500 to $1000 hundred dollars (Feingold, 1995).

Legacy of Conflict: How Decades of War Buried Cambodia in Landmines

Cambodia’s recent history is scarred by extraordinary violence. Between 1975 and 1979, the Khmer Rouge pursued a fanatical vision of a “pure” agrarian society, resulting in the deaths of an estimated 1.5 to 3 million people, nearly a quarter of the population (Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies, 2025).

The regime’s collapse came only after Vietnam invaded in 1978, toppling the Khmer Rouge and installing a new government. But instead of ending the suffering, the intervention triggered years of civil war. As battles shifted across provinces, both Khmer Rouge fighters and Vietnamese forces planted the land with mines - crude, plentiful, and lethal (Feingold, 1995).

Furthermore, dangerous explosives were also left behind from the Vietnam War. Many of these mines, deployed by U.S. forces, remained undetonated in Cambodia’s soil (Taskdal, p. 189, 2011).

What remained after decades of conflict was the natural landscape turned into a weapon. Its rural fields and temples were littered with the remnants of war that would continue to claim lives long after the fighting had ceased.

Fields of Fear: How Landmines Endanger Cambodia’s Farmers

Cambodia remains one of the most heavily landmine-contaminated countries in the world. Unlike some post-conflict regions where danger zones are cordoned off with barbed wire or warning signs, Cambodia’s minefields are often invisible. In 2006, a staggering 90% of victims reported that there was no signage to indicate the presence of explosives (Taskdal, p. 189, 2011).

The people who suffer most are the farmers who rely on the land for survival. Faced with the impossible choice between farming contaminated soil or facing starvation, many continue to work fields riddled with hidden mines. The consequences are devastating. Injuries caused by landmines often result in death or life-changing disabilities. The International Committee of the Red Cross estimates that around 150,000 Cambodians live with disabilities, many of them having lost limbs to explosions (ICRC, 2018).

And even after amputation and medical treatment, the danger doesn’t end. As researcher Taksdal notes, “the disabled survivor or the family members will have to enter the mined area again and again, as they depend on farming, collecting wood or using other natural resources to sustain the family” (Taksdal, p. 189, 2011). Sok, a Cambodian farmer interviewed by Taskdal, lost a limb after stepping on a landmine, still remembers the moment that changed his life: “The accident happened three years ago, I was out in the jungle on my plot of land clearing the bush. I was not working for anyone else; I was trying to expand the farmland” (Taskdal, p. 191, 2011).

Clearing the Path to Peace: APOPO’s Mission to Reclaim Cambodia’s Land

APOPO, an international NGO, is dedicated to clearing landmines and returning safe, usable land to communities worldwide. Its work is rooted in a simple mission: restoring lives by restoring land. As McGrath notes, “countries in transition from war to peace may find that landmines laid by all combatant forces present a very real obstacle to reconciliation” (McGrath, p. 46, 2000). APOPO confronts that obstacle head-on, helping countries like Cambodia rebuild by making once-dangerous grounds safe again. So far, its work in Cambodia has cleared 33 million square metres of land and safely destroyed more than 49,000 landmines (APOPO, 2025).

To do this, APOPO relies on an unexpected ally: the giant African pouched rat. Native to Tanzania, these animals are trained to detect the chemical compounds found in explosives. Each time a rat correctly identifies a landmine, it is rewarded with food. When it locates an explosive, the rat scratches the ground to alert the deminers. Crucially, because the rats weigh so little, they can safely walk over active mines without triggering them (AFP, 2022).

APOPO Centre in Siem Reap, 2025

After visiting the centre in July 2025, it was immediately clear that the team holds deep respect and affection for their ‘mini rat heroes.’ Staff members proudly introduced us to several veteran rats, treating them with the same care given to any decorated service animal. Their contributions have not gone unnoticed. In the past, APOPO’s rats have received international recognition - including Magawa, now deceased, who was awarded the animal equivalent of Britain’s highest civilian honour for bravery for his extraordinary work in detecting landmines (AFP, 2022).

Myself at APOPO Centre in Siem Reap, 2025

APOPO’s impact extends beyond farmland. The organisation has also been working in Preah Vihear, the ancient Hindu temple complex designated as a UNESCO World Heritage site. By clearing landmines from the surrounding grounds, APOPO is not only protecting local communities but also helping to safeguard and restore one of Cambodia’s most significant cultural treasures (Mena Report, 2024). The work at Preah Vihear also speaks to a deeper national need: after decades marked by genocide and cultural devastation, restoring and protecting heritage sites is a vital step in rebuilding Cambodia’s identity and reclaiming what violence sought to erase.

Looking towards the future

Cambodia’s struggle against landmines is far from a relic of the past - it is a daily battle for safety, dignity, and the right to live without fear. From farmers risking their lives to feed their families, to heritage sites still recovering from the scars of conflict, the legacy of war is etched into the country’s soil. Yet amid the devastations, organisations like APOPO offer a path forward. Their innovative work not only clears deadly explosives but restores livelihoods, protects culture, and rekindles hope in communities long held hostage by hidden weapons.

But Cambodia still has a long way to go. As of November 2025, the disputed border territory between Thailand and Cambodia near Preah Vihear remains a source of tension - despite a 1962 ruling by the International Court of Justice, which signified it belonged to Cambodia. Thailand threatened to suspend a US-brokered ceasefire after a landmine explosion along the border injured four Thai soldiers - an incident Cambodia claimed involved mines left over from earlier conflicts (The Associated Press, 2025). This episode underscores just how long-lasting and geopolitically dangerous the landmines challenge remains.

Bibliography

AFP International Text Wire in English, Cambodia’s landmine-sniffing rat hero dies. 11 Jan 2022, <Cambodia’s landmine-sniffing rat hero dies - ProQuest> [accessed 12 November 2025]

APOPO, ‘APOPO in Cambodia’, 2025, <APOPO In Cambodia • APOPO> [accessed 12 November 2025]

Center for Holocaust and Genocide Studies, ‘Cambodia’, University of Minnesota, 2025 <Cambodia | Holocaust and Genocide Studies | College of Liberal Arts> [accessed 12 November 2025]

David A. Feingold, Silent Sentinels, Coward’s War, 1995, <Silent Sentinels, Coward’s War - Alexander Street, a ProQuest Company> [accessed 12 November 25]

International Committee of the Red Cross, ‘Cambodia: So little, yet so much for people with disabilities’ 5th June 2018 <Cambodia: So little, yet so much for people with disabilities | International Committee of the Red Cross> [accessed 12 November 2025]

MENA Report, Cambodia: APOPO extends collaboration for landmine clearance in cambodia with CMAC. (2024, Jan 02). <Cambodia : APOPO Extends Collaboration for Landmine Clearance in Cambodia with CMAC - ProQuest> [accessed 12 November 2025]

In this episode Beth discusses the post conflict experience in Cambodia and the issue of land mines left behind. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, KCL. This article was edited using Lex.page.

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How the movie “Hiroshima mon amour” redefined the art of storytelling after a traumatic experience

“You saw nothing in Hiroshima”: The impossibility of representing trauma

Hiroshima mon Amour opens with a powerful scene: a man tells a woman that her effort to learn about what happened in Hiroshima is vain, and he keeps repeating “Tu n’as rien vu à Hiroshima, rien” (translation: “You saw nothing in Hiroshima, nothing”). The woman emphasizes her personal journey to learn about the event, visit museums, and watch historical documentaries. Both bodies appear as mutilated by the experience of love and the experience of Hiroshima, where destructive events are paralleled with an impossible love story. This questions how to effectively narrate the aftermath of a war horror, and how documents that might seem effective and complete are in fact impersonal and could never provide an effective insight about what happened and how people recovered from the trauma. Those experiences are impossible to represent accurately through a documentary, but rather remembering them through human experience such as love and death becomes a path to understanding those historical events.

Trauma is universal: personal and national experiences mirror each other

Initially, Alain Resnais, the director, was asked to make a movie about the atomic bomb. But he did not want to document or recreate the horror created by the atomic bomb, instead wanting to make a fiction movie that could be understood by a Western audience that did not experience the horror that signified the end of the war, a moment of relief. Thus, he juxtaposed two traumatic experiences: a woman’s experience in Nevers after German occupation, where she had her head shaved, and the man’s experience after the Hiroshima bomb. He shows the universality of trauma that is not grounded in one country but is rather universal, as every human being might experience it. In the movie, one line is “C’est comme si le désastre d’une femme tondue à Nevers et le désastre d’Hiroshima se répondaient exactement” (“It is as if the disaster of a shaved woman in Nevers and the disaster of Hiroshima answered each other exactly”), showing that both tragedies appear the same.

Another powerful scene shows the universality of trauma from a personal to a national dimension, where each protagonist says to the other “Hiroshima. C’est ton nom” (“Hiroshima is your name”) and “Ton nom à toi est Nevers” (“Your name is Nevers”). This scene overemphasizes how their experiences as persons reflect a broader psychological experience in a specific place. They are depersonalized, losing their individual identities and instead becoming experiences grounded in a specific time and period. It also shows how one traumatic experience mirrors another, and accessing trauma comes indirectly: we access the man’s traumatic past about Hiroshima through the woman’s experience of Nevers. Traumatic experiences can only be accessed through substitutions and displacements; we can never relive the whole story.

Trauma disrupts time and memory: storytelling through fragmented narratives

The movie also questions the notion of time and how people live it during and after trauma. For the woman who fell in love with the enemy, a German, during the war, she can’t differentiate her present Japanese lover and her past German lover: every memory is mixed, their identities become blurry. This shows how trauma is remembered not through images or documentaries but through the characters’ inner voices. When history of trauma can only happen through listening to someone’s experience, the narrative becomes non-linear and blurry; it doesn’t transmit an understanding of horror but the horror itself through fragmented, tormented narratives that can’t reconstruct a specific event but show how they experienced it.

The movie contradicts traditional techniques of storytelling, going against the committed literature movement of 1950s France, which was directed by Sartre and focused on the obligation of literature to represent reality as much as possible with detailed descriptions and politically engaging messages. Indeed, the movie opposes a commemorative system that reduces trauma into manageable facts and images that erase the singularities of survivors’ experiences. The movie ultimately shows how museums of commemoration tend to create one narrative of trauma that does not include all experiences. The movie also goes beyond narrative memories that integrate specific events into existing mental schemes, where this process of narrativization oversimplifies all experiences, focuses on one perspective while relativizing others, and transforms the past into something that can be told.

Furthermore, compared with other forms of commemoration, traditional monuments raise multiple questions such as who has the right to be remembered, whether states should construct those monuments since they were active participants in wars, and how to properly represent the unprecedented scale of violence. Then, “counter-monuments” began to exist: they were more inclusive because they necessitated audience engagement, had multiple voices, did not represent a single meaning, and were more of a process reflecting an ongoing act of remembering, not fixed memory. They leave traces without claiming to represent the whole picture. Thus, Hiroshima mon amour acts like a counter-monument because it does not pretend to represent Hiroshima or Nevers, but rather reconstitutes a testimony or the sensations lived by someone who experienced it.

Cinematic techniques express the inexpressible nature of trauma

The strong use of flashbacks puts the spectator in the place and time of the scene, recreating the exact circumstances and putting us in an anxious atmosphere. They permit a subjective memory representation and describe events more accurately. It also uses blurry scenes and fragmented memories. The movie’s vocation is to show how trauma is characterized by its resistance to coherent narrative memory, as traumatic experiences are overwhelming, unordered memories that disrupt mental frameworks and demand a structure representing disorientation, exhaustion, and losing usual markers. The movie embodies traumatic experiences as it does not reflect a coherent narrative but an elliptical one that is hard to understand and follow. The spectator is lost as the person who experienced the trauma; the past becomes blurry. This is what Marguerite Duras wanted to reflect: the movie contains many uncertainties about where we are, when, and who the two main characters are. It mixes the story of the two lovers and actual documentary footage such as museum exhibits, to show the intersection between personal experience and history. When the woman is imprisoned during the German invasion, one scene is striking: as she is imprisoned in a cellar, we lose track of time, we see scratched walls and a close-up of her scratched hands, like we scratched our own hands. Immersive scenes also help to reflect and tell traumatic experiences better.

Healing and remembrance: forgetting as part of remembering

The movie, beyond storytelling about social trauma to remember, also entails forgetting suffering and shows the impossibility of translating nuclear devastation into images or dialogues that reveal historical truth. Resuming life after trauma might depend on museums of commemoration because of their limiting representation. Naming each other by the country they are from at the end of the movie also shows reconciliation with their own history by forgetting traumatic details, reliving other memories, and the need for post-conflict communities to move on from tragedy. The woman’s experience of not being able to forget her past also shows the difficulty of detaching from an indelible past and the necessity to forget to fully live in the present, which she does not succeed in doing in the movie. The film shows that through acknowledging forgetting the past, one can live without losing it. Writing about trauma needs to happen within a framework that remembers that forgetting is part of the creative work.

The movie also indirectly establishes itself within the cultural needs of post-conflict communities, reflecting the challenges of remembrance and cultural heritage. It shows how individual grief can be exchanged to enable collective international trauma, reflecting the need for cultural needs to be represented and heritage constructed. The film reflects on the difficulties of international memory and how to translate it between individual and collective memories, across national boundaries and cultural differences. One’s grief allows understanding someone else’s grief: the two protagonists did not live the same experience but did not succeed in telling the whole story of their trauma and still understood each other’s pain. The exchange of traumas creates equivalence but not equality: the woman loses her German lover, whereas Hiroshima killed many people. It is about exchanging traumatic experiences and recognizing that fully understanding the other’s experience is impossible.

Beyond its symbolic significance on Hiroshima, the movie delivers useful lessons for how we should narrate trauma today. With the abundance of photographs and videos in the modern world, information can easily be manipulated to create one narrative, which hinders individual experience in a conflict.

Bibliography:

Boyd Goldie, Matthew. “The Rhetoric of Grief: Hiroshima Mon Amour.” English Language Notes 46, no. 1 (2008): [page numbers not available].

Buendía Padreda, Sara. “Exploring the Interplay of Memory and Poetry in Rive Gauche Cinema: A Study of Muriel and Hiroshima Mon Amour.” Revista Foco 17, no. 3 (2024): 1‑11.

Holmqvist, Jytte. “Memory and Identity in the Emotive Map of Alain Resnais’ Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959).” NANO: New American Notes Online 1, no. 6 (2014).

Just, Daniel. “The Poetics of Elusive History: Marguerite Duras, War Traumas, and the Dilemmas of Literary Representation.” Modern Language Review 107, no. 4 (2012): 1064‑1081.

Ledwina, Anna. “Une dialectique de la mémoire et de l’oubli : Hiroshima mon amour de Marguerite Duras.” Quêtes littéraires, no. 12 (2022): 73‑84. https://doi.org/10.31743/ql.14868.

McKee, Stephen. “The Memorial Film: Commemoration through Cinema in Alain Resnais’ Hiroshima Mon Amour.” [Publication details not fully available].

Mohsen, Caroline. “Place, Memory, and Subjectivity, in Marguerite Duras’ Hiroshima mon amour.” Romanic Review 89, no. 4 (Nov 1, 1998): 567.

Roth, Michael S. Hiroshima Mon Amour: You Must Remember This. (Yale University Press),

Varsava, Nina. “Processions of Trauma in Hiroshima mon amour: Towards an Ethics of Representation.” Studies in French Cinema 11, no. 2 (2011): 111‑123. https://doi.org/10.1386/sfc.11.2.111_1

In this episode Alia discusses the complexity of healing and trauma in post conflict Japan. She is a Citizen journalist with us on a placement organised with Department of War Studies, KCL. This article was edited using Lex.page.

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