On September 30, I walked out of a three-hour medical appointment to dozens of missed calls. They were from colleagues: the entire newsroom of Matsadaash, an independent fact-checking platform, had been arrested. Six journalists, five of them trainees in their early twenties, all picked up in less than 24 hours.

I didn’t know any of them. It didn’t matter. An entire newsroom taken in a day, then disappeared: that was enough. I don’t need to know someone to stand with them. If they are journalists arrested for doing their job, I am with them.

For five days, no one knew where they were. Their families and lawyers filed 18 complaints in that time, according to the Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR), which represents them. The Interior Ministry called Matsadaash an unlicensed, foreign-run page, and linked it to the Muslim Brotherhood, which Egypt designated a terrorist organization in 2013. The Matsadaash founder, Abdelrahman Mansour, denies any affiliation.

When the six journalists were finally produced before state security prosecutors, some, according to their lawyers, said they had been blindfolded, bound, stripped, beaten and given electric shocks. State prosecutors said forensic examinations found no injuries. The journalists were charged with joining and financing a terrorist group, reporting fake news and using social media to spread it. On October 13, their pretrial detention was extended for another 15 days. Their salaries, which EIPR and the Egyptian Journalists Syndicate say were paid under employment contracts filed with Egyptian banks, were described, in the prosecution’s words, as “monthly funding in foreign currencies.”

Over three days, each of the six journalists was interrogated for nearly 30 hours. According to EIPR, not one was confronted with a single report they had written that could be called false. Instead, the prosecution’s own statement accused them of “highlighting shortcomings — and nothing else — in state institutions,” belittling officials and amplifying people’s grievances.

But that is precisely our job. It is what we sign up for as journalists — to ask questions of those in power. On October 4, another colleague was summoned for questioning; thankfully, she was released the same day.

Word spread the way it does now, through social media posts, journalists’ pages and a knot of phone calls I can no longer untangle. Colleagues were gathering at the Journalists Syndicate every day. So I went too. The Syndicate is a union with a long history of standing up for us, and I joined my colleagues there in solidarity with those who had been detained. Not everyone could come every day, but there was always someone — on some days just four, on others more than 20. 

Even our older colleagues, in their 60s, 70s and 80s, showed up. Ustaz Mohamed Abdel Kouddous, who once headed the Syndicate’s freedoms committee, is recovering from an accident and could not be there in person, but he was with us through his voice and his written messages. For as long as I can remember, he has been there for every struggle: at Al-Ahram, arguably Egypt’s most prominent daily newspaper; and at the Syndicate, with his megaphone, firing us up. He and I don’t share the same politics, but it has never mattered. 

In 2008, on the day of a nationwide strike, plainclothes officers dragged him from his car in broad daylight and held him until nightfall. He asked the Syndicate to demand an investigation, though he expected nothing to come of it. “We do what we need to do,” he said then. It could be the motto of our sit-in today.

Many of us feel embarrassed to eat or to have a cup of tea, not knowing whether our colleagues inside have the same luxury. When I kiss my girls goodnight, I feel ashamed that my colleagues in jail cannot do the same.

I keep thinking about how we got here.

Under Egypt’s former president Hosni Mubarak, the red lines were clear. You did not touch the head of state, his wife and his sons, or a certain institution (the military). But everything else was fair game. We knocked ourselves out writing about poverty and corruption, labor rights and children’s rights, domestic violence, sexual harassment and female genital mutilation. 

Then came 2011, and a revolution unlike any other. In Tahrir Square, we rejected violence, and our chant was “selmeya, selmeya” (peaceful, peaceful).

When we brought Mubarak down, he didn’t flee like the Tunisian “strongman” Zine al-Abidine Ben, and we didn’t lynch him like Muammar Gaddafi in Libya. We put Mubarak on trial, in a courtroom. It was dignified. It was the revolution of the dreamers.

In those few years, Egyptian journalists lived with freedoms we had never known. But dreamers are not politicians.

We had lived for decades with no politics: no real political parties, no real elections, no way to learn how power works. So when the door was opened, we didn’t know how to build what we had dreamed of. People kept asking, “What is the alternative?” We had the dream, but not the tools.

What followed our revolution was the opposite of what we fought for: restrictions on a scale we had never seen. The red lines blurred and multiplied, until no one knew where they were anymore. The story of our country, of our revolution and of our journalism is the same story. We are not organized. We are not politicized. But we dare to dream.

Today, at least 25 journalists are behind bars in Egypt, says the Committee to Protect Journalists, almost all of them in pretrial detention. That period is technically limited to two years, but prosecutors file new charges and renew detentions. Some, like the photojournalist Hamdy al-Zaeem, have spent a decade in and out of detention without a single conviction. My colleague Haidar Kandil was taken in June, after documenting arrests of Egypt’s Shia minority.

On the evening of October 14, the lobby of the Syndicate’s headquarters in downtown Cairo was filled with banners and cartoons. Three colleagues and I sat down to write letters to our jailed colleagues: 26 names in total. We fussed over how to organize the letters: how to arrange the names, whether the envelopes should be open or closed, which color went with which name. Colleagues with beautiful handwriting wrote each name in calligraphy. Then we realized we couldn’t spend the whole evening rearranging the deckchairs. At some point, we had to start writing.

But our minds were blank. What could we say? “Why are you inside, and why are we free?” “We feel guilty that we are free and you are paying the price. Maybe we should have paid it instead.”

Of the 26, the only one I have worked with is Haidar. He had a good eye for a story. Like most of the young journalists I work with, he needed guidance, but he was always responsive to edits, to make changes and turn in better copy. We spoke on the phone and exchanged emails and texts, but we had never met. I only know his face from photos online, and here I am pinning his photo on the noticeboard in the syndicate with a #FreeThemAll banner. 

In the end, all I wrote was: “I miss you, Haidar. I hope to see you soon. Hang in there. Love, Lina.”

Whenever I feel small, I remind myself that this Syndicate has always fought the good fight. That same evening, the veteran journalist Medhat El-Zahed told us how, during the 1989 Iron and Steel workers’ strike, he and his leftist colleagues were arrested and tortured. The Syndicate’s head at the time, Makram Mohamed Ahmed, was close to the authorities. Still, he protested over the treatment of journalists and visited them in prison.

Today, for the first time, the head of our Syndicate is one of us. Khaled El-Balshy is a dreamer. Eman Ouf, who heads the freedoms committee, is one of us too. The Syndicate has pledged to defend all six Matsadaash journalists. It has asked the Attorney General to investigate the abuse allegations. Its statement chose every word with care, stressing its commitment to the law and to the country’s higher interests, and asked only that our colleagues be released on the Syndicate’s guarantee, or any other, given their young age. It was the most modest of requests. Even that was too much for some.

The tide is so high, and we are so low. 

After more than two weeks, we have suspended the sit-in. We are not leaving the Syndicate, and we are not giving up. In our statement, we promised to keep standing with our colleagues through other events, because the battle for press freedom “needs a long breath.”

On October 18, eight independent news outlets from Egypt, Lebanon, Tunisia and Syria, among them Mada Masr and Al-Manassa, announced a joint newsroom to fact-check “Egypt Forum 2026,” the government’s “achievements conference.” The summit runs from October 19 through to October 24 – six days for six journalists. The eight newsrooms have united under the slogan: “Until they return, the fact-checking continues.” The dreamers are learning to organize.

We journalists and dreamers, like those of us who gather in the Syndicate, are stubborn. Many are behind bars of some kind: real ones, imaginary ones, or the bars of a censored internet. But we always walk towards the light. Journalism is how we live and breathe. If we don’t fight for it now, there will be nothing left to fight for tomorrow. No profession, no dignity, and no Syndicate.

This story was published in collaboration with Egab.

The post In Egypt, the government has seized a newsroom appeared first on Coda Story.

In May, William Tharien, a 19-year-old student, made his second attempt at passing NEET, India’s national entrance exam for would-be medical students. Passing the test was the only way William would be eligible to study to be a doctor, surgeon, dentist or vet and he was competing with about 2.2 million other students for one of about 130,000 places in medical schools around the country. What makes the test even more nerve-wracking is that only half of these places are available at heavily subsidized state-run colleges, rather than expensive private institutions.

It can take students up to two years to prepare for these exams, with parents going into debt to pay fees at tuition centers entirely devoted to cracking the test. Days after William, and millions of others, took the test on May 3, authorities discovered that the paper had likely been leaked and circulated on social media platforms like Telegram. The results were voided.

Around the same time, the Chief Justice of India’s Supreme Court compared young people “who don’t get any employment and don’t have any place in a profession” to cockroaches and parasites. In a country with the largest population of 15- to 29-year-olds in the world (nearly 370 million people) and high levels of youth unemployment, particularly amongst the educated, the judge’s remarks struck a raw nerve.

It led to the formation of the Cockroach Janta Party — a mocking reference to India’s governing Bharatiya Janata Party, led by prime minister Narendra Modi — initially as a satirical meme. But the cancellation of NEET gave the Cockroach Janta Party real-life relevance and made it an outlet to channel the extensive frustration and anger of India’s youth. 

In neighboring Nepal, Bangladesh and Sri Lanka, so-called Gen Z protests between 2022 and 2025 had toppled governments. 

In June, William joined tens of thousands of students in Jantar Mantar, an iconic venue for public protest in the Indian capital Delhi, to call for the resignation of Minister of Education Dharmendra Pradhan over the NEET debacle. The demonstrations lasted for weeks, even as the Delhi Police resorted to tear gas, pellet guns, electric shock devices, and lathis (nearly six-foot-long bamboo sticks) to disperse the crowds. William was a regular.

“I always felt watched,” he told us. At metro stations, on his way to the protests, he said he repeatedly encountered the police. “They made sure that we saw them and that we should feel intimidated by their presence and their numbers.”

As journalists, we covered the June-July protests, including on July 20 when the police brutality reached an ugly peak as protesters marched towards the Indian parliament. Artificial intelligence-enabled CCTV cameras installed under Delhi’s “Safe City” project lined the streets in and around Jantar Mantar. A permanent surveillance tower stood at the center of the protest site, recording around the clock. Multiple drones circled overhead. Photographers hired by the police moved through the crowd. Some officers carried body cameras, and at least one police officer was seen wearing Ray-Ban Meta smart glasses.

Two police surveillance vehicles were parked just outside the entrance to Jantar Mantar. One was Ikshana (the Sanskrit for, literally, the act of seeing), an AI-powered police van with eight cameras that used facial recognition technology to match faces to police databases in real time. The other was a mobile command center. 

According to William, the surveillance was not limited to the protest site. “I saw police detaining students at the metro station,” he said. “They were recognizing students from footage, identifying them by their bags, or style of mask or sunglasses.”

Even after the protests stopped, with the July 25 resignation of Pradhan, the education minister, William said the police paid visits to students in their neighborhoods. They were tracking down protesters. On August 3, he said, two police officers showed up at his lodgings. He was alone. “We have photos of you,” the police told him, “in colour. You’ve been seen going to the protest site on multiple days and also seen at the metro station.” Insisting that attending protests was a democratic right, William refused to let the police into his room without a warrant.

According to the Indian Express, the Delhi Police used surveillance footage accrued during the NEET protests in the summer to identify at least “2,800 people with a criminal background” who would be be prevented from protesting against Gyanesh Kumar. 

Aishe Ghosh, a prominent student activist and national office holder at the left-wing Students’ Federation of India, has challenged the Indian government and the Delhi Police in court over the indiscriminate use of surveillance technology. Not only were the authorities documenting the protests, she alleges, they were using the footage to threaten protesters with public exposure.

Long an object of surveillance, Ghosh, who was a leader of the NEET protests, said the police entered the Communist Party of India (Marxist) headquarters in Delhi to arrest her in August on the basis of protests she had attended five years earlier in 2021. Describing the attempt to arrest Ghosh as a “continuing witch hunt against student protesters,” the CPI(M) added that it was evidence of “the Modi government’s escalating assault on democratic rights.”

Modi’s surveillance state   

Hearing Ghosh’s litigation, the Delhi High Court appeared to suggest that the urgency to examine her specific allegations had dissipated since the NEET protests had concluded. The judges suggested that she file a more general petition.

The NEET protests proved only to be the start of the Cockroach Janta Party’s precipitous rise as serious, youth-led opposition to the Modi government, in power since 2014 and seemingly determined to use every arrow in its quiver, from opaque sources of funds to the takeover of independent institutions to the use of surveillance technology, to stifle dissent. In October, the “cockroaches” poured into Delhi’s streets again. 

This time, they wanted the resignation of Gyanesh Kumar, India’s Chief Election Commissioner, a constitutional role meant to be entirely independent, apolitical and focused on maintaining the integrity of the Indian electoral process. An investigation by the Indian Express newspaper revealed that despite 14 objections in the last 10 months from the two other members of the election commission, Kumar had allegedly illegally taken unilateral decisions that resulted in voters being left off electoral rolls. India is currently undertaking an extensive revision of its voter lists that has controversially already disenfranchised 130 million people and potentially swayed state elections in favour of the governing BJP.

Kumar has not directly addressed the Indian Express’s findings. And while Modi too has remained typically silent — in his 12 years as prime minister, he has yet to call a single press conference — the Delhi Police has once again used violence and arbitrary arrests to crack down on still ongoing protests. Jantar Mantar, the de facto site of protests in Delhi since 1993, has been officially shut down. Prominent protesters, including Aishe Ghosh and the founders of the Cockroach Janta Party, have been detained. The opposition led by Congress Party scion Rahul Gandhi — the son, grandson and great-grandson of former Indian prime ministers — has been galvanized. 

But India’s next general election is not until 2029 and the next major state legislative election is not until February 2027 at the earliest. Maintaining momentum is a task Gandhi has yet to show he can manage. 

Meanwhile, the BJP continues to use friendly mainstream television media, alongside its heavy-handed policing, to argue that the protests are marginal, paid for by foreign sources and disliked by the large majority of Indians.

Fallible facial recognition tech

Technology researcher Srinivas Kodali told Coda that India’s efforts to modernise its policing system were stepped up after terrorist attacks in Mumbai in November 2008. Police stations across the country were connected, with access to criminal records and a tracking database. If someone attends a protest somewhere in India, Kodali explained, and has a police report filed against them, that information will be available to every police department in the country. He described the approach as “360-degree profiling,” pulling data together from facial recognition technology, surveillance towers, phone records, social media activity, and government databases including electoral records.

Delhi Police has said its use of technology and AI is meant to maintain law and order and identify people who already have a criminal record and not to randomly profile protesters. However, privacy researchers and lawyers warn that sophisticated surveillance systems can make participation in protests traceable long after the crowds have dispersed. 

Much of the technology for this work is supplied by a growing group of private companies. Ikshana, the AI-powered police van used to monitor protesters in Jantar Mantar back in July, is one example. Rahul Bhardwaj, the Chief Growth Officer at analytics firm Intozi based in Gurugram, a tech hub on the outskirts of Delhi, said the company provides the software layer behind Ikshana’s system. Intozi processes video feeds through AI applications designed for tasks including crowd monitoring, detecting weapons and identifying people against police databases.

Intozi has previously deployed its facial-recognition technology for government security operations at high profile international summits in Delhi. Asked specifically whether its technology was used at Jantar Mantar this summer, though, Bhardwaj cited confidentiality obligations.

The company said that its role ends after its system is installed on police infrastructure, and that it does not retain the database or continue to access the system once it has been handed over to the police. “Images of people who are not in the police database,” Bhardwaj said, “are automatically blurred within seconds, while records associated with people already registered in police databases are retained by the police.”

That places responsibility for the technology and its subsequent use with the police. 

Innefu Labs, whose AI Vision facial-recognition software has been used by Delhi Police in criminal investigations, declined to answer questions about data retention, legal safeguards or its operational relationship with police.

Another company, AjnaLens, confirmed its direct role in live policing. Kuldeep Pathak, Associate Director at AjnaLens said the company had supplied AI-enabled smart glasses to Delhi Police, first used in January 2026 in security operations during India’s Republic Day celebrations. The company confirmed that its glasses were used again during the NEET protests in Jantar Mantar. According to Pathak, their system was given access to a police database containing around 65,000 people with criminal records. He said 14 people were arrested after being recognized through the glasses.

Experts we spoke to questioned what authorises private vendors to access and process police databases, or whether an independent authority audits the system.

Surveillance without accountability

“What statutory regime operates in this context?” asked Menaka Guruswamy, a senior lawyer who is involved in litigation in the Supreme Court over the use of facial recognition technology at Jantar Mantar. “Where is this information hosted? Is it hosted by the private vendor, the state or the police? We know nothing.”

Guruswamy said tenders and contracts between the state and private companies should make it possible to establish what data each party is permitted to access and retain.

Disha Verma, AI researcher at Tech Global Institute and Ashoka University, claims these private vendors get access to police datasets that help them train their AI systems. “They (vendors) did not need to buy training datasets from anywhere,” she says. “They didn’t need to test their product anywhere else. They ended up with a curated, very accurate facial-recognition system.” The data provided by the police, she added, would help vendors sell their product for profit to other companies that want to make use of surveillance technology.

“What I am most concerned about is how much impunity and data and power this gives the private vendors,” Verma said, calling it a “parallel police state.” 

And then there’s the accuracy of the technology, little of which has been subject to question or scrutiny.

In response to Right to Information requests made by the digital rights group Internet Freedom Foundation (IFF) in 2022, the police said it considered facial-recognition results with an accuracy score of 80 percent or above as a positive match. Only results below the 80 percent threshold were “subject to further verification using corroborative evidence.”

But the distinction between technical facial recognition matches and actual verified identifications became harder to ignore after the NEET protests in Jantar Mantar in the summer. Delhi Police said its facial recognition system identified 2,873 people with previous criminal records at the protest between July 20 and 26. But at least 25 of those people were actually in jail at the time they were supposed to be protesting.

Intozi’s own description shows why that distinction is not always straightforward. Bhardwaj told us that the company’s recognition threshold is “generally kept above 70 to 80%” and once that threshold is crossed, “it is a 100 percent match for us.” This is why, argues Guruswamy, the Supreme Court lawyer, a statutory framework is necessary. “There is no foolproof system,” she said. “That is why you need accountability, a legal regime, data protection and safeguards governing how these interactions take place.”

Nearly six years ago, Ahmed* (name changed on request) experienced the pitfalls of the Delhi Police’s then fledgling facial recognition technology and surveillance system. He was identified by AI-assisted video analysis as being present during deadly communal violence in northeast Delhi in 2020. Ahmed spent around 18 months in jail, accused of killing a police official during the riots. He insisted that the man seen in the footage used as clinching evidence was someone else.

“My hair was cropped short, and I had different shoes. Only the white shirt and dark trousers matched. But that does not make anyone wearing those clothes me,” Ahmed told us. He said he had shut his shop around noon on the day of the violence and gone home. Footage from one security camera showed him near the lane where he lived. But police later said it had used Amped FIVE, a video and image analysis tool, and AI Vision, facial recognition software made by Indian company Innefu Labs, to place Ahmed at the scene of the crime.

In September 2021, Ahmed was released on bail. The court noted that several people in the area wore similar clothes to those shown in the footage and that the video analysis identifying Ahmed across different recordings would have to be tested at trial.

By then, though, the damage to Ahmed’s life had already been done. Before his arrest, Ahmed ran a garments shop and employed a couple of workers. The shop did not survive his incarceration and, while on bail, he now works at a street stall, barely surviving on his meagre income.

Facial recognition systems turn facial features into numerical data and compare them with stored images, producing a similarity score or a list of possible matches. In a one-to-many search, a single face from a protest can be compared against an entire database.

“It's able to recognize a face the way an iPhone camera might,” Disha Verma, the Ashoka University researcher said. An iPhone's front camera works because everyone looks at it from roughly the same angle in consistent light, she added; but a police station is often dimly lit, angles vary, and the camera used to take the photo might be old and pixelated. "The system the police are using usually has a very large error rate, just inherently," Verma said.

Katie Kinsey, Chief of Staff and Tech Policy Counsel at the New York University School of Law’s Policing Project, told us that broad accuracy claims tell little about how a facial recognition system might work once it leaves controlled testing conditions. “A model tested on one dataset may behave differently when the cameras, lighting, image quality and population change,” she said. 

Live video presents an additional difficulty because the images are less controlled and officers may be acting on alerts as events unfold. Kinsey said systems should be tested under the actual conditions in which police intend to use them.

Verma also raised concerns about biases affecting facial recognition systems. “If the police think a criminal looks like a dark-skinned bearded young man,” Verma said, “that is the data they will collect and that is what will train the AI.” It would, she added, create a feedback loop in which technology does not remove police prejudice but reproduce and legitimise it instead. 

India has constitutional privacy protections and general data protection legislation, but no dedicated law for the use of facial recognition technology. Basically, “you won’t know you are on a watch list,” researcher Srinivas Kodali told us.

We reached out to the Delhi Police Cyber Cell with questions about the use of live facial recognition technology and other surveillance systems during protests, but did not receive a response. 

Some jurisdictions have tried to place clearer limits on this type of power. For example, under the European Union’s AI Act, real-time remote biometric identification by law enforcement in public spaces is generally prohibited, with narrow exceptions. Even then, its exceptional use is subject to necessity and proportionality requirements and generally requires prior judicial or independent authorization.

Police in India have long maintained categories of people they consider suspects or potential troublemakers. For instance, in the south Indian state of Telangana, police have a category called “rowdy sheets” for people considered habitual offenders or threats to public order.  With facial recognition technology, these categories have only widened.  

Lawyer Menaka Guruswamy wondered what might happen when someone photographed at one protest is then seen at another protest. “Are we being criminalized simply for attending protests?” 

Verma said that one of the significant shifts that she has witnessed over the years is how the technologies once associated with borders and the military have moved to civilian policing. The militarization of the Delhi Police has been evident as paramilitary personnel dressed in camouflage have been assaulting and detaining protesters.

Still, the protesters come. 

William Tharien told us that despite being a known face to the Delhi police, despite his fears and struggles with his mental health, despite the monitoring of his social media, he is not going to stop protesting. 

And with Delhi’s cockroaches still calling for the resignation of India’s chief election commissioner, still warning of the danger posed to Indian democracy by the Modi government’s authoritarian tendencies, how, William said, could he give up the fight now?

The post In Modi’s India, somebody is always watching appeared first on Coda Story.

Thomas Sankara had a signature look: a natty red beret, worn with military fatigues. A striking figure, Sankara was a military officer and the radical, anti-imperialist prime minister of the Republic of Upper Volta. His arrest in 1983 led to demonstrations, followed by a coup, after which Sankara was released and installed as president. By the following year Sankara had given the country he now led its new name — Burkina Faso. He fashioned a Burkinabè identity in his own anti-imperialist image, eschewing French for local languages, promoting economic self-reliance and national pride. 

In 1986, he famously took the then French president François Mitterrand to task in a fiery speech broadcast both in Burkina Faso and France. Sankara’s dashing uniform played an outsized role in how his words were interpreted. Here was Africa’s own Che Guevara. But by October 1987, Sankara was dead, killed during a military coup led by his former friend and ally Blaise Compaoré.

France, the old colonial power, backed Compaoré. Soon after the coup, French officials once again flocked to Ouagadougou, helping to prop up Compaoré for decades. 

This potted history is important to understanding the phenomenon of Ibrahim Traoré, Burkina Faso’s current president, an authoritarian head of state who in his charisma and self-presentation so deliberately echoes Sankara.

On September 30, thousands of Burkinabè gathered in Ouagadougou’s Place de la Révolution to hail Traoré on the fourth anniversary of the coup that brought him to power. As the second coming of Sankara, Traoré — whatever their entirely different political ideologies – is arguably the face of contemporary African anti-imperialism. It is a meticulously cultivated image that has almost nothing to do with Traoré’s actual record, or his achievements in Burkina Faso. 

Traoré is a pan-African leader for a digital age, an autocrat who has suspended his country’s constitution, dismantled its admittedly fledgling democratic institutions and been accused of crimes against humanity, but who has used artificial intelligence, particularly deepfakes, to bury that record beneath a highly effective cyber cult of personality.

How do Burkinabè reconcile the man with the persona? And is Traoré a triumph of the algorithm, the kind of politician increasingly familiar from Ouagadougou to Delhi, Berlin, Buenos Aires, and of course Washington, DC?

The man, the myth, the algorithm 

Ibrahim Traoré came to power in September 2022. In his own telling, while Sankara was installed as president, Traoré led the putsch himself. By January 2023, Burkina Faso terminated its military accord with France, giving French special forces one month to leave the country. In June this year, Burkina Faso ended all diplomatic relations with France. 

As Traoré turned away from France, he strengthened relations with Moscow. It’s in keeping with the pattern across the countries of the Sahel — Burkina Faso and its neighbours Mali and Niger — as the region’s colonial history with France has been swept clean by a broom held first by the mercenaries of the Wagner Group and latterly the Russian state itself, represented by the Africa Corps. 

But in April and May 2026, Africa Corps forces were dealt a humiliating defeat in northern Mali by a combination of Tuareg separatists and allegedly Al-Qaeda linked Islamists. The Malian defence minister was assassinated in a suicide bombing at his home near the capital Bamako. With Russia so involved militarily in the Sahel countries, Ukraine has admitted to assisting rebel forces. Both Mali and Niger have cut diplomatic ties with Kyiv. And Burkina Faso has described Kyiv as a destabilising force in the region, making the Sahel effectively a front in Russia’s war with Ukraine. As recently as September, Traoré named Ukraine as a part of Burkina Faso’s “map of enemies” for which, he added menacingly, “we need to prepare.”

Russia, as Coda Story has reported for years, has used everything from weapons sales to mercenaries to paying African influencers to both spread Russian narratives and hold Moscow up as the alternative to continuing to rely on exploitative economic relationships with the West, particularly erstwhile European colonialists.

Despite the extent of Russian attempts to influence the Sahel, it’s not Moscow that is signing the most consequential deals with the military juntas it helps prop up. It’s Beijing. And the deals being signed with China to mine the region’s extensive mineral wealth — the lithium, gold, copper, zinc, bauxite and uranium — have served as a reminder to the United States that it too should resume stalled relationships in the Sahel. Early in 2026, Burkina Faso signed a near $150 million healthcare deal with the U.S. in exchange, it appeared, for favourable access to minerals. Both Zambia and Zimbabwe backed away from similar deals, expressing concern about U.S. demands for data and minerals that amounted to an infringement of sovereignty. 

The deals with China and the United States are being negotiated alongside a drive to reduce reliance on foreign loans and grants and ramp up domestic production, particularly of gold. Traoré claims his economic policies emphasise nationalisation and self-reliance. His government has taken over major mining operations and increased state stakes in other industries. In early 2024, his administration suspended export permits for small-scale gold production to crack down on smuggling and keep mineral wealth inside the country. Last month, he inaugurated Burkina Faso’s first gold refinery. 

Some of this has had positive economic effects. The World Bank, in a June 2026 update, said the country had an estimated 5.3% growth in 2025, up from 4.8% in 2024, and its fiscal deficit narrowed from 5.8% of GDP to 1.8%. Inflation was also negative, 0.5%, compared to 4.2% in 2024. Reports by the World Bank and IMF have ascribed these growth to external factors such as the gold rally, climate-driven increase in agricultural outputs, and reduction in energy prices. 

Economic growth, though, is part of a larger story that includes a crackdown on the press, particularly critical coverage of alleged human rights violations. Human Rights Watch documented 1,840 civilian deaths between January 2023 and April 2025, over 1,200 of which were directly attributed to government forces. Even as the report acknowledged widespread violations by Islamist groups, the actions of the Burkina Faso military, it said, “amounted to war crimes and crimes against humanity.” At the same time, Traoré has clamped down on Burkinabè civil society, banning over 100 human rights organizations and dissolving all political parties.

None of it appears to have affected his carefully-honed image in certain online spaces.

A pan-African hero 

Traoré is everywhere. In Accra, the capital of Ghana, his image is pasted onto buses and in parks. In January 2025, at the swearing-in of the Ghanaian president John Mahama, it was Traoré who the crowd responded to, cheering for a rockstar rather than a head of state. Even Mahama joked that Traoré had stolen the show. Artwork celebrating Traoré is frequently posted online. The commentary that accompanies the art is gushing. “Through this artwork,” reads one Facebook tribute, “I celebrate the spirit of a man who stands for sovereignty, truth, and the rise of a self-determined Africa.”

Meanwhile, the Ivory Coast government has granted refugee status to at least 69,000 Burkinabè fleeing Burkina Faso.

In May, when I travelled to Ghana and Ivory Coast to talk to people displaced from Burkina Faso, at least five sources decided they no longer wanted to speak. Guaranteeing anonymity didn’t seem to matter. A Burkinabè journalist who was helping me find people to speak to, stopped responding to my messages the day after I arrived in Accra. Those who did speak to me refused to be quoted for fear that harm would come to family and friends left behind in Burkina Faso.

Reporters have been intimidated into silence. “Today, any journalist living in the country is forced to practice self-censorship to avoid being arrested,” says Harouna Simbo Drabo, disinformation analyst and Director of Programs & Partnerships of Faso Check. “Burkinabé journalists have two options,” he told me, “either practice self-censorship or go into exile.” After threats to his life, Drabo has left Burkina Faso.

He’s one of the luckier journalists. Since 2022, at least seven Burkinabè reporters have been forcibly conscripted into the army after criticizing the Traoré junta's crackdown on the press. Guezouma Sanogo, Boukari Ouoba, and Luc Pagbelguem were abducted days after their union denounced state media as "instruments of propaganda." Atiana Serge Oulon, editor-in-chief of L'Événement, is among the disappeared. Many, like Drabo, have either left Burkina Faso or quit their jobs. 

As conditions deteriorate, what information is becoming available is government propaganda amplified by social media linked to Russian misinformation. In the absence of accurate, verified information, there is inevitably only disinformation. For instance, one of the most persistent pieces of disinformation is the story that Traoré — a supposedly avowed anti-imperialist despite his kowtowing to Moscow, Beijing and Washington — rejected billions of dollars in International Monetary Fund handouts because he believes, à la Thomas Sankara, in economic self-reliance. It is a story that has been debunked but was repeatedly told to me by Traoré supporters, including at least one journalist.

The claim was cited more than 700 times in a single three-day window in January 2025 alone, racking up millions of views across Facebook, X, and TikTok. Dubawa fact-checked the story and found that rather than rejecting money from the IMF, the Burkina Faso government had negotiated a 48-month IMF loan program in September 2023 and drew on World Bank financing in 2024. 

By mid-2025. Code for Africa's analysis found social media in sub-Saharan Africa flooded with AI-generated videos casting Traoré alongside Beyoncé, Rihanna, and, in one particularly unhinged iteration, Pope Leo XIV, all of whom supposedly endorsed him as a Pan-African hero holding the line against the West. After US AFRICOM commander Michael Langley criticized Traoré's handling of Burkina Faso’s gold reserves in a Senate hearing, a network of 165 Facebook accounts began posting identical language claiming Putin had deployed special forces to protect Traoré from an American assasination plot. In ten days it pulled 10.9 million views. 

In Accra, I caught a bus with a picture of Traoré emblazoned on the side. The driver, who only identified himself as Kofi, insisted that before we spoke I should tell him what I thought of Traoré. I say I am not Burkinabè, that I have not visited Burkina Faso but that I have spoken to many people whose lives have been upended by Traoré’s strongman politics. I told him about Burkinabè journalists in exile, forced to join the army, or even disappeared. I told him that when asked about a transition to democracy, Traoré said it was important for Burkinabè to “forget” about democracy. “We have to tell the truth,” Traoré said, “democracy isn’t for us.” I told him about the Burkinabè refugees I met in Treichville, a district in Abidjan, the Ivory Coast capital.

Kofi listened and then told me that “good things take sacrifice,” including the death of a free press. When I asked what he meant by good things, he showed me AI-generated videos of a smart city Traoré had supposedly built.

African identity is tightly wound around the belief that the continent has more potential than it has achieved. The deficit can be attributed to a lot of issues, but chiefly to Western exploitation and the complicity of African leaders. “African countries have also fallen into autocratic democracy,” Sanusi Sanusi, Research Analyst at the Digital Tech, AI & Information Disorder Analysis Centre, DAIDAC, tells me. “There is an election every couple of years but it isn't free or fair.”

Neil Postman, in Amusing Ourselves to Death, writes that “disinformation does not mean false information. It means misleading information — misplaced, irrelevant, fragmented or superficial information — information that creates the illusion of knowing something but which in fact leads one away from knowing.”

Many Traoré supporters I spoke with, most of whom were men, were convinced they knew things I did not. They told me to educate myself more on Western hypocrisy in Africa. They said they did not have faith in those who appointed themselves arbiters of what was fact and what was disinformation. In Lagos I met Lemi Ghariokwu, who designed album covers for the iconic Nigerian musician Fela Kuti, a revolutionary figure. Ghariokwu, who has a portrait of Ibrahim Traoré hanging in his studio, told me that “Western education and propaganda has made our elite class toothless bulldogs.” Listening to them, it seemed as if a successful Africa needed strongmen, needed autocrats.

In Abidjan, the last person I spoke to about Traoré was Oumar, a Burkinabè taxi driver who had moved to the Ivorian capital in 2021. He told me he “supports Traoré with all my heart.” But as we talked, he admitted he had not been back home because “things are only getting worse.” Three Burkinabè refugees I spoke to told me they thought I might be a government agent planted among them to find out what they really thought about Traoré and that I would then report those thoughts back to Ouagadougou.

Many of the Traoré supporters I spoke with thought I was brainwashed by Western media or, worse, too docile to participate in an African revolution. For my part, I thought they were ill-informed and unable or, worse, unwilling to see through propaganda.

The fundamental curse of the age of information and connection is that we rarely confront how the mediums meant to unite us have fractured us. An unprecedented flood of data has shattered shared reality into millions of customized, mutually hostile subcultures.

With the help of AI and social media, Traoré has managed to decouple national and anti-imperial pride from government performance. By the middle of next year, Burkina Faso will no longer be part of the International Criminal Court, denounced by Traoré as an “instrument of neocolonial oppression”, and thus no longer accountable in any international forum. His government has said it is “decolonizing” the school curriculum. Cheered on by social media, Traoré has used anti-imperial grievances and resentments to argue that authoritarian military rule is the only safeguard for sovereignty.

As some Burkinabè exiles told me ironically, they thought both I, so sceptical of Traoré, and the Traoré die-hards in the African diaspora could use a few months living in Burkina Faso. We should, they said, experience the country Traoré has made IRL. See past the carefully curated myth of the man himself, the largely online fantasy of the pan-African, anti-imperial revolutionary who needs to break a few eggs to make the omelet, and assess the country he runs unchallenged.

The post The cyber-fueled cult of Ibrahim Traoré appeared first on Coda Story.

On 19 November 2025, Indian police raided the ‘Kashmir Times’ in Jammu. They said they were on an “anti-terror” operation. The offices had been shut since 2022 and were in dilapidated condition, the equipment largely defunct. Yet, the police claimed to have recovered a “pistol and live AK-47 cartridges.” 

Since 2018, only five journalists have faced cases under India’s draconian anti-terror Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act. Trials rarely start, leaving journalists in a state of perpetual purgatory, even if they are out on bail under onerous conditions.

Before the police came charging into these unused offices last year, the ‘Kashmir Times’, founded by my father in 1954, had long suffered sustained persecution – the seizure of records, of equipment, the harassment of staffers, the use of social media to spread slurs, trumped up charges of tax evasion and the embedding of spies.

The first ever copies of Kashmir Times, initially a weekly, were seized by the government. In 1983, my father survived a murderous assault with serious injuries inflicted by a Hindu nationalist mob. I joined the newspaper in 1989, as the armed militancy, the ‘insurgency’ against the Indian state, became widespread, and experienced firsthand the struggle to report the news accurately and truthfully. The government would frequently withdraw its advertising, which was the main source of funding for most news outlets. We were besieged on several fronts, facing down the state, militants and aggressive Hindu nationalists.

In 2019, as Indian prime minister Narendra Modi began his second term in office, his government removed the special autonomous status granted to Jammu and Kashmir and protections that had existed for nearly 70 years. Once a state, Jammu and Kashmir was split into two federally governed territories. The Indian-administered part of Kashmir – the subject of several military conflicts between India and Pakistan, with both countries claiming the entire disputed territory while controlling a portion of it – had effectively become a police state and control of the media was a critical component of this transformation.    

As Executive Editor of the ‘Kashmir Times’, one of the oldest newspapers in the region and the largest, with four editions, I petitioned India’s Supreme Court against the six-month-long internet shutdown that the Modi government imposed in 2019. But by 2020, three editions of the ‘Kashmir Times’ had shut down and the fourth only limped along, a once daily newspaper that was now only occasionally published. By February 2022, even this edition was shut down. I left India with my husband Prabodh Jamwal, the editor of the ‘Kashmir Times’, and revived it as a digital newsroom in exile in the United States in November 2023. 

But, as the so-called terror investigation and the mysterious discovery of weapons in our long disused office in 2025 showed, the ‘Kashmir Times’ remained a thorn in the side of the Modi government. The Indian prime minister has frequently presented India on the international stage as the “mother of democracy” and the “Vishwaguru”, a moral exemplar and teacher to the world. Just last week, between September 12 and 13, Delhi hosted Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and Iranian president Masoud Pezeshkian as part of the annual BRICS meeting, the global group founded initially by Brazil, Russia, India, China and South Africa (hence the acronym) that is increasingly being presented as an alternative power centre to the American-led Western alliance. For an India seeking to portray itself as not just an emerging superpower but as a democratic force, it is vital that Kashmir remain repressed, hidden away from global scrutiny.  

It’s why, even as a newsroom in exile, we continue to be pursued by an Indian government seeking to tarnish our credibility, to deny us the right to report on Kashmir. We are being subject to a vendetta and it represents what has happened to journalism in Kashmir. Journalists have been silenced by the Modi government, Kashmiri voices strangled, and the local media industry deliberately destroyed. 

What is happening to journalism in Kashmir is a harbinger of what lies ahead for the rest of India.

A model of suppression

Geeta Seshu of Free Speech Collective, which monitors press freedoms in India, argues that Kashmir is a laboratory where every strategy of media suppression is tested and perfected for use elsewhere. India, which once had a noisy, argumentative press, now ranks at a lowly 157 out of 180 countries in the World Press Freedom Index. Reporters Without Borders, which compiles the ranking, says “press freedom is in crisis” in Modi’s India. 

The 2023 Digital Personal Data Protection Act provided a “dangerous framework for expansion of surveillance and censorship” across the country. It empowered the government to demand data from any entity, including journalists, effectively requiring them to reveal their sources. The amendments to the 2020 Information Technology Rules already burden intermediaries with harsh obligations and have been used to arrest journalists, block websites and compel social media platforms to restrict content. Recently, Instagram restricted posts about reports of Kashmiris shot by Indian security forces using pellet guns on unarmed protestors. 

Seshu’s fear that what happens in Kashmir will be replicated in the Indian mainland has largely been borne out. For example, in 2023, nearly 50 journalists associated with the portal ‘NewsClick’ – some only vaguely – were subject to arrests and interrogations. Many had their devices seized without due process. Their alleged crimes were essentially guilt by association, charges manufactured not from evidence but from a, frankly, lazy piece of journalism published in the  ‘New York Times’ about NewsClick’s funding. The charges were eventually quashed by an Indian court.  

Such court rulings are less likely in Kashmir. As a Kashmiri journalist based in Delhi says, “unlike the rest of India, Kashmir is a police state, and state control requires any independent journalism to be shut down.” 

In Kashmir, the Indian state has engineered a sophisticated edifice of control through securitization, surveillance and interrogation. It is invisible, intangible, and all-pervasive, a model that extracts quiet surrender and obedience. Unlike the targeted killings of journalists in Gaza, in Kashmir the control of information is seamlessly embedded in everyday life, requiring no enforcement, no traces of brutality. The journalists are essentially cowed into submission.

It began with the world’s longest internet shutdown – a complete lockdown for six months and a partial one for another year. What the shutdown created, despite a court verdict restoring communications, was fear among journalists compelled to work out of a government-surveilled computer facility, and then a perpetuation of that fear through consistent localized and temporary digital shutdowns. So commonplace are these shutdowns that they no longer warrant reporting or commentary.

In June 2020, the Modi government introduced a 53-page document called ‘J&K's Media Policy’ which gave the authorities sweeping powers to monitor, judge, and punish journalists, branding critical reporting as “fake news”, “unethical”, or “anti-national”. The authorities would also routinely remove government advertising from cash-strapped outlets and provide accreditation only to journalists deemed loyal, thus turning bureaucrats into arbiters of what constitutes news and who gets to report it. The effect is chilling.

And then there’s the monitoring of communications.

“I can’t say if they’re using Pegasus or some other spyware or technology,” a journalist told me about being interrogated over emails sent to an editor, “but they knew everything about our conversations.” In a 2021 leak, it turned out the Indian government was using Pegasus to spy on at least 40 Indian journalists, only one of who was Kashmiri.

But, a Kashmiri journalist says, “officials have told us ‘nothing in Kashmir is end-to-end encrypted’ and digital activity is clearly being constantly monitored.” No Kashmiri journalist I spoke to for this story, including those who contribute to the ‘Kashmir Times’, have the encrypted messaging Signal app, used worldwide by journalists, on their phones. Devices are routinely checked when journalists are summoned to police stations in Kashmir for questioning. Some said their devices were returned after being tampered with. “You face humiliation and beatings for using Signal and VPNs,” many journalists said. “You can only get away with it if you’re not on their radar,” said one. 

In November 2025, the Indian government issued a directive insisting on verifying the “bona fides” of journalists working in Jammu and Kashmir, and the police followed up by requiring journalists to part with personal information including biometrics and bank statements. In January this year, senior journalist Basharat Masood of The Indian Express spent seven hours at a Srinagar police station, then was summoned for three more days and told to sign a bond promising not to “repeat his mistake” – for reporting on the surveillance of mosquea surveillance, even as officials had already admitted to large-scale data collection and verification. 

Surveillance normalized

Police also surveil Kashmiris through the use of drone cameras, a network of 1,000 electronic cameras installed at major traffic junctions, and through unrestricted access to people’s social media activity across platforms ostensibly to track anti-India activity. During an illegal “Census 2024” drive, the police collected residents' personal data and GPS-tagged coordinates of homes. And the soon-to-be-rolled-out Jammu and Kashmir-specific digital identity cards that collects the data of entire households, purportedly to ensure the smooth rollout of welfare schemes, has also sparked local anxieties. 

Still, as pervasive as the surveillance is, it is journalists that find themselves in the firing line. Any critical word warrants a summons to a police station, interrogation, intimidation and even detention. This happens repeatedly, with journalists never aware of what specific “offence” might trigger a police summons. The reflex, after several such visits to police stations, is self-protection and self-censorship.

A Kashmiri journalist told me that the language the police use to summon journalists for questioning is particularly sinister. It is almost as if the police are enjoying instilling fear. “Aaj dastarkhan par aapki dawat hai”, for instance, is a typical summons. You are invited to a feast, the police say cynically, knowing a journalist is likely to be harshly questioned, even beaten.

Often, Kashmiri journalists, without notice, are placed on no-fly lists. Sanna Irshad Mattoo, a Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist, was twice prevented from travelling abroad for exhibitions and award ceremonies, a pointed message that even international recognition offers no protection. At least twelve journalists have had their passports revoked; two of them were already abroad at the time, rendering them stateless. 

The Free Speech Collective filed a Right to Information (RTI) query in March 2024 to ascertain exactly how many Kashmiris had had their passports revoked or cancelled. The plea was rejected by the government on grounds of “national security”.

As India continues to press its case as a formidable, if still rising power, citing its 7.8% growth rate over the past quarter, it continues to be defensive and secretive about Kashmir. Foreign journalists are largely barred, or at least heavily restricted, from reporting from both Indian and Pakistani-administered Kashmir. In May, last year, India and Pakistan exchanged air strikes after a terrorist attack in Indian-administered Kashmir and Modi fell out with Donald Trump over the latter’s claim to have stopped both nuclear powers from accelerating towards a disastrous war.

Despite Kashmir being a long-standing issue that merits global attention, reporting from the region has reduced to a trickle. 

A Google search of Kashmir-related news floods your screen with links, but it is bulk without substance. Articles read like a log of official announcements and statements, punctuated by the occasional piece on a shrinking water body, a development project, a political tussle over a non-issue, or unemployment figures. Each report floats like a loose, individual particle suspended in air, packaged and presented as definitive. No investigation into context. No excavation of the past. No interrogation of contributing factors. A story about an alleged terrorist’s hair transplant and cosmetic dentistry, based entirely on police sources, is passed off as an investigation into Kashmiri insurgency. A superficially detailed piece on anti-encroachment drives or home demolitions will carry little beyond the grief of the displaced, or the remarks of a politician whose interest in the community begins and ends with votes. A terrorist’s hair transplant story, based on the police version, passes off as an investigation into Kashmir’s complex insurgency dynamic. 

Kashmir fell off the radar a long time ago, says Free Speech Collective’s Geeta Seshu.  

Even mundane stories are difficult to report. No one wants to be quoted. A university professor said he could once “talk to journalists and trust they understood the context. Now, a single sentence can be pulled out, circulated on WhatsApp, and suddenly I’m either an anti-national or a government stooge. Both sides will use the same quote to attack you differently. Why would I take that risk?”

Tarushi Aswani, an Indian journalist, told me that “a curtain has been pulled over Kashmir by silencing journalists who ask questions.” Instead, she added, “press release journalism fills the vacuum, erasing the truth about Kashmir, its history, its politics, its development, environment and aspirations.” Kashmir is no longer looking at a mirror. The lack of truthful reporting means nothing is reflected back. Instead, Kashmiris are looking into the lens of a surveillance camera. 

*The eight Kashmiri journalists interviewed for this story spoke on condition of anonymity.

The post How Modi silenced Kashmir appeared first on Coda Story.

For more than four months, Brian, a commercial fisherman in his late 40s, had been waiting for the weather conditions to be right for us to go fishing outside Bagenkop, a small harbor town on the southern tip of the Danish island of Langeland. 

“One more problem has come up,”  Brian told me over the phone in early May. “I have lost my fishing license." He was no longer allowed to sell fish for a living. Instead of preparing his boat to go out to sea and to show me how fishing in Denmark had changed over his lifetime, Brian was now removing the registration number from its hull. 

Across Denmark, coastal fishing communities are shrinking as catches decline. At the same time, warming seas, overfishing and pollution are putting increasing pressure on marine ecosystems. 

“Plenty of fish in the sea”? Not anymore, say UN experts, with 35% of the world’s marine fish stocks being fished faster than they can be biologically replaced. Today, more than half of the fish we consume worldwide comes from fish farms. 

This summer, sea temperatures along Denmark’s beaches reached 28 degrees Celsius, a record high. On September 2, the UN Environment Program warned that the world is likely to cross 1.5 C of warming above pre-industrial levels within the next few years. As the climate warms, the pressure on marine ecosystems grows.

In August, Iceland voted not to restart accession talks with the European Union, in part because of concern that it would lose sovereign control of its fishing industry. While fishing is not as major a part of Denmark’s GDP as it is Iceland’s, the EU’s impact has meant independent Danish fishermen have struggled to survive in the face of corporate competition.

For Brian, though, it’s about more than regulations. It is about watching the ocean he grew up with slowly disappear.

Nets covered in black slime

His story reflects a larger shift happening along the Danish coastline. Coastal fishermen, once a central part of the country’s history, are a vanishing breed.

For Brian, it was never about the money. Even when he was a teenager and he told his father he wanted to be a fisherman, his father said it was a bad idea. But the pull of the sea was irresistible. His life as a fisherman began as a hobby, accumulating experience and knowledge just by spending as much time as possible on water. He learned how to read the currents, the weather, and fish movements through experience rather than education. In 2019, despite the uncertainty surrounding the industry, he bought a commercial fishing boat. “When I started as a teenager, there were fish everywhere,” he said. But over the years, the numbers have dwindled starkly. Every few years, another Danish harbor became economically unsustainable. First Bogense, then Kerteminde, later Nyborg and Spodsbjerg. Each one of them followed the same pattern: fewer fish, declining landings, and growing questions about whether it was possible for small fisheries to continue their operations. 

While working on this story, I spoke to ten small-scale Danish fisheries across the country. Half of them said they do not expect to still be fishing five years from now. In 2019, they said, ten nets could bring in between 150-200 kilos of plaice on a single trip. Two years later, the same nets would return with only two kilos. As the catches became smaller, so did the possibility of keeping a commercial license. Brian no longer caught and sold enough fish to keep his permit.

One day still stands out to him as perhaps the single worst he has experienced at sea. He had three nets in the water. The first one he hauled in looked normal. The second held fewer fish than expected. Then he started pulling in the third — the net was completely empty and covered in thick, black slime. 

Marine biologist Stiig Markager told me that what Brian saw was a tell-tale sign of oxygen depletion. In 2025, around 40% of Danish marine areas were affected by low oxygen levels. Oxygen depletion happens when too many nutrients, mainly nitrogen and phosphorus from agriculture and wastewater, enter the sea. These nutrients fuel large algae blooms. 

When the algae die and sink to the seabed, bacteria begin decomposing them, consuming enormous amounts of oxygen in the process. Climate change exacerbates the problem. “Warmer water contains less oxygen. At the same time, biological processes speed up when temperatures rise.” In practice that means algae grow faster, oxygen is consumed more quickly, and deep waters struggle to recover. Together, these processes reinforce each other. “When oxygen disappears, it damages the seabed ecosystem,” Markager said.

A new global study argues that aquatic deoxygenation is approaching an “unsafe space” and should be considered a potential tenth planetary boundary. The global ocean has lost around 2% of its oxygen over the past 50 years. The consequences for marine life are catastrophic, forcing either flight or suffocation.

Marine biologists have studied oxygen depletion in the Danish seas for decades. But, Brian says, “fishers are often the first people to see the effects of that depletion, directly in their nets.” It is a first-hand experience, fishers say, that is often discounted or ignored. Many independent coastal fishers say they feel increasingly excluded from political conversations about the ocean, despite spending their working lives at sea. 

“It feels like we’re not really welcome anymore,” Brian said. He believes small-scale fisheries like his are being pushed out while decisions about the seas are increasingly made by those on land. “I think they don’t want so many people out there seeing what’s actually happening.”

For years, debates about oxygen depletion in Denmark have become deeply political. Marine scientist Stiig Markager says that the results of environmental research have repeatedly clashed with agricultural and political interests. “There is complete opposition from agriculture and from Venstre (a major center-right political party) to making research publicly available,” he said. “There is a clear political strategy from Venstre that there must be no interference with agriculture.” 

According to Markager, tensions between environmental researchers and agricultural interests intensified during the early 2000s, as scientists linked nitrogen runoff from farming to oxygen depletion in Danish waters. Despite decades of plans and political promises, Markager says, the recovery many researchers hoped for never fully arrived.

For this story, I also contacted both the Minister of Environment and the Minister for Food, Agriculture and Fisheries to ask for an interview about the state of Danish waters and the future of small-scale fishing. Neither had time to answer questions.

What remains is behind glass

One harbor that has felt the impact of the changing nature of Danish waters is Bønnerup Strand, which has transformed from a fishing town into a tourist destination. The harbor now features an ice cream shop, a hot dog kiosk, a seafood restaurant, and  a mini golf course. The iconic blue Danish fishing boats are conspicuous only by their absence. Instead, boats built for leisure, not commercial fishing, are docked at the harbor. 

Along the quay, an outdoor exhibition has been installed behind glass panels. It started last year, created by a local group of volunteers trying to preserve what Bønnerup Strand used to be. The pictures show fishing nets piled high, men in blue overalls, boats unloading their catch, and fish laid out in crates.

Movement. Noise. Purpose. It was a harbor bustling with life. Hans, in his 60s now, was once a fisherman in Bønnerup Strand. He walks past the diorama and tells me that twenty years ago “there were 60 or 70 fishing boats here, now there are two.” Some of the independent fishers chose to leave, their lives no longer making economic sense. Others lost their licenses. The rest have disappeared, not all at once, but gradually. Some left before it was too late, others had their boats seized by the bank when their revenue became too low. “Quite a lot of my colleagues had their boats taken by them," says Hans, referring to banks who repossessed boats because independent fishermen no longer made enough money to pay for them.

You could say that the gradual suffocation of the Danish seas began in 1909 with the invention of the artificial nitrogen fertilizer that transformed global agriculture. Artificial fertilizer rapidly became central to modern-day farming. By 1959, nearly 75% of farms were using fertilizer to increase crop production. At first, the growing amounts of nitrogen entering the sea did not appear harmful. During the 1960s and 70s, the extra nutrients actually increased algae and plankton growth, creating more food for some fish species. “There were actually more fish,” says Markager, the marine scientist, “but by the mid-1980s, the consequences had become impossible to ignore.”

On October 8, 1986, on Danish television fishermen in Gilleleje were seen pulling dead lobsters from the sea. The images became the subject of alarmed national conversation. For the first time, the public saw what oxygen depletion meant for life beneath the surface of the sea. 

Hans, the fisherman from Bønnerup Strand, told me he was part of the television coverage himself. “Fishers had talked about pollution long before the dead lobsters,” he said. “But suddenly people started paying attention.” The public outrage pushed Denmark to act. In 1987, the country introduced its first Water Environment Plan, aiming to reduce phosphorus emissions from wastewater by 80% and nitrogen emissions by 50% within five years. For many fishers and marine scientists, it became the first real sign that the environmental crisis in Danish waters was finally being taken seriously. During the 1990s, nitrogen and phosphorus pollution declined significantly. Water in several fjords and coastal areas became clearer, and conditions slowly began improving. For a moment, it appeared the damage could still be reversed.

But by the early 2000s, many coastal fisheries were once again experiencing declining catches and, with it, a growing uncertainty about the future. Hans was one of those affected. Coming from a family that had fished for five generations, the harbor was never a tourist destination for Hans. It was a way of life. But on a sunny Friday in April back 2005, he sailed out to Kattegat for plaice. He knew it was over. “I said to my employee: “this is the last trip. I start working on land from Monday.”” He had made the decision months earlier, as the numbers of fish dwindled and regulations tightened. 

It wasn’t an easy choice, but he had four children to think of. Climate change had taken away his livelihood. “You can’t do anything about it,” he said. “If you think too much about it, you go crazy.” Researchers describe this kind of environmental grief as solastalgia, the distress caused by watching a familiar environment change beyond recognition. Unlike homesickness, solastalgia happens while still remaining in the same place. For coastal fishers, the sea remains physically present, but the ecosystem they once knew and depended on, is disappearing.

Adapting has always been part of the job, says Hans. “There has always been a species that disappeared and then another one came.” But eventually, nothing was replacing what was lost anymore. 

In 2002, marine scientists Stiig Markager and Peter Bondo Christensen from DMU, the Danish Environmental Research Institute, published research showing that around 75% of Denmark’s nitrogen emissions originated from agriculture through waterways and atmospheric pollution. The findings intensified tensions between marine scientists, politicians, and agricultural organizations about who was responsible for the declining marine environment. 

In response to the worsening marine crisis, Denmark established DMU in 1989 to monitor oxygen depletion, nutrient pollution, and ecological changes beneath the surface. But their findings were inconvenient. By 2007, after nearly two decades as an independent institution, DMU was folded into Aarhus University as part of a wider restructuring of Denmark’s research sector. The decision sparked criticism from several environmental researchers and organizations, who feared the changes could weaken the independence of Danish environmental monitoring. 

“Agriculture succeeded in closing DMU,” former researcher Bo Normander told the media. “Nature has lost.” In 2015, the Danish government introduced the controversial Landbrugspakke, easing environmental regulations on fertilizer use in an effort to increase agricultural production. 

Critics warned that the policy could worsen nitrogen pollution in Danish waters at a time when oxygen depletion remained a recurring problem. In the years that followed, researchers from Aarhus University reported rising nitrogen emissions instead of the reductions politicians had promised. Markager argues that despite decades of environmental warnings, nitrogen pollution reductions largely stalled. While nitrogen pollution in Danish waters declined significantly after the first Danish Water Environment Plans in the 1980s and 1990s, researchers say the reductions have largely stagnated over the last 20-25 years. 

Now, Denmark is trying to reverse that trend. In the first week of September, the country passed a historic new law changing how agricultural nitrogen is regulated. The law will take effect in 2027 and represents a significant tightening of the rules introduced in 2015. 

Under the system introduced in 2015, farmers were allowed to fertilize closer to what was considered the agronomic optimum for their crops, while still operating within nationally defined nitrogen quotas and other rules. The new system moves in the opposite direction. Instead of relying primarily on broad national rules, nitrogen regulation will increasingly take the environmental sensitivity of individual areas into account. 

Where a farm is located will thus matter much more. The requirements will vary depending on factors such as whether fields drain towards vulnerable rivers or coastal waters, and whether they lie above areas important for groundwater and drinking-water protection. For farmers, this means that the amount of nitrogen they can use will become more restricted in areas where the surrounding environment is particularly vulnerable. 

For fishermen like Brian and Hans, the law represents a change they have long been asking for: an attempt to redress the damage done to Danish seas. 

But understanding how the water became polluted is more complicated than it first appears. Much of the pollution data commonly referred to in public debates focuses on point-source pollution, which emanates from identifiable sources like wastewater treatment plants, industrial discharge, and fish farms, and is generally easier to measure. But most nitrogen pollution in Danish waters actually comes from diffuse sources, mainly agricultural runoff carried from fields through rainwater, rivers, groundwater, and the atmosphere. Unlike point sources, diffuse pollution is far harder to measure directly and comes with greater uncertainty in the data. As a result, wastewater pollution can often appear to be the biggest issue, even though agriculture remains the dominant source of nitrogen input into Danish waters.

For Hans, the consequences appear almost irreversible. These days, the fish often do not return. “There are still plaice here, but they’re too thin. They don’t gain weight.” Scientists point to several overlapping causes, and the suggested solutions are just as diverse. Activists call for stricter rules, fishers say there are already too many. Farmers reject blame, and governments insist wastewater is already being purified. Plenty of fingers are being pointed, but the problem remains.

Hans doesn’t expect it to change. “I don’t think we’ll have fish out here ever again.” These days, he’s on the other side of the industry, buying catch from fisheries and selling it to customers. “People have to get used to the fact that we don’t always have everything available on demand. With a changing climate, fish shops may no longer offer cod, salmon, or plaice like we’ve been used to.” Instead, he says, squid is becoming the new normal. 

Still, while independent fisheries disappear, the demand for fish continues to grow. Instead of restoring the ocean, parts of the fishing industry are increasingly moving onto land. 

In northern Denmark, companies like Skagen Salmon are now raising fish entirely inside closed artificial systems, where the water, oxygen, and temperature are carefully controlled. Outside, Skagen Salmon looks like a factory. No windows, just a large grey box near the coastline. 

If the building had windows, the fish inside could look out at the sea. But these fish will never see, taste, or feel those waters. Instead, they are raised in artificial tanks until they reach market size. They are then slaughtered and sold to supermarkets and fish shops across the country.

https://youtu.be/XKDIe7PXMCw

The post In Denmark, the sea can’t breathe appeared first on Coda Story.

This story first appeared as the cover story in Issue 4 of The Atlas, a new global publication by Coda Story and The Continent. Sign up to the newspaper here.

In late July, at the International Congress of Mathematicians (ICM) in Philadelphia, the mathematician Jacob Tsimerman was awarded one of four Fields Medals – the highest honour in mathematics.

A few hours later, Tsimerman announced that he was joining OpenAI.

Tsimerman’s departure from theoretical mathematics, while at the absolute peak of his powers, highlights the fault line in a debate that is upending the normally quiet world of higher mathematics. “What a dick move,” said one mathematics professor, speaking to The Atlas off the record.

Tsimerman, who has written extensively about his fear of “omnicidal futures involving artificial intelligence” – a fear that AI could wipe out humanity, closely associated with the AI “doomer” community – has said he will work on OpenAI’s safety team.

Tsimerman and OpenAI did not respond to a request for comment.

In recent months, OpenAI has announced proofs of various longstanding mathematical problems, solved with one of the company’s latest large language models. Other companies have also made advancements: RedNote, a Chinese AI model, obtained a perfect score at the International Mathematical Olympiad in Shanghai in July.

Human mathematicians, at all levels of the profession, are reeling from the implications. Tim Gowers, a professor at the University of Cambridge who helped to verify one of OpenAI’s proofs, has written that even if AI models fail to progress further, “we have still probably entered an era where it will become very difficult for humans to compete with AI at solving mathematical problems”.

This is a startling assessment – and a marketing coup for the likes of OpenAI.

“Mathematicians actually have a special role in this,” said Joshua Grochow, an associate professor in Computer Science and (by courtesy)Mathematics at the University of Colorado Boulder. “The AI companies’ PR pitch is essentially to say, ‘Look, we have solved math. the intellectually hardest thing ever, therefore we can solve everything.’ ”

LLMs have not solved math – far from it. Nonetheless, Grochow added, recently some capabilities have improved. “They are legitimately able to produce real math, new math that they had not produced before. So you can’t deny that utility. You can deny the extent of that utility, but you can’t say it’s all BS.”

Miek Messerschmidt, a senior lecturer in mathematics at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg, recently used Anthropic’s Claude to take a crack at a problem that had stumped him. Claude solved it within 30 minutes. “How did I feel? You mean emotionally? I was relieved, because I didn’t have to go down this dead end any more. But I was also disconcerted by what this entity could do in such a short amount of time.”

NEW VARIABLES

Mathematics has been disrupted by technological leaps before. The abacus. The mechanical calculator. The blackboard, even, which played an instrumental role in standardising training and mathematical notation (“It’s hard to research, because most of what’s written on blackboards doesn’t stay there very long,” said mathematics historian Michael Barany).

But AI is a different kind of disruption. Where previous advances helped mathematicians expand the frontiers of their knowledge, large language models threaten the livelihoods, and purpose, of mathematicians themselves.

“Our place in society at developing new ideas has been quite unthreatened for quite some time,” said Tim Chartier, a Professor in the Department of Mathematics and Computer Science at Davidson College. “For a long time, the frontier of mathematics could only be expired by the mathematicians themselves. There were no tools that could push into that boundary, except the research mathematician…At this current time, it’s not like we don’t need research mathematicians – but the landscape has changed so quickly, it’s hard to know what that will look like a year from now, two years from now.”

This matters for everyone: for thousands of years, mathematics has been considered to be the foundation of scientific knowledge. There is no physics without mathematics. No astronomy without mathematics. And there is no computer science – or AI – without mathematics. What happens if there are cracks in the foundation?

“I think that LLMs pose an existential threat to the mathematical community,” wrote Tasmin Chu, a PhD student at the California Institute of Technology, in an essay published on 2 August – the day after OpenAI released a set of ten new mathematical results, resolving or making progress on various problems.

“This is a polemic, not a press release,” Chu continued. “I know that others feel the same way; I have spent today crashing out and learning that top mathematicians I know are crashing out.”

Some of what mathematicians are worried about is the same as what everyone else is worried about: that AI will take their jobs; that AI companies have absorbed everyone’s work, and are reproducing it without attribution or compensation; that students aren’t learning properly any more; and that there won’t be jobs for them when they graduate.

But some worries are more specific to the field. Like the fear that, if mathematics becomes too reliant on particular AI models, then AI companies will have the power to restrict access to a select few – or make it prohibitively expensive. That promising young mathematicians, instead of turning to research, will use their talents instead to refine proprietary algorithms, which may or may not be used for the common good. That there will be no one left to understand, let alone vouch for, the mathematics produced by the machines. That objective truth, or anything close to it, is going to be much harder to prove – a fear shared with journalists, incidentally, who find it increasingly difficult to verify whether a photograph is real or fake.

MATHEMATICIAN IN THE LOOP

After speaking with more than a dozen leading mathematicians from around the world, The Atlas can confirm that Chu is not alone with her fears: it’s all anyone is talking about. The crisis is existential – and mathematicians are looking to one man in particular to guide them through it.

There are no working mathematicians who are truly famous. The closest anyone gets is Terence Tao, a professor at UCLA, who is often referred to as the world’s greatest living mathematician. A prodigy, Tao skipped five grades of school, receiving his masters degree at age 16. By 21, he had earned a PhD from Princeton, and was awarded the Fields Medal just ten years later, in 2006, for his pioneering work with Ben Green on prime number theory.

But what sets Tao apart, in a field infamously incomprehensible to outsiders, is his ability to communicate to both mathematicians and laypeople alike. This has made him a de facto spokesperson for the mathematics community – and extremely influential in setting its norms. “From all accounts he’s a lovely man,” said one researcher, speaking anonymously.

“But the social pressure to agree with Terry Tao is really strong.”

On July 24, the day after Jacob Tsimerman joined OpenAI, Tao gave a public lecture at the ICM titled “Mathematics in the Age of AI”. In it, he presents his “working hypothesis”: that AI tools for mathematics, which he already uses in his own research, will keep getting better. This will allow for collaboration on a vastly greater scale than has ever been possible before, Tao argues, and speed up the pace of research – revealing new, previously unimagined frontiers.

But it will also change, fundamentally, the role of human mathematicians. There will be little point in problem-solving – the computers will handle that. But the humans will still have to do the really hard work: understanding why AI-generated proofs are correct, and explaining this to others. The sooner they embrace this and plan accordingly, Tao concludes, the better.

The Atlas reached out to Terence Tao to request an interview. His human assistant, UCLA media relations officer Holly Ober, declined the request, making a referral instead to a “living document” which is maintained by Tao’s Claude AI assistant, on his website. This document synthesises Tao’s current thinking on AI, based on his public writings and talks, even “interviewing” Tao with follow-up questions.

As per his AI assistant, Tao believes that the topic of AI in mathematics is too important to be left to just a small number of spokespeople – and that his own “influence on this discussion should diminish as the rest of the community steps up.”

AN UNSOLVED EQUATION

Not everyone believes in the inevitability of AI defining the future of mathematics. According to several sources, both organisers and funders were disappointed with the turnout at the ICM in Philadelphia. Despite the gravity of the occasion, the congress was not at capacity.

Ila Varma and Tarik Aougab, associate professors at the University of Toronto and Haverford College respectively, may have had something to do with that. In March, they launched a petition to boycott the ICM due to the ongoing war in Iran, increasing authoritarianism in the United States and the risks faced by visiting academics – if they were even allowed in. “AI companies were invited, but most African mathematicians who tried to attend couldn’t get visas,” Varma said.

More than 2,600 people signed the petition. For Varma, this is evidence that mathematicians may yet use their status to resist the influence – and the cash – of the big AI companies.

“There’s an idea that the positionality of mathematics in society is to decide who’s smart, who’s worthy of the most lucrative career opportunities and the privileges that go along with it. And now we are being asked to take this technology that is likely to be extremely unhealthy for users, that’s bad for the environment, this thing built on unethical labour, and our discipline is being used against many of our wishes to tell society that this thing is intelligent, and that you should let it do your thinking for you.”

Michael Harris, a professor at the Institut de Mathématiques de Jussieu in Paris, was at the ICM in Philadelphia. “The talks I attended on AI, starting with Tao’s public lecture, took pains to insist on the need for human mathematicians to make sense of anything produced in the name of the discipline, by machines or by humans,” he said. “There is a growing resistance to any use of AI whatsoever in mathematics, especially among young people, and this will become evident over the next few months.”

One of the clearest voices of dissent belongs to Max Weinreich, Assistant Professor of Mathematics at the City University of New York.

In an essay published earlier this month, Weinreich makes the case against what he describes as “artificial mathematics”: “Mathematicians do not need to use AI, nor should we use AI; soon, I argue, you will not want to have your name associated with AI. Instead, we should use our intellectual authority to oppose its development.”

His opposition is about more than mathematics, he told The Atlas. In his view, the environmental and financial implications of the AI boom pose major societal risks – and mathematicians, given their privileged position, are one of the few groups of people who can do anything about it.

As John Fletcher, a theoretical physicist and mathematician, observed: “There is a lot of power in being perceived as the smartest people in the world.”

Po-Shen Loh, a professor at Carnegie Mellon and former coach of the US International Mathematical Olympiad team, backs mathematicians to figure it out – by treating it like a maths problem. “AI is making mathematicians engage with the real world. They are smart enough to realise they have an existential crisis. They’re quickly racing down to discover all the dead ends, to see what works and what doesn’t.”

And when they figure it out, maybe they’ll let the rest of us know. 

A version of this story, edited for length, first appeared in The Atlas newspaper.  Additional reporting by: Shougat Dasgupta, Masho Lomashvilli, Irina Matchavariani.

The post As mathematicians grapple with AI, divisions are multiplying appeared first on Coda Story.

Astronomy, our window into the rest of the universe, happens in the dark. Planets, stars and galaxies – all the mysteries of the cosmos – only reveal themselves at night. But the night sky may be getting much brighter, thanks to an American company with a plan to conquer darkness itself by sending 50,000 giant mirrors into space.

Astronomers are panicking.

It is an “existential threat” to optical astronomy, says the European Southern Observatory. A “disastrous” idea that will “permanently scar” the night sky, according to the Royal Astronomical Society. The American Astronomical Society told Nature it “would probably mean the end of ground-based astronomy, or optical astronomy, at least.”

Sthabile Kolwa agrees. “It will take away a very crucial part of our civilization,” she tells The Atlas. Kolwa, a senior lecturer in astronomy at the University of South Africa, studies the life cycles of galaxies, but today her concerns are more immediate. “It might come to this, that we just have to find them in the parking lot and say, ‘Hey, what are you guys doing? You’re going to ruin science for us.’ ”

Like Uber, but for the sun

The parking lot in question is in Hawthorne, California, outside the headquarters of Reflect Orbital. They call themselves The Sunlight Company. The start-up is celebrating: Earlier this month, the United States Federal Communications Commission (FCC) approved the launch of Eärendil-1, likely in a few months time.

This satellite, named for a character in JRR Tolkien’s The Silmarillion, will unfurl an 18m x 18m mirror in low Earth orbit. It’s designed to reflect sunlight onto the dark side of the earth, lighting a 5km2 patch of land with the strength of four full moons.

It is a proof of concept.

By 2035, Reflect Orbital wants 50,000 of its mirrors in space, delivering illumination “comparable to daylight” on demand to paying customers (“sunlight is the new oil,” says chief executive Ben Nowack). The company says this will allow solar panels to generate clean energy overnight; provide “safer, evenly-lit streets” to cities that pay for it; and keep construction sites and farms working 24/7.

There will be an app, of course, offering “sunlight as a service” – lighting up the night will be as easy as ordering an Uber.

Clean, renewable energy is at the heart of the company’s vision, a spokesperson told The Atlas in a statement. Reflect Orbital declined to respond to specific queries and said it is in constant dialogue with astronomers, scientists and environmental researchers to mitigate the impact of the light pollution: “We are able to dim the brightness of the service and turn it off at any stage. We control where the light shines when serving an authorised customer. Most people and most places will never see this light. It is precise, targeted and customers will require permits to receive the service.”

Circadian arrhythmia

A new research paper, published in May, challenges Reflect Orbital’s position. Its author, the European Southern Observatory’s Oliver Hainault, concluded that the company’s 50,000 satellites would increase the background brightness of the sky by 300% – even when their mirrors are pointed somewhere else. This, coupled with a proposal from Elon Musk’s SpaceX to build vast data centres in space, would go “beyond the limit” of what astronomy can withstand.

What that means, in practice, is that the images from ground-based telescopes will be dramatically less useful, marred by streaks of light from passing satellites. The most distant light sources won’t be visible at all.

This will obscure evidence of other galaxies, hinder research into black holes and other cosmic phenomena, and potentially prevent early warnings of asteroid approaches. Cutting-edge astronomy will only be possible from space-based telescopes like the James Webb and the Hubble – access to which is already massively oversubscribed, and subject to political interference.

The night sky will look different to the naked eye, too. “The next time you’re away from urban light pollution, spend some time outdoors after dark and enjoy the view of the Milky Way and the constellations that have inspired awe since humankind woke to consciousness. Chances are those views are not here to stay forever,” wrote journalist Tereza Pultarova for Space.com.

Running out of space

The night sky is already a lot brighter than it was 150 years ago, when light bulbs started to become commonplace. According to Dark Sky International, a US-based nonprofit that advocates against light pollution, 80% of Earth’s human population already lives under some form of sky glow, most of which is generated on land. This has forced astronomers to seek out “dark sky places,” like the Atacama Desert in Chile or the Upper Karoo in South Africa, for their telescopes.

Humans can adapt to less darkness. But it is much harder for animals and ecosystems that have evolved alongside predictable rhythms of day and night. Nocturnal predators lose the ability to hunt; sea turtle babies can’t find their way to the sea; migratory birds are thrown hopelessly off course; and moths expend all their energy helplessly chasing artificial light sources.

“It’s almost like we are on a mission to obliterate natural darkness from earth,” said Ruskin Hartley, Dark Sky’s chief executive. “And now rather than do it street by street and bulb by bulb, let’s do it from space.”

Space is, in theory, protected by the Outer Space Treaty, a 1967 agreement signed by 110 countries, including all the major space superpowers. It states that “space is the province of all mankind." But that’s not what’s actually happening, Hartley argues. “In the US, it’s the most wealthy, most powerful individuals who are gobbling up as much of that orbital space as they can before someone else can get that opportunity” – with China, Russia and Europe all scrambling too for a greater presence in low Earth orbit.

“Who gets to choose that we light up the night sky? Who gets to make that decision?” Ruskin asks. In the US, it is the FCC’s job to decide what satellites are allowed in space. But it has said that assessing the impact of light pollution or environmental damage is not within its remit. Instead, it wants to slash regulation so American companies can take advantage of the “space industrial revolution.”

And Reflect Orbital has rich and powerful backers. Earlier this year, it secured a $1.5-million contract from the US air force, hinting at possible military applications for its mirrors. Last year, it raised $20-million from three venture capital firms, including Sequoia Capital, one of the biggest investors in Silicon Valley. Sequoia also owns a multibillion-dollar stake in SpaceX, which has its own plans for low earth orbit.

There are already more than 10,000 Starlink satellites up there, giving Elon Musk unprecedented influence over global communications. The company wants to launch one million more satellites over the next few years to build a network of space-based data centres. In addition to the light pollution, astronomers worry the potential for collisions will increase dramatically, as will risks to the ozone layer.

A brighter future

On her blog Higher Dimensions, the astronomy professor Janna Levin contemplates our brighter future. “It is quite possible that the hot glow of the swarm of data satellites will saturate the night, washing out the stars from our perspective on Earth. We’ll look up into the sky and instead of Zeus transformed into a swan outlined in a constellation of a few stars, the machine gods will literally loom above us, glowing with radiant heat, making declarations, predicting the weather, forecasting then determining our fate.”

Kolwa, the South African astronomy lecturer, offers a different metaphor: that of empires “colonizing low Earth orbit.” This was an ambition of one of the most infamous imperialists of them all, Cecil John Rhodes, who said that he looked up at the stars and thought: “I would annex the planets if I could; I often think of that. It makes me sad to see them so clear and yet so far.”

But it hasn’t been colonized just yet.

“I’m still trying to figure out what we can do, what responsibility we have as scientists,” says Kolwa. “How could we engage our communities to stand up to these corporations and say no? We must keep our night skies dark, as dark as possible.”

The post Darkness is losing its war with the light appeared first on Coda Story.

A ride from Tangier, the largest city in northern Morocco to the Spanish enclave of Ceuta takes less than two hours. The border crossing has its own, sleepier rhythm, quite different from the tourist-driven bustle of Tangier. In Ceuta, traders run their errands, Morocco-based expats make visa runs and Spanish people catch ferries to the mainland. On most days, the border crossing seems almost ordinary. The fences, though menacing and topped with razor wire, are less imposing up close and officers make small talk with the expats waiting to get their visas stamped. 

Then there are those days when the routine collapses and Ceuta becomes the center of Europe’s migration debate. 

The territory is a geographic and political paradox. Despite falling under Spain’s — and the European Union’s — jurisdiction, it sits on the northern edge of Africa, surrounded by Morocco and separated from the Spanish mainland by the Strait of Gibraltar. It is an entry point to Europe, yet not fully part of the Schengen zone, requiring additional immigration checks for travelers crossing to the mainland. 

When more than 60,000 people — mostly Moroccan men and teenagers — rushed into Ceuta (almost doubling the coastal city’s population), the images reverberated across Europe. There seemed to be no dramatic buildup to the incident, nor any obvious explanation why thousands of people chose that day to make their way to Spain. 

Europe’s far-right politicians seized the narrative, portraying the influx as an imminent invasion, warning that the men were on their way to “Calais” and “Germany.” Italy temporarily suspended the Schengen free movement regime with Spain, meaning travellers arriving by sea and air would now be subject to border checks. Spain threatened to take “proportional measures” in response and did so at midnight on August 8, when it imposed similar checks for visitors from Italy. 

The standoff between European governments — led by socialist Pedro Sánchez in Spain and conservative Giorgia Meloni in Italy — is not simply a test for European border security. Instead, what transpired in Ceuta poses bigger questions about the shifting nature of state sovereignty itself: How are we to understand borders, if they’re shaped by forces beyond the state’s reach? 

Borders are not just lines separating geographic entities. They are systems built on surveillance, diplomatic bargains and digital networks. Ceuta is the place where all three converge. Its borders, already protected by the sea, have been fortified with steel, outsourced through diplomacy and tested by coordinated rumors.

Steel

The crossings into the enclave are blocked by a multi-layered barrier of fences and wire. Morocco administers a fence separating it from the neutral area between the two countries. Two fences on the Spanish-controlled territory follow, creating an enclosure monitored by the Spanish Civil Guard. The physical infrastructure is reinforced with motion sensors, thermal and CCTV cameras, maritime communication systems and facial recognition technology. 

Even the sea has now been incorporated into the border system. Just three days after the Ceuta border chaos, Spanish authorities installed a 500-metre floating barrier and anchored naval buoys to create another monitored enclosure. 

The EU has funded most of the fortifications. The Border Violence Monitoring Network’s report says that since the construction of Ceuta’s border barrier in the 1990s, the EU has spent tens of millions of dollars to make the Spanish-Moroccan frontier more secure, technologically up-to-date and heavily surveilled. With the recent mass crossing, Spain will now receive additional emergency financial aid. 

Yet, the architecture of physical surveillance, built and re-built with European money for decades, cannot prevent the human cost of attempting to cross a border. In Ceuta alone, at least 100 people died according to local authorities. “The rationale behind increasing surveillance is that you'll be able to save lives and smash the [people trafficking] gangs, right?” asked Nathan Akehurst, who has written about Ceuta’s border for Jacobin. “Where was that in this case?” 

Diplomacy

Akehurst’s question touches upon the human-centered rationale for heavy border surveillance. But there is also a political one. It is not only Spain, as a EU member, that receives funds to manage migration. Morocco has received €427 million since 2015, for migration-related expenses, including technology and training. That’s part of Europe’s wider strategy of border externalization, a practice where Europe moves border control beyond its own territory. 

The practice has been around for decades, but went into overdrive after 2015, when approximately 1.3 million people, mostly from Syria, came to the continent seeking asylum. Many of them reached Europe through Turkey, prompting the EU to strike a deal with Ankara: €6 billion in funds, visa liberalization and EU-ascension negotiations in exchange for stricter border controls and curbing irregular arrivals to Greece. The EU also agreed to resettle within Europe one Syrian from Turkey for every Syrian returned to Turkey from Greece. But by 2020, when the EU failed to resettle Syrians, Turkey’s president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan declared he would no longer prevent migrants from crossing Turkey en route to the EU. 

“Border externalization is basically paying other countries, but also subjecting them, through a carrot and stick approach, to performing functions that are usually performed by a state itself at their borders,” explained Josephine Solanki from the Transnational Institute, an Amsterdam-based think tank. It leaves space for leaders like Erdoğan, Solanki added, to bargain for influence by turning migrants “into political leverage.”

The cost of outsourcing borders is not just material. It is measured in control that Europe cedes to the foreign governments it relies on for migration policy enforcement. 

In Ceuta, migrants claimed local authorities did not stop them from crossing the border. A young Moroccan man told the New York Times a day after the event: “They opened the border and let everyone go by.”

Border outsourcing agreements were made, among others, with authoritarian regimes in Tunisia, Egypt and Libya, where EU funds were used to detain migrants and quell domestic protests, rights organizations say. Alliances with “deeply unreliable and authoritarian actors” in the name of stability, said Nathan Akehurst, “is short-termist, insane and loses Europe any credibility it has left.” These alliances also allow Europe to “shift the blame to the Moroccans, the Eastern Libyans, the Turkish or whoever decides to take advantage of that moment.”

Rumors 

It is yet to be revealed who, if anyone, has taken advantage of the mass crossing into Ceuta. Local and international media have uncovered now-deleted posts that shared tips on routes and equipment for the journey. One of the main networks was called Hrig Sebta network — “Sebta” being the Arabic name of Ceuta and “hrig” being the Maghrebi term for undocumented migrants, literally referencing the burning of identity papers. 

In the wake of Ceuta, European ministers pledged to tackle online misinformation to avoid migration crises, but remained cautious when asked about thousands of posts reportedly linked to Russia. Other theories attributed the crossing to Morocco’s tensions with Spain over its closer ties with Algeria, or to Spain’s position on Palestine.

But those rumors, and what appears to be a weeks-long coordinated online campaign behind them, reveal something deeply human that fences can’t deter: movement that is spurred by hopes for a better life. 

“[The crossing] would have happened anyway at some point,“ Akehurst argues. “There would have been a crossing because all of the circumstances that generate that are already there before someone with a twitter account throws a match on the fire.”

Yet, let’s pause at the match. It’s not about someone with a social media profile creating chain messages. It is about the ecosystem that can jeopardize borders by creating information flows, turning rumors into perceived opportunities.

Moroccan newspaper TeleQuel already published a report about social media posts amplifying the next hrig — another attempted crossing into Ceuta — on August 15. 

When packaged to a hungry audience, rumors carry the currency of truth. They’ve driven migration long before social media was even conceptualized. Now those rumors speed through digital space owned and operated by private companies not prone to accountability and sitting well outside the reach of any single state.

And the EU has understood that for years. “It is necessary to structure the information space, as we have organized in the past the territorial space, the maritime space and the air space,” Thierry Breton, the European Commissioner for Internal Market of the EU said back in 2018. He warned about Big Tech companies treating digital space as a no-man’s-land that they would write rules for. 

The no man’s land between Morocco and Spain appears calmer now. But the turmoil of the crossing revealed a new, digital dimension to border governance. Information has always found a way to spread; digital platforms have given it new channels: ones which allow those behind the information to remain faceless, while the information itself passes from screen to screen. It reaches a boiling point, spills over from the digital space and then can be disappeared, even before anyone has had a moment to scroll back.

The post The manufactured crisis of Ceuta appeared first on Coda Story.

We’re inching forwards through the thick smog that has cloaked Tbilisi for days. At first, I thought it was a kind of blueish, pink winter mist that makes the city feel like it’s in an ongoing sunset, until a friend who smokes told me they’d been having trouble breathing in it.

It’s Black Friday. A journey that should only take a few minutes is stretching past an hour and for the most part, Tsaro and I are sitting in silence, occasionally passing a phone between us to translate the few words we do speak. Both sides of the road are jammed. People are rushing for the deals at CarreFour, she sighs.  

This November day is also the 365th day of continuous protests in Georgia against a government Georgians believe is steering the country back into the Kremlin’s orbit after years of moving towards Europe. Dozens of Georgians are languishing in prison, often in pre-trial detention, for participating. The protests themselves don’t make news outside the country so much anymore. Unless, that is, there is some kind of significant development, like the discovery of toxic WWI-era chemicals used by police in water cannons, the same cannons I watched the police turn on young Georgians for hours last winter.

It was while covering one of these still ongoing nightly protests that I met Tsaro Oshakmashvili, a 62-year-old widow with wayward orange curls. And it was through deciding to remain after the October 2024 election, the one international observers say was marred by serious irregularities, that I found myself reflecting upon what authoritarianism can do to how we relate to one another and the duality of Tbilisi. Georgia now has more political prisoners than Russia per capita, and still regularly features as an upcoming destination amongst many UK newspapers. 

Since our meeting, Tsaro has become a public figure after her de-facto adoption of Archil Museliantsi, currently in jail for allegedly damaging property during the protests. Archil is a 30-year-old-law student who was orphaned at six months old. When the pair first met on Rustaveli Avenue, at the height of Georgia’s protests, he turned to Tsaro and told her he was ready to die for his country.

Just a few days after we met, Tsaro and I were accosted by police. I’d been taking photographs outside the gates of a Tbilisi prison. With some effort, she calmed them down and we walked away with my memory card wiped. We got back into her car and sat in silence. She then turned to me and, even though my knowledge of Georgian is small, I saw the glint in her eye and knew what she was saying; “You didn’t delete them all, did you?”

Archil is serving four years for allegedly setting fire to one of the new CCTV cameras used to identify protesters through facial recognition technology. The video used to sentence him doesn’t contain any trace of his face, though. Just a man in a balaclava and a burning piece of paper. His lawyers argued it wasn’t enough to identify him, but he was found guilty anyway. After receiving his verdict, Archil was told he could request a presidential pardon. His reply: “What President? Do we have one?” 

Tsaro now spends her days campaigning around the country in Archil’s name, encourages him to make use of his sentence by pursuing his law degree, and brings him supplies in Gldani Prison. The three books and the tracksuit bottoms on the backseat of the car are for him. 

When we finally arrive, I get out of the car and notice the huge sky and the quiet. Tsaro points towards an empty field with a mesh of electric poles running through it, the city a hazy silhouette in the distance. "That's Archil’s view," she says, and pauses for a moment. 

We go through security, stepping over a sleeping dog, and enter a room divided by large steel bars with an x-ray scanner running through. Archil’s things can go forward, but we cannot. As a non-blood relative, Tsaro has no visitation rights. So we watch on in silence as the items slowly travel through the scanner. It will be three more years until Tsaro and Archil can be in the same room again. It will also be the fourth time they’ve met. 

Later that night, a crowd gathers at Tbilisi State University. An explosion of flares and music signals for the protest to begin. Tsaro marches at the forefront behind a huge banner. She smiles and waves at the camera, her way of signaling to Archil that she's watching him.

I walk with the crowd, face hidden by sunglasses and a cap: enough to not be picked up by facial recognition, but hopefully not too much to violate recent laws that prohibit concealing your face.

Afterwards, I meet a group of friends who have gathered at a nearby bar. A man who is visiting from Argentina is wondering about whether to move to Tbilisi permanently, telling me what a fantastic place it seems to be. I tell him he should, then step into a sideroom, and watch on in silence as two men make use of the empty space to dance.

It’s strange to arrive in a place at such a high-stakes moment and only realize what that means as it happens. From the beginning, Georgia asked little of me and gave everything back in return, operating on such frictionlessness that meant I barely had to ask what it was that I was doing there. Perhaps the same reasons I first started to love it were the same reasons vacationing Russians had during the Soviet Union; myths of the eternal host and a perceived openness to strangers, though that "warm welcome" had started to wear thin. But this wasn’t something I initially stopped to ask myself — this question of Russia’s colonial relationship with Georgia, its occupation of Georgian land, and the influx in 2022 of tens of thousands of Russians fleeing mobilization and war with Ukraine.

Shortly after arriving, I found myself in a reality that held little regard for tomorrow; people of all nationalities — Georgian, Russian, Ukrainian, Belarussian, European, and others — turning to the present moment as a form of coping. But although I sensed that people were escaping, avoiding, I was still doing the math on who was fleeing what, exactly. It would still be many more months until I learnt the difference between what it means to confront oneself versus one’s oppressor and what we owe to the places that receive us.

But the thing that provoked me to start wondering about such things wasn’t Georgia’s existential fight against Moscow. It was a relationship with somebody who was fleeing themselves.

A friend had suggested I come to Tbilisi, proposing that Georgia could make a good follow up to a story I had recently finished about Ukrainians starting a new life in the UK. I spent the first days in the company of international correspondents focused on the upcoming election and what it would mean for the country. Drink in hand; the conversation usually concluded with how much they loved it here and when they were flying out again. I listened, sheepishly, unable to venture an opinion and not clear about what a return to an authoritarian past would look like in practice.

As the days crept forward, I couldn't have said how long I would stay, but my neighbor never asked anyway. Iskra was my age. Her dog, Riri, liked to nap on my bed. Ours was the last of a remote cluster of homes with balconies fashioned from old scraps of wood and living room furniture arranged haphazardly on the street. It was one of the highest points in the city before it gave way to rugged mountainside. The only traffic that went by here was the funicular and the tourists who gawped out of its windows. 

Without saying too much, Iskra and I were getting to know each other, sitting on our shared patio with the city, a dark twinkling pit, below. Between us, a favorite topic was emerging; Georgia, its unpredictability, and a feeling of being at odds with the places we had left behind. Iskra was born in the Uzbek Soviet Socialist Republic and had moved to Amderma, Russia's northern coastline, where her mother had worked as a geologist. The war had made it clear to her that she would not be returning. I was still ambivalent about what it was I carried with me from my own homeland, what that counted for in Georgia, and the idea of returning. It was Iskra who first explained to me the origins of Georgia’s resentment towards the Russians that had moved here after the war. That I was learning it from a person who had spent most of their life in Russia might have felt more ironic, had she not said it with such conviction.

After February 2022, Tbilisi was flooded with people coming over Georgia’s northern border, their arrival enabled by the ease of remote work which muddied the water between dissidents, draft dodgers, those looking for an easier life, and plain wartime tourists.

In the early days, more than 10,000 people might have arrived in a single day, a rate that wouldn't go unnoticed in Tbilisi, a city with a population of 1.3 million. Some pursued anti-war activism, others opened bars catering, at times, to an exclusively Russian clientele. As rents jumped and Russian echoed through the streets, local resentment simmered.

When Russia launched its full-scale invasion, many Georgians recognized themselves in Ukraine. And now, with so many Russians in the city, could Putin use their presence to justify another special military operation and "liberate" Tbilisi, too? Or, would the Georgian government align itself so closely with the Kremlin that he wouldn’t have to?

Georgian Ministers debated what to do. Should they restrict entry, like they had in the Baltic states, or allow people in, fearing that turning them away would simply deliver them back to Putin's army. Meanwhile, locals took matters into their own hands, some venues insisting you could only enter if you recognized Russia as an occupier, requesting that people sign a physical declaration. But attempts to sort so-called "good Russians’" from "bad Russians" amplified hatred, with one venue who employed such policies undergoing cyber attacks from a far-right Russian group as a result. Eventually, some gave up and went home, tired of having to prove themselves the "good" kind, while Georgians endured a crushing gentrification from the very same country whose legacy they had been fighting since the Red Army invasion of 1921.

Arriving abruptly from the UK put me in an unusual position — naive enough to move between worlds without being in the firing line, and outside the divide enough that, in time, I would start to see the particularities of it clearly.

One evening, I was on my way out, looking for something to eat. Iskra was smoking on the patio.

“I’ll join you,” she said.

We descended into the city, the street lights casting a deep amber glow over its surface like dark honey, and arrived outside an Italian place. Amid the chatter, there was one man sitting alone, an untouched plate in front of him. Iskra knew him from somewhere, and the two of us slipped into the empty chairs beside him. 

After a few short words between the two, the man turned to ask me where I was from. When I told him London, his eyes widened “Oh, London? I love this culture,” proceeding to talk endlessly about the 2008 electronic music scene, naming bands I thought I had forgotten, reviving a curiosity I hadn’t felt in some time.   

“OK,” he announced, standing up as abruptly as our conversation began. “I will go to The Creek. I hope you will join me there for a drink.” And we did, entering through the double doors, passing the bar, to find him sitting in the courtyard beneath a fig tree. There we spent the remains of the evening listening to him talk about growing up in a remote Siberian town, the concentration of wealth in Russia, and the challenges of throwing parties in homes that can only fit 20 people. Iskra's eyes glazed over. Not mine.

Two nights later, I met Kostya again. From the beginning, I had questions. What was he really doing in Georgia? Did he leave Russia because he was against the war, or because he didn’t want to be sent to the front? Should he be actively helping Ukraine? What does he owe Georgia now that he is here? But I didn't ask them outright, waiting to see instead of hearing it and resonating with a person who, like me, was fueled by restlessness.

We spent the evening moving from place to place — first a wine bar, next a red-lit basement. He was unable to stay in the same spot for more than 45 minutes. Each time we took a seat somewhere new, he began talking with the same fervor as when we first met; telling me about his childhood pets, cleaning toilets throughout his military service, a brief employment stint doing social media for a local environmental ministry, before realizing “what it really was,” being cheated on by his childhood love, and cheating on all his loves since. Each of his stories is a portal into a parallel world, where words make sense, but the context they operate within does not.

It’s not until we’re sitting on the pavement outside an overspilling bar that I really start to notice him; his box shaped jaw, his eyes that stare upwards from the way he tilts his head forward when he speaks. His accent makes each syllable heavy, like a thud, when suddenly he asks if I want to go somewhere else. We do. And when I announce that I’m done for the evening, he walks me home, to the very top of the city, to a final and precarious footpath that weaves over the mountain side before landing outside mine. We hug, awkwardly. Kostya has already started to walk away when I realise how much I’ve enjoyed his company.

“Thanks for a great night,” I shout. 

“Pfff - thank me?” he replies, turning to address me and walking backwards as he does.   

The following few days run like a strange clockwork. We meet most evenings, at the same time, in one of a handful of places. This, I never questioned. Instead, I relished in feeling like I had found a side door into a place I was still figuring out – meeting people of multiple nationalities in a single night, unable to tell who lived here and who was passing through; though it didn't seem to matter, and no one thought to ask.

“Let’s go to Pith,” says Kostya.

His friend, Artur, a Russian guy of Chinese descent is standing behind the bar dressed, as he usually is, in an oversized checked shirt. The place is empty aside from the three of us and it’s gone closing time. 

“I would like to go to Thailand,” says Artur, drink in hand. 

“Pfff. Thailand? Really? Come on man,” replies Kostya.

“Yes - really. I’ve had enough of this city,” says Artur, slamming his glass on the table. “We’re fucking three hours away from Russia right now. In October, this place is going down. Georgian Dream is gonna get re-elected and Putin will use the country as his playground. I don’t want to be here when that happens.” 

“So, what do you want to go to Thailand for?” asks Kostya. 

“Bro, I’m Asian. I just want to go somewhere people aren’t gonna look at me twice, where I can start a business and live in peace. Plus, I can’t be dealing with the situation between China and Taiwan. I’ve just left a war. I don’t want to be anywhere near the firing line when China invades and the US starts sending over nukes. I want to be sitting on the beach smoking a huge, fucking joint.” 

A few days later, a friend learnt I was in Tbilisi and insisted I meet his friend. I went without Kostya and found myself sitting around a table in the company of Georgian women, many of whom had recently moved abroad, making idle chit-chat over a table of food. A woman to my side gave me a list of things I had to see and do, telling me how often people fell in love with her country and decided to move here permanently. I asked why she left and she went stiff; “it’s different if you’re from here.”  

Another woman turned to me; “So, tell me where you’re staying.”

When my attempts to explain to her were unsuccessful, she pulled out a map on her phone and handed it over. I looked at the screen. Half of Tbilisi was covered in red crosses.  

"Don’t worry," she told me, seeing my eyebrows furrow. “Those are just the businesses owned by Russians we avoid,” before telling me that I must get the same app myself.

I took a closer look. Half the places Kostya and I went were each marked with a red cross. I imagined myself trailing around that map, Kostya at my side, a red cross following us everywhere we go. 

After that night, the writing on the walls, that's become as staple as the buildings themselves, took on a new immediacy. 

“Fuck Russia.”

“Russia is a terrorist state.”

“Russian’s go home.”

“You’re not refugees.”

The city starts to slow as the weather gets hotter. So hot, that even the crickets give up their ceaseless chirping and the smell of trash cooking inside their bags waiting to be collected taints the air.

Iskra and I are sitting in the patio eating watermelon until she suggests heading to a party being held at a nearby dog shelter, the intention being for dogs to leave with new owners. As we approach the fence dividing our place from the sloped wasteland, we’re hit by a smell so rancid that it stops us in our tracks. We cover our mouths, struggling to catch our breath between the chokes and sputters.

“I can't,” Iskra says, shaking her head, her voice muffled. 

Then I glance up and see it: a black cockerel, lifeless, hanging from a tree, a shoestring knotted tightly around its pale foot. Its head tilts to one side, its wings splayed open, motionless in the breezeless air.

The two of us stand there, before Iskra whispers 

“It’s a curse.”

Soon after the black cockerel appears, Iskra moves out, opting for a house on the other side of town that she shares with a Georgian family. We continue to meet. One night, we’re sharing a meal, when she announces she’s leaving. I message Kostya who is at Pith.

As I walk across town, the night is indistinguishable from any other. The city's old stone buildings and cracked pavements are dimly lit by the same amber streetlights. The same hum of nightlife whirls in the background, as people move onto their second, or third, venue for the evening. But tonight, it feels muted, like a party winding down before ever really beginning. Clusters of people stand outside bars, their mouths moving, but faces vacant. 

I can’t tell if anything has really changed, or if I’m just imagining it. Earlier that day, a piece of legislation had come into effect. The Foreign Agents Bill meant any organization receiving more than 20% of its funding from overseas would have to register as “pursuing the interests of a foreign power.” It’s a clever, simple law, lifted from the Kremlin, giving the ruling party power to shut down media, evacuate NGOs, and silence activists. Violent protests to reverse the bill in March 2023 were successful, only for the bill to resurface. This time, the bill passed. This was not just a law. It was a signal that Georgia’s government was importing the Kremlin’s operating system. 

A few days later, Kostya is staring at me from across the table, hardly blinking as he smokes. I stare back, not really seeing him, half wondering if the past few weeks are just something I made up in my head. I’m leaving tomorrow. 

“You know, I really don’t know where I am going next, or what I am going to do. Sometimes I think I also want to go to Thailand,” says Kostya out of the silence. 

“I’ve been accused so many times of being some kind of bad guy here. The amount of times I’ve been made to say "Putin is a dickhead," just so that I can order a beer. I know what's happening in Russia is a lie, but still, I can’t just abandon it. I have to protect it.” 

“Why, though?” 

“Because,” he says. “I have nothing else.”

“They were cold winter days. I put on a coat, and went to the rallies, for the sake of the children” 

— Tsaro Oshakmashvili.

As Election Day, October 26, 2024, approached, Georgia’s State Security Services went on Facebook to warn of an impending Western coup, and a plot to assassinate the billionaire founder of Georgian Dream and former prime minister Bidzina Ivanshvili. A pro-Western elite was supposedly preparing to topple the government and drag Georgia into war with Russia. Outlets that spread Kremlin narratives picked up the story, adding one detail: only Russia — and Putin himself — could prevent such a coup from occurring. I had been back in the UK during the run-up to the elections, and when my flight touched down in the city of Kutaisi on the night Georgia went to the polls, I turned on my phone to find both Georgian Dream and the opposition coalition claiming victory. 

As we shuffled off the plane, a man asked where I was headed. I say Tbilisi and he asks if I wanted a ride with his friends: a motley crew of Georgian and Australian men, each dressed in a version of a navy puffer jacket. When it turned out there were no buses this time of night, I said yes.

I sat up front next to a man called Tornike. I had him pegged as 45 and Iwas shocked to learn he was actually my age. I ask who he voted for. 

“Please” he said in a low, nasally voice. “I didn’t bother.” 

“Why?” I ask. 

“It’s lose-lose either way. Politicians just want money. I’m 31. I’ve got - what? Forty, fifty, years left. I’d rather just enjoy my life.” 

I stepped out of their car and into the bitter wind on Rustaveli. Tbilisi was quiet. Somehow the lights felt more grey than amber. A lone car was driving up and down the broad central drag, blaring its horn, a Georgian flag billowing from its window. A group of men loitered on the empty street and cheered each time a car passed and then returned to standing in silence. 

The next day, I go for a walk. Everywhere I look, I see a city void of life, of people. I message friends.  The only person who wants to meet is Dato, a sparky 24-year-old I got to know over the summer. He picks me up in his car. We tear through the city.

“This government doesn’t give a fuck,” he says, barely breathing between his words. “There is no other way but to do another Maidan. But I really hope I’m wrong.” referring to the 92-day-long pro-European protests in Kyiv’s central square which led to the fall of the then government, the annexation of Crimea just weeks later, and the death of 103 protesters. 

In just over a month's time, Dato will be arrested as he leaves a friend’s house and, later, flee the country.

We go to meet his friend, a successful restaurant owner who tells me he’s ready to pack it all in and leave Georgia for good. It’s not about fighting, it’s about making an exit.

“Will you come back?” I ask him.  

“There will be nothing to come back to.”

Kostya, who’s hosting me, returns at 4 A.M. from a trip to Istanbul. He changes into his pajamas and gets into bed beside me. It’s now been 48 hours since the election result. Evidence of voter intimidation and ballot stuffing starts to mount. Increasingly, it appears the election was stolen. A demonstration organized by opposition leaders is being held outside parliament that evening. I ask Kostya if he’s coming, but he’s going to Pith to see friends. “For my welcome home party,” he says. 

That night, the news coverage shows men holding banners stating “Georgia is not Russia.” Young women embrace amid a riot of EU and Georgian flags; people clutch their hearts as the national anthem sounds. But when the opposition finally unveils their grand plan to fight, the mood changes. 

“Our plan,” they say, “is you.”

Later that evening, I sit on Kostya’s bed while he smokes on the balcony, the cold slipping in through the open door. The harsh overhead light glares above. I tell him about the deflated protest, the sense of hopelessness settling over the city, and the stories of young Georgians planning to leave the country for good.

“I’m sorry, but these people killed my empathy,” he says, stepping in from the balcony.  

I remind him why he came here in the first place, but Kostya waves off my concerns, insisting that life here could never compare to Russia, recounting the stories of people sentenced to years in prison for holding up blank protest placards, for reposting anti-war content online, for replacing price tags at a supermarket with messages to stop the war, or throwing plastic water bottles at police. As if a protest like tonight's would even get the chance to happen in Russia, he says. They'd arrest you the moment you gathered. The police would know before you even start. “Maybe now,” he says, “they will understand what it’s like to be us.”

I spend successive evenings attending protests, interviewing people and taking photographs. I pitch news outlets. One story I have is about members of the LGBT+ community fleeing the country. Only the month before, the Family Values Bill passed which prohibited all pride events and public displays of the rainbow flag, banned gender transition, adoption for same sex couples, and allowed censorship of films and books. The law is an almost direct copy of Russia’s anti-LGBT law. One man told me how he was stripped and beaten by police when they found LGBT content on his phone. Editors express only vague interest. In Tbilisi, history is accelerating. In the rest of the world, Georgia barely registers

I go out with Dato and his friends. All anyone can talk about is the election. “If we lose this, we lose our identity,” says Dato, standing to his feet in an impromptu speech. “Where are the Russians who fled here because of the war? If they came here because of Putin, why don’t they join us in the fight?”

I put the question directly to Kostya the next day, asking him if he thinks it's his duty to join. But, really, I just want him to admit what’s really at stake; that the stories he has been told are a lie, that the same stories are used to justify wars that he can escape, that protecting those stories isn’t really escaping at all, it’s remaining trapped in the same narratives that people on the streets outside are now fighting.

But the answers I want aren’t the answers I get. 

“My country?” he asks, indignantly. “What about Europe? They are the ones making problems here.”

How would I feel, he asks, if Russia started creating bases on the UK’s borders? Just as NATO is doing in Ukraine. It’s strategic, he says, the EU flags at Georgia’s airport, the funding, the way EU leaders ferry themselves in and out of the country and address crowds at opposition rallies, painting themselves as Georgia’s savior. Europe has created this situation, not Russia.

“Anyway, whatever. I just want to live my life. I’m OK with being here and them hating me.”

“But this is the crux of the hate.”

“Let them hate,” he says. “I’m tired of all the fucking hate.” 

When I return, he tells me not to speak, and that we should end it. I glance at the cigarette trembling in his hand and ask for ten minutes alone to pack my things.

The bleakest day yet comes on November 25, a month after the election and the day Georgian Dream members are sworn in. The city is cloaked in wet fog. The protesters’ plan is to block the legislators from entering parliament, but with hundreds of masked policemen forming a wall around the building there is little that can be done. Within minutes, the plastic grinning faces of parliamentarians are projected from live screens, signing their oaths of office. The crowd stands motionless in the rain, wet Georgian flags hung around their shoulders. 

Suddenly, people surge towards the iron fence erected around the building, pounding their fists against it. The desperate hammering brings relief. For a moment, it feels as though something, anything, might finally happen. But hours later, as I file photos from a cafe across the street, people are still banging on the fence, and Georgian Dream has long left the building.

On November 28, the news arrives that Georgian Dream will be suspending EU accession talks, suspending the only future that isn’t linked to Moscow. The response is immediate. Rustaveli floods with tens of thousands of people for a bitter standoff with the police who chase and beat individual protestors into the following morning. They begin to pick protesters off one by one while walking their dogs or collecting their children from school. Each evening, the crowd rejuvenates and the cycle repeats.

Somewhere in the crowd, Archil meets Tsaro for the first time. Together, they endure the cold, the tear gas, the water cannons, the indiscriminate arrests, the raids, the beatings by police. And despite having only just met, what they experience erases the distance between them. "We went through such terrible days… that, of course, there was no difference anymore,” Tsaro later told me. “This was my son. He was a son of the same Georgia.”

By the start of 2025, all major opposition leaders will be arrested; while attempts to legally ban all opposition remain underway today, effectively creating a one party rule. Obstructing the road is enforced with fines or detention, while obstructing the pavement becomes listed as a new offence. A man is charged for insulting the police online. Another is charged with throwing a water bottle at police and sentenced to two years. I think of Kostya's words, that Georgia will never be anything compared to Russia, and don’t feel so sure.

Where does Georgia go from here? Czech MEP Marketa Gregorova recently said Georgia was undeserving of its EU candidacy status and that, with Viktor Orbán gone, there would be no one left to oppose targeted sanctions against officials. Meanwhile, Russia has deepened ties with South Ossetia. Part of the new agreement grants Russian citizens the right to take up official positions in the occupied region. One month after declaring the new partnership, South Ossetia’s Prime Minister stepped down. His replacement; Marat Kambolov, a Kremlin-appointed Regional Administrator. In May, Georgian Dream launched a new unit for monitoring online “hate speech” against officials, with 60 cases already being filed. 

People still stand outside parliament as 118 prisoners of conscience serve out their sentences. Some who continue to protest ask where the younger generation have gone; others say it's the sheer scale of the crackdown and the extended power police have that keeps them away. Just a few weeks ago, a friend told me he was leaving. "Society here is broken," he said. Sitting on our shared terrace, I recently asked my neighbor, in his sixties, if he attended the protests back in 2024. He just laughed. “This is nothing new for Georgia.”

The other day, I passed Kostya in the street. It was the unmistakable sound of British English from the woman he was with that made me turn his way. Two years later, the irony is that perhaps he was right; the younger generation, the ones who haven’t left, say they do have a deeper understanding of what it is like to live beneath authoritarianism — the main difference being that it didn’t cost them their empathy.

When I visit Tsaro at home, she shows me pictures of Archil on her phone, cooing how cute he is, joking that he makes her own children jealous. But I also know that she feels the full weight of this moment from the times that I have seen her cry while reading his letters.

There was something else Tsaro said that day we were intercepted by police, something that surprised me more than her small hope that I’d somehow defied the police.

“You know, not all police are bad. Some are really good people,” she said, using my phone to translate. “I felt sorry for them. They told me we have families, too. If they don’t do something, they’ll be fired and unemployed. That’s why they are afraid.” Then, smiling once again, said she was looking forward to telling Archil the story later and that he would certainly find it very funny.

Tsaro has now spent many weekends campaigning across the country with the Mothers of Conscience, a collective of mothers whose children have been imprisoned for protest-related charges since 2024. One member, Marina Terishvili, whose son is serving two years, lost her other son on the 9th April 1989, the day Georgian demands for independence from Moscow were met with shovels, tanks, and toxic gas at the hands of the Soviet authorities. Many people’s names did not make it into the official tally of the dead that day. They died months after exposure to the gas.

The Mothers often deliver newspapers written by their children from behind bars. I've joined them on these newspaper runs, and recently took a copy with me to translate back home. In it, I found a note from Archil:

“Stand by a stranger, this is what gives me strength and motivation to fight, fight when I see how people care for each other, fight when I see how they support and stand by me, a stranger to them.”

The collective responsibility people take for others, standing by strangers, is something I still see in Tbilisi, even if that community is now confined to the patches of pavement where it is still legally permitted to protest, or to the contents of a package delivered behind bars, or to the sofa in Tsaro's living room, the one that Archil is planning to sleep on when he is released. Such acts of solidarity exist in a space authoritarianism cannot so easily reach: the space between people, another homeland. 

The post  Standing with strangers, a Tbilisi story appeared first on Coda Story.

A lot is written about corruption, but fundamentally it’s about trust and how healthy societies can’t exist without it; and the World Cup has shown what happens when trust breaks down. The decision to allow U.S. striker Folarin Balogun to play in the World Cup match against Belgium was, according to FIFA, made by the relevant disciplinary committee in a routine manner. However, following the similarly generous treatment accorded to Portuguese megastar Cristiano Ronaldo before the tournament began, a lot of people not unreasonably questioned whether the rules were being set aside for commercial reasons.

It’s only football, so does this matter? In some ways, of course not. But I think the episode is instructive of how quickly trust can disappear. No one is under any illusions that FIFA is motivated purely by the desire to spread sweetness and light, thanks to corruption scandals, the grotesque “peace prize,” and all the other nonsense. But previously, what happened on the pitch was assumed to be sacrosanct, which is why these disciplinary decisions mattered more than it at first might appear.

Shortly after the U.S.-Belgium game, Argentina played Egypt, coming back from a two-goal deficit to achieve a remarkable 3-2 victory. I watched the game with my family, and it was notable how — instead of being amazed by Lionel Messi’s wizardry — all of us focussed instead on a refereeing discrepancy that led to a goal for Egypt being ruled out, and a seemingly identical one for Argentina being allowed. 

Previously we would have given the referee the benefit of the doubt: even if he’d made a mistake, we’d accept it was an honest one. But now we knew that the tournament had intervened to keep bankable stars playing for longer, in violation of its own precedents and regulations. Any decision that has that effect, as this one did, was immediately suspect. 

In the past, particularly when living in Russia, I used to hear a lot of Westerners being quite enthusiastic about corruption: it was nice they’d say, if they’d been stopped speeding, to be able to pay the police officer a bribe on the spot, and skip all the annoying paperwork. But that was a short-sighted way of looking at it: once a police officer, or anyone else in a position of power, gives anyone special treatment, then the trust that keeps all our interactions civilised, starts to break down. The more it is broken down, the harder it is to repair.

I am not particularly interested in football (Welsh rugby, on the other hand), which is a game I find both dull and mercenary. Besides, the Welsh team tends not to be very good. But I am interested in corruption, and I was surprised by how angry the Balogun affair made me. If you love a game, you need to hate its arbiters giving out special treatment, even if you are the beneficiary of it. That is a lesson quite a lot of politicians need to learn, both in the United States and elsewhere.

A report from the Anti-Corruption Data Collective makes particularly grim reading in this light. Lobbying by “high-risk foreign individuals” is higher under Donald Trump than it has previously been; the amounts being spent are often obscure; much of the lobbying is to overturn previous anti-corruption efforts; and, most worryingly, efforts are aimed not just at individual cases, but at the whole principle of fighting corruption.

“If these influence campaigns are successful, this sets a dangerous precedent where the standard for holding corruption accountable shifts according to whoever holds power in Washington. For those seeking to undo consequences of their corrupt acts, each time lobbying works, it confirms that there is a price at which these consequences can be undone,” the report notes. So just like football then.

Cometh the hour, cometh the bin

Sunlight, it is often said, is the best disinfectant. Though I don’t know if that’s literally true when it comes to bacteria, transparency is certainly a useful antidote to the kind of backroom deals that make corruption possible. Generally speaking, politicians honour this idea in principle, if not necessarily in practice, so it’s unusual for British far-right politician Nigel Farage to have launched an election campaign on the single issue that he personally should be allowed to keep his financial affairs secret.

All the other major parties have decided to sit this one out until the official inquiry into Farage’s finances is concluded, at which point there may well be another by-election anyway, leaving serial novelty candidate Count Binface to provide the main opposition. It’s odd to think that someone who obscures his face behind a giant rubbish bin and pretends to be a spacelord from the planet Sigma IX could be the voice of transparency, but it’s 2026, and that appears to be where we are. It would be genuinely hilarious if he won.

Of course, while we’re distracted by the attention-seeking behaviour of tiresome bores like Farage, actually important things are happening elsewhere. It’s definitely worth taking a look at this report into the Iranian drone industry, which illustrates how changes in the world economy have led to a weakening of American influence in particular, and Western influence in general.

This growth of a multi-node decentralised trade system is paralleled by the growth of the large and highly-efficient ‘Chinese Money Laundering Networks,’ which operate with the same scale and speed as any large financial institution, and now dominate illicit crypto activity. This is an interesting paper on how military strategists should think about money laundering, considering its significance in allowing adversaries to buy components for drones, and so on. 

We also need to remember, however, that by using money laundering legislation and sanctions profligately, we are lessening their effectiveness by teaching people how to evade them. Like antibiotics, we’ll miss them when they don’t work anymore.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Oligarchy newsletter. Sign up here.

The post FIFA’s games betray our trust appeared first on Coda Story.

After kilometers of flat, orange desert, the bus dives down through an increasingly lunar landscape as it reaches San Pedro de Atacama. Amidst the sea of red rocks, patchy vegetation and distant high plains known as altiplanos, a small sign appears on the side of the road. The entry marker has been tagged in graffiti. “Se vendió los salares.” “They sold the salt flats.” 

The town of San Pedro, located in the north of Chile not far from the borders with Argentina and Bolivia, then appears like an oasis. In this hub for international tourism, small buses packed with visitors make trips from the dusty, bustling center to explore the region’s various geysers, sand dunes and volcanoes. Night sky tourism ventures offer a unique look at the southern stars. But it is the vast white salt flats, formed between 100 and 10 million years ago, that people come from around the world to see. 

As tectonic plates slowly shifted, water flowing from the Andes mountains lost access to the sea and settled into a natural drainage area known as an endorheic basin. Here, water evaporated quickly, leaving a white crust of salt on top and below, a rich mélange of minerals – lithium, potassium, magnesium, and boron — encased in brine. The Salar de Atacama is one of the biggest salt flats in the world — and one of the most important.

On March 11, Jose Antonio Kast, Chile’s new president took office. Kast, a conservative ostentatiously close to Donald Trump, has long been a critic of Chile’s national lithium strategy. One of his first actions as president was to sign an exploratory deal with the United States to extract rare earths and essential mirals. Chile, the world’s largest producer of copper and second largest of lithium, is central to the Trump administration’s plans to reduce its reliance on China as a source of the rare earths and metals that are fundamental to modern industry, from semiconductors to electric vehicles to batteries to defense technology.

Even before Kast took office, he attended Trump’s “Shield of the Americas” summit in Miami, an ostensibly security-related alliance that is also an attempt led by the U.S. to curb China’s growing influence in Latin America. Under the previous Chilean government, China had become a dominant player in the national lithium industry, as it had in Argentina. With Javier Milei, a Trump ally, in office in Buenos Aires, having another ally ensconced in Santiago has been a significant boost to U.S. plans to reclaim its role as the overwhelming regional hegemon. It was intervention from Washington, for instance, that led to Chile abandoning a $500 million Chinese telecom deal to link the two countries via undersea fiber optic cables.

Amidst the geopolitical wrangling, though, is the question of who benefits from Chile’s national resources and what impact the relentless drive to extract those resources has on the country and its people.

Sonia Ramos Chocobar sweeps kibble from the small kitchen table of her home on the outskirts of San Pedro and shoos her five dogs and three cats into the yard. Chocobar has just returned home after several days in neighboring Calama – where she was attending the first-ever Salt Flats Conference – and the house is a mess. The climate activist has made time between her afternoon grocery shopping and an evening community gathering to meet with me. 

Chocobar, in her 70s, is a bit of a local legend. In 2009, she made national news when she and another environmental activist (Amelia Mamani, since deceased) silently walked from San Pedro to Santiago, a distance of 1,534 kilometers, to raise awareness about the environmental risks of geothermal exploration near a geyser known as El Tatio — sacred to the Lickanantay indigenous community she comes from. The “march of the grandmothers” was followed by other environmental actions. Most recently, Chocobar walked to Antofagasta, the gritty port town that exports much of the copper, lithium and other resources mined out of the vast expanses of land in what’s known as Chile’s Gran Norte (“Greater North”) region. 

This time her message was different: save the Atacama salt flats.

The broader area where the borders of Chile, Argentina and Bolivia converge is often referred to as the world’s “lithium triangle.” This lost corner of South America is believed to hold 68% of the world’s lithium reserves — a key element in the production of the lithium-ion batteries that fuel not only electric vehicles, but, increasingly, data centers and other large “green” infrastructure projects. San Pedro, roughly in the middle of the triangle, is sitting on a modern gold mine — and a faultline for the future of renewable energy.  

The town of 2,500 full-time residents has long been at the center of a tug-of-war between different actors, all of whom claim sovereignty – dominion – over the salt flats surrounding it: the indigenous communities who have called this environment home for centuries, the Chilean state and the international markets salivating over the “white gold” extracted from it. Over the years, and through much negotiation on local, national and international levels, a sort of entente had been reached: the state owns the resource, private companies exploit it and some of the profits kick back to local communities. Lithium was even granted a special status under a dictatorship-era decree: a “strategic” mineral, only to be mined with the express agreement of the State. The election of Kast has already disrupted this tenuous equilibrium. The Chilean president has removed environmental protections from roughly 40 different types of natural resources — reopening the tap that has long fueled extractivism and inequality in Chile after four years of left-wing, protectionist policies. 

With counter space cleared and the tape recorder set, Chocobar begins to speak, choosing her words carefully and pausing regularly for emphasis. She sounds tired, but steely. “We are always in a constant effort to protect our water, our land,” she tells me. “We have the misfortune of the Pacific. And we have the misfortune that the Salar de Atacama is one of the greatest lithium sources in the world.”

It wasn’t always this way — in fact, the “resource curse” is relatively new, she explains. For a long time, the Atacama desert was viewed by most Chileans as a no man’s land. Growing up as a member of the Lickanantay indigenous community — also known as the Atacameño people — Chocobar learned how to coexist with the harsh environment, rather than to dominate it. How to extract groundwater, which plants to grow, when and where to shuffle crops. “If we are millenary people, it is because we have found many ways to survive here,” she says. “People think the desert is lifeless, but it’s the exact opposite.” 

Over her many years, Chocobar has seen these techniques slowly disappear: dried-up streams, dying flora and fauna, water rerouted from communities to corporations. The natural richness of the desert lands she calls home has been converted into a monocrop for export. The culprit? The world’s increasingly rapacious appetite for rare earths and metals.

Lithium demands huge amounts of water. To extract the resource through a process called brine evaporation, mineral-rich groundwater is pumped from beneath the salt flats at a rate of thousands of liters per second into vast open-air ponds. Then, the water is evaporated to reveal the lithium. 95% of this groundwater — which once belonged to the smattering of 18 indigenous communities that inhabit the region — quite literally disappears into thin air. 

For local communities, the strain is already noticeable. In San Pedro, an estimated 49% of residents don’t have access to running water, says journalist Ernesto Picco. In one town — the ironically named Santiago del Rio Grande — Picco has reported, 100% of residents have no access to water. 

It's not only humans who are being affected. The water scarcity has modified the breeding and feeding habits of alpaca populations, a local llama herder in neighboring Toconao, Hugo Flores, told me. A river used to run through San Pedro. On one of my days in town, I climbed down a ladder and walked across the dried up stream to get a better view of the distant Licancabur Volcano. The caked ground chipped under my sandals.

“We’re sitting on a watershed, and yet there is water scarcity,” Chocobar explains. “We’re being conquered, in a sense — commercially, economically. It is a natural laboratory that is being destroyed.” 

Lithium hasn’t always been so coveted.

When it comes to minerals, in Chile, copper was for a long time — and still is, to a certain extent —king. Since its discovery in the 1880s, the South American country has been one of the world’s largest exporters of copper, which is drilled out of open pit mines in the Gran Norte region. From the window of a taxi in the port city of Antofagasta the day before, I had admired the massive telescopic loading chutes that transport the mineral directly into the hull of boats, releasing brown-gold particles into the air that settles on surfaces — park benches, balconies, cars — across the city.

It wasn't until the 1960s that the Chilean government began to recognize the benefits of lithium after accidentally discovering it buried in salt brine during an exploration aimed at identifying additional water sources for copper mining. The timing couldn’t have been better. “After World War II, there was a lot of speculative value in lithium as a nuclear material,” James J. A. Blair, a professor at Cal Poly Pomona who has published several papers on lithium mining in Chile, explained over a recent video call. 

In 1979, about six years into his 17-year iron reign and following the lead of the United States, which had done the same, Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet declared lithium a “strategic resource” reserved exclusively for the state — not on account of its economic potential, which was at the time unknown, but as a national security stockpile. 

This seemingly small linguistic tweak has had long-lasting effects. 

After Pinochet’s decree, lithium extraction came under the auspices of Chile’s State Development Agency, CORFO, which started to ink contracts with private firms for further exploration. A year later, CORFO partnered with U.S.-based Foote Minerals to form the Chilean Lithium Company (SCL), in which the state held a 45% stake. 

What began as a Cold War precaution would quietly harden into one of the most unusual resource regimes in the world. By carving lithium out from the standard mining code, written in the 1930s, the Chilean state created a hybrid model. Lithium was not exactly nationalized, but neither was it fully privatized. “Lithium sits in a legal gray zone in Chile,” Blair told me. “It’s formally non-concessionable — meaning private actors can’t just stake a claim the way they would for copper — but in practice, the state has delegated extraction through long-term agreements that are incredibly favorable to a small number of firms.”

During the dictatorship’s wave of privatizations in the 1980s, control over key lithium assets was transferred to a small circle of politically connected actors. Among them: Julio Ponce Lerou, Pinochet’s son-in-law, who would go on to run SQM, now one of the world’s dominant lithium producers.

“Decisions were made in a highly centralized and opaque way,” researcher Gonzalo Gutiérrez told me over cafeteria food at the University of Chile, in Santiago. “By the time lithium became economically important, the institutional framework was already locked in.”

That framework has proven to be remarkably durable. Even as Chile transitioned back to democracy in the 1990s and expanded its role as a global mining powerhouse, lithium remained an exception — governed not through open concessions but through a handful of contracts administered by CORFO. 

In her 2025 book “Extraction,” researcher Thea Riofrancos notes that even today, two firms — SQM and Albemarle — effectively operate as a “a legally sanctioned private duopoly.” Control over lithium, she writes, is a tightrope between “the palpable potential of public control and the reality of corporate dominance.” 

For Ramón Balcázar, the founder of the San Pedro-based nonprofit, Fundacion Tantí, this legal exceptionalism has had profound consequences on the ground. “The state claims ownership, but the impacts are local,” he said. “Communities were never meaningfully included in the design of these contracts, yet they are the ones living with the depletion of water and the transformation of their ecosystems.”

Balcazar’s nonprofit sits on a side street in San Pedro, across from a trendy French bakery called La Franchuteria that sells iced lattes at European prices. 

Since its founding in 2016, Fundacion Tanti’s small team of researchers has studied the effects of lithium mining on indigenous communities in the Atacama desert. The period has coincided with nothing less than an explosion in the demand for Chilean lithium. 

The growth has mostly been tied to a dramatic rise in demand for electric vehicle batteries. Between 2015 and 2024, global lithium demand grew roughly sixfold, largely driven by EV batteries. The boom has fundamentally reshaped lithium markets: whereas EV batteries accounted for only about 15% of lithium demand in 2017, they made up roughly 85% by 2023. In Chile, arguably the world’s lithium breadbasket, raw materials are mined for export but rarely do its benefits trickle back down to communities.

“Where is the lithium going? To Elon Musk?” Daniela Rodriguez, a local journalist and activist I spoke with in San Pedro, asked. “To send rockets into space, to power electric cars that you never even see around here?” 

In 2021, Balcazar and fellow researchers came up with a neat term for this phenomenon: “green extractivism.” “What we are seeing is not an energy transition — it’s an expansion of the extractive frontier under a green label,” he told me. 

Faced with increasing demand for lithium to fuel the “green revolution,” the Chilean state has tried to thread the needle. In 2019, after a wave of mass protests against neoliberal inequality known as “el estallido social” (the social uprising), Chileans elected Gabriel Boric, a young, tattooed reformer who promised to, among other things, reassert state control over the lithium supply chain to redistribute its value. 

“Lithium is the mineral of the future,” Boric said on the campaign trail. “Chile can’t make the historic mistake of privatizing resources again.” His government promised a paradigm shift: more community involvement, more protection of wetlands, greener methods of extraction. Lithium, he seemed to say, would benefit Chileans across the whole supply chain and not just a select few at the top.

In April 2023, the government announced its National Lithium Strategy. The policy sought to expand production while increasing state control through public-private partnerships, renegotiate the contract with SQM (the same private company once headed by Pinochet’s son-in-law) and include community and indigenous participation in future lithium exploration decisions. 

In all, Boric’s government identified 68 salt flats that could be opened to mining exploration, but also 27 wetlands to be protected, Riofrancos, the author of “Extraction,” notes in her book. 

“The national lithium strategy is Boric's most successful policy,” Nicolas Grau, Boric’s former finance minister, told me over the phone. “It will allow Chile to industrialize through lithium — growing the economy while also protecting the environment.” After years of passive control, the state would finally take a more “protagonistic role” in managing the resource, Grau said, without nationalizing it.

To Riofrancos, the juggling act under Boric was typical of what happens when a state tries to pry some space in a market where extractivism has long been left unchecked. “Boric’s blueprint cited Allende as an inspiration, but his approach was more conciliatory toward extractive capital than anything Allende had proposed,” she writes. 

Local communities in San Pedro felt similarly. “The only thing politicians care about is being in power,” Chocobar said in San Pedro. “For all intents and purposes, we might as well not exist.” 

Boric’s successor, Kast has quickly rolled back environmental protections, fulfilling his campaign promises of commercializing mining and partnering with the U.S. regardless of the environmental impacts on the salt flats. 

Jorge Heine, a former Chilean diplomat and expert on international relations, argues that Kast is more constrained than it might appear. “People tend to overestimate how much a single administration can reshape lithium policy,” Heine explained. “This is a sector governed by long-term contracts, by international commitments, and by a legal framework that has proven remarkably resilient. Kast can tweak, accelerate, or slow things down, but dismantling the model entirely would come at a significant political and economic cost.”

But huge costs are already being paid, costs that communities in San Pedro have been living with for decades. Could Kast’s attempts to liberalize lithium mining and potentially exacerbate inequalities and environmental damage galvanize resistance?

For now, the signs of that resistance are still weak: graffiti scrawled on the side of the road, a grandmother walking along a highway with a cardboard sign, four panels of wood hung in a town square. But like lithium itself, transformations tend to take place very slowly at first — millennia of build-up in the brine — until suddenly they happen very fast. From Santiago to Atacama, protesters have been taking to the streets. In June, broader protests against Kast’s dismantling of social programs and services turned violent. 

At some point, austerity for the people contrasted with largesse for mining companies, technology companies and acquisitive foreign powers becomes hard for even a government elected in a landslide to defend.

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The United Kingdom has taken over the presidency of the Financial Action Task Force, the global standard-setter on tackling money laundering, and seems determined to keep calm and carry on despite the gigantic Donald Trump-sized hole being blasted in everything it’s trying to do.

The new president of the Financial Action Task Force is Giles Thomson, a career civil servant and archetypal safe pair of hands, who’s declared that the organisation’s priority for the next two years is fighting fraud. He estimated the global cost of fraud at $500 billion, which — if compared to the standard estimates of the volume of global money laundering as making up 2 to 5% of everything — means it contributes between a tenth and a quarter of all profits from financial crime.

Fraud is clearly thus a Very Big Deal, and therefore a well-chosen target for Thomson because everyone (including me) agrees that we need to hit it. However, I think I saw a hint of other perhaps more controversial tasks in the rest of his proposed priorities. The suggestion, for example, that the Financial Action Task Force (FATF) will conduct “proportionate assessments of lower capacity countries” looks to me like a recognition that it needs to stop criticising poorer countries that don’t actually launder money just because their legislation isn’t perfect.

This has been a weighty accusation in the past, not least because of the implicit suggestion of racism, made by, among others, regulator Charles Littrell, who summarised the FATF’s great flaw in 2022 thus: “the vast majority of dirty money and assets resides in, passes through, or is facilitated by the world's largest and richest countries. How then do the world's main [anti-money laundering] risk rankings invariably centre blame upon small, relatively poor, and nonwhite jurisdictions?”

This is not an academic question. Being blacklisted by the FATF is serious, and there has been definite unfairness in the past in which countries have ended up being singled out for a punishment beating. Hopefully a recognition of this reality is hidden somewhere inside Thomson’s rather gnomic utterance that “the FATF will support countries and the private sector to focus effort where the threat is greatest.”

Fortunately, the FATF will have an immediate opportunity to demonstrate that it shows neither fear nor favour when it comes to doing the right thing when it publishes the results of the ongoing evaluation of the United States. 

The U.S. was last evaluated in 2016, and the FATF made various recommendations, which Washington was supposed to have implemented within three years, and sort of did. With the passage of the Corporate Transparency Act in 2020, some progress was made, but since Donald Trump returned to the White House that has gone into screeching reverse.

Prosecuting foreign corrupt practices is “not a priority, ”transparency around residential ownership has been suspended, the Corporate Transparency Act  has been gutted, and crypto is everywhere. Above all, of course, the president himself has been making money at a rate that even Vladimir Putin would have to admire. His headline earnings figure —  $2.2 billion in the first year of his second term —  is clearly unprecedented, but so are the details. 

What for example will future historians make of the fact that the president declared his ownership of the trademark for “THINK BIG AND KICK ASS”? Ha, trick question, there won’t be any historians. They’ll have been replaced by AI.

Tether watch

Talking of history, I had slightly been hoping that the U.S. dollars in circulation might hit the appropriately round number of $2.5 trillion to mark the round 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, but it was not to be. If only the Fed had launched the $250 bill in time, perhaps it would have got there, but we’ll just have to wait.

Meanwhile, there’s an interesting time ahead for Tether, this newsletter’s favourite cryptocurrency, which is sailing into choppy waters. It has decided to pull its USDT out of the European Union rather than to comply with the Markets in Crypto Assets regulations on stablecoins, which is a boost for its great rival Circle (USDC), which is very much available in Europe. 

The two big stablecoins have markedly different strategies: Tether is dismissive of regulators, while Circle cosies up to them. And now here comes a new rival in Open USD, which is backed by many of the world’s largest banks and tech firms, and which also promises to abide by everyone’s regulations. Is Tether at risk of becoming irrelevant?

Congo’s conflict coltan

Huge credit to the good folks at Global Witness for this report from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, where coltan smuggling is helping to perpetuate the grim conflict in the east of the country. It is the kind of methodical, thorough research that really helps open your eyes to how grim things can be, and how complicit the rest of us are in a global supply chain forged from conflict. 

Congolese people hack coltan out of the ground under the eyes of M23 guerrillas, who then smuggle it into Rwanda, where it is repackaged as Rwandan and given certification intended to show it’s not from a war zone. It is then shipped to refiners in China or Kazakhstan to be processed into tantalum, which is in turn sold to leading companies to be incorporated in the phones, tablets, jet engines, and other products that we all rely on for our lovely modern lives.

“Rwandan official figures show that coltan exports have increased more than 2.5 times between 2021 and 2025,” the report notes. “Coltan is an important revenue stream for Rwanda, which levies a 5% tax on exports. Since 2023, it has become the country’s second-largest export earner, after gold.”

And where does the gold come from? Also from the Congo, which is why the U.S. Treasury sanctioned a Rwandan gold refiner last month, following action taken by the European Union against the same company last year, but it has done little to rein in M23.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Oligarchy newsletter. Sign up here.

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I was listening to Ezra Klein interviewing a left-wing Democratic Party strategist the other day about what a post-Trump U.S. foreign policy might look like, and it was a pretty striking demonstration of Europe’s irrelevance right now that the only Western European country mentioned in the 90 minutes of the chat was the UK, and that was solely in the context of how it helps kleptocrats.

But aha, a notional Brit might have replied, at least we are about to convict Diezani Alison-Madueke, former head of OPEC, ex-Nigerian oil minister, for her alleged egregious corruption. That notional Brit would be feeling pretty foolish right now though, because this was yet another flop, with her being acquitted on all charges. 

Britain has a dire record both when it comes to enabling corruption and when it comes to successfully investigating it, as the failure of yet another high-profile prosecution shows. This latest fiasco should be the impetus the country needs to at last provide the resources and officers that its law enforcement agencies require.

Alison-Madueke saw the hand of divine providence in her acquittal. “It has been a hard journey,” she said, “but I tell you this, God will always do as he will. God will be God and God is not a man that he should lie; when he promises you something, he will see it through” — and who am I to say that she’s wrong? However, there are other potential explanations for what has happened beyond the Almighty manifesting at Southwark Crown Court to give instructions to the jury, including the entrenched incompetence of British police agencies.

It’s hard not to see a parallel with the failed attempt six years ago to investigate Dariga Nazarbayeva, daughter of the former president of Kazakhstan and possessor of a reasonable-to-large London property portfolio, which saw the National Crime Agency (NCA) being comprehensively outwitted by defence lawyers, just as it has been again.

“Today’s verdict is a major blow for the NCA who have come away empty-handed in one of their highest-profile corruption cases, which took over a decade to progress to trial,” said Zainab Saleem, Legal Fellow at Spotlight on Corruption. "It is vital that the UK government properly resources law enforcement agencies tasked with investigating complex bribery and corruption cases and does not take this defeat as grounds for rowing back on anti-corruption enforcement.”

It will be interesting to see what, if anything, results from the suggestions that the new Supreme Leader of Iran has been moving his wealth merrily around with the help of various Western banks, all of it now being investigated by the U.S. Department of Justice. “Funds for the transactions have been routed through financial institutions in the UK, Switzerland, Liechtenstein and the UAE,” reports Bloomberg.

What is the answer? Whatever it is, it will be even more embarrassing for the UK if it doesn’t come up with something plausible by the time it convenes its Illicit Finance Summit in December. (Unless it ends up being rescheduled again, like one of those meetings that no one actually wants to attend but also no one wants to be responsible for cancelling.)

Still, credit where it’s due, at least efforts to improve Companies House — the UK’s formerly-disastrous corporate registry — appear to be finally bearing fruit. It has sent almost a million enforcement letters to people who haven’t verified their identity, which must have been — at the very least — a useful money-spinner for the post office.

The idea of increasing funding to law enforcement agencies is something that Americans would do well to consider too, particularly when it comes to the Internal Revenue Service. “In 2022, under President Joe Biden, Congress approved an $80 billion increase in IRS funding over a decade, with more than half of it slated to restore the agency’s ability to go after the super-rich. This victory was short-lived. By March 2025, Republicans had slashed that $45.6 billion enforcement budget to just under $4 billion — “a 91% decrease,” it notes in this fascinating book excerpt.

I have been interested for a while in the idea of government’s being engaged in “legalisation by under-enforcement,” which is something we see with tax evasion, pollution of waterways, and almost anything else when the rules not being enforced benefit the kind of people who donate money to political parties. But I need a better name for the phenomenon, so please help me out and send one in.

Talking of phenomena that we need a new name for, Elon Musk’s wealth is doing weird things to the Forbes billionaires list. Whoever runs it appears to have decided to only display his net worth to two significant figures. That means that, while we can see an assessment of the wealth of relative paupers like Sergey Brin to the nearest $100 million ($277.6 billion, as I write), we only get a round $1.2 trillion for Musk. Or a round $1. 4 trillion, depending on what day it is, which means his wealth jumps up and down in a minimum increment that, on its own, would be sufficient to make its possessor the richest person in every country in the world except Spain, Canada, Mexico, the United States or France.

And talking of France, the G7 summit in Evian is over. It was of course at a previous French G7 summit when participants created what became the Financial Action Task Force. That was the 1980s and they were concerned about the spread of illegal drugs, the harm they were causing, and the fact that more countries were producing them, and wanted to stop drug dealers being able to keep their profits. Among other things they committed — in the words of the 1989 communiqué — “to prevent the utilization of the banking system and financial institutions,” which is part of the clause that gave birth to the entire global anti-money-laundering system. Well, 37 years have passed, so let’s check in on how that’s going. 

This year the G7 communiqué expressed concern about the spread of illegal drugs, about the harm they’re causing, and about the fact that more countries are producing them. “We emphasize the continued need to strengthen the global anti-money laundering architecture to prevent financial crime and improve enforcement and asset recovery outcomes, in line with the Financial Action Task Force standards,” this year’s summit document states. 

Plus ça change. Maybe in another 37 years, they’ll look up and wonder whether they should try something else, and indeed whether the FATF standards aren’t ripe for reconsideration.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Oligarchy newsletter. Sign up here.

The post How governments enable kleptocrats by doing nothing appeared first on Coda Story.

I’ve been writing this newsletter since 2020, and in my first edition I marvelled at the concept of the centi-billionaire, and the fact there were at the time three people with 11 zeros in their net worth. What a six years it’s been. When I started writing this week’s edition, Elon Musk was a mere David Sun away from becoming the world’s first trillionaire, and now as I’m finishing it, Musk is worth the scarcely conceivable sum of $1.1 trillion. Nothing like this has ever happened before and there is no sign it is going to stop happening. There is no reason at all to suppose that in another half-decade I won’t be writing about how deci-trillionaires are the new thing.

This increasingly extreme inequality is a challenge for social cohesion, democracy and civilisation that we haven’t seen in modern times, second only to climate change as a threat to our future. Although in some ways, they’re the same challenge, considering the disproportionate share of emissions coming from rich people.

In some ways, if Musk’s wealth seemed to be making him happy it wouldn’t be so bad, but it appears only to make him angrier. I like to think that if I had a trillion dollars, I’d do something more constructive than stir up protests against ethnic minorities.

Reducing inequality is the right thing to do for every reason, not least because it would deprive very rich people of the ability to stoke pogroms anywhere they like. But how to do that? The only thing that has previously reduced inequality to any significant extent has been the 20th century’s series of global conflicts with massive destruction of life and property, and that’s the kind of thing it would be good to avoid.

I think there is a strong argument to be made, however, that the financial trickery abused by the very rich is also bad for national security, and it’s one nicely made here by Matthew McGlynn, who specialises in researching Russia. By degrading the ability of oligarchs to cheat their way to riches, we’d also limit the space of billionaires to dodge taxes and accountability.

It is notable that expert after expert speaking to the House of Representatives Committee on Financial Services about Chinese Money Laundering Networks pleaded for the Corporate Transparency Act to be properly implemented. “When a laundering network operates by scattering its footprint across hundreds of student accounts, dozens of shell companies, and multiple jurisdictions, traditional compliance frameworks may treat flags as isolated, minor incidents. The systemic risk is consistently underestimated, and responses remain heavily reactive,” noted Louis DeTitto.

If first we come for the money launderers, then the billionaires won’t speak out because they’re not money launderers. Also, it would mean we’d do a better job of tackling money laundering, which would be nice. 

While on the subject of congressional hearings, there are interesting moves by Senator Richard Blumenthal to probe how Iranian and Russian sanction-dodgers are using cryptocurrencies. In April, he wrote to Binance requesting further information, and now he’s written to Tether asking for information about misuse of its USDT stablecoin.

The details he’s requesting are far-reaching and potentially highly consequential, since they relate to connections with Iran and Russia, including A7, issuer of the leading ruble-denominated cryptocurrency. Perhaps most important, however, is his first question: “What legal jurisdictions does Tether believe it is subject to for USDT, in particular for anti-money laundering rules, reporting obligations, asset seizures, and sanctions compliance? Does Tether believe it is legally required to comply with Department of Treasury sanctions for USDT and issue suspicious activity reports (SARs) to the U.S. government?”

If the U.S. asserts regulatory authority over dollar-denominated cryptocurrencies as it has over all transactions in dollars then that would significantly undermine their attractiveness to illicit actors, and also do a lot to reassure people like me. Tether, meanwhile, has been bigging up its cooperation with law enforcement agencies, and says it’s frozen $450 million globally.

“For the past few years, stablecoins have come to dominate the landscape of illicit transactions, and now account for 84 percent of all illicit transaction volume,” concluded Chainalysis in 2026’s crypto crime report. It estimated total illicit transactions at $154 billion last year, so the stablecoin share of that was almost $130 billion. That is a fraction of the amount of money laundering estimated to move through either the trade system or indeed the formal financial network, but still a lot of money. It’s interesting to see, however, how Chainalysis still holds out hope for well-regulated cryptocurrencies helping to solve problems caused by standard finance.

“Stablecoins and on-chain settlement mechanisms in particular offer low-cost, borderless avenues for remittances, payments, and savings,” Chainalysis said. “If coupled with sound regulation and inclusive policy frameworks, these tools could help governments leverage crypto not just for resilience, but also for broader financial inclusion as part of economic recovery.”

Seeing will be believing.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Oligarchy newsletter. Sign up here.

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It has become a theme of this newsletter to lay out what is needed to tackle financial crime, and then to point out how the U.S. government is doing the opposite, and I assure you that I am as bored of it as you are. I try therefore to avoid writing about Donald Trump any more than I have to, but I’m afraid I very much do have to address the subject of the $250 bill.

Criminals adore banknotes, thanks to their anonymity and convenience, and that love has only grown as the financial system has become more regulated. They love high-denomination banknotes most of all, because they let criminals move a lot of value in the smallest possible space. 

This is why the proportion of $100 bills among the banknotes printed by the Federal Reserve increases year after year. Two decades ago, $100 bills made up 64.4% of the value of outstanding dollar banknotes; at the end of 2025, it was 81.8%. And the total number of notes has increased massively: 5.4 billion in late 2005; 19.9 billion last December.

If I could click my fingers and make one thing happen to stop money laundering, it would be to stop central banks printing large denomination banknotes (as has happened in the past in Singapore, and in the Eurozone). The Federal Reserve is not the only offender — the European Central Bank still has €200 bills, the Swiss have 1000 franc notes, the Brits have £50 notes – but the $100 is by far the most widespread of these big bills and thus the most egregious example. There are almost four times more of them in circulation than all the big euro-denominated bills added together.

So what is the White House doing about the problem of large denomination bank notes? “Trump administration officials have pressed the office responsible for printing the nation’s money to design a $250 bill featuring the president’s portrait,” reports the Washington Post. Treasury Secretary Scott Bessent said he didn’t think that there was anything “untoward” about having the current president of the United States on the 250th anniversary bill.

Look, I like the word “semiquincentennial” as much as anyone else who has had to squint at it for a while to work out what it means. And I appreciate that Americans are rightly proud of how long their republic lasted before beginning to turn into a monarchy, but it would be nice if someone in power at least acknowledged how grotesque it is to float the idea of printing a banknote that’s even more useful to criminals than the existing ones.

Sanctions need enforcement

There is better news from the United Kingdom, where the government has expanded its sanctions against crypto firms helping Russia finance its war in Ukraine, with a raft of new designations, including against HTX (previously known as Huobi), one of the largest exchanges in the world and one that is linked to billionaire Justin Sun, who has promised full compliance with the sanctions.

What is interesting about this is that the UK is getting ahead of the United States, with which it has historically cooperated closely when issuing sanctions. “Anyone that's been in this space for a minute knows what a disaster Huobi is,” wrote crypto-watcher Richard Sanders on linkedin. “Quite frankly, the UK took an action the U.S. should have a long time ago. The UK realized the U.S. isn't going to do this under the current administration. The UK, justly, got sick of waiting for this industry to do the right thing, as much as they got sick of waiting on other countries.”

That said, sanctions create a lot of compliance for law-abiding firms and individuals keen to avoid evading them. And the chances that law-breakers will be caught if they decide to engage with HTX regardless? Well, not very high, judging by a new report into the UK’s lead agency for serious and organised criminality.

“The National Crime Agency (NCA)’s IT infrastructure isn’t fit for purpose. This systemic weakness affects the entire agency,” the report says. “‘When I started in policing 15 to 20 years ago, I had better technology than I do in the NCA’,” one officer is quoted as saying.

So, how can officers trace online criminality if even their own systems don’t work? Not very well, not least since the government, in its futile attempts to stave off the political challenge from the far right, has assigned much of the agency’s workforce to tackling immigration (incredibly, even officers focussing on child sexual exploitation have been moved). “Some interviewees told us their teams were operating at 50 percent below previous levels. One interviewee told us that the effect of this was that they were ‘receiving more work with less resource’,” the report says.

So, once more, we are back to the old anti-money laundering model of more expensive compliance for the good guys, and no consequences for the baddies, since there is no one to investigate them. Sanctions are no substitution for police work, and one day someone will realise that. They work for a bit — see the graph of trades in the Russian cryptocurrency A7A5 for an example on Justin Sun’s Tron blockchain — but then someone works out a way around them, and everything carries on as before, because none of the people committing the crimes have been affected.

“The government has consistently failed to provide proper investment that would allow the NCA to provide an effective enforcement response to the range of serious threats the UK faces,” said Susan Hawley, head of Spotlight on Corruption.

But corrupt politicians and enforcement agencies can be exposed. So congratulations to the excellent folks at the French anti-corruption group Sherpa who have secured another victory in their delightfully successful campaign against the corrupt financial ties between Paris and the rulers of its former colonies in Africa. All the way back in 2007, Sherpa started its battle with French authorities that were refusing to investigate the wealth of their political allies. Thanks to its persistence, cases were brought against multiple politicians, most notably from Equatorial Guinea, and now the niece of Denis Sassou-Nguesso, president of the Republic of Congo. She will appeal, so this is not over, but it is further proof of how effective hard-working advocacy organisations can be.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Oligarchy newsletter. Sign up here.

The post Donald Trump’s $250 gift to launderers and criminals appeared first on Coda Story.

A top banker has got in trouble by referring to employees whose jobs will be replaced by AI as “lower-value human capital.” But he’s just saying the quiet part out loud: compliance officers have been expected to work like inefficient computers for years already anyway. Standard Chartered CEO Bill Withers used the unfortunate phrase when describing how the bank plans to keep hitting its profitability targets by cutting 15% of back office staff, and has tried to backtrack a little after a predictable storm of criticism, including from the former president of Singapore. 

It would be nice to think of bank employees deployed to fight financial crime as super-effective old-school gumshoes, with a bottle of bourbon in the bottom drawer and an inexhaustible stock of one-liners, but in reality their jobs are more like something from ‘The Office’ than ‘The Big Sleep’.

Thousands of people sit in cubicles in Warsaw or Bengaluru, checking through transactions flagged as possibly abnormal by banks’ automated systems, and confirming that 99% of them are, in fact, normal. Anything that might conceivably be abnormal gets sent up the chain, where someone more senior will almost certainly decide it wasn’t. 

It is a ruinously expensive process and, as far as we can tell, completely ineffective. The best estimates we have for the size of the criminal economy suggest it has grown, untroubled, along with everything else for decades despite all the laws, fines, and prosecutions that we’ve thrown at the problem. 

But banks’ financial crime compliance isn’t about stopping financial crime at all: it’s about stopping banks from being fined, as Standard Chartered has previously been, enormous sums in both the U.S. and the UK. As long as banks can be sure that AI checks boxes in ways that satisfy regulators, then they’ll be happy.

This is a little bit worrying because AI is already getting very good at fraud. I am very alert to attempts to trick me but was sufficiently fooled by an AI email yesterday to forward it on to someone. Fortunately, a very similar one arrived (purportedly from someone else) a few minutes later, alerting me to my mistake. Money laundering is a laborious activity and criminal gangs will be as keen as banks to cut their back office expenditure, and AI could help automate the processing of the many small transactions that add up to a large amount of money. Phishing and smurfing are just a couple of its use cases, however.

“Scammers can leverage AI to scrape data from social media and dating platforms to identify vulnerable targets (e.g. lonely individuals, recent retirees, or people interested in finance) for pig butchering scams,” notes TRM Labs. “Bots can sustain long-term, emotionally persuasive conversations without tiring or making mistakes, making the scam more scalable.”

And that’s before you get onto AI’s ability to exploit cryptocurrencies and smart contracts to really start rampaging through the crypto world. “TRM observed a roughly 500% increase in AI-enabled scam activity over the past year. The convergence of generative AI, programmable financial infrastructure, and global crypto liquidity has altered the economics, velocity, and scalability of fraud,” the blockchain analytics firm said in a follow-up report. This is very bad indeed.

So, although I can see why people are annoyed that Withers referred to his bank’s employees in such a disparaging way, I am more troubled that he’s planning to replace them with AI, rather than to retain them and train them in how to counter it.

It was remarkable, however, to see Warren Davidson, chair of the illicit finance subcommittee at the House of Representatives Financial Services Committee, draw precisely the wrong conclusion from all this. Although he was correct in condemning the defensive nature of compliance, and its focus on generating paperwork over results, he then got lost in praising the White House’s decisions to attack corporate transparency legislation.

"As we focus on risk, we must also ensure that tools like artificial intelligence are fully deployed to counter the AI-enabled crimes of today,” he said, without realising that, without reliable information to train the AI models on, this is as useless an approach as the one he says has failed. If you don’t know who owns what, neither will a computer, no matter how cleverly it can pretend to be human.

I sincerely hope he listened to the testimony of Carole House of the Atlantic Council who forcefully pointed out the harm to national security and to ordinary Americans caused by the United States’ failure to create even an approximation of a decent corporate registry, as well as the historic idiocy of its current crypto policy. “Without a secure identity foundation, AI agents will simply scale up fraud at a speed and volume that human investigators can't possibly track, destroying trust in the whole system,” she said in testimony that I highly recommend you take a look at.

I very much doubt Davidson was listening, however, because that is not the direction the Republican Party is going in right now. I would write more about that, but frankly it’s all too depressing, and I’d rather move on.

So let me point you towards this excellent paper on how online scam marketplaces work, with criminals using the messaging app Telegram and the stablecoin Tether to launder hundreds of billions of dollars. It argues that our current approach of sanctioning exchanges is futile since their owners just shut them down and switch to a new platform that works in the same way but hasn’t yet been sanctioned.

“As long as the underlying digital infrastructure remains permissive, criminal syndicates will simply migrate to new channels. To move from reactive disruption to systemic prevention, the international community must shift its focus toward the structural enablers of these marketplaces,” Elliptic’s Tom Robinson argues. Elliptic is unusual among blockchain analytics companies in being willing to name Tether as a major vector for money launderers. Its rivals tend to just say “stablecoins,” I have no idea why.

Meanwhile, there is something grimly depressing about the fact that — against the backdrop of, well, everything — the UK has postponed June’s illicit finance summit due to “scheduling issues in the international calendar.” Everyone is so busy dealing with the consequences of illicit finance, that no one has time to talk about illicit finance.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Oligarchy newsletter. Sign up here.

The post AI is not the answer to AI-enabled fraud appeared first on Coda Story.

The United States is inching closer to passing a gigantic piece of legislation to put cryptocurrencies on a secure footing, with the bill emerging unscathed from the Senate’s banking committee. Opinions differ as to what this means: crypto people are thrilled, while anyone who knows about money laundering is terrified. Passage of the so-called CLARITY bill has been a key goal of crypto enthusiasts since Donald Trump came to power, since it would give them the legal certainty to engage in “financial innovation” without worrying about a return to the Biden-era policy of trying to regulate them as if they were normal people.

Committee chairman Tim Scott is delighted: “For me, this is personal. My mother raised my brother and me with faith, grit, and determination, and she taught me that the American Dream should be within reach for every family, including single mothers working hard to build a better life for their children.”

I quote Scott partly because it’s such a weird justification for passing crypto regulation (or perhaps he just says that sort of thing about literally everything he ever does?), but mainly because it’s pretty clear that the bill as it stands will be a disaster for the kind of vulnerable people he claims to be fighting for.

In a sign of experts’ concerns, Transparency International’s U.S. office put out a statement quoting nearly all the most respected voices on money laundering in America arguing that the bill needs better safeguards against dirty money. “At a time when we know that hostile actors like (Iran’s Revolutionary Guards) are looking to circumvent U.S. sanctions to rearm and threaten Americans and U.S. interests around the world, it is inconceivable to me that we would open new, effective channels for sanctions evasion,” said Richard Nephew, former U.S. Coordinator on Global Anti-Corruption and Deputy Special Envoy for Iran.

“Terrorists, violent drug traffickers, and organized criminals who prey upon the elderly and unlearned in increasingly sophisticated financial and AI generated schemes are, quite literally, getting away with murder, funded by untraceable cryptocurrency transactions hidden behind an anonymous block chain,” said former FBI agent Karen Greenaway.

There is an awful lot of money in crypto, and Tether alone now has three people among the richest 100 in the world. Tether’s largest single shareholder Giancarlo Devasini’s wealth has grown from $9.2 billion in 2024 to $89.3 billion now, while chief executive Paolo Ardoino and former CEO Jean-Louis van der Velde have done pretty well too. Though none of them have done quite as well as Changpeng “Binance” Zhao, crypto’s only centibillionaire (so far).

In the UK, there’s a lot of concern about the millions of pounds going from crypto investors to Reform’s Nigel Farage, who has become a crypto champion, no doubt coincidentally. But, wow, look at what’s happening in Alabama for a sign of what the future looks like if crypto people really get their hands on the purse strings and try to buy their way into the Senate. 

That much money doesn’t just help supporters win, it also terrifies opponents: standing up to the crypto lobby guarantees you’ll be swamped in hostile advertising. How do you want to be paid, as Pablo Escobar used to say, in silver or lead? 

But why should the rest of the world care that this is happening? I’m sure I’m not the only foreigner who’s been staring in bewilderment at the growth of U.S. prediction markets, and how efficiently they allow insiders to monetise their privileged access to inside information. A lot of those markets are barred in other countries, but the U.S. soldier who was arrested for betting on the Maduro capture was trading on polymarket, a crypto-denominated market which is blocked in the United States too, despite Donald Trump Jr. being an investor.

Such restrictions can be easily bypassed by using a Virtual Private Network, so U.S. regulators are using artificial intelligence to track down insider trading on polymarket. After that soldier’s arrest, I suspect Americans will be much more careful about what they do.

Prediction markets claim they don’t want insiders trading on privileged information. But if the markets are to function in a way that supports their founders’ justification for them, as a price signal for future events, they rely on people with knowledge to be using them to make bets and thus to move prices in a useful direction. So clearly the temptation will always be there for anyone with inside information to use it to make some easy money.

And does anyone think U.S. regulators will care about Indians, Brits, South Africans Ukrainians, or other foreigners using crypto to trade on information from their own countries? They after all have a track record of treating foreigners and U.S. citizens differently. That’s why it was Francesca Albanese, with her American husband and daughter, who managed to have sanctions cancelled for daring to investigate Israel’s behaviour in Gaza, whereas non-U.S. connected people have failed to do so.

The new U.S. crypto bill coupled with U.S.-based crypto-denominated prediction markets points towards the United States becoming a gigantic offshore enabler of corruption for the rest of the world; a digital version of what Switzerland was in the analogue years, with everyone else reduced to begging its regulators for assistance. 

“Crypto prediction markets are accessible to anyone with an internet connection and a wallet, pooling liquidity from a global user base rather than a regional one,” says Chainalysis. I think they mean that to be a good thing, because the blockchain is transparent and malefactors can be spotted easily yada yada, but it sounds beyond dystopian to me. I’m genuinely a bit terrified of what this will mean for corruption in the next few years, and I haven’t heard of any politicians who are alert to it yet.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Oligarchy newsletter. Sign up here.

The post Crypto’s corrupt American dream appeared first on Coda Story.

While much of the media industry focused on the churn of headlines, we became increasingly interested in the undercurrents beneath them: the hidden systems, infrastructures and ideologies shaping events across borders and over time.

Again and again, our reporting led us back to the same realization: for a long time, the struggle over information was understood primarily as a question of censorship or access. Who controls information? Who gets to publish? Who gets silenced?

Those questions still matter. But they no longer fully describe the world we live in.

Today, the struggle over information is about who builds the systems through which reality is organized, distributed and trusted. From state propaganda to algorithmic feeds, from platform monopolies to AI-generated noise, the battle is not over facts. It is over the infrastructures that determine which narratives spread, which voices are amplified and which communities remain connected.

Over the past year, these questions led to a collaboration between Coda and The Continent, the pan-African newspaper founded in Johannesburg by Simon Allison and Sipho Kings. Although our reporting emerges from very different histories and geographies, we found ourselves arriving at remarkably similar conclusions about power, fragmentation and the future of journalism in an age of informational instability.

This two-chapter essay is the beginning of that collaboration, and marks the start of a new project called The Atlas. Pilot edition is available here — please feel free to share with friends, family and colleagues, preferably in its entirety.

In Chapter One, I return to the world of my Soviet childhood: propaganda, samizdat and the search for trustworthy signals through noise.

In Chapter Two, The Continent co-founder Simon Allison presents the Parable of Sinn Sisamouth: the story of how some of the greatest songs ever written were nearly lost, and then found, and then lost again. 

Taken together, these essays ask what journalism becomes in a world where information is no longer organized primarily to inform, but to capture attention, manufacture reaction and shape perception at planetary scale.

The Atlas grows out of that question.

Chapter One: Through the Static

Whenever I am asked why I decided to become a journalist, an image from my childhood pops into my head. It’s dusk. I am 10, sitting in the kitchen with my mom. She is glued to a shortwave radio. Outside, the Soviet Union is on the cusp of collapse. Georgia, where we are, is on the brink of civil war. We didn’t use the term back then, but fake news was all we got through official channels. Real news — coming from the West — felt like a lifeline. I was in awe of the crackling radio that held my mother’s full attention. I wanted to become that voice.

Years later, I got my dream job at the BBC and spent much of my adult life moving between wars, uprisings and authoritarian states. Again and again, I found myself in places where truth was contested terrain: Baghdad, Damascus, Donetsk, Sana’a. But over time I realized something fundamental had changed. Modern authoritarianism no longer relied primarily on suppressing information. It had discovered something more effective.

Information could simply be drowned out by static.

That realization became stark for me in eastern Ukraine in the summer of 2014. I arrived in a field of bright yellow sunflowers where the bodies from Flight MH17 still lay scattered across the ground. A Russian missile had blown the passenger plane out of the sky, killing all 298 people on board. Yet almost immediately, the Kremlin flooded the information space with competing explanations. It was a Ukrainian fighter jet. A failed assassination attempt on Putin. The plane had been filled with corpses before takeoff. Each theory contradicted the next, but that hardly mattered. The point was not to persuade, it was to exhaust. It was to create so much noise that truth itself began to feel unstable.

Over the following years, I watched versions of the same logic spread far beyond Russia. Social platforms transformed public conversation into a permanent stream of outrage, performance and distraction, collapsing vastly different kinds of information into the same endless feed. War footage, propaganda, conspiracy theories, journalism and gossip all began competing inside systems designed not to inform people but to capture and hold attention.

Noise became the new censorship.

And increasingly, I found myself thinking about the world of my childhood again. Not because history was repeating itself neatly, but because the emotional landscape felt strangely familiar: confusion, exhaustion, distrust, the constant sense that reality itself was becoming slippery. Back then, people searched desperately for clear signals through the static of Soviet propaganda. Today, we are drowning in a different kind of static, but the instinct, the search for clarity feels remarkably similar.

In the Soviet Union, people developed ways of navigating that confusion. Among my strongest memories from that time is the sound of my parents’ typewriter late at night. Friends would pass around copies of banned Soviet literature and my parents would sit at the kitchen table all night, retyping them page by page so they could be shared again. It was my first encounter with samizdat, although I didn’t know the word then.

Looking back now, what strikes me is that samizdat was never simply about forbidden texts. It was about building trusted alternative systems of circulation when official systems had lost credibility.

At Coda, we have spent years building journalism against the logic of noise. We slowed stories down. We followed themes instead of headlines. We built a reporting system designed to connect events across borders and over time, helping readers see patterns instead of fragments. But as our globally distributed newsroom adapted to an increasingly fractured information landscape, it became clear that journalism alone was not enough. Distribution shapes understanding as much as reporting does.

Around the same time, in Johannesburg, Simon Allison, Sipho Kings and their team were building something that challenged many of the assumptions dominating digital media. The Continent, their pan-African newspaper, spreads largely through direct sharing networks: passed from reader to reader rather than pushed by algorithms.

Different histories had brought us to remarkably similar questions. What does journalism look like when trust is collapsing, attention is fragmented and the systems that carry information have themselves become instruments of power?

Out of that convergence came The Atlas: a new publication that brings together Coda’s methodology of following systems across borders and over time with The Continent’s radically distributed model for reaching readers beyond algorithmic feeds.

The Atlas is built on a shared conviction: as fragmentation, distrust and informational overload spread across the world, some of the clearest ways through will come from places that have already spent decades navigating propaganda, instability and contested reality. Places once treated as peripheral are becoming essential to understanding the defining question of this age: how can meaning survive systems designed to overwhelm it.

Chapter Two: The second silencing of Sinn Sisamouth

Imagine if your favourite song disappeared, forever. 

Almost every album I have ever loved was recommended to me by my friend An-Rui. A few months ago, he sent me a track by the undisputed King of Khmer Music, the Golden Voice, the Cambodian Elvis himself – Sinn Sisamouth.

I had never heard of him.

I didn’t respond at first, so he nudged me. That night, after the kids were asleep, I put on my headphones, sat in the garden and immediately lost myself in Cambodia’s psychedelic rock scene of the 1960s and ‘70s. I don’t know enough about music to explain exactly what I fell in love with, but within weeks I was, according to Spotify, among the top one percent of Sinn Sisamouth listeners worldwide.

An-Rui had added a note to his recommendation. “the songs are happy but since i know what his fate was and i don’t understand the words, it sounds incredibly sad to me”.

The story goes something like this: A small-town boy with an extraordinary voice moves to the big city, and conquers all before him. He writes hundreds of songs, bridging Khmer musical traditions with new western influences: jazz, rock & roll, bossa nova, blues, the Beatles, and, of course, Elvis Presley. He toured the country. He toured the world. He made music with an actual King, Norodom Sihanouk, and became Cambodia’s most beloved rockstar.

Then, in 1975, the Khmer Rouge seized power. In the course of committing a genocide, the communist regime disappeared Sinn Sisamouth, and banned his music. He has never been seen, or heard from, again.

But his music never died. It lived on brittle records, hidden for generations under floorboards. It lived on scratchy cassettes, passed hand to hand among the diaspora.

It was only decades later that his music was digitised and remastered, and made available on streaming platforms to the likes of me.

When I listen to Sinn Sisamouth, I can’t help but think about how easily we could have lost his masterpieces entirely. And I wonder what else might have been lost that we have not been able to recover.

And then it happened again.

There’s a particular track that I like to play in my car, where I can turn the bass up as high as it goes. I was driving one afternoon and looked for it on Spotify. It was gone, even though the rest of the album was there. 

I looked again on my laptop at home. Nothing. Gone from Spotify. Gone from Apple Music. Gone from YouTube. Like it had never been there in the first place. I started to wonder if I had gone crazy, and maybe imagined the song entirely. And then I started to panic: What if I never heard it again?

Eventually, I found a bootleg YouTube version, using a different transliteration of the Khmer title – Kanlang Pnheu Pran, instead of Konlong Phner Bran. Before I tracked that down, I had to wade through dozens of AI-generated Sinn Sisamouth ‘cover versions’, all uploaded to YouTube within the last few months. If I had never heard it before, I would never have been able to tell which was the original.

It’s not unusual for songs to disappear from the Internet, especially when the music is from non-English-speaking countries. I’ve had similar experiences with the music of Sharhabil Ahmed, the Sudanese jazz legend, and Ethiopia’s Tilahun “The Voice” Gessesse.

In fact, it’s not unusual for other kinds of information to disappear from the internet; to be edited after the fact; or to be simply lost among all the digital noise. Digital information is incredibly precarious, and becoming more so by the day. AI slop is taking over social media platforms. Algorithms determine what information we can and can’t see, shaping our cultural and political preferences. And powerful interests are becoming increasingly bold when it comes to brazenly manipulating information in their favour – or, of even greater concern, restricting the flow of information across borders.

Amazon changes the contents of books on people’s Kindles without telling anyone. News websites quietly alter critical stories, post-publication, to remove evidence of wrongdoing (my favourite example: the Financial Express published a story critical of India’s richest family; only to replace it with a glorified press release a few days later. They neglected to amend the URL, however, which contains the original headline). Governments shut down internet access on a whim, or legislate which apps and websites are available to specific populations.

For journalism, this is an existential threat. Our job is not just to hold power to account – it is also to write the first draft of history. But if we can’t preserve that first draft, or distribute it effectively, then what, exactly, is the point?

The Continent and Coda Story are working together to try something different. We want to publish news about the world, produced and verified by humans, that cannot be edited after the fact; and to distribute it in a way that dramatically decreases our reliance on unaccountable algorithms or search engine optimisation. The Atlas — pilot edition available here — is our answer to the precarity of information online. It’s a work in progress.

Stay tuned: if we’re going to succeed, we’ll need your help. And if we do succeed, the secret of our success will be those very same transnational networks that kept the music of Sinn Sisamouth alive. Communities of like-minded people, of friends and families will always find a way to stay connected, no matter how vast the distances between them, or how great the obstacles. So what does a global newspaper look like if we design it with exactly these communities in mind?

As soon as I found that bootleg on YouTube, I ripped an MP3 copy and sent it to An-Rui on Signal. “KEEP THIS SAFE,” I told him. I don’t know what happened to the song on Spotify, or if it is ever coming back. But I can’t take the risk of never hearing that bassline again. And here it is, in case you want to hear it too.

The post The new samizdat appeared first on Coda Story.

Nigel Farage, the leader of the UK’s right-wing Reform UK party, has taken millions of pounds from crypto people, including one convicted of financial crimes in the United States. There are, despite Farage’s insistence to the contrary, questions around whether he followed the rules. Nonetheless, his party has swept local elections. There’s a lesson here for progressive parties everywhere, including in the United States where senators are seeking documents relating to financial ties between the commerce secretary and Tether. What if you get your ‘gotcha’ moment, turn around to the voters with a broad smile… and they vote for your opponents anyway?

Believers in democracy need to start advocating for more transparency, more enforcement and more restrictions on murky finance if they want to stop unaccountable money from buying influence in their countries. It is not enough to rely on journalists and activists to produce the occasional investigation, and expect voters to do the rest: we need properly-resourced agencies that can keep dirty money out of our systems if we want them to remain clean. If history tells us anything, it’s that criminals get elected all too often.

This is urgent. Tether made more than $1 billion in profits this year, in the first quarter, and is thinking hard about the midterms and how candidates might be encouraged to fight for crypto. And that’s just one company. Progressives who believe in fairer finance, a state’s right to regulate its own economy and the power to oversee who’s buying whom, don’t have that kind of money to spend to influence elections, so they need to start making the argument for campaign finance restrictions much more forcefully.

But there’s another point here too. I am working on an article about money laundering at the moment, and was chatting to two UK detectives last week. They led a successful operation in their city (I’ll post the article when it’s done) and I asked if they thought it had made a lasting difference. “With all crime, you take one out and there is another,” one of the detectives told me. “I'd like to think it has made a dent but there will always be more.”

In the case they worked on, gangs were bringing cash generated via the cocaine trade to be laundered into crypto (no prizes for guessing which cryptocurrency they preferred). The detectives identified £53 million in turnover over two years. It’s great that they jailed the ringleaders, but you can see why they’re not getting too carried away. That total is about a quarter of a percent of the UK cocaine market’s turnover, so the gangs really won’t have noticed the loss. And, for the police, it was five years’ work.

To a fairly large extent, since the first U.S. operation in Miami in 1980, when we’ve spoken about fighting dirty money, we have really been talking about stopping cocaine gangs by taking away their ability to make a profit. And, despite occasional successes like the one I’m writing about, this approach has overall been a catastrophic failure. Cocaine is cheaper, more abundant, and more widespread than ever before.

This is important for many reasons, obviously because entrusting the supply of a dangerous substance to criminals is bad, but also because the existence of a vast underground financial system to move the cocaine trade’s profits creates a mechanism through which Russian spies, terrorists and others can hide their cash too. For me though, the real problem is that we have an urgent threat to democracy posed by hidden unaccountable money. Instead of tackling that problem though, our police officers are fighting an endless war against drugs that was lost decades ago.

My modest proposal therefore is to legalise cocaine. It’s available everywhere already, so there’s no downside. We should tax it, regulate it, make sure kids can’t buy it and, as a useful side effect, take all the liquidity out of the underground economy. Our police officers could then stop running to go backwards, and instead fight a battle they might actually win, which is to stop fascists and kleptocrats from buying our democracies.

Use oligarchs to undermine Putin

Here’s a good article from The Economist by “a former senior official in the Russian Government,” arguing that Vladimir Putin is losing his grip. Now, I’m always a little cautious about articles that tell me what I want to hear, as well as the veracity of information and analysis provided by Russian officials, former or current, but it does make some very interesting points.

Of particular interest to me is the idea that Russia’s elite is annoyed with Putin because its members are worried about having their assets stolen, with $60 billion worth of property nationalised or seized by corrupt officials in the last three years. 

“Previously their property rights were outsourced to the West. They used London courts, offshore structures and international arbitration to resolve conflicts or seek protection. Now conflicts must be resolved domestically, without functioning institutions. Demand for rules grows more urgent as redistribution of assets gathers pace,” the article states.

One of the reasons why democracy failed in Russia is because the oligarchs were able to keep their wealth offshore, and thus to essentially colonise their own country, secure in the knowledge they were themselves immune from the unfairness. It would be a pleasing irony if the horrific war in Ukraine ended up undermining not just Putin, but Putinism as a whole.

There is a huge opportunity here for Western governments to capitalise on the dissent, and to start quietly offering sanctions relief to Russians willing to break with Putin, and who’re prepared to surrender a decent chunk of their wealth to help Ukraine in return for being able to keep the rest. There aren’t enough police officers to actually bring the cases needed to investigate, prosecute and confiscate the oligarchs’ wealth anyway (see item above), so we may as well start negotiating and see what they’re willing to do to get it back. In short, this is a big week for me making unfashionable policy proposals.

AI-generated launderers

There’s debate in the United States about getting rid of the Corporate Transparency Act, with Jeff Bezos’ Washington Post supporting repeal, even though the law has never actually been implemented. Opaque shell companies are a weird outgrowth of capitalism that corporations’ original inventors — who wanted to create insurance for entrepreneurs, not getaway vehicles for crooks — never intended to happen, so it’s very odd that they’re now being presented as some kind of human right.

If you want a reason why the appallingly lax American system should be cleaned up, here’s a post on X about someone who tasked two AI agents with making money, and came back to find out they’d registered a Wyoming LLC all by themselves. This suggests the opening of a whole new frontier of automated money laundering, and the consequences are frankly pretty terrifying. The Corporate Transparency Act should be strengthened, not abolished.

A version of this story was published in this week’s Oligarchy newsletter. Sign up here.

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On April 24, Brazil’s competition authority, the Administrative Council for Economic Defense (CADE) announced it was opening an investigation to assess whether Google’s use of news content amounted to unfair competition practices against the Brazilian press. The announcement was welcomed by civil society organizations that have tried to push regulation to limit the reckless power of Big Tech for years. Ajor, Brazil’s Digital News Association, said that “a balanced relationship between digital platforms and journalism organizations is fundamental to the flourishing of journalism committed to the public interest. By ensuring a fair competitive environment, Cade directly advances that goal.”

In spirit and intent, CADE’s investigation into Google is similar to legislation in Australia that recognized that value is being extracted from news publishers without proportionate recompense. In Brazil, the case has been debated since 2019, but the adoption of AI Overviews helped alter the perspective of Brazilian judges. The overviews are artificially generated summaries that synthesize information from several sources and appear at the top of Google Search results. They “raise potentially more concerns,” ruled Judge Camila Cabral Pires Alves, “as they may more profoundly alter the economic function of the interface and expand the ability to retain attention within the platform's own environment.”

CADE will now investigate whether Google should be sanctioned for “alleged abusive exploitation of a dominant position, in light of the technological evolution of the conduct.” While there is perhaps a greater global appetite to regulate the impacts of AI – even the Trump administration has recently acknowledged that some oversight may be necessary – the CADE judges have been under considerable pressure from Big Tech executives to stop investigations into how their control of the market harms Brazilian businesses. 

For those of us who have reported on Big Tech, this aggressive lobbying is not surprising. Companies like Google, Meta, Twitter, TikTok, Amazon, and Microsoft have long attempted to interfere in any decision or legislation that can harm their interests in Latin America. According to a joint investigation by journalists across 13 countries, Big Tech lobbyists got away with convincing legislators in Colombia to weaken a rule meant to protect children’s mental health and prevent enforcement of privacy regulations in Ecuador. It took a team of over 40 journalists from 13 countries to uncover this while reporting on the ‘Big Tech Lobby’ in the continent and across the world.   

Threats by the U.S. government to retaliate against any country or international entity that sought to regulate Big Tech added another layer to an already complicated and uneven relationship with Silicon Valley. “Digital Taxes, Digital Services Legislation, and Digital Markets Regulations are all designed to harm, or discriminate against, American Technology,” wrote Donald Trump on social media. “Show respect to America and our amazing Tech Companies or consider the consequences!” During the past year, Trump’s envoys have forced dozens of governments around the world to dilute or even shelve regulation in exchange for lifting tariffs. 

In “Big Tech’s Invisible Hands,” which I coordinated alongside Maria Teresa Ronderos, from CLIP (Centro Latinoamericano de Investigación Periodistica), journalists mapped a total of 75 executives that were part of “public policy” or “government relations” teams in Brazil. Tech companies utilized a “revolving door” in which public sector employees could go straight into highly paid jobs leveraging their contacts and influence. Doors opened more easily. Invitations to hangouts and events were more likely to be accepted. 

Lobbying in Brazil is dialed up to eleven. The country has 163 million internet users, with over 150 million on WhatsApp, and over 120 million on YouTube, Instagram and Facebook. With AI, Brazil is a similarly large, influential market. Portuguese is the sixth most widely-spoken language in the world, with 70% of speakers based in Brazil. Which means that, if an LLM has been trained in this language, it probably used content created by millions of Brazilians going about their business of making friends, debating politics and football online. It’s not just about journalists; we are all unpaid labor for Big Tech. 

In the words of Arthur Lira, the Speaker in Brazil’s Congress who filed a criminal complaint against Big Tech executives in 2023, companies adopted a variety of tactics “to shut down democratic debate and intimidate lawmakers” and defeat any attempt at using legislation to force accountability. Google, he said, used its search homepage, used by over 85% of Brazilians, to spread fear that proposed laws would “make the internet worse” or “make it harder to know what is true or false on the internet.” A report by the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro found that Google invested in ads on its own platform so extensively that it tweaked the search, prominently featuring the word “censorship” in connection to the Brazilian bill. Google also hired Michael Temer, a lawyer and former President of Brazil, to influence lawmakers and Supreme Court Justices. Of course, it was not Google alone. Meta executives, for instance, even argued that proposed legislation in Brazil could lead to the Bible being censored.

But Brazilian lawmakers, the Supreme Court, and civil society have persisted. On August 28, 2025, the “Felca Law” was approved, after a video by the influencer Felca denounced the exploitation and exposure of children on social media. The law establishes that digital platforms must take measures like verifying user age, implementing parental controls, and preventing children's exposure to adult content, gambling, and pornography. They must create reporting channels and may face fines of up to 10% of their annual revenue in Brazil.

Brazil’s president Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva and Donald Trump have had a testy relationship, in part because of Lula’s criticism of Big Tech. In February, at the AI Impact Summit in New Delhi, Lula called for global governance of AI, warning: “When few control the algorithms, it is not innovation, but domination. Regulating the so-called Big Tech companies is linked to the imperative of safeguarding human rights in the digital sphere, promoting information integrity, and protecting our countries’ creative industries.”

By sticking to his guns, Lula may now be seeing the tide turn. He was in the White House on May 7, and though neither he nor Trump took questions, both appeared encouraged by the meeting. “Very dynamic,” was how Trump described Lula, while Lula said he was “very, very satisfied” with how the talks went. With a general election in Brazil approaching in October, Lula will be sensitive to how the White House, as it has done in other elections, and Big Tech might offer vocal support for right wing candidates.

But his willingness to stand up to Big Tech is popular with voters. A recent poll found that 78% of Brazilians want to see tech companies being held responsible for the content they publish. Another poll found that 55% of Brazilians defend regulating Big Tech, with 43.9% against it. 

And as scams, fake news, and AI slop dominate ever larger swathes of all our digital space, in Brazil, as in much of the rest of the world, the entire experience of the internet is becoming more unappealing. Big Tech, with the assistance of the U.S. government, may be succeeding in slowing down the pace of regulation and watering down the content of that regulation, but in the long run its victories might be pyrrhic. People have had enough and their governments might be forced to listen.

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