Last March on Instagram, Students for Life President Kristan Hawkins posted a photo showing her and two other members of the Virginia-based group standing outside Space Center Houston. According to the captions, Hawkins and her fellow activists, one of whom was holding a mobile phone, were "ordering abortion pills undercover."

A lawsuit filed last week in Harris County, which includes Houston, describes that Instagram post as "nothing more than a publicity stunt." The lawsuit, which aims to deploy a Texas abortion law championed by Students for Life against the organization, is also a publicity stunt. But while it may be effective by that measure, it faces legal challenges that will be hard to overcome.

The lawsuit, which a Texas woman who opposes her state's abortion ban filed under the pseudonym Maria Puerto with help from the reproductive rights group Amplify Legal, is supposed to highlight the vagueness and broad scope of House Bill 7, a 2025 law that authorizes private civil action to enforce state restrictions on "abortion-inducing" drugs. But Puerto's attempted act of legal jiu-jitsu seems too clever by half, relying on a dubious reading of the statute to seek "monetary compensation" it does not authorize and thereby punish anti-abortion activists for constitutionally protected advocacy.

H.B. 7, also known as the Woman and Child Protection Act, says "a person may not manufacture or distribute an abortion-inducing drug in this state" or "mail, transport, deliver, prescribe, or provide an abortion-inducing drug in any manner to or from any person or location in this state." Those prohibitions, it says, "may be enforced only through a qui tam action" against a "person" who "violates" or "intends to violate" them.

Any "person" other than a state or local official can qualify as a "relator" authorized to bring such an action. The relator can seek injunctive relief and "an amount of not less than $100,000 for each violation," plus "costs and reasonable attorney's fees." A successful relator generally receives $10,000 of that "amount," with the rest going to a "charitable organization" of his choice.

As a "person" who is not a government official, Puerto meets H.B. 7's minimal test for standing. And although H.B. 7 precludes lawsuits against pregnant women who obtain "an abortion-inducing drug," Puerto says Hawkins and the other activists "are not pregnant and were not pregnant" at the time of the Instagram post. So far, so good. But although the lawsuit asserts that Hawkins et al. "openly and flagrantly violated" the law's prohibitions, it does not explain how.

A photo accompanying a recent Mother Jones profile of Hawkins shows her and her social media coordinator, Lydia Taylor Davis, outside Space Center Houston during their "abortion-pill 'sting' stunt." Another Mother Jones photo shows Hawkins holding a mobile phone displaying what Puerto's lawsuit describes as "an order confirmation."

Judging from the Mother Jones account, it is not clear whether that description is accurate. "The scheme rapidly went off the rails," Amy Littlefield writes. "The plan was to purchase pills from a couple of services, with Hawkins posing as a male abuser while Davis pretended to be a 16-year-old—all to try to portray mail-order suppliers as reckless and dangerous. For reasons even she couldn't explain, Hawkins chose the fake name 'Wanda' as her male-abuser alter ego. But when Davis input her information, she hit a snag."

Davis was trying to order pills from the Massachusetts Medication Abortion Access Project. But according to Littlefield, that organization "had blocked Davis in its system after Students for Life teased the sting operation on social media." Hawkins "attempted to save the stunt by placing her own order, but 'Wanda' accidentally gave her age as 15," which was below the supplier's minimum age, Littlefield says. "Now a security guard was wandering over to tell them they couldn't film. Having set out to show that telemedicine services don't screen their clients, they inadvertently proved the opposite."

Puerto "will need proof that the Students for Life leaders actually obtained or intended to obtain the pills," abortion law scholar Mary Ziegler notes in Slate. "The activists may argue that the post was not in earnest, and that no one involved ever seriously intended to bring pills into Texas."

Even assuming that Hawkins et al. successfully ordered abortion pills, that conduct by itself does not fit the language of H.B. 7, which applies to people who "distribute" such drugs or who "mail, transport, deliver, prescribe, or provide" them "to or from any person or location in this state." That language encompasses out-of-state suppliers, which raises obvious concerns about extraterritorial application of Texas law. But on its face, the prohibition does not cover someone who simply orders abortion pills.

Puerto's lawyer, Amplify Legal attorney Molly Duane, argues that Hawkins et al. could be covered by the statute's reference to transportation. "What the statute says is that transporting abortion drugs from one location to another within the state is a violation of H.B. 7," Duane told The Texas Tribune. "By the plain language of the statute, this would seem to be a violation. This is the problem with writing such a confusing and vague law."

Under that theory, however, Hawkins, Davis, and the two other activists named in the lawsuit violated H.B. 7 only if they 1) successfully ordered abortion pills, 2) took delivery of them, and 3) subsequently moved them to another location within Texas. The lawsuit alleges only that they "ordered abortion pills, apparently multiple times." According to The Texas Tribune, Duane and Puerto "are hoping that the lawsuit will eventually surface more about what the defendants did with the abortion pills once they ordered them."

The lawsuit faces another obstacle. H.B. 7 does not apply to "speech or conduct protected by the First Amendment." Hawkins et al.'s efforts to show how easily state abortion bans can be circumvented certainly seem to fall into that category. "Students for Life may stress that the case targets their political speech about abortion," which is "protected under the First Amendment," Ziegler notes.

Those are not the only puzzling aspects of the lawsuit. Puerto, a 26-year-old single mother of two young children, emphasizes that she "had no choice but to continue" those pregnancies because she did not "have access to transportation or the economic resources to pay for travel out of state." The lawsuit devotes 11 paragraphs to describing the burdens imposed by her state's denial of "true reproductive rights," which she argues justifies some sort of compensation.

All of this seems legally irrelevant under H.B. 7, which does not require a relator to allege damages of any sort, let alone damages stemming from the abortion ban it aims to reinforce. "With nowhere else to turn for assistance," the lawsuit says, "Ms. Puerto is seeking financial compensation" from Hawkins et al. "in the amount of $459,782—the average cost of raising two children from birth to age 18 in the state of Texas."

Although H.B. 7 sets a minimum award of $100,000, the lawsuit notes, "there is no cap on the monetary compensation owed a relator." But the law does not describe H.B. 7 awards as "monetary compensation" for injuries allegedly suffered by the relator.

The statute's only reference to "compensatory damages" deals with lawsuits filed against H.B. 7 relators under "clawback provisions" of other states that have tried to thwart such litigation. In response to a "clawback" action, the law says, an H.B. 7 relator can seek "compensatory damages, including money damages in an amount equal to the judgment damages and costs, expenses, and reasonable attorney's fees spent in defending the action." By contrast, the bounty for proving a violation of the restrictions on abortion pills is simply "an amount."

The lawsuit itself, emphasizing the lax standards for filing a claim under H.B. 7, notes that Puerto "did not suffer an injury traceable to [the defendants'] ordering of abortion pills that can be remedied by a court." But it suggests that an award to Puerto would be appropriate given the defendants' anti-abortion activism.

The lawsuit notes that Students for Life "proudly advertised" its support for H.B. 7. Puerto complains that Hawkins et al. "ignore the immense harms and multiple deaths already attributed to Texas's cruel abortion bans" and "demean the six million Texans of reproductive age who have had their ability to decide whether and when to begin or expand a family stripped away by these bans." Whatever you make of that charge, the defendants' activism is constitutionally protected and therefore cannot support a cause of action in civil court.

"Texas is a strange place filled with vigilante statutes" that "seek to turn Texans against each other," Duane told The Texas Tribune. "But if anyone should be benefiting from these legal regimes, it's people like our client." While "putting those two things together…might be unusual," she said, "this is the situation that Texas has put its citizens in."

Depending on your perspective, you may or may not sympathize with Duane's reasoning. But it seems unlikely to pass muster as a matter of law.

The post A Texas Lawsuit Dubiously Accuses Students for Life of Violating the State's Abortion Pill Restrictions appeared first on Reason Magazine.

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.