20 Aug 2025 | Africa, News, Nigeria, Volume 54.02 Summer 2025
This article first appeared in Volume 54, Issue 2 of our print edition of Index on Censorship, titled Land of the Free?: Trump’s war on speech at home and abroad, published on 21 July 2025. Read more about the issue here.
The air in Lagos hung thick like wet wool, heat rising off the asphalt in visible waves that curled into the sky. Ushie Uguamaye, a 24-year-old National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) member, pressed “record” on her phone, with sweat forming on her forehead and frustration bubbling in her chest.
It was 16 March. She had just left a supermarket and the maths wasn’t adding up. Prices had soared again and her NYSC allowance had evaporated before the month was halfway through. So, like millions of young Nigerians do when the country feels unbearable, she turned to TikTok. No script. No make-up. Just rage.
“Tinubu is a terrible president,” she said – her voice cracking not from fear but from exhaustion.
The video was raw, honest and wildly relatable. It caught fire across TikTok, spiralling into threads, stitches and duets. But it wasn’t just likes and solidarity that followed. Within 24 hours, she had reportedly received threatening calls from NYSC officials. They wanted the video gone.
In the space of a day, a plaintive cry from a weary citizen morphed into a national inflection point. Uguamaye’s unscripted online lament, uttered in a moment of economic despair, crystallised into something far more combustible: a challenge to authority. Her words became a litmus test for the boundaries of dissent in a fragile democracy.
In the aftermath of this impassioned viral video, a ripple of digital dissent surged across Nigerian social media. Her raw expression of frustration kickstarted the #30DaysRantChallenge movement. People congregated online to voice their grievances, from escalating food prices to the erosion of civil liberties. Each post served as both catharsis and indictment, painting a mosaic of a nation grappling with systemic malaise.
Parallel with this, another incident illuminated the tensions between free expression and institutional authority.
During a public event in the southern state of Delta, a group of nursing students responded to an MC’s introduction of the First Lady, Senator Oluremi Tinubu, as “our mother” with the chant: “Na your mama be this?” This spontaneous expression, which was captured and disseminated widely on TikTok, was perceived by many as a subtle rebuke of the administration and a rejection of the First Lady by implying “your mother, not our mother”. The students – particularly the one who posted the video – faced a swift backlash, and had to deliver clarifications and apologies to mitigate potential repercussions.
In a society where traditional avenues for dissent are often fraught with peril, social media emerges as both a sanctuary and a battleground. Yet, as these cases show, the state’s vigilant gaze ensures that even online expression is not beyond reproach.
A legacy of silencing dissent
These digital expressions of frustration are not isolated incidents but rather the latest chapters in Nigeria’s long history of suppressing dissent. From colonial times to the present day, the state’s response to protest has often been marked by repression and violence.
In 1929, the Aba Women’s Riot saw thousands of Igbo women protest against colonial taxation policies. They were met with brutal force by the British authorities, resulting in many deaths. Fast forward to the 1990s, when Nigeria was under a military dictatorship. The execution of environmental activist Ken Saro-Wiwa and eight others for protesting against oil exploitation in the Niger Delta highlighted the regime’s intolerance for dissent and drew international condemnation.
A return to civilian rule in 1999 did not significantly alter this pattern. The 2012 Occupy Nigeria protests against fuel subsidy removal were met with arrests and the use of force. More recently, the 2020 #EndSARS movement, which began as a protest against police brutality, culminated in the Lekki Toll Gate shooting, where security forces opened fire on peaceful demonstrators.
These events are still fresh in the mind of 18-year-old TikTok comedian President Shaks when he is creating content. “I am always really careful with what I post so I haven’t been threatened,” he told Index.
His caution isn’t paranoia but memory. The events of 2020, the blood-stained flags and silenced chants, still haunt Nigeria’s digital resistance.
“A lot of people died trying to protest for a better Nigeria,” said Shaks.
With the streets deemed too dangerous, TikTok and other platforms have become the last refuge for dissent. But voicing dissent online can also come with significant personal risk.
“Even social media isn’t safe,” he added. “They can still come and arrest you in your house if you do too much. Allegedly o.” He adds the “o” at the end of his sentence to emphasise his point.
The global precedent of online censorship
In the evolving landscape of digital governance, the USA has set a precedent that reverberates far beyond its borders. Its government’s actions concerning TikTok have provided a framework that other nations, including Nigeria, have observed and emulated.
In August 2020, during his first term as president, Donald Trump issued Executive Order 13942, citing national security concerns over TikTok’s Chinese ownership. The order aimed to prohibit transactions with ByteDance, TikTok’s parent company, unless it divested its US operations. The administration argued that TikTok could be used by the Chinese government to collect data on American citizens or spread propaganda.
Joe Biden’s administration continued this scrutiny. In April 2024, he signed into law a bill requiring ByteDance to divest TikTok or face a ban. ByteDance was given nine months to find a US-approved buyer or the app would be shut down across the USA.
The administration contended that China’s control of TikTok through ByteDance represented a grave threat to national security. While the ban technically came into effect in January, Trump, now in his second presidential term, has so far granted TikTok two 75-day extensions to comply.
These actions have not gone unnoticed globally. In June 2021, Nigeria suspended the operations of X (then Twitter) after the platform deleted a tweet by the then president, Muhammadu Buhari. The government said there had been “a litany of problems” with the platform, including the spread of “fake news” leading to “real-world violent consequences”, and that it was being used to undermine “Nigeria’s corporate existence”.
Nigeria’s move to ban Twitter based on national security concerns mirrored the USA’s rationale for scrutinising TikTok, suggesting that the USA’s approach to online regulation has influenced other nations and provided a blueprint for justifying restrictions on digital expression.
Shaks is concerned that bans could happen on other platforms. “They’ve done it before with X, and TikTok is no different,” he said.
The interplay between national security and freedom of expression continues to be a contentious issue, with the potential to redefine the boundaries of digital discourse – and the actions of influential countries play a pivotal role in shaping global norms.
Comic relief or subversive speech?
In Nigeria, where protest is perilous and grief must be masked, humour has become both the shield and the weapon. In the era of TikTok, where the audience is vast and the state is watching, laughter is no longer just a reprieve but an act of calculated defiance.
“There is a line, ‘cause with the way things are in the country they can arrest you if you do too much,” said Shaks. “That’s why ‘allegedly’ is something people say 100 times to avoid those types of situations when speaking about politics or the state of the country.”
He says his satire is born out of necessity. For him, humour isn’t just creative flair – it’s strategy and survival.
“It started as a way to make such a heavy topic more approachable,” he said. “When you use humour, it feels less like a lecture and more like a conversation.”
Over time, he found that comedy allowed him to “point out the absurdities of corruption” in ways that resonated with audiences. But beneath the punchlines lies a deeper truth: “It’s a coping mechanism. Nigerians use laughter to cover up the fact that we’re going through a lot.”
While he is sceptical about whether online content creation can change things – “the protest in 2020 didn’t change anything” – he continues to post, joke and poke gently at power. His audience, he said, hasn’t turned on him. “Any time I make a joke about politics, I make it as subtle as possible. I don’t do too much, so I have never [had] a negative reaction from the public.”
But in this fragile republic, where truth is dangerous and silence is coerced, even a TikTok skit carries weight. Laughter, after all, is harmless only when the state says it is.
19 Aug 2025 | Europe and Central Asia, News, Scotland, United Kingdom
The head librarian at the National Library of Scotland in Edinburgh most likely didn’t anticipate that a public call to nominate favourite Scottish books for the institution’s 100th anniversary would ignite a national controversy. But when The Women Who Wouldn’t Wheesht, a collection of essays by feminist writers including JK Rowling and former MP Joanna Cherry, was voted into the top 200, it sparked a long, fierce internal debate.
The book, which critiques gender self-ID reforms brought forward by Nicola Sturgeon’s government, is polarising. For some, it represents a defence of women’s rights; for others, it feels like a rejection of trans identities and a challenge to the legitimacy of their lived experience.
Faced with this tension, Amina Shah, the National Librarian, sought an equality impact assessment. The advice was mixed. Including the book might lead to protests from LGBTQ+ staff and allies. Excluding it could be perceived as censorship. Concerns had been raised by LGBT+ staff network about the book’s inclusion, and in consultation with the chair of the library’s board Drummond Bone, Shah ultimately decided the book would not be included in the display.
That could have been the end of it. But an FOI request filed by the book’s editors brought the decision-making process into public view and turned a quiet decision into a news story.
Much of the subsequent debate has turned on language. Some headlines have referred to The Women Who Wouldn’t Wheesht as a “banned book” – a claim others have taken issue with. After all, the National Library of Scotland has said the book is still available in its open reading room. Others have wrongly claimed it was removed after the exhibition began in June, rather than not being part of the display to begin with.
In this kind of charged environment, misinformation spreads quickly. So let’s be clear: the public was invited to select Scottish books for the Dear Library exhibition, created to mark the centenary. Apparently 523 books were nominated and the 200 that received the most nominations would make the main display. The Women Who Wouldn’t Wheesht made the cut with four votes. It was the only title (as far as we know) excluded from the display after qualifying. That’s not an impartial act of curation. It’s a deliberate exception. And exceptions based on viewpoint deserve scrutiny.
At Index, we’ve just reprised our role as the UK lead for Banned Books Week. We don’t champion books because we always agree with them, or even because we find them palatable. We champion them because books must be a space where ideas – even deeply uncomfortable ones – can be explored.
In recent years, we’ve seen how frequently books on LGBTQ+ themes are targeted for removal, particularly in the United States. In the UK, too, we’ve seen troubling signs: last month a Reform MP urged libraries in Kent to remove books on trans issues. We called it out. In that case, as here, defenders said it wasn’t censorship – the books were still available, just not in the spotlight.
Curation is never neutral. What gets displayed, what doesn’t, what is “safe” enough to be seen, these are all decisions that shape the cultural landscape. These decisions matter. A book moved from the front shelf to the back is a signal.
Some say the book in question promotes “hate”. They’re entitled to that view and indeed entitled to protest its inclusion. It’s also important to acknowledge that for many LGBTQ+ readers and staff, this isn’t just a political disagreement. It’s personal and painful. In a liberal democracy though, even speech that offends or unsettles us deserves protection, especially in books, where the whole point is to wrestle with complex, often conflicting, ideas. Books that are deemed “dangerous” or “offensive” have always existed. Many are now considered classics. Others remain debated. In all cases, open dialogue – not quiet removal – is the better path forward.
Ironically, the decision to exclude the book has only amplified its reach. In what some are calling a classic case of the Streisand Effect, sales have surged on Amazon. People are talking about it more than they ever would have otherwise.
And now, the consequences have broadened. One of the exhibition’s funders is reportedly unhappy. There’s speculation that Shah could face professional consequences. That, too, would be a mistake. This is, after all, a very fraught space. Shah was clearly trying to do, with the backing of her chair, what she thought was right, balancing the concerns of staff, readers and the broader public. She was between a rock and a hard place, a damned if do, damned if don’t situation. Instead of continuing with the message that you can face professional risks either way, we should be asking how we can hold space for difficult conversations, without silencing people on either side. Because this isn’t just about one book, or one exhibition. It’s about a moment in which institutions are being pushed and pulled by opposing forces, and trying, often imperfectly, to chart a course through it all.
Ultimately, we need space for discomfort, for disagreement, and above all, for empathy. That’s how democracies grow – not by hiding books away, but by reading them, debating them and understanding why they matter.
18 Aug 2025 | Europe and Central Asia, Israel, News, Newsletters, Palestine, United Kingdom
Cultural boycotts are no simple matter, as the Boardmasters surfing and music festival in Cornwall discovered this summer.
Traditionally one of the fixed points of the post-exam season, this year the organisers faced the knotty decision of whether or not to cancel the controversial act, Bob Vylan. The pro-Palestinian punk provocateurs had already caused a media storm (and embarrassment for the BBC) after the band’s frontman, who confusingly uses the stage name Bobby Vylan (the drummer is Bobbie Vylan), called on the crowd at Glastonbury to join him in a chant of “death, death to the IDF”, a reference to the Israeli Defence Forces.
In the run-up to the festival, which took place in early August, Jewish campaigners had called on the organisers to cancel the band’s appearance, as other festivals have done. Where this gets complicated is that Boardmasters is owned by Superstruct Entertainment, which was acquired last year by investment company KKR.
Now, apart from operating more than 80 festivals across the world, KKR also invests in Israeli tech, which makes it a prime target for the anti-Zionist Boycott, Divestment, Sanction (BDS) movement.
So, while Bob Vylan were preparing to go onstage in Newquay to express their solidarity with the Palestinian people, others were flexing their anti-Zionist credentials by boycotting the festival altogether. Bristol band The Menstrual Cramps objected, among other things, to Israeli surfers taking part in the festival: “We believe in a cultural boycott of Israel, which means not spotlighting Israelis at a festival during a genocide.”
UK garage DJ Conducta also pulled out, citing KKR’s “direct investments in weapons manufacturers and financial ties to the state of Israel.” American act The Blessed Madonna pulled out after being asked to sign a “shop-stop” agreement to restrict political messaging. “I ain’t signing shit. Free Palestine,” she said.
The boycotts went ahead despite Boardmasters issuing a statement distancing themselves from its investors: “We don’t support or align with investments or actions that contradict our core values of fairness, integrity, inclusivity, and excellence. Our integrity is not for sale.” Boardmasters claimed it had proved its anti-Zionist credentials by refusing to cancel Bob Vylan.
The culture wars also hit the Edinburgh Fringe this year when Jewish comedians Philip Simon and Rachel Creagar had their shows cancelled over staff safety fears following the appearance pro-Palestinian graffiti at the venue Whistle Binkies. Alternative venues were later found but not before UK Lawyers for Israel, an organisation which uses legal means to campaign for the removal of any material it considers to be “anti-Israel”, described the cancellations as “a racist move that echoes 1930s Nazi Germany”.
The festival later ran into trouble over an interview with the Deputy First Minister of Scotland, Kate Forbes, who has strongly held “gender-critical” views based on her Christian faith. The venue, Summerhall, later issued a statement saying Forbes’s appearance had been an “oversight,” and she would not be invited to speak at future events. They claimed the presence of the Scottish politician affected staff safety and wellbeing.
The issue is not restricted to UK festivals. The Toronto International Film Festival pulled the Canadian film The Road Between Us: The Ultimate Rescue, about the Hamas attacks of 7 October 2023 over concerns about clearance of footage taken by the terrorists. Again, staff safety was invoked in the justification of the decision. After an international outcry, the festival issued an apology and reinstated the film in the programme.
Each of these examples demonstrates a deep confusion on the part of festival organisers about what these cultural events are actually for.
Boardmasters ended up in the absurd position of parading its support for free expression of a band that called for the death of Israeli soldiers. Meanwhile, the Edinburgh venues failed to understand that genuine cultural diversity includes people with whom we disagree. At their best, festivals should be places where people have their prejudices challenged not reinforced.
18 Aug 2025 | Americas, Europe and Central Asia, News, Russia, Ukraine, United States, Volume 54.02 Summer 2025
This article first appeared in Volume 54, Issue 2 of our print edition of Index on Censorship, titled Land of the Free?: Trump’s war on speech at home and abroad, published on 21 July 2025. Read more about the issue here.
In April 2022, two months after the invasion of Ukraine, a bill designating the USA as “the main enemy of the Russian Federation” was submitted by several deputies of the Russian Duma (the lower house of the Russian parliament). It was political scientist Ekaterina Schulmann – deemed to be a foreign agent by the Russian authorities – who told Index about this “strange bill”, as she described it. It was meant to amend the law on countermeasures in response to hostile acts by foreign states, which was passed in 2018.
In July 2024 – four months prior to US president Donald Trump’s election victory – six of the seven deputies who had submitted the bill withdrew their signatures.
“Usually this happens when [legislators] realise that their initiative is not going to pass, or that the timing is bad – or that it is politically risky,” Schulmann said.
It seems that the deputies got wind that “the outcome of the election would be such that the US would no longer be [Russia’s] foe – but a friend, if not the best friend”, she added.
In April 2025, the Council of the Duma, an organisational body within parliament, suggested dismissing the bill.
“The political situation changed – and the [bill’s] initiators were nowhere to be found,” said Schulmann.
Trump and the Russian narrative
The re-election of Trump was also pivotal in shaping the Kremlin’s rhetoric. In July 2022, Dmitry Kiselyov, host of Russian political show Vesti Nedeli (News of the Week), dedicated a whole segment to then US president Joe Biden’s poor health, speaking of his “cognitive problems”, according to independent news outlet Verstka.
And in February 2025, the host praised the new US president, saying: “Putin perceives in Trump his own quality – restraint.”
Vladimir Putin himself called Trump a “courageous man” after his victory. As for Trump, he publicly refused to call the Russian president a dictator (he had said Putin was “genius” and “savvy” on other occasions).
What’s more, Trump seems to be repeating the Kremlin’s claims about Ukraine’s responsibility for the aggression. “You don’t start a war against someone 20 times your size and then hope that people give you some missiles,” he said in April.
And when he called Ukraine president Volodymyr Zelenskyy a “dictator without elections” in February, he was echoing rhetoric from the Kremlin.
Trump’s criticism of the Ukrainian government is, in turn, used in Russian propaganda, which brainwashes people into supporting Putin’s politics. For example, in February, Kiselyov called Zelenskyy “a mediocre comedian”, according to Verstka, which mirrored Trump’s words about him being “a modestly successful comedian”. Kiselyov reportedly said that Trump “tolerated Zelenskyy for a long time, but now his disgust is obvious”.
Not only does Trump give credit to Putin’s official narrative but, since he took office, the White House has been debating lifting sanctions on Russian organisations and oligarchs, according to Reuters.
In an interview with the independent media outlet Zhivoy Gvozd in April, 83-year-old dissident-in-exile Lev Ponomaryov said that if the sanctions on the Kremlin’s officials were lifted during peace talks, it would allow for the “semi-fascist” regime to remain in place after the war ended. In fact, he is worried that the repression “will only become more severe” when the war is over, because Putin will need to reinforce his position domestically.
An end to Russia’s pariah status?
Talking to Index from Russia, independent politician Dmitriy Kisiev said that, for him, “it’s hard to imagine things getting worse” than they are today. He was the head of the team which stood behind the campaign of Boris Nadezhdin, the pro-peace candidate barred from running in the presidential election in March 2024.
According to Kisiev – and he admitted this might sound surprising – Trump’s presidency could ultimately benefit Russian civil society. He argued that Trump established “some sort of dialogue” with the Kremlin, which could eventually result in Russia becoming more integrated with the rest of the world. In that case, its civil society would be “freer and more protected”. He is concerned about Russia potentially “heading in the wrong direction”, like North Korea, which he described as “a very closed country and a totalitarian state”.
He used the example of Western companies, the majority of which left Russia at the beginning of the war. Their presence acted “as a kind of limiting factor” on the government and helped to deter the creation of overly harsh laws or regulations. This also applied to student exchange programmes and international tourism, which are no longer there either, he said.
Kisiev added that when Trump began talking about peace, speaking about it became safer in Russia. Whereas previously “peace politics” were supported by less than half the population, “today it feels as though more people are for peace”.
In a recent survey by the independent Levada Centre, more than half the respondents said they were in favour of peace talks. The number of people who believed peace negotiations “should definitely begin” (30%) has never been higher. The survey was conducted with 1,617 adults across Russia.
Kisiev underlined that Trump brought hope for peace to people in the face of despair. The pro-peace stance being voiced by more people, he said, could eventually lead to the end of the “special military operation” in Ukraine. When that happens, he believes Russia could evolve in a more “humanistic direction”.
“Some laws would be revised as there would be no more need for such harsh punishments,” he said, referring to legislation passed when the war began – the censorship law which criminalises “discreditation” of the Russian armed forces.
He tries to remain optimistic, saying that if he didn’t believe things could change for the better then he wouldn’t be taking the risk of being an opposition politician in Russia today.
When asked whether Russia’s repressive legislation could be amended or even abolished if the war ends, political scientist Schulmann said the Russian state system was “flexible”, which is “one of the main features of modern autocracies, [making] them different from the totalitarian systems of the 20th century”.
“They are the ones setting the norms,” she said. “A change in the political context can result in changes in the legislation … even though I don’t think that the system would want to get rid of such a convenient instrument as the war censorship law.”
Faint hopes for peace
An independent parliamentary deputy from Moscow, who requested anonymity, spoke to Index about the “faint hope” for peace raised by Trump, echoing Kisiev. But, alluding to the difficult peace negotiations, he said it was “hope which rises and falls, again and again”.
He highlighted that it was not only the public and the opposition in Russia who were fatigued by the war but also deputies from the Kremlin’s United Russia party.
He hopes that a peace agreement would allow his country to “go back in time to a more democratic era”.
But he said that repression remained as severe as it was at the beginning of the war and pro-democracy movements were still being crushed.
One recent example was the request by the Ministry of Justice to liquidate opposition party Grazhdanskaya Initsiativa (Civic Initiative) in May.
The same month, Grigory Melkonyants, co-founder of the election watchdog Golos (Voice), was sentenced to five years in prison after he was found guilty of working for an “undesirable organisation”.
Meanwhile, Trump’s politics continue to affect Russian refugees and opposition movements abroad.
Index spoke to LGBTQ+ activist Nadezhda Shchetinina, who fled Russia for the USA after the LGBTQ+ movement was labelled extremist in November 2023. “Since Trump took office, the [Customs and Border Protection] programme that allowed me to get to the United States safely is no longer operating,” she said.
Trump’s war on immigration and international aid
The second Trump administration has implemented harsh anti-immigration policies. One of its executive orders states that admitting refugees is now considered “detrimental” to US national interests.
Shchetinina said that Russians arriving in the USA have not been welcomed, especially since the invasion of Ukraine. And with Trump as president, “there is less hope that this situation will improve”.
“Everything is being done to prevent Russian political refugees from getting here, even though we have every right to [seek political refuge],” she said.
Many Russian immigrants – including those who have fled to the USA for political reasons – are kept in detention centres, she added. People are deported back to Russia despite the risks of being arrested as soon as they cross the border.
On top of this, the Trump administration has tried to dismantle multiple pro-democratic media outlets through funding cuts, such as Voice of America and Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty, which are funded by the federal government. These outlets historically broadcast to countries behind the Iron Curtain during the Cold War. Since then, they have continued reaching and covering authoritarian states, including Russia, countering state propaganda. Although some funding for these media outlets has been restored, their future is bleak under Trump amid his administration’s attacks, cuts to services and the resulting mass staff layoffs.
The president’s shuttering of the United States Agency for International Development (USAID) also severely affects campaign groups, NGOs and independent media that oppose Putin abroad. Those impacted include Kovcheg (The Ark), which supports Russians who have fled because of their anti-war position; international human rights organisation Memorial; and also Golos, whose co-founder was jailed in May.
The human rights non-profit Free Russia Foundation has also had its funding heavily impacted, according to independent media outlet Meduza. Founded in the USA in 2014, FRF supports Russian political prisoners, refugees and civil society.
In 2024, it was labelled an “extremist organisation” by the Russian government. Its vice-president – dissident and former political prisoner Vladimir Kara-Murza – was released in the prisoner swap between Russia and the West in 2024. He became one of the key figures of Russian opposition abroad. In his speech in April at the opening of an exhibition in Paris dedicated to Russian political prisoners, Faces of Russian Resistance, he stressed that discussions between Trump and Putin had centred on economic issues rather than human rights.
“We hear [Trump and Putin] talk about minerals, [frozen] assets; American businesses coming back to Russia; direct flights – anything but the people,” he said.
He stressed the importance of releasing hostages of war, including children kidnapped in occupied Ukraine, and Russian political prisoners. “The only reason they [political prisoners] are imprisoned is that they spoke against this criminal war,” he said.
Olga Romanova, director of civil rights organisation Russia Behind Bars, recently said in an interview that Trump was not concerned about Russian political prisoners – including minors.
Dozens of teenagers have been imprisoned for their anti-war actions or words, such as 16-year-old Arseny Turbin, who was sentenced to five years in a correctional colony for “participation in a terrorist organisation”.
In May, Ukraine and Russia exchanged 1,000 prisoners of war each. But Russia’s commissioner for human rights, Tatyana Moskalkova – a key interlocutor in the swaps – does not work with independent human rights defenders, few of whom are still in Russia, Ponomaryov told Zhivoy Gvozd.
Moskalkova has also promoted the Kremlin’s narratives – including that the Russian armed forces are “successfully fighting neo-Nazism” – and has rejected the term “political prisoners”.
The USA on the global stage
Ponomaryov and other members of the Council of Russian Human Rights Defenders wrote an appeal in April, highlighting that human rights are not being prioritised in the current peace talks. Recognising human rights as “the necessary condition” for world peace and security was an important breakthrough of the post-World War II era, the appeal reads, referring to the UN’s Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
The statement acknowledges how the USA has played a key role in this “movement towards progress”. But today, Ponomaryov says, “the US no longer sets an example for democracy, human rights and so on – and that is a catastrophe for the entire world”.
The Trump administration has created chaos for Russians opposing Putin abroad and reinforced the Russian leader’s position at home. At the same time, Trump’s relationship with Putin has raised a faint hope for peace.
But, even if the war ends it might not lead to the loosening of the Kremlin’s iron grip. As the human rights defenders’ appeal stresses, an unjust peace would “give a green light” to further aggression – and to even more repression in Russia.
In the face of this new reality, where the US president aligns with Putin rather than acting as a counterpower to him, there is a need for global unification. As Ponomaryov says, rights defenders across the world must come together around the issue of human rights and “start influencing what’s happening in the world arena”.
