Now the United States could become the latest nation to pass an anti-terror law that will effectively stifle dissent.

Undeterred by a failed attempt earlier this month, the U.S. House of Representatives tried again last week to pass H.R. 9495, a bill that gives the treasury secretary the authority to designate non-profits as “terrorist supporting organizations.” This time, with Donald Trump poised to take office and retribution on his mind, the bill passed. It gives, noted Human Rights Watch, “the executive branch broad and easily abused authority.” 

Gravely titled the “Stop Terror-Financing and Tax Penalties on American Hostages Act,” the bill enjoys broad bipartisan support. No one objects to the parts of the bill that seek to alleviate tax burdens and deadlines on “U.S. nationals who are unlawfully or wrongfully detained abroad or held hostage abroad and their spouses.” Or the “refund and abatement of tax penalties and fines paid by hostages, detained individuals, and their spouses or dependents.”

But, bundled together with its uncontroversial sections, the bill also announces its intent to “terminate the tax-exempt status of terrorist supporting organizations.” How such organizations are designated appears to be entirely up to the treasury secretary who is appointed by the president. According to Human Rights Watch, the bill does not “clearly define” criteria by which organizations can be deemed to be enabling terrorists, nor does it “require the government to provide evidence to support such a decision.” Instead, it requires the nonprofit to prove to the government that it does not support terrorism.

In a letter to the House of Representatives, civil society groups asked why such legislation was necessary when it is already a federal crime for nonprofits to provide “material support to terrorist organizations.” Such a law, the letter argued, would hand the U.S. executive “a tool it could use to curb free speech, censor nonprofit media outlets, target political opponents, and punish disfavored groups across the political spectrum.”

Shoved off the news agenda by the intense speculation and reporting over President-elect Trump’s cabinet picks, the bill has received scanty mainstream media coverage. Its impact, however, could be outsized, particularly on free speech. “A sixth grader would know this is unconstitutional,” said the Democrat Congressman Jamie Raskin as the bill was debated on the House floor. It is, he said, “a werewolf in sheep’s clothing” giving the American president “Orwellian powers and the American not-for-profit sector Kafkaesque nightmares.”    

Democrat Congresswoman Rashida Tlaib said the bill was “part of a broader assault on our civil liberties.” Introduced in the wake of protests on American campuses over the war in Gaza, the bill, Tlaib warned, is not “just about Palestinian human rights advocacy organizations, this is about the NAACP, the ACLU and Planned Parenthood.” It criminalizes social justice organizations, she added, the “folks that have been trying to make it safe for our kids to go to school away from gun crisis and violence.” 

Less than 10 days before the House passed the bill on November 21, it had been voted down, failing to secure the necessary two-thirds majority. Earlier this year in April, a version of the bill gained overwhelming support in the House only to be stalled in the Senate. Now in its third iteration, the bill may yet languish in the upper house of Congress, though most analysts expect it to be brought before Congress again next year if necessary when the Republicans will have a majority in both houses.

Across the globe, legislation aimed at the funding of civil society has had an inevitable chilling effect on dissent. “The misuse of anti-terrorism legislation,” observed the European commissioner for human rights in April, “has become one of the most widespread threats to freedom of expression, including media freedom, in Europe.” Why would the United States, even with its much vaunted protection of free speech, be any different?

The post The tool Donald Trump might use to crush dissent appeared first on Coda Story.

Every morning at about 6:30am I catch the trolley car from my home in downtown San Diego up to the hospital where I work — a place called La Jolla. Southern California isn't known for its public transportation, but I'm the weirdo that takes it — and I like it. It's quick, it's easy, I don't have to pay for parking, it's wonderful. A typical shift is 12 hours and it ends up being 13 by the time you do your report and get all your charting done, so you're there for a very long time. 

Most of the time, I don’t go to work expecting catastrophe — of course it happens once in a while, but usually I’m just going into a normal job, where you do routine stuff.

I work in the neuro-intensive care unit. The majority of our patients have just had neurosurgery for tumors or strokes. It’s not a happy place most of the time. I see a lot of people with long recoveries ahead of them who need to relearn basic skills — how to hold a pencil, how to walk. After a brain injury, you lose those abilities, and it's a long process to get them back. It's not like we do a procedure, fix them, and they go home the next day. We see patients at their worst, but we don't get to see the progress. If we're lucky, we might hear months later that they've made a full recovery. It's an environment where there's not much instant gratification. 

As a nurse, you end up relying on intuition a lot. It's in the way a patient says something, or just a feeling you get from how they look. It’s not something I think machines can do — and yet, in recent years, we’ve seen more and more artificial intelligence creep into our hospitals. 

I get to work at 7am. The hospital I work at looks futuristic from the outside — it’s this high-rise building, all glass and curved lines. It’s won a bunch of architectural awards. The building was financed by Irwin Jacobs, who’s the billionaire owner of Qualcomm, a big San Diego tech company. I think the hospital being owned by a tech billionaire really has a huge amount to do with the way they see technology and the way they dive headfirst into it.

They always want to be on the cutting edge of everything. And so when something new comes out, they're going to jump right on it. I think that's part of why they dive headfirst into this AI thing.  

We didn't call it AI at first. The first thing that happened was these new innovations just crept into our electronic medical record system. They were tools that monitored whether specific steps in patient treatment were being followed. If something was missed or hadn’t been done, the AI would send an alert. It was very primitive, and it was there to stop patients falling through the cracks. 

Then in 2018, the hospital bought a new program from Epic, the electronic medical record company. It predicted something called “patient acuity” — basically the workload each patient requires from their nursing care. It’s a really important measurement we have in nursing, to determine how sick a person is and how many resources they will need. At its most basic level, we just classify patients as low, medium or high need. Before the AI came in, we basically filled in this questionnaire — which would ask things like how many meds a patient needed. Are they IV meds? Are they crushed? Do you have a central line versus a peripheral? That sort of thing. 

This determines whether a patient was low, medium or high-need. And we’d figure out staffing based on that. If you had lots of high-need patients, you needed more staffing. If you had mostly low-need patients, you could get away with fewer. 

We used to answer the questions ourselves and we felt like we had control over it. We felt like we had agency. But one day, it was taken away from us. Instead, they bought this AI-powered program without notifying the unions, nurses, or representatives. They just started using it and sent out an email saying, 'Hey, we're using this now.'

The new program used AI to pull from a patient’s notes, from the charts, and then gave them a special score. It was suddenly just running in the background at the hospital.

The problem was, we had no idea where these numbers were coming from. It felt like magic, but not in a good way. It would spit out a score, like 240, but we didn't know what that meant. There was no clear cutoff for low, medium, or high need, making it functionally useless.

The upshot was, it took away our ability to advocate for patients. We couldn’t point to a score and say, 'This patient is too sick, I need to focus on them alone,' because the numbers didn’t help us make that case anymore. They didn’t tell us if a patient was low, medium, or high need. They just gave patients a seemingly random score that nobody understood, on a scale of one to infinity.

We felt the system was designed to take decision-making power away from nurses at the bedside. Deny us the power to have a say in how much staffing we need. 

That was the first thing.

Then, earlier this year, the hospital got a huge donation from the Jacobs family, and they hired a chief AI officer. When we heard that, alarm bells went off — “they're going all in on AI,” we said to each other. We found out about this Scribe technology that they were rolling out. It’s called Ambient Documentation. They announced they were going to pilot this program with the physicians at our hospital. 

It basically records your encounter with your patient. And then it's like chat GPT or a large language model — it takes everything and just auto populates a note. Or your “documentation.”

There were obvious concerns with this, and the number one thing that people said was, "Oh my god — it's like mass surveillance. They're gonna listen to everything our patients say, everything we do. They're gonna track us.”

This isn't the first time they've tried to track nurses. My hospital hasn’t done this, but there are hospitals around the US that use tracking tags to monitor how many times you go into a room to make sure you're meeting these metrics. It’s as if they don’t trust us to actually care for our patients. 

We leafletted our colleagues to try to educate them on what “Ambient Documentation” actually means. We demanded to meet with the chief AI officer. He downplayed a lot of it, saying, 'No, no, no, we hear you. We're right there with you. We're starting; it’s just a pilot.' A lot of us rolled our eyes.

He said they were adopting the program because of physician burnout. It’s true, documentation is one of the most mundane aspects of a physician's job, and they hate doing it.

The reasoning for bringing in AI tools to monitor patients is always that it will make life easier for us, but in my experience, technology in healthcare rarely makes things better. It usually just speeds up the factory floor, squeezing more out of us, so they can ultimately hire fewer of us. 

“Efficiency” is a buzzword in Silicon Valley, but get it out of your mind when it comes to healthcare. When you're optimizing for efficiency, you're getting rid of redundancies. But when patients' lives are at stake, you actually want redundancy. You want extra slack in the system. You want multiple sets of eyes on a patient in a hospital. 

When you try to reduce everything down to a machine that one person relies on to carry out decisions, then there's only one set of eyes on that patient. That may be efficient, but by creating efficiency, you're also creating a lot of potential points of failure. So, efficiency isn't as efficient as tech bros think it is.

In an ideal world, they believe technology would take away mundane tasks, allowing us to focus on patient encounters instead of spending our time typing behind a computer. 

But who thinks recording everything a patient says and storing it on a third-party server is a good idea? That’s crazy. I’d need assurance that the system is 100 percent secure — though nothing ever is. We’d all love to be freed from documentation requirements and be more present with our patients.

There’s a proper way to do this. AI isn’t inevitable, but it’s come at us fast. One day, ChatGPT was a novelty, and now everything is AI. We’re being bombarded with it.

The other thing that’s burst into our hospitals in recent years is an AI-powered alert system. They’re these alerts that ping us to make sure we’ve done certain things — like checked for sepsis, for example. They’re usually not that helpful, or not timed very well. The goal is to stop patients falling through the cracks — that’s obviously a nightmare scenario in healthcare. But I don’t think the system is working as intended.

I don’t think the goal is really to provide a safety net for everyone — I think it’s actually to speed us up, so we can see more patients, reduce visits down from 15 minutes to 12 minutes to 10. Efficiency, again.

I believe the goal is for these alerts to eventually take over healthcare. To tell us how to do our jobs rather than have hospitals spend money training nurses and have them develop critical thinking skills, experience, and intuition. So we basically just become operators of the machines.

As a seasoned nurse, I’ve learned to recognize patterns and anticipate potential outcomes based on what I see. New nurses don’t have that intuition or forethought yet; developing critical thinking is part of their training. When they experience different situations, they start to understand that instinctively.

In the future, with AI, and alerts pinging them all day reminding them how to do their job, new cohorts of nurses might not develop that same intuition. Critical thinking is being shifted elsewhere — to the machine. I believe the tech leaders envision a world where they can crack the code of human illness and automate everything based on algorithms. They just see us as machines that can be figured out.

The artwork for this piece was developed during a Rhode Island School of Design course taught by Marisa Mazria Katz, in collaboration with the Center for Artistic Inquiry and Reporting.

The post I’m a neurology ICU nurse. The creep of AI in our hospitals terrifies me appeared first on Coda Story.

In June, the Texas Department of Public Safety (DPS) signed an acquisition plan for a 5-year, nearly $5.3 million contract for a controversial surveillance tool called Tangles from tech firm PenLink, according to records obtained by the Texas Observer through a public information request. The deal is nearly twice as large as the company’s $2.7 million two-year contract with the federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE).

Tangles is an artificial intelligence-powered web platform that scrapes information from the open, deep, and dark web. Tangles’ premier add-on feature, WebLoc, is controversial among digital privacy advocates. Any client who purchases access to WebLoc can track different mobile devices’ movements in a specific, virtual area selected by the user, through a capability called “geofencing.” Users of software like Tangles can do this without a search warrant or subpoena. (In a high-profile ruling, the Fifth Circuit recently held that police cannot compel companies like Google to hand over data obtained through geofencing.) Device-tracking services rely on location pings and other personal data pulled from smartphones, usually via in-app advertisers. Surveillance tech companies then buy this information from data brokers and sell access to it as part of their products.

WebLoc can even be used to access a device’s mobile ad ID, a string of numbers and letters that acts as a unique identifier for mobile devices in the ad marketing ecosystem, according to a US Office of Naval Intelligence procurement notice.

Wolfie Christl, a public interest researcher and digital rights activist based in Vienna, Austria, argues that data collected for a specific purpose, such as navigation or dating apps, should not be used by different parties for unrelated reasons. “It’s a disaster,” Christl told the Observer. “It’s the largest possible imaginable decontextualization of data. … This cannot be how our future digital society looks like.”

While a device’s mobile ad ID is technically an anonymous piece of information, it is easy to cross reference other data points to determine the owner, according to Beryl Lipton, an investigative researcher at the Electronic Frontier Foundation. “If there is another data point—like the address of the person who lives at the place where your phone seems to be all of the time—it can be very easy to quickly identify and build a profile of people using this supposedly anonymous information,” Lipton said. 

In 2018, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled in Carpenter v. United States that police must have a warrant to obtain cell phone location data from service providers like AT&T and Verizon. But Nate Wessler, the attorney who argued the Carpenter case and the deputy director of the American Civil Liberties Union’s Speech, Privacy, and Technology Project, told the Observer that companies have justified selling phone location information through data brokers by arguing that mobile ad IDs are anonymous. 

“These companies absolutely trot that out as one of their defenses, and it is pure poppycock. … It’s transparently a ridiculous defense, because the entire thing that they’re selling is the ability to track phones and to be able to figure out where particular phones are going,” Wessler said.

The privacy implications of police using services—like Tangles—that provide location data are “identical” to the issues raised in the Carpenter case, Wessler said. That’s because location data harvested from apps, as opposed to that obtained from service providers, can be even more invasive, he said. “You can tell just as much about somebody’s GPS history from their apps as you can from their cell phone location data from their phone provider. And in some cases, you can tell more,” Wessler said.

Tangles is a product offered by the cybersecurity company Cobwebs Technologies, which was founded in Israel in 2014 by three former members of Israeli military special units. The company has said their products, which are marketed as open source intelligence (OSINT) tools, have been used to combat terrorism, drug smuggling, and money laundering, but Meta has accused the company of operating as a surveillance-for-hire outfit. In 2023, Cobwebs Technologies was acquired by the Nebraska-based tech firm PenLink Ltd.

Christl, the Austria-based digital rights researcher, said that companies selling software that incorporates data harvested from mobile phone apps have greatly expanded the definition of OSINT tools. If a company has to buy personal data from third-party brokers to incorporate into a software that they sell to police, he said, then that isn’t really an open source tool.

Lipton, the investigative researcher at the Electronic Frontier Foundation, said that’s troubling for the public. “People don’t realize that some of this stuff comes with a high cost,” she said. “Both price-wise and privacy-wise.”

In a written statement, a PenLink spokesperson told the Observer their “open-source intelligence (OSINT) solutions are used to protect our communities from crime, threats, and cyber-attacks by providing seamless access to data that is publicly available. From a technology perspective, we want to note that we operate only according to the law, adhering to strict standards and regulations.” The spokesperson did not answer other specific questions.

Cobwebs Technologies, now part of PenLink, has scored contracts through its Delaware-based subsidiary Cobwebs America Inc. with various federal agencies, including ICE, the Internal Revenue Service, the Bureau of Indian Affairs and Bureau of Indian Education, and the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. ICE holds Cobwebs America’s highest-dollar federal contract so far, according to usaspending.gov.

DPS’ Intelligence and Counterterrorism division has used Tangles since 2021, as first reported by The Intercept. The agency first purchased the software as part of Governor Greg Abbott’s multi-billion dollar Operation Lone Star border crackdown, doling out an initial $200,000 contract as an “emergency award” with no public solicitation. Each year since, DPS has expanded the contract: In 2022, it paid $300,000, and in 2023, more than $400,000, according to contracting records on DPS’ website. The agency’s new plan for a 5-year Tangles license, from 2024 through 2029, will cost about $1 million per year.

“You can tell just as much about somebody’s GPS history from their apps as you can from their cell phone location data from their phone provider. And in some cases, you can tell more.”

In its acquisition plan, DPS states that Intelligence and Counterterrorism division personnel need the tool to “identify and disrupt potential domestic terrorism and other mass casualty threats.” The plan references two Texas mass shootings. In August 2019, a racist white man from Allen killed 23 at a Walmart in El Paso. A few weeks later, a different perpetrator went on a deadly shooting in Midland and Odessa. The plan does not mention the 2022 Uvalde school shooting, when 91 DPS officers formed part of a massive botched law enforcement response. 

“Following the attacks in El Paso and Midland-Odessa Governor Abbott issued several executive orders designed to prevent similar events,” the acquisition plan obtained by the Observer states. “In response to these orders, DPS [Intelligence and Counterterrorism division] dedicated staff to identify potential mass attackers and terrorist threats.”

It is unclear how DPS has used Tangles or whether the software has helped stop any potential mass shootings. DPS did not respond to written questions or an interview request for this story.

Following initial publication of this story, Republican state Representative Brian Harrison said on social media that he would be requesting more information from DPS about its use of the surveillance software. Reached by phone, Harrison told the Observer: “I want to make sure that we don’t have Fourth Amendment violations going on here, whether it’s intentional or not. … Government should be protecting our civil liberties, not violating them.”

After DPS purchased the initial license for Cobwebs’ software in 2021, local Texas law enforcement agencies followed suit. Operation Lone Star spending records from the Goliad County Sheriff’s Office, obtained by the Observer, show that the Goliad sheriff obtained a “cooperative use of [Cobwebs] software” in fall 2023 along with the sheriffs of Refugio and Brooks counties to “identify, link, and track the movements of cartel operatives throughout the region.”

Other Texas clients that have purchased Cobwebs’ software include the Dallas and Houston police departments and the sheriff’s office in Jackson County, which shares access with the Matagorda County Sheriff’s Office, according to local government meeting minutes and DPS emails.

It is unclear how DPS has used Tangles or whether the software has helped stop any potential mass shootings.

Prior to its acquisition by PenLink, Cobwebs Technologies received backlash for how clients used its products. In 2021, Meta banned seven companies—including Cobwebs—that it had identified as participating in an online surveillance-for-hire ecosystem. As part of its sanctions, Meta removed 200 accounts operated by Cobwebs and its customers. In a company report, Meta investigators wrote that they identified Cobwebs customers in Bangladesh, Hong Kong, the United States, New Zealand, Mexico, Saudi Arabia, Poland, and other countries. 

Cobwebs’ customers were not solely focused on public safety activities, Meta’s report said. “We also observed frequent targeting of activists, opposition politicians and government officials in Hong Kong and Mexico,” the report stated.

Agencies across the globe have used Tangles. From at least 2021 to 2022, Salvadoran police used it, according to the investigative outlet El Faro. Police in Mexico have also purchased the software, according to Excelsior, a Mexico City newspaper. 

In 2022, a Cobwebs Technologies sales rep asked a DPS employee if the state agency could serve as a customer referral for a police agency in Israel, according to an email obtained by the Observer. In the email, the sales rep stated that DPS had at least 20 Tangles users at the time. DPS’ new acquisition plan allows for 230 named users.

Wessler, the ACLU attorney, said the sale of mobile device data to third-party data brokers and surveillance tech firms remains a legal gray area. “There are some legal frameworks that get at the edges of this, but there’s a whole kind of core of issues that the law just hasn’t caught up to,” Wessler said.

But he said other government agencies already have moved away from purchasing products that use massive amounts of cell phone location data. The services can be expensive, the use of data is invasive, and there isn’t much evidence that these services have substantially helped investigations or solved a lot of cases, he added.

“It’s just like the juice isn’t worth the squeeze,” Wessler said. “We shouldn’t be spending taxpayer money for this kind of haystack of data that they then are trying to pick needles out of, right?”

This story was originally published in The Texas Observer.

The artwork for this piece was developed during a Rhode Island School of Design course taught by Marisa Mazria Katz, in collaboration with the Center for Artistic Inquiry and Reporting.

The post Texas State Police Gear Up for Massive Expansion of Surveillance Tech appeared first on Coda Story.

One of my last stories before I left Russia was an exploration of how the state had weaponized Big Tech to persecute Navalny’s followers, ordinary Russians who had registered their personal details on his website because they were fed up with the status quo. Among the dozens of people I spoke to were Liza, Dmitry, Kirill and Magda, whose compelling stories I wanted to tell.

I was reporting for Coda’s podcast series, “Undercurrents: Tech, Tyrants and Us,” which featured the experiences of individuals around the world who had been caught up in the struggle between tech, democracy and dictatorship. In Russia, Navalny used social media to build a following. Many Navalny supporters gravitated towards him on Big Tech platforms — for instance, following his investigations into Kremlin corruption on his YouTube channel. 

Inspired by Navalny, Russians took to the streets to protest and donated to his Anti-Corruption Foundation,  or FBK in Russian. They signed up to use his “smart voting” app intended to consolidate protest votes around candidates in all of Russia’s electoral districts who could take on the ruling party. But both Apple and Google, caving to pressure from the Kremlin, removed the app from stores shortly before the 2021 election. Russia had completed the transition from authoritarian state to digitally savvy dictatorship.  

The police used Navalny’s database to knock on doors, to seek out people who had registered on the “Free Navalny” website. On the podcast, I found myself breaking the news to Liza, an old friend from school, that her name was on a list, including details such as her tax ID number, home address and employment status. It explained, Liza told me, why the police had come looking for her, asking her parents questions “as if I were a terrorist.”

I reached out to Liza again, as I did to other people I interviewed for the podcast, in the days after Navalny’s death. “Navalny’s death became for me the death of all hope that the Russia I remember could be saved,” she told me. A Ukrainian-born citizen of Russia, Liza now lives in Uzbekistan. Navalny, she said, was “like a key that you hide under a stone near your old house, just in case you have a chance to go back. Now there is no key, there is no stone, and there is no house.”

The police, Liza told me, still visit her parents in Moscow. The Kremlin, she said, “is still investigating the people who donated to FBK.” Five months pregnant now, Liza has lost hope that Russia will change. She is expecting a girl; her daughter, she told me, will be a citizen of Uzbekistan, not Russia.

I also followed up with Dmitry. He was a musician who registered on Navalny’s website and then suddenly found himself out of work, no longer welcome to perform at concerts. When he was not playing music, he drove around the city rescuing stray cats. He had, I said on the podcast, a “sweet round face and blond, hipster haircut.” Dmitry is still in Moscow, still singing in a choir and still rescuing stray cats. But like Liza, he too has lost hope that change is possible. “The feeling that you get living in Russia is that people are keeping a low profile,” he said. “They just wait.” 

The people I interviewed on the podcast were among thousands, if not millions, of Russians who genuinely believed Navalny offered a democratic alternative to Putin’s increasingly Stalinist regime. That belief has been stamped out. Kirill, a train driver for the Moscow metro, told me he had registered on the “Free Navalny” website out of curiosity. At the time, he had begun to date Magda, a liberal with little patience for the Russian establishment. His curiosity cost Kirill his job. “You fucking registered on his website,” his boss shouted at him, denouncing Navalny as an enemy of the state. Kirill was sacked for being “insufficiently loyal to President Putin.” 

Now in Sochi, a town on the Black Sea about a thousand miles from Moscow, Kirill and Magda await visas that will enable them to leave Russia. “I can’t speak freely right now, I’m in a public place” Kirill told me when I called him after Navalny’s death. Magda said she “had a feeling of deja vu.” The shock of Navalny’s death echoed the shock she felt when Russia launched its invasion of Ukraine. Two years ago, on February 24, she told me, “I received a message from a friend: ‘Are you awake? The war started.’” On February 16 of this year, the same friend sent Magda another message: “Are you awake? Navalny was killed.” Both events strengthened Putin’s regime, representing a decisive turn away from the country that Magda still hoped Russia could be. 

For a quarter of a century, Putin has controlled Russia. This weekend, he will extend his reign, with any serious opposition either dead or imprisoned. “The future is no longer frightening,” Liza told me, “because the worst is happening in the present.”

The post In Russia, the ‘worst is happening in the present’  appeared first on Coda Story.

Nearby is a shallow ditch where, on December 3, a bomb struck the ground while the villagers were celebrating the Maolud, an Islamic festival commemorating the birth of the Prophet Muhammad.

Solomon John, 28, was in a nearby building when the first bomb dropped. After the blast, John rushed outside to find dismembered bodies strewn across the ground. The bomb had struck next to the tree, where mostly women and children were gathered at the time for the festival.

“We were crying and crying,” John said, “when after about 30 minutes the second bomb came down.”

The bombs were dropped by a Nigerian army drone, which struck the village, which is in Kaduna state, in error after what the army has admitted was an intelligence failure. Reportedly, soldiers had called for air support during a confrontation with militants operating in the area, but the drone operator was given the wrong grid reference. At least 85 people have been confirmed dead by the government’s official count. The human rights group Amnesty International says the number is closer to 120 people, with more than 80 hospitalized.

It’s not the first deadly mistake of its kind. In January 2023, a drone strike killed 27 people in Nasarawa, in the north of Nigeria. In April 2023, six children were killed by an airstrike in Niger state, also in the north of the country. In December 2022, 64 civilians were killed by an air strike in Zamfara, in northwestern Nigeria.

Behind these catastrophes, analysts say, is the rapid expansion of drone warfare without enough investment in intelligence and operational safeguards. Unmanned aerial vehicles, commonly known as drones, have become cheap and accessible thanks to Chinese and Turkish manufacturers, bringing them into the reach of militaries all over the world. When this proliferation of drones intersects with structural flaws in intelligence gathering and the lack of regulation, disasters like that in Tudun Biri are inevitable.

“Drones cause disasters when there’s a fault in the intelligence pipeline,” said Murtala Abdullahi, an independent intelligence consultant based in northern Nigeria.

Tudun Biri translates as the hill of monkeys, named for the animals that brought the first hunters to the area 400 years ago. To reach it today means a 25-minute motorbike ride from the edge of the state capital of Kaduna. The village is one of many scattered across the state, and made up of only around 40 houses, most of them at least partly built with clay. 

Kaduna state has been riven with conflict for decades. Today, a patchwork of bandit groups — some of them the remnants of the militant organizations Boko Haram and the Islamic State group in West Africa — operate across the region, terrorizing, robbing and extorting communities, and kidnapping people for ransom. 

Tudun Biri and its neighboring villages have often been targeted by bandits. To defend themselves, they have formed an informal security force to fight off attackers. Most of the population of Tudun Biri and its neighbors are Muslims, but there’s a small local church that hosts a congregation of less than a hundred serving Tudun Biri and three surrounding villages. During Muslim festivals, Christians stand guard, and vice versa. 

John is one of the few Christians in Tudun Biri village. He’s 6-foot tall, lean and muscular from manual labor. He keeps a neat high-top (called “punk” by Nigerians) for which he braves the long motorbike journey into Kaduna city to get trimmed. “I was there [at the Maolud celebration] providing security because, during our celebrations, the community also provides security for us,” John said.

When the second blast happened, John and other young men were working to help the victims of the first strike. Women and the elderly were instructed to stay inside to prevent them from witnessing the horrific scene — a usual practice in the village during bandit attacks. When the second bomb landed, “everyone ran away,” John said. And they stayed away,  afraid they might be hit again. It wasn’t until the police arrived the following day that people returned to sort through the carnage. 

“We gathered the bodies of men in one heap and women in another,” said a farmer, who lost his wife and three brothers in the strike. He spoke on condition of anonymity as villagers were instructed by the army not to talk to journalists.

Ahmed, a 45-year-old blacksmith, lost his wife and three children in the strike. He recalled leaving the mango tree just moments before the first bomb dropped. When he came back, he found his wife’s lifeless body with their 8-month-old son still tied — alive — on her back. “I untied him from her back and cradled him, nothing had happened to him,” Ahmed, who asked to be identified using a pseudonym, said. 

People gathered all the remains they could find and buried the dead in two mass graves — one for men and boys, one for women and girls.

The Tuesday after the blasts, the army’s chief of staff, Lieutenant General Taoreed Lagbaja, visited Tudun Biri in person to pay his condolences and apologize for the “mistake.” He said the troops were carrying out aerial patrols and wrongly analyzed the celebrations as bandit activity.

In some regards, the theater of conflict in Kaduna lends itself to drone warfare. The area presents a challenge that’s typical across West Africa. The terrain is difficult, distances are long and under-resourced militaries can’t afford to operate traditional air forces. Drones can solve both problems. “They stay active for longer and cannot fatigue,” Abdullahi, the intelligence consultant, said.

Chinese-made Wing Loong drones reportedly cost around a million dollars per unit. Bayraktars, from Turkey, sell for $5-6 million. Unlike more expensive U.S.-made Reaper or Predator drones, Chinese or Turkish manufacturers face fewer export restrictions. “Drones like Wing Loong and Bayraktar cost a very small fraction of their U.S and Israeli counterparts,” said Abdullahi. “Unlike the U.S, these countries do not have any regulations that the buyers meet certain metrics or have a credible history.”

Nigeria’s military has acquired Wing Loong and Bayraktar drones. It’s not alone: A study by Stellenbosch University’s Security Institute for Governance and Leadership in Africa says over a third of African governments have acquired some form of military drones.

These drones aren’t just cheap — they’re effective and increasingly advanced. “HD cameras, bigger memory spaces, powerful processing cores and proliferation of faster bandwidth like 4G and 5G have led to drones that can send, receive and process more data than was possible,” Nate Allen, associate professor at the Africa Center for Strategic Studies, a think tank funded by the U.S government, said. “Most of these drones are produced from off-shelf spare parts and custom software.”

The conflict in Ukraine has demonstrated how effective these tools can be. Drones controlled via virtual reality headsets have been widely used by both sides with devastating impact.

But relying on drones in areas like Tudun Biri presents enormous risks as well. Bandits and insurgent groups occupy spaces that are near to and sometimes overlapping with civilian areas. Moreover, insurgents in rural northern Nigeria often come from the same communities that they terrorize. From the air, it’s not obvious who is a combatant and who isn’t. 

Almost anywhere in the world where drones have been deployed, civilians have died. The U.S. in particular has come under fire for a long history of botched drone strikes that have killed ordinary people. American drones have been responsible for hundreds of civilian deaths across Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya Pakistan, Somalia and Yemen. As recently as August 2021, a strike in Kabul, Afghanistan, killed three adults and seven children. 

In Libya, where drones have become a feature of a long-running conflict, rebel forces supported by the United Arab Emirates have used Wing Loong drones, while the U.N.-backed Government of National Accord have deployed Bayraktar drones. In 2019, a Wing Loong drone belonging to the UAE fired guided missiles that killed eight civilians and injured many more in Tripoli, Libya’s capital. 

And in November, drone strikes by the Malian armed forces killed at least 12 civilians in Mali.

“It’s not just Africa. There’s currently little to no conversation on how intel pipelines can be made better to prevent issues like this,” Allen said. “To the best of my knowledge, there’s no consensus or policy around drone production, sales or use. It’s a new tech and like others [it] just needs all these regulations and ethical considerations to work better.”

After the strikes in Tudun Biri, the Nigerian military took the unusual step of admitting it had made a mistake. The president of Nigeria, Bola Tinubu, has also condemned the incident and ordered an investigation. That, Allen said, would be a step in the right direction if it results in the military changing its policies. 

Since the bombing, Tudun Biri has received financial aid and been promised much more. The governor of Kaduna and the vice president of Nigeria have both visited to pay their condolences and give money, along with former presidential candidate and businessman Peter Obi. Villagers said that politicians have promised to build a tarred road from the airport to the village, a large mosque where the villagers can hold Friday prayers, houses and even a modern school.

But for now, the village is still in mourning. Relics of all that has happened are scattered across the village. Shrapnel is embedded in the walls of a mudhouse. Scraps of victims’ clothing hang on the mango tree like tiny flags. There’s the crater and the mass grave. Everyone lost someone, and that is unusual for Tudun Biri. “We lose our crops and cattle to the bandits, we don’t lose people,” said Garba, an old man who lost his son and four grandchildren. “They came inside and said, ‘Baba, your son is among the dead,’ and said I cannot see him because elders were not permitted to come outside.”

After an eternity of arguing, they allowed Garba to see his dead son’s body. “When I came out I saw him lying on the ground, dead. He was my breadwinner and they killed him,” Garba said. “These people have wronged us and they are asking us to keep quiet about it.”

The post A tragedy in Nigeria shows the risks of cheap drone warfare appeared first on Coda Story.

Social media was once a place to hear and express opinions, to get and report the news, to decide what might or might not be true. All these things beckoned us to interact with each other and also to understand, and sometimes challenge, the underlying technology. When content got censored or harassment got unbearable, users spoke up and pressured the companies to respond. Even if it was all happening in a privately owned “quasi-public sphere,” users behaved as if they had some rights. And every once in a while, the companies gave that idea some credence.

Watching artificial intelligence’s biggest purveyors soar to prominence in the global political imagination this year, I’ve found myself wondering: What will happen to all that democratic energy around Big Tech? What will happen to the idea of digital rights?

Unlike some of the mammoth social platforms that dominated the industry for the past decade and a half, the shiny new things we see on our screens now, like ChatGPT, reveal very little about their inner workings. The biggest and most consequential types of AI at this moment are being built inside black boxes, and it isn’t predicated on any of the ideas about human connection that were used to underwrite the social media industry. There is no illusion of democracy here, no signs of cohesion among users pushing companies to change in any particular way. The reason is simple: We really don’t know what’s going on behind the screen. 

For tech elites and tech-inclined media, AI’s meteoric rise has made for great theater. But for most of us, much of what is going on is shrouded in mystery and obfuscation. Alongside it all, though, far less magical kinds of tech have continued to change the way we live, work and understand the world around us. This has been the core focus of our tech coverage at Coda this year. 

1. Some of our strongest tech stories helped show how the digitization of public systems and widespread real-time surveillance are changing urban life. Drawing on research from the Edgelands Institute, we paired writers in Medellín, Nairobi and Geneva with photographers from the Magnum network to build a rich narrative and visual tapestry that wrestled with the social and psychological effects of these systems, alongside their technical components. 

2. One of our top-performing features, from Bruno Fellow Anna-Cat Brigida, dove deep into how police surveillance systems in Honduras have bolstered a state determined to “protect its own power and preserve its status as Central America’s largest drug corridor.”

3. In 2023, we also took a hard look at the ever-expanding role of technology in migration. Coda’s Isobel Cockerell traveled to Kukes, Albania, where she reported on how digital platforms like TikTok and Instagram have played a pivotal part in driving thousands of young men to leave Albania for England, often on small boats and without proper paperwork, only to find themselves indebted to smugglers and criminal gangs.

4. Surveillance and digitization have become part and parcel of apparatuses of control on national borders. In May, Zach Campbell and Lorenzo D’Agostino introduced us to Fabrice Ngo, a Cameroonian car mechanic who nearly lost his life on a small boat heading for Italy from Tunisia, after Tunisian coast guard officials tracked the vessel and seized its motor. In an exclusive investigation for Coda, Zach and Lorenzo were able to link Ngo’s experience to the dealings of the International Centre for Migration Policy Development, a Vienna-based agency that has received hundreds of millions of euros in contracts from the European Union to supply tools and tactics — including surveillance tech — to countries bordering the EU bloc in exchange for their cooperation in preventing people from migrating to Europe. With more than 2,500 migrants having died trying to cross the Mediterranean Sea this year, the consequences of these agreements, and the technologies they deploy, couldn’t be more stark.

5. The dangers and shortcomings of tech are evident on the U.S.-Mexico border too. Former Coda reporter Erica Hellerstein told us the story of Kat, a woman who had fled gang violence in Honduras, only to find herself unable to seek asylum in the U.S. because of a faulty smartphone app. This spring feature took a long look at the Biden administration’s decision to outsource some of the most critical steps in the asylum-seeking process to the app, called CBP One. But that story also found a glimmer of hope on the horizon for 2024. In August, an immigrants’ rights coalition filed a class-action lawsuit against the Biden administration over its use of the app, setting the stage for a showdown over the digitization of immigration and the principles underlying the modern asylum system. 

6. This year, we also set our sights on understanding more deeply what kinds of labor go into the technologies that are changing our lives. In the fall, Erica introduced us to the world of social media content moderation in Nairobi’s “Silicon Savanna.” Moderators spoke of reviewing hundreds of posts each day, from videos of racist diatribes to beheadings and sexual abuse. On low wages and minimal benefits, these workers ensure that the worst stuff posted online never reaches our screens. But the toll this takes on their lives and mental health has brought the labor force to a breaking point. As Wabe, a moderator from Ethiopia, told Erica: “We have been ruined. We were the ones protecting the whole continent of Africa. That’s why we were treated like slaves.”

It sounds grim, but what drew us to this story was what Wabe and nearly 200 other moderators have decided to do about their situation. In March, they brought a lawsuit against Meta that took the company to task over poor working conditions, low pay and several cases of unfair dismissal. They’ve also voted to form a new trade union that they hope will force tech companies to change their ways. These developments could mark a turning point for the industry, and for the way we understand labor in the context of Big Tech. It sheds a not entirely flattering light on the massive human labor force that powers all of the technology we use, AI included. The work of people like Wabe to hold these platforms to account is helping all this to become more visible to the rest of us, something that we have to grapple with as more and more aspects of our lives become digitized. And that gives me some hope for the future.

The post Year in review: Digitization and the apparatus of control  appeared first on Coda Story.

Mangnale is an editor at the Organized Crime and Corruption Reporting Project, a global non-profit media outlet. In August, he and his co-authors Ravi Nair and NBR Arcadio published a detailed inquiry into labyrinthine offshore investment structures through which the Adani Group — an India-based multibillion-dollar conglomerate with interests in everything from ports, infrastructure and cement to green energy, cooking oil and apples — might have been manipulating its stock price. The documents were shared with both Financial Times and The Guardian, which also published lengthy stories alleging that the Adani Group appeared to be using funds from shell companies in Mauritius to break Indian stock market rules.

Mangnale’s phone was attacked with spyware just hours after reporters had submitted questions to the Adani Group in August for their investigation, according to an OCCRP press release. Mangnale hadn’t sent the questions, but as the regional editor, his name was easy to find on the OCCRP website.

OCCRP stated in a press release that Mangnale's phone was attacked with spyware just hours after it submitted questions to the Adani Group in August for its report. Mangnale hadn’t sent the questions, but as the regional editor, his name was easy to find on the OCCRP website.

Gautam Adani, the Adani Group’s chairman and the second richest person in India, has been close to Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi for decades. When Modi was campaigning in the 2014 general elections, which brought him to power with a sweeping majority, he used a jet and two helicopters owned by the Adani Group to crisscross the country. Modi’s perceived bond with Adani as well as with Mukesh Ambani, India’s richest man — all three come from the prosperous western Indian state of Gujarat — has for years given rise to accusations of crony capitalism and suggestions that India now has its own set of Russian-style oligarchs.

The Adani Group’s supposed influence on Modi is a major campaign issue for opposition parties, many of which are coming together in a coalition to take on the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party in the 2024 general election. According to Rahul Gandhi — leader of the opposition Congress party and scion of the Nehru-Gandhi dynasty, which has provided three Indian prime ministers — the Adani Group is so close to power it is practically synonymous with the government. He said Apple’s threat notifications showed that the government was hacking the phones of politicians who sought to expose Adani and his hold over Modi. 

Mahua Moitra, a prominent opposition politician and outspoken critic of Adani, reported that she had also received the warning from Apple to her phone. She posted on X: “Adani and PMO bullies — your fear makes me pity you.” PMO stands for the prime minister’s office.   

Mangnale, referring to the opposition’s allegations, told me that there was only circumstantial evidence to suggest that the Apple notification could be tied to the Indian government. As for his own phone, a forensic analysis commissioned by OCCRP did not indicate which government or government agency was behind the attack, nor did it surface any evidence that the Adani Group was involved. But the timing raised eyebrows, as the Modi government has been accused in the past of using spyware on political opponents, critical journalists, scholars and lawyers. 

In 2019, the messaging service WhatsApp, owned by Meta, filed a lawsuit in a U.S. federal court against the Israel-based NSO Group, developers of a spyware called Pegasus, in which it was revealed that the software had been used to target Indian journalists and activists. A year later, The Pegasus Project, an international journalistic investigation, reported that the phone numbers of at least 300 Indian individuals — Rahul Gandhi among them — had been slated for targeting with the eponymous weapons-grade spyware. And last year, The New York Times reported that Pegasus spyware was included in a $2 billion defense deal that Modi signed in 2017, on the first ever visit made by an Indian prime minister to Israel. In November 2021, Apple sued NSO too, arguing that in a “free society, it is unacceptable to weaponize powerful state-sponsored spyware against those who seek to make the world a better place.” 

What is happening to Mangnale is the most recent iteration of a script that has been playing out for the last nine years. India’s democratic regression is evident in its declining scores in a variety of international indices. In the latest World Press Freedom Index, compiled by Reporters Without Borders, India ranks 161 out of 180 countries, and its score has been declining sharply since 2017. According to RSF, “violence against journalists, the politically partisan media and the concentration of media ownership all demonstrate that press freedom is in crisis.”  

By May next year, India will hold general elections, in which Modi is expected to win a third consecutive five-year term as prime minister and further entrench a Hindu nationalist agenda. Since 2014, as India has become a strategic potential counterweight to runaway Chinese power and influence in the Indo-Pacific region, Modi has reveled in being increasingly visible on the global stage. Abroad, he has brandished India’s credentials as a pluralist democracy. The mounting criticism in the Western media of his authoritarian tendencies and Hindu chauvinism has seemingly had little effect on India’s diplomatic standing. Meanwhile at home, Modi has arguably been using — perhaps misusing — the full authority of the prime minister’s office to stifle opposition critics. 

The morning after Apple sent out its warning, there was an outpouring of anger on social media, with leading opposition figures accusing the government of spying. Apple, as a matter of course, says it is “unable to provide information about what causes us to issue threat notifications.” The logic is that such information “may help state-sponsored attackers adapt their behavior to evade detection in the future.” But the lack of information leaves a gap that is then filled by speculation and conspiracies. Apple’s circumspect message, containing within it the possibility that the threat notification might be false altogether, also gives governments plausible deniability.

Right on cue, Ashwini Vaishnaw, India’s minister of information and technology, managed in a single statement to claim that the government was concerned about Apple’s notification and would “get to the bottom of it” while also dismissing surveillance concerns as just bellyaching. “There are many compulsive critics in our country,” Vaishnaw said about the allegations from opposition politicians. “Their only job is to criticize the government.” Lawyer Apar Gupta, founder of the Internet Freedom Foundation, described Vaishnaw's statements as an attempt to “trivialize or misdirect public attention.”

Finding that his phone had been attacked by spyware was not the only example of Mangnale being targeted after OCCRP published its investigation into the Adani Group's possibly illegal stock manipulation. In October, the Gujarat police summoned Mangnale and his co-author Ravi Nair to the state capital Ahmedabad to question them about the OCCRP report. Neither journalist lives in the state, which made the police summons, based on a single complaint by an investor in Adani stocks, seem like intimidation. It took the intervention of India's Supreme Court to grant both journalists temporary protection from arrest.

Before the Supreme Court, the well-known lawyer Indira Jaising had argued that the Gujarat police had no jurisdiction to arbitrarily summon Mangnale and Nair to the state without informing them in what capacity they were being questioned. It seemed, she told the court, like a “prelude to arrest” and thus a violation of their constitutional right to personal liberty. A week later, the Supreme Court made a similar ruling to protect two Financial Times correspondents based in India from arrest. The journalists, in Mumbai and Delhi, had not even written the article based on documents shared by the OCCRP, but were still summoned by police to Gujarat. On December 1, the police are expected to explain to the Supreme Court why they are seemingly so eager to question the reporters.

While the mainstream television news networks in India frequently and loudly debate news topics on air, there is little coverage of the pressure that the Indian government puts on individuals who try to hold the government to account. Ravish Kumar, an esteemed Hindi-language journalist, told me that few people in India were aware of the threat to journalists and opposition voices in Modi's India. “When people hear allegations made by political figures such as Rahul Gandhi, they can be dismissed as politics rather than fact. There is no serious discussion of surveillance in the press,” he said. 

Kumar once had a substantial platform on NDTV, a respected news network that had built its reputation over decades. In March this year, the Adani Group completed a hostile takeover of NDTV, leading to a series of resignations by the network's most recognizable anchors and editors, including Kumar. NDTV is now yet another of India's television news networks owned by corporations that are either openly friendly to the Modi government or unwilling to jeopardize their other businesses by being duly critical. 

Nowadays, Kumar reports for his personal YouTube channel, albeit one with about 7.8 million subscribers. A documentary about his lonely fight to keep reporting from India both accurately and skeptically was screened in cinemas across the U.K. and U.S. in July. 

According to Kumar, journalists and critics are naturally fearful about the Indian government's punitive measures because some have ended up in prison on the basis of dubious evidence found on their phones and laptops. Most notoriously, a group of reputed academics, writers and human rights activists were accused of inciting riots in 2018 and plotting to assassinate the prime minister. Independent analysts hired by The Washington Post reported that the electronic evidence in the case was likely planted. 

Some of this possibly planted evidence was found on the computer of Stan Swamy, an octogenarian Jesuit priest who was charged with crimes under India’s anti-terror law and died in 2021 as he awaited trial. Swamy suffered from Parkinson's disease, which can make everyday actions like eating and drinking difficult. While in custody, he was treated so poorly by the authorities that he had to appeal for a month before he was given a straw to make it easier for him to drink.

The threat of arrest hangs like a Damoclean sword above the heads of journalists like Mangnale who dare to ask questions of power and investigate institutional corruption. Despite the interim stay on his arrest, Mangnale still faces further court proceedings and the possibility of interrogation by the Gujarat police. In the words of Drew Sullivan, OCCRP’s publisher: “The police hauling in reporters for vague reasons seems to represent state-sanctioned harassment of journalists and is a direct assault on freedom of expression in the world's largest democracy.”

The post In India, Big Brother is watching appeared first on Coda Story.

This is the command center of Smart Aqkol, a pilot study in digitized urban infrastructure for Kazakhstan. When I visited, Andrey Kirpichnikov, the deputy director of Smart Aqkol, welcomed me inside. Donning a black Fila tracksuit and sneakers, the middle-aged Aqkol native scanned his face at a console that bore the logo for Hikvision, the Chinese surveillance camera manufacturer. A turnstyle gave a green glow of approval and opened, allowing us to walk through. 

“All of our staff can access the building using their unique face IDs,” Kirpichnikov told me.

He led me into a room with a large monitor displaying a schematic of the village. The data inputs and connected elements that make up Smart Aqkol draw on everything from solar panels and gas meters to GPS trackers on public service vehicles and surveillance cameras, he explained. Analysts at the command center report their findings to the mayor’s office, highlighting data on energy use, school attendance rates and evidence for police investigations. 

“I see a huge future in what we’re doing here,” Kirpichnikov told me, gesturing at a heat map of the village on the big screen. “Our analytics keep improving and they are only going to get better as we expand the number of sensory inputs.”

“We’re trying to make life better, more efficient and safer,” he explained. “Who would be opposed to such a project?”

Smart Aqkol presents an experimental vision of Kazakhstan’s economic prospects and its technocratic leadership’s governing ambitions. In January 2019, when then-President Nursultan Nazarbayev spoke at the project’s launch, he waxed about a future in which public officials could use networked municipal systems to run Kazakhstan “like a company.” The smart city model is appealing for leaders of the oil-rich nation, which has struggled to modernize its economy and shed its reputation for rampant government corruption. But analysts I spoke with say it also marks a turn toward Chinese-style public surveillance systems. Amid the war in Ukraine, Kazakhstan’s engagement with China has deepened as a way to hedge against dependence on Russia, its former colonial patron.

Kazakhstan’s smart city initiatives aren’t starting from a digital zero. The country has made strides in digitizing public services, and now ranks second among countries of the former Soviet Union in the United Nations’ e-governance development index. (Estonia is number one.) The capital Astana also has established itself as a regional hub for fintech innovation. 

And it’s not only government officials who want these systems. “There is a lot of domestic demand, not just from the state but also from Kazakhstan’s middle class,” said Erica Marat, a professor at the U.S. National Defense University. There’s an allure about smart city systems, which in China and other Asian cities are thought to have improved living standards and reduced crime.

They also hold some promise of increasing transparency around the work of public officials. “The government hopes that digital platforms can overcome cases of petty corruption,” said Oyuna Baldakova, a technology researcher at King’s College London. This would be a welcome shift for Kazakhstan, which currently ranks 101st out of 180 countries on Transparency International’s Corruption Perceptions Index.

But the pilot in Aqkol doesn’t quite align with these grander ambitions, at least not yet. Back at the command center, Kirpichnikov described how Aqkol saw a drop in violent crime and alcohol-related offenses after the system’s debut. But in a town of this size, where crime rates rarely exceed single digits, these kinds of shifts don’t say a whole lot. 

As if to better prove the point, the team showed me videos of crime dramatizations that they recorded using the Smart Aqkol surveillance camera system. In the first video, one man lifted another off the ground in what was meant to mimic a violent assault, but looked much more like the iconic scene where Patrick Swayze lifts Jennifer Grey overhead at the end of “Dirty Dancing.” Another featured a man brandishing a Kalashnikov in one hand, while using the other to hold his cellphone to his ear. In each case, brightly colored circles and arrows appeared on the screen, highlighting “evidence” of wrongdoing that the cameras captured, like the lift and the Kalashnikov.

Kirpichnikov then led me into Smart Aqkol’s “situation room,” where 14 analysts sat facing a giant LED screen while they tracked various signals around town. Contrary to the high-stakes energy that one might expect in a smart city situation room, the atmosphere here felt more like that of a local pub, with the analysts trading gossip about neighbors as they watched them walk by on monitors for street-level cameras.

Kirpichnikov explained that residents can connect their gas meters to their bank accounts and set up automatic gas payments. This aspect of Smart Aqkol has been a boon for the village. Residents I spoke with praised the new payment system — for decades, the only option was to stand in line to pay for their bills, an exercise that could easily take half a day’s time.

And there was more. To highlight the benefits of Smart Aqkol’s analytics work, Kirpichnikov told me about recent finding: “We were able to determine that school attendance is lower among children from poorly insulated households.” He pointed to a gradation of purple squares showing variance in heating levels across the village. “We could improve school grades, health and the living standards of residents just by updating our old heating systems,” he said.

Kirpichnikov might be right, but step away from the clean digital interface and any Aqkol resident could tell you that poor insulation is a serious problem in the apartment blocks where most people live, especially in winter when temperatures dip below freezing most nights. Broken windows covered with only a thin sheet of cellophane are a common sight. 

Walking around Aqkol, I was struck by the absence of paved roads and infrastructure beyond the village’s main street. Some street lamps work, but others don’t. And the public Wi-Fi that the village prides itself on offering only appeared to function near government buildings.

The village also has two so-called warm bus shelters — enclosed spaces with heat lamps to shelter waiting passengers during the harsh Kazakh winters. The stops are supposed to have Wi-Fi, charging ports for phones and single-channel TVs. When I passed by one of the shelters, I met an elderly Aqkol resident named Vera. “All of these things are gone,” she told me, waving her hand at evidence of vandalism. “Now all that’s left is the camera at the back.”

“I don’t know why we need all this nonsense here when we barely have roads and running water,” she added with a sigh. “Technology doesn’t make better people.”

Vera isn’t alone in her critique. Smart Aqkol has brought the village an elaborate overlay of digitization, but it’s plain to see that Aqkol still lags far behind modern Kazakh cities like Astana and Almaty when it comes to basic infrastructure. A local resident named Lyubov Gnativa runs a YouTube channel where she talks about Aqkol’s lack of public services and officials’ failures to address these needs. The local government has filed police reports against Gnativa over the years, accusing her of misleading the public.

And a recent documentary made by Radio Free Europe/Radio Liberty — titled “I Love My Town, But There’s Nothing Smart About It” — corroborates many of Gnativa’s observations and includes interviews with with dozens of locals drawing attention to water issues and the lack of insulation in many of the village’s homes.

But some residents say they are grateful for how the system has contributed to public safety. Surveillance cameras now monitor the village’s main thoroughfare from lampposts, as well as inside public schools, hospitals and municipal buildings.

“These cameras change the way people behave and I think that’s a good thing,” said Kirpichnikov. He told a story about a local woman who was recently harassed on a public bench, noting that this kind of interaction would often escalate in the past. “The woman pointed at the camera and the man looked up, got scared and began to walk away.”

A middle-aged schoolteacher named Irina told me she feels much safer since the project was implemented in 2019. “I have to walk through a public park at night and it can be intimidating because a lot of young men gather there,” she said. “After the cameras were installed they never troubled me again."

The Smart Aqkol project was the result of a deal between Kazakhtelecom, Kazakhstan’s national telecommunications company; the Eurasian Resources Group, a state-backed mining company; and Tengri Lab, a tech startup based in Astana. But the hardware came through an agreement under China’s Digital Silk Road initiative, which seeks to wire the world in a way that tends to reflect China’s priorities when it comes to public infrastructure and social control. Smart Aqkol uses surveillance cameras made by Chinese firms Dahua and Hikvision, which in China have been used — and touted, even — for their ability to track “suspicious” people and groups. Both companies are sanctioned by the U.S. due to their involvement in surveilling and aiding in the repression of ethnic Uyghurs in Xinjiang, an autonomous region in western China.

Critics are wary of these kinds of systems in Kazakhstan, where skepticism of China’s intentions in Central Asia has been growing. The country is home to a large Uyghur diaspora of more than 300,000 people, many of whom have deep ties to Xinjiang, where both ethnic Uyghurs and ethnic Kazakhs have been systematically targeted and placed in “re-education” camps. Protests across Kazakhstan in response to China’s mass internment campaign have forced the government to negotiate the release of thousands of ethnic Kazakhs from China, but state authorities have walked this line carefully, in an effort to continue expanding economic ties with Beijing.

Although Kazakhstan requires people to get state permission if they want to hold a protest — and permission is regularly denied — demonstrations nevertheless have become increasingly common in Kazakhstan since 2018. With Chinese-made surveillance tech in hand, it’s become easier than ever for Kazakh authorities to pinpoint unauthorized concentrations of people. Hikvision announced in December 2022 that its software is used by Chinese police to set up “alarms” that are triggered when cameras detect “unlawful gatherings” in public spaces. The company also has claimed that its cameras can detect ethnic minorities based on their unique facial features.

Marat of U.S. National Defense University noted the broader challenges posed by surveillance tech. “We saw during the Covid-19 pandemic how quickly such tech can be adapted to other purposes such as enforcing lockdowns and tracing people’s whereabouts.”

“Such technology could easily be used against protest leaders too,” she added.

In January 2022, instability triggered by rising energy prices resulted in the government issuing “shoot to kill” orders against protesters — more than 200 people were killed in the ensuing clashes. The human rights news and advocacy outlet Bitter Winter wrote at the time that China had sent a video analytics team to Kazakhstan to use cameras it had supplied to identify and arrest protesters. Anonymous sources in their report alleged that the facial profiles of slain protesters were later compared with the facial data of individuals who appeared in surveillance video footage of riots, in an effort to justify government killings of “terrorists.”

With security forming a central promise of the smart city model, broad public surveillance is all but guaranteed. The head of Tengri Lab, the company leading the development of Smart Aqkol, has said in past interviews that school security was a key motivation behind the company’s decision to spearhead the use of artificial intelligence-powered cameras.

“After the high-profile incident in Kerch, we added the ability to automatically detect weapons,” he said, referencing a mass shooting at a college in Russian-occupied Crimea that left more than 20 people dead in October 2018. In that same speech he made an additional claim: “All video cameras in the city automatically detect massive clusters of people,” a veiled reference to the potential for this technology to be used against protesters.

Soon, there will be more smart city systems across Kazakhstan. Smart Aqkol and Kazakhtelecom have signed memorandums of understanding with Almaty, home to almost 2 million people, and Karaganda, with half a million, to develop similar systems. “The mayor of Karaganda was impressed by our technology and capabilities, but he was mainly interested in the surveillance cameras,” Kirpichnikov told me.

As to the question of whether these systems share data with Chinese officials, “we simply don’t have a clear answer on who has the data and how it is used,” Marat told me. “We can’t say definitively whether China has access but we know its companies are extremely dependent on the Chinese state.”

When I reached out to Tengri Lab to ask whether there are concerns regarding the safety of private data connected to the project, the company declined to comment.

What does all this mean for Aqkol? The village is so small that the faces captured on camera are rarely those of strangers. The analysts told me they recognize most of the town’s 13,000 inhabitants between them. I asked whether this makes people uncomfortable, knowing their neighbors are watching them at all times.

Danir, a born-and-raised Aqkol analyst in the situation room, told me he doesn’t believe the platform will be abused. “All my friends and family know I am watching from this room and keeping them safe,” he said. “I don’t think anybody feels threatened — we are their friends, their neighbors.”

“People fear what they don’t understand and people complain about the cameras until they need them,” said Kirpichnikov. “There was a woman once who spoke publicly against the project but after we returned her lost handbag — after we spotted it on a camera — she started to see the benefits of what we are building here.”

After a few years with the system up and running, “it’s normal,” said Danir with a shrug. “Nobody has complained to me.”

For regular people, it doesn’t mean a whole lot. And that may be OK, at least for now. As Irina, the young school teacher whom I met on the village’s main thoroughfare, put it: “I don’t really know what a smart city is, but I like living here. They say we’re safer and my bills are lower than they used to be, and I’m happy.”

The post The smart city where everybody knows your name appeared first on Coda Story.

In a dramatic operation that began as the sun rose on Delhi on October 3, police raided the homes of journalists across the city. Police seized laptops and mobile phones, and interrogated reporters about stories they had written and any money they might have received from foreign bank accounts. The journalists targeted by the police work for NewsClick, a small but influential website founded in 2009 by Prabir Purkayastha, an engineer by training who is also a prominent advocate for left-wing causes and ideas. 

At the time of publication, Purkayastha and a senior NewsClick executive had been held in judicial custody for 10 days. The allegations they face are classified under India’s 2019 Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act, legislation that gives the government sweeping powers to combat terrorist activity. 

Purkayastha, a journalist of considerable standing, is effectively being likened to a terrorist.

The day after the raids on the more than 40 NewsClick employees and contributors, a meeting was called at the Press Club of India. Among the many writers and journalists in attendance was the internationally celebrated, Booker Prize-winning author Arundhati Roy. A longtime critic of Indian government policies, regardless of the political party in power, Roy told me that India was in “an especially dangerous moment.” 

She argued that the Modi government was deliberately conflating terrorism and journalism, that they were cracking down on what they described as “intellectual terrorism and narrative terrorism.” It has to do, she told me, “with changing the very nature of the Indian constitution and the very understanding of checks and balances.” She said the targeting of NewsClick, which has about four million YouTube subscribers, was intended as a warning against digital publications.

The Indian government had targeted NewsClick before, investigating what it said were illegal sources of foreign funding from China. For these latest raids, the catalyst appears to have been, at least in part, an investigation published in The New York Times in August that connected NewsClick to Neville Roy Singham, an Indian-American tech billionaire who, the story alleges, has funded the spread of Chinese propaganda through a “tangle of nonprofit groups and shell companies.”

In the lengthy article, The New York Times reporters made only brief mention of NewsClick, claiming that the site “sprinkled its coverage with Chinese government talking points.” They also quoted a phrase from a video that NewsClick published in 2019 about the 70th anniversary of the 1949 revolution which ended with the establishment of the People’s Republic of China: “China’s history continues to inspire the working classes.” But it appeared to be enough for the Delhi police to seize equipment from and intimidate even junior staff members, cartoonists and freelance contributors to the site. 

Angered by the unintended consequences of The New York Times report, a knot of protestors gathered outside its New York offices near Times Square a couple of days after the raids. Kavita Krishnan, an author and self-described Marxist feminist, wrote on the Indian news and commentary website Scroll that she had warned The New York Times reporters who had contacted her for comment on the Singham investigation that their glancing reference to NewsClick would give the Modi government ammunition to harass Indian journalists. 

The “NYT needs to hold its own practices up to scrutiny and ask itself if, in this case, they have allowed themselves to become a tool for authoritarian propaganda and criminalization of journalism in India,” she wrote. 

While The New York Times stood by its story, a Times spokesperson told Scroll that they “would find it deeply troubling and unacceptable if any government were to use our reporting as an excuse to silence journalists.”

On October 10, a Delhi court ordered that Purkayastha and NewsClick’s human resources head Amit Chakraborty be held in judicial custody for 10 days, even as their lawyers insisted that there was no evidence that NewsClick had “received any funding or instructions from China or Chinese entities.”

India’s difficult relationship with China is at a particularly low ebb, with tens of thousands of troops amassed along their disputed borders and diplomats and journalists on both sides frequently expelled. From a Western point of view, India is also being positioned as a strategically vital counterweight to Chinese dominance of the Indo-Pacific region. Though diplomatic tensions are high, India’s trade with China has — until a 0.9% drop in the first half of this year — flourished, reaching a record $136 billion last year. 

While the Indian government continues to court Chinese investment, it is suspicious of the Chinese smartphone industry — which controls about 70% of India’s smartphone market — and of any foreign stake in Indian media groups. The mainstream Indian media is increasingly controlled by corporate titans close to Modi. For instance, Mukesh Ambani and Gautam Adani, who control vast conglomerates that touch on everything from cooking oil and fashion to petroleum oil and infrastructure and who have at various points in the last year been two of the 10 richest men in the world, also own major news networks. 

By March this year, Adani completed his hostile takeover of NDTV, widely considered to have been India’s last major mainstream news network to consistently hold the Modi government to account. Independent journalists and organizations such as NewsClick that report critically on the government are now out of necessity building their own audiences on platforms such as YouTube. Cutting off these organizations’ access to funds, particularly from foreign sources, helps tighten the Modi government’s grip on India’s extensive if poorly funded media. 

Siddharth Varadarajan, a founder of the Indian news website The Wire, said that the actions taken against NewsClick are “an attack on an independent media organization at a time when many media organizations are singing the tune of the government.” It was not a surprise, he told me, that Delhi police were asking NewsClick journalists about their reporting on the farmers’ protests in India between August 2020 and December 2021. “While the government says it is investigating a crime on the level of terrorism, the main goal is to delegitimize and criminalize certain topics and lines of inquiry.”

The allegations against NewsClick’s Purkayastha and Chakraborty are classified under India’s Unlawful Activities (Prevention) Act, controversial legislation intended to give the government sweeping powers to combat terrorist activity. Under the provisions of the act, passed in 2019, the government has the power to designate individuals as terrorists before they are convicted by a court of law. It is a piece of legislation that, as United Nations special rapporteurs noted in a letter to the Indian government, undermines India’s signed commitments to uphold international human rights.

Legislative changes introduced by the Modi government include a new data protection law and a proposed Digital India Act, both of which give it untrammeled access to communications and private data. These laws also formalize its authority to demand information from multinational tech companies — India already leads the world in seeking to block verified journalists from posting content on X, the platform formerly known as Twitter — and even shut down the internet, something that it has done for days and even months on end in states across the country during periods of unrest. 

India’s willingness to clamp down on freedom of information is reflected in its steep slide down the annual World Press Freedom Index. Currently ranked 161 out of 180 countries, India has slipped by 20 places since 2014 when Modi became prime minister. “The violence against journalists, the politically partisan media and the concentration of media ownership all demonstrate that press freedom is in crisis in ‘the world’s largest democracy,’” observes Reporters Without Borders, which compiles the ranking. 

Atul Chaurasia, the managing editor at the Indian digital news platform Newslaundry, told me that “all independent and critical journalists feel genuine fear that tomorrow the government may go after them.” In the wake of the NewsClick raids, Chaurasia described the Indian government as the “father of hypocrisy,” an acerbic reference to the Modi government’s boasts about India’s democratic credentials when world leaders, including U.S. President Joe Biden, arrived in Delhi in September for the G20 summit.

When Biden and Modi held a bilateral meeting in Delhi before the summit began, Reuters reported that “the U.S. press corps was sequestered in a van, out of eyesight of the two leaders — an unusual situation for the reporters and photographers who follow the U.S. President at home and around the world to witness and record his public appearances.” Modi himself, despite being the elected leader of a democracy for nearly 10 years, has never answered questions in a press conference in India. 

Instead, Modi addresses the nation once a month on a radio broadcast titled “Mann ki baat,” meaning “words from the heart.” And he very occasionally gives seemingly scripted interviews to friendly journalists and fawning movie stars. 

As for unfriendly journalists, Purkayastha is currently in judicial custody while a variety of Indian investigative agencies are on what Arundhati Roy called a “fishing expedition,” rooting through journalists’ phones and NewsClick’s finances and tax filings in search of evidence of wrongdoing. Varadarajan of the Wire told me that the message being sent to readers and viewers of NewsClick and other sites intent on holding the Modi government to account was clear: “Don’t trust their content and don’t even think about giving them money because they are raising money for anti-national activities.”

Since my conversation with Roy at the Press Club of India on October 4, it has been reported that she faces the possibility of arrest. 

Delhi’s lieutenant governor — an official appointed by the government and considered the constitutional, if unelected, head of the Indian capital — cleared the way for her to be prosecuted for stating in 2010 that in her opinion, Kashmir, the site of long-running territorial conflict between India and Pakistan, has “never been an integral part of India.” A police complaint was filed 13 years ago, but Indian regulations require state authorities to sign off on prosecutions involving crimes such as hate speech and sedition. Now they have.

Apar Gupta, a lawyer, writer and advocate for digital rights, describes the Modi government’s eagerness to use the law and law enforcement agencies against its critics as “creating a climate of threat and fear.” Young people especially, he told me, have to have “extremely high levels of motivation to follow their principles because practicing journalism now comes with the acute threat of prosecution, of censorship, of trolling, and of adverse reputational and social impacts.”

A young NewsClick reporter, requesting anonymity, told me that “with every knock at the door, I feel like they’ve finally come for me.” They described the paranoia that had gripped their parents: “My father now only contacts me on Signal because it’s end-to-end encrypted. I could never have imagined any of this.”

Following the NewsClick raids, Rajiv Malhotra, an Indian-American Hindu supremacist ideologue, appeared on a major Indian news network to openly call for the Modi government to target even more independent journalists. Malhotra singled out the People’s Archive of Rural India (PARI), a website founded by P. Sainath, an award-winning journalist committed to foregrounding the perspectives of rural and marginalized people. 

On what grounds does Malhotra suggest that the Modi government go after Sainath and PARI? The site, Malhotra told the newscaster, who does not interrupt him, encourages young villagers, Dalits (a caste once referred to as “untouchable”), Muslims and other minorities to “tell their story of dissent and grievances against the nation state.” 

Criticism of the nation and its authorities, in other words, is akin to sowing division. Whether it’s an opinion given in 2010 or a reference to Chinese funding within an article from a newspaper loathed by supporters of Modi and his Hindu nationalist ideology, the Indian government will apparently use any excuse to silence its critics. 

The post Indian journalists are being treated like terrorists for doing their jobs appeared first on Coda Story.

Toward the end of the meal, Osman got up and said to Virta, “Go ahead and finish up, I’ll go vape outside.” He kissed her on the forehead and walked out the door. 

When Virta came out of the restaurant a few minutes later, she saw Osman talking to two men. Initially, she thought they were talking about parking spots. Then one of them grabbed his arm and started dragging him into a car.

Virta tried to get to Osman but the car sped away, leaving her standing on the side of the road with his family.

Virta, who is originally from Finland, knew that Osman had been making YouTube videos about human rights violations in Egypt, but it was a part of his life she knew little about. Osman left Egypt in 2004 after becoming frustrated with the corruption he witnessed within the government while serving as an air force captain. He is now considered a deserter. Two years after leaving his home country, he set up a YouTube channel, @SherifOsmanClub, where he routinely criticized the Egyptian government. Today, the channel has more than 40,000 subscribers. 

A few weeks before traveling to Dubai, Osman had posted a video calling for Egyptians to capitalize on COP27, the United Nations climate conference due to be held that month in Sharm El-Sheikh, to protest the state’s dismal human rights record and the rising cost of living.

In the car, Osman’s mind was spinning. When they approached a turn on the highway that leads to the international airport he began to panic, fearful that he was on a one-way trip to his grave.

“I have seen very, very, very high-ranking Egyptians that have lived in Dubai and opened their mouths with a different narrative on Egypt, and they were actually put on a flight and shipped out to Egypt,” he said, referring to former Egyptian prime minister Ahmed Shafiq, who was deported from the UAE just days after he announced he was running for president in 2017.

Osman soon realized that he was being taken to the Dubai police headquarters.

He was escorted through the back entrance of the building. Osman waited for hours while officers moved frantically around the room, giving him no information. When he asked for clarity, they told him to wait and promised to bring him coffee.

“They actually made me coffee,” he told me, laughing. Osman’s sardonic sense of humor comes out in full force when he recounts the ordeal.

Osman was eventually taken from police headquarters to the Dubai Central Prison where he was made to wait while the authorities decided if he would be deported to Egypt. On November 15, Charles McClellan, an officer in the U.S. Consulate in Dubai, told Virta that Interpol had issued a red notice and extradition case number for Osman.

A few days later, Virta sent an email to Radha Stirling in Windsor, a town in southeast England, pleading for assistance. “Sherif’s deportation to Egypt is a death penalty without a fair trial!” Virta wrote.

Stirling, the CEO of an organization called Detained in Dubai, was no stranger to these kinds of cases. Knowing that the United Arab Emirates could extradite a U.S. citizen to Egypt in the dark of night, Stirling acted quickly. She contacted the American embassy to offer advice, tried to rally support from U.S. politicians and sought media coverage of the case.

And then something strange happened. McClellan told Stirling that he’d gotten new information: According to the UAE, Osman was detained on a “red notice” issued by a less well-known organization: the Arab Interior Ministers Council. An Emirati official speaking to The Guardian confirmed the same.

When Osman learned it was not Interpol but rather the Arab Interior Ministers Council pursuing the case, his heart sank. “That’s when I was like, I’m fucked,” he told me.

A body made up of the interior ministries of all 22 Arab League states, the Arab Interior Ministers Council was established in the 1980s to strengthen cooperation between Arab states on internal security and combating crime. In recent years, it has played an increasingly visible role in extradition cases between Arab countries, particularly in cases that appear to be politically-motivated.

Experts I spoke with say that the shift has occurred as some of the Council’s member states, including the UAE and Egypt, have become notorious for abusing Interpol’s system. Although it is often portrayed in the media as an international police force with armed agents and the power to investigate crimes, Interpol is best understood as an electronic bulletin board where states can post “wanted” notices and other information about suspected criminals. Arab League states are increasingly posting red notices via Interpol in an effort to target political opponents, despite Interpol rules expressly prohibiting the practice.

Ted Bromund, a senior research fellow at the Heritage Foundation, thinks tensions surrounding Interpol may be driving increased cooperation within the Council, especially in politically-motivated cases. “My suspicion is that this Arab Ministers Council is basically a reaction to the fact that Interpol is maybe not quite as compliant or as lax as they used to be,” Bromund told me.

It was around 2018, shortly after Washington Post columnist Jamal Khashoggi, a Saudi-born U.S. resident, was murdered in the Saudi Arabian consulate in Turkey, that Abdelrahman Ayyash first heard of the Council. Ayyash is a case manager at the Freedom Initiative, which advocates for people wrongfully detained in the Middle East and North Africa.

Ayyash told me that over the past year he has identified at least nine cases in which the Council was likely involved in the extradition or arrest of political dissidents, with some of them dating as far back as 2016. In one case, Kuwait extradited eight Egyptians to Cairo in 2019 following accusations that they were part of a terrorist cell with links to the Muslim Brotherhood. Ayyash suspects their arrest and deportation stemmed from a notice from the Arab Interior Ministers Council.

In a case highlighted by other advocates from 2019, Morocco extradited activist Hassan al-Rabea to Saudi Arabia after he was arrested on a warrant that The New Arab reported was issued by the Council. Hassan’s brother Munir is wanted by the Saudi government due to his involvement in the country’s 2011 protest movement. Their older brother, Ali, is already in a Saudi prison, where he is facing the death penalty. Another of al-Rabea’s brothers, Ahmed, told me over the phone from Canada that he is now extremely careful about where he travels: “For me, like all my brothers, it is extremely scary to go to any Arab country,” he said.

Agreements enabling more extradition cooperation among Arab states and other nearby countries also are being adopted widely. In 2020, Morocco, Sudan, the UAE and Bahrain signed an agreement with Israel known as the Abraham Accords, which established official relations between the signatories. Since then, Morocco and the UAE in particular have increased their use of repressive technologies developed by Israeli companies when targeting dissidents abroad. Last year, 24% of Israel’s defense exports were to Arab Accords signatories. In 2021, Egypt signed an agreement to strengthen military cooperation with Sudan after years of tensions, including a border dispute. 

Members of the Arab Interior Ministers Council are signatories to the Riyadh Arab Agreement for Judicial Cooperation and the Arab Convention for the Suppression of Terrorism, which prohibit extraditions if the crime is of a “political nature.”

Three U.N. special rapporteurs in June wrote a letter to the Arab League stating that red notices issued by the Council do not comply with member states’ commitments under international law, such as non-refoulement, non-discrimination, due diligence and fair trial.

A few weeks after Osman’s arrest, Virta returned to the U.S. for her job. She adjusted her schedule to work different hours, so she could be awake for part of the night working on his release.

Behind bars in Dubai, Osman was struggling to sleep. “The second I opened my eyes my head would go numb, the exact second my eyes opened, I realized I am in deep shit,” he told me. “I can count the days that I had a full night's sleep on one hand and have left over fingers.”

Virta was certain the UAE was going to extradite him to Egypt. But then, late one night towards the end of December, she got a call.

“I have some good news,” Osman told her. He was going to be released.

Osman was taken to the airport five days later, but it was not until the plane door closed that he allowed himself to believe he was actually going home. When the door clicked shut, he passed out from exhaustion. Osman had spent 46 days in detention.

This past July, Osman filed a lawsuit at the U.S District Court in Washington, D.C. against Interpol and its major general Ahmed Naser Al-Raisi, the UAE and its deputy prime minister, Egypt and its president Abdel Fattah El-Sisi, the Arab Interior Ministers Council, a UAE prosecutor and four other unnamed individuals. The complaint accuses them of international terrorism for their “kidnapping, abduction, imprisonment, prosecution, and threatened extradition” of Osman.

The lawsuit accuses Interpol of colluding to shift the justification for Osman’s detention from an Interpol red notice to one issued by the Arab Interior Ministers Council. An Interpol spokesperson said “there is no indication that a notice or diffusion ever existed in Interpol’s databases,” but Osman’s lawyers say otherwise.

Osman hopes that the case will push Interpol to agree to reforms, such as improving its system for reviewing cases in order to determine whether they are politically motivated. If his lawyers can prove that what the Arab Interior Ministers Council did was an act of terrorism, Osman expects this will make it much harder for Arab states to justify their participation in its functions. “Funding it would be very hard at that point,” he said, as it would effectively mean that the Arab league was funding a terrorist organization. One of Osman’s lawyers also is seeking an agreement from the UAE to stop accepting red notices for U.S. citizens by way of the Council.

Osman and Virta now live in a small city in Massachusetts, where they largely keep to themselves. “The speed limit is 35 miles and people don't say hi to each other. It’s New England, so everybody’s an asshole,” said Osman. “There’s even a word for it: ‘Massholes.’”

He sees a psychologist who specializes in post-traumatic stress disorder. Osman says it is helping him understand what feels like a “new self.”

Osman is trying to launch a cannabis cultivation business, which missed out on some vital funding when investors heard about his arrest. He stayed quiet for six months after his release, but recently went back to posting about Egypt’s human rights record online. 

“I'm back again, talking and tearing down the president and his regime and military regime without mercy,” he said. “I got the news that they are worried in Egypt about my case.”

CORRECTION (09/29/2023): An earlier version of this article described Jamal Khashoggi as a U.S. citizen. It has been corrected to reflect that Khashoggi was a U.S. resident.

The post For Arab dissidents, the walls are closing in appeared first on Coda Story.

I came to the U.K. with my family when I was a young kid, fleeing a civil war. I went to preschool, high school and college here. I’m in my thirties now and have a kid of my own. I don’t know anything about the country I was born in — England is all I know. 

I got my permanent residency when I was little. I remember my dad also started applying for our British citizenship when I was younger but never quite got his head around the bureaucracy. 

When I got older, I got into a lifestyle I shouldn’t have and was arrested and given a criminal sentence and jail time. The funny thing is, just before I was arrested, I had finally saved up enough to start the process of applying for citizenship myself but never got around to it in time.

In the U.K., if you’re not a citizen and you commit a crime, the government has the power to deport you. It doesn’t matter if you’ve lived here all your life. So now, I’m fighting the prospect of being kicked out of the only country I’ve ever known. 

When I finished my sentence, they kept me in prison under immigration powers. When I finally got bail, they said I’d have to wear a GPS-powered ankle tag so that I didn’t disappear. I couldn’t believe it. If I had been a British citizen, when I finished my sentence that would be it, I’d be free. But in the eyes of the government, I was a foreigner, and so the Home Office — immigration — wanted to keep an eye on me at all times. 

My appointments with immigration had a strange quality to them. I could tell from the way we communicated that the officers instinctively knew they were talking to a British person. But the system had told them to treat me like an outsider and to follow the procedures for deporting me. They were like this impenetrable wall, and they treated me like I was nothing because I didn’t have a passport. They tried to play dumb, like they had no idea who I was or that I had been here my whole life, even though I’ve always been in the system.

I tried to explain there was no need to tag me and that I would never abscond. After all, I have a child here who I want to stay with. They decided to tag me anyway.

The day came when they arrived in my holding cell to fit the tag. I was shocked by its bulkiness. I thought to myself, ‘How am I going to cover this up under my jeans?’ I love to train and keep fit, but I couldn’t imagine going to the gym with this thing around my ankle. 

It’s hard to explain what it’s like to wear that thing. When I was first released — after many months inside — it felt amazing to be free, to wake up whenever I wanted and not have to wait for someone to come and open my door.

But gradually, I started to realize I wasn’t really free. And people did come to my door. Not prison guards, but people from a private security company. I later learned that company is called Capita.  When things go wrong with the tag, it’s the Capita people who show up at your home.

The visits were unsettling. I had no idea how much power the Capita people had or whether I was even obliged, legally, to let them in. The employees themselves were a bit clueless. Sometimes I would level with them, and they would admit they had no idea why I was being tagged.

It soon became clear that the technology attached to my ankle was pretty glitchy. One time, they came and told me, ‘The system says the tag had been tampered with.’ They checked my ankle and found nothing wrong. It sent my mind whirring. What had I done to jolt the strap? I suddenly felt anxious to leave the house, in case I knocked it while out somewhere. I began to move through the world more carefully. 

Other times, Capita staff came round to tell me my location had stopped registering. The system wasn’t even functioning, and that frustrated me. 

All these issues seemed to make out like I was the one doing something wrong. But I realize now it was nothing to do with me — the problem was with the tag, and the result was that I felt harassed by these constant unannounced visits by these anonymous Capita employees. 

In theory, the Home Office would call to warn you of Capita’s visits, but often they just showed up at random. They never came when they said they would. Once, I got a letter saying I breached my bail conditions after not being home when they came around. But I’d never been told they were coming in the first place. It was so anxiety-inducing: I was afraid if there were too many problems with the tag, it might be used against me in my deportation case. 

The other nightmare was the charging system. According to the people who fit my tag, the device could last 24 hours between charges. It never did. I’d be out and about or at work, and I’d have to calculate how long I could stay there before I needed to go home and charge. The low battery light would flash red, the device would start loudly vibrating, and I’d panic. Sometimes others would hear the vibration and ask me if it was my phone. Being around people and having to charge up your ankle is so embarrassing. There’s a portable charger, but it’s slow. If you want to charge up quicker, you have to sit down next to a plug outlet for two hours and wait. 

I didn’t want my child to know I’d been tagged or that I was having problems with immigration. I couldn’t bear the thought of trying to explain why I was wearing this thing around my ankle or that I was facing deportation. Whenever we were together I made sure to wear extra-loose jeans. 

I couldn’t think beyond the tag. It was always on my mind, a constant burden. It felt like this physical reminder of all my mistakes in life. I couldn’t focus on my future. I just felt stuck on that day when I was arrested. I had done my time, but the message from the Home Office was clear: There was no rehabilitation, at least not for me. I felt like I was sinking into quicksand, being pulled down into the darkness. 

My world contracted, and my mental health went into freefall. I came to realize I wasn’t really free: I was in an outside prison. The government knew where I was 24/7. Were they really concerned I would abscond, or did they simply want to intrude on my life? 

Eventually, my mental health got so bad I was able to get the tag removed, although I’m still facing deportation.

After the tag was taken off, it took me a while to absorb that I wasn’t being tracked anymore. Even a month later, I still put my jeans on as if I had the tag on. I could still kind of feel it there, around my ankle. I still felt like I was being watched. Of course, tag or no tag, the government always has other ways to monitor you. 

I’ve begun to think more deeply about the country I’ve always called home. This country that says it no longer wants me. The country that wants to watch my every move. I’m fighting all of it to stay with my child, but I sometimes wonder if, in the long term, I even want to be a part of this system, if this is how it treats people.

The post For migrants under 24/7 surveillance, the UK feels like ‘an outside prison’ appeared first on Coda Story.

The investigation comes at a time when the Tennessee state government has been proposing a barrage of legislation to limit access to healthcare for trans people. On July 8, a ban on gender-affirming care for minors went into effect. A block on the ban by a federal district judge was temporarily overturned by the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals, a higher federal court, in a split decision after an appeal by Tennessee Attorney General Jonathan Skrmetti.

In such a hostile atmosphere, Skrmetti’s demands for records from the Vanderbilt’s Clinic for Transgender Health have alarmed patients.

Chris Sanders, executive director at Tennessee Equality Project, an LGBTQ advocacy organization, told me that the parents of young trans people have expressed fears that their children might be targeted. “When you’re a parent intent on defending your child, this looks like danger coming down the road,” said Sanders. 

States with aggressive anti-trans laws like Texas and Florida have been seeking large swathes of data on trans people. In the wake of the VUMC revelations, people are asking if Tennessee is taking a similar path. 

In September 2022, VUMC battled claims on social media, including by conservative politicians and religious leaders, that their gender-affirming care services were morally and legally objectionable and amounted to “money-making schemes.” Nashville, due in part to the VUMC clinic, has been seen as a haven for people seeking gender-affirming options in Tennessee. In response to allegations of illegal conduct, Attorney General Skrmetti said he would “use the full scope of his authority to ensure compliance with Tennessee law.” 

VUMC was required by law to turn over records to Skrmetti’s office. In response to a request for comment, the Tennessee Attorney General’s office directed me to its statement on June 21: “This investigation is directed solely at VUMC and related providers and not at patients or their families. The records have been and will continue to be held in the strictest confidence, as is our standard practice and required by law. This same process happens in dozens of billing fraud investigations every year.”

But on social media, many feared that Skrmetti’s data sweep was a gross violation of the 1996 Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act and that VUMC could have done more to protect confidential information. In one tweet, a person who said VUMC had shared their data and that they were “terrified” claimed to have “challenged it with a HIPAA violation report.” In another tweet, containing a news clip from Nashville’s WKRN station in which the mother of a trans teen says she felt betrayed by the VUMC, several of the comments suggested VUMC had committed a HIPAA violation.

Jolynn Dellinger, senior lecturing fellow on privacy law and policy at Duke University School of Law, says that while HIPAA “is a pretty good law it’s widely misunderstood.” It only applies, she told me, “to a very small number of covered entities. The vast majority of health data is not covered by HIPAA.” 

As VUMC is a hospital, HIPAA does in fact protect its patient records, conversations with healthcare providers, and billing information. This means that the information cannot be shared without consent, but exceptions are made for law enforcement requests such as subpoenas and court orders. In this instance, a VUMC spokesman told reporters, the Tennessee Attorney General had the necessary legal authority to obtain the data.   

According to Dellinger, laws that are looking to criminalize access to gender-affirming care and abortion care leave the door open for authorities to seek people’s health data. On June 16, attorneys general from 19 states, including Tennessee, signed a letter addressed to the Secretary of Health and Human Services voicing their objection to a proposed expansion of HIPAA protections that would prevent states from exploiting their authority to fish for data. The dissenting attorneys general insist that the rule change “would unlawfully interfere with States’ authority to enforce their laws, and does not serve any legitimate need.” While focused on access to abortion, the complaints of Republican-governed states apply equally to those seeking gender-affirming care. 

Laws that restrict bodily autonomy, whether it is access to gender-affirming care or abortion, leave people vulnerable to a set of threats from state authorities that very much include demands for digital data.

Dellinger fears that laws that criminalize access to health care disincentivize people from seeking the care they need because they feel they can’t trust their doctor or that their medical records will be seized. Dellinger also said, “Once criminalization comes into play, privacy risks grow.” In their letter, the 19 state attorneys general argue that HIPAA recognizes that “privacy interests must be balanced against the ‘public interest in using identifiable health information for vital public and private purposes.’” 

Despite Tennessee Attorney General Skrmetti’s assertion that the VUMC patients’ records will be held in the “strictest” confidence, it is unclear how long that data will be held by authorities and whether it will continue to hold the data even after its investigation is complete. For now, though, Tennessee has taken another step in the legislative war that it appears to be waging against healthcare for trans people.

The decision this month by the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals is the first time a federal court has overturned a block on the banning of gender-affirming treatment. Courts have unanimously blocked such bans, points out the American Civil Liberties Union, in Arkansas, Florida, Indiana, Alabama and Kentucky. In a statement, the ACLU’s Tennessee chapter described the court’s decision as a “heartbreaking development for thousands of transgender youth, their doctors, and their families.”

Since 2015, reported the Washington Post, “Tennessee has enacted at least 14 laws that restrict LGBTQ rights — the most in the nation in that time frame.” On June 22, a federal judge dismissed a lawsuit filed by a group of trans women from Tennessee who wanted the right to change the designated sex on their birth certificates. 

“It’s hard to exist as a transgender person in Tennessee at this moment,” said Jaime Combs, one of the plaintiffs. And now the state is asking the trans people whose rights it seeks to restrict to trust it with their data.

The post Why trans people can’t trust Tennessee with their data appeared first on Coda Story.

As Lithuania joined the ranks of countries across the globe imposing sanctions on Russia over the war in Ukraine, LRT saw an avalanche of likes and shares descend upon its Facebook page. Posts that would normally receive 40 or 50 views were getting tens of thousands of interactions. And roughly half of the comments posted by LRT’s suddenly enormous audience espoused pro-Russian and anti-Ukrainian sentiments — an unusual dynamic in a country where support for Ukraine has been strong since the first days of the invasion. Analysis by Debunk, a Lithuanian disinformation research group, later found that much of this activity was driven by accounts situated in either Asia or Africa. This was a coordinated effort, one that almost certainly relied on automated accounts or bots. 

Now, a bill moving through Lithuania’s parliament is attempting to rein in this kind of activity. Representatives are deliberating on a set of proposed amendments to the country’s criminal code and public information laws that would criminalize automated account activity that poses a threat to state security. 

Under the changes, it would become a crime to distribute “disinformation, war propaganda, [content] inciting war or calling for the violation of the sovereignty of the Republic of Lithuania by force” from “automatically controlled” accounts. Violators could face fines, arrest or even three years’ imprisonment, depending on the particulars of the content in question.

The legislation is also expressly written to hold major social media platforms accountable for this kind of activity. It would empower the Lithuanian Radio and Television Commission to issue content and account removal orders to companies like Meta and Twitter.

Proponents of the legislation argue that social media companies have been ineffective in the fight against digital disinformation in Lithuania. In an explanatory note, lawmakers said the amendments would “send a clear message to internet platforms that an ineffective or insufficient fight against this problem is unacceptable and has legal consequences.”

“Right now, there is no regulation or legislation against bots,” said Viktoras Dauksas, the head of Debunk, the disinformation analysis center. But, he noted, “you can deal with bot farms through dealing with Meta.”

Twitter is a target of the policy too. In January 2022, a month before the invasion, U.S.-based disinformation researcher Markian Kuzmowyczius uncovered a bot attack on Twitter that falsely claimed that the Kremlin was recalling its diplomatic mission to Lithuania due to malign U.S. influence in the country. Removing diplomats is often a signal that the threat level to a country is high.

More than Meta, Twitter has long been a hub for automated accounts of all kinds. This was a key talking point for Elon Musk, who vowed to tackle the problem of malicious bots once the company was in his possession. While the company’s account verification policy has zigged and zagged since Musk’s takeover, it also appears to be honoring more requests for content removals that it receives from governments than it did under Jack Dorsey — in what could be a boon for Lithuania.

As for Meta, what the company terms “coordinated inauthentic behavior” has long been a violation of company policy, but its track record on enforcing this rule is mixed. The proposed amendments in Lithuania are meant to put the company on notice so that it is prepared to respond to requests from Lithuanian authorities in this vein. This is nothing new for Meta, which has faced regulatory measures around the world that are intended to ensure that content on the platform adheres to national laws. But Lithuania is among the smallest of countries that has attempted to bring the company to heel in this style. 

Germany’s 2017 Network Enforcement Act, casually referred to by policymakers as “Lex Facebook,” requires platforms above a certain size to remove illegal content, including hate speech, within 24 hours of receiving notice or face fines that could easily rise to tens of millions of euros. India’s 2021 IT Rules require large platforms to establish offices in the country and to dedicate staff to liaise with government officials seeking content removals or user data. In each case, the company has ultimately opted to comply, and it’s easy to see why. India represents Meta’s largest national market worldwide — it is unquestionably in Meta’s best interest to stay in good standing with regulators. And Germany’s position within the EU would have made it politically risky for the company not to fall in line.

But can Lithuania expect the same results? In December, Meta responded to allegations that Facebook was blocking pro-Ukrainian content in Lithuania and even sent representatives to Vilnius, the Lithuanian capital, to discuss the matter with policymakers. But two months later, Meta issued a formal response to Lithuanian politicians insisting that the platform's moderation principles were applied equally to both sides of the conflict and that the algorithm did not discriminate. The incident highlighted the small Baltic nation’s willingness to stand up to the tech giant as Facebook continues to be the most widely used platform in the country. But it also demonstrated Meta’s confidence in asserting its power in the region.

A month later, the heads of state from eight European countries, including Lithuania, wrote an open letter to tech firms calling on them to fight disinformation that “undermines” peace and stability.

Weeding out harmful bots is a complicated exercise in any country that wants to uphold freedom of expression. Although the proposed amendments would only apply to bots spreading information that is already prohibited under Lithuanian law, the criminalization of activity by an automated account still treads into relatively new territory. Lithuanian supporters of the two amendments, including Dauksas, argue that a clear line can be drawn between trolls, who are often people or profiles for hire, and bots, who Dauksas says should not be afforded human rights protections. Scholars like Jonathan Corpus Ong, an associate professor of global digital media at the University of Massachusetts, take a different stance. “Even in a bot farm, there are humans clicking the buttons and directing these armies of automated accounts. The distinction between human and automation is more nuanced and there are many layers of complicity,” he argues.

Speaking from the sidelines of TrustCon, a meeting of cyber security professionals in San Francisco, Ong was eager to stress that blunt force regulation is often not the answer to the complex set of challenges that arise when combatting bots. 

“We all agree that some regulation is necessary, but we need to be extremely careful about using punitive measures, which could create further harm,” he said. 

In Ong’s view, we need to be cautious about what kind of information is shared between platforms and governments and what data is exchanged between platforms and law enforcement agencies, all of which would depend on sustained levels of trust and transparency. While Lithuania is rated “Free” in Freedom House’s “Freedom in the World” report, such legislation could pave the way for new forms of censorship in countries where democracy is under pressure or has been eroded completely.

Underlying all of this is also a persistent dearth of independent research on these dynamics, research that would require full cooperation from companies like Meta and Twitter where the vast majority of operations like these play out. Calls for more transparency around bot and troll farms have been ongoing from analysts and scholars, but, so far, no social media platform has been open to independent audits of their own investigations, Ong said.

The post Lithuania goes after bots following spikes in pro-Russian propaganda appeared first on Coda Story.

On the last day of Pride Month, June 30, the court ruled to allow discrimination, under particular circumstances, against same-sex couples. By a majority of 6 to 3, the Court agreed that a web designer who opposes same-sex marriage could lawfully refuse to provide services for same-sex weddings.

This is just one in a litany of recent legislative and political assaults on LBGTQ+ rights. Conservative legislatures around the world have been targeting LGBTQ+ people, and especially transgender people, by denying them access to healthcare, dictating which public facilities are available to them, preventing them from speaking about their LGBTQ+ identities and, in the most severe cases, criminalizing their very existence. Here we reflect on Coda’s latest coverage of global LGBTQ+ rights and the trends these stories illuminate.

Florida, United States

In Florida, Governor Ron DeSantis continues to target transgender youth through restrictive legislation, banning access to gender-affirming care to all children under 18 and dictating which books Floridians can read and which bathrooms they can use. 

Reporting from Tallahassee, Rebekah Robinson tells the story of one family whose lives have been upended by the state’s anti-trans legislation. Milo, 16, and his family have made the difficult decision to leave their home and move 1,200 miles away, to Connecticut, to ensure that Milo can continue to access the medical care he needs. 

It’s not just limited healthcare access that has forced Milo’s family to move. With the expansion of DeSantis’ Parental Rights in Education Bill — the so-called ‘Don’t Say Gay’ law — teachers in Florida can no longer discuss gender and sexuality in the classroom. In addition, trans people in Florida are now prohibited from using public bathrooms consistent with their gender identity.

Florida may be only one state out of 50, but Republican legislation hostile toward transgender youth is popping up all over the U.S and will likely be a hot button political issue right up to the 2024 presidential elections. 

Russia

While Russia has recently dominated international headlines thanks to an attempted mutiny by Wagner Group leader Yevgeny Prigozhin, the Russian legislature has also been quietly cracking down on trans rights. A bill is making its way to President Vladimir Putin’s desk that will ban all gender-affirming care for transgender Russians. 

Tamara Evdokimova spoke with Russian psychologist Egor Burtsev to understand what effects a blanket ban on gender-affirming care would have on the trans community. If the bill passes as expected, trans people in Russia will not be able to access life-saving treatments, ranging from psychological care to hormone therapy to surgeries. This will trigger a nationwide mental health crisis and likely provoke violence against transgender Russians. 

Russia’s ban on transition-related care marks the latest escalation in Putin’s war against Western values. In November 2022, he signed a law prohibiting any activities that discuss or promote LGBTQ+ relationships. As Russia continues to wage war in Ukraine and further isolates itself from the West, vulnerable communities inside the country will face ever-greater risks of discrimination, violence and erasure.

India

Mirroring Vladimir Putin’s “family values” rhetoric, India’s government, led by Prime Minister Narendra Modi, has also been advocating against LGBTQ+ rights when it comes to marriage, arguing that permitting same-sex marriage would undermine Indian values. Some Indians have profited enormously by appealing to long-standing prejudice in Indian society against LGBTQ+ people, a prejudice seemingly endorsed, or at least tolerated, by the government. 

Alishan Jafri reports from northern India to tell the story of Trixie, a young transgender woman whose mother pushed her to undergo conversion therapy with a YouTube guru. Santosh Singh Bhadauria, better known as the “YouTube Baba,” specializes in conversion therapy and livestreams “healing” sessions to tens of thousands of viewers. Similar to televangelists, Bhadauria is a “godman,” a self-styled guru who has persuaded his followers that he possesses spiritual powers. 

Conversion therapy is illegal in India, and anyone subjected to it, as Trixie was, can take legal actions against the likes of YouTube Baba. The court system might offer some recourse to trans Indians, but with a federal government that advocates conservative, anti-LGBTQ+ views, homophobia and transphobia continue to prevail in many parts of the country.

Uganda

In March, Uganda virtually outlawed LGBTQ+ identity by criminalizing same-sex relationships. The 2023 Anti-Homosexuality Bill imposes draconian penalties for engaging in same-sex relationships, discussing one’s LGBTQ+ identity and renting or selling property to LGBTQ+ people — and institutes the death penalty for sexual assault and for having sex with people under 18.

And this is not the only law targeting gay people in Uganda, Prudence Nyamishana writes. The Assisted Reproductive Technology Bill, first proposed in 2021, targets Ugandans seeking fertility treatment by requiring them to be legally married in order to qualify for treatments. This bill heavily constrains the reproductive rights of unmarried women and LGBTQ+ people who want to have children, as Ugandan law does not recognize same-sex marriage. 

Both bills underscore a push among Ugandan legislators to align national laws with their notions of “morality,” rooted in Christianity — or, as the legislation’s opponents suggest, Christian fundamentalism. 

The post The global rise of anti-trans legislation appeared first on Coda Story.

The ban on legal and medical gender transition marks the latest escalation in Russia’s crackdown on LGBTQ+ rights. In November 2022, Russian President Vladimir Putin signed a law prohibiting any activities that promote “non-traditional sexual relationships,” effectively outlawing any books, films, media and online resources that discuss LGBTQ+ people.

The bill outlawing gender-affirming care must still pass through Russia’s upper house of parliament and be signed by Putin, but in the event of its likely adoption, it will prevent transgender people from accessing life-saving treatments, ranging from psychological care to hormone therapy to voluntary surgeries. 

According to Egor Burtsev, a clinical psychologist who has worked with transgender and LGBTQ+ patients in Russia for over 10 years, the abolition of gender-affirming care amounts to “torture.” 

Burtsev, who left Russia in April 2022 out of concern for his safety and now lives in Lithuania, worries that the new law will precipitate a mental health crisis in Russia’s trans community, amplify the stigma that LGBTQ+ Russians have long faced and trigger violence against transgender people in Russia. To better understand the far-reaching consequences of a ban on gender-affirming care, I spoke with Burtsev on Telegram. 

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity. 

The Russian parliament has passed a law banning legal and surgical sex changes. What impact will this have on access to medical and psychological care for transgender people? 

What they are proposing is a complete abolition of gender reassignment procedures, surgeries and hormone therapy for transgender people. It is a complete ban. What consequences will this have? Transgender people remain, but the procedures are banned. A transgender person — someone who has been undergoing hormone therapy for 10,15 years, who’s looked completely different for a long time, socialized in a completely different way — is suddenly deprived of the possibility to receive hormone therapy. The body changes, not quickly, but it changes, there are all kinds of reversals, transformations. And the relationship with one’s body, for transgender people, is quite complicated. What we will see is the highest risk of depression, the highest risk of self-harm, the highest risk of suicide.

All possible channels of any kind of medical care will be cut off. Transgender people are not going anywhere. They can’t change how they feel, what their gender identity is, because the authorities ordered it. They're being thrown overboard. And I would equate this to torture: depriving transgender people of medical care, hormone therapy and any psychological help that might have been available before.

Trans people have been left completely without help and in a terrible position of fear, humiliation, discrimination, stigma.

Russia is not the only country adopting laws against gender-affirming care. In the U.S., for example, Florida recently passed a bill that made it illegal to provide gender-affirming care to trans children under 18. From a medical perspective, is it necessary to have any restrictions on who, and at what age, should be able to undergo a gender transition?

There is a wave of such anti-gender movements in the world right now. Conservatism and neoconservatism are coming to the fore. The wave of anti-trans movements is sweeping the world, and Russia has actively, happily joined in. Even some quite democratic countries are not succeeding on this front right now. But that doesn't mean that this situation won’t change, because democracy works somewhat differently. Democracy doesn’t work like this, with one vulnerable group receiving help while another gets discarded.

As for helping trans children under 18, that’s a very controversial issue. There is no uniform policy on this. It’s understandable that the first feeling the idea evokes is probably bewilderment: ‘How can we allow something like this to happen before a child turns 18?’ But as a psychologist who’s worked mostly in Russia, where gender transition was allowed from the age of 18, I usually recommend to parents to simply provide support, to call the person by their name and use their pronouns. And according to statistics, this dramatically reduces the risk of suicidal behavior — just accept the child, call them what they like. 

It is important to give people the right to decide for themselves, from a certain age, what will happen with hormone therapy and to give endocrinologists the opportunity to help people intelligently, clearly, taking into account their circumstances. 

Based on what you’ve seen in your practice, what have been some of the challenges — medical, interpersonal, social — for transgender people in Russia?

The first problem has to do with socialization. It begins with a person becoming aware of themselves and bringing themselves before society — this is the coming-out process. And the first problem is usually related to acceptance: by family, friends, colleagues, classmates and so on. Of course, there's the constant stigma. There is also a huge problem with accessing healthcare that has always been there. 

Because the stigma is so layered, so varied, trans people experience different challenges. Often  they experience trauma, stress and suicidal ideation. Episodes of depression can be pretty severe. A large percentage of transgender people experience depressive states. Anxiety is also extremely common. All of this happens because the stigma and the discrimination all over the world, and especially in Russia, are quite strong. 

Can you briefly explain the legal and medical process that a trans person in Russia needed to go through if they wanted to transition, before this law was passed? 

The transition procedure in Russia was one of the best in the world. We were even a little proud of it, because in recent years, Russia was preparing to adopt ICD-11. This is the 11th revision of the International Classification of Diseases, in which ‘transsexualism’ is excluded from the list of psychiatric conditions. The removal of this psychiatric diagnosis was a huge victory for the trans community. Plus, with the exclusion of this diagnosis, the procedure for changing one’s gender marker has been simplified in many countries. That is, people simply come in, declare their desire to transition and have different procedures. 

We had commissions in Russia that issued permits [to transgender people]. The commission consisted of a psychiatrist, a clinical psychologist and a sexologist. People came before these commissions, had conversations and were diagnosed. Afterwards, they received written permission to change the gender marker in their passport without any legal obstacles. The procedure was quite humane. Before that, less than 10 years ago, this process still required surgery. You had to have at least one surgical procedure. And, in many countries of the world, this requirement still remains.

There has been a lot of talk from the Russian government about protecting “traditional values.” Putin often says that soon, in the West, children will have a “Parent #1” and a “Parent #2,” instead of a mom and a dad. 

One of the major problems that Putin and some other politicians — or, rather, the entire State Duma — have is that they don't pay attention to science-based approaches. They don't look at the science, they don't look at the research, they don't know what they're proposing. They just engage in populism in the service of power. 

The whole world is moving toward greater diversity, there is no stopping it. We see it in our teenagers — who are 15-16 years old, who are not interested in politics because of their age, who are more interested in relationships and their own identities — and in how they construct their identities, how they look at relationships, how they experiment. They have a much more open view on things. The world, for them, is much more multilayered, not black-and-white like it is for government representatives, who tend to be quite old.

Does the government’s position reflect prevailing attitudes toward transgender people? 

I think in many ways it does. Because there is such a thing as propaganda, and propaganda shapes the average Russian’s public opinion. And if propaganda works, then quite a few people really are transphobic, homophobic. I'm afraid there will be a lot of violence against LGBTQ+ people and against transgender people. There will be murders, there will be violence. It's very scary. It's a nightmare.

So, fearing exactly that, LGBTQ+ people are now panicking and trying to escape to somewhere else. But trans people tend to be financially disadvantaged. It's very hard for them to move, they don't have the right documents, they don't always have passports. They find themselves trapped inside [Russia] with this society. 

But there is an alternative, there are, of course, people who are more progressive, who think for themselves. Some have left for now, but many have stayed in the country. They just shut down, they keep quiet, they don't actively speak out, because staying safe right now is paramount. As soon as there is a chance to exhale, we will hear those voices. And I really hope that someday the situation will begin to change for the better. We must all work together to change it.

The post Russia’s ban on gender transition amounts to ‘torture’ appeared first on Coda Story.

For this photo essay, Magnum Photos President Thomas Dworzak traveled to Switzerland and documented the lives of Geneva residents along with the digital “footprints” they leave behind every day. Drawing on research by the Edgelands Institute that explored Geneva’s evolving systems of everyday surveillance, Dworzak sought to use photography to tell the story of how the digitalization of our daily lives affects — and diminishes — our security.

He accompanied Geneva citizens in their daily routines while documenting the digital traces of their activities throughout the day. Dworzak researched the places that store our digital data and photographed them as well — an investigation that proved difficult and revealing of the lack of transparency surrounding the handling and storage of personal data.

To conclude the project, Dworzak sent each of his subjects a postcard from places where their digital information is stored: a simple way to demonstrate the randomness of where our digitally collected information ends up.

Thomas writes: 

Do citizens of Geneva understand how surveillance takes place in their daily lives? The relationship between surveillance and power can be understood as a contemporary version of the “social contract,” originally conceptualized by the Genevan philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau in his 18th century seminal work on democracies.

As a photographer, I needed to set the place: Geneva. I wanted to play on the dark side of the quaint, cute and affluent image of one of the world’s wealthiest cities and the world of international relations in which the Genevans are so often entangled.

I needed to trace the connection between life in this comfortable European city and the hidden paths of information that form underneath a surveilled daily life. I spent time with a variety of regular Genevan people, all voluntary participants in our project. I photographed their daily routines, marking whenever they would leave a “digital footprint” when using their phones, credit cards, apps or computers. With the help of the Edgelands team, I then identified corresponding data centers around the world where their information was likely to have been stored. I created a set of postcards using open-source applications like Google Earth and Google Street View. These “postcards from your server” were then sent back to the respective volunteers from the countries where these data centers were located, highlighting the far-flung places that our private data goes to when they perform a simple task such as buying groceries or a bus ticket.

The post Digital footprints on the dark side of Geneva appeared first on Coda Story.

The European Centre for Media Freedom also came out in support of the Sabah journalists, condemning the detention and demanding that press freedom be upheld. But Turkey itself is a leading jailer of journalists, ranked 165th out of 180 countries in the 2023 World Press Freedom Index published by Reporters Without Borders. And, according to German prosecutors, Erel and Albay were under investigation for the “dangerous” dissemination of other journalists’ personal data.

German authorities have legitimate concerns about the safety of Turkish journalists living in exile. In July 2021, Erk Acarer, a Turkish columnist, was beaten up outside his home in Berlin. Later that month, German authorities began investigating Turkish nationalist organized crime groups operating in Europe after the police found a hit list of 55 journalists and activists who had fled Turkey.

In September 2022, Sabah published information that revealed the location of Cevheri Guven’s home. It appears likely — though it has not been confirmed by German officials — that this was the reason for the arrests of Erel and Albay. Guven himself had been arrested in Turkey in 2015 and sentenced to over 22 years in prison. He was the editor of a news magazine that had published a cover criticizing Erdogan. Out on bail before his trial, Guven wrote that he gave his “life savings” to a smuggler to get him and his family out of Turkey. He now lives in Germany.

The ability of states such as Germany and Sweden to protect refugees, whether they are fleeing Turkey, China, Russia or Iran, has waned, as authoritarian leaders have become more brazen in using technology to stalk, bully, assault, kidnap and even kill dissidents. The Turkish state’s appetite for targeting critical voices abroad, especially those of journalists, has been growing for some time. As Erdogan’s government clamped down on media freedom at home, it has co-opted journalists working at government-friendly news outlets into becoming tools of cross-border repression. This has allowed the state to reach outside Turkey’s borders to intimidate journalists and dissidents who have sought refuge in Western Europe and North America.

Since last year, Sabah has revealed details about the locations of several Turkish journalists in exile. In October 2022, it published the address and photographs of exiled journalist Abdullah Bozkurt. The report included details about where he shopped. This was just a month after I met Bozkurt at a cafe in the Swedish capital, Stockholm, where he now lives. Bozkurt told me that he is constantly harassed online by pro-government trolls and because of the large Turkish immigrant population in Sweden, many of whom are Erdogan supporters, has been forced into isolation. It has had, he said, an adverse impact on his children’s quality of life.

Two years before Bozkurt’s personal information was leaked, in June 2020, Cem Kukuc, a presenter on the Turkish channel TGRT Haber, said of Bozkurt and other critical journalists: “Where they live is known, including their addresses abroad. Let’s see what happens if several of them get exterminated.” Just three months after that broadcast, Bozkurt was attacked in Stockholm by unidentified men who dragged him to the ground and kicked him for several minutes. “I think this attack was targeted,” Bozkurt told the Committee to Protect Journalists, “and is part of an intimidation campaign against exiled Turkish journalists with the clear message that we should stop speaking up against the Turkish government.” Bozkurt deleted his address and vehicle and contact information from the Swedish government’s registration system after the 2020 attack, but both Sabah and A Haber, another pro-government media outlet, still published his address last year.

Sabah and A Haber are both owned by the sprawling Turkuvaz Media Group. It is “one of the monopolistic hubs for pro-government outlets,” said Zeyno Ustun, an assistant professor of sociology and digital media and film at St. Lawrence University in the U.S. The group’s chief executive is Serhat Albayrak, the brother of a former government minister, Berat Albarak, who is also Erdogan’s son-in-law.

Turkuvaz says that its newspapers have a collective readership of 1.6 million. In April, a month before Turkey’s tense general election, in which Erdogan managed to secure his third term as president, Turkuvaz’s channel ATV was the most watched in the country.

A few days before the second round of the presidential election, in late May, I met Orhan Sali, the head of news at the English-language broadcaster A News and the head of the foreign news desk at A Haber. To enter Turkuvaz’s tall, glass-paneled headquarters on the outskirts of Istanbul, I had to pass through three security barriers. An assistant took me to Sali’s spacious office on the third floor. Sali, who was born in Greece, is small with an incongruously graying beard on his round, youthful face. He wore a crisp, white shirt. On a shelf near Sali’s desk sit a couple of awards, including at least one for “independent journalism,” he told me.

In the same breath, Sali also said, “We are pro-Erdogan, we are not hiding it.” He acknowledged that there is a risk in publishing the names of journalists critical of the Turkish government but said it was not unusual. “If you read the British tabloid newspapers,” he told me, “you will find tons of pictures, tons of addresses.” 

This is not entirely accurate, according to Richard Danbury, who teaches journalism at the City University in London. “It is not true,” he told me, “that even tabloids as a matter of course publish people’s addresses and photos of people’s houses, particularly if they have been at risk of being attacked.”

But Sali was unconcerned. He approached a panel of screens covering the wall. Some of these channels, he said, are hardline and totally supportive of Kemal Kilicdaroglu, the main opposition candidate in Turkey’s recent election. “All of them,” he told me, “are terrorists.”

In the lead up to the presidential election, Turkuvaz outlets such as A News and A Haber gave Kilicdaroglu little to no coverage. Erdogan, meanwhile, received extensive coverage, according to Reporters Without Borders. One pro-government channel, TRT Haber, gave Erdogan 32 hours of airtime compared to just 30 minutes for Kilicdaroglu.

Sali, who seems to have a penchant for deflecting criticism of Turkuvaz’s journalism by comparing it to that of the British press, told me he sees no problem with this lack of balance. “The BBC,” he said, “is supporting the ruler. Who is the ruler? The king. You cannot say anything against the king, can you?”

At least seven journalists who have had their addresses published by Turkuvaz outlets are alleged by Erdogan’s government to be followers of the Islamic cleric Fetullah Gulen, who is suspected of having orchestrated a failed coup against Erdogan in 2016. Since the coup attempt, Erdogan’s government has imprisoned hundreds of critics they refer to as “FETO terrorists,” a derogatory reference to Gulen supporters. Cevheri Guven — the editor whose address in Germany was published in Sabah in September 2022 — is often described in pro-government media as the Joseph Goebbels of FETO, a reference to the Nazi propagandist.

“The 2016 coup had a major effect on the media landscape in Turkey,” said Joseph Fitsanakis, a professor of intelligence and security studies at Coastal Carolina University. “At that point,” he told me, “Erdogan made a conscious decision, a consistent effort to pretty much wipe out any non-AKP voices from the mainstream media landscape.” The AKP, or the Justice and Development Party, was co-founded by Erdogan in 2001.

In October 2022, the Turkish parliament passed sweeping legislation curtailing free speech, including implementing a vaguely worded law that effectively leaves anyone accused of spreading false information about Turkey’s domestic and foreign security facing three years in prison.

Before Erdogan’s rise to power, Turkey did not enjoy total media freedom, said Ustun, the media professor at St. Lawrence University. But, she told me, during his 21 years in politics, “there has been a gradual demise of the media freedom landscape.” Following the widespread protests in 2013, referred to as the Gezi Park protests, and the 2016 coup attempt, “efforts to control the mainstream media as well as the internet have intensified,” she added. The overwhelming majority of mainstream media outlets are now under the control of Erdogan and his allies.

Henri Barkey, a professor at Lehigh University and an adjunct senior fellow at the Council for Foreign Relations, told me that Erdogan has “muscled the press financially” by channeling advertising revenues to pro-government outlets such as those owned by the Turkuvaz Media Group. Erdogan, Barky says, has also weaponized the law. “They use the judicial system to punish the opposition press for whatever reason,” he told me. “You look left and you were meant to look right, and in Turkey today that is enough.”

The media has, for years now, been used as a tool of transnational repression, says Fitsanakis. In 2020, for instance, the U.K. expelled three Chinese spies who had been posing as journalists. But, Fitsanakis adds, since Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022, intelligence services in Europe and North America, fueled by a heightened awareness of the threat emanating from Moscow, have been collaborating more closely to remove Russian spies from within their borders. 

The actions of other diplomatic missions too are being more closely monitored. Turkey, one of the most prolific perpetrators of transnational repression, according to Freedom House, has found itself a target of Western surveillance, making it harder for the state to place intelligence operatives inside embassies. In lieu of this traditional avenue for embedding intelligence sources in foreign countries, Fitsanakis believes, governments are turning in greater numbers toward friendly journalists. “It’s the perfect cover,” Fitsanakis told me. “You have access to influential people, and you get to ask a lot of questions without seeming strange.”

Erdogan’s re-election, experts fear, could mean he will further clamp down on democratic freedoms. Barkey believes there will be a brain drain as more intellectuals and critics leave Turkey for more congenial shores. But the evidence suggests that an emboldened Erdogan can still reach them.

“We might see a lot more emphasis on silencing any kind of opposition to Erdogan in the coming years,” Fitsanakis told me. “And because much of the opposition to Erdogan is now coming from Turks abroad, that fight is going to transfer to European soil.”

The post Turkey uses journalists to silence critics in exile appeared first on Coda Story.

About a mile away, as the wrestlers were being violently restrained by the police, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi was opening the country’s new parliament building, estimated to have cost  $120 million, in a controversial ceremony that was boycotted by at least 19 opposition parties. The wrestlers were marching toward the building to draw attention to their cause when they were stopped. They had already been protesting for weeks at Jantar Mantar in central Delhi, a site designated for protests. But permission to protest outside the new parliament building, said the police, had been denied. 

For a little over a month, the wrestlers camped out at Jantar Mantar. They have alleged that Brij Bhushan Singh, arguably the single most powerful official in Indian wrestling over the last decade, has been sexually harassing young female wrestlers for years. The protesters include some of Indian wrestling’s biggest names — Sakshi Malik,the bronze medalist at the 2016 Rio Olympics, Vinesh Phogat, a medalist at the World Wrestling Championship in both 2019 and 2022, and Bajrang Punia, the bronze medalist at the 2020 Tokyo Olympics. Since it became an independent nation in 1947, India has won 30 Olympic medals, seven of them in wrestling. Medal-winning athletes are celebrated with fervor largely because there are so few of them in India.  

Brij Bhushan Singh, the man the wrestlers accuse of systematic sexual abuse, is a six-time member of parliament. He is an influential figure in the Bharatiya Janata Party, India’s ruling party.. Singh has the reputation of being a strongman who wields considerable political muscle in Uttar Pradesh, a vast northern state that is electorally crucial for keeping the BJP in power. In addition to his parliamentary duties, Singh has been the president of the Wrestling Federation of India since 2011. Though he was asked to temporarily step aside from his role at the Federation after the allegations came to light, he is still listed as its president on its website.

Since April 23, Indian wrestlers, including the sport’s biggest stars, have been living in a makeshift plastic tent and sleeping on mattresses laid out on the pavement. They have called for Singh’s dismissal from the Federation and for his arrest. “We have been sitting here asking for justice,” Vinesh Phogat told me. Their supporters point to the lack of action by the police, including delays in just registering a complaint, as evidence that the BJP is shielding Singh.

He has, the wrestlers say, been harassing young athletes, including at least one minor, for over a decade with impunity. When Sakshi Malik joined a training camp in the city of Lucknow in 2012, she told me, older wrestlers warned her that Singh “was not a good man, that he sexually harassed girls.” She described his predatory behavior as an open secret in the wrestling community. “The parents, the women’s coaches, the men’s coaches, everyone knew this was happening.” But, she added, he was so powerful that “no one had the courage to speak out against him.”

Phogat also told me that Singh would “harass almost every girl.” And that if the young women wrestlers resisted, Singh “would ruin their game” and subject them to “mental torture.” Many young women, Phogat said, “have left wrestling because of him.”

Paramjeet Malik, a former official physiotherapist of the Wrestling Federation of India, said he was aware that Singh harassed women. He told me that in 2014, three young wrestlers had confided in him that they had been sexually harassed by Singh. Malik lived with the athletes at the training camp in Lucknow that year. He told me that, on several occasions, he had noticed a car that he knew belonged to Singh stop at the camp to pick up women wrestlers. “I saw them leaving the camp at night, after eleven, or sometimes at midnight,” he told me. When he asked the girls what was going on, he said, some of them broke down and told him that they were being called to Singh’s residence in the city.

If they refused to go, Malik told me, they were told that Singh “would have their names removed from the camp’s list, that they would be declared unfit, that their careers would be ruined.” Some of these girls, he said, were under 18 and came from low-income backgrounds. Sport, to them and their families, was a way out of poverty. Malik said he made a written complaint to a senior coach at the camp but no action was taken. Malik alleges that when he spoke to the media about Singh’s behavior, he was fired. According to Malik, the coach who fired him admitted that he had been receiving calls from Singh himself. The coach warned Malik that Singh was a powerful man and that Malik’s life could be in danger if he persisted. “That very night,” Malik told me, “we had to flee the camp.”

The three star wrestlers leading the current protests — Sakshi Malik, Vinesh Phogat and Bajrang Punia — said they believed they had reached a level of recognition that finally empowered them to take on Singh and stop the abuse. The trigger, Malik told me, was when she heard that 10 women had been harassed by Singh after a recent junior world championship. A few of the young women spoke directly to Malik. She said she had to speak up. “Enough was enough,” Malik told me, “we didn’t want coming generations of women to have to face the same thing.” 

On April 21, seven women wrestlers, including a minor, filed police complaints against Singh at a Delhi police station. Their identities have not been publicly revealed. The women listed specific incidents of harassment between 2012 and 2022 and said they occurred at Singh’s official parliamentary residence in Delhi and during tournaments in India and abroad. The Indian Express newspaper reported that, in at least two complaints, the women described in detail how Singh touched them inappropriately on the pretext of checking their breath.

However, the Delhi police did not immediately register a case against Singh. The police in the Indian capital operate under the authority of India’s Home Ministry — as part of the federal, rather than local, government. India’s current home minister is Amit Shah, and he is effectively second only to Modi in the hierarchy of both the government and the BJP. 

When the police failed to take note of their complaint, the wrestlers filed a petition with the Supreme Court asking for a police probe. Only after the court intervened did the Delhi police register two complaints against Singh. One of these complaints was from a minor and filed under India’s stringent Protection of Children from Sexual Offenses Act — a guilty verdict under the act results in, at minimum, a five-year sentence.

Singh denies all allegations and says he is willing “to be hanged” if found guilty. He has called the wrestlers’ protests “politically motivated.” Over the last month, several leaders from India’s opposition parties have visited the wrestlers’ sit-in to extend solidarity. Singh has since described the athletes as “toys” in the hands of opposition parties.

“Sexual harassment is not a political issue,” Phogat told me. She said it was Singh who was trying to make their complaints about politics in a bid to “save himself.” The wrestlers, Phogat said, have put their careers on the line for their cause. “We have some respect, some standing in the country,” she told me. “Something must have happened for us to be here.”

Phogat pointed to the U.S. gymnast Simone Biles, who testified against the U.S. national gymnastics team’s doctor Larry Nassar — accused of sexual abuse by more than 100 women. “When Simone Biles spoke up against sexual harassment,” Phogat said, “did they call her political?” She described Singh as India’s Larry Nassar. “There are many Larry Nassars here,” she told me, “not just one, but at least we are taking on one now.”

Kavita Krishnan, a feminist activist and writer, says that the BJP is “backing their leader” in a “brazen and shameless” way. “The ruling party has not distanced itself from this man,” she told me. “I cannot remember so blatant a case of political protection.” She said Singh’s “political power” in Uttar Pradesh, which has 80 seats in the Indian parliament, more than any other state, is “the basis of very cynical calculations this government is making about keeping this guy around.”

Krishnan added that in a normal, healthy democracy, the wrestlers’ complaints would have caused huge political embarrassment. One of the primary reasons for the absence of pressure on the BJP, she said, was the lack of serious and sustained mainstream media coverage of the scandal. The BJP exercises its control, she said, not only through government bodies but also through one of its “main propaganda arms” — the media. “The control of the propaganda media over public opinion,” Krishnan said, is what “the government relies on” to shape public conversation. Most mainstream media, she said, are either neglecting the story or suppressing it. “The most influential media with the greatest reach, especially in non-English Indian languages,” Krishnan told me, “are, for the large part, totally batting for the BJP and Brij Bhushan Singh.” Vinesh Phogat told me that “national TV is making Singh the hero and us the villains.”

The wrestlers first held a public protest in Delhi in January 2023. At the time, the government persuaded them to call it off by forming an oversight committee to examine the allegations and by asking Singh to “step aside” from his role at the Wrestling Federation. By late April, though, the wrestlers felt they had no choice but to resume protests after they saw no serious action being taken against Singh. The oversight committee’s report wasn’t made public, and the athletes expressed a lack of faith in its functioning. 

Sakshi Malik told me that she believed the committee had given Singh “a clean chit,” which means effectively clearing him of all charges. The wrestlers claimed that Singh had also resumed overseeing tournaments in his area and was still calling the shots in the Federation, a sign of his political power.

To further show off his political clout, Singh has called for a mass rally on June 5 in the city of Ayodhya in Uttar Pradesh, a place sacred to Hindus. “On the appeal of the nation’s revered saints, a grand rally for public awareness,” reads a poster for the event, complete with an image of a Hindu god. Krishnan described the rally as an attempt by a BJP politician at “invoking Hindu identity” and “Hindu supremacist politics” to imply that he is innocent and deserves the support of all Hindus. Singh has claimed that over one million Hindu seers will attend. “Under the leadership of seers, we will force the government to change the law,” he declared, referring to India’s Protection of Children from Sexual Offenses Act. 

The wrestlers say that Singh has tried to intimidate the athletes who complained to the police. Malik told me that the minor in particular has been targeted. “Phone calls have been made to her parents,” Malik said. Strange cars have been spotted around her house at night.

Even as Singh has attempted grandstanding and deploying strong-arm tactics, the wrestlers have stood their ground. On May 28, the police detained the wrestlers for the day and arrested at least 700 others across the capital. With the wrestlers and their supporters held at different police stations, the authorities took the opportunity to clear their protest site and said they would no longer allow the month-long sit-in to continue. Delhi police also charged the wrestlers with “rioting” and “obstructing a public servant.” The wrestlers have since announced that they will begin an indefinite hunger strike. 

In the past few weeks, as the protests have intensified, the wrestlers have received support from student unions, women’s groups, labor unions, farmers’ collectives and even the International Olympic Committee. On the evening of May 23, nearly 500 people marched to India Gate, a war memorial in the heart of Delhi, as part of a candlelight protest in support of the wrestlers. Sakshi Malik stood on the edge of a police barricade and lit a candle, as hundreds gathered before her waving Indian flags. “This is a fight for India’s daughters,” she told the crowd. “We have to win this. And we will.”

The post Indian wrestlers say ‘me too’ but the BJP is not listening appeared first on Coda Story.

Policymakers who pushed for the law say it will help protect kids from mental health issues and other risks that can arise from viewing certain kinds of material online. But what counts as “harmful,” exactly? The law is aimed at pornography, but it extends to virtually any commercial website with content that does not have “literary, artistic, political or scientific” value for minors and that makes up more than a third of all material on that site. With the law now in effect this month, anyone in Utah can sue violators if a minor accesses content on their website. Nonprofit-run sites, search engines and news-gathering organizations are exempt from liability.

Utah passed another law earlier this year to regulate minors’ access to social media platforms, which requires teens to get parental consent to use the platforms and prohibits them from using such platforms between 10:30 p.m. and 6:30 a.m. Research has shown that social media can be harmful to the mental health of young people. But age verification and time curfews might not be the best solutions to the problems that lawmakers have trained their focus on.

Heidi Tandy, a lawyer and First Amendment speech researcher, says it’s worrying that policymakers don’t consider kids’ rights. “It's very clear that there is a sliding scale of First Amendment rights for those under the age of 18,” Tandy told me.

On Twitter, Electronic Frontier Foundation researcher Jason Kelley pointed out that while politicians tend to frame these laws as protection for children, they apply to everyone under the age of 18. He warned against “lumping in 10 year olds with seventeen year olds who can work, apply for emancipation, and drive.” Older teens are much more likely to seek out sexual content online — and have legitimate reasons to do so — than kids who are just nine or 10 years old.

Kelley suggested that the Utah law might end up pushing well past pornography to cover things like sexual education materials or fiction that includes sexual themes.

“The goal is often not just to remove or block what most of us would consider adult content, but go beyond that,” he told me. Kelley says advocates have “a certain reasonable fear that larger swaths of sites would be swept up in the law.”

“You've seen that, with definitions of what’s considered pornography or adult content in places like Florida, they're removing books from libraries,” Kelley said, referring to recent legislation targeting books that are considered “sexually explicit” or that deal with gender identity, sexuality and related subjects.

Experts and adult film industry voices have also noted that these restrictions could send teens toward more obscure sites that parents or policymakers might not be aware of. This is a key argument that Pornhub makes, the Canada-based adult content site that consistently ranks among the most popular websites in the world. Earlier this month, Pornhub blocked access to videos on its site for all users based in Utah to show its opposition to the law. People in Utah who tried accessing the site were instead redirected to a video featuring adult film actress Cherie DeVille explaining the company’s objections to the law. Among other things, she noted that it could lead teens to sites with no protections against videos depicting things like sexual violence or child abuse.

There’s good reason to believe that rules like the one in Utah will soon spread to much of the U.S. The state of Louisiana was the first ever to implement this type of age verification law. A raft of similarly-worded age verification bills, what Kelley calls “copycat laws,” have been introduced in six states so far this year. All of these policies ostensibly require websites to introduce technical mechanisms for checking a user’s age before they can access that site’s content. Although the Louisiana law provides special guidance on this, Utah hasn’t established a standard for how sites should digitally verify a user’s age.

How should websites card their users, exactly? Utah recently implemented a pilot project for making driver’s licenses accessible on a mobile device that comes with an annual subscription cost. A digital ID works in tandem with a state's motor vehicle administration, so it can be considered a valid form of identification for buying alcohol or other age-restricted products.

Louisiana, meanwhile, requires sites to use “commercial age verification systems.” And there’s a burgeoning industry waiting to serve sites in states with these requirements. Third-party services like FaceTec and Yoti offer biometrics-driven age verification software that websites can pay for, but this software can be costly to buy and maintain, making it difficult for small businesses to comply with the law.

All of the solutions on the table thus far raise significant concerns about the privacy of young people’s data. As Coda has reported in the past, using biometrics to verify someone’s identity or assess their age often requires sites to hold troves of personal data that can become vulnerable to breaches or even targeted abuse, harming users in the near term or for years ahead.

“People who want age verification laws have the best interest of teenagers at heart,” Tandy told me. But, she said, “I don't think they're thinking through the privacy ramifications of what they're asking for.”

The post Utah’s online porn law puts teens’ digital rights at risk appeared first on Coda Story.

The latest flare-up occurred in mid-April, when the American streaming giant scrambled to remove the first episode of the docuseries “MH370: The Plane That Disappeared” from its service in Vietnam. The Vietnamese authorities excoriated the three-episode show over what they characterized as “inaccurate and unsubstantiated” information about Vietnam’s search-and-rescue operation to locate flight MH370, the Malaysia Airlines plane that vanished in 2014 en route from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing with 239 people onboard.

This wasn’t the first show to go. Before that, it was “Little Women,” a K-drama about three sisters living in modern day South Korea. The show was axed by Netflix in Vietnam last October after the authorities claimed it distorted Vietnam War history. And in 2021, Vietnam ordered Netflix to stop showing the Australian spy drama “Pine Gap,” which included footage of a map showing Beijing’s unilaterally declared “nine-dash line” that defines its expansive maritime claims in the South China Sea.  

The removals followed an eerily similar pattern: To justify their censorship demands, Vietnamese censors invoked the “hurting the feelings of the people” narrative either in their own statements or by way of reports in state-controlled media.

But to what extent does this “hurt feelings” rhetoric actually reflect popular opinion on the ground?

Public opinion and state actions — which drives which? 

The rationale of the Vietnamese authorities for flagging the MH370 docuseries could be boiled down to a just single line in the first episode, which featured a family member of a missing Chinese passenger desperately urging her country to step in: "We hope the Chinese government can quickly send a search-and-rescue team, as the Vietnamese [government] doesn't seem to have much ability." 

The government claims that the show caused “an uproar among the populace.” But it is hard to fathom why the Vietnamese public would get riled up about a single line quoting a plea made by an ordinary citizen. Lam Nguyen, a 22-year-old student in Ho Chi Minh City who managed to watch the series before it was flagged by the authorities, told me that she was “a little surprised, but not frustrated” by the scene. The bottom line, Lam said, is that people in her social circle — herself included — feel that the Vietnamese government’s response to that line was an “overreaction.”  

“While some believe that the Vietnamese government put a lot of effort in the search, it is unfair to criticize the docuseries that captured the anger and fear of family members who were desperate to find their loved ones,” Lam said. 

The online backlash against the MH370 docuseries also played out primarily inside a bubble of pro-government Facebook groups and state-aligned media coverage. This means that, at best, the justification by the Vietnamese authorities stands on empirically thin ice. At worst, such nationalist sentiments were likely manufactured to rationalize censorship demands.

In asking Netflix to remove “Pine Gap” in 2021, the Vietnamese authorities claimed that the show “angered and hurt the feelings of the entire people of Vietnam.” Few moves risk stirring up a hornet’s nest in Vietnam more than one that validates China’s maritime claims — the Vietnamese public likely would have objected to the display of the nine-dash line if they had seen the drama. But it’s unlikely that many ordinary Vietnamese, let alone the “entire” population, had a chance to take in the mini-series before it disappeared.

And in the case of “Little Women,” while ordinary internet users did join the chorus of criticism about the show, this only happened after pro-government groups lit the flames.

It all comes at a time when Vietnam’s state-sponsored cyber troops are growing more and more adept at manufacturing public sentiment online. “Astroturfing” — state-orchestrated efforts to manipulate online discourse — likely had some role in what played out online. In a country where the public at large increasingly balks at the chance to express political opinions, what might have looked like grassroots public opinion may have been shaped or even dictated by online propagandists. 

These reactions — whether genuine or not — gave the Vietnamese authorities the right pretext to ask Netflix to remove the content they deemed harmful and helped drive home their demands through the mainstream media. The streaming platform quickly accommodated the censorship orders.

Vietnam’s growing leverage over Big Tech

While the authorities were explicit in asking that Netflix remove “Pine Gap” and “Little Women” in their entirety, they were less specific when it came to the MH370 docuseries. In fact, they only requested the rectification and removal of “inaccurate information” related to the country’s search efforts in the show. But Netflix gutted the entire episode instead, in what looked like a bid to get on the good side of the officials who regulate it.  

This underlines Vietnam’s growing leverage over western tech companies, many of which are making a lot of money in Vietnam. Facebook is especially dominant. Vietnam ranks seventh among the ten countries boasting the highest number of Facebook users worldwide, an estimated 70 million. The company reportedly generates annual local revenue of more than $1 billion. But others aren’t far behind. DataReportal estimates that YouTube has 63 million users in Vietnam and TikTok has around 50 million. 

State-orchestrated efforts aimed at reining in public discussion have bred increasingly subservient responses from the industry. The state has wielded the stick of shutting down disobedient social media platforms altogether — it threatened to block Facebook in 2020 over political posts. And it has dangled the carrot of access to a lucrative market of 97 million people. In recent years, Big Tech firms — chief among them Meta’s Facebook, Google’s YouTube and ByteDance’s TikTok — have shown increasing willingness to honor content removal demands. Hanoi now openly brags about high compliance rates among those platforms, which all exceed 90%.

So Netflix is straddling a treacherous line. As content removal has remained a key tactic in Vietnam’s online censorship dragnet, resisting the government’s takedown requests does not seem to bode well for Netflix’s future. But placating such requests has proved equally daunting in a country where an arbitrary censorship regime makes it impossible to pinpoint precisely what kind of content will be seen as crossing a line.

Nationalism, weaponized

The need to safeguard national prestige online has dictated Vietnam’s internet controls. But this kind of censorship overdrive, compounded by the apparent manufacturing of public opinion to buttress their rationale, only lays bare the insecurity of the Vietnamese authorities when faced with inconvenient narratives.

Zachary Abuza, an expert on Southeast Asian politics and security issues at the National War College in Washington, D.C., told me he was “puzzled by the hypersensitivity” of the government over the MH370 show. “When the planes came down, I was quite impressed with how quickly Vietnam responded and how well coordinated their efforts appeared,” Abuza said of Vietnam’s search efforts. “To be fair, Vietnam has very limited numbers of aircraft that are suitable for maritime search and rescue but responded in remarkable speed to a humanitarian catastrophe,” he said. 

The facade of toughness in axing “Little Women” appears to be a politically expedient ploy to paper over a reality in which the Vietnamese government has never publicly pushed for an official apology, much less reparations, from South Korea for its atrocities during the Vietnam War. This could invite public criticism that the Vietnamese authorities are preaching nationalism while at the same time drinking foreign Kool-Aid, given the economic leverage South Korea has established in Vietnam. 

There have been times when the Vietnamese government has genuinely needed to appeal to nationalism to justify its foreign policy decisions. Case in point: In registering its indignation with Beijing’s muscle-flexing moves in the South China Sea, Hanoi has more than once tapped into anti-China sentiments to rally the public behind the flag. This dynamic manifests most often in cyberspace and sometimes in mainstream media. On a few occasions, Vietnam has even green-lit anti-China protests.  

But moving forward, the more the manufacturing of public opinion becomes a pattern, the more likely foreign observers are to accuse the Vietnamese government of crying wolf about the need to protect nationalist sentiments. China may be especially equipped to do so, given the parallels between the regimes and their respective playbooks.

Like their Chinese counterparts, Vietnamese leaders are probably well aware that in addition to the country’s rising standard of living, nationalism remains a crucial tool for maintaining the regime’s legitimacy. But exploiting nationalism for authoritarian control could eventually end up chipping away at the very legitimacy the Vietnamese state is craving. The public’s eyes are discerning.

The post Vietnam censors Netflix shows for ‘hurting the feelings of the people’ appeared first on Coda Story.

From ankle monitors to smartphone apps to the new Fitbit-esque smartwatch, the Biden administration has overseen a dramatic expansion of the technological toolbox used to surveil immigrants awaiting their hearings in the U.S. White House officials say these measures, all part of ICE’s Alternatives to Detention program, are more humane than traditional detention. But critics argue that the system reproduces the dynamics of incarceration with a technocratic spin, compromising the privacy rights of hundreds of thousands of immigrants and asylum seekers while leaving them with lasting psychological damage.

The program has also left migrants and human rights advocates with lots of questions about what exactly the government does with the substantial amounts of data that it collects. In a curious turn of events, less than a month before ICE announced its plans to pilot test the smartwatch, it unveiled its first-ever analysis of privacy risks that the Alternatives to Detention program carries.

All U.S. federal agencies are required by law to assess the potential privacy impacts of any technology they plan to use before actually deploying the software or tool. Although ICE first rolled out its electronic monitoring program in 2004, it didn’t get around to publishing an assessment of the program’s privacy-related risks until just last month.

Nearly two decades overdue, the assessment alludes to — but doesn’t answer — a number of key questions about the technologies that the agency uses to monitor immigrants to the U.S. 

Critics say the document does little to address the privacy civil liberties and human rights concerns they have long raised with the agency about the program. Instead, they say it presents red flags about ICE’s broad data collection and retention policies — indications that the agency is failing to meaningfully confront the long-term consequences of placing migrants under an invasive surveillance regime.

“These technologies represent an assault on people's bodily autonomy,” said Hannah Lucal, a technology fellow with the immigrant rights legal firm Just Futures Law, which focuses on the intersection of immigration and technology. Alternatives to Detention, Lucal added, “is not a departure from the system of punishment that ICE produces. It's really an extension of it.”

Although ICE’s e-monitoring program began two decades ago, the number of migrants subjected to electronic monitoring has exploded during Biden’s presidency. When he took office in January 2021, there were 86,000 people in the program. Now, over 280,000 migrants are enrolled in the digital surveillance system.

Migrants assigned to Alternatives to Detention are placed under one of three forms of electronic surveillance: a GPS ankle monitor with 24/7 location tracking, a phone reporting system that uses voice recognition to verify a person’s identity or a smartphone app that uses facial recognition software and GPS location tracking for check-ins. The smartphone app, SmartLINK, is responsible for the exponential growth in enrollment under the Biden administration. About 253,875 immigrants under ICE’s electronic monitoring system are on SmartLINK, according to the most up-to-date statistics from ICE. That’s up from 26,000 people on the app when Biden took office.

SmartLINK has been a focal point of concern for privacy experts. Despite the rapid addition of migrants to the app in recent years, ICE has provided little information about the data it collects and how it might be shared with other agencies. The app is operated by B.I. Incorporated, a subsidiary of the GEO Group, a private prison company, as part of a $2.2 billion contract with ICE. 

Last year, when I spoke with advocates who sued the federal government for more details about the app’s functionality and data collection policies (the lawsuit is ongoing), they posed some key questions about SmartLINK: Is the data collected by the app accessible to other government agencies? Does SmartLINK have the technical ability to gather location data about Alternatives to Detention enrollees beyond their designated check-ins? Does ICE provide adequate oversight of B.I.? Does B.I. have the ability to share the data it collects on Alternatives to Detention participants with third parties, such as other state agencies, or even other companies?

In 50 pages of explanation and assessment, the document does little to answer these questions. Chief among critics’ concerns are questions about location data tracking. The privacy assessment states that SmartLINK app is only able to collect GPS location data at the time of the program participants’ check-ins and when they log into the app. But a F.A.Q. about SmartLINK on ICE’s website complicates the picture. The page refers to another SmartLINK device — a B.I-issued phone with the app pre-installed — given to some program enrollees. According to the F.A.Q., this phone has the technical capability to monitor enrollees’ locations in real time, but “this is not a feature that ICE has elected to use for participants.” 

Lucal, from Just Futures Law, is skeptical. If the agency has the capacity to turn on continuous location monitoring, “there is absolutely no assurance that that is not happening or would not happen,” she told me. The absence of discussion in the privacy assessment about the B.I.-issued phone’s continuous location monitoring capabilities “seems like a gaping hole,” she added. “At any time, it could become active. And how would we know?”

‘Abuse of data is a near-certainty at ICE’

Privacy experts also told me they feared the data collected through Alternatives to Detention could be disseminated to other databases. The privacy assessment acknowledges that there is a risk that the information from the electronic monitoring program could be stored in other databases run by the Department of Homeland Security, which oversees ICE. It alleges that this risk, however, is “partially mitigated” by referring to a DHS policy that states that information is shared within the agency in accordance with the law and only for authorized purposes because officials “must have timely access to all relevant information for which they have a need-to-know to successfully perform their duties.” Jake Wiener, an attorney and surveillance expert with the Electronic Privacy Information Center, says this portion of the policy ostensibly acknowledges that “instead of being mitigated, this risk is an open, ongoing, and harmful practice.”

This is no small matter, Wiener points out, given recent reporting from WIRED that found that ICE employees and contractors abused their access to internal databases to search for information about former partners and coworkers, provided their login information to family members and even shared privileged information with criminals in exchange for cash. The assessment, Wiener says, “fails to consider that abuse of data is a near-certainty at ICE, and that putting that data in more hands by sending it to DHS’s far-reaching databases increases the likelihood of harm.”

The document also reveals that ICE agents and case managers employed by the contractor B.I. have access to the historical location data of migrants who used GPS ankle monitors. The document does not explain why officials would need access to participants’ historical location data — information that could be used to patch together a full picture of enrollees’ routine movements, including where they work and regularly spend time. Last year, a former SmartLINK participant told me he became anxious about the agency’s access to his location data after learning that ICE officers used data collected from workers’ GPS monitors to orchestrate a mass immigration raid at a poultry plant in Mississippi.

“A major concern is that ICE can use any of the data that it extracts to carry out location surveillance of not just the people they subject to these programs, but also anyone who might be in close proximity to them, like family members or people they live with or neighbors,” Lucal said. “There's just this massive scale of surveillance that's happening through this program. And the privacy assessment is trying really hard to obscure that, but it's coming through.”

There is also a glaring omission in the assessment. In an announcement last week, ICE touted its latest surveillance tech tool — GPS-enabled wristwatch trackers —  but there is no mention of the technology in the privacy assessment. One can only wonder how long it will be before ICE endeavors to assess the risks of its newest tool if the agency decides to deploy it en masse when the pilot testing period ends.

White House officials say these technologies are more humane than detention. But they still have adverse, real-world impacts on the people who use them. Migrants I interviewed last year described how the phone app and the agency’s other e-carceration technologies harmed their relationships and employment prospects and brought them emotional and physical distress. 

A 2021 report by the Cardozo School of Law found that 90% of people with ankle monitors said the device negatively affected their physical and mental health, causing everything from electric shocks to sleep disruption, social isolation and suicidal ideation. In interviews with me last year, people forced to use SmartLINK, meanwhile, expressed deep anxieties about the app’s technological glitches, fearing that malfunctions during the check-in process could lead to their deportation. Carlos, an immigrant placed on SmartLINK, described the app as a “shadow” hovering over his family. 

“Every time I get a call from an unknown number and they see it, they think that it’s from ICE asking me where I am.” He said no matter the technology used — from ankle monitors to smartphones — the outcome is the same: “Fear. The only thing that changes is the system.”

The artwork for this piece was developed during a Rhode Island School of Design course taught by Marisa Mazria Katz, in collaboration with the Center for Artistic Inquiry and Reporting.

The post Immigrating to the US? ICE wants your biometrics appeared first on Coda Story.

It was, tweeted India's minister of law and justice, a member of the governing Bharatiya Janata Party, a “childish attempt to bring pressure on the appellate court.” Opponents of the BJP, though, say Gandhi was handed a practically unheard-of maximum sentence for remarks he made while campaigning in 2019 that did not meet the threshold for criminal defamation. They also point to the political expediency of the two-year sentence, the exact period of time required to ensure Gandhi was disqualified from Parliament and potentially from participating in the next general election.

Outrage over what appeared to be political chicanery spread quickly. Several opposition parties united to condemn the expulsion of Gandhi. “I strongly condemn the fascist action,” said Tamil Nadu’s chief minister, M.K. Stalin, of how quickly  the BJP moved to ensure Gandhi's disqualification. “I request all Indian political parties,” he added, “to realize that the action against Rahul Gandhi is an attack on progressive democratic forces and oppose it in unison.”

On April 3, while Gandhi was in Surat, Stalin was hosting leading figures from all of India's major opposition parties as part of a social justice conference he said would help create a united front to fight "bigotry and religious hegemony," a pointed reference to the BJP's Hindu nationalist politics. Academic and political commentator Apoorvanand wrote that the opposition to the BJP was unified because it considered Gandhi's expulsion from Parliament “an audacious signal by the government that it can go to any extent to cripple political forces who challenge it democratically.”

How much of a challenge Rahul Gandhi represents to the BJP is open to debate. He has been mocked for years as an impetuous, naive and entitled politician who believes leadership to be his inheritance. The BJP's caricature of Gandhi as a princeling fawned over by acolytes in the Congress party — more loyal to a dynasty than the nation — has been incredibly effective.  Regional leaders like Akhilesh Yadav in Uttar Pradesh or Mamata Banerjee in West Bengal bridled at being too closely associated with Gandhi and  at the general assumption that he would lead any opposition coalition against the BJP.

Just before Gandhi was disqualified from parliament, Banerjee reportedly told her party workers that the BJP was deliberately making Gandhi out to be the face of the opposition because he was so easy for Modi to defeat. Now, Gandhi, as opposition parties rally behind him, might appear a more formidable figure. Spokespersons for the governments of both the United States and Germany have responded to the news of Gandhi's expulsion with cautiously-phrased references to the importance of “judicial independence.” The notoriously thin-skinned BJP government was angered by these tepid comments, with Jaishankar, the foreign minister, telling a sympathetic audience that “the West has a bad habit for a long time of commenting on other people.” They think, he said, “that it’s some kind of God-given right.” The urbane Congress politician Shashi Tharoor, a former United Nations official, joked that he would “strongly urge my friend Jai to cool it a little bit.”

In a year when  the BJP hopes to use India's presidency at the G20 as evidence of its growing influence on world affairs, the treatment of Rahul Gandhi appears to confirm a growing belief that Modi and the BJP use the law — whether the courts or investigating agencies — to stifle critical voices in politics, the media or online.

The BJP seems particularly sensitive to criticism in the foreign media or on foreign soil. For weeks now, both houses of India’s Parliament have barely functioned. Proceedings are adjourned within minutes of the start. Incidentally, it costs the Indian people a little over $3,000 per minute to maintain their parliament, making any time wasted very expensive. At least part of the deadlock was caused by BJP representatives demanding an apology from Rahul Gandhi for criticizing India on a recent visit to the United Kingdom. In a talk at Cambridge University last month, Gandhi said India faced “an attack on the basic structure of democracy.” This was interpreted by the BJP as a demand for foreign interference in India's internal affairs.

It was against this backdrop that Gandhi was convicted by the court in Surat for the remarks he made in 2019. Speaking in Hindi at an election rally, Gandhi asked in a sarcastic aside why the names of prominent Indian frauds, men who’d stolen large sums of money, all happened to be Modi. He mentioned three Modis, including the prime minister, and said, roughly translated, “If you search a bit, a lot more Modis will come to light.”

This was enough for the magistrate in Surat to pronounce Gandhi guilty of defamation, an offense in India under both civil and criminal law. Indian criminal defamation law appears, in both letter and spirit, to have become only more regressive since it was first enacted in 1860. Truth is not an absolute defense. Even the relatives of a deceased person can claim defamation. Since the law criminalizes “any imputation concerning any person,” it means that even if the statement in question did not directly name the complainants, they can still initiate criminal action.

In Rahul Gandhi’s case, the complainants were not the three Modis he named but a BJP legislator from Gujarat named Purnesh Modi. He complained that Gandhi had defamed all 130 million people in India who bear the last name Modi, an apparently preposterous charge with which the Surat court agreed.

India and other major democracies have taken two different approaches in the area of defamation law. In the U.K. and U.S., defamation law has been transformed.

The U.S. Supreme Court’s 1964 ruling in New York Times Co. v. Sullivan transformed the law of defamation around the world, tilting the balance in favor of uninhibited, robust and wide-open speech. Justice William Brennan ruled that for free speech to survive it needed “breathing space.” Erroneous statements or even vehement, caustic and sometimes unpleasantly sharp attacks on government and public officials were inevitable in a free debate, the court ruled.

The First and Fourteenth Amendments to the U.S. Constitution were used to extend constitutional protections in favor of free speech and bar elected officials from seeking compensation, even for false comments made about their official actions unless those statements were made with “actual malice.”

A plaintiff had to demonstrate with clear and convincing evidence that false or inaccurate statements were made with knowledge of their dishonesty or with a reckless disregard for the truth under the “actual malice” standard. It also shifted the burden of proof from the defendant to the plaintiff. The court rejected the common law presumption of damages and asked aggrieved public servants to prove actual damages. In the same year, in Garrison v. Louisiana, the U.S. Supreme Court held that criminal defamation laws must be narrowly tailored to target only speech intending to lead to group disorder or inciting a breach of the peace. The court noted that, generally, criminal law is reserved for those crimes that threaten the security of society, and criminal sanctions cannot be justified merely because  defamation is evil or damaging to a person.

Common law criminal libel was abolished by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1966 in Ashton v. Kentucky. Since then, the criminal defamation laws in 38 U.S. states and territories have either been repealed or struck down as unconstitutional. Once the Supreme Court set the precedent, other former British colonies and common law countries such as Australia, New Zealand, Canada and South Africa, followed. A consensus emerged that if speakers were threatened with criminal prosecution for speaking out on matters of public concern, it would have a chilling effect on public discourse.

In 2009, the U.K. Parliament abolished the offense of criminal defamation. The 2013 U.K. Defamation Act introduced a requirement for claimants to show that they had suffered serious harm before suing for defamation. It also introduced a defense of "responsible publication on matters of public interest” and new statutory defenses of truth and honest opinion. 

Meanwhile, even after achieving independence from British rule and adopting a republican constitution, India has continued to uphold legislation designed to protect the colonial elite. By amending the Code of Criminal Process in 1955, India also placed public officials into a separate class and established for them a special procedure involving the state machinery to sue private parties for making defamatory statements.

The Indian Constitution contains a chapter on fundamental rights, styled after the American Bill of Rights. Chief among the constitutionally guaranteed freedoms is the right to free speech and expression, subject only to limited restrictions. One of these restrictions is defamation. The key is that the restrictions have to be reasonable. But the Indian judiciary has continued to interpret and apply these restrictions narrowly. In 2016, a two-judge bench of the Supreme Court of India upheld the constitutionality of criminal defamation. “Criminalizing defamation,” noted one lawyer, “serves no legitimate public purpose.” And, he added, “the court's reasoning is wooly at best.”

As a result, India's influential politicians and corporations are the ones who most frequently invoke criminal defamation, typically against either political opponents or journalists. India's criminal defamation laws closely resemble 19th century libel laws in England. But there is a major difference. In England, defamatory libel always involved publication in writing. Even if they were malicious, spoken words or gestures weren't considered libel. Verbal slander, though, can result in criminal charges under India’s penal code.

Rahul Gandhi has been convicted by a court in Gujarat for spoken words. Unless his conviction is stayed by the appellate court on April 13, he will continue to be barred from parliament, from doing the job he was elected to do for his constituency. If he were living in England 170 years ago, he would not even have faced criminal proceedings, let alone the possibility of imprisonment. 

The dangers that India's criminal defamation laws pose to Indian democracy are evident in Rahul Gandhi's conviction — they appear to exist to protect the ruling class and intimidate critics into silence.

The post Why India’s defamation laws are hurting its democracy appeared first on Coda Story.

Now White Castle could be on the hook for upward of $17 billion. 

On February 17, the Illinois Supreme Court made a decision on Cothron’s case that sent the state’s business community reeling. According to the court, every time a company collects an individual’s biometric data without getting informed written consent, it counts as a separate BIPA violation with potential damages from $1,000 to $5,000. In the past, courts interpreted the law to mean one violation per person. Now, if an employee uses their fingerprint to sign into work, or every time they clock in and out for shifts or breaks, the number of infractions rack up quickly, and so does the amount of money to be paid out in damages. 

“So now six times a day, 340 days a year for five years, one person is potentially a $1 million risk,” said Jason Stiehl, an attorney who works on litigation, technology and brand protection for Crowell & Moring LLP in Chicago.

Justices on the Illinois Supreme Court acknowledged that the extent of damages could be “harsh, unjust, absurd or unwise” but said the court is bound to interpret laws as they are written by state legislators.  

This court decision in the White Castle case comes on the heels of another decision in Tims v. Black Horse Carriers. The ruling, announced on February 2, set the statute of limitations for BIPA violations at five years. Previously, that number had been unclear, but the courts had largely interpreted it to be about two years. So now not only are the damages potentially much higher but the number of incidents in violation could be much larger.

BIPA has been held up as the gold standard for consumer privacy acts. But the court’s latest interpretation of the Illinois law shows the pitfalls of some of its key aspects. The rulings underscore the risks of creating vague regulations for evolving technology and illustrate the tension between business interests and privacy. 

When Ted Claypoole, an Atlanta-based data, technology and privacy lawyer, heard the news about the court’s ruling in the White Castle and Black Horse Carriers cases, his first thought was “Oh crap.” 

But as a lawyer who advises clients on compliance with data laws, the court’s decision wasn’t a surprise to Claypoole. BIPA is vaguely written, and issues like the statute of limitations or whether violations are measured per person or per scan aren’t clearly written out.

“It’s not a crazy reading of the statute. It just is a crazy result,” said Claypoole. 

BIPA has been around since 2008, and Claypoole and privacy advocates consider it to be one of the most important privacy laws in the U.S. because it allows individuals to sue companies using their biometric information without written consent. 

But consumers or employees don’t actually need to show that they were harmed by their data being collected, thanks to a 2019 ruling by the Illinois Supreme Court in a case involving the Six Flags theme park. 

After that decision, there was an increase in the number of BIPA complaints filed because anyone whose biometrics had been collected without proper consent could file a lawsuit. 

This led to what Jeff Keicher, a Republican in the Illinois State House of Representatives, called “an obscene shakedown of business communities.” 

Many of these cases have been large class-action lawsuits, resulting in companies like McDonald’s and its franchises across the state paying millions in damages. 

In the first case to go to trial, BNSF Railway had to pay $228 million after truck drivers brought a class-action suit over the company’s policy of scanning their fingerprints when they went to BNSF rail yards. 

But the recent decision in the White Castle case brings the potential damages to another level. Trade associations in Illinois are raising alarms that these large settlements will drive companies out of business and force Illinois residents out of their jobs.

 “Getting a $2 million complaint is one kind of problem. Getting a $10 billion award against you is a whole other kind of problem,” said Claypoole. “It's not just that it's higher. It's that it is existential. It's life threatening to a business.”

Since the rulings, the number of BIPA complaints filed has gone up, according to Anne Mayette, a labor and employment lawyer who advises clients on BIPA compliance at Husch Blackwell, a national law firm. The number of cases expanded after the Six Flags ruling determined that plaintiffs don’t need to prove that harm was inflicted by the use of their biometrics, but the pace slowed down after a while. After the two latest decisions, Mayette estimates she sees 3 to 10 BIPA suits a day, compared to a few per week previously.    

It’s not all panic for businesses though. Many of the companies who were vulnerable to lawsuits have already built policies to be compliant with BIPA. 

Stiehl, the attorney, also sees a “silver lining.” The amount in damages is discretionary, not mandatory, meaning a jury can decide to order a smaller payment. Stiehl thinks the White Castle case will go on to trial court, and the company will not be hit with the full $17 billion in damages. “It sends a larger message,” he said, “saying this is not your pot of gold.” 

The typical pattern is for regulation to lag behind technology. BIPA is the opposite. In the years since the law passed in 2008, biometrics have changed significantly. That’s why Keicher, the house representative, thinks that it’s time to make some changes to the Illinois law. 

“We're dealing with a statute that's 15 years old that didn't even foresee any of the technological advances that we have today,” he said. “To say that it doesn't need any attention, I think, is naive to the way our society is progressing.”

Keicher has brought forward two bills regarding BIPA this year that decrease a company’s liability to BIPA lawsuits. One clarifies that a company only needs to get consent to collect a person’s biometrics once and makes it clear that BIPA doesn’t apply to biometrics that are stored as mathematical representations. The other says that if a company fixes the problem within 15 days of receiving notice of a violation of BIPA, it can’t be subject to legal action in pursuit of damages. 

In particular, attorneys like Claypoole and Stiehl want to get rid of the ability for individuals to directly sue companies through a legal mechanism known as the right to private action. It’s what makes Illinois law unique and allows for these types of suits with statutory damages in the millions. 

“Frankly, the easiest way is to take it out of the plaintiffs’ counsels’ hands,” said Stiehl. “ There are paths to still enforce these things in a reasonable way.”

A reckoning over BIPA could have an impact on potential legislation in states like New York, which is considering a similar law that includes the right to private action.

But BIPA isn’t the only model. Texas and Washington have similar biometric privacy laws, but they are enforced by the states’ attorney general, rather than individuals taking direct legal action against companies. 

Keicher, for one, thinks handing the enforcement power to the attorney general, particularly in cases involving the employees of a company using biometrics, is a good idea.

Keicher is hopeful that there will be some amendments to BIPA made by the time the legislative session wraps up in May. 

“I can't imagine we walk away at the end of the day without having some sort of accomplished guidepost of where this needs to go,” he said. 

But not everyone shares that optimism. Bills amending BIPA historically haven’t gotten very far.

“I'm fully convinced a company will have to be bankrupted by this for a change to be made,” said Mayette, the lawyer at Husch Blackwell. 

Keicher thinks that the current way BIPA is working in practice has gone beyond what the lawmakers who wrote the bill intended.

“I certainly don't think that the framers of the original bill would have wanted a $17 billion judgment against White Castle,” he said. “You can’t sell enough sliders to make that make sense.”

The artwork for this piece was developed during a Rhode Island School of Design course taught by Marisa Mazria Katz, in collaboration with the Center for Artistic Inquiry and Reporting.

The post Fingerprinting employees could cost Illinois businesses billions appeared first on Coda Story.

The human rights court had determined that states that are party to the European Convention on Human Rights, which includes virtually all European nations except Russia and Belarus, cannot extradite people to China unless the Chinese government can demonstrate that the extradited person will not be tortured or be subject to inhuman and degrading treatment. This shuts down extraditions to a country that does not allow international scrutiny of its penitentiaries, underscoring international concern over the Chinese government’s widening dragnet that tries to bring home dissidents and critics living in exile.

But China still has the capability to tie down its citizens in lengthy legal battles by issuing Interpol red notices — an international alert that requests other countries find and arrest suspects who have fled abroad for extradition or other legal actions — while also deploying an array of illegal tools of repression. Despite Europe's attempt to close the door on China's extradition campaigns, Beijing has ratified a spate of new extradition treaties with countries outside of Europe.

In Liu v. Poland, the human rights court, which is based in Strasbourg, France, ruled that extraditing Hung Tao Liu, a Taiwanese man who had appealed his extradition from Poland, would place him at a significant risk of ill treatment and torture. 

The judgment “substantially reduces the chances of extradition of persons to the PRC”, said Marcin Gorski, referring to the People’s Republic of China. Gorski is a Polish professor of law at the University of Ludz who represented Liu in the case.

China alleges Liu led a major telecommunications fraud. In an earlier case, the Spanish government in 2019 extradited 94 Taiwanese citizens to China as part of the same probe. The human rights court’s ruling covers anyone facing extradition to China, whether they are wanted for political reasons or for white-collar economic crimes.

China’s attempts to bring home dissidents and critics who are Chinese citizens living abroad have been intensifying over the past decade in tandem with China’s integration into the global financial system and its emergence as a world power, according to Nate Schenkkan, a senior director of research at Freedom House whose work focuses on authoritarianism.

Beijing has pursued dissidents in all corners of the world, triggering a response from the U.S. The White House has sought to control technology exports that can be used by China to conduct acts of repression while boosting the capacity of domestic law enforcement agencies to deal with the targeting of Chinese dissidents on U.S. soil. Members of Congress have introduced a bill that would define and criminalize transnational repression in federal law.

Russia’s full scale invasion of Ukraine last year was a wake-up call for Europe to the security threat posed not just by Moscow but by Beijing. But it has been left mostly to courts to protect people from China’s expanding reach.

European officials are failing to take action when it comes to the threat posed by China, often relying too heavily on the legal system to sort out the problem, said Laura Harth, the campaign director at the China-focused organization Safeguard Defenders.

While in many cases it is unlikely that China will be successful in its extradition attempts, the burden of defending themselves means the targets are quickly bogged down in costly legal battles, said Harth.

Europe’s human rights court has come under criticism from governments in recent years, accused of politicizing the domestic affairs of countries in Europe. The U.K. has made attempts to ignore the court’s rulings on granting prisoners the right to vote, and ministers have flirted with the idea of quitting the European Convention in response to the barriers it poses to the U.K.’s controversial plans on national immigration policy.

But for now, the court’s ruling on Chinese extraditions seems to be respected.

A Chinese businesswoman last summer was detained while passing through Italy. She was on her way to collect her kids from a holiday with their father in Greece. China had issued an Interpol red notice for her arrest and then requested her extradition.

Enrico Di Fiorino, a lawyer representing the businesswoman, said the European Court of Human Rights ruling was an important part of her defense and was likely to have played a role in winning the case.

Di Fiorino’s client is now free from extradition in Italy, but if she travels to other European countries, she is still at risk. If an Interpol red notice is issued against her while she is in a country that the Chinese government has an extradition treaty with, she risks being caught up in another lengthy legal battle. Hung Tao Liu, in the Poland case, spent five years in prison while litigating his extradition.

Formal extraditions comprise a small part of China’s larger campaign to silence and intimidate its dissidents into returning home. Coercion and harassment make up the bulk of China’s tactics. In fact, extraditions accounted for just 1% of the overall number of people returned to China. Involuntary returns, which include kidnappings, accounted for 64%.

Dissidents in Europe live in a climate of fear, frequently surveilled while their families back in China are harassed by the state. Several European countries have been investigating these more clandestine operations, most notably the use of overseas police stations, which can be used to silence Chinese dissidents living abroad.

Italy has been accused of hosting 11 overseas police stations. Chinese dissidents in the country are relieved by Italy’s court ruling while still fearful of China’s reach, said Harth.

In December, China ratified extradition treaties with Kenya, Congo, Uruguay and Armenia.

For Reinhard Butikofe, a German member of the European Parliament, this is concerning. But he cautioned that Europe should get its own house in order before European politicians can criticize other countries for cooperating with China’s extradition strategy. “I think before we can credibly approach anybody else, we have to clean up our own act first,” he said.

The post Europe cracks down on China’s abuse of extradition appeared first on Coda Story.

Currently fraught with delays, deadlocks and difficulties, the AI Act has the potential to be as powerful as the EU’s landmark GDPR act, which regulates data protection in the European bloc. And there are many marginalized groups who could benefit from the new legislation or suffer disproportionately if certain amendments don’t make it through. 

For migrants crossing Europe in search of a safer and more dignified life, the law could have huge implications. Currently, Europe’s borders are a highly digitized, unregulated gray zone for tech companies and border agencies to test the latest developments in surveillance technology and predictive algorithms. 

Europe’s borders bristle with drones, tracking and predictive technologies designed to make efficient guesses at which routes migrants might take. AI-powered lie detectors are also being deployed on arriving migrants, along with a vast range of other technologies. The European border could be described as a “testing ground,” said Petra Molnar, Associate Director of the Refugee Law Lab at York University and fellow at Harvard’s Berkman Klein Centre. I spoke to her about what AI regulation could mean for people on the move — and for all of us. 

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

So why is the AI Act relevant for migrants crossing Europe?

Globally speaking, there are very few laws right on the books that can actually be used to govern tech. And currently, the border is a particularly unregulated space, and it’s become a testing ground for a lot of things, including tech. So the AI Act — if we can push through certain amendments — is a really unique opportunity to try and think through how we can create oversight, accountability and governance on all sorts of technologies at the border. 

This act touches on pretty much everything from toys to predictive policing and AI-powered lie detectors. We really want to get policymakers to think about whether the act goes far enough to regulate or even ban some of the most high-risk pieces of technology because currently, it really doesn't. But unfortunately, we don't have high hopes that the migration stuff is going to be taken up in the way that I think it should.

Why not?

If you zoom out from the AI Act and you look at just the way that the EU has been positioning itself on migration, then you can see that securitization, surveillance, returns and deportations, importation of technology and facial recognition have all been really normalized. The EU doesn't really have an incentive to regulate tech at the border, because it wants to test out certain things in that space and then potentially use them in other instances. And the same with the private sector. 

It’s also important to remember that there are vast amounts of money floating around to fund these tech projects. There’s money to be made on border tech — so that disincentivizes regulation. At the moment, it’s a free-for-all. And in an unregulated space, there’s a lot of room for experimentation. 

What do you mean by experimentation? What kind of things are being tested out in Europe right now that you would like to see the back of?

We are trying to get the European Union to think about banning, for example, predictive analytics used for border enforcement. It’s a tool to assist border guards with their operations to try to push back people on the move. The European Border agency Frontex has already signaled its willingness to develop predictive analytics for its own purposes. 

So how does predictive border policing work?

It works by using AI to predict which route a group of people on the move might take to cross a border, so that border enforcement can decide, for example, whether to station a platoon in a certain place. It helps them with their operations and can lead to pushbacks, which can potentially lead to rights-infringing situations. 

Can you explain what the difference is between border agencies using this kind of technology to try to predict where people are and just using their own brains?

So for the past few years, reports about pushbacks have been marred with allegations of human rights abuses. And we’re still having that baseline discussion and debate around the humanitarian side of pushbacks. But with predictive border analytics, it’s as if we’ve skipped a few steps in that discussion. Because this technology adds a layer of efficiency to basically make it easier for border agencies to meet their needs and their quotas. 

So we haven’t even properly talked about the humanitarian implications of these violent pushbacks and already they’re using technology to ramp up their operations. 

Right. There’s also very little transparency about what exactly is happening and what kind of tools are being used. There needs to be a complete rethink about why we’re even leaning on these tools in the first place. 

Can you talk a bit more about how the border is sometimes considered a separate space — and why it could be exempt from things like the AI Act?

So often the border gets conflated with national security issues. The space is already opaque and discretionary, but as soon as you slap on that national security label, it becomes very difficult to access information about what’s really happening. Responsibility, oversight and accountability are all muddied in this space — and that gets worse when you add tech on top of that. 

You’ve talked before about how the concept of the border is moving away from the physical frontier to much further afield — and even beginning to exist in our own bodies. Can you just explain that a bit?

There’s this idea of the “shifting border.” Sometimes people call it border externalization. It’s not anything super new: The U.S. has been doing it for a while. The basic idea is that it removes the physical border from its geographic location and pushes it further afield. Either kind of vertically up — like when you're talking about aerial surveillance, the border is now in the sky. Or creating a surveillance dragnet that starts thousands of miles away from the actual border. For instance, the U.S. border actually starts in Central America when it comes to data sharing and surveillance. And the European Union is really leading the way in terms of externalizing its border into North and Sub-Saharan Africa. Niger, for example, gets a lot of money from the EU to do a lot of border enforcement. If you can prevent people from physically being on EU territory, where international human rights laws and refugee laws kick in, then half your work is done. 

So basically someone is criminalized and marked out as a potential migrant before they’ve even tried to come to Europe?

Exactly. Predictive analytics and social media scraping tries to make predictions about who might be likely to move and whether they’re a risk. Like, ‘Oh, they happen to go to this particular mosque every Friday with their family, so let's mark that as a potential red flag.’ So the border as a physical space just becomes a performance. Even our phones can become a border. You can be tracked in terms of how you're interacting on Twitter or Facebook or TikTok. So we have to actually move away from these rigid understandings of what constitutes a border.

The post Europe’s borders are a surveillance testing ground. The AI Act could change that appeared first on Coda Story.

Writer Brett Scott has been covering how the banks are working towards a cashless world and what’s in it for them. His 2022 book, Cloudmoney, chronicles “cash, cards, cryptocurrency — and the war for our wallets.” He’s skeptical about the idea that the world is heading, irrevocably, for a future where cash doesn’t exist, where we can pay for everything with the swipe of a smartwatch or the blink of an eye.

Scott argues that a cashless society would sound the death knell for small businesses, and wipe out any remaining privacy we have, paving the way for a fully-fledged surveillance system. He’s campaigning for us to hold on to cash —- old, slow, and dirty as it may seem — if we want to hold onto our freedom.

This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

Was there a moment in your personal life where you were suddenly switched on to the implications of a cashless future?

I've had a high degree of tech skepticism since I was very young. I was always suspicious of being told that I had to endlessly update. I was then working in finance and I also had a background in economic anthropology. I noticed a lot of the conversation around cashless societies was deeply inaccurate. People had internalized this idea that digital money was an upgrade to cash. They say things like — “my grandmother still likes cash, but she’ll eventually have to get with the times.” But really, they’re two systems that work in parallel. 

Are you saying people shouldn’t use digital money?

I’m not saying that. I’m saying that if you didn’t have another option, the digital payments system would become very oppressive. Think of it like Uber versus bicycles. So we might like the Uber system and find it convenient, but we don't want our entire transport under the control of Uber, right? Uber can be a positive thing — so long as you have the choice to not use it. Bikes can’t take you on long trips, they’re more localized. But they have their advantages. You can get around when there are traffic jams, you have autonomy over a bike, you control it yourself — and you can’t be tracked while riding them. 

Have you been following what Italy’s Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni has been doing recently? She’s had quite a lot of backlash for saying cash is still king. 

Well, she's actually — bizarrely enough — the only politician that I know right now who is channeling a pretty left-wing take on money. And she’s absolutely right in the sense that all digital money is private. Cash is a public form of money issued by central banks or state entities. Whereas anything you see in a bank account is privately issued by the bank. Think of bank deposits like digital casino chips. And I've almost never seen a politician that actually understands that. So when Meloni says that the “cashless society is like the privatization of payments,” it's absolutely true.

But she has had a lot of criticism. People are claiming she’s helping uphold Italy’s black market and all the criminality and tax evasion that goes with it.

If you want to create a hygienic society and destroy all forms of black market deviance, whether it's criminal or not, you’ll end up with corporate domination. Let's say you try to crush all forms of shitty behavior by forcing everybody to use the banking sector. Well, now you’ve created a whole bunch of new problems. You've created serious resilience problems in the economy. You’ve created credible new vectors for inequality. Your banking elites, your tech elite, suddenly now control everything: all access to economic interaction in your society. If you suddenly defer control of the entire system to an oligopoly of private sector players, that gives them enormous power. You have to maintain the cash system if you want to create counter-power to that.

Now all those players and a bunch of other people are going to argue that the cash system is allowing various forms of black market crime to exist. But the fact is, the cash economy has always been associated historically with the most marginal people in society. And a cashless society probably wouldn’t actually solve the problem of crime — it’s well known that the banking center is extensively used for crime all the time. 

What does a cashless society mean for the surveillance industry?

A cashless world leaves these huge data trails. There are well-known examples of intelligence agencies spying on payment networks. Right now, the worst excesses of that type of surveillance are dampened because there is an alternative, right?

You mean there’s currently a way to fly under the radar by using cash. 

Right. The thing about the cash system is that you can't steer people's behavior. Once it's out of the system, cash becomes far more localized and has a much more organic way that it moves around. But let's say there's a total implosion in the cash system, and it's allowed to happen. Maybe the world wouldn't necessarily immediately become some giant surveillance state –– but the potential for that outcome becomes much much greater. A cashless world has crazy potential for surveillance. And crazy potential for censorship.

What does a cashless society have to do with censorship?

It's about the ability to control people through their behavior. People’s activities can be monitored — but they can also be blocked by simply freezing their accounts. Think about the crazy levels of trauma faced by someone who can't get access to the banking sector in a society that won't take cash. Think about the crazy levels of economic terror that a person would face if they got excluded from the payment system in a cashless society. Right now we have a buffer against us if we get locked out of the banking sector, like if our cards are lost or stolen. We always have cash as a backup. 

What do you think will happen if no one starts to engage with the arguments against a cashless society?

I don’t think most people want a cashless society. If you ask people if they like digital payments, most people will say yes. But if you ask them if they want cash to be taken away from them most people will say no. People don't like having options removed from them. But many people aren’t able to articulate this, say, in the bougie coffee shop that only accepts digital payments. Many people feel a bit weirded out by the fact that they can't use cash — but often, they don't have an argument. They can't articulate it. And they have no ideological support from the political class and the business class. So they'll just think “oh, well, I guess I'm a bit old school or something.”

So how does a cashless society take shape?

It’s kind of a feedback loop. The bank stops taking cash, meaning small businesses can't deposit cash, which means they're less likely to accept cash. So then access to cash goes down. ATMs start closing. And so on. In order to stop this feedback loop, you have to actually act against it — and start putting in access to cash laws, like what Meloni is doing. And you also have to actually build a cultural movement that says it's totally okay to demand a non-automated form of payment. It has to go against this narrative that we all want a cashless world because it’s so convenient because it's cleaner, because it's faster, and so on. Because the reality is, for all this so-called convenience, people are more burnt out than they’ve ever been before. We have less time than we’ve ever had before. We’re more confused and disorientated than we’ve ever been. And this is what happens in an accelerating capitalist system. And if you don't sync up, you get thrown off the edge.

The post In a cashless society, banking and tech elites control everything appeared first on Coda Story.

The sound of a siren broke the stillness of the second night of the new year. A city surveillance helicopter operated by the National Police hovered over the foothills of western Medellín, raking a beam of light over rooftops. Were they after someone? Was there an emergency? The media reported nothing about it. Perhaps it was just a security drill.

The Hawk, as authorities call it, is a U.S.-made Bell 407 and has been flying over Medellín since May 2017. Replete with high-tech features, the helicopter is worth close to $2 million. It is meant to monitor the city from the air, to bring people a sense of security. Residents of the valley where Medellín is nestled greet the Hawk with good humor.

At night, as it passes over areas where hundreds of people congregate to enjoy themselves, the reaction to the Hawk is almost festive: people raise glasses of beer, cigarettes and joints in mock salute. They poke fun at the ineffectiveness of the machine. “From so high up, it’s hard to control what happens on the streets,” some say.

The people who actually watch what happens on the streets also make fun of the Hawk. It is these watchers, not the cops, who are effectively in charge of urban surveillance. With dozens of “eyes” placed in strategic locations, they scrutinize the crowds, particularly around the city center. Their goal is to stop their enemies and the government from harming the businesses they defend, especially the illegal ones.

How many of these watchers are there? It is hard to say. Those who study the phenomenon suspect that hundreds of people, some as young as fifteen, are hired to be the eyes and ears of the organized crime and illegal trade networks that dominate Medellín. Their commanders run lucrative operations: Many sell cocaine, synthetic substances and marijuana. Some smuggle alcohol, clothing, toys, jewelry and household appliances. Others run prostitution rings, even selling sex with underage girls and boys.

Day and night, these youthful eyes observe every person who passes through the areas under gang control. Standing on street corners and protecting their faces with wide-brimmed hats, they watch for suspicious movements and make sure that no one disturbs the order they have imposed. The tension in the air is unmistakable. A simple whistle to get the attention of a friend who has just arrived is cause for reproach.

The police stand idly by, perfectly aware of what is going on under their noses. Many of these officers are bribed to keep mum.

Armed gangs patrol dozens of outlying city neighborhoods, as they have for decades. A culture of organized crime has imposed this order. It has disciplined citizens into tolerating a fairly coercive surveillance system. This even involves restrictions on the movement of people and vehicles when necessary. People moving in and out of these areas are regularly made to pay a small sum to ensure their safety.

“Young people on motorcycles control the area,” says an older resident. "Their justification is that they are protecting us." They monitor people’s movements to ascertain who enters the area and whether they have family or friends. If nobody knows who you are, you can be confronted, thrown out of the neighborhood entirely or even beaten up.

Trucks and vans that supply food to small neighborhood stores are viewed with suspicion. They are seen as a point of vulnerability, a vehicle for possible infiltration by police, or by rival gangs. When trucks come into the neighborhood, the watchers approach and make drivers explain what they’re doing. They too must pay a fee to transit through their streets. Commonly known as a “vacuna” (vaccine), this type of extortion escapes police surveillance. It is rarely reported.

Cell phones have become the main working tool for these armed gangs. Gang leaders lure young men into their criminal enterprise by offering them a motorcycle and a cell phone, often high end, alongside regular pay. Many succumb easily to these offers, seeing no other way to afford such desirable commodities.

Aside from preventing other gangs from taking over their streets, the watchers also protect the areas where they sell illicit substances, their other source of income. Violence erupts when these controls are breached. One such incident last year in the Robledo area, west of the city, left at least seven people dead.

"Do you know why that happened? Because of a dispute over plazas de vicio (illegal drug dealing places),” says a cab driver who lives nearby. Police personnel and representatives of the Medellín mayor's office echoed this account in statements to the media. Such turf wars are beyond the control of the authorities and are rarely captured by the city’s surveillance cameras. 

It begs the question: what about all the cameras in this heavily surveilled city and why do they so rarely record its many deadly gangland battles?

The surveillance cameras that the mayor’s office and the National Police have mounted in various locations around the city are also mocked, much like the Hawk when it makes its nightly rounds over the city. Medellín has more than 2,800 different video devices that are managed through closed-circuit television from a command center. 

The majority of Medellín’s security cameras are situated in the city's bustling commercial center, where more than a million people pass through each day.

"Here they charge vacunas to all of us,” says a street vendor. “They charge them to those who sell coffee, to those who sell clothes and to those who sell food."

Another vendor steps in to clarify: "The extortions are considerably more skilled and well-planned now. They even give us bank accounts to pay the money into, which the cameras fail to notice.” He gestures to one of these cameras, next to where he sells cell phone accessories on a wooden cart designed for moving the goods through congested city center streets.

Public space is highly coveted in downtown Medellín. Official figures from the mayor’s office say there are 26,000 street vendors, but the real number is closer to 50,000, all of whom must coexist alongside formal businesses. Street vendors and business owners alike must pay for protection, which generates a high income for criminal groups.

But these “security” fees make up only a small portion of the profits earned by gangs in this congested urban area. The monitoring of the entry of illegal goods coming in from around the world is what fuels a major portion of this illicit economy. Unauthorized imports of toys, cell phones, jewelry, apparel, sneakers, televisions, stereos, cigarettes and alcohol pour into Medellín and are distributed to vendors in the city center. “These commodities arrive in trucks between Thursday and Sunday night, are unloaded in under 15 minutes, and are housed in various facilities,” says a person familiar with the routine. Criminal organizations have put in place a robust security system to guard against their seizure or theft. 

Some say that the police surveillance cameras nearest to the loading sites are either “broken or deliberately switched off.” There is much in Medellín that the cameras do not see — the activities in the so-called “Barrio Antioquía,” for instance, on any given night. The neighborhood is one of the most surveilled in the city and located less than three miles from the city center.

A tourist from Madrid approaches a cab on the edge of a park in El Poblado, the commercial heart of Medellín’s upper class. “Can you take me to the neighborhood?” he asks. The driver briefly assesses the situation and then, with a nod, signals to the tourist to get into the back of the car.

After a roughly ten-minute journey, the vehicle reaches Barrio Antioquía, where, for more than forty years, large volumes of drugs have been distributed and sold. Here, there are eyes everywhere. The cab turns into the neighborhood and then down a winding street with dilapidated homes on either side before coming to a corner where a group of young people are huddled together. They wear baggy jeans, Oakley t-shirts, brand-name sneakers, hats and dark sunglasses. Fanny packs are strapped around their chests. This is where the merchandise is stored. They talk casually among each other and occasionally scan the streets for anyone who might be looking for what they have to offer. One of them spots the taxi. Without hesitation, he walks up to the car. “What’s up man, what are you looking for?” Without getting out of the cab, the tourist asks for 50,000 COP (about $11) worth of cocaine. This buys him about five grams of “escama de pez” (fish scale), one of the purest forms of cocaine in the streets. The dealer looks in his fanny pack, locates the little baggies of white powder and hands them through the car window, in exchange for the money. The cab pulls away and rolls back to El Poblado.

This type of business is conducted day and night. A source tells me that 72 people, most of them quite young, are employed as campaneros (vigilante watchmen) to keep a 24-hour vigil, to make sure that nothing interrupts or affects the brisk sales. The campaneros are why tourists, and local residents, can hop into a cab, buy illegal drugs without getting out of the vehicle, and leave the neighborhood as quickly as they came.

Barrio Antioquía emerged in the mid-twentieth century to house mainly local industrial workers. By the 1960s, it became the main market for contraband cigarettes. Later, the sale of marijuana, cocaine, and other drugs began with the backing of Pablo Escobar’s Medellín Cartel. Over the years, it consolidated as an area controlled by gangsters.

The neighborhood is not blighted or bleak. It has good access roads, strong commercial and industrial activity and is next to the Enrique Olaya Herrera airport. And it has an international reputation among drug users. The authorities can do little.

Surveillance cameras once promised a brave new world of policing neighborhoods like Barrio Antioquía. If surveillance footage is used to arrest a dealer, police boast about the effectiveness of cameras. But the gangs operating in the barrio have destroyed and replaced official surveillance networks with their own CCTV cameras. “Barrio Antioquía is the most protected place in Medellín,” says an insider in the area. “For criminals, it is the city’s crown jewel.”

But they couldn’t have taken over the neighborhood without cooperation from police. This was always suspected, but then it was proven, when 22 police officers were detained in December 2020 for their links with drug traffickers operating across Barrio Antioquía.

For several years, two illegal activities have been ring fenced from scrutiny and investigation. The first was the storage of illegal substances in warehouses and houses with armored doors. The second was the crystallization of coca base into cocaine hydrochloride. In addition to the laboratories installed in rural areas near the city, for at least six years there have been laboratories operating in urban areas. An expert told me that one of these labs was located just outside of Barrio Antioquía.

Local authorities say they want to put an end to these problems that have persisted for decades. The city has invested $2.6 million dollars in the construction of a modern police station in Barrio Antioquía. Construction began in January 2021, and is nearing completion on a four-story building sitting on 43,100 square feet of land. The objective is to strengthen security and counteract micro-trafficking in the neighborhood.

Police, with or without imposing new buildings, have their work cut out for them in Medellín. It is a city in which the illegal economy has been consecrated in the blood and fire of generations of criminals.

The system is vast and sophisticated. And its footsoldiers, its building blocks are the watchers on the streets who keep tabs on everything so that the flow of business, in drugs, prostitution and contraband, is unhindered. The constant surveillance is also key to the control criminal gangs exert over the general population. In each of Medellíns 249 neighborhoods, there are 72 people hired by gangs to keep watch, not counting those monitoring the illegal CCTV cameras.

Despite large investments in technology, the authorities have not yet managed to dismantle these criminal organizations or disrupt their influence. Although there are flurries of police activity from time to time and arrests made, eventually and inevitably it’s not long before the gangs are back and doing business as usual. 

Local authorities boast of having a modern digital security apparatus with hundreds of surveillance cameras and the Hawk up in the sky as a noisy reminder that the city is being watched. But the gangs’ eyes on the streets see more than cameras, drones and helicopters do.

These watchers are closer to reality and are more agile in how they respond. As one expert sardonically told me, surveillance networks see only what those who control the networks want to see. “When the pay is good,” he says, referring to corruption, “everyone looks the same way.”

The post Watching the streets of Medellín appeared first on Coda Story.

I. Hery Flores kept calm when officers approached him as he departed a Tegucigalpa gas station in the early summer of 2021. Only one was in a blue police uniform. The others wore jeans and button down shirts — typical attire for police investigators in Honduras’ capital city. But then they slapped on handcuffs without giving him time to react. Later he realized they never showed him an arrest warrant.

They shoved Flores into a car without license plates and drove him around on Tegucigalpa’s winding roads. The officers interrogated him for more than two hours about his political activity as a student at the National Autonomous University of Honduras and as a member of a political party called Libre. Other Hondurans who had been murdered or disappeared in recent years — Berta Cáceres, Sneider Centeno, Vicky Hernández — flashed through Flores’ mind. “Their primary objective wasn’t to arrest me,” he later told me.

He persuaded one of them to let him call his mother. “The police have detained me and I’m at the Kennedy police station,” he told her. Within the hour, people were calling for his release on social media. One was the Libre party presidential candidate Xiomara Castro. Another was her husband, Manuel “Mel” Zelaya, the former Honduran president who was deposed through a coup d’etat in June 2009 and later became head of the Libre party.

Before the day was through, Flores had been charged with “aggravated arson.” Authorities alleged he set a pharmacy on fire during a 2019 protest, which he denies. Flores spent a week and a half in pre-trial detention in a maximum-security prison until a judge decided he was not a flight risk and granted his provisional release while his trial was ongoing.

This was Flores’ first sustained encounter with police, and yet they seemed to know him well. He later learned that over two years’ time, they had compiled a 300-page file on him. He had spotted police stationed outside his home from time to time. Some photos in his file came from social media. But other images he didn’t recognize seemed to have been taken from a distance, perhaps by someone who was following him. While on the phone, he had sometimes heard noises, similar to the sound of fingers typing on a keyboard.

Flores wasn’t alone. He was one of an untold number of Hondurans caught up in a complex web of surveillance tools and tactics deployed by a state determined to protect its own power and preserve its status as Central America’s largest drug corridor. Presiding over this regime from 2014 until 2022 was Honduran President Juan Orlando Hernández. After he left office in January 2022 , Hernández — or “JOH” as he was commonly known in Honduras — was extradited to the U.S. on drug trafficking and weapons charges. He is currently awaiting trial in the Southern District of New York.

Dozens of interviews with current and former law enforcement officials, technical experts, activists and lawyers, and an extensive review of documents and court filings obtained through Honduras' public information access law offer a detailed (if still incomplete) picture of the digital surveillance apparatus that dominated Honduras during the Hernández administration. What follows is the story of what happens when surveillance companies sell their products to a government known to be carrying out widescale human rights abuses against its people and of the potential reform to this abusive digital surveillance apparatus as it heads into year two of Xiomara Castro’s administration.

The roots of these problems run deep for Honduras. The Central American nation has long faced endemic poverty and violence and today has one of the highest murder rates in the world. An estimated 120 tons of cocaine passed through the country in 2019. All this has driven hundreds of thousands of Hondurans to migrate to the U.S. in recent years.

The Honduran government also has a long history of monitoring its own citizens. A former army general told Honduran media that the country has been able to illegally intercept phone calls for at least 40 years.

But under Hernández, who was in office from 2014 until 2022, decades of intrusive but old-fashioned government monitoring began to look genteel. Hernández supercharged the state surveillance apparatus, first by passing laws to enable overreaching surveillance and then by bulking up police snooping powers with cutting-edge software. During his administration, Honduras acquired some of the most advanced AI and digital forensics tools from the biggest brands in the business, like Israel’s Cellebrite and the U.S.-based military contractor Palantir. There is also evidence of Honduran officials using other major surveillance tech products including Circles, i2, Galileo and Pegasus.

Why would a country of 9.5 million people need so many hardcore surveillance tools? To monitor anyone threatening to expose its wrongdoings or challenge its power. And to ensure its hold on a thriving drug trade.

The case brought against Hernández by the U.S. Justice Department accuses him of leveraging “the Government of Honduras’ law enforcement, military, and financial resources to further his drug trafficking scheme” by sharing sensitive information from law enforcement and the military with drug traffickers to facilitate shipments. A drug trafficker famously quoted Hernández saying he would “stuff the drugs right up the noses of the gringos.” For his part, Hernández denies all these allegations. He says they are the result of drug traffickers trying to get back at him for cracking down on the drug trade during his time as president. 

But whether they were working for the state or trying to hold the state to account, people who were on the ground during Hernández’s time in office tell a different story. Opposition politicians, journalists and activists were under constant watch, both in real life and online. Phones were regularly confiscated and illegally compromised. Hernández built up a system that allowed him to access personal information on anyone in the country, on a whim. A former police officer, who wished to remain anonymous because he feared reprisals from the state, explained that Hernández positioned military officers within law enforcement departments as “consultants.” They would report back to him any information of interest, whether it was related to drug trafficking, political targets or other sensitive matters. But in the eyes of this officer, one thing was clear: “Nothing moved in Honduras without JOH finding out.”

Revelations about the reach of the Honduran digital surveillance apparatus also raise serious questions about the companies that build and sell these technologies. Tamir Israel, a researcher at Human Rights Watch, explained that these companies are required under international human rights laws to act responsibly and conduct due diligence in their sales. But many experts I spoke with agreed that from Azerbaijan to Mexico to Saudi Arabia, enough abuse has been exposed over the years to know this is not happening across the industry. Angela Alarcón, a Latin America campaigner at the digital rights organization Access Now, said that companies often try to shirk responsibility for human rights abuses by claiming their clients — mainly governments — hold sole liability for what happens to their targets. But companies are also responsible, she said: “Why? Because their technology can be used as a weapon that can destroy lives.”

II. HOW TO BUILD A SURVEILLANCE STATE

In 2009, a coup by the right-wing Honduran military, tacitly supported by the U.S., removed the president — Manuel “Mel” Zelaya, now head of the Libre party — from office and plunged the country’s already weak institutions into chaos. Thousands took to the streets in protest. Police and the military responded by violently repressing demonstrations, arresting protesters and enforcing a curfew. A subsequent commission found security forces were responsible for at least 20 deaths. In December of that same year, the head of the country’s drug trafficking unit in the public prosecutor’s office, Julián Arístides González, was murdered. Documents later showed that the police planned his killing at their headquarters.

The already-growing drug trade only further prospered in Honduras over the next decade, lending it the unenviable moniker of a “narco state.” Some police became directly involved in the drug trade. Others, under extreme pressure to protect drug traffickers from the law, were corrupt by default.

“The police have been at the service of drug traffickers and organized crime,” said Maria Luisa Borjas, a former police officer. “Honest officers who have wanted to remain part of the police have had to become deaf, blind and mute because their lives and the lives of their families are in danger.”

Borjas knows these dynamics well. She was once the head of internal affairs in the national police, where she was charged with holding officers accountable to the law. After she investigated extrajudicial killings carried out by a group of high-ranking police officers in 2002, she was fired from her job. One of the high-ranking officers she identified, Juan Carlos “El Tigre” Bonilla, later became the police director. Events surrounding Borjas’ firing and Bonilla’s tenure created further scandal that is now being laid out before a federal court in the U.S. where Bonilla, just like his former boss, is being tried on drug trafficking and weapons charges.

In 2012, when Juan Orlando Hernández was the president of the Honduran Congress, legislators passed a law colloquially known as the “Wiretapping Law,” which allows authorities to listen to phone calls and intervene in other forms of communications. 

“It’s something they were already doing, but in 2012, they legalized the practice,” said Hedme Sierra Castro, who has tracked digital surveillance of activists as part of the NGO ACI-Participa.

In 2013, a new attorney general — with close ties to Hernández — was elected to lead the public prosecutor’s office. He still presides over the institution and has been implicated in a U.S. court for aiding drug traffickers.

Hernández came to power in 2014 and used a special security council to build out a sweeping surveillance regime. Yet at the same time, crime soared and the drug trade continued to thrive. It was all for the purpose of “protecting the drug trafficking business,” said Honduran journalist and criminologist Wendy Funez. “They created an apparatus using the power of the state.”

The inner workings of the security forces in the Hernández government were complex, with more than a dozen different special forces between the police and the military. The military was the “brains” behind his security apparatus, explained Wendy Funez. “But the police carried out the orders,” she said. 

The situation attracted some international attention in March 2016, after Goldman Prize-winning environmentalist Berta Cáceres was murdered in her home. Her death underscored how dangerous post-coup Honduras had become for anyone who opposed the status quo, no matter how much prominence they had reached internationally. The killing shook the country. A U.S.-trained former military officer, who had also been the president of the hydroelectric energy company Desarrollos Energéticos, was later convicted of ordering her murder.

A month later police officials ostensibly admitted they had a corruption problem and ordered a clean-up of the 12,000-person force in a process known as the police “depuración,” or purification. But “it was a farce,” Borjas said. Hundreds of officers who were kicked out of the police force have since sued the government, alleging that they were expelled for speaking out against sexual assault or opposing Hernández’s government. Or because, like Borjas, they themselves had exposed instances of corruption.

Although Honduras maintained the quiet support of the U.S. throughout the Hernández administration — the country is home to a U.S. military base, along with Chiquita (formerly United Fruit) and the palm oil giant Dinant — JOH’s immediate extradition at the end of his last term signaled a change of tune. While he was still in office, his brother, Juan Antonio “Tony” Hernández, was famously tried and convicted of running a major cocaine trafficking operation in the U.S. in 2021. In judicial proceedings, it came out that he had accepted a roughly $1 million donation to his brother’s presidential campaign from the notorious leader of Mexico’s Sinaloa cartel, Joaquín “El Chapo” Guzmán. The former president’s brother (and Guzmán) have since been tried and convicted of major drug trafficking crimes. Both are serving life sentences in the U.S.

III. THE PALANTIR UNIT

Within the byzantine internal structure of the Honduran National Police, the Police Directorate of Investigations is charged with investigating serious crimes, such as homicides. In the working class Kennedy neighborhood of Tegucigalpa, a multi-building complex houses the Directorate, with more than a dozen forensic and ballistic labs, investigators’ offices and a floor dedicated to Interpol offices. It is also home to a room with about 10 computers in it, known as the Palantir Unit. 

One Saturday afternoon, when I visited the Palantir Unit, I met a lone staffer. Her job was to respond to requests by investigators for information from the Palantir platform, she explained. The U.S.-made software creates information-rich reports that profile people of interest, and it can diagram their social and family connections, drawing on information from the national census, public healthcare systems, customs and immigration, the names of relatives of people under investigation, vehicle registration information and other sources. Public records show that the Honduran police have run more than 12,700 searches through the platform since 2015, when the Palantir Unit started. Honduras’ secretary of defense and the public prosecutor’s office, through a special criminal investigation unit known as the ATIC, can also carry out Palantir requests. The secretary of defense has run 380 searches since 2014 and ATIC has run 14,157 since 2015. 

“Palantir is a database that opens a big window,” said Cristian Nolasco, the Police Directorate of Investigations spokesperson, who has been part of the police since 1998. 

Known mainly for its large contracts with U.S. law enforcement agencies and the U.S. military, Palantir in recent years has expanded its operations, selling to governments around the world and to the private sector. Now headquartered in Colorado, Palantir was co-founded in 2003 by tech billionaire Peter Thiel, and it received early seed investment of $2 million from In-Q-Tel, the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency's venture capital arm. The publicly-traded company had a market cap of $13.3 billion at the start of 2023. 

Palantir was recently profiled in the Washington Post for the technological edge its algorithm gives to Ukraine’s armed forces. It also has contracts with the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, that Amnesty International says have “[enabled] ICE to identify, share information about, investigate, and track migrants and asylum-seekers” who have been arrested in workplace raids.

Luís, who was in the police force during Hernández’s first term in office, said that he often filed requests for Palantir reports while investigating local organized crime groups. The software analyzed information to make it easier for intelligence officers like Luís — who says he received training from Americans and Colombians — to track down their targets and understand their movements. Luís asked that we not use his real name, as he is legally prohibited from speaking publicly about his work.

Luís would hand all intelligence reports to his supervisor, and he knew that reports eventually made their way to President Hernández himself. Based on his knowledge of the software’s capacity, Luís said that above all else, it helped Hernández “to control the opposition” and “to neutralize his opponents within organized crime.” Cristian Nolasco, the police spokesperson, said that even though the Palantir Unit is housed within the national police, it was the military that really had control of the technology under Hernández, through the National Directorate of Investigation and Intelligence, an opaque institution comparable to the U.S. Secret Service.

Palantir’s software is just one among many powerful surveillance tools that the Police Directorate of Investigations has at its disposal. Since at least 2012, the police have used data analytics software from IBM’s i2, now owned by the Canadian software company Harris, to profile suspects and their close connections.

A report from the University of Toronto’s Citizen Lab found that Honduras was also likely using Circles, a surveillance technology made in Israel that listens in on calls and monitors texts and location by “exploiting weaknesses in the global mobile phone system.” Researchers made this assessment following the discovery of two servers in Honduras using the technology, including one belonging to the country’s defense department. Citizen Lab also identified an operator in Honduras for the NSO Group’s notorious spyware Pegasus, which has been used to spy on journalists and activists in Mexico, El Salvador and Saudi Arabia. Previous reporting also revealed that Hernández’s government purchased software called Galileo, to hack emails and listen to phone calls, from the now-defunct Italian company Hacking Team.

Since 2017, the Directorate also has used phone extraction and analysis software from the Israeli company Cellebrite, which boasts having contracts with police, military and secret service agencies in more than 150 countries. Its main product, Universal Forensic Extraction Device, can bypass passwords and encryption to remotely access mobile phones and computers. It then extracts, analyzes and presents the data in a tidy report. 

The Directorate used Cellebrite for 939 extractions from 2017 to 2022. The police provided me with a long list of crimes they have investigated using Cellebrite technology, including homicide, drug trafficking, human trafficking, rape, fraud, vandalism and arson. Court records prove that the police have used Cellebrite in at least one case against a group of environmental activists, in which they were able to extract incoming and outgoing calls, photo albums, social media messages, emails and plenty else from the activists’ phones.

The ATIC also uses the Cellebrite software and has conducted 3,893 extractions since 2015. The office of Honduras’ secretary of defense confirmed it does not use Cellebrite.

This type of state surveillance “is often much more intrusive than you would think it would be,” said Tamir Israel, of Human Rights Watch. “There is also a chance for more serious repercussions to happen,” Israel said, referring to torture, state killings and imprisonment that have occurred immediately after surveillance or even years in the future in other countries. “That’s why it's important to have very clear checks and balances around every step of this at every point in time.”

These companies are required under international human rights laws to act responsibly and conduct due diligence in their sales, but enough abuse has been exposed over the years to know this is not happening on an industry-wide level, Israel said. U.N. experts, alongside groups like Human Rights Watch, have called for a global moratorium on the use of these technologies until more robust due process mechanisms and data protection laws are in place. Any company selling these products “must have known of the government’s connections to the illegal drug trade, and if they didn’t, they had a responsibility to learn,” said University of California Irvine law professor David Kaye. “If the companies did more than just sell a product — for instance, if they then serviced it, helped the customer use it — they owe the victims and the world an explanation for what they knew and what steps, if any, they took to mitigate or prevent harms.”

In September 2021, Cellebrite announced the formation of an ethics and integrity committee to respond to these types of critiques. The company has come under scrutiny for its contracts with countries like Saudi Arabia and Myanmar and the recent sale of its technology to the Ugandan police.

In an email to Coda, Cellebrite Director of Public Relations Victor Cooper wrote that the company pursues “only those customers who we believe will act lawfully and not in a manner incompatible with privacy rights or human rights” and noted that Cellebrite does not sell to countries sanctioned by the U.S., EU, U.K. or Israeli governments, such as Belarus, China, Russia and Venezuela. Cooper declined to comment on Honduras specifically. Coda reached out to Palantir about its contracting practices, but the company did not respond to a request for comment.

Daniel Osorio, a tech consultant for the police, told me he had seen the police use Palantir, Cellebrite and other technologies, but that many officers didn’t seem to have much training. “I’ve thought, who taught them the ethics of this?” he told me. “Because ethics come first.”

And all this technology is expensive. It has likely cost Honduras millions of dollars — documents obtained through open records requests indicate that the police have spent at least $136,000 for Cellebrite each year. Outside sources indicate that authorities spent $150,000 per server per year for Palantir, at least $335,000 for Galileo, and likely upwards of one million dollars for Pegasus. Hernández closed his administration with more than 70 percent of Hondurans living in poverty.

This multi-million dollar digital surveillance structure was all in place by the time Juan Orlando Hernández was set to face the biggest challenge to his presidency: the 2017 reelection campaign.

IV. THE TARGETS

Hery Flores was a student when the presidential campaign kicked into full gear in 2017. That’s when Flores met Marcio Silva, who was part of the prominent protest group Movimiento Estudiantil Universitario. As part of the group, Flores and Silva both regularly spoke out about university policies like budget cuts. They also demonstrated against Hernández’s reelection campaign.

Months before the November 2017 elections, during a protest, police entered the university and beat Silva and others with batons and launched tear gas canisters. Silva and 19 others were arrested for allegedly damaging a university building. 

That’s when the surveillance started, Silva told me recently in Tegucigalpa. “I think they had already been following us and monitoring our social media,” he said. “But because 2017 was an election year, we became a problem for those who wanted to stay in power.”

When Silva was in police custody, his cell phone was taken away, as is customary for anyone arrested in Honduras. But authorities cannot legally access phones or extract their data without a warrant signed by a judge. Court documents show no sign of a warrant being sought in Silva’s case. Nevertheless, “they hacked everything, all of my passwords,” Silva said.

I asked Osorio, the tech consultant, about this later on. “When they arrest people and take their phones for a long time, it’s because they are doing an excavation,” he said, referring to the process of extracting data. Cellebrite can do this kind of extraction, but there’s no smoking gun proving that this is how they got Silva’s data.

There was strong evidence that police had hacked into his social media accounts. Pornographic images and videos were posted to Silva’s Facebook account, in what he believes was an attempt to make him look “perverted” and discredit his activism. “It was part of a smear campaign,” Silva said.

Media outlets aligned with the government started publishing charts and diagrams on student leaders and the internal structure of the protest group. “There was information that astonished us with the level of accuracy,” said Silva. “The national ID numbers, the majors we studied, our school year, even our grades.”

Police sources explained that tools made by Palantir make it easy to build profiles and see connections like this. Technology like i2 also carries out similar data analytics functions, which can map connections, according to police officers familiar with the software. It uses cell phone records to analyze gang and criminal structures, as well as social movements. Other sources noted the possibility that some of the information was embellished or made up altogether, to paint a picture that served police purposes.

After he was released, Silva started receiving death threats via WhatsApp and anonymous Facebook accounts. “We’re going to kill you, we’re going to burn you, piece of shit terrorist,” they wrote. Some even slung racist messages at him, commenting on his dark complexion. The women in his organization received rape threats. Silva never got his phone back. 

Then came election night. As the results began to roll in, Hernández was trailing his opponent by almost five points. Suddenly, people’s internet connections mysteriously went dark. When connectivity was restored the next day, Hernández was in the lead. Suspicions of fraud led Hondurans to fill the streets.

Flores and Silva were among them. So was Raúl Álvarez, a former police officer who was 24 at the time. Months prior, he had been let go from the police force along with 200 other officers as part of the supposed “purification” process. His superiors never gave a reason. He was simply notified he had been removed through an “order from the executive branch.”

“They fired the good ones and left the bad ones there,” he said.

Álvarez was never formally accused of corruption. Making ends meet washing his neighbors’ cars and frustrated with the ruling government, he decided to join the thousands demanding accountability in what looked like a fraudulent election.

Among the throngs of demonstrators, he recognized some former police colleagues disguised as protesters, perhaps trying to infiltrate the mass movement. He pointed them out to others. 

“I became a target for them because of all the information that I have,” Álvarez said. 

Weeks later, Álvarez was arrested and accused of vandalizing the Marriott hotel in Tegucigalpa and another business during protests. He was put in pre-trial detention in a high-security prison. 

To prove their case, authorities used Cellebrite to access Álvarez’s phone and extract his data. Court records reviewed by Coda listed all 690 of his contacts, 47 separate SMS conversations, nearly 200 internet search histories and more. Some files he said he had previously deleted were even recovered by the technology.

Prosecutors presented photos of Álvarez at the protests that were extracted from his phone as evidence in his trial. He does not know what authorities did with the rest of the information or how many people had access to it.

Álvarez was never convicted. He was released after two years in a maximum-security prison before the amnesty law passed. In January 2023, a judge finally closed his case. He suffered an attack after his release that left him partially blind in one eye, and his attacker said he planned to kill him. He wants to leave the country.

“Thank God I was a prisoner and not a martyr,” he said. “But my life also matters, and I think the effort that I gave to this country is already large enough.” Knowing the police have so much information on him has made Álvarez feel even less safe than before. “I keep thinking that it’s better to ask for asylum in another country,” Álvarez said.

During the Hernández years, it was not just direct political opponents that became targets of Honduras’ surveillance regime. Lawyers and activists told me they saw similar trends among civic groups in other parts of the country. Nidia Castillo, a human rights lawyer in the southern state of Choluteca, explained how the previous government also went after environmental groups, which are sometimes seen as a threat to industry, and campesino (tenant farmer) organizations. “They need to have profiles and to know who are the leaders to initiate actions of criminalization, persecution and threats,” she said.

Activists with social movements in the Bajo Aguan region told me that their phones were regularly confiscated or tapped. Once when members of the campesino group COPA used code to thwart ubiquitous surveillance of their conversations, a misinterpretation of their conversation appeared in state-aligned media. Two COPA members told Coda that they had their cell phones confiscated by police, after they were questioned about the murder of their colleague. Authorities have not formally accused them of any crime, making the confiscation of their cell phones illegal. Four campesino leaders from this region were murdered in January 2023.

Christopher Castillo, a coordinator at the environmental rights group ARCAH, also became a target. His organization investigates and reports corrupt companies and individuals whose activities threaten Honduras’ natural resources. The organization has become skilled in uncovering information on corporate and government wrongdoing, making the state see them as a threat, he told me.

In Tegucigalpa, on March 29, 2021, about 15 activists from ARCAH protested outside a chicken processing plant they said was polluting the local river with its waste, turning the water brown and giving it a putrid odor. Around 10 a.m., police officers far outnumbering the activists arrived to break up the protest. At least one drone circled above. 

Seven were detained and arrested by the police on charges of “forced displacement,” punishable with up to nine years in prison. The charge is usually brought in cases of gang members who force residents to flee their homes.

Four of the activists had their phones taken away: Christopher Castillo, Jeffrey Alexander Suazo Girón, Victor Alfonso Hernández and Michael Aguilar. Coda confirmed through court records that the police used Cellebrite technology to extract extensive data from all four phones. This included WhatsApp messages, incoming and outgoing calls, photo albums, Facebook Messenger and Twitter messages, emails and memory archives.

By April 2022, the charges against the seven ARCAH activists were dropped when a judge ruled that there was not enough evidence of a crime for the case to continue. But they still haven’t gotten their phones back.

Christopher Castillo thinks he and his colleagues were targeted for a specific reason: their activism often uncovers information that threatens the interests of powerful companies and politicians. “The message is clear. What bothers us is your information,” he said.

All of these activists reported receiving death threats and said they feared that the police and security forces could harm them. “If you ask me who has this information and this technology, they aren’t the best people,” said Osorio, the tech consultant. “They can cause you harm.”

V. MEET THE NEW BOSS: XIOMARA CASTRO

Six months after Flores was detained by the police outside the gas station, he was tapped to join the administration of Xiomara Castro, who had prevailed in national elections. Castro’s December 2021 victory brought the Libre party into power for the first time.

Castro rose to political prominence after leading a protest movement in the wake of the coup. In her third presidential run, she promised to demilitarize public security and promote a community policing model. Against the odds, Hondurans decided to give her a chance.

Activists and student leaders make up a core of President Castro’s political base. In February 2022, the Castro government passed an amnesty law under which the judiciary threw out the cases of people persecuted for their political beliefs or for protesting the previous government. Flores had his case thrown out under the law. Silva is applying for his case to be overturned. Court documents we’ve received thus far do not explicitly mention the use of digital surveillance technologies against either Flores or Silva.

Castro says she wants to strengthen the rule of law and turn the police — one of the primary institutions wielding these surveillance technologies — into an effective and honest institution. But after a little more than a year in office, her long list of campaign promises hangs heavily over the administration. And support among her base has begun to falter. “It’s true there has been a change of government,” said environmental activist German Chirinos. Nevertheless, he said, “The authorities are the same — the police officers, the people in the judicial system.” 

The security minister, police director and other high level police officials repeatedly declined my requests to interview them about surveillance and initiatives to fight corruption within the ranks.

Along with former president Hernández, Honduran police arrested 11 other people on extradition requests from the U.S. after he left office. The Castro government touted this as a major success. But apart from the “big fish” strategy, it’s unclear how the new government will eradicate corruption and the influence of the drug trade on politics and security institutions. Castro’s own government and family have come under scrutiny for potential drug trafficking ties. Zelaya, Castro’s husband, was accused of taking a bribe from drug traffickers in a New York court case. A promise to bring an international anti-corruption commission has stalled. And cocaine seizures actually declined during Castro's first year in government.

Key laws that enable abusive surveillance, including the wiretapping law, remain. “Until they are overturned, we’re not going to accomplish anything,” said ARCAH activist Christopher Castillo. In November 2022, he was stopped by the police again outside his house, without cause. 

In early December 2022, Castro’s government declared a state of exception in certain gang-controlled neighborhoods in the country’s two largest cities in an attempt to fight extortion, which grants broad powers to security forces. At least four environmental leaders have been killed so far this year. UN human rights experts have called for an independent investigation into the killing of two activists in the north, who had previously been arbitrarily detained after opposing a mining project sanctioned by the Hernández government.

Maria Luisa Borjas, the former police officer, has been following the new government closely, particularly its security policy. “There are no clear policies to combat corruption, neither in the government in general, nor in matters of security, nor in the Armed Forces,” Borjas said. She criticized the amnesty law — which has become one of the Castro’s government’s most controversial policies — for providing impunity to corrupt officials instead of fulfilling its intended purpose of liberating political prisoners.

VI. ‘YOU DON’T WANT ME TO KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE’

When the police gave me an extensive tour of their investigative unit, agents offered sweeping details about their work, on everything from collecting evidence at a crime scene to deactivating explosives. Many emphasized the need to follow protocol and obtain warrants for searches.

It all made me wonder if the institution is finally achieving real reforms.

But at the end of my tour, my confidence evaporated. A police officer offered to give me a ride home. I politely declined, saying I didn’t want to inconvenience him. “You don’t want me to know where you live,” he said. “Even though I could find out anyway.”

He explained how based on my phone number he could find records from the phone company that document my address or even use GPS data from my phone to figure out where I spend most of my time.

“You couldn’t do that, because you would need a warrant,” I said, repeating what the police had gone through so much trouble to emphasize to me when they explained all the technology in their power.

He responded that he could just send the woman who operates the computer to go buy a soda, and he could log into the computer without her knowing.

“But that would be corrupt,” I said. “And you’re not corrupt, right?”

Of course not, he said. He had just been joking.

This reporting is sponsored by the Bruno Foundation, set up by journalist and writer Martin Walker. Walker is a celebrated international reporter, historian, and author of the popular Bruno detective series. Bruno’s eponymous protagonist has a distinct awareness of justice, intrigue, and tenacity – traits the Bruno Fellowship encourages.

The post How surveillance tech helped protect power — and the drug trade — in Honduras appeared first on Coda Story.

After the decision, red states moved quickly to ban or severely limit access to the procedure. This made the virtual sphere uniquely important for people seeking information about abortion, especially those living in states that have outlawed the procedure with little or no exceptions. 

Google searches for abortion medications increased by 70% the month following the court ruling. People flocked to social media platforms and websites with resources about where and how to end a pregnancy, pay for an abortion or seek help to obtain an abortion out of state. 

Despite state laws criminalizing abortion, these digital spaces are legally protected from liability for hosting this kind of content. That’s thanks to the landmark Section 230 of the 1996 Communications Decency Act, the 26 words that are often credited with creating today’s internet as we know it. Thanks to Section 230, websites of all kinds are protected from lawsuits over material that users might post on their platforms. This legal shield allows sites to host speech about all kinds of things that might be illegal — abortion included — without worrying about being sued.

But the future of 230 is on shaky ground. Next month, the U.S. Supreme Court will hear oral arguments on a case that challenges the scope of the landmark internet law. The Court’s decision could have sweeping consequences for digital speech about abortion and reproductive health in a post-Roe America. 

THE BACKGROUND

When armed ISIS assailants staged a series of attacks in central Paris in November 2015, an American college student named Nohemi Gonzalez was among the 130 people who lost their lives. Her family has since taken Google (the owner of YouTube) to court. Their lawyers argue that the tech giant aided and abetted terrorism by promoting YouTube videos featuring ISIS fighters and other material that could radicalize viewers and make them want to carry out attacks like the one that killed Nohemi. Central to the case is YouTube’s recommendation algorithm, which feeds users a never-ending stream of videos in an effort to keep them hooked. Independent research has shown that the algorithm tends to promote videos that are more “extreme” or shocking than what a person might have searched to begin with. Why? Because this kind of material is more likely to capture and sustain users’ attention.

Section 230 protects Google from legal liability for the videos it hosts on YouTube. But does it protect Google from legal liability for recommending videos that could inspire a person to join a terrorist group and commit murder? That is the central question of Gonzalez v. Google. If the Supreme Court decides that the legal shield of Section 230 does not apply to the recommendation engine, the outcome could affect all kinds of videos on the platform. Any video that could be illegal under state laws — like abortion-related content in the post-Roe era — could put the company at risk of legal liability and would probably cause Google to more proactively censor videos that might fall afoul of the law. This could end up making abortion and reproductive health-related information much harder to access online.

If this all sounds wonky and technical, that’s because it is. But the Court’s decision has the potential to “dramatically reshape the internet,” according to Eric Goldman, a professor at California’s Santa Clara University School of Law specializing in internet law. 

Algorithmic systems are deeply embedded in the architecture of online services. Among other things, websites and social media platforms use algorithms to recommend material to users in response to their online activity. These algorithmic recommendations are behind the personalized ads we see online, recommended videos and accounts to follow on social media sites and what pops up when we look at search engines. They create a user’s newsfeed on social media platforms like Facebook and Twitter. They have become a core feature of how the internet functions.

WHAT ARE THE STAKES IN A POST-ROE AMERICA?

If the Supreme Court rules in the plaintiffs’ favor, it could open up a vast world of possible  litigation, as websites and platforms move assertively to take down content that could put them at legal risk, including speech about abortion care and reproductive health. Platforms then would face the threat of litigation for recommending content that stands in violation of state laws  — including, in thirteen cases, laws against abortion. 

“That's going to dramatically affect [the] availability of abortion-related material because, at that point, anything that a service does that promotes or raises the profile of abortion-related material over other kinds of content would no longer be protected by Section 230, would be open for all these state criminal laws, and services simply can't tolerate that risk,” Goldman explained. 

In this scenario, technology companies could not only be exposed to lawsuits but could even find themselves at risk of criminal charges for algorithmically recommending content that runs afoul of state abortion bans. One example is Texas’ anti-abortion “bounty” law, SB 8, which deputizes private citizens to sue anyone who “aids or abets” another person seeking an abortion. If the Court decides to remove Section 230’s shield for algorithmic amplification, websites and platforms could be sued for recommending content that helps a Texas resident to obtain an abortion in violation of SB 8. Most sites would likely choose to play it safe and simply remove any abortion-related speech that could expose them to criminal or legal risks.

The abortion information space is just one realm where this could play out if the Court decides that Section 230’s protections do not apply to algorithmic promotion of content. Anupam Chander, a law professor at Georgetown University who focuses on international tech regulation, explained: “Making companies liable for algorithmically promoting speech when they haven't themselves developed it will lead to the speech that is most controversial being removed from these online services.”

Goldman had similar concerns. “We’ve never had this discussion about what kind of crazy things could a state legislature do if they wanted to hold services liable for third-party content. And that's because Section 230 basically takes that power away from state legislatures,” he said. “But the Supreme Court could open that up as a new ground for the legislatures to plow. And they're going to plant some really crazy stuff in that newly fertile ground that we've never seen before.”

Consider the #MeToo movement. Section 230 protects platforms against defamation lawsuits for hosting content alleging sexual harassment, abuse or misconduct. Without the law’s shield, the movement could have had a different trajectory. Platforms may have taken down content that could have exposed them to lawsuits from some of the powerful people who were subjects of allegations.

“That kind of speech, which we have seen the internet empower over the last decade in ways that have literally reshaped society, would lead to the kind of liability concerns that would mean that it would be suppressed in the future,” Chander added. “So, when someone claims that Harvey Weinstein assaulted them, companies are in a difficult position having to assess whether or not they can leave that up when Harvey Weinstein's lawyers might be sending cease and desist and saying, ‘we're going to sue you for it for defamation.’” 

Proponents of Section 230, who have long argued that changing or eliminating the law would end up disproportionately censoring the speech of marginalized groups, are hoping to avoid this scenario. But it’s hard to predict how the Supreme Court justices will rule in this case. Section 230 is one of the rare issues in contemporary American politics that doesn’t map neatly onto partisan or ideological lines. As I reported for Coda in 2021, conservative and liberal politicians alike have taken issue with Section 230 in recent years, introducing dozens of bills seeking to change or eliminate it. Both U.S. President Joe Biden and former president Donald Trump have called for the law to be repealed. 

“This is not just a left-right issue,” Chander explained. “It has this kind of strange bedfellows character. So I think there's a real possibility here of an odd coalition both from the left and the right to essentially rewrite Section 230 and remove much of its protections.”

If the Supreme Court decides that platforms are on the hook legally for recommendation algorithms, it may be harder for people seeking abortions to come across the information they need, say, in a Google search or on a social media platform like Instagram, as those companies will probably take down (or geoblock) any content that could put them at legal risk. It feels almost impossible to imagine this scenario in the U.S., where we expect to find the world at our fingertips every time we look at our phones. But that reality has been constructed, in large part, on the shoulders of Section 230. Without it, the free flow of information we have come to expect in the digital era may become a relic of the past — when abortion was a constitutional right and information about it was accessible online. The Supreme Court’s decision on this tech policy case could, once again, turn back the clock on abortion rights.

The post What a law designed to protect the internet has to do with abortion appeared first on Coda Story.

Unlike, say, Scandinavia, the U.K. and the Netherlands, where many citizens have stopped carrying cash altogether, in Italy having a few euros in your pocket is a part of daily life. Italians, alongside Germans and Austrians, are among the most “cash prone” in Europe. Cash is how you pay for your morning cup of coffee, for fruit and vegetables at the grocer, for taxis, snacks and gelato. A survey in 2019 showed that 86% of transactions at the point of sale were in cash.

In 2020, the government introduced a new “Christmas cashback” scheme to try to encourage card payments, by offering people rewards and rebates. For every card payment people made up to 150 euros, the government would refund 10%. But right before the holidays this year, the country’s new hard-right prime minister Giorgia Meloni announced a budget that seemed to take Italy backwards, just as the rest of Europe, and indeed Italians, were embracing card payments — particularly contactless — in ever greater numbers.

“Cash must be king,” Meloni told Italians. She proposed that in 2023 business owners would be allowed to refuse digital payments for transactions below 60 euros without a fine. On top of that, she would raise the current limit for cash payments from 2,000 euros to 5,000 euros. 

The European Commission in Brussels pushed back immediately. With one of the largest black markets and shadow economies in Europe, Italy’s former government pledged to Brussels it would reboot its flailing economy, while fighting tax evasion under EU guidelines. On this condition, the Commission gave Italy 220 billion euros (about $238 billion) in coronavirus recovery funds — by far the largest share in Europe. 

But Brussels said Meloni’s plans went against Rome’s pledges to fight tax evasion, and Meloni was forced to scrap her plan to allow businesses to refuse card payments for bills below 60 euros. 

Meloni still plans to push through her pledge to raise the overall legal limit for cash transactions to up to 5,000 euros. This is well below the Council of the EU’s proposed bloc-wide limit of 10,000 euros but above Italy’s previous pledges to reduce the limit to 1,000 euros by the start of the year. 

“The world is definitely moving towards cashless society. Definitely,” Spiros Margaris, a Swiss fintech advisor and “futurist” venture capital influencer, told me on Zoom. But, he added, “the cashless society is both a curse and a blessing.”

A cashless society effectively spells a new era for shadow economies — it makes it more difficult for people to evade taxes and makes life harder for criminals, traffickers and those in the drug trade. Denmark just recorded its first year in history without a single bank robbery and it has an increasingly cashless society to thank. 

But there are significant drawbacks. A natural disaster or war can quickly cut off access to electricity and, with it, our ability to pay for things. During Hurricane Sandy in New York City, New Yorkers walked miles uptown to withdraw cash, after electronic payments became impossible in many parts of the deluged city. In the aftermath of Hurricane Maria in Puerto Rico in 2017, the cash economy reigned as the power grid went out for months on end.

And while a cashless economy means more cash transactions are forced to take place above the table, anti-surveillance advocates say a cashless future would allow governments and banks to wield more power than ever.

“The problem with a cashless society is that it is a surveillance society. And not only can governments, banks and tech companies monitor what you have earned and spent in a cashless world, they can preemptively control it too,” wrote Silkie Carlo, director of the U.K. privacy group Big Brother Watch, in an op-ed in June. The writer Brett Scott, whose book, “Cloudmoney,” rails against the advent of a cashless society, says a cashless world is “a world where even the tiniest of payments will have to travel via powerful financial institutions, which leaves us exposed to their surveillance and control — and also their incompetence.” 

With her November declaration that “cash must be king,” Meloni became a kind of antihero for the movement pushing back against a cashless future. Meloni said she was protecting poor people and small businesses, standing up against a world in which the elderly and homeless are locked out of the digital economy. But her critics argued that she was really protecting Italy’s enormous dark money industry. 

“Meloni loves cash that is essentially untraceable,” said Mirella Castigli, an Italian author who has written several books on digital privacy. “But this seems not to be a right to privacy issue, but another way to give a wink to tax evaders. It’s anachronistic to say people should go back to where we were years ago.”

Italy’s black market is one of the largest in Europe, worth a sizable chunk of the country’s gross domestic product. And Meloni’s proposed upper limit on cash payments, says sociologist Marco Omizzolo, would “make things worse for migrant workers, it just allows for greater exploitation.” The higher cash limit, he explained, would mean traffickers could keep their transactions under the table and pay people well below the minimum wage with impunity.

In divergence with Meloni, many leaders around the world have vowed to crack down on their country’s dark economies by imposing cash limits — or withdrawing cash altogether from circulation. In 2016, Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi announced that higher-value 500 and 1,000 rupee notes — 86% of the money supply — would be removed from circulation. The move was meant to tackle corruption, with one minister describing it as a “surgical strike” against black money. Modi, meanwhile, told the millions of people who rely on cash in India that demonetization would be “the chance for you to enter the digital world.” 

The digital rights group Privacy International said at the time that the move had another aim, “linking financial transactions to identity.” Six years later “cashless India” remains a flagship Indian government program, which the International Monetary Fund has praised. The opposition, though, has pointed out that the move failed to eliminate black money and led to job losses and much economic hardship for the rural poor in particular. In a recent survey, over 75% of respondents said they still used cash to buy groceries, eat out and pay for home repairs, deliveries and other services.  

While the jury is out on the success of Modi’s demonetization, it remains true that card payments are rising steeply as a proportion of transactions. Covid restrictions have also helped turbocharge the world’s progression towards a cashless future, as contactless payments were encouraged as a way of stopping virus transmission — a claim that had little in the way of medical or scientific backing.  

“People were much more open to digital solutions and digital transformations,”  said Margaris, the Swiss fintech advisor. “The adaptation [to a cashless society] was accelerated, and now people just have to digest it.” In Italy, too, Meloni will likely bow to the inevitable. But in the meantime, she has won brownie points with small business owners and those who see a cashless society as evidence of the concentration of power in the hands of government, banks and big tech.  

The post For Italy’s right wing, cash is still king appeared first on Coda Story.