By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at patreon.com/africanelements and hear recent news in a single playlist. Additionally, you can gain early access to ad-free video content.

The situation in Darfur has reached a breaking point. Recent reports show that fighters from the Rapid Support Forces (RSF) are taking children from their families. These witnesses describe a terrifying scene of killings and threats. Many people now fear that these children face "slavery-like abuse" at the hands of their captors (straitstimes.com). This violence is part of a larger war that has torn Sudan apart since 2023.

Understanding these headlines requires looking deep into the past. The current crisis is not a random event. It is the result of decades of ethnic conflict and the use of kidnapping as a weapon of war. The perpetrators are following a dark pattern that has existed for generations. This article explores the history behind these modern atrocities and what they mean for the African diaspora (britannica.com).

The scale of displacement today far exceeds the 2003 genocide levels (reliefweb.int).

The Rapid Support Forces (RSF) did not appear overnight. They are the direct descendants of the Janjaweed militias. These "devils on horseback" became famous for their role in the Darfur Genocide between 2003 and 2005. During that time, the Sudanese government armed Arab nomadic groups to fight non-Arab rebels. These rebels primarily came from the Fur, Masalit, and Zaghawa ethnic groups (britannica.com).

In 2013, the government formalized these militias into the RSF. General Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo, also known as Hemedti, took command. By 2017, the RSF became an independent security force. It functioned as a "state within a state." They built a massive business empire while continuing to commit crimes without punishment. This institutionalized violence laid the groundwork for the current child abductions (washingtoninstitute.org).

The tactics used by the RSF today are identical to those of the Janjaweed. Twenty years ago, raids involved systematic kidnapping of women and children. These victims were forced into labor or sexual slavery. Documentation from 2002 through 2009 showed thousands of such cases. This history created a "pattern of abuse" that continues in the present day (ohchr.org).

The conflict is often described through an "Arab" versus "African" lens. In Sudan, these labels are more about culture and lifestyle than biology. The RSF and its allies often hold an "Arab supremacist" ideology. They target non-Arab groups to seize land and resources in Darfur. This struggle mirrors shared struggles against oppression seen across the global Black community (arabcenterdc.org).

Witnesses in 2025 and 2026 have reported that RSF fighters use a specific slur when taking children. They call the children "falungiat." This word roughly translates to "house slaves" or "children of slaves." It is a derogatory term used by Arab-dominated militias to dehumanize non-Arab Africans. The term suggests that the victims are naturally subservient (alestiklal.net).

This slur links the current violence to the history of the Trans-Saharan slave trade. During the 19th century, Khartoum was a major center for trading enslaved people. At one point, nearly two-thirds of the city population was enslaved. This history created deep social hierarchies based on skin color and ancestry. Today, these global racial hierarchies continue to influence how people are treated in Sudan (antislavery.org).

A generational catastrophe is unfolding as millions of children face acute hunger (amaniafrica-et.org).

The RSF uses child abduction as a tool for both labor and psychological warfare. Captured children are often forced to herd livestock or perform domestic work. This echoes the practices of the "Murahaleen" militias from the 1980s. The government used those tribal groups to attack villages and loot cattle. Kidnapping was a standard part of their operations (ushmm.org).

In many cases, the RSF turns abduction into a business. They hold children for ransom in impoverished areas. Families are forced to pay between $120 and $290 to get their children back. In one documented case, a child was held for six weeks to herd sheep. The family eventually paid $1,500 for the release. This shows how kidnapping has replaced traditional looting as a source of income (straitstimes.com).

The situation worsened significantly in late 2025. The RSF took control of Al-Fashir, the capital of North Darfur. This event led to a surge in documented child abductions. Witnesses described fighters separating families at gunpoint. In many instances, the soldiers killed the parents before taking the children away (investing.com).

Human rights groups have documented at least 56 specific cases of child kidnapping recently. The victims range in age from two months to 17 years. These numbers are likely just a small fraction of the true total. The chaos of the war makes it difficult to track every disappearance. The RSF effectively operates its own government in parts of Darfur, making accountability nearly impossible (straitstimes.com, elpais.com).

To understand the RSF, one must look at the Murahaleen of the 1980s. These were state-backed tribal militias from Arab cattle-herding groups. The government used them as a low-cost force to fight rebels in the south. They were given permission to raid villages and take whatever they wanted. This included people (britannica.com).

The government used these proxy forces to maintain "deniability." They could claim the violence was just a "tribal feud" rather than state policy. This strategy allowed the military to avoid international blame for years. The RSF is the modern version of this strategy. They provide the government, or rival factions, with a force that can commit atrocities while the leaders look the other way (un.org).

Rural Ransom

Maximum Documented

Abductions have evolved into a "business model" for fighters (straitstimes.com).

The war in Sudan has created the world's largest child displacement crisis. Over 11 million people have fled their homes. More than 4 million of these are children. This mass movement of people is a generational catastrophe. It threatens the future of the entire region. The loss of education and safety for these children will be felt for decades (reliefweb.int).

For the African diaspora, this conflict is a reminder of ongoing struggles with identity and power. Many scholars argue that Sudan is often ignored because it is wrongly labeled as "Arab Africa." In reality, the struggle against "Arab supremacy" in Sudan is a Black struggle. It connects to the history of how freedom defines political power for Black people everywhere (medium.com).

The international response to the crisis has been slow. In January 2025, the United States formally declared that the RSF committed genocide. This was a significant diplomatic move. However, sanctions and declarations have not stopped the fighting. The United Nations has extended arms embargos, but weapons still flow into the region (state.gov, un.org).

Donald Trump is the current president, and his administration has faced pressure to act. Despite the genocide determination, the RSF continues to expand its territory. International bodies like the African Union have suspended Sudan. Even so, these organizations have failed to broker a lasting ceasefire. The lack of a strong global intervention allows the RSF to continue its "slave-like" practices with little fear (state.gov, au.int).

The current war began in April 2023 because of a power struggle. General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan leads the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF). General Hemedti leads the RSF. They were once allies who worked together to overthrow a civilian government. They fell out over how to merge their two armies (arabcenterdc.org).

By early 2026, the SAF has regained some control in the central part of the country. They have used heavy drone warfare to push back the RSF. Meanwhile, the RSF has established its own rival government in parts of Darfur. This split has created two different Sudans. In the areas controlled by the RSF, the risk of abduction and forced labor remains extremely high for non-Arab civilians (arabcenterdc.org, alestiklal.net).

The conflict is also fueled by outside interests. Different countries in the Middle East and Africa support different sides. This external interference makes the war harder to end. Resources like gold and land are being stolen from the Sudanese people while the world watches. The RSF uses its vast wealth to buy influence and weapons (washingtoninstitute.org).

The future of Sudan looks uncertain. The use of children as forced laborers is a sign of a society that has lost its moral compass. If the international community does not take stronger action, these "slavery-like" abuses will become permanent. The children of Darfur deserve a future free from the threat of being taken and sold. The history of the region shows that without justice, the cycle of violence will only repeat (straitstimes.com, un.org).

The headlines about child abductions in Darfur are a warning. They show that the ghosts of the past are still present. The RSF is using the same genocidal tactics that the Janjaweed used twenty years ago. The use of racial slurs like "falungiat" proves that this is a conflict driven by deep-seated prejudice and historical hierarchies (antislavery.org, britannica.com).

Solving this crisis requires more than just a ceasefire. It requires addressing the root causes of ethnic hatred and the history of slavery in the region. The global community must recognize the struggle of the Sudanese people as part of the broader fight for Black lives. Only by looking at the history behind the headlines can we begin to find a path toward a just and lasting peace (arabcenterdc.org, medium.com).

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.

By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at patreon.com/africanelements and hear recent news in a single playlist. Additionally, you can gain early access to ad-free video content.

The first story the public hears after a police shooting is often a lie. In Minneapolis, the year 2026 began with the death of Renee Nicole Good. An officer from Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) fired the fatal shots. Initial government reports claimed her vehicle was a threat to the officer. However, bystander video soon told a different story. The footage showed the officer was not in the path of the car when he opened fire (mprnews.org). This pattern of blaming the victim immediately after a tragedy is something Black families know all too well.

In Illinois, the case of Sonya Massey reached a major turning point on January 29, 2026. Former deputy Sean Grayson received a sentence of 20 years in prison for her murder. When Massey was first killed in 2024, the narrative focused on her holding a pot of hot water. The police tried to make it look like she was the aggressor. Body camera footage later proved she was ducking and apologizing before she was shot (siu.on.ca). These cases show that without video, the "official version" of events often remains the only version people believe.

This "familiar script" did not appear out of thin air. It grew from the very beginning of American law enforcement. In the South, modern police departments evolved from slave patrols. These patrols had one job: to control the movement of Black people. They had total power, and their word was the only legal truth. During that time, a Black person could not testify against a white officer. This created a system where the official report was never questioned (gsu.edu).

After the Civil War, these structures did not disappear. They changed into a system of systemic forced labor and control through Black Codes. These laws were made to keep Black people from being truly free. Police officers, many of whom were former Confederate soldiers, used these codes to arrest Black people for minor things like not having a job. This history established the idea that Black people were "presumed guilty." Because the law was designed to control them, the police narrative always started with the assumption that the Black person was doing something wrong (jstor.org).

Source: Northwestern University (northwestern.edu)

As the Great Migration brought Black families to Northern cities, the script moved with them. In Chicago, historical records from 1890 to 1920 show a disturbing trend. During those years, Black residents made up only 3 percent of the city population. However, they accounted for 21 percent of the people killed by police. The most common excuse used by officers was "shooting to hinder escape." This justification was used in 41 percent of all police killings during that time (northwestern.edu).

Police chiefs back then used the same language we hear today. They described Black victims, even children, as looking "large for their age" or "dangerous." By framing the victim as a threat, officers avoided accountability. This shows that the habit of criminalizing Black people to justify violence is over a century old. The goal was to protect the officer's reputation and keep the public from looking too closely at how the police behaved in Black neighborhoods (northwestern.edu).

For a long time, the law allowed officers to kill anyone who was running away from a felony arrest. This was called the "fleeing felon rule." It did not matter if the person was unarmed or not a threat. Police used this rule to kill Black suspects at a much higher rate than white suspects. This rule gave officers a "right to kill" that was often used to terrorize communities. It was a broad legal shield that made the script very easy to write (litwaklawgroup.com).

In 1985, the Supreme Court case Tennessee v. Garner changed everything. The court ruled that shooting an unarmed, non-dangerous person who is fleeing is unconstitutional. While this was a victory, it forced the "familiar script" to evolve. Instead of just saying someone "fled," reports began to emphasize "perceived threats." Officers started claiming suspects "reached for their waistband" or "appeared to have a weapon." This shift made the officer's internal feelings the center of the story, which is much harder for a family to disprove without a video (jaxcriminal.com).

Today, technology is the biggest threat to the official script. In the past, it was just the word of an officer against a victim. Now, bystander video and body cameras provide a different perspective. A study of the Chicago Police Department found that body cameras made a huge difference. When video was available, the number of "sustained" findings for misconduct complaints went up by nearly 10 percent (policinginsight.com).

Body cameras also help close the "evidence gap." Investigations are 16 percent less likely to be dismissed for "insufficient evidence" when there is video to watch. However, video is not a perfect solution. Sometimes, police departments delay releasing footage. In some federal cases, up to one-third of the videos submitted by the defense are incomplete. They often miss the exact moments leading up to the use of force. Even with technology, the struggle to tell the whole truth continues (policinginsight.com).

Decrease in dismissal of investigations due to "insufficient evidence" after bodycam deployment.

Source: Policing Insight (policinginsight.com)

When someone dies in police custody, the script often looks for medical excuses. The case of George Floyd in 2020 is a famous example. The first press release from the Minneapolis Police Department was titled "Man Dies After Medical Incident During Police Interaction." It did not mention the knee on his neck at all. If a teenager had not recorded the incident on her phone, the world might still believe he just had a "medical incident" (sideeffectspublicmedia.org).

Another tactic is using a controversial term called "excited delirium." Police reports use this term to describe victims as having "superhuman strength" or being "impervious to pain." Critics say this diagnosis is based on racist tropes and is not a real medical condition. Major medical organizations have started to distance themselves from the term. They argue it is used to shift the blame from police tactics to the victim's body. Even so, it remains a common part of the script used to explain away deaths during restraint (sideeffectspublicmedia.org).

Accountability is even harder when federal agents are involved. In the case of Renee Nicole Good, the shooter was an ICE officer. Federal agents are protected by different rules than local police. While you can sue local officers for civil rights violations under a law from the Reconstruction era, there is no similar law for federal agents. This makes it very difficult for families to get justice in court (protectdemocracy.org).

Federal agents often claim "absolute immunity." Over the last 30 years, the Supreme Court has made it nearly impossible to sue federal agents for money damages. This means that even if a video proves the official script was wrong, the family might still lose their case. These legal barriers protect the system and the people working within it. Despite the resilience of Black kin, the legal system often feels like it is built to prevent accountability (thefederalcriminalattorneys.com).

For local police, "qualified immunity" is the ultimate defense. This legal doctrine protects officers from being sued unless their conduct violated a "clearly established" right. To win, a family must find a previous court case that is almost identical to theirs. If the exact same situation has not happened before, the officer can go free. This creates a "legal loop" where new cases are dismissed because there is no old case to point to (thefederalcriminalattorneys.com).

This rule applies even when the officer lied in their report. The court focuses on whether the officer's perception was "reasonable" at the time. This gives the "familiar script" immense power in the courtroom. Because the system prioritizes the officer's perspective, the victim's experience is often pushed to the side. Breaking this cycle requires shaping political power to change the laws that protect misconduct (american.edu).

Sources: mprnews.org (mprnews.org), davisvanguard.org (davisvanguard.org)

Prosecutors and grand juries are the gatekeepers of the justice system. When an officer kills someone, the prosecutor decides what evidence the grand jury sees. Because these proceedings are secret, the public does not know why an officer was or was not charged. Critics argue that prosecutors sometimes present a weak case on purpose. This allows the grand jury to return a "no-bill," meaning no charges are filed (northwestern.edu).

This process provides political cover for the "official script." If a grand jury decides not to indict, the prosecutor can say they followed the legal process. However, since the prosecutor is in total control of the information, the outcome is often decided before the jury even meets. This lack of transparency makes it very hard for the challenges families face to be heard by the public or the law (northwestern.edu).

The history of policing in America shows that the "familiar script" is not an accident. It is a tool used to maintain control and avoid accountability. From slave patrols to modern ICE operations, the system has consistently worked to protect state actors and blame the victims. However, the rise of digital evidence and community activism is starting to crack that shield. The 20-year sentence for Sean Grayson in the Sonya Massey case proves that the script can be defeated (siu.on.ca).

True justice requires more than just cameras. It requires changing the legal frameworks like qualified immunity that protect the script even when it is proven false. Families across the country are demanding a system where the truth is told from the beginning. Until the laws change, the digital eye of the bystander remains the most powerful tool Black communities have to ensure that the "official version" is not the only version of history (naacp.org, american.edu).

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.

By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at patreon.com/africanelements and hear recent news in a single playlist. Additionally, you can gain early access to ad-free video content.

The island of Bonaire rests in the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. It is a place of beauty and deep history. However, the residents of this island have spent years fighting for their very survival. On January 28, 2026, the Hague District Court delivered a landmark decision. The court ruled that the Dutch state acted in a discriminatory manner toward the people of Bonaire. This ruling focused on the lack of climate adaptation measures for the island (climatechangenews.com). For many, this victory is more than an environmental win. It is a moment of reckoning for a colonial history that stretches back four hundred years.

The Dutch state has a legal duty to protect its citizens. This protection should not depend on where those citizens live. The court found that the government violated the European Convention on Human Rights (voelkerrechtsblog.org). Specifically, the state failed to respect the private lives and homes of Bonaire residents. It also violated the prohibition against discrimination. While the mainland of the Netherlands has world-class sea defenses, Bonaire was left vulnerable (theguardian.com). This decision marks the first time a European court has ordered a state to create a specific climate plan for an overseas territory. The ruling requires the government to act with urgency.

Scientific projections show one-fifth of the island could be submerged without intervention (climatechangenews.com).

To understand the headlines of today, one must look at the past. The relationship between the Netherlands and Bonaire began nearly four hundred years ago. During the era of the transatlantic slave trade, the island served as a government plantation (wikipedia.org). Enslaved people were forced to work in the salt flats. These salt flats are still visible today. They stand as a silent reminder of the pain and labor that built Dutch wealth. The salt was a valuable resource for the plantation economy in neighboring Curaçao. This history of exploitation created a foundation of inequality that persists in modern times.

In December 2022, the Dutch government issued a formal apology for its role in slavery. Prime Minister Mark Rutte called slavery a crime against humanity (justiceinfo.net). However, many residents of Bonaire felt the apology was not enough. They noted that the government continued to ignore the existential threat of climate change. Activists like Jackie Bernabela argued that the current neglect is a continuation of colonial disregard. The experience of life on the slave plantations may have ended, but the systemic lack of value for Black lives remains a concern. The court case highlighted this connection directly.

The island population is primarily of Afro-Caribbean descent. Most of the 26,000 residents speak Papiamentu. This language is a beautiful blend of African, European, and Indigenous influences (wikipedia.org). It represents the resilience of a people who have survived centuries of change. Yet, these citizens have often felt like second-class members of the Dutch Kingdom. They receive lower social benefits than those living in the European Netherlands. Poverty rates on the island remain high. When the sea begins to rise, these residents have fewer resources to protect themselves. The court recognized that geographic distance is no excuse for unequal treatment.

The legal status of Bonaire changed significantly on October 10, 2010. This date is often called 10-10-10. On this day, the Netherlands Antilles was dissolved (wikipedia.org). The Netherlands Antilles was a group of six islands that functioned as a single country within the Kingdom. However, political friction led to the end of this union. Curaçao and St. Maarten became independent countries within the Kingdom. In contrast, Bonaire, Saba, and St. Eustatius chose closer integration with the Netherlands. They became special municipalities, or public bodies (thedailyherald.sx).

This new status was supposed to bring stability and equal rights. In theory, a resident of Bonaire should have the same protections as a resident of Amsterdam. However, the reality has been different. Special municipalities are governed directly by the central government in The Hague (wikipedia.org). This structure allows the government to apply different laws to the islands. These are known as the BES laws. While Bonaire residents vote for the Dutch House of Representatives, they do not have a provincial government (wikipedia.org). This lack of a provincial layer has made it harder for the island to secure funding for major infrastructure projects.

For over a decade, the island lacked a defined social minimum. This means there was no official calculation of what a person needs to survive. Many households struggled to afford basic necessities like food and electricity. While the minimum wage was recently increased, it still trails behind the mainland (thedailyherald.sx). This economic gap makes climate adaptation even more difficult. Individual farmers like Onnie Emerenciana cannot afford to build sea walls on their own. They rely on the state to provide the necessary infrastructure. The 2010 constitutional change promised integration, but it delivered a double standard in safety and welfare.

The Dutch mainland receives massive annual investment while the Caribbean territories received only a small fraction for initial planning (climatechangenews.com).

The Netherlands is famous for its battle against the sea. In 1953, a massive flood killed over 1,800 people in the European Netherlands. In response, the country built the Delta Works (ice.org.uk). This system of dams and storm surge barriers is an engineering marvel. It is often called one of the Seven Wonders of the Modern World. The Dutch state spends approximately one billion euros every year to maintain these defenses (climatechangenews.com). This commitment ensures that the mainland remains safe from rising tides for generations to come.

The situation on Bonaire is a stark contrast. Despite being a low-lying island, it has almost no man-made flood protections. Scientific research from Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam showed that sea levels could rise by up to 127 centimeters by the year 2100 (climatechangenews.com). Large parts of the southern coast are at risk. This area includes critical infrastructure and nature reserves. Without action, the sea will reclaim the land. The court noted that the state has known about these risks for many years. However, the government only recently allocated a tiny amount of money for planning (climatecasechart.com). This disparity is what the plaintiffs called a "double standard."

The fight for economic justice is central to this environmental struggle. The Dutch government argued that geographic differences justified the lack of a plan. The court flatly rejected this argument. It ruled that the higher and more immediate risks on Bonaire required more urgency, not less (climatechangenews.com). The state cannot claim to be a leader in water management while leaving its Caribbean citizens to drown. The Delta Works prove that the Netherlands has the technology and the wealth to protect its people. The failure to do so in Bonaire was a choice, not a necessity.

The legal case against the Dutch state relied on firm evidence. Greenpeace Netherlands commissioned a study to quantify the dangers facing the island. This research revealed a terrifying future. By the year 2050, as much as 8 square kilometers of land could be permanently underwater (climatechangenews.com). This inundation would destroy homes and heritage sites. It would also wipe out the coral reefs that surround the island. These reefs are the backbone of the local economy. They draw thousands of tourists every year for diving and snorkeling.

If the coral reefs disappear, the economic consequences will be severe. Projections suggest a 25 percent contraction of the island's gross domestic product (climatechangenews.com). This loss represents over 174 million dollars. Furthermore, the island could lose 118,000 dive tourists (yahoo.com). For a community that depends on tourism, this is a death sentence for many small businesses. The heat is also rising. Temperatures have increased by 0.2 degrees Celsius every decade since the 1980s (climatechangenews.com). By the end of the century, average annual temperatures could reach dangerous levels. This heat threatens the health of the elderly and the livelihood of farmers.

The cultural cost is perhaps even higher than the financial one. Bonaire has a unique identity rooted in the land and sea. Many families have lived in the same coastal areas for generations. As the water rises, they face the loss of their history and their way of life. The court decision recognized that the state must protect more than just the economy. It must protect the right to a private and family life (coe.int). The resilience of these families has been tested many times before. However, they cannot fight the global climate crisis without the help of the government that claims them as citizens.

Annual averages are climbing, threatening public health and agriculture (climatechangenews.com).

The ruling in the Bonaire case did not happen in a vacuum. It built upon years of international legal progress. One of the most important precedents was the 2019 Urgenda ruling (climatecasechart.com). In that case, the Dutch Supreme Court ordered the government to cut emissions to protect its citizens. It established that the state has a "duty of care." This means the government must take action to prevent dangerous climate change. The Bonaire ruling took this logic a step further. It applied these human rights obligations to adaptation, not just mitigation (kvdl.com).

The court focused on Articles 8 and 14 of the European Convention on Human Rights. Article 8 guarantees the right to a private and family life (coe.int). The court decided that failing to build sea defenses on Bonaire directly threatened this right. If a person's home is flooded, their private life is destroyed. Article 14 prohibits discrimination (hrw.org). This was a crucial victory for the plaintiffs. By ruling that the state discriminated against Bonaire residents, the court sent a clear message. The government cannot prioritize European citizens over Caribbean citizens. All lives within the Kingdom must be protected equally.

This legal victory provides a blueprint for other vulnerable communities. Around the world, the survival as invention of Black and Indigenous people is being tested by environmental shifts. Similar lawsuits are being prepared in other territories. The decision from The Hague shows that human rights law is a powerful tool. It can force governments to act when they would rather ignore the problem. Even with political changes in the United States under President Donald Trump, international law continues to evolve. The court affirmed that climate change is not just a policy issue. It is a fundamental human rights crisis.

The court order is very specific about what the Dutch state must do next. First, the government must create a comprehensive adaptation plan for Bonaire by the year 2030 (climatechangenews.com). This plan cannot be a simple set of suggestions. it must include concrete measures and the funding to pay for them. Second, the state must set binding greenhouse gas reduction targets. The court wants the Dutch economy to reach net-zero emissions more quickly (voelkerrechtsblog.org). The goal is now aimed for 2040 or 2045 instead of 2050. This change reflects the extreme urgency of the situation in the Caribbean.

There are mechanisms to ensure the government complies with this ruling. While Dutch courts rarely impose immediate fines on the state, the ruling is legally binding. If the government fails to meet its deadlines, the plaintiffs can return to court (thedailyherald.sx). They can ask for financial penalties or a contempt ruling. Historically, the Dutch government has complied with climate orders to maintain its international reputation. The pressure from the global community is also significant. The eyes of the world are now on the Netherlands to see if it will live up to its promises of equality.

For the people of Bonaire, this is a moment of hope. Farmer Onnie Emerenciana stated that the ruling "draws a line in the sand." It signifies that the island's culture and people are no longer viewed as disposable. The "history behind the headlines" is a story of a long journey from the salt flats of slavery to the halls of justice in The Hague. This case proves that even a small island can stand up to a powerful state. As the climate continues to change, the lessons from Bonaire will guide others in the fight for a fair and safe future. The water may be rising, but the voices of the people are rising even higher.

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.

By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at patreon.com/africanelements and hear recent news in a single playlist. Additionally, you can gain early access to ad-free video content.

The air in Lagos, Nigeria, often carries the scent of salt from the lagoon and the hustle of a mega-city. However, in January 2026, the atmosphere turned acrid with the smell of tear gas. Families in the historic Makoko community stood in shock as demolition teams destroyed their homes. This latest wave of violence is part of a long struggle for space and dignity. Nigerian police recently used force to break up a march of displaced residents who demanded safe resettlement plans. The scene reflects a deep-seated conflict between state ambition and the rights of the poor.

Makoko is a place of incredible ingenuity and history. It is often called the "Venice of Africa" because of its houses built on stilts over the water. Yet, the government frequently views this uniqueness as a problem to be solved. To understand the current crisis, one must look back over a century. The story of Makoko is not just about buildings falling down. It is about a community fighting for its right to exist in a city that is rapidly moving toward elite real estate development. Current global leaders, including United States President Donald Trump, oversee a world where urban displacement is a growing concern for the African diaspora.

The history of Makoko begins in the late 19th century. It was founded as a small fishing village by immigrants from the Egun ethnic group. These people came from Badagry and the Republic of Benin. They sought security and new opportunities for their traditional trade. Over the decades, the settlement grew into a complex urban ecosystem. By the mid-20th century, it was a vital hub for sand dredging, salt making, and artisanal fishing (punchng.com). The community developed a dual geography with some villages on land and four distinct villages built on stilts over the Lagos Lagoon.

The Egun people built a life that worked with the water rather than against it. They created a world of canoes and aquatic commerce. However, this way of life has often been marginalized by the state. Officials frequently label the Egun as "non-citizens" or "migrants" to justify denying them basic services. Despite being indigenous to the coastal region for centuries, they face systemic ethnic segregation (ibiene.com). This historical neglect set the stage for the modern conflict. The government sees a slum, but the residents see a ancestral home that has stood the test of time and tide.

This struggle reflects the strength and resilience that many communities across the diaspora show when facing systemic pressure. Like Black families in other parts of the world, the people of Makoko have invented their own systems of survival. They have built schools, clinics, and governance structures without government help. Because the state refuses to provide electricity or clean water, the community relies on its own collective power. This independence often puts them at odds with authorities who want total control over urban land.

Sources: World Bank, Local Baale Surveys (punchng.com)

In the eyes of Lagos urban planners, Makoko is an "informal" settlement. This legal label is used to criminalize the presence of residents. It allows the government to bypass constitutional protections that usually prevent forced evictions. In Lagos, "informality" means a community lacks state-issued land titles or building permits (longdom.org). Because the state has failed to provide enough affordable housing, over 66 percent of the population lives in these unrecognized areas. This lack of legal standing makes every home a target for bulldozers.

The label of "informality" masks a very formal social structure. Makoko is governed by traditional chiefs known as Baales. These leaders oversee land allocation and resolve disputes. They also track the population more accurately than the state. For example, while the World Bank estimates the population at 85,000, local Baales say it is closer to one million (punchng.com). The discrepancy exists because the government ignores the people living on the water. By undercounting the residents, officials can minimize the human cost of their demolition campaigns.

For decades, this community has fought for economic justice in the face of these labels. The residents are not just squatters; they are the backbone of the city's food supply. Artisanal fishing in Makoko provides a huge portion of the domestic fish supply for Lagos (punchng.com). Yet, the state views their stilt houses as "blighted" or incompatible with modern aesthetics. This tension creates a cycle where the government denies services, calls the area a slum, and then uses that status to justify destruction.

The recent violence in 2026 is part of a long timeline of state-led evictions. One of the most infamous precedents was the destruction of the Maroko slum in 1990. After that community was razed, the land was transformed into high-value real estate for the wealthy. Makoko residents have lived in fear of a similar fate ever since. In April 2005, roughly 3,000 people were forcibly evicted to make room for private land claims (longdom.org). These actions demonstrate that the state often prioritizes profit over the people who have lived on the land for generations.

In 2012, under Governor Babatunde Fashola, another crisis struck. The state gave residents only 72 hours of notice before destroying homes near high-tension power lines. Nearly 3,000 people lost their shelter in a single weekend. The government claimed the move was for "safety," but it provided no resettlement plan for those it displaced (amnesty.org). This pattern of "safety-first" demolitions has become a common strategy. It allows the state to clear land while claiming to protect the public. However, the result is always the same: thousands of poor families left homeless and vulnerable.

The community has tried to propose alternatives to this destruction. In 2014, they submitted the Makoko Sustainable Regeneration Plan. This was a "bottom-up" model that would upgrade sanitation while keeping the water culture alive. It proved that the community wanted to improve their living conditions. Unfortunately, the government never fully implemented the plan. Instead of working with the residents, the state has continued to rely on force. This refusal to collaborate highlights the gap between "urban renewal" and actual community development (longdom.org).

The situation escalated significantly in late 2025 and early 2026. On December 23, 2025, demolition teams moved into Makoko under the protection of armed security. Over the following weeks, more than 3,000 homes were destroyed. This campaign displaced more than 10,000 people (vanguardngr.com). Many families were forced to live in open canoes on the lagoon. Health workers reported that children began missing life-saving vaccines for polio and measles because they no longer had a stable place to live. The humanitarian impact was immediate and devastating.

On January 28, 2026, the residents decided to take their grievances to the halls of power. Protesters from Makoko and other waterfront areas like Oworonshoki marched to the Lagos State House of Assembly. They demanded a halt to the evictions and a clear plan for resettlement. The response from the state was not a dialogue, but a crackdown. Nigerian police fired tear gas into the crowd of families and journalists (thisdaylive.com). The use of chemical agents against peaceful protesters drew international condemnation and highlighted the state's aggressive stance toward the poor.

During the protest, several notable activists were arrested. Hassan Taiwo, known as "Soweto," and Dele Frank were taken into custody. They were charged with "inciting public disorder" and "singing abusive songs" against the government. These arrests are seen by many as an attempt to silence the leadership of the movement (thecable.ng, punchng.com). The legal battle for these activists is ongoing, but their arrest has only increased the visibility of the struggle. It shows how the political experience of marginalized groups is often defined by conflict with state power.

A 15% increase since 2016. (wise.com)

Government officials argue that these actions are necessary for "urban regeneration." State Commissioner for Waterfront Infrastructure Dayo Alebiosu claims the goal is to improve safety and security (punchng.com). However, internal government documents suggest another motive. In January 2026, the state introduced a new revenue-sharing model for waterfront land. This model moves away from one-off payments and toward profit-sharing with private developers (theafricanvestor.com). This change makes every foot of the lagoon highly valuable to the government's bottom line.

This revenue model incentivizes the state to clear out "slums" to make room for "new islands" and luxury estates. Critics argue that this is a form of state-led gentrification. Land that once supported thousands of fishermen is being reclaimed to build apartments for the wealthy. This shift is part of a larger strategy and implications for how urban power is used. Instead of solving the housing crisis for the poor, the government is creating investment opportunities for the elite. The displaced residents are seen as obstacles to progress rather than citizens to be housed.

The economic vulnerability of Makoko residents makes this displacement even more cruel. Approximately 40 percent of the residents live on less than $1.25 per day. At current exchange rates, that is roughly 1,937 Naira (wise.com). Meanwhile, the state's "urban renewal" projects create properties that rent for millions of Naira per year. There is no path for a displaced fisherman to move into the new developments built on the ruins of his home. The economic gap between the residents and the government's vision of a "modern Lagos" is a chasm that few can cross.

The Lagos State Government often talks about building "affordable" housing. In the 2025 budget, officials allocated 101.6 billion Naira for housing projects. This was a massive 81.7 percent increase from the previous year. However, the term "affordable" is misleading. Most of these units are priced at 40 million Naira or more. For a resident earning a typical monthly wage of 58,000 Naira, it would take over 57 years of total income to buy one of these homes (wise.com, punchng.com). These buildings are not for the people of Makoko.

This affordability gap is a central part of the crisis. When the government destroys a settlement like Makoko, it claims it is clearing "blighted" areas to make the city better. However, it does not provide housing that the displaced can actually pay for. This leads to a situation where the poor are pushed further to the periphery of the city. They are forced to create new "informal" settlements, which the government will likely target for demolition in a few more years. It is a cycle that keeps the most vulnerable citizens in a state of permanent instability.

Furthermore, the cost of living in Lagos has skyrocketed. In 2025 alone, housing costs rose by up to 35 percent due to inflation. This makes it impossible for low-income earners to find any "safe" housing within the formal market. A simple studio apartment can rent for hundreds of thousands of Naira annually. Without the low-cost option of the waterfront villages, many families have nowhere to go but the streets or the water. The state's focus on high-end development ignores the reality of how the majority of its citizens live.

A resident would need 57+ years of total income to afford one unit. (punchng.com)

The residents of Makoko have not just protested; they have also taken the state to court. In August 2025, a landmark ruling was issued by Justice F.N. Ogazi. The court restrained the Lagos State Government and the police from carrying out further demolitions in waterfront communities. The judge even awarded 3.5 billion Naira in damages for past illegal actions (thisdaylive.com). This was a major victory for human rights. It showed that the law was on the side of the residents' right to shelter and life.

Despite this clear court order, the government has continued its demolition campaign. Officials claim that the injunction does not apply to "illegal structures" that do not appear on official maps. By refusing to recognize the existence of the buildings, they argue they are not violating the court's order. This legal maneuvering allows the state to continue its work while ignoring judicial oversight. It creates a dangerous situation where the executive branch of government feels it is above the law (thisdaylive.com, vanguardngr.com).

The police also play a role in bypassing the courts. Through "executive orders," they prioritize state infrastructure goals over pending legal rulings. This has led to the deaths of community leaders and the injury of many others. Human rights groups like Amnesty International have documented these violations for years. They point out that forced evictions without resettlement are a breach of international law. Yet, the pressure to develop the lagoon for profit remains stronger than the commitment to legal standards (amnesty.org).

As the case of the arrested activists moves toward trial in March 2026, the future of Makoko remains uncertain. The Egun people are caught between their ancestral traditions and the relentless expansion of the city. Their struggle is a reminder that urban development often comes at a high cost for the most vulnerable. While the state dreams of a "Smart City," the people of the waterfront are just trying to keep their heads above water. Their resilience continues to inspire activists around the world.

The story of Makoko is a call for a different kind of urban planning. It is a call for a model that values people as much as it values land. Until the government recognizes the Egun as full citizens with a right to their homes, the cycles of violence and displacement will likely continue. The tear gas may clear, but the determination of the community to remain on their lagoon stays strong. For the "Venice of Africa," the fight for survival is far from over.

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.

By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at patreon.com/africanelements and hear recent news in a single playlist. Additionally, you can gain early access to ad-free video content.

Haiti is facing a period of intense suffering and fear. Recent reports from January 28, 2026, show a terrifying trend in the capital city of Port-au-Prince. Human Rights Watch reports that survivors of sexual violence are being left without any care. Criminal groups and forced displacement have trapped people far from medical clinics and the justice system (hrw.org). The situation is becoming more dangerous every day as gangs gain more control over the streets.

Doctors Without Borders also reports a sharp rise in sexual violence in the city. The group links this spike to armed groups that use rape to terrorize local neighborhoods. This is more than a series of random crimes. It is a calculated strategy to control the population and crush resistance. The collapse of the government has left the most vulnerable people with no protection at all (msf.org.uk).

The current violence in Haiti did not start by accident. It has roots that go back many decades. During the era of François "Papa Doc" Duvalier, sexual violence became a tool of political control. He created a private militia known as the Tonton Macoutes (openedition.org). These men were the official enforcers of the state. They used terror to keep the Duvalier family in power for thirty years. They often targeted the families of political rivals to send a message (blackpast.org).

The Tonton Macoutes established a culture where armed men could act with total impunity. They did not have to worry about laws or judges. This historical period set a dangerous precedent for the modern gangs. Today, criminal groups use the same tactics to punish neighborhoods. They want to show that they are the only authority that matters. This history of state-sponsored terror continues to haunt the people of Haiti today.

Source: Doctors Without Borders (MSF) Reporting

It is shocking to learn that rape was not considered a serious crime in Haiti for a long time. Until 2005, the legal system followed an old penal code from the nineteenth century. This code viewed rape as an offense against morals rather than a crime against a person (openedition.org). Under that old law, a man could avoid prosecution by offering to marry his victim. This legal structure protected the perpetrator and shamed the survivor (coha.org).

Women's rights organizations fought for many years to change these outdated laws. Their hard work led to a decree in July 2005 that finally criminalized rape. This was a major victory for justice in Haiti. However, having a law on paper is not the same as having justice in the streets. Today, the judicial system is almost completely broken. Prosecutors and judges have been forced to flee because gangs have threatened their lives (hrw.org). This means that even with better laws, there is no one to enforce them.

In recent years, the nature of gang violence in Haiti has changed. In the past, different gangs fought each other for small pieces of territory. In early 2024, these rival groups formed an alliance. They called this new coalition Viv Ansanm, which means "Living Together" in Haitian Creole (miamiherald.com). This alliance was not created for peace. It was created to launch a coordinated attack against the state (acleddata.com).

Under the leadership of figures like Jimmy "Barbecue" Chérizier, these gangs have become a structural criminal network. They now control about 90% of Port-au-Prince. They use their power to block critical infrastructure like airports and seaports. They also use sexual violence as a way to control the people who live in their territory. By attacking [Black women](https://www.africanelements.org/news/the-haitian-revolution-the-slave-trade-and-black-women-2/) and families, they aim to break the spirit of the community. This ensures that no one dares to challenge their authority.

Hover to spin. Source: MSF 2025 Data

Medical care for survivors of sexual violence is a matter of urgent timing. When a person is assaulted, they are at high risk for contracting HIV. There is a medicine called Post-Exposure Prophylaxis, or PEP, that can prevent the infection (nih.gov). However, PEP must be started very quickly. Doctors state that it is only effective if the patient begins the treatment within 72 hours of the exposure (cdc.gov).

In the context of Haiti, this 72-hour window is a massive hurdle. Gangs have set up roadblocks all over the city. They often stop people from moving between neighborhoods. This means a survivor might be trapped in their own home for days after an attack. Human Rights Watch notes that 67% of survivors reach a clinic too late to receive PEP (doctorswithoutborders.org). This situation turns a terrible crime into a life-long medical crisis. It is a clear example of how violence and a lack of infrastructure work together to harm the people.

The violence has forced over one million people to flee their homes. These people are known as internally displaced persons, or IDPs (hrw.org). Unlike refugees, they have not crossed an international border. They are still inside Haiti, looking for any safe place to hide. Many families end up living in overcrowded schools or churches. These sites often lack basic security like doors, lights, or clean water (hrw.org).

These temporary shelters are not safe from the gangs. Armed groups frequently raid these displacement sites. They target women and children who have already lost everything. In fact, 70% of sexual violence survivors are people who have been displaced from their homes (doctorswithoutborders.org). Many people have been forced to move multiple times. This constant movement makes it even harder for them to find help or stay healthy. The cycle of trauma never seems to end for these families (un.org).

67% of survivors arrive AFTER the 72-hour window for HIV prevention medicine.

The weapons used by gangs in Haiti do not come from within the country. Most of the high-caliber firearms are smuggled from the United States. UN reports identify Florida as a major source for these weapons (miamiherald.com). Criminals buy guns in states with loose laws and then hide them in shipping containers. These containers arrive at small, private ports that are not well-monitored (substack.com).

President Donald Trump and his administration have focused on border security as a primary goal. However, the flow of illegal weapons to the south remains a major challenge. These guns allow gangs to have more firepower than the actual Haitian police force (federalregister.gov). Without a way to stop the flow of rifles like AK-47s and AR-15s, the gangs will continue to hold the country hostage. The international community is struggling to find a way to help restore order while the [revolutionary rise](https://www.africanelements.org/news/the-black-panther-party-the-rise-and-fall-of-a-revolutionary-movement/) of gang power continues to grow.

While most news focuses on Port-au-Prince, the violence is spreading to rural areas. The Artibonite department is the primary agricultural region of Haiti. It is often called the "breadbasket" of the country because it produces most of the rice (miamiherald.com). Gangs have now moved into this area to control the food supply. They target farming families and force them to leave their land. This has led to a major food shortage across the entire nation.

Controlling Artibonite also means controlling the roads that connect the capital to the north. Gangs use these routes to kidnap travelers and extort money from businesses. The violence in the countryside is just as brutal as in the city. Families are losing their livelihoods and their safety at the same time. This geographic expansion of gang power shows that the crisis is a national emergency, not just a local problem in the capital.

The Haitian Diaspora plays a vital role in keeping the country alive. Millions of Haitians live in places like the United States, Canada, and France. They send money home to help their families survive. These remittances once made up a huge part of the national economy (coha.org). Now, much of that money is used for emergencies. Families must pay ransoms to gangs or buy food at very high prices.

Members of the Diaspora are also calling for more accountability. They want the world to recognize the [historical exploitation](https://www.africanelements.org/patreon/africas-rising-debt-crisis-a-historical-echo-for-black-communities/) that has contributed to the current collapse. They are pushing for better protection for survivors and an end to weapon smuggling. Despite their efforts, international funding for protection services has been reduced. This has forced the closure of many safe shelters that used to help women fleeing violence (hrw.org).

As of early 2026, the political situation in Haiti is very unstable. A Transitional Presidential Council is trying to lead the country, but they face many challenges. There have been no national elections for an entire decade (capitalfm.co.ke). This means there are no elected officials left in the government. The lack of leadership makes it very hard to rebuild the police force or the courts.

There is also an international security mission led by Kenya. This force was created to help the police fight the gangs. While they have prevented a total collapse of the state, they are understaffed and underfunded. They face a well-armed alliance in Viv Ansanm that is ready to fight for every street (substack.com). The path to peace will require more than just security forces. It will require a total rebuilding of the healthcare and justice systems to support the people who have suffered the most.

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.

By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at

By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at patreon.com/africanelements and hear recent news in a single playlist. Additionally, you can gain early access to ad-free video content.

On January 29, 2026, a courtroom in Illinois became the center of a national conversation on justice. Circuit Judge Ryan Cadagin delivered a stern message to the law enforcement community. He sentenced former deputy Sean Grayson to 20 years in prison for the killing of Sonya Massey. This was the maximum sentence allowed for second-degree murder in the state. The judge noted that the shooting of an unarmed woman who called for help was a deep betrayal of the public trust (washingtonpost.com).

The family of Sonya Massey sat in the courtroom as the 20-year term was announced. While the sentence reached the legal limit for the charge, many in the community felt the pain of a "miscarriage of justice." Sonya Massey was a 36-year-old Black mother who simply wanted to feel safe in her home. The man who killed her, a 31-year-old White deputy, will now spend two decades behind bars. This moment is a landmark in the long history of policing in Illinois. It highlights the gap between what the law allows and what a grieving family considers true justice (inquirer.com, aljazeera.com).

Source: Illinois Policing Statistics (washingtonpost.com)

The road to this sentence began long before the summer of 2024. For decades, Illinois struggled to manage how its officers were trained and monitored. The Illinois Police Training Act of 1965 was the first major attempt to centralize standards. However, oversight remained reactive for a very long time. It often took a tragedy to spark change. This cycle of violence and reform has been a constant part of the Black experience in the state (pulitzercenter.org, wikipedia.org).

The 2014 shooting of Laquan McDonald in Chicago was a turning point. That case exposed a "code of silence" within the police department. It led to a federal consent decree that forced the city to change its ways. This court-ordered agreement created a roadmap for reform that included better documentation of every time an officer drew a weapon. The goal was to rebuild trust that had been broken by generations of systemic issues. In the same way that involuntary servitude persisted in different forms after the Civil War, many felt that police misconduct simply found new ways to survive (wttw.com, uic.edu).

One of the most dangerous flaws in the system was the phenomenon of the "wandering officer." These are individuals who move from one police department to another to hide their past mistakes. Sean Grayson was a textbook example of this problem. He worked for six different law enforcement agencies in only four years. During that time, he had two DUI convictions and a history of ignoring orders during high-speed chases. Yet, he continued to find work as a deputy (washingtonpost.com, ipmnewsroom.org).

Before 2025, there was no unified system to share disciplinary records between agencies. This "vetting gap" allowed officers like Grayson to keep their jobs despite clear warning signs. This lack of transparency is as critical to public safety as educational outcomes are to the success of students. Without a complete history, hiring departments cannot make informed choices about who they put on the street with a badge and a gun (washingtonpost.com, ipmnewsroom.org).

The tragedy of Sonya Massey led to a major change in Illinois law. In August 2025, Governor JB Pritzker signed SB 1953, also known as "Sonya Massey’s Bill." This law finally closed the loophole that allowed Sean Grayson to jump from job to job. Now, every law enforcement agency must conduct a deep review of an applicant's full employment history. This includes looking at non-public settlement agreements that were often used as "hush money" to let problem officers resign quietly (washingtonpost.com, ipmnewsroom.org).

This new law requires applicants to sign a release for all past employment records. It even covers physical and psychological fitness-for-duty exams. The state wants to ensure that no officer can hide a history of misconduct. This level of scrutiny is necessary to protect the lives of citizens. It is a step toward fixing a broken system that ignored the red flags of aggressive behavior for too long (washingtonpost.com, ipmnewsroom.org).

The events of July 6, 2024, began with a call for help. Sonya Massey believed there was a prowler outside her home and called 911. When deputies Sean Grayson and Dawson Farley arrived, they found no one outside. They entered the home to finish their report. Inside, the mood shifted when Grayson noticed a pot of water boiling on the stove. He ordered Massey to move it to prevent a fire. When she picked up the pot and said, "I rebuke you in the name of Jesus," Grayson drew his weapon (wfmj.com, aljazeera.com).

Grayson threatened to shoot the woman "in her f***ing face." Body camera footage showed Massey ducking behind a counter and apologizing. Despite her being behind a counter, Grayson moved toward her and fired three shots. One of those shots struck her in the head. After the shooting, Grayson even discouraged his partner from getting a medical kit. He claimed that she was already gone. This footage was the most powerful evidence in the trial. It showed a level of aggression that shocked the nation (wfmj.com, aljazeera.com).

In many police trials, the "reasonable officer" standard is used to defend the use of force. This comes from the Supreme Court case Graham v. Connor. It says that an officer’s actions must be judged by what a "reasonable officer" would do on the scene, not with perfect hindsight. Prosecutors in the Grayson case argued that his fear was not reasonable. They pointed out the distance between him and Massey. They argued a pot of water did not justify lethal force (fletc.gov, wikipedia.org).

The jury eventually convicted Grayson of second-degree murder. This means they believed he honestly thought he was in danger, but that belief was legally "unreasonable." Under Illinois law, this is a "mitigating factor" that lowers the charge from first-degree murder. While first-degree murder can lead to life in prison, second-degree murder has a range of 4 to 20 years. Judge Cadagin chose the highest possible number to reflect the severity of the crime (washingtonpost.com, inquirer.com).

Source: Johns Hopkins Study & ILETSB (washingtonpost.com, accessliving.org)

The Massey case also put a spotlight on how 911 calls are handled. Sonya Massey was struggling with her mental health when she called the police. Her family had even asked for "non-combative" officers. However, the response she received was aggressive from the start. Illinois has a law called the Community Emergency Services and Supports Act (CESSA). It is also known as the Stephon Watts Act. It requires 911 centers to send mental health professionals instead of police for crisis calls (ipmnewsroom.org, accessliving.org).

The goal is to move toward a "988-first" response. 988 is the national suicide and crisis lifeline. If dispatchers had treated Massey's call as a medical emergency, the outcome might have been different. Instead, the situation escalated into a fatal shooting. Many rural and smaller jurisdictions have been slow to implement these new rules. This failure to change protocols is a major reason why wellness checks remain so dangerous for Black residents (dhs.state.il.us, accessliving.org).

Another part of the reform effort in Illinois is the SAFE-T Act. This law mandates that officers must intervene if they see a partner using excessive force. During the shooting of Sonya Massey, Deputy Dawson Farley was present. He did not fire his weapon, but he also did not stop Grayson. Farley testified that he was "confused" by the situation and did not see Massey as a threat. Yet, he drew his gun because Grayson did (wfmj.com, youtube.com).

Farley was not charged with a crime. He served as a key witness for the prosecution instead. This highlights a difficult reality in police culture. Even with laws like the SAFE-T Act, it is hard for officers to go against their partners in the heat of the moment. The "duty to intervene" is a high bar to reach when training emphasizes staying together. This lack of intervention is a recurring theme in a long medical history of systemic bias where Black lives are treated with less care (wfmj.com, youtube.com).

The sentencing of Sean Grayson took place while Donald Trump is serving as the current president. The case has drawn the attention of the U.S. Justice Department. They have opened an inquiry into the Sangamon County Sheriff's Office to look for patterns of bias. This federal involvement is rare but necessary when local systems fail to protect their citizens. President Trump’s administration has faced pressure to address these civil rights concerns while also supporting law enforcement (aljazeera.com).

The national conversation around Sonya Massey is part of a larger push for federal police reform. People are tired of seeing the same stories repeat themselves. They want to see more than just one officer go to prison. They want to see the entire system change so that no one else has to call 911 and end up dead. The 20-year sentence for Grayson is a start, but it is only one piece of a very large puzzle (washingtonpost.com, aljazeera.com).

The legacy of Sonya Massey will be defined by the laws that now bear her name. The "Sonya Massey Bill" is a promise to the community that "wandering officers" will no longer be allowed to hide. It is a promise that background checks will be real and thorough. For the Massey family, these laws are a small comfort compared to the loss of a mother and daughter. However, they are essential for the safety of the next generation (washingtonpost.com, ipmnewsroom.org).

As Sean Grayson begins his 20-year sentence, the work of reform continues. Illinois is at the forefront of this struggle with the SAFE-T Act and CESSA. The world is watching to see if these changes will actually reduce the number of fatal police encounters. Justice for Sonya Massey means making sure that her story is the last one of its kind. It means building a world where a call for help is never a death sentence (ilga.gov, washingtonpost.com).

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.

By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at patreon.com/africanelements and hear recent news in a single playlist. Additionally, you can gain early access to ad-free video content.

The sounds of heavy artillery once again echo across the plains of Jonglei State. In January 2026, the South Sudan People’s Defence Forces (SSPDF) launched a massive campaign known as "Operation Enduring Peace." This operation aims to take back land from opposition groups in the northern parts of the state. However, the name of the operation does not match the fear on the ground. Aid groups and international monitors are sounding the alarm about a possible return to ethnic cleansing (globalr2p.org). While the government calls this a move for order, the history of this region suggests a darker reality.

This offensive is occurring at a time of deep political tension. The nation has waited years for its first real elections since winning independence in 2011. Unfortunately, those hopes remain on hold. The conflict in Jonglei is a direct result of broken promises and deep-seated rivalries between the nation's most powerful leaders. To understand why civilians are currently fleeing their homes, it is necessary to look at the historical roots of this violence. The headlines today are the latest chapter in a story that began decades ago (issafrica.org).

Displacement in Jonglei alone has spiked rapidly since the January offensive began.

The current military push began on January 25, 2026. The government gave a chilling order to all civilians and aid workers in specific counties. Residents in Nyirol, Uror, and Akobo were told they had only 48 hours to leave. This area is home to the Lou Nuer people. These people have long been seen as supporters of the opposition. By removing humanitarian witnesses, the government has created a dangerous vacuum. Aid groups fear that without eyes on the ground, the military will commit atrocities without consequence (reliefweb.int).

The military claims this is a defensive move. Throughout December 2025, opposition forces known as the SPLA-IO made significant gains. These forces teamed up with a local militia called the Nuer "White Army." Together, they captured several government outposts. The most important gain was the town of Pajut. This town is a strategic location that controls movement between the north and the capital city, Juba. Consequently, the government felt it had to strike back hard to keep its grip on power (sudanspost.com).

Politics is the engine driving this military machine. In September 2024, the government announced it would postpone the national elections for the fourth time. The new date is set for December 2026. This delay has destroyed the trust of many citizens and opposition leaders. They feel the current leadership is simply trying to stay in power forever. In many ways, the fight for territory in Jonglei is a fight for bargaining power before the next set of negotiations (horninstitute.org).

The transition to democracy has been long and painful. Even after the 2018 peace deal, the government failed to draft a permanent constitution. Furthermore, it did not set up a proper system for voter registration. These failures are often used as excuses to delay the vote. As the political process stalls, military leaders often turn to the battlefield to settle their differences. This cycle of delay and violence has become a tragic pattern in South Sudan’s short history (un.org). It is a reminder of how many groups continued to face involuntary servitude and systemic oppression long after formal conflicts were supposed to end.

The violence in Jonglei is not just about modern politics. It is also about the way ethnic identities were shaped over time. Long ago, the Nuer, Dinka, and Murle peoples shared the land. Their conflicts usually focused on cattle raiding and access to water. However, these groups were also connected through marriage and trade. The boundaries between them were often fluid. This changed when colonial powers entered the region. British officials tried to organize the population into rigid "tribal homelands" to make them easier to rule (theglobalobservatory.org).

This colonial legacy created a "winner-take-all" system for land. It hardened ethnic divisions that were once more flexible. Today, political leaders use these ancient identities to build their own armies. For example, the Lou Nuer "White Army" was once a group of youth who protected their cattle from insects using light-colored ash. During the civil wars, they became a powerful militia. They are now a key player in the defense of Nuer territory against government forces. Therefore, what looks like a simple land dispute is actually a battle over the very survival of these communities (issafrica.org).

Historical trauma plays a major role in the 2026 offensive. The most painful memory is the 1991 split within the liberation army. At that time, Riek Machar broke away from the main group led by John Garang. Machar’s Nuer forces attacked Dinka civilians in the town of Bor. Thousands of people were killed in what became known as the Bor Massacre. This event left a deep scar on the Dinka people. Many current government leaders are Dinka Bor. They have not forgotten the violence of the past (globalr2p.org).

This historical grievance makes the current fight in Jonglei very personal. When the government targets Lou Nuer areas, many see it as a form of delayed revenge. On the other side, Nuer civilians remember the 2013 civil war. During that time, Nuer people were targeted in the capital city. These memories create a cycle of fear. Both sides believe that if they do not strike first, they will be destroyed. This lack of trust is the biggest obstacle to peace. It shows why understanding the past is essential to solving the problems of today (globalr2p.org).

In 2018, leaders signed a deal called the R-ARCSS. This stands for the Revitalized Agreement on the Resolution of the Conflict in the Republic of South Sudan. It was supposed to end the civil war and merge the rival armies into one national force. It established a power-sharing government between President Salva Kiir and Vice President Riek Machar. For a short time, there was hope that the fighting would stop. However, the agreement has mostly existed on paper only (accord.org.za).

One major failure was the inability to "unify" the soldiers. The SSPDF remains loyal to Kiir, while the SPLA-IO remains loyal to Machar. Instead of becoming one army, they have remained rivals who live in the same barracks. This has left the country with many armed groups that do not answer to a single commander. Consequently, when the political process fails, these groups return to open combat. The 2026 offensive proves that the foundations of the 2018 deal have crumbled. The nation has essentially returned to a state of war (au.int).

The current conflict in Jonglei features new and dangerous players. One such figure is General Johnson Olony. He leads the Agwelek Militia, which is made up of the Shilluk ethnic group. Olony is a veteran warlord who has changed sides many times. In early 2025, the government successfully brought him into the national army. He was given a high rank and told to protect the oil fields. His presence in Jonglei is seen as a major threat by the Nuer communities (hornreview.org).

Olony’s involvement adds a third ethnic layer to the Dinka-Nuer rivalry. Furthermore, his recent orders have been particularly brutal. He was filmed telling his troops to "spare no lives" and to destroy everything in their path. This includes livestock and the homes of the elderly. This kind of talk is a precursor to war crimes. Observers fear the government is using Olony’s militia to do the "dirty work" of ethnic cleansing. This allows the official army to maintain some level of deniability while the militia clears the land (sudanspost.com).

Areas like Nasir and Fangak are currently at Phase 5. This means children are dying of starvation every day.

The military offensive is not the only threat to the people of Jonglei. Hunger is being used as a weapon. Experts use a system called the IPC scale to measure food security. IPC Phase 5 is the most dangerous level. It is officially called "Catastrophe" or "Famine." In early 2026, several counties in Jonglei reached this level. This means that at least one in five households is facing an extreme lack of food. Starvation and death are now common occurrences in these areas (ipcinfo.org).

Conflict is the primary driver of this hunger. When soldiers use "scorched earth" tactics, they burn crops and kill cattle. This prevents families from feeding themselves. Furthermore, the 48-hour evacuation order forced farmers to leave their land right before the harvest. When aid groups are forced to leave, there is no one to provide emergency food or medicine. This creates a situation where the population is either forced to flee or die of hunger. It is a calculated strategy to weaken the support for opposition forces (ipcinfo.org). These tactics remind many of the struggle for rights in the anti-apartheid movement where basic needs were often denied to control the people.

The geography of Jonglei State explains why the fighting is so intense. It is a massive area that connects the northern oil fields to the capital. Pajut is a key strategic node located about 300 kilometers north of Juba. If the opposition holds Pajut, they can threaten the regional capital of Bor. They can also cut off supply lines that the government needs to move troops and fuel. Therefore, the government views the recapture of Pajut as a matter of national security (africansrising.org).

The distance between the battlefield and the capital is small enough to cause panic in Juba. While the fighting is often described as local or "subnational," its effects are felt nationwide. The government relies on oil for 80% of its money. The war in neighboring Sudan has already damaged oil pipelines. If the conflict in Jonglei spreads further, the government could lose its last remaining source of income. This financial pressure is one reason the military is using such aggressive tactics. They need to secure the region quickly to keep the money flowing (horninstitute.org). In many ways, the fight is over who will be the real looters of the nation's natural wealth.

The international community is watching this crisis with great concern. Under the leadership of President Donald Trump, the United States has remained a major donor of aid. However, there is growing frustration. The U.S. and its partners have spent billions of dollars on humanitarian help. Yet, the South Sudanese government continues to prioritize military spending over the needs of its people. Some funding has been paused to pressure leaders to follow the peace deal (un.org).

The African Union has also called for an immediate stop to the Jonglei offensive. They argue that it violates the permanent ceasefire agreed upon in 2018. Civil rights groups are calling for an end to the harassment of opposition leaders. They want to see a focus on education and development instead of war. Understanding how Black Studies is distinct and important can help people understand these global struggles for freedom. Without international pressure and local accountability, the cycle of violence in Jonglei is likely to continue. The history of South Sudan shows that peace cannot be won through a military offensive alone (africansrising.org).

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.

By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at patreon.com/africanelements and hear recent news in a single playlist. Additionally, you can gain early access to ad-free video content.

The landscape of higher education is shifting under the weight of massive legal challenges. For decades, universities used race-conscious policies to build diverse faculty and student bodies. However, a new wave of federal lawsuits against institutions like Cornell University is threatening to dismantle these systems. These cases do not only affect one school. They carry the potential to reshape hiring practices across the entire United States. This movement follows a historic Supreme Court decision in 2023 that ended race-conscious admissions (uchicago.edu).

Legal experts describe the current situation as a tsunami of litigation. This legal tide has turned its focus from student admissions to faculty hiring and scholarships. The shift represents a fundamental change in how the law views the concept of "diversity." While schools once viewed diversity as a benefit for all students, new legal standards demand a strictly colorblind approach. This transition creates a tense environment on campuses where identity and merit are now at the center of a fierce national debate (jamesgmartin.center).

To understand the current crisis, one must look back nearly fifty years. In 1978, the Supreme Court ruled in a landmark case involving the University of California. In Regents of the University of California v. Bakke, the court decided that rigid racial quotas were illegal. However, it also established that "diversity" was a "compelling state interest." This allowed schools to use race as one of many factors when choosing students. For forty-five years, this principle guided how American colleges operated (uchicago.edu).

The system of federalism – or the sharing of power between the national government and state institutions, played a major role in how these rules were applied. Eventually, the logic used for student admissions began to influence faculty hiring. This fell under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act, which governs employment. Institutions began to set goals to ensure their staff looked like their student body. This led to the growth of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) offices across the country. These offices became the primary tools for implementing social justice goals within the academic world (house.gov).

In early 2026, a biologist named Colin Wright filed a federal lawsuit against Cornell University. This followed a previous complaint by the America First Policy Institute in 2025. These legal actions claim that Cornell used illegal racial quotas disguised as "diversity goals." The lawsuits point to internal emails from 2020 as evidence. These emails allegedly show that certain departments conducted "diversity searches" that intentionally excluded white applicants to ensure a specific outcome (americafirstpolicy.com, jamesgmartin.center).

Critics of these practices argue that they function as "secret searches." In one instance, a committee member allegedly suggested inviting only one minority candidate to avoid a competitive dynamic. The lawsuit also targets the use of mandatory DEI statements. The plaintiffs call these statements "loyalty oaths" because they require applicants to pledge support for specific ideological views. At Cornell, one department reportedly excluded ninety-eight percent of qualified applicants because their ideological litmus tests did not meet the university's standards (americafirstpolicy.com).

Applicants excluded based on identity characteristics or DEI statements according to federal complaint (americafirstpolicy.com).

One controversial method used to increase diversity is "cluster hiring." This strategy involves hiring multiple faculty members at once across different departments. The goal is to create a support network for faculty of color and prevent them from feeling isolated. Supporters believe this changes campus culture more quickly than hiring individuals one by one. They argue that faculty of color often face a "cultural taxation" where they take on extra mentoring work without extra pay (jamesgmartin.center).

However, the Cornell lawsuit argues that cluster hiring can be used as a workaround to prioritize race over individual merit. When a university hires a "cluster" based on a social justice theme, it often limits the pool of candidates to those who focus on specific areas of study. Opponents believe this discriminates against qualified scholars who work in traditional fields. This debate highlights the tension between the lived experience of the diaspora and the demand for a colorblind meritocracy in professional spaces (americafirstpolicy.com, jamesgmartin.center).

While Cornell fights hiring lawsuits, the University of California (UC) system faces a different struggle. A recent discrimination survey revealed high levels of bias and intimidation on campus. Between 2023 and 2024, the university recorded over twelve hundred incidents of offensive speech. There were also hundreds of reports of physical bullying and intimidation. This data has fueled intense policy fights between students and administrators (ucla.edu).

The survey showed that students of color experience racism at much higher rates than white students. For example, up to fifty-seven percent of Asian students reported experiencing bias. In contrast, only seventeen percent of white students reported similar experiences. This data forced the UC system to implement a new Anti-Discrimination Policy in late 2024. However, some groups have used the same data to sue the university. They claim that the UC system still uses race secretly to favor some groups over others in its "holistic" admissions process (ucla.edu, latimes.com).

Despite the ban on race-conscious admissions, Black enrollment grew by 4.6% in 2024 (ucla.edu).

The federal government has also stepped into these campus battles. Under Title VI of the Civil Rights Act, institutions that receive federal money cannot discriminate based on race or national origin. Cornell University receives over one billion dollars in federal funds every year. In February 2025, the Department of Education, under the administration of President Donald Trump, threatened to pull this funding. The government gave the school two weeks to eliminate race-based programs (americafirstpolicy.com).

This threat highlights the difference between Title VI and Title VII. While Title VII governs how a school treats its employees, Title VI controls the school's wallet. If a university loses federal funding, it could collapse. This pressure is forcing many schools to dismantle their DEI programs quickly. They are caught between their internal social goals and the reality of federal law. This struggle is part of a long fight for justice that has lasted since the end of the Civil War (house.gov).

Recent international conflicts have complicated the situation on campus. Following protests regarding the Israel-Hamas war, the government began "shared ancestry" investigations. These investigations look for discrimination against Jewish, Arab, or Muslim students. To resolve these probes, the University of California agreed to new rules. These include a ban on "masking to conceal identity" during protests and a ban on unauthorized encampments (ucla.edu, latimes.com).

These rules have a direct impact on Black student activists. Civil rights groups argue that masking bans are often used against specific protesters while others are ignored. Many students use masks to protect themselves from "doxxing" or surveillance. For Black students, who have a historical context of being monitored by authorities, these rules can feel like a threat to their First Amendment rights. The data from the UC survey shows that political protests are now being categorized as "harassment" of protected groups (ucla.edu, latimes.com).

Cornell's annual federal funding is under threat by the Department of Education (americafirstpolicy.com).

Despite the end of race-conscious admissions, some schools are seeing increases in Black enrollment. The University of California reported a four percent increase in Black freshmen in 2024. This success did not come from using race as a checkbox. Instead, it came from thirty years of building "race-neutral" alternatives. The university uses a "Top 9%" program that guarantees a spot for the best students from every high school in California (ucla.edu).

This "holistic" approach looks at the whole student rather than just test scores. It allows admissions officers to consider the obstacles a student has overcome. This might include attending an underfunded school or having major family responsibilities. While the Supreme Court ruled that race cannot be a factor on its own, students can still write about their race in application essays. This allows the university to understand how a student's identity has shaped their life. However, critics still argue that these holistic methods are just a "secret" way to maintain racial diversity (uchicago.edu, ucla.edu).

The "history behind the headlines" shows a system in the middle of a sharp correction. For decades, universities relied on the Bakke decision to justify their diversity goals. Today, that legal foundation has crumbled. The data from the UC discrimination survey and the emails from Cornell are being used to argue that the era of diversity must end. Litigants and federal regulators are pushing for a strictly merit-based, colorblind standard (uchicago.edu, americafirstpolicy.com).

This shift will have lasting effects on the Black community and other marginalized groups. As universities dismantle DEI offices and change their hiring rules, the path to academic careers may become more difficult. At the same time, the struggle for a fair and representative education continues. The road ahead remains uncertain as the courts and the federal government redefine what it means to have an equal opportunity in America (jamesgmartin.center).

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.

By Darius Spearman (africanelements)

Support African Elements at patreon.com/africanelements and hear recent news in a single playlist. Additionally, you can gain early access to ad-free video content.

The streets of North Minneapolis have long served as a place of refuge and power for the Black community. This neighborhood is a center for African American life and business in the Twin Cities (mnhs.org). However, on January 27, 2026, the peace of a local town hall was shattered. Representative Ilhan Omar stood at a podium to speak to her constituents. She was discussing the recent deaths of community members at the hands of federal agents. Suddenly, a man rushed toward the stage. He carried a syringe and sprayed a liquid directly at the congresswoman. This act was a physical attack and also a sign of a much deeper problem in American politics (citynews.ca).

The liquid inside the syringe had a strong smell of vinegar. A hazardous materials team later confirmed the substance was apple cider vinegar (cbsnews.com). Although the liquid did not cause physical injury, the intent was to cause terror. Forensic investigators noted the syringe contained a light-brown liquid during their initial check (cbsnews.com). The suspect was identified as Anthony James Kazmierczak. He is a 55-year-old local resident. He has a history of financial trouble and a felony conviction for auto theft. Police arrested him on suspicion of third-degree assault (citynews.ca). In Minnesota, this charge is a felony that involves causing substantial bodily harm (siebencotterlaw.com).

Representative Omar did not let the attack stop her. She refused to leave the stage after the incident. She told the crowd that she is a survivor. She stated that a small agitator would not intimidate her. The audience gave her a standing ovation as she finished her speech. Her bravery in that moment reflects the resilience of African American families throughout history. They have often faced threats but continued to stand tall. This attack is the latest chapter in a long history of threats against her life and career.

The attack in Minneapolis did not happen without a cause. It took place during a time of extreme tension. Federal immigration agents had recently killed two citizens in the city. Renee Nicole Good was a 37-year-old mother of three. An agent shot her in her car on January 7, 2026 (cbsnews.com). A few weeks later, agents shot Alex Jeffrey Pretti ten times. He was an intensive care unit nurse. These shootings happened only a mile apart (theguardian.com). Many people in the community viewed these actions as a paramilitary occupation. They were angry at the presence of the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency, also known as ICE (justice.gov).

Representative Omar was calling for the resignation of Homeland Security Secretary Kristi Noem. Noem took office in early 2025. She shifted the focus of her agency toward mass deportations and street raids (justice.gov). This policy led to many fatal encounters with residents. Omar also called for the abolishment of ICE during her speech. This position has made her a target for those who support the current administration. The suspect, Kazmierczak, had a history of making pro-Trump posts online. His actions at the town hall seemed to mirror the political anger found on social media (citynews.ca).

The climate of violence in Minnesota has reached dangerous levels. In June 2025, a gunman assassinated Speaker Emerita Melissa Hortman and her husband. The attacker also wounded State Senator John Hoffman (pbs.org). The perpetrator had a hit list of nearly 70 people. This list included many Democratic politicians. These events changed how security is handled for elected officials. The state has also seen a rise in attacks on religious centers. Minnesota leads the nation in incidents targeting mosques. This includes arson and physical threats (cbsnews.com). This context makes the attack on Omar part of a larger trend of political violence.

Source: United States Capitol Police (SOURCE-14, 16)

Representative Omar has been a target since she first took office. Her background as a Somali refugee and her faith make her a frequent subject of hate. In 2019, Patrick W. Carlineo Jr. threatened to kill her. He said he would put a bullet in her skull (wikipedia.org). Omar responded in a way that surprised many people. She wrote a letter to the judge. She asked for restorative justice instead of a long prison sentence. Restorative justice is a philosophy that focuses on healing and reconciliation. It aims to repair harm rather than just punishing the offender (SOURCE-10, 11). She wanted the man to understand the pain he caused.

The rhetoric from high-level politicians has often fueled these threats. In July 2019, President Trump told Omar and three other congresswomen to go back to their home countries. This group is known as "The Squad." It includes Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Ayanna Pressley, and Rashida Tlaib (wikipedia.org). These women are all citizens of the United States. They have gained fame for their work on social and economic justice. The "go back" comments led to a massive surge in death threats against them. One man, David Hannon, was sentenced for sending an email that called them "radical rats" (wbal.com). His own daughter said he acted because he felt the president told him to do it.

By late 2025, the threats reached record highs once again. The 2024 and 2025 election cycles brought back dehumanizing language. President Trump referred to Omar as "garbage" during a meeting in December 2025 (SOURCE-1, 7). After the syringe attack, he even suggested that she had staged the event. He provided no evidence for this claim. This kind of language moves hate from the edges of the internet into the mainstream. It provides a moral justification for attackers. They often see themselves as patriots when they target minority leaders. This framing is a dangerous part of modern political discourse.

The numbers show a clear rise in danger for public officials. The United States Capitol Police, or USCP, tracks these cases. They are responsible for protecting members of Congress (congress.gov). In 2017, they handled about 3,900 threat assessments. By 2025, that number jumped to nearly 15,000 cases (uscp.gov). This is an increase of 57 percent in just one year. The USCP now operates a special intelligence center to process these reports. They work with local police departments across the country to keep members safe (uscp.gov).

Women and racial minorities face the highest risks. A survey from 2024 found that 69 percent of these members receive frequent threats. This is much higher than the 47 percent reported by all members (motherjones.com). In Minnesota, hate crimes are also on the rise. There were 185 reported incidents in 2022. By 2024, that number grew to 274 (mn.gov). Islamophobic complaints across the nation reached over 8,600 in 2024 (motherjones.com). These statistics prove that the attack on Representative Omar was not an isolated event. It is part of a growing wave of hostility.

Extremism in 2025 also began to change. Right-wing groups expanded their lists of targets. They began to focus on healthcare providers and local legislative leaders. This is known as ideological flexibility (theguardian.com). These groups use digital platforms to spread their messages. They often focus on grievances related to immigration and reproductive rights. The attack on Speaker Hortman showed that even family members are now at risk. The security landscape for politicians has changed forever. It requires constant vigilance and a rethink of how leaders interact with the public.

Source: Minnesota Department of Public Safety (SOURCE-22, 23)

The Black community in Minneapolis has a long history of fighting for justice. North Minneapolis is the center of this struggle. About 51 percent of the residents in the Near North area are Black (mnhs.org). The neighborhood has faced challenges like unfair real estate rules and neglect. However, it remains a hub for social justice activism. This activism is part of a larger history of civil rights activism in the United States. Leaders like Mary McLeod Bethune paved the way for women like Ilhan Omar to lead today.

Representative Omar often draws on this history when she speaks. She connects local issues to global struggles. Her support for human rights is well known. Many activists in the Black community see their own struggles mirrored in other parts of the world. This is why there is often solidarity with global struggles among community leaders. They believe that justice in Minneapolis is linked to justice everywhere. Omar’s work in Congress reflects this belief. She focuses on policies that help marginalized people both at home and abroad.

The town hall attack was meant to silence this message. The suspect used a syringe to create a moment of panic. However, the community responded with support. Local leaders like Council Member LaTrisha Vetaw were present during the struggle (cbsnews.com). They helped to manage the situation and protect the attendees. The Sabathani Community Center and other fixtures in the neighborhood continue to be places where these important conversations happen. The attack did not stop the dialogue. It only highlighted the need for more voices to speak out against hate.

Anthony Kazmierczak faces serious legal consequences for his actions. Third-degree assault can lead to five years in prison. It can also result in a fine of ten thousand dollars (siebencotterlaw.com). This charge is used when someone causes substantial bodily harm. In this case, the use of a syringe to spray a member of Congress is a major offense. The investigation is ongoing to see if federal charges will be added. The Department of Justice often steps in when a federal official is assaulted during their duties (justice.gov).

Security for the Squad has become a priority for the USCP. These representatives face more threats than almost any other members. The agency has established a special Protective Intelligence Operations Center. This facility operates 24 hours a day to monitor threats (uscp.gov). They also provide security details for members when they travel to their home districts. This is expensive and changes the way members can interact with their communities. It creates a barrier between the people and their representatives. This is one of the hidden costs of political violence.

Despite the danger, Representative Omar continues her work. She has not stopped holding town halls. She has not stopped her critiques of federal agencies. Her resilience is a testament to her commitment to her constituents. She understands that the threats are meant to make her quit. By continuing, she shows that the community will not be bullied. The history of the African diaspora is full of stories of people who stood their ground against great odds. Omar is continuing that tradition in the face of modern political extremism.

The attack on Representative Ilhan Omar is a dark moment in the history of Minneapolis. It serves as a reminder of the dangers that come with being a visible leader of color. However, the response from the congresswoman and the community was one of strength. They did not retreat into fear. Instead, they stood together to condemn the violence. This strength is rooted in the long history of the African diaspora. It is a history of overcoming obstacles and demanding justice (mnhs.org).

As the legal process moves forward for Anthony Kazmierczak, the conversation about political rhetoric must continue. Words have power, and dehumanizing language leads to physical harm. The rise in threats against the USCP highlights the urgent need for a change in how politicians talk to and about each other. Representative Omar has shown that even in the face of an assault, she is willing to seek a path toward healing. Her previous support for restorative justice shows a vision for a better future (cij.org.au).

The headlines may focus on the syringe and the arrest. But the history behind the headlines tells a story of survival. It is the story of a neighborhood that refuses to be intimidated. It is the story of a leader who continues to speak truth to power. Representative Omar remains a powerful voice in the United States Congress. Her presence is a constant reminder that the struggle for equity and justice is far from over. The community in North Minneapolis will continue to stand with her as they work toward a safer and more just society for everyone.

Darius Spearman is a professor of Black Studies at San Diego City College, where he has been teaching for over 20 years. He is the founder of African Elements, a media platform dedicated to providing educational resources on the history and culture of the African diaspora. Through his work, Spearman aims to empower and educate by bringing historical context to contemporary issues affecting the Black community.