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 quest for justice often involves a long and arduous journey, especially for families seeking accountability from law enforcement. In Topeka, Kansas, a family’s determination to understand the truth behind a tragic police killing has brought renewed attention to systemic issues. The refiling of a wrongful-death lawsuit by the family of Taylor Lowery, who was fatally shot by Topeka police in October 2022, is more than a legal action. It represents a powerful demand for transparency, police reform, and dignity within the African American community in Kansas. This ongoing legal battle highlights a historical struggle for equity that continues to unfold in modern times, reminding everyone that past injustices inform present realities.

Taylor Lowery, 33, died on October 13, 2022, after Topeka police responded to a domestic disturbance call. Reports indicated that Lowery was experiencing a mental health crisis at the time, a detail that deepens the tragedy for his family. The lawsuit claims that officers Malcolm Gillum, George Chiles, Bradley Netherton, and Justin Good used excessive force. It also notes that Gillum and Chiles were reportedly officers in training, a detail raising questions about supervision and preparedness during such a critical incident. Shawnee County District Attorney Mike Kagay later declined to file criminal charges against the officers, leaving the family to pursue justice through civil courts.

The family’s pursuit of justice has focused heavily on transparency, particularly regarding body camera footage. An initial narrative from authorities suggested Lowery lunged at officers with a knife. However, body camera footage, which the family fought for nearly two years to make public, reportedly tells a different story. According to the family’s attorney, LaRonna Lassiter Saunders, the video shows Lowery reaching for a wrench while the knife lay on the ground, and moving away from officers when they began firing. Officers fired 34 shots in total. This video evidence proved "profoundly disturbing" to the family and their attorney, prompting questions about why Lowery, who was in distress and whose family sought help, received a "death sentence" (newsfromthestates.com).

A wrongful-death lawsuit is a civil action brought by the family or estate of a deceased person against a party whose negligence, recklessness, or intentional act caused the death. The purpose of such a lawsuit is to seek monetary damages for losses suffered by the surviving family members, which can include funeral expenses, medical bills, loss of companionship, and loss of future income. This type of lawsuit is distinct from criminal charges, focusing on compensation rather than punishment. The allegations of excessive force are central to the lawsuit. Excessive force, in a legal context, refers to the use of force by law enforcement officers that is greater than what is reasonably necessary to effect an arrest, prevent escape, or overcome resistance. Courts typically evaluate these claims based on an "objective reasonableness" standard, considering factors such as the severity of the crime, whether the suspect poses an immediate threat, and if the suspect is actively resisting arrest. (, )

The family initially filed a federal wrongful death lawsuit. While the initial lawsuit’s exact outcome is not explicitly stated, the family refiled a second lawsuit. This suggests the first suit might have been voluntarily dismissed, dismissed by the court for procedural reasons, or was simply an earlier stage of the ongoing legal battle. This refiling occurred due to "disappointment with the city's response and a perceived lack of engagement from city officials." The second lawsuit, filed in December 2025, emphasizes the need for compensation for Lowery's daughter and specific policy changes. The legal battle has also been contentious, with city attorneys requesting sanctions against the family's lawyer in February 2025 for sharing the body camera footage with the media. This request cites a violation of a protective order, a court order issued in civil litigation to prevent the disclosure or misuse of sensitive information. Violating such an order can lead to serious penalties, serving to uphold the integrity of the judicial process. It is important to note that the dates provided for the lawsuits and sanctions contain a chronological inconsistency, as February 2025 cannot follow December 2025. This highlights a need for clarification in the official timeline of these events. (, )

The struggle to access body camera footage in the Lowery case is not an isolated incident in Kansas. It reflects the state’s strict laws regarding public disclosure of such recordings. Under the Kansas Open Records Act (KORA), all police body and vehicle camera footage is classified as "criminal investigation records." This classification means that such footage is not subject to mandatory public disclosure. While law enforcement agencies retain the discretion to release footage, they are not obligated to do so. This legal framework has historically limited transparency, leading to frustration and distrust within communities seeking answers.

The impact of KORA is significant. Between 2019 and 2023, police officers fatally shot 47 people in Kansas. In cases where recordings existed, officials denied public disclosure 67% of the time. This pattern shows a consistent lack of transparency in incidents involving police use of force. For African American communities, this opacity can deepen existing anxieties about accountability and justice. The state's unwillingness to release footage often leaves families and the public with unanswered questions, making it difficult to verify official narratives or hold officers accountable. (newsfromthestates.com)

Other cases in Topeka illustrate this pattern of secrecy:

In 2018, Kansas lawmakers attempted to address this issue by passing a bill that mandated police allow families of those killed to view body camera footage within 20 days of a request. However, this legislation fell short of earlier proposals that would have required public disclosure once investigations were inactive. These earlier, more expansive proposals aimed to make footage routinely accessible to the public without requiring significant legal hurdles, reflecting a strong desire from transparency advocates to shift the burden of proof for non-disclosure from the public to the government. The compromise in the 2018 bill meant that while it addressed body cameras, it retained the "criminal investigation records" exemption, which has remained a point of contention for transparency advocates. ((newsfromthestates.com), )

The Lowery family's lawsuit and their public advocacy are pressing for concrete reforms in Topeka. These demands reflect a deep desire for changes that could prevent future tragedies and build greater trust between the community and law enforcement. The family is specifically asking for:

The current employment status of the officers involved (Gillum, Chiles, Netherton, and Good) is not publicly detailed in the provided information. Typically, officers involved in fatal incidents are placed on administrative leave pending investigation. The outcome of internal departmental reviews and criminal investigations dictates their future status, which could range from returning to active duty to disciplinary action or termination. Furthermore, the fact that Gillum and Chiles were "officers in training" raises important questions. Officers in training are generally new recruits under the direct guidance of experienced field training officers. This status implies a heightened duty of supervision and prompts inquiries into the adequacy of training protocols and supervision during critical incidents. (, )

The Topeka Police Department has shown some movement towards community engagement. In November 2025, they announced an expansion of its Police Review Board to include three community members. A Police Review Board is an external body established to provide independent oversight of a police department. Its powers can vary from advisory roles to investigative or even disciplinary authority, aiming to enhance police accountability and foster public trust. However, the Lowery family's attorney notes that city officials, including the city manager and elected officials, have remained silent regarding their specific demands. This lack of engagement pushes the family to continue their fight through the courts, underscoring the ongoing challenge of achieving meaningful reform. ((newsfromthestates.com), )

The Lowery case is not an isolated incident but rather a microcosm of broader issues of police use of force and racial disparities in Kansas and across the nation. Understanding these statistics is crucial for grasping the systemic challenges faced by African American communities. Between 2019 and 2023, police officers fatally shot 47 people across Kansas. These numbers highlight a persistent issue of police violence within the state. (newsfromthestates.com)

Racial disparities within these statistics are particularly stark. From 2013 to 2023, a Black person was 3.2 times more likely, and a Latinx person 1.4 times more likely, to be killed by police than a White person in Kansas. Furthermore, Black individuals were 3.8 times more likely, and Latinx individuals 1.8 times more likely, to be arrested for low-level, non-violent offenses compared to White individuals. Nationally, Black Americans are killed by police at more than twice the rate of White Americans ((newsfromthestates.com), (policescorecard.org)). While the provided information does not explicitly state Taylor Lowery's racial identity, his case occurs within this deeply concerning context of disproportionate police violence against Black individuals. The family’s fight for justice for Taylor Lowery is therefore inextricably linked to the broader struggle for racial justice and police accountability that has been a long-standing demand within African American kinship networks. This historical context of systemic issues affecting African American families cannot be ignored. ((newsfromthestates.com), (policescorecard.org))

Compared to White individuals:

Source: DATA FROM PROMPT 1

Mental health crisis incidents are another critical aspect of this issue. A national study from 2015-2020 found that mental or behavioral health conditions were associated with 23% of all police shootings. Tragically, 67% of these incidents resulted in fatalities. Calls to check on individuals' well-being were 74% more likely to result in a fatal injury compared to responses to active shooting incidents (newsfromthestates.com). This data is particularly pertinent to the Lowery case, given his family's initial call for help during his mental health crisis. It underscores the urgent need for police departments to adopt alternative response models or better training for officers interacting with individuals experiencing mental health challenges, ensuring that seeking help does not lead to a "death sentence."

Source: DATA FROM PROMPT 1

Beyond the immense human cost, cities in Kansas have faced substantial financial repercussions from police-related lawsuits. While specific figures for Topeka were not immediately available, the Kansas City Police Department, for example, paid out nearly $20.8 million in wrongful death, excessive force, and discrimination claims between January 2021 and June 2025. Of this amount, $13.3 million was allocated to seven wrongful death lawsuits. One wrongful death police shooting civil rights case was settled for $750,000 in January 2025 (newsfromthestates.com). These figures represent taxpayer dollars, demonstrating that systemic issues of police misconduct carry a heavy financial burden for municipalities.

However, the societal cost extends far beyond monetary settlements. The continuous cycle of police violence, lack of transparency, and insufficient accountability erodes public trust, especially within marginalized communities that have historically borne the brunt of such actions. The legacy of slavery and Jim Crow laws instilled a deep-seated distrust of authority figures within African American communities, a distrust that continues to be reinforced by contemporary events. Incidents like the Lowery shooting, coupled with secrecy surrounding body camera footage, further alienate communities and undermine efforts to build positive police-community relations. The emotional toll on families and communities cannot be overstated; the pain of losing a loved one under such circumstances is compounded by the arduous fight for justice and truth.

The ongoing struggle for justice for families like the Lowerys also reflects a broader historical pattern where Black communities have been forced to constantly adapt and resist systemic oppression. This echoes the period following the Civil War, when newly emancipated Black people continued to face forms of involuntary servitude through practices like convict leasing and sharecropping. In the face of such adversity, African American family strength and their collective efforts to seek justice have remained an unbreakable force. These historical challenges have forged a remarkable resilience, with families creating robust kinship networks and cultural traditions to survive and thrive despite systemic pressures. The refiled lawsuit in Topeka is a contemporary example of this enduring fight for fundamental rights and human dignity.

Source: DATA FROM PROMPT 1

The Lowery family’s quest for justice in Topeka is a contemporary chapter in the long and arduous struggle for civil rights and police accountability within the African American community. This struggle is rooted deeply in the history of the United States, stretching from the era of slavery and its aftermath to the present day. For generations, Black individuals have faced disproportionate violence and injustice at the hands of those sworn to protect and serve. The persistent denial of transparency, particularly concerning police actions, mirrors historical attempts to obscure truth and deny accountability for wrongs committed against Black communities. This denial contributes to a cycle of mistrust and perpetuates feelings of marginalization.

The outcome of the Lowery case and the reforms it seeks could set important precedents for how Kansas law enforcement agencies operate and interact with their communities. It could influence policies concerning mental health interventions, ensuring that calls for help do not escalate into fatal encounters. Furthermore, it could pave the way for greater public access to body camera footage, strengthening transparency and fostering a more equitable justice system. The tenacity of families like the Lowerys, who continue to fight for their loved ones and advocate for systemic change, serves as a powerful reminder of the enduring spirit of resistance and the unwavering commitment to justice within the African American community.

For many, the Lowery lawsuit is not merely a legal battle. It is a critical moment for Topeka and for Kansas to confront historical issues of police accountability and transparency head-on. It is an opportunity to learn from the past and build a future where all individuals, regardless of their background or state of mental health, are treated with dignity and respect. The struggle for justice for Taylor Lowery is a fight for the basic human right to life and for a system that truly serves and protects 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.

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 eastern region of the Democratic Republic of Congo is once again trapped in a devastating cycle of violence. Recent headlines report that the M23 rebel group claims to have captured Burundian soldiers near the town of Uvira. This single event signals a dangerous widening of a conflict that has already destroyed countless civilian lives. For families living near the front lines, this means more chaotic flights on foot and markets empty of food. However, to understand why this is happening now, one must look beyond the immediate clashes and cease-fire talks.

The news from eastern Congo is not just a story of a distant rebellion. It is a story with deep roots, stretching back through decades of political manipulation, ethnic division, and the global hunger for the region’s resources. The conflict reveals a complex web of historical grievances, regional power struggles, and a humanitarian crisis of immense scale. Therefore, understanding the history behind the headlines is essential to grasp the stakes for the Congolese people and the stability of Central Africa.

The March 23 Movement, widely known as M23, is at the center of the current storm. The group first emerged in 2012, taking its name from a failed peace agreement signed on March 23, 2009. That deal was supposed to integrate fighters from a previous Rwandan-backed rebel group, the National Congress for the Defence of the People (CNDP), into the Congolese army. M23 fighters, largely former CNDP members, argued that the DRC government never honored its promises (wikipedia.org). Consequently, they launched a rebellion to address their grievances.

Those grievances are multifaceted. M23 leaders point to the poor integration of their soldiers, widespread government corruption, and the failure to protect ethnic Tutsis in eastern Congo. They argue that other armed groups, especially Hutu militias, threaten their communities. This first M23 rebellion was powerful, even briefly capturing the major city of Goma in 2012 before being defeated in 2013 (cbc.ca). After nearly a decade of relative quiet, the group re-emerged in late 2021. Since then, it has seized large swaths of territory in North and South Kivu provinces, reigniting the brutal conflict.

The conflict in eastern DRC cannot be understood without examining the region’s deep-seated ethnic and political tensions. At the heart of M23's identity are Congolese Tutsi fighters. Congolese Tutsis have lived in the region for generations, yet their citizenship has often been questioned (thenewhumanitarian.org). Belgian colonial rulers used "divide and rule" tactics that hardened ethnic identities and created rivalries where none existed (unav.edu). After independence, manipulative politicians and flawed nationality laws often stripped people of Rwandan descent, including Tutsis, of their citizenship, making them targets (refworld.org).

This history has created a profound sense of marginalization and vulnerability. Many Congolese Tutsis feel they are treated as foreigners in their own country and are unfairly associated with neighboring Rwanda (thenewhumanitarian.org). This perception is exploited by other armed groups and politicians, fueling cycles of violence. Therefore, the M23 rebellion is framed by its leaders as a fight for survival and recognition against a state they believe has failed to protect them. The struggle is tied to land disputes, political representation, and the fundamental right to belong, a painful echo of how post-conflict failures can leave grievances to fester for generations.

A significant antagonist in this complex conflict is a collection of Hutu militias, most notably the Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda (FDLR). The FDLR has its origins in the horrific 1994 Rwandan genocide. Its founders were members of the Hutu extremist Interahamwe militia and the former Rwandan army, who were responsible for the slaughter of approximately 800,000 Tutsis and moderate Hutus (britannica.com). After the genocide, they fled across the border into eastern Congo, then called Zaire.

The FDLR continues to operate from Congolese territory, driven by a "Hutu Power" ideology aimed at overthrowing the Tutsi-led government in Rwanda (justice.gov). Inside the DRC, the group commits horrific human rights abuses against civilians, including murder, sexual violence, and forced recruitment (hrw.org). They finance their operations through illegal taxation and smuggling. Crucially, the FDLR's presence provides Rwanda with a persistent justification for its military interventions in the DRC. Rwanda claims it must act to neutralize this existential threat, a claim that fuels the regional proxy war.

Displacement as of August 2025

Total Displaced Nationwide (DRC): 7 Million

Displaced in Eastern DRC: 7.8 Million

Newly Displaced by M23 (Since Jan 2025): 1.1 Million

The fighting in eastern Congo has never been a purely internal affair. Neighboring countries, particularly Rwanda, Uganda, and Burundi, are deeply entangled due to their own security and economic interests. Rwanda's primary motivation has long been to pursue the FDLR and create a buffer zone on its border. However, numerous United Nations reports accuse Rwanda of providing critical support to M23, including weapons, troops, and strategic direction (un.org). Investigators have described Rwanda as having "de facto control" over M23, meaning it exercises power in practice, even without official recognition (service.gov.uk).

Uganda has also intervened in Congo, officially to fight hostile Ugandan rebel groups like the Allied Democratic Forces (ADF) that operate from DRC soil (opendoors.org.za). Yet, like Rwanda, Uganda has been accused of exploiting Congo’s vast natural resources, particularly gold and timber. Burundi has deployed its own troops to combat Burundian rebel groups based in South Kivu. The recent M23 claim of capturing Burundian soldiers highlights how these overlapping interventions create a tinderbox. Each country pursues its own interests, often by backing different armed groups in a deadly proxy war fought on Congolese land.

Eastern Congo is immensely rich in natural resources, but this wealth has become a curse. The region holds vast deposits of gold, diamonds, tin, tungsten, and coltan. Coltan, short for columbite-tantalite, is a dull black ore essential for modern technology (wikipedia.org). When refined, it yields tantalum, a metal used to make capacitors for nearly every electronic device, including smartphones, laptops, and gaming consoles (aefjn.org). The DRC is a major source of the world's coltan, making control of its mines globally significant.

Armed groups like M23 fight fiercely to control these mineral-rich territories. The town of Rubaya, for example, is a vital hub for coltan production. After seizing it, M23 reportedly began collecting around $800,000 per month in illicit taxes from the mining trade (globalinitiative.net). This money allows them to buy weapons, recruit fighters, and sustain their rebellion. For decades, the global demand for these minerals has fueled violence, exploitation, and unimaginable suffering, showing how global economics can perpetuate local conflict and test the resilience of families caught in the crossfire.

DRC's Growth and M23's Illicit Revenue

DRC Economic Growth (2023): 8.6%

DRC Economic Growth (2024): 6.5%

M23's Estimated Monthly Revenue from Rubaya (Coltan):

$800,000

While rebels and regional powers vie for control, the true price of this conflict is paid by the Congolese people. The DRC is facing one of the largest internal displacement crises in the world. As of August 2025, nearly 7 million people were displaced nationwide, with a staggering 7.8 million displaced in the eastern provinces alone (iom.int). The resurgence of M23 has forced over 1.1 million people from their homes since January of that year. The recent fighting near Uvira displaced another 200,000 people and left at least 74 civilians dead (reliefweb.int).

The total number of casualties is estimated in the thousands, with some reports claiming the M23 advance on Goma resulted in 7,000 deaths (inew.org). Civilian infrastructure is collapsing. Hospitals are overwhelmed, and access to clean water and electricity is frequently cut off. Families flee with nothing but the clothes on their backs, facing starvation and disease in overcrowded camps. The astonishing strength of families is tested daily as they navigate this landscape of violence and loss, a humanitarian catastrophe largely hidden from the world’s attention.

The international community has repeatedly tried to broker peace, but agreements consistently crumble. High-profile efforts, including the US-brokered Washington Accords signed in late 2023 by the presidents of DRC and Rwanda, have failed to stop the fighting (aljazeera.com). That deal specifically obliged Rwanda to stop supporting armed groups, a charge Rwanda denies despite overwhelming evidence from UN experts (un.org). Other cease-fire agreements, such as one reached after talks in Qatar, have collapsed within weeks (trtafrika.com).

The cycle of failure stems from the deep-seated nature of the conflict. Peace deals often fail to address the root causes, including the marginalization of Congolese Tutsis, the continued presence of the FDLR, and the economic incentives driving the violence. The DRC government itself has struggled with weak institutions and a lack of political will to implement past agreements or protect all its citizens (ictj.org). Consequently, armed groups see no reason to lay down their weapons, and a path to lasting peace remains elusive.

The headlines about captured soldiers and advancing rebels in the Democratic Republic of Congo are merely the latest tremors from very old fault lines. This is not a new war but the continuation of a conflict fueled by a toxic mix of colonial legacies, post-colonial state failure, and intense regional competition. The deep-seated grievances over citizenship and belonging, particularly for Congolese Tutsis, provide fertile ground for rebellion. The unresolved trauma of the Rwandan genocide, embodied by the continued presence of the FDLR, offers a permanent pretext for foreign intervention.

Furthermore, the world’s insatiable appetite for the minerals in our pockets and homes directly fuels the war economy, empowering militias and corrupt actors. The violence is driven by various conflicting ideologies of survival, ethnic nationalism, and pure profit. Until the historical injustices are addressed and the economic drivers of the conflict are dismantled, lasting peace will remain a distant dream. In the meantime, millions of Congolese civilians are paying the price, their suffering a footnote to the story of a world that consumes their resources but ignores their humanity.

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.

A stark warning has emerged from Human Rights Watch (HRW), a leading international organization that investigates and reports on human rights abuses worldwide ((hrw.org), (hrw.org)). The group reports that Ethiopia is systematically tightening its control over media freedom. This new report points to a disturbing pattern of arrests, harassment, and the use of legal instruments to silence critical voices. When journalists operate under the constant threat of imprisonment, the hidden harms of conflict and corruption can thrive in the shadows (hrw.org). The situation represents a major reversal after a brief period of hope for press freedom in the nation. To understand today's headlines, one must look at the deep-seated history of this struggle.

Ethiopia’s journey with a free press is a story of cycles, swinging between moments of openness and long periods of severe government control. For a long time, the state used the media as a tool for its own purposes, with censorship being a common practice. This historical context is essential for understanding the current crisis. The latest crackdown is not a new phenomenon but a return to an old playbook, one that has been used by different regimes to maintain power and control the public narrative. Consequently, the fight for a free press is a continuous battle against deeply entrenched systems of control.

The story of modern media in Ethiopia begins after the fall of the Derg regime in 1991. The Derg was a communist military junta that ruled Ethiopia with an iron fist from 1974 to 1987, overseeing widespread human rights abuses, including a brutal campaign of political repression known as the "Red Terror" (researchgate.net). Its overthrow by the Ethiopian People's Revolutionary Democratic Front (EPRDF), a coalition of ethnically-based parties, brought a short period of media liberalization (ned.org). This era saw the rise of a private press, with new newspapers and magazines critically examining government policies. The 1995 Ethiopian Constitution even guaranteed freedom of expression and prohibited censorship (hrw.org).

However, this new openness did not last long. The government's relationship with the private press soured as reporting became more critical. After the disputed 2005 general elections, repression intensified, and Ethiopia started earning a reputation for jailing journalists (hrw.org). In 2008, the government introduced the Mass Media and Access to Information Proclamation. In the Ethiopian legal system, a "Proclamation" is a primary law passed by the federal parliament, similar to an act of congress (lawgratis.com). While this law had some positive elements, like formally recognizing the right to access information, it also gave the government broad powers to file defamation suits and block publications on vague national security grounds ((hrw.org), (misa.org)).

The situation worsened dramatically with the 2009 Anti-Terrorism Proclamation (ATP). This law was a critical turning point for media freedom (hrw.org). It used overly broad and vague definitions of terrorism to prosecute and imprison journalists, bloggers, and political opponents (amnesty.org). The ATP granted authorities sweeping powers, including warrantless surveillance and long periods of detention without charge, effectively institutionalizing censorship (hrw.org). During this period, Ethiopia became known as one of the world's leading jailers of journalists, a grim status that crushed the country's independent media landscape and created an environment of fear.

The rise of Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed in 2018 signaled a potential sea change for Ethiopia. Abiy, a former military intelligence officer, came to power after widespread protests and initiated a series of dramatic reforms (voanews.com). He released thousands of political prisoners, including many journalists, unbanned opposition groups, and made peace with neighboring Eritrea, an effort that earned him the 2019 Nobel Peace Prize (voanews.com). This new chapter brought a wave of optimism for the future of media freedom and democracy in the country. Many believed that a new era of openness was finally dawning.

A key part of these reforms was the 2021 Media Proclamation. This new law aimed to fundamentally reshape the media environment (hrw.org). It sought to promote editorial independence, which is the ability of journalists to make content decisions free from outside influence from governments or advertisers (researchgate.net). The law also moved to decriminalize defamation. This is a critical step for journalists, as it changes defamation from a criminal offense punishable by prison to a civil matter where individuals can sue for damages, reducing the state's power to jail reporters for their work (article19.org). Furthermore, the proclamation planned for a media council, a self-regulatory body designed to uphold ethical standards and protect press freedom without government interference (hrw.org).

Despite the promise of these reforms, the situation has dramatically deteriorated. According to a September 2025 report by Human Rights Watch, there has been a significant backslide in media freedom, particularly since early 2025 (hrw.org). The organization documented a "surge in arbitrary arrests and detentions" and widespread "harassment against journalists" aimed at preventing public scrutiny of the government (hrw.org). This crackdown has created a climate of fear, reversing many of the gains made since 2018 and pushing the media back into a defensive posture against state power.

The report highlights several specific cases. In September 2025, three journalists from Sheger FM were arrested after broadcasting a report on a healthcare workers' strike, even after the station complied with an order from the Ethiopian Media Authority to remove it (hrw.org). In another case, Yonas Amare, the editor of The Reporter newspaper, was abducted by masked men in August 2025, with authorities refusing to even confirm his detention initially (hrw.org). Radio host Abdulsemed Mohammed was also held in incommunicado detention, meaning he was held in custody without any contact with the outside world, including his family or lawyers (hrw.org). These actions are a grave violation of human rights, as they isolate detainees and leave them vulnerable to abuse (cardeth.org).

A growing trend of incarceration targeting the press.

19 (2015)

14 (2021)

8 (2025)

Source: CPJ, RSF data from provided research.

The Ethiopian government has used a variety of legal tools to silence its critics. In April 2025, amendments to the 2021 Media Law were passed, giving the Prime Minister-appointed Director General of the Ethiopian Media Authority (EMA) more power over media licensing and sanctions (citizen.digital). The EMA is the governmental body tasked with regulating media, but critics fear these changes compromise its independence and turn it into a political weapon ((hrw.org), (ipi.media)). The government also continues to use older, repressive laws. The revised 2020 Anti-Terrorism Proclamation, the 2016 Computer Crime Proclamation, and various hate speech laws are still invoked to detain journalists on vague allegations (hrw.org).

These laws are deliberately broad. For example, terrorism allegations against journalists often involve claims of supporting designated terrorist groups simply for interviewing opposition figures or reporting on conflicts from a non-government perspective (oaklandinstitute.org). Furthermore, the government has repeatedly used state of emergency declarations, such as during the Tigray war in 2021 and in the Amhara region in 2023, to suspend due process (hrw.org). Due process is the fundamental legal right to fair treatment in the justice system, including the right to a trial and legal representation (ox.ac.uk). Suspending it allows for mass arrests and censorship under the guise of national security. Authorities have also frequently imposed internet and communications blackouts during protests or conflicts to control information flow (hrw.org). These tactics create an information vacuum where abuses can occur without scrutiny.

The impact on journalists and media outlets has been devastating. Reporters face a constant barrage of harassment, arbitrary arrest, intimidation, and censorship, forcing many into exile (hrw.org). The journey for press freedom often seems like an endless struggle for a notion of freedom that remains just out of reach. Since 2020, at least 54 journalists have fled the country, continuing a grim trend that once made Ethiopia the world's largest source of exiled journalists besides Iran ((hrw.org), (cpj.org)). Those who remain often resort to self-censorship to survive, avoiding sensitive topics that could land them in prison. This pressure is especially intense for independent journalists working in regions torn apart by conflict.

Ethiopia is currently facing a volatile political situation with major armed conflicts in its Tigray, Oromia, and Amhara regions ((hrw.org), (africanarguments.org)). These conflicts are driven by deep-seated ethnic grievances and competition for political power. When the media is suppressed, the "harms of conflict" are easily hidden (hrw.org). These harms include atrocities against civilians, war crimes, and the true scale of humanitarian crises like famine and displacement (hrw.org). Similarly, corruption thrives in darkness. Without investigative reporting, embezzlement of public funds, abuse of power, and cronyism can continue unchecked, eroding public trust and diverting resources from essential services (hrw.org). The fight for a free press is directly tied to the ability to build and sustain black political power and ensure government accountability.

Fear and persecution are driving reporters out of the country.

54+

Journalists have fled Ethiopia since 2020.

Source: Human Rights Watch data from provided research.

The response from Ethiopian officials to these credible reports has often been dismissive or silent. In the past, they have attacked the credibility of organizations like Human Rights Watch, claiming that detained journalists are criminals, not reporters (hrw.org). More recently, the government has either not responded to specific allegations or issued blanket denials of human rights violations (hrw.org). This refusal to engage with criticism makes it difficult to address the root causes of the media crackdown and signals a lack of commitment to democratic principles and international human rights law.

As a result, international pressure is growing. Human Rights Watch has called on Ethiopia’s international partners and donors to be more vocal in condemning the government’s actions (hrw.org). Key partners include the United States, the European Union, the World Bank, and the International Monetary Fund (business-humanrights.org). In May 2025, a coalition of 14 diplomatic missions in Ethiopia issued a joint statement expressing their serious concerns about the shrinking space for press freedom in the country (hrw.org). These statements are important, but whether they will translate into meaningful action that can reverse the current trend remains to be seen. The international community’s leverage is a critical factor in protecting what is left of Ethiopia’s independent media.

The numbers paint a clear and disturbing picture of Ethiopia’s declining media freedom. In 2023, the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) ranked Ethiopia as the second-worst jailer of journalists in sub-Saharan Africa (cpj.org). Between 2020 and 2022, nearly 60 journalists were arbitrarily detained and two were killed (theguardian.com). The country's political shift from reform back to repression recalls an era of mass incarceration, this time targeting voices that challenge the state narrative. The internal political situation, rife with conflicting ideologies and ethnic tensions, provides the government with a pretext for such crackdowns (zehabesha.com).

This decline is also reflected in global rankings. The World Press Freedom Index, an annual ranking by Reporters Without Borders (RSF) that measures media independence and journalist safety, shows a steep drop for Ethiopia (hrw.org). In 2025, the country fell to 145th place out of 180 countries, a drop of 42 spots since 2020 ((hrw.org), (gijn.org)). This ranking places Ethiopia in the "very serious" category, highlighting the extreme dangers and difficulties journalists face (ecofinagency.com). The data confirms what journalists on the ground already know: the space for independent reporting is shrinking rapidly, with dire consequences for the nation's future.

A dramatic decline in recent years.

103rd

2020

141st

2024

145th

2025

Source: RSF data from provided research.

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 ongoing legal fight over hair discrimination in Texas schools has reached a critical juncture. A lawsuit filed by two Black students against the Barbers Hill Independent School District is now heading to a jury trial, following a key appeals court decision. This case, which helped spark the passage of the Texas CROWN Act, highlights a struggle rooted in centuries of regulating Black hair in both educational and professional spaces. While the new law aims to block hair bias, this court battle shows that the fight for equitable grooming policies is far from over. Consequently, the headline-grabbing events in Texas are not isolated incidents but are chapters in a long story of identity, resistance, and the quest for justice.

Discrimination based on hair texture and style is a form of social injustice with a history that predates the founding of the United States. The control over Black hair was an early and effective tool of dehumanization. For instance, in the late 18th century, Louisiana enacted "tignon laws" that forced free and enslaved Black women to cover their hair. These laws were designed to signify their perceived inferiority and prevent them from attracting the attention of white men (wikipedia.org). Furthermore, enslavers often cut the hair of enslaved Africans, a violent act intended to strip them of their cultural identity.

After the Civil War, the pressure to conform did not disappear. Black Americans continued to face immense stigma for not adopting grooming habits that aligned with white, Eurocentric beauty standards (pbs.org). Many felt compelled to straighten their hair with methods like the hot comb, which was popularized by entrepreneurs like Madam C.J. Walker. This pressure was part of a broader societal expectation for assimilation. The end of slavery did not mean the end of oppression, as many economic systems continued to rely on forced labor mechanisms that kept Black communities in a state of servitude.

The 1960s and 1970s brought a powerful shift with the Black Pride Movement. During this era, natural hairstyles like the afro were reclaimed as powerful symbols of resistance and cultural identity (stanford.edu). This movement was a direct challenge to the Eurocentric beauty standards that had long dominated American society. Moreover, it was a profound expression of cultural nationalism, asserting that Blackness was beautiful and worthy of celebration on its own terms.

Despite this cultural shift, legal protections remained weak. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 prohibited employment discrimination based on race, but its application to hair was inconsistent. Courts frequently ruled that hairstyles were "mutable," or changeable, characteristics and therefore not protected like "immutable" traits such as skin color (naacpldf.org). The legal logic was that because a person could change their hairstyle, discrimination based on it was a matter of choice, not race. This created a loophole that allowed schools and workplaces to penalize Black hairstyles by labeling them "unprofessional," "distracting," or "faddish."

In response to these legal loopholes, a legislative movement emerged to provide explicit protections against hair discrimination. The CROWN Act, which stands for "Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair," is a law designed to prevent discrimination based on hair texture and protective hairstyles (thecrownact.com). This includes styles such as braids, locs, twists, and knots. The act aims to ensure that racial discrimination against people for their natural hair is outlawed in workplaces and public schools.

The term "locs" is often a preferred, more contemporary name for what have also been called "dreadlocks." These are rope-like strands of hair formed by matting or braiding (youtube.com). Beyond being a protective hairstyle that shields natural hair from damage, locs hold deep cultural and spiritual meaning within Black communities, often symbolizing heritage, identity, and personal journeys. Currently, the CROWN Act is primarily a state-by-state initiative. While a federal version has been introduced in the U.S. Congress, it has not yet passed into law, creating a patchwork of legal protections across the country (govdocs.com).

The current legal drama in Texas was ignited in 2020 at Barbers Hill High School. Two Black students, De'Andre Arnold and his cousin Kaden Bradford, were disciplined for wearing locs that violated the district's dress code (texastribune.org). The policy for male students prohibited hair from extending below the eyebrows, earlobes, or the top of a T-shirt collar, even if it was tied up. The district's actions meant Arnold could not attend his graduation, and Bradford faced suspension. The school is part of an Independent School District (ISD), a public school system that operates as an entity separate from city or county government, with its own elected board and decision-making authority.

Their families filed a federal lawsuit, arguing the policy was discriminatory. A judge subsequently issued a preliminary injunction, which is a temporary court order meant to stop an action until a final decision is made in a lawsuit (texastribune.org). This order blocked the district from enforcing the policy against Arnold and Bradford, but it did not apply to other students. Nevertheless, their high-profile case galvanized public support and "ignited Texas politicians to introduce the CROWN Act."

Spurred by these events, Texas passed its CROWN Act, which became effective on September 1, 2023. The law explicitly prohibits discrimination based on "hair texture or protective hairstyles associated with race" (texastribune.org). However, Barbers Hill ISD continued to enforce its hair length policy. The district suspended another Black student, Darryl George, for his locs, arguing the CROWN Act did not apply to hair length. His family filed a lawsuit, but in February 2024, a state judge ruled in favor of the district, stating the law did not explicitly mention length (texastribune.org).

This outcome appears to contradict the progress of the original lawsuit filed by Arnold and Bradford. The difference lies in the legal tracks. George's case was a narrow interpretation of the new state law by a state judge. In contrast, the Arnold and Bradford case is a federal lawsuit arguing that the policy violates broader civil rights protections. Their case was reviewed by the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals, a federal court that reviews decisions from lower courts in Texas, Louisiana, and Mississippi. This court's decision to allow the case to proceed to a jury trial signals that federal protections against discrimination may offer a different path to justice.

Statistical data reveals the pervasive and disproportionate impact of hair discrimination, particularly on Black women. According to studies, Black women are 1.5 times more likely to be sent home from work because of their hair (dove.com). An overwhelming 80% of Black women have reported feeling the need to change their hairstyle to fit in with conservative workplace standards. Furthermore, their hair is 2.5 times more likely to be perceived as unprofessional.

Black women are 1.5 times more likely to be sent home from work due to their hair.

Black Women

Other Women

Source: CROWN Act Study (dove.com)

The economic consequences are also significant. Approximately one-quarter of Black women believe they have been denied a job interview because of their hair, a figure that rises to one-third for women under 34 (dove.com). These statistics underscore how grooming policies are not just about appearance but are barriers to economic opportunity. They also show that Black women with coily or textured hair are twice as likely to experience microaggressions in the workplace as Black women with straighter hair, highlighting the deep-seated biases that persist.

The classroom is often where these biases first manifest. Research shows that hair discrimination can start as early as five years old, with 53% of Black mothers reporting that their daughters have experienced racial discrimination based on hairstyles by that age (dove.com). By the age of 12, that number jumps to 86% for Black children in majority-white schools. These early experiences can profoundly impact the success of African American students, affecting their self-esteem and sense of belonging.

The disciplinary consequences are stark. While Black students make up only 15% of the U.S. public school population, they account for 45% of all school suspensions related to hair dress code violations (edweek.org). The data also reveals the positive effect of legal protections. In states without the CROWN Act, 67% of Black students report experiencing hair discrimination. However, that figure drops by 25% in states where the act is in effect, showing that clear legislation can make a tangible difference (dove.com).

15%

Black Student Population

45%

Hair-Related Suspensions

Source: Education Week (edweek.org)

The CROWN Act reduces reported discrimination by 25%.

States without CROWN Act

States with CROWN Act

Source: CROWN Act Study (dove.com)

The original lawsuit filed by De'Andre Arnold and Kaden Bradford is now actively heading toward a jury trial as of the current date, December 16, 2025. This development follows the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals decision to dismiss an appeal from the school district, allowing the case to finally be heard by a jury. The trial is a landmark event that will test the strength of civil rights protections against discriminatory grooming policies in a federal court. Its outcome could set a powerful precedent for students across the nation.

This legal pressure is already having a wider impact. More school districts are expected to revise their grooming codes to avoid similar lawsuits (wordinblack.com). An ACLU of Texas report found that nearly half a thousand districts in the state had boys-only hair length rules in 2020. This legislative push, and the lawsuits that fuel it, are part of a larger effort to build black political power and hold institutions accountable. While the CROWN Act represents significant progress, the continued resistance from districts like Barbers Hill shows that the fight for respectful and open environments for natural hair 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.

A battle is unfolding in Alabama's public universities. It is a conflict that reaches far beyond the state's borders. Professors and students are pushing an appeal against a statewide ban on Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives (naacpldf.org). This legal fight centers on fundamental questions of free speech in the classroom and what educational programs universities can fund. For educators who teach subjects related to race and gender, the law creates a chilling effect on open discussion and campus life. The outcome of this appeal could set a powerful precedent, influencing similar legislative battles across the United States (uclawreview.org).

This situation is not a sudden development. It represents the latest flashpoint in a long history of struggle over academic freedom, civil rights, and state power. For decades, social justice movements have fought to make higher education more reflective of a diverse American society. Conversely, counter-movements have sought to limit these changes. Understanding the clash in Alabama requires looking back at the history behind the headlines, tracing the evolution of diversity initiatives and the enduring fight for educational equity.

The concept of diversity in American universities has deep roots in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s. During this era, activists demanded that college curricula and student bodies reflect the nation's democratic ideals (uclawreview.org). Early efforts focused on increasing Black student enrollment through new admissions considerations. This led to a significant rise in the number of Black students on campus by the end of the decade. A landmark moment came in 1968 at San Francisco State College, where a student strike led to the creation of the first Black Studies department (uclawreview.org). Consequently, this period also saw the emergence of affirmative action policies designed to address the legacy of historical discrimination (wikipedia.org).

The push for inclusion expanded in the following decades. The 1970s brought Title IX, a federal law prohibiting gender-based discrimination in education. This reshaped academia by ensuring fairer treatment in admissions and coursework, opening doors for women in previously male-dominated fields (wikipedia.org). The LGBTQ+ rights movement of the 1980s led to the creation of Gay and Lesbian Studies departments. Furthermore, the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 mandated accessibility and protections against disability-based discrimination. By the 2000s, these efforts evolved into a broader focus on creating a sense of belonging for all students, a core goal of modern DEI work.

Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion initiatives refer to the policies and programs universities use to create a welcoming environment for all students and staff (umich.edu). These can include multicultural centers, support services for underrepresented students, and training for faculty. However, opponents have recently targeted these programs, often conflating them with Critical Race Theory (CRT). CRT is an academic framework asserting that racism is not merely individual prejudice but is embedded in legal systems and policies ((cornell.edu), (edweek.org)). This theory challenges the idea that society is "colorblind," arguing that systematic racism continues to produce unequal outcomes (uic.edu).

This backlash against CRT fueled a broader legislative push against DEI. Lawmakers in states like Alabama began crafting laws to ban what they term "divisive concepts." According to Alabama's law, this includes teaching that any race is inherently superior or inferior, or that individuals bear responsibility for the past actions of others from the same racial group (legislature.state.al.us). The law also prohibits "compelling assent," meaning professors cannot force a student to agree with these ideas or penalize them for disagreeing (ua.edu). This vague language has created confusion and fear among educators who discuss complex topics like slavery, Jim Crow, and their lasting impact on American society.

Alabama's Senate Bill 129, which took effect in October 2024, is one of the most sweeping anti-DEI laws in the country. It prohibits public universities from funding DEI offices or programs. It also bans teaching "divisive concepts" unless it is done "in an objective manner without endorsement" (aclualabama.org). The law's impact was immediate. Major institutions like the University of Alabama and Auburn University shut down or rebranded their DEI offices to comply (alreporter.com). The consequences have rippled across campuses, creating what many describe as a "chilling effect" on academic discourse.

Faculty members report self-censoring their lessons to avoid investigations or repercussions. For example, a political science professor at the University of Alabama at Birmingham altered a course on poverty because of its perceived focus on systemic racism (latimes.com). Others have stopped assigning readings or facilitating classroom discussions on topics they fear could be labeled "divisive." Student organizations have also been affected, with some affinity groups losing university funding. The climate of fear is tangible, as educators and students navigate a landscape where discussing race and gender has become a professional risk.

Percentage of students who would consider transferring if DEI initiatives were eliminated.

Overall

Black

Hispanic

LGBTQ+

Source: BestColleges.com 2022 Survey

At the heart of the legal challenge to SB 129 is the principle of academic freedom. Formalized in the early 20th century, academic freedom gives faculty the right to teach and research without undue government or institutional interference (aaup.org). The Supreme Court has recognized it as a First Amendment right, allowing universities to determine "what may be taught" and "how it should be taught" (mtsu.edu). The plaintiffs in the Alabama case, represented by the NAACP Legal Defense Fund and the ACLU, argue that SB 129 violates this principle by imposing viewpoint-based restrictions on what they can say in the classroom (naacpldf.org).

An initial ruling from a district judge allowed the law to stand. The judge stated that a professor's academic freedom does not automatically override a university's decisions about curriculum (newsfromthestates.com). This ruling sets up a critical confrontation in the appeals court. The case forces a re-examination of the sharing of power between national and state governments over public education. Furthermore, it questions the role of tenure protections, which are designed to shield professors from being fired for teaching controversial subjects (aaup.org). The appeal will test how far a state legislature can go in dictating academic content on ideological grounds.

Alabama is not alone in this fight. The push to dismantle DEI is a coordinated national movement, with between 14 and 22 states having passed similar laws (highereddive.com). States like Florida and Texas have enacted legislation that eliminates DEI offices, bans mandatory diversity training, and prohibits the use of diversity statements in hiring (highereddive.com). This legislative trend is having a measurable impact on higher education nationwide. A 2024 study found that 30% of academics in Southern states considered DEI issues and tenure protections as primary reasons for seeking employment elsewhere (bestcolleges.com).

The damage extends to faculty mental health and student well-being. The same study revealed that 74% of LGBTQ+ faculty reported negative effects on their mental health, and nearly half considered relocating (bestcolleges.com). Students are also deeply concerned. A 2022 survey showed that 88% of college students believe universities should fund programs that support historically marginalized groups (bestcolleges.com). If those programs are cut, 55% of all students would consider transferring. That number is even higher for Black (59%) and LGBTQ+ (69%) students, who often rely on these programs for support and community (bestcolleges.com).

Percentage of faculty reporting significant personal and professional concerns.

Considered Leaving State (Overall)

Negative Mental Health (LGBTQ+)

Considered Relocating (LGBTQ+)

Source: BestColleges.com 2024 Study

The ongoing appeal in Alabama is more than a regional dispute. It is a bellwether for the future of public education in America. The court's decision will have profound implications for academic freedom and the ability to teach a full and accurate history. This includes difficult subjects like the quest for reparations and the ongoing effects of racial injustice. A ruling in favor of the professors could reinforce First Amendment protections and empower challenges to similar laws in other states. It would affirm that state legislatures cannot impose ideological gag orders on university classrooms.

However, a decision upholding the ban could embolden other states to enact even more restrictive measures. This would further chill free speech and academic inquiry. It could make it harder for universities to recruit and retain diverse faculty, and it could alienate students who value an inclusive campus environment. Ultimately, the battle in Alabama is about who gets to shape the educational narrative and whether public universities will remain places of open inquiry or become instruments of political ideology. The outcome will resonate for years to come, defining the balance between state power and the fundamental freedoms of educators and students.

As of late 2025, a significant number of states have enacted laws restricting DEI initiatives in higher education.

At least 22 states have passed anti-DEI laws, with many more introducing similar legislation.

Source: Higher Ed Dive

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 U.S. Supreme Court is set to hear a pivotal case from Mississippi that cuts to the heart of America’s promise of a fair trial. The case, Pitchford v. Cain, involves death row inmate Terry Pitchford, a Black man who argues that prosecutors deliberately removed Black citizens from his jury pool because of their race. This legal battle is not just about one man; it shines a spotlight on a prosecutor with a documented history of such practices and forces a national reckoning with the persistent issue of racial discrimination in jury selection. As the court prepares for spring arguments, the outcome could reshape how death penalty cases are reviewed across the country, making this a critical moment in the long struggle for equal justice.

The fight for a truly impartial jury is deeply woven into American history. Following the Civil War, the Fourteenth Amendment was ratified in 1868 to grant citizenship and equal rights to formerly enslaved African Americans (constitutioncenter.org). A key part of this amendment is the Equal Protection Clause, which guarantees that no state can "deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws" (billofrightsinstitute.org). Its purpose was to stop states from passing discriminatory laws, and it became a cornerstone for challenging racial injustice (teachingamericanhistory.org). This principle was tested early on in the context of jury service.

In 1880, the Supreme Court addressed this issue in Strauder v. West Virginia. The court struck down a state law that explicitly limited jury service to "white male persons," declaring it a violation of the Equal Protection Clause (wvencyclopedia.org). The ruling recognized that excluding Black citizens from juries was a "brand upon them, affixed by law; an assertion of their inferiority." However, this victory was short-lived. Southern states quickly devised new, non-explicit methods to keep Black people out of the jury box. These tactics included poll taxes and literacy tests that disenfranchised Black voters, from which jury pools were often drawn, and "key man" systems where commissioners hand-picked "respectable" white citizens for jury duty (wikipedia.org). This was part of a broader rollback of rights; even the Civil Rights Act of 1875, which outlawed race-based jury discrimination, was overturned by the Supreme Court in 1883, which argued the Fourteenth Amendment only barred state-sponsored discrimination, not acts by private individuals (wikipedia.org).

For nearly a century, prosecutors could use peremptory challenges—the ability to dismiss a potential juror without giving a reason—to systematically remove Black individuals from juries. The original intent of these challenges was to allow attorneys to remove jurors they suspected of bias but could not prove it, helping to form an impartial panel (wikipedia.org). In practice, however, they became a tool for racial exclusion. This changed in 1986 with the landmark Supreme Court case Batson v. Kentucky. The court ruled that using peremptory challenges to exclude jurors solely based on race was unconstitutional (ebsco.com).

The Batson decision created a three-step framework to challenge potential discrimination. First, the defense must make a "prima facie showing," which means providing enough initial evidence to suggest that racial discrimination occurred (findlaw.com). Second, the burden shifts to the prosecutor to offer a "race-neutral" explanation for striking the juror. Third, the trial judge must decide if that explanation is genuine or simply a "pretext for discrimination"—a false justification used to hide a discriminatory motive (uky.edu). Despite its goals, the Batson standard has proven difficult to enforce. Prosecutors often provide vague, subjective reasons like "poor eye contact" or "inattentiveness," which judges frequently accept without deep scrutiny (eji.org). As Justice Thurgood Marshall predicted in his concurring opinion, Batson has not ended racial discrimination in jury selection; it has only forced it to become more subtle (wikipedia.org).

The case of Terry Pitchford brings these historical struggles into the present. In 2006, Pitchford, a Black man, was convicted and sentenced to death in Mississippi for his role in an armed robbery where a store owner was killed (courthousenews.com). During jury selection, the initial pool was over half Black. Yet, prosecutors used their peremptory strikes to remove four Black prospective jurors, resulting in a final jury with only one Black member (davisvanguard.org). Pitchford's lawyers immediately raised a Batson challenge, but the trial court accepted the prosecutor's race-neutral explanations.

A central figure in this case is former District Attorney Doug Evans, who prosecuted Pitchford. Evans has a well-documented history of excluding Black jurors. His conduct was famously scrutinized by the Supreme Court in the 2019 case Flowers v. Mississippi. Curtis Flowers was tried six times for the same crime by Evans's office. In overturning Flowers's conviction, Justice Brett Kavanaugh wrote that Evans had engaged in a "relentless, determined effort to rid the jury of black individuals" (supremecourt.gov). Furthermore, a class-action lawsuit filed in 2019 by the NAACP Legal Defense Fund and the MacArthur Justice Center, prominent civil rights organizations, alleged that Evans's office struck Black prospective jurors at 4.4 times the rate of white jurors, a disparity described as "unparalleled" (cbsnews.com).

Terry Pitchford's journey through the legal system highlights the deep divisions in how courts apply the Batson standard. In 2023, a federal judge reviewed Pitchford's case and found that the "race-neutral" reasons offered by prosecutors were improper and served as a cover for racial discrimination (davisvanguard.org). Common pretextual reasons in such cases include vague claims about a juror's demeanor or life circumstances, such as living in a "high-crime area," that are applied inconsistently and disproportionately to Black individuals. The judge ordered a new trial for Pitchford, a significant victory against systemic bias (nacdl.org).

However, this victory was temporary. The U.S. Court of Appeals for the 5th Circuit reversed the federal judge's decision, reinstating Pitchford's conviction and death sentence (courthousenews.com). The 5th Circuit’s reasoning was based on a legal standard of deference. It argued that under the Anti-Terrorism and Effective Death Penalty Act (AEDPA), federal courts must give great deference to the original state court's findings unless they were "unreasonable" (courthousenews.com). The appellate court concluded that the federal judge had overstepped by re-evaluating the prosecutor’s credibility, effectively ruling that the state court’s acceptance of the race-neutral reasons was not unreasonable enough to be overturned. This legal conflict—between a federal judge who saw clear evidence of pretext and an appellate court that deferred to the original trial court—is what has brought Pitchford’s case to the Supreme Court.

The problem of racial bias in jury selection is not just anecdotal; it is backed by stark statistical evidence. Studies consistently show that prosecutors use peremptory strikes disproportionately against Black prospective jurors. For example, a study of North Carolina capital cases found that prosecutors struck 53% of eligible Black jurors, nearly double the rate for other jurors (deathpenaltyinfo.org). Similarly, a South Carolina study found prosecutors were more than twice as likely to strike Black potential jurors than white ones (deathpenaltyinfo.org).

Next 53% sits near double 26% which signals a lopsided exclusion pattern.

Another systemic issue is "death qualification." This process requires potential jurors in capital cases to be willing to impose a death sentence. Because Black Americans are more likely to oppose the death penalty, partly due to its racist history and application, they are disproportionately excluded from capital juries through this process (aclu.org). This creates juries that are not only less diverse but also more prone to convict. The racial composition of the jury has a direct impact on trial outcomes. A Duke University study of felony cases found that all-white jury pools convicted Black defendants 16% more often than white defendants. This conviction gap was almost eliminated when at least one Black person was included in the jury pool (duke.edu).

These disparities are most severe in death penalty cases. Black people make up about 13% of the U.S. population but account for 42% of inmates on death row (deathpenaltyinfo.org). The victim's race also plays a significant role. A Georgia study revealed that cases involving white victims were 11 times more likely to result in a death sentence than those involving Black victims (wa.gov). This data paints a grim picture of a system where justice is not administered equally, and the shadow of racial bias looms large, particularly when a defendant’s life is at stake. These systemic issues are a continuation of historic efforts to deny Black people the opportunity to accumulate wealth and participate fully in civic life.

The Supreme Court's decision in Terry Pitchford's case carries profound implications for the future of the American justice system. The ruling could fundamentally alter how Batson challenges are handled in courtrooms nationwide. If the Court rules in Pitchford's favor, it could establish a higher bar for what constitutes a "race-neutral" explanation, compelling prosecutors to provide more credible and consistently applied reasons for striking jurors. Such a decision would likely require trial judges to apply stricter scrutiny when evaluating these claims instead of simply accepting them at face value. This could lead to new trials for other death row inmates whose cases were marred by similar evidence of discriminatory jury selection, impacting countless lives touched by a flawed system (washingtonpost.com).

Conversely, a ruling against Pitchford could reinforce the existing high barrier for proving racial discrimination, making it even more difficult for defendants to win Batson challenges, particularly in federal appeals where deference to state courts is paramount (scotusblog.com). For Terry Pitchford, the stakes are life and death. A favorable ruling would overturn his conviction and sentence, granting him a new trial with an impartial jury. An unfavorable ruling would reinstate his death sentence, pushing him closer to execution after his federal appeals on this claim are exhausted. The case is a reminder that the historical struggle against systems of involuntary servitude and discrimination continues in modern courtrooms. The Court's decision will signal whether the nation is prepared to strengthen the safeguards against racial bias or allow the legacy of the all-white jury to persist.

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.

In Mozambique’s northernmost province, Cabo Delgado, a tragic story unfolds daily. This region is a place of deep contrasts. Immense natural gas reserves lie offshore, promising incredible wealth (mongabay.com). Yet on land, Black coastal communities face deepening poverty and a brutal insurgency. For years, this violence has displaced families, destroyed villages, and inflicted terrible trauma on people losing their homes, farms, and fishing grounds (thenewhumanitarian.org). Aid groups continually warn of a humanitarian crisis spiraling out of control. It is a disaster marked by hunger, constant fear, and the devastating impact of war on children who have known nothing else (unicef.org).

The headlines often focus on the violence, but the story runs much deeper. Recent reports confirm that insurgent attacks continue to push families from their homes in districts like Chiúre, Macomia, and Mecufi (acaps.org). The violence hits a region where multi-billion dollar gas projects were meant to bring prosperity. Instead, local communities are left with nothing but loss (hudson.org). To understand the current crisis, one must look into the history behind the headlines, a history of neglect, inequality, and broken promises that set the stage for one of Africa's deadliest conflicts.

The insurgency in Cabo Delgado, which formally began in 2017, did not emerge from a vacuum (acleddata.com). Its origins are woven into decades of socio-economic marginalization and a profound sense of abandonment by the central government in Maputo. For many in this northern province, the government has been a distant and often neglectful force. This long history of neglect is a form of historical exploitation that left the region ripe for dissent (afrobarometer.org).

These grievances are also rooted in specific ethnic dynamics. The "predominantly Black coastal communities" are not a single group. They include distinct peoples like the Makonde, Mwani, and Makua, each with unique languages and cultures ((mozambiqueexpert.com), (worldatlas.com)). The Mwani, whose name means "people of the sea," have lived along the coast for generations, their lives tied to fishing and trade (wikipedia.org). The Makonde are known for their strong cultural traditions, while the Makua are the largest ethnic group in Mozambique ((worldatlas.com), (mozambiquehighcommission.org.uk)). This diversity is critical to understanding the conflict. Subsequently, resentments have festered over perceptions of ethnic favoritism. The ruling FRELIMO party has long been dominated by the Makonde ethnic group, leading other groups, particularly the Mwani, to feel politically and economically excluded since Mozambique's independence (crisisgroup.org).

This exclusion is not just a feeling; it is visible. In cities like Mocímboa da Praia, Makonde neighborhoods have shown more signs of wealth, while Mwani areas remained marginalized (gga.org). The government's response to the insurgency has only deepened these ethnic divides. For instance, it enlisted local militias composed mainly of Makonde people to fight in Muslim-dominated coastal areas, fueling tensions and framing the conflict along ethnic and religious lines (gga.org). These governance failures created a landscape of inequality where some communities benefited while others were left behind, planting the seeds for future conflict.

The discovery of massive offshore natural gas reserves in the Rovuma Basin starting in 2009 should have changed Cabo Delgado for the better (mongabay.com). International energy giants like TotalEnergies planned multi-billion dollar projects, and expectations for jobs and development soared among the local population. Instead, the gas boom became what is often called a "resource curse." The anticipated prosperity never trickled down to ordinary people. Instead, it intensified existing grievances and created new ones (saiia.org.za).

The arrival of the gas industry led directly to the displacement of farming and fishing communities, who lost their lands and livelihoods with little compensation (climatejusticecentral.org). A sense of injustice grew as locals watched corrupt elites, often with political connections, get rich while their own communities suffered. Many of these elites were perceived to be from the politically connected Makonde ethnic group, including liberation-era generals with business interests in the region (crisisgroup.org). This dynamic reinforced the feeling among the Mwani and other coastal groups that the wealth of their land was being stolen from them (crisisgroup.org).

The disappointment was profound. Hopes for jobs and improved infrastructure were crushed, replaced by environmental degradation and increased inequality. A 2022 study revealed the depth of this anger, finding that 45% of people in Cabo Delgado blamed the discovery of natural resources and their poor governance for the rise of terrorism (afrobarometer.org). The gas projects, meant to be a beacon of progress, instead became a symbol of the government's failure to care for its people, adding explosive fuel to a fire that was already burning.

The insurgency’s ideological roots trace back to 2007, with the formation of a radical Islamic sect known locally as Ahlu Sunnah Wa-Jammah (ASWJ) (acleddata.com). Formed by followers of the radical Kenyan cleric Aboud Rogo, the group claimed that Islam as practiced in Mozambique had been corrupted by secularism and traditional religious leaders ((scielo.org.za), (fpri.org)). They preached a return to a stricter form of Islam, advocating for the implementation of Sharia law and rejecting state institutions like secular schools and courts (dergipark.org.tr).

This ideology, however, found fertile ground precisely because it spoke to the deep-seated local grievances of the region’s youth. ASWJ, often called "Al-Shabaab" by locals (though distinct from the Somali group), exploited the widespread poverty, high unemployment, and sense of political marginalization to attract followers (issafrica.org). For many disaffected young men with no jobs and no future, the group offered a sense of purpose, identity, and a way to fight back against a system they saw as corrupt and unjust (gga.org). The insurgency’s message was powerful because it blended a global Salafi-Jihadist ideology with a narrative that directly addressed the local realities of neglect and inequality (scielo.org.za).

The conflict formally erupted in October 2017, when militants attacked police stations in Mocímboa da Praia, killing 17 people (acleddata.com). From there, the violence escalated rapidly. The group began targeting government buildings, kidnapping and beheading civilians, and seizing territory (thenewhumanitarian.org). By 2019, the insurgency had pledged allegiance to the Islamic State, which announced the formation of the Islamic State Central Africa Province (ISCAP) to incorporate the Mozambican militants (dni.gov). This affiliation gave the local movement international branding, even though its core drivers remained profoundly local.

Violence has forced large numbers of people to flee within the country.

A pivotal moment in the conflict came in March 2021 with a coordinated and devastating attack on the town of Palma (aljazeera.com). Palma was not just any town; it was the logistical hub for TotalEnergies' $20 billion liquefied natural gas (LNG) project. The assault was brutal and shocking. Insurgents killed more than 1,190 people, making it one of the deadliest such attacks on the African continent (aljazeera.com). The violence sent shockwaves through the international business community and exposed the Mozambican government's inability to secure the region.

In response, TotalEnergies declared "force majeure," a legal clause that frees a party from contractual obligations due to extraordinary and unforeseeable events ((totalenergies.com), (corporatefinanceinstitute.com)). Essentially, the security situation had become so untenable that the company suspended its massive project indefinitely (gtreview.com). The Palma attack was a turning point, forcing the Mozambican government to accept foreign military support. Consequently, troops from Rwanda and the Southern African Development Community (SADC) were deployed to launch counter-insurgency operations (thenewhumanitarian.org). While these forces helped reclaim some territory, the insurgents adapted, melting into the countryside and continuing their attacks on civilians.

The human cost of the Cabo Delgado insurgency is immense and heartbreaking. Since 2017, the conflict has killed over 6,000 people and displaced more than 1.3 million ((acleddata.com), (unocha.org)). Even with military interventions, the violence persists. In the first five months of 2024 alone, nearly 200,000 people were internally displaced, a number greater than the previous three years combined (iom.int). Approximately 583,000 people, mostly women and children, remain unable to return home (unocha.org). Many families have been uprooted multiple times, living in a constant state of fear and uncertainty. The resilience of Black families is tested daily under these unimaginable conditions.

The humanitarian crisis extends far beyond displacement. Food insecurity is rampant. Across the three northern provinces, 1.6 million people are struggling with hunger due to the combined effects of conflict and climate shocks (wfp.org). The situation is particularly dire in Cabo Delgado, where nearly one million people are food insecure (fscluster.org). Humanitarian agencies use a scale to measure the severity of hunger, and the numbers are alarming. Over 219,000 people are in IPC Phase 4 (Emergency), meaning they face extreme food shortages and high rates of malnutrition ((fscluster.org), (ipcinfo.org)). Another 680,000 are in IPC Phase 3 (Crisis), forced to sell essential assets just to eat ((fscluster.org), (ipcinfo.org)). Displaced families often spend over 75% of their budget on food, a sign of extreme economic distress (impact-initiatives.org).

A severe hunger crisis grips the conflict-torn region.

900,034

People Facing Acute Food Insecurity

IPC Phase 3 (Crisis)

680,263 People

IPC Phase 4 (Emergency)

219,771 People

Source: IPC Data, June/December 2024 (fscluster.org)

Perhaps the most tragic victims of this conflict are the children. Over 60% of those recently displaced are children, many of whom have witnessed horrific violence (savethechildren.net). Their education has been stolen. As of July 2024, 151 schools in Cabo Delgado remained closed due to insecurity, affecting over 50,000 children (unicef.org). These closures not only deny children an education but also leave them more vulnerable. There are widespread reports of grave violations, including the abduction and recruitment of children by armed groups (unicef.org).

The psychological trauma is immeasurable. Children suffer from severe mental distress after seeing their homes burned and loved ones killed. Malnutrition is another silent killer. In 2021, an estimated 33,000 children in the province were severely malnourished (unicef.org). The crisis has created a generation of children who have known little more than war and displacement. The international aid response has been unable to keep up with the scale of the need. For example, the World Food Programme was forced to cut support for hundreds of thousands of people in late 2025 due to funding shortfalls, leaving many vulnerable families with no assistance (wfp.org).

The conflict has had a devastating effect on the youth of Cabo Delgado.

60%+

Of Displaced Are Children

151

Schools Remained Closed (July 2024)

50,000+

Children Out of School

Source: UNICEF Data ((unicef.org), (savethechildren.net))

Despite the presence of foreign troops, the insurgency remains a persistent and evolving threat. Militants continue to carry out attacks, forcing new waves of displacement. Between November 10 and 23, 2025, an ISIS-linked group killed dozens of civilians in Cabo Delgado and the neighboring Nampula province, displacing approximately 108,000 people in Nampula's Memba district alone (hrw.org). This shows the conflict is not contained. The militants have proven to be resilient, adapting their tactics to survive military pressure.

Meanwhile, TotalEnergies aims to resume its $20 billion LNG project between June and August 2025 (energynews.pro). However, a coalition of NGOs has raised serious alarms, warning that restarting the project without addressing the root causes of the conflict and ensuring community safety is reckless (climatejusticecentral.org). Reports have also surfaced of alleged human rights abuses by the Mozambican military near the project site, adding another layer of complexity (climatejusticecentral.org). The situation in Cabo Delgado is a clear example of how communities across the globe find themselves in shared struggles against oppression, caught between state forces and non-state actors.

The violence in Cabo Delgado is far more than a simple story of terrorism. It is a crisis born from a history of state neglect, ethnic marginalization, and the broken promises of resource wealth. The suffering of its people, especially its children, is a catastrophic human tragedy. Any path toward lasting peace must go beyond a military response. It must address the deep-seated grievances that have fueled this devastating conflict for years. Without justice, development, and inclusion for all of its communities, the cycle of violence in northern Mozambique is likely to continue.

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 headlines from the eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) are once again filled with horrific violence. Human Rights Watch has sounded the alarm, urging the European Union and other global powers to take decisive action against escalating massacres and war crimes (hrw.org). The group is demanding sanctions, support for a United Nations inquiry, and a guarantee that justice for victims is central to any peace deal. For the communities on the ground, largely composed of Black rural villagers, this international debate is a distant echo. They live the daily reality of raids by armed militias and abuses from state security forces, trapped in a crisis that did not begin yesterday (hrw.org).

To understand today’s violence, one must look beyond the immediate reports of conflict. The current catastrophe is the result of centuries of historical grievances, colonial manipulation, and resource exploitation. The roots of the conflict are deep, stretching back to migration patterns, the creation of artificial ethnic divisions by colonial rulers, and the devastating aftermath of the 1994 Rwandan Genocide (cfr.org). This history reveals a tragic cycle where local populations have paid the price for regional power struggles and global demand for the minerals beneath their feet.

The origins of the conflict in eastern DR Congo were sown long before the 20th century. Tensions began to emerge around 1850 with the migration of Banyarwanda cattle herders into the hills of South Kivu (cfr.org). However, it was the arrival of Belgian colonial administrators that turned these tensions into a rigid system of division. The Belgians established different "classes of citizenship," a policy that formalized and weaponized ethnic identity (cfr.org). This was not a unique tactic; colonial powers across the continent often used "divide and rule" strategies to maintain control.

Specifically in the Great Lakes region, the Belgian administration institutionalized the identities of Hutu and Tutsi. Historically, these labels were often more about social and economic status—Tutsi associated with cattle ownership and a ruling class, Hutu with agriculture—than a fixed ethnicity (forces.gc.ca). But the Belgians issued identity cards that labeled every person, cementing these fluid social groups into rigid ethnic categories (worldwithoutgenocide.org). Furthermore, colonial policies consistently favored the Tutsi minority, giving them access to education and administrative jobs, which created deep resentment among the Hutu majority (worldwithoutgenocide.org). This manufactured hierarchy of power and privilege laid the groundwork for decades of instability and violent conflict.

The Rwandan Genocide of 1994 was a direct and horrific consequence of these politicized ethnic divisions. In just 100 days, Hutu extremists systematically murdered an estimated 800,000 to one million Tutsis and moderate Hutus, often using machetes in a campaign of unimaginable brutality (forces.gc.ca). This event became a pivotal moment not just for Rwanda, but for the entire region. Following the genocide, approximately two million Hutu refugees fled into eastern Zaire, the country now known as the DRC (cfr.org).

This massive influx of people completely destabilized the provinces of North and South Kivu. Critically, among the refugees were the Hutu militias and individuals responsible for carrying out the genocide (cfr.org). These groups, known as the *génocidaires*, reorganized inside the Congo. This created a direct security threat to the new Tutsi-led government in Rwanda, which had just ended the genocide. Consequently, Rwanda’s government felt compelled to intervene in its vast neighbor, setting the stage for decades of war and proxy conflicts on Congolese soil (cfr.org).

7+ Million

5+ Million

500,000

The DRC hosts the highest number of internally displaced people (IDPs) in Africa ((reliefweb.int), (savethechildren.net)).

Rwanda’s pursuit of Hutu extremists led to the First Congo War (1996-1997), which overthrew the long-time dictator Mobutu Sese Seko (cfr.org). However, peace was short-lived. The alliance between the new Congolese president, Laurent Kabila, and his Rwandan and Ugandan backers quickly fell apart. This collapse triggered the Second Congo War (1998-2003), a conflict so vast and deadly it is often called "Africa's World War" (cfr.org). This was not mere hyperbole; the war involved nine African nations and over 25 armed groups fighting across the DRC (cfr.org).

The term "Africa's World War" highlights the staggering human cost. By 2007, an estimated six million people had died, mostly from disease and malnutrition caused by the conflict, making it the deadliest war globally since World War II (cfr.org). It also implicitly critiques the lack of sustained international response, suggesting a conflict of this magnitude elsewhere might have prompted a more robust intervention. Furthermore, the war exposed a primary driver of the violence that continues today: the DRC’s immense natural resource wealth. The eastern provinces are rich in gold, diamonds, and most notably, coltan and cobalt (mongabay.com). All sides, including national armies and rebel militias, funded their operations by seizing and exploiting these mines (cfr.org).

These are not just any minerals. Coltan is essential for making capacitors used in smartphones and laptops, while cobalt is a key component in rechargeable batteries for electric vehicles (eiir.eu). The global demand for these materials connects consumers around the world directly to the violence in the DRC. The ongoing struggle for economic justice for Congolese miners is overshadowed by a system where international corporations benefit from minerals extracted through bloodshed (mongabay.com). This system allows these "blood minerals" to be smuggled out, laundered through neighboring countries like Rwanda, and integrated into global supply chains with little transparency (horninstitute.org).

The resource wealth and persistent instability have allowed over 100 armed groups to operate in eastern DRC (hrw.org). While it is easy to view them as a monolithic threat, they each have distinct origins and motives. The M23 (March 23 Movement), a predominantly Tutsi rebel group, resurfaced in late 2021 and has since seized significant territory (hrw.org). UN investigators confirm M23 receives extensive support from Rwanda, including troops and strategic backing (hrw.org). Rwanda claims this is necessary to counter threats from Hutu extremist groups like the FDLR (Democratic Forces for the Liberation of Rwanda), which was formed by perpetrators of the Rwandan genocide (horninstitute.org).

Other major players include the ADF (Allied Democratic Forces), an Islamist militant group with Ugandan origins now linked to ISIS, known for its brutal attacks on civilians (congoresearchgroup.org). In Ituri province, the Lendu ethnic militia CODECO has committed widespread massacres, primarily targeting the Hema community (hrw.org). In addition, countless local self-defense militias, known as Mai-Mai, operate to protect their communities or control resources (congoresearchgroup.org). More recently, an umbrella group of Congolese "patriot" militias called the Wazalendo has emerged to fight alongside the Congolese army against groups like M23 (hrw.org). This complex web of alliances and enmities makes lasting peace incredibly difficult to achieve.

The opaque system allows consumers to unknowingly benefit from illicit resources, perpetuating the conflict (horninstitute.org).

A key reason the violence has persisted for so long is "impunity," which means perpetrators are exempt from punishment for their crimes (politicsweb.co.za). In the DRC, decades of atrocities have gone unpunished, creating a culture where violence is seen as a viable tool for achieving political and economic goals. This lack of accountability erodes any trust in the justice system and denies victims their right to truth and reparations (politicsweb.co.za). The weakness of the national government and the complex sharing of power between central and regional actors further contribute to this problem.

All parties in the current conflict are accused of horrific abuses that may amount to war crimes or crimes against humanity. War crimes are violations of the laws of war committed during an armed conflict, such as targeting civilians (wikipedia.org). Crimes against humanity are widespread or systematic attacks against a civilian population, which can occur even in peacetime (wikipedia.org). Reports have documented summary executions, widespread sexual violence, and the forced recruitment of children by groups like M23 and others (hrw.org). For instance, between December 2 and 7, 2025, at least 74 civilians were killed in clashes in South Kivu (aa.com.tr). This unending cycle of violence demonstrates the complete failure of the international community to protect civilians and enforce accountability. The struggles for justice seem almost impossible in this environment.

6M

Deaths Since 1996

23.4M

Facing Food Insecurity

+30%

Increase in Grave Violations Against Children (Q1 2024)

The DR Congo conflict is one of the deadliest since WWII, with devastating consequences for its civilian population ((cfr.org), (developmentaid.org), (reliefweb.int)).

The recent plea from Human Rights Watch is a desperate call to break this deadly cycle (hrw.org). The organization is demanding that the EU suspend strategic minerals deals with Rwanda until it ends its support for M23 (hrw.org). This would disrupt the economic incentives that fuel the war. In early 2025, the UN Human Rights Council agreed to launch a fact-finding mission to investigate atrocities committed by all sides, a crucial first step toward accountability (jurist.org).

The numbers paint a horrifying picture of the suffering. Over seven million Congolese are internally displaced, the highest number in Africa (reliefweb.int). A staggering 23.4 million people face food insecurity (developmentaid.org). The violence continues to claim lives daily. However, behind these statistics are human beings—farmers, mothers, and children—caught in a conflict driven by forces far beyond their control. Addressing this crisis requires more than just humanitarian aid. It demands a sustained global commitment to tackle the root causes: the legacy of colonialism, the illegal exploitation of resources, and the persistent impunity that allows killers to walk free. True peace will only be possible when justice is no longer an afterthought.

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 recent rescue of approximately 60 African migrants near the Mediterranean island of Malta is more than a fleeting news story. After their boat capsized, Maltese forces pulled dozens from the sea, with ambulances rushing some to hospitals and one person tragically losing their life (arabnews.com). On the surface, it is a story of survival and loss. However, looking deeper reveals a complex web of history, policy, and power that has shaped one of the world's most dangerous migration routes. This single event stands out because such arrivals in Malta have become increasingly rare, a direct result of controversial European policies designed to keep African people from their shores (timesofmalta.com).

This incident is not an isolated tragedy. Instead, it is a symptom of a decades-long crisis rooted in geopolitical shifts, post-colonial instability, and a European strategy that outsources border control at a staggering human cost. Understanding the headlines requires looking back at the history that led to this moment, from the shores of North Africa to the corridors of power in Brussels. It is a story about the movement of people, the hardening of borders, and the persistent question of who is deemed worthy of safety and who is left to the mercy of the sea.

The Central Mediterranean passage, connecting North African nations like Libya and Tunisia to Italy and Malta, is known as the deadliest migration route on the planet (independent.com.mt). Its history as a major corridor for migrants began in the 1990s, but it was the period after 2014 that saw a massive surge. Widespread instability in the Sahel and the Horn of Africa, combined with the aftermath of the Arab Spring, pushed hundreds of thousands to attempt the perilous crossing (um.edu.mt). In 2016 alone, this route saw over 181,000 detected migrant arrivals in Europe (migrationdataportal.org).

The human toll of this journey is immense. In 2023, nearly 2,500 people either died or vanished while attempting the crossing (iom.int). Over the last decade, UNICEF estimates that 3,500 children have been lost on this same route (unicef.org). These numbers paint a grim picture of desperation. They also underscore the life-or-death stakes for people fleeing poverty, conflict, and instability. The island of Malta, due to its strategic location, became a key entry point for African asylum seekers for many years, though a quiet arrangement often meant those rescued in its waters were taken to Italy instead (um.edu.mt).

Each bar shows arrivals compared with the 2020 peak.

The dramatic drop in migrant arrivals to Malta in recent years is no accident. It is the direct outcome of a European policy strategy known as "externalization." This approach involves paying and equipping non-EU countries to act as Europe's border guards, intercepting migrants before they can ever reach European waters (asil.org). From a social justice perspective, this strategy is deeply problematic. It allows wealthy nations to dodge their responsibilities under international law, such as the right to seek asylum, by pushing the dirty work of border enforcement onto countries with abysmal human rights records (middleeasteye.net).

This policy has a long history. In 2008, Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi struck a deal with Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi, trading infrastructure investments for Libya’s help in stopping migrant boats (nrc.no). That deal fell apart with the 2011 Libyan civil war. However, after the 2015 migrant crisis, the European Union revived the strategy. A 2017 Memorandum of Understanding between Italy and Libya’s UN-backed government funneled hundreds of millions of euros into the Libyan coast guard and its notorious migrant detention centers ((europa.eu), (europa.eu)). Malta also participated, offering training and striking its own "secretive" coordination deal with Libya around 2020 (um.edu.mt). These agreements effectively created a wall in the sea, built and paid for by Europe but patrolled by Libyan forces.

The consequence of Europe's externalization strategy is that tens of thousands of African migrants are trapped in Libya, a country that the United Nations and numerous human rights groups have declared unsafe for disembarkation (unhcr.org). Migrants intercepted by the EU-funded Libyan coast guard are returned to a network of official and unofficial detention centers where unimaginable abuses occur. The UN has documented a gruesome list of horrors: arbitrary detention, torture, sexual violence, forced labor, and extortion (amnesty.org).

These are not isolated incidents but part of a systemic machine of exploitation. Amnesty International has called the EU's cooperation with Libya "morally bankrupt," arguing it makes European nations complicit in crimes against humanity (amnesty.org). Human Rights Watch has echoed these concerns, demanding the closure of Libya’s migrant detention centers (hrw.org). The systemic nature of these abuses is directly linked to the country's instability following the overthrow of Gaddafi, which created a lawless environment where armed groups, traffickers, and even state officials prey on vulnerable migrants with total impunity ((unodc.org), (icj.org)). The exploitation has become a profitable enterprise, fueling conflict and further dehumanizing those caught in the system.

Each bar compares totals against the 2024 high.

To fully understand this crisis from a diaspora perspective, it is crucial to distinguish between "African migrants" and "African Americans." African Americans are a distinct ethnic group primarily in the United States, whose ancestors were enslaved and forcibly brought to the Americas (fiveable.me). This gruesome history of chattel slavery created a specific national and cultural identity. African migrants, on the other hand, are individuals from the continent of Africa who have chosen to move, often fleeing post-colonial instability and seeking better opportunities (igi-global.com). While their histories are different, both groups confront a shared reality: global anti-Black racism.

The experiences of African migrants in Libya and at Europe's borders are deeply racialized. Migrants from Sub-Saharan Africa report widespread racism and xenophobia from both officials and the public (ohchr.org). In Libya, officials and media frequently use racist language to describe Black people, and crackdowns on migrants have swept up Black Libyans as well (tandfonline.com). This mirrors patterns seen in Europe, where racial profiling at border controls and in policing remains a persistent problem for people of African descent (ebsco.com). The struggle of Black migrants is increasingly seen as part of the broader struggle for black liberation, as both communities fight against systemic dehumanization and policies that treat Black bodies as disposable (prospect.org).

The current deterrence-focused approach is failing humanity. While it has successfully reduced the number of boats reaching places like Malta, it has done so by creating a humanitarian catastrophe in Libya and turning the Mediterranean into a graveyard. Maltese Home Affairs Minister Byron Camilleri bluntly stated Europe’s position: "Europe must be the one to decide who comes in" (newsbook.com.mt). This sentiment reflects a desire for control that often overshadows humanitarian obligations. The policies may appear successful on paper, but they are built on a foundation of violence and suffering.

From a social justice standpoint, long-term solutions must prioritize human dignity over deterrence. Organizations like the International Organization for Migration (IOM) and the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR) advocate for creating safe and legal pathways for migration (unhcr.org). This would allow people to seek refuge or opportunity without having to risk their lives in the hands of smugglers. Other durable solutions include programs for voluntary repatriation, resettlement in safe third countries, or local integration into host communities with support for education and employment (unhcr.ca). Ultimately, any real solution must also address the root causes of migration. These include poverty, political instability, and climate change, which are often legacies of colonialism and global inequality that continue to plague the African continent and create the desperation that fuels these dangerous journeys. The astonishing strength and resilience of people in the diaspora is a testament to survival, but survival should not require risking death at sea.

Deaths and disappearances reported across three time windows.

The rescue near Malta was a brief moment when the world was forced to see the faces behind the statistics. It was a reminder that every number represents a human life, a family, and a dream for a better future. The story behind this headline is not one of simple choices but of complex systems of power that span continents and centuries. For people of the African diaspora, it is a painful echo of a long history where Black lives have been devalued in the name of political and economic control. True progress will only come when policies are built on compassion and shared responsibility, not on walls and deterrence.

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.

Artificial intelligence promises a new era in healthcare, one filled with revolutionary diagnostics and personalized treatments. Yet, a shadow looms over this bright future. Mounting evidence shows that many medical AI tools, instead of being objective, carry forward and even amplify deep-seated health disparities affecting Black patients. Consequently, a coalition of U.S. health-equity groups is now demanding that regulators establish "equity-first" standards for medical AI. This push arrives at a critical moment, as attacks on Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion (DEI) initiatives are on the rise, creating a small window to secure these vital protections. This is not a new problem but a modern manifestation of a long history of medical racism, now encoded in digital logic.

The story of biased AI in medicine did not begin with the first line of code. It began centuries ago, rooted in a medical system built alongside racial hierarchies. Long before computers, medical practices themselves embedded racial biases that later seeped into the data used to train algorithms. The gruesome history of medical experimentation on Black people laid a foundation of distrust and inequity. Furthermore, this history was justified by flawed ideas about biological differences between races, a concept modern science has thoroughly debunked (nih.gov).

For example, doctors have long used "race correction" in clinical tools. One such tool is spirometry, a test that measures lung function to diagnose conditions like asthma (nih.gov). For decades, these tests included adjustments based on the false assumption that Black people naturally have lower lung capacity (nih.gov). Similarly, the estimated glomerular filtration rate (eGFR), a crucial test for kidney function, historically used a multiplier for Black patients. This adjustment made their kidney function appear healthier than it actually was, often delaying diagnoses and life-saving transplants (kidneyfund.org). These "corrections" were not based on sound science but on pseudoscientific beliefs used to justify slavery and inequality (nih.gov).

To understand the current crisis, it is important to define the core problem. Algorithmic bias occurs when a computer system produces results that unfairly favor one group over another (thedecisionlab.com). AI systems are not born biased; they learn bias from the data they are given. If the data reflects historical injustice, the AI will learn and automate that injustice. This happens through machine learning, a type of AI that allows computers to learn from data without being explicitly programmed for every task (datacamp.com). These systems analyze huge datasets to find patterns and make predictions.

A pivotal moment in understanding this danger came in 2019 with a "bombshell study" published in the journal Science (nih.gov). Researchers found that a widely used commercial algorithm was systematically underestimating the health needs of the sickest Black patients. The algorithm used a person's past healthcare spending as a substitute, or proxy, for their health needs. However, because of systemic inequality, less money has historically been spent on Black patients, even when they were sicker than their White counterparts (nih.gov). As a result, the algorithm falsely concluded that Black patients were healthier, locking them out of programs designed to provide extra care. Correcting this single bias could have nearly doubled the number of Black patients flagged for additional support (nih.gov).

A 2024 study revealed that AI models exhibit false beliefs about racial biology, similar to human trainees, leading to underestimation of pain in Black patients.

Gemini Pro

Human Trainees

GPT-4

Source: 2024 study on AI and racial bias in pain assessment.

Despite growing awareness, algorithmic bias continues to plague modern medicine across many fields. AI-powered chatbots have been shown to underestimate the pain of Black patients, mirroring the biases of human doctors and perpetuating false beliefs about biological differences (painmedicinenews.com). A 2024 study found that the AI model Gemini Pro held the highest rate of these false beliefs at 24%, followed by human trainees at 12% and GPT-4 at 9%. Large Language Models (LLMs), which are advanced AI trained on massive text databases to generate human-like language, also show bias in psychiatric care ((ibm.com), (cedars-sinai.org)). A 2025 Cedars-Sinai study found that when a patient was identified as Black, leading LLMs often proposed different or inappropriate treatments (cedars-sinai.org).

In one alarming instance, an LLM suggested "guardianship" for a Black patient with depression. Guardianship is a legal process that strips an individual of their autonomy, giving another person control over their medical and financial decisions (aclu.org). For a Black person, such a recommendation is deeply problematic, echoing a history of coercive mental health interventions and reinforcing stereotypes about incapacity (aclu.org). In addition, diagnostic tools show significant inaccuracies for people with darker skin. AI trained to detect skin cancer often fails because its training data is overwhelmingly composed of images of light skin (harvard.edu). Pulse oximeters are nearly three times more likely to miss low oxygen levels in Black patients, and forehead thermometers are 26% less likely to detect fevers (harvard.edu). These are not minor glitches; they are systemic failures with life-or-death consequences.

In response to this crisis, health-equity advocates are championing an "equity-first" approach. This framework insists that fairness and justice must be intentionally designed into AI systems from the very beginning (greenlining.org). It is a human-centered model that requires developers to include marginalized communities in the design process, ensuring the data used reflects their real-world experiences (accessh.org). In December 2025, the NAACP and the healthcare company Sanofi released an authoritative report, known as a white paper, titled "Building a Healthier Future: Equity-First AI in Healthcare" (naacp.org). This document calls for every medical AI system to be tested for racial bias, for the results to be made public, and for Black community groups to have a seat at the development table (naacp.org).

This movement is especially urgent because of the political climate. A wave of attacks on DEI initiatives is sweeping through medical schools and hospitals (healthcare-brew.com). These attacks, which often come in the form of legislation or policy changes, seek to dismantle programs aimed at diversifying the healthcare workforce and addressing health disparities (upenn.edu). This pushback against equity threatens to widen racial health gaps and represents a form of anti-Black politics that could halt progress (upenn.edu). Advocates see a narrow window to establish strong, lasting protections before these anti-DEI efforts can further erode the foundation for equitable healthcare.

The 2019 study in *Science* showed that correcting racial bias in a risk-prediction algorithm dramatically increased the number of Black patients identified for extra care.

Before Fix

After Fix

Source: Obermeyer et al., *Science* (2019).

Federal regulators are beginning to take action. In May 2024, the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) Office for Civil Rights (OCR) issued a new rule under Section 1557 of the Affordable Care Act (ACA) (mintz.com). The OCR is the agency tasked with enforcing federal civil rights laws in healthcare (hhs.gov). Section 1557 is a broad non-discrimination provision that prohibits discrimination based on race, sex, age, or disability in federally funded health programs (peoplekeep.com). The new rule explicitly extends these protections to cover "patient care decision support tools," a category that includes medical AI (mintz.com).

This rule requires healthcare providers using these tools to make "reasonable efforts" to identify and reduce their discriminatory impact. However, some critics argue the rule does not go far enough. They point out that bias can arise even when the input data seems neutral, such as through proxy variables (medium.com). The 2019 study's algorithm did not use race as a direct input. Instead, it used healthcare spending, which acted as a proxy for race due to systemic inequities (nih.gov). Therefore, advocates believe the duty to mitigate bias should apply to all AI tools, not just those with obviously discriminatory inputs, to ensure comprehensive protection.

Bias can enter AI systems indirectly, even without using race as an input. This flowchart shows how a seemingly neutral factor like "cost" can lead to a discriminatory outcome.

Systemic Inequality

Leads to...

→

Less Spending on Black Patients

Is used as...

→

AI Proxy for "Health Need"

Which results in...

→

Biased Outcome

Sicker Black patients are denied care.

The push for equity-first medical AI is a critical continuation of the long fight against health disparities. It acknowledges that technology is not inherently neutral; it is shaped by the society that creates it. The biases embedded in medicine for centuries have provided the raw material for algorithms to learn and perpetuate those same injustices on a massive scale. From flawed "race corrections" to biased diagnostic tools, the evidence is undeniable. Equity cannot be an add-on or an afterthought in the development of medical AI.

Ultimately, the current efforts by health-equity groups and regulators represent a pivotal moment. The goal is to reshape the future of digital medicine to serve all people fairly. This requires constant monitoring for bias, public transparency about AI performance, and meaningful engagement with the communities most affected. Only through this deliberate and sustained action can the promise of AI be realized for everyone. This ensures technology helps close, rather than widen, the gaps in health equity, continuing the long, difficult journey toward true freedom from systemic harm.

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.