FEED Validator

for Atom and RSS and KML

Congratulations!

This is a valid RSS feed.

Recommendations

This feed is valid, but interoperability with the widest range of feed readers could be improved by implementing the following recommendations.

line 195, column 3: content:encoded should not contain relative URL references: #_ftn1 (32 occurrences) [help]
```
]]></content:encoded>
   ^
```

Source: https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/feed/

<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?><rss version="2.0"
xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/"
xmlns:wfw="http://wellformedweb.org/CommentAPI/"
xmlns:dc="http://purl.org/dc/elements/1.1/"
xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"
xmlns:sy="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/syndication/"
xmlns:slash="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/slash/"
>
<channel>
<title>Righting Wrongs</title>
<atom:link href="https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/feed/" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml" />
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights</link>
<description>A Journal of Human Rights</description>
<lastBuildDate>Fri, 02 May 2025 01:48:33 +0000</lastBuildDate>
<language>en-US</language>
<sy:updatePeriod>
hourly </sy:updatePeriod>
<sy:updateFrequency>
1 </sy:updateFrequency>
<item>
<title>COMMENT – Prison Horticulture Programs</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/comment-prison-horticulture-programs-reducing-recidivism-through-rehabilitative-transformation/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/comment-prison-horticulture-programs-reducing-recidivism-through-rehabilitative-transformation/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2025 01:48:09 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XV, Issue 1]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1490</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Eden Rolves, Webster University – Saint Louis COMMENT – Prison Horticulture Programs: Reducing Recidivism Through Rehabilitative Transformation [Download PDF] Prison horticulture programs are often overlooked despite their ability to empower participants, improve mental health, and reduce recidivism rates. These programs yield positive outcomes, including increased self-esteem, life satisfaction, and confidence, as well as reduced symptoms […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Eden Rolves, Webster University – Saint Louis

COMMENT – Prison Horticulture Programs: Reducing Recidivism Through Rehabilitative Transformation
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/Rolves_Comment_Prison-Horticulture-Programs.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
Prison horticulture programs are often overlooked despite their ability to empower participants, improve mental health, and reduce recidivism rates. These programs yield positive outcomes, including increased self-esteem, life satisfaction, and confidence, as well as reduced symptoms of depression and anxiety. The symbolic interactions and connections formed during these programs influence personal development, and the acquisition of new skills and training increases participants’ chances of successful reintegration into society upon release. It is, however, essential to prioritize the needs of participants and focus on training and education as the primary drivers of these programs to achieve rehabilitation and reduced recidivism rates.
“I absolutely love it. Because it’s like, when you put a seed in the soil, right, and then you watch it, and it’s like, you’re growing with that seed” (quoted in Farrier et al., 2019). Many incarcerated individuals express satisfaction with their participation in prison horticulture programs. These programs go far beyond simple horticultural training, offering incarcerated individuals a unique opportunity for empowerment and connection, skill development, and mental health improvement. By engaging participants in growing plants as food, tending gardens, and understanding ecological systems, these programs provide an experience that challenges traditional punitive approaches to prison environments. Prison programs have been effective in reducing recidivism, and prison horticulture programs have the same (if not greater) effect. Many researchers have studied the direct outcomes of these programs on recidivism and mental health (DelSesto, 2022; Farrier et al., 2019; Holmes & Waliczek, 2019; Jauk-Ajamie & Blackwood, 2024; Lee et al., 2021; Timler et al., 2019; Toews et al., 2018). These programs should be implemented in more prisons with attention to program structuring that reflects the needs of the participants, including fundamental human rights to leisure, health, and participation in cultural life (United Nations, 1948, Articles 24, 25, and 27).
While not every prison has a prison horticulture program, they have become exceedingly popular throughout the United States. The first prison horticulture program was a Master Gardener program introduced in 1991 to State Park Correctional Center, a minimum-security prison in South Carolina (Polomski et al., 1997). Participants in that program went through mostly the same steps as a non-incarcerated person would to become a Master Gardener, including undertaking intensive horticulture training, passing an exam, and providing volunteer service. This paved the way for many future prison horticulture programs, which now encompass four main types: animal agriculture, crop and silviculture, food processing and production, and horticulture and landscaping (Prison Agriculture Lab, n.d.). At least one prison in every state has a horticulture and landscaping program, and more prisons are included if we count these other categories (Prison Agriculture Lab, n.d.). Motivation for implementing these programs often centers on four main drivers: finances, idleness reduction, retributive aims, and training. The first three drivers focus on benefiting institutions, while the fourth builds skills for incarcerated individuals themselves (Prison Agriculture Lab, n.d.).
Prison horticulture programs have been shown to improve the mental health of their participants. Research on mental health and horticulture therapy outside of prison finds that these programs produce mental health benefits to participants by decreasing their social isolation (Howarth et al., 2018). To explore how these programs function in a carceral setting, a study using participant observation, questionnaires, and post-program surveys followed five participants (Lee et al., 2021). Researchers found that participants displayed higher depression scores before the program than after, and higher self-esteem and life satisfaction scores after the program than before (Lee et al., 2021). This study was limited because of its small sample size, but reflects broader trends found in other studies; higher confidence levels often correlate with the acquisition of new skills, and participants noted feeling confident in their ability to better manage their lives due to their horticulture skills and the possibility of work in that field post-incarceration (Farrier et al., 2019). Participants in one study expressed feelings of tranquility during their gardening program because it served as a stress reliever that took their minds off their worries and provided a reprieve from the carceral environment (Jauk-Ajamie & Blackwood, 2024). Overall, studies suggest that prison horticulture programs yield an increase in measurable categories such as self-esteem, life satisfaction, and confidence – all of which lead to improved mental health. For instance, results from a mixed methods study on a horticulture therapy mental health recovery program showed that participants became more socially engaged and aware of the value of social networking following program participation (Howarth et al., 2018). The psychological effects of prison horticulture programs appear to be positive overall, promoting self-esteem, life satisfaction, stress relief, and social skills.
Horticulture programs also reduce recidivism – a person’s relapse into criminal behavior and incarceration within three years of release (National Institute of Justice, n.d.) – if structured correctly with specific attention to both the participants and the correctional facility in which they reside. At the least, they are as effective as other prison programming (Cammack et al., 2002). In Matthew DelSesto’s (2022) review of prison horticulture studies, he suggests that many features of horticulture programming support the theory that these programs result in desistance from crime. These features include building occupational skills, finding a feeling of self-control and tranquility, making social connections, contributing to a broad creative project, finding meaning in life through many types of symbolism, and the ability to rework one’s own identity (DelSesto, 2022). These benefits help participants transition back into communities after release, suggesting that it may be useful to let them remain enrolled in horticulture programs while on parole to reinforce confidence in skills and a sense of meaning in society (Holmes & Waliczek, 2019). Studies on horticultural prison programs reflect findings related to other types of prison programs; they achieve lower recidivism rates for program participants than for those who participated in no programs at all (Cammack et al., 2022). In response to critics who question whether these programs exploit participants, DelSesto (2022) emphasizes the importance of focusing on the needs of the participants on the path of rehabilitation and healing – not on the financial or publicity benefits the institutions would receive. When designing programs, organizations should carefully consider the social, mental health, and economic needs of participants. This is key to reducing recidivism and must take priority over direct institutional gain.
Prison horticulture programs act as a transformative tool for empowerment, providing incarcerated individuals with the invaluable opportunity to reclaim their self-identity and develop valued skills within a structured rehabilitative context. By engaging participants in meaningful cultivation processes, these programs facilitate growth with vocational training and opportunities to partake in self-directed learning, environmental care, and personal responsibility (Holmes & Waliczek, 2019). This is reflected in the metaphors used by participants in interviews, focus groups, and surveys. For example, in one case report, a post-program interview participant said: “I felt impressed by the vitality of the plants; they managed to survive in the garden plot despite the poor growing environment. By equating this situation to my life, the program helped me feel revitalized and achieve emotional stability” (quoted in Lee et al., 2021). Engagement with living ecosystems offers participants not only a metaphorical framework, but also a literal framework for personal development because the cultivation of plants becomes a powerful analogue for personal growth, resilience, and the hope of transformation (Timler et al., 2019). This overlaps with opportunities for skill acquisition and mental health development, which challenges the common themes of marginalization and dehumanization that frequently characterize prison environments. Humanizing incarcerated individuals is the bare minimum and empowering them should be the goal. Studies on both men’s prisons and women’s prisons suggest that prison horticulture programs empower participants through social interaction, skill building, and hard work (Jauk-Ajamie & Blackwood, 2022; Timler et al., 2019). This is a much-needed component of carceral environments because empowerment and self-esteem promote mental health, humanize individuals, and reduce anomie – a sense of disconnection from society, which results from the difference between culturally established goals and one’s true ability to achieve them.
Several theoretical perspectives can help explain the value of prison horticulture programs, beginning with George Herbert Mead’s “symbolic interaction theory” (see Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, 2022). These theoretical approaches illustrate the effects of participants’ interactions with the plants and with each other. Symbolic interaction theory contends that the social world is constructed by everyday interactions and mutually understood symbols. These interactions and symbols shape society and social behaviors. Multiple participants in different studies identified symbolic aspects of prison horticulture programs; for example, in an anonymous review, one participant thanked the program staff by saying “you helped me grow like a flower” (quoted in Jauk-Ajamie & Blackwood, 2022). Participants in food-based horticulture programs also made metaphors symbolically linking themselves and other participants to the plants they grew. One such participant reflected that even though individuals joined the program for confidential reasons, they all shared the space: “I think people who come here, it’s confidential why they come here but I think we all, we’re like peas in a pod” (Howarth et al., 2018). Another person from the same study pointed out the unique social connection formed in these programs. In an exit interview, they said, “I think when you share that level of pain with other people, you do have a connection,” highlighting the ways that their connection over shared emotion and circumstances impacted them socially (Howarth et al., 2018). For participants in a study on a men’s prison, social interaction lowered chances of negative interactions and altercations between those incarcerated (Timler et al., 2019). Symbolic interaction theory provides a framework for understanding social interactions (or lack thereof) and how they impact the well-being of incarcerated individuals.
The rehabilitative effects of prison horticulture programs can also be better understood using Robert Merton’s (1938) theory of “anomie” and Robert Agnew’s “general strain theory” (Agnew & Brezina, 2019).<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1">[1]</a> If the issue is that deviance and anger occur because culturally set goals are impossible to achieve outside of prison, then rehabilitation is a way to provide resources and thereby ease frustration with and disconnection from society. Studies frequently focus on education and vocational training in horticulture programs as ways of rehabilitating participants. A participant from a program that cultivated food for the prison and its surrounding community recalled interactions that gave him hope for his life post-release: “I’ve gone into so many places now, the food banks, and they’re all happy to see me, sit and chit chat, and it’s like, ‘Hey, when you get out are we still going to see you?’ All the food banks that we go to here have all said ‘If you ever want a job,’ or if I want to volunteer” (quoted in Timler et al., 2019). The distance between participants and the outside community was reduced, eliminating anomie. The idea of being reconnected with society, socially as well as through a possible occupation, gave the participant something to look forward to and work towards. The sense of life satisfaction and self-esteem reported by participants also suggests that these programs ease strains by rehumanizing incarcerated people and providing an easier transition back into society (Farrier et al., 2019; Holmes & Waliczek, 2019; Howarth et al., 2018; Jauk-Ajamie & Blackwood, 2022; Timler et al., 2019). Studies regularly cite feelings of being reconnected with others, prepared for life post-program, and capable of achieving goals. By reducing feelings of dehumanization, strain, and anomie in the prison environment, prison horticulture programs reduce recidivism rates and improve mental health.
Some researchers critically examine the structure and drivers of prison horticulture programs. Carrie Chennault and Joshua Sbicca (2023) and Evan Hazelett (2023) argue there is a mix of exploitative and rehabilitative aspects, due in part to inherent issues of racial capitalism and power imbalances in the correctional field. Racial capitalism is an intersectional framework that sees capitalism as profiting from the labor of marginalized people. This idea ties into many critiques of prison horticulture programs, since prisons benefit from claiming to be rehabilitative or “green” and receiving public approval and legitimacy (Chennault & Sbicca, 2023; Timler et al., 2019). Agriculture and horticulture programs, even when driven by vocational or training goals, can reproduce oppression and marginalization because they function in an environment that has an inherent power imbalance (Chennault & Sbicca, 2023; Hazelett, 2023). For example, programs are meant to aid communities and individuals outside of prison, including offering therapeutic benefits to incarcerated people, yet programs driven by reparative ideals use incarcerated labor to provide food that goes outside of the prison – not directly benefiting laborers by providing them with nutrition (Chennault & Sbicca, 2023; Timler et al., 2019). Considering that the U.S. carceral system has a population that overrepresents marginalized identities (Smiley, 2019; Tonry, 2011), such practices can perpetuate subordination based on race, ethnicity, class, and gender.
Prison horticulture programs should reflect the needs of participants, first and foremost, before focusing on how such programs can benefit institutions. I recommend the implementation of prison horticulture programs in more prisons, with training prioritized as a primary driver. Training programs present the opportunity to connect incarcerated individuals to employers, which spurs feelings of hope and promotes community connection, thereby reducing chances of recidivism (Timler et al., 2019). Although there are financial benefits of these programs because they reduce prison costs, the well-being of participants should take precedence because prisons are ideally rehabilitative institutions. Financial drivers should be an added benefit, rather than the whole goal of a program, because financial incentives often lead to the oppression of marginalized groups (Chennault & Sbicca, 2023; Hazelett, 2023). These programs require a nuanced and tailored approach to have the desired mental health improvement and recidivism-reducing effects. It is important that people understand how vocational, educational, and recreational prison programs work because, when executed correctly, they can reduce recidivism through rehabilitation (Latessa et al., 2002). Prison horticulture programs are at least as effective as other rehabilitation programs, and studies suggest that they are particularly useful tools for reducing recidivism through mental health improvement, symbolic interactions and connections, and personal growth and empowerment.
References
Agnew, R., & Brezina, T. (2019). General Strain Theory. In Handbook on Crime and Deviance, edited by M. Krohn, N. Hendrix, G. Penly Hall, & A. Lizotte, pp. 145-160. Springer International Publishing.
American Horticultural Society. (n.d.). Master Gardeners. Retrieved from https://ahsgardening.org/master-gardeners/.
Cammack, C., Waliczek, T. M., & Zajicek, J. M. (2002). The Green Brigade: The psychological effects of a community-based horticultural program on the self-development characteristics of juvenile offenders. HortTechnology, 12(1): 82-86.
Chennault, C., & Sbicca, J. (2023). Prison agriculture in the United States: Racial capitalism and the disciplinary matrix of exploitation and rehabilitation. Agriculture and Human Values, 40(1): 175-191.
DelSesto, M. (2022). Therapeutic horticulture and desistance from crime. Howard Journal of Crime and Justice, 61(4): 444-462.
Farrier, A., Baybutt, M., & Dooris, M. (2019). Mental health and wellbeing benefits from a prisons horticultural programme. International Journal of Prisoner Health, 15(1): 91-104.
Hazelett, E. (2023). Greening the Cage: Exploitation and Resistance in the (Un)Sustainable Prison Garden. Antipode, 55(2): 436-457.
Holmes, M., & Waliczek, T. M. (2019). The Effect of Horticultural Community Service Programs on Recidivism. HortTechnology, 29(4): 490-495.
Howarth, M., Rogers, M., Withnell, N., & McQuarrie, C. (2018). Growing spaces: An evaluation of the mental health recovery programme using mixed methods. Journal of Research in Nursing, 23(6), 476-489.
Jauk-Ajamie, D., & Blackwood, A. (2022). “I Grow Every Day, like Plants.” An Evaluation of a Gardening Program for Women in a Residential Community Corrections Setting. Women and Criminal Justice, 34(1): 64-87.
Latessa, E. J., Cullen, F. T., & Gendreau, P. (2002). Beyond Correctional Quackery: Professionalism and the Possibility of Effective Treatment. Federal Probation, 66(2): 43-49.
Lee, A.-Y., Kim, S.-Y., Kwon, H. J., & Park, S.-A. (2021). Horticultural therapy program for mental health of prisoners: Case report. Integrative Medicine Research, 10(2).
Merton, R. K. (1938). Social Structure and Anomie. American Sociological Review, 3(5): 672-682.
National Institute of Justice. (n.d.). Recidivism. Retrieved from https://nij.ojp.gov/topics/corrections/recidivism.
Polomski, R. F., Johnson, K. M., & Anderson, J. C. (1997). Prison Inmates Become Master Gardeners in South Carolina. HortTechnology, 7(4): 360-362.
Prison Agriculture Lab. (n.d.) Prison Agriculture in the United States. Retrieved from https://experience.arcgis.com/experience/d099a2bae4834903aa33cde46c62b4ba/?views=Extras.
Smiley, C. (2019). Money for Freedom: Cash Bail, Incarceration, and Reentry. In Prisoner Reentry in the 21st Century: Critical Perspectives of Returning Home, edited by K. M. Middlemass & C. Smiley, pp. 345-356. New York: Routledge.
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. (2022). George Herbert Mead. Retrieved from https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/mead/.
Timler, K., Brown, H., & Varcoe, C. (2019). Growing connection beyond prison walls: How a prison garden fosters rehabilitation and healing for incarcerated men. Journal of Offender Rehabilitation, 58(5): 444-463.
Toews, B., Wagenfeld, A., & Stevens, J. (2018). Impact of a nature-based intervention on incarcerated women. International Journal of Prisoner Health, 14(4): 232-243.
Tonry, M. H. (2011). Punishing Race: A Continuing American Dilemma. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.
United Nations. (1948). Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/en/about-us/universal-declaration-of-human-rights.
© Copyright 2025 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
<hr class="wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity" />
<a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1">[1]</a> Anomie is a sense of disconnection from society due to a disparity between culturally accepted goals and the actual ability to achieve those goals (Merton, 1938). General strain theory explains that perceived injustice causes frustration and anger that lead to socially deviant behavior (Agnew & Brezina, 2019).
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/comment-prison-horticulture-programs-reducing-recidivism-through-rehabilitative-transformation/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
<item>
<title>BOOK REVIEW – Our History is the Future, by Nick Estes</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/book-review-our-history-is-the-future-by-nick-estes/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/book-review-our-history-is-the-future-by-nick-estes/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2025 01:45:40 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Book Reviews]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XV, Issue 1]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1489</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Greta Redleaf, American University – Washington, D.C. BOOK REVIEW – Our History is the Future: Standing Rock versus the Dakota Access Pipeline and the Long Tradition of Indigenous Resistance, by Nick Estes [Download PDF] “Peace on stolen land is borne of genocide” (Estes, 2019, p. 1). Our History is the Future: Standing Rock versus the […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Greta Redleaf, American University – Washington, D.C.

BOOK REVIEW – Our History is the Future: Standing Rock versus the Dakota Access Pipeline and the Long Tradition of Indigenous Resistance, by Nick Estes
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/Redleaf_Book-review_Our-History-is-the-Future.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
“Peace on stolen land is borne of genocide” (Estes, 2019, p. 1).
Our History is the Future: Standing Rock versus the Dakota Access Pipeline and the Long Tradition of Indigenous Resistance is an award-winning book about the fight to stop the Dakota Access Pipeline. Author Nick Estes, a scholar and member of the Lower Brule Sioux Tribe, places this fight in the context of Indigenous history and the ongoing struggle to protect Indigenous peoples and their land from exploitation and destruction. Drawing on historical accounts, oral histories, and Indigenous philosophies, Estes highlights the interconnectedness of colonial violence, environmental degradation, and capitalist exploitation. Our History is the Future provides a thought-provoking and robust analysis of the Standing Rock movement, the long history of Indigenous resistance, harmful settler colonialism, and the ongoing struggle for ecological justice. This review outlines Estes’ argument and shows just how significant this story is, not just to Indigenous peoples, but to everyone who seeks a more equitable and sustainable future.
Our History is the Future opens in 2016, with Estes and his friends on their way to join the Oceti Sakowin Camp, north of the Standing Rock reservation. They were (and still are) fighting against the Dakota Access Pipeline, which was set to run under historic Indigenous lands and beneath Lake Oahe. If the pipeline leaked, the Sioux Nation’s only clean water supply would be contaminated. Estes and his fellow protesters faced freezing temperatures, harsh harassment, military opposition, and vicious police brutality. Yet the protestors, who called themselves “Water Protectors,” continued to fight for the belief Mni Wiconi – “Water is Life.” Estes says: “The protesters called themselves the Water Protectors because they weren’t simply against a pipeline; they also stood for something greater: the continuation of life on a planet ravaged by capitalism” (Estes, 2019, p. 15).
Estes organizes his book in a thoughtful and intentional way, structuring it around significant themes that carry profound meaning, such as Siege, War, Flood, and Liberation. Each chapter builds upon these evocative terms to weave a narrative that highlights both the historical and contemporary struggles of Indigenous peoples. Estes uses the 2016 protests at Standing Rock as a focal point to explain the enduring history of Indigenous resistance, drawing connections to pivotal moments like the 1862 Dakota Uprising and the 1876 Battle of the Greasy Grass (Little Bighorn) to illustrate the systemic violence Indigenous communities have faced. By framing these events as interconnected, Estes shows how resistance has always encompassed struggles for environmental and ecological justice. He emphasizes that these battles are not just about Indigenous survival, but about protecting the earth for future generations. Through his vivid storytelling and detailed analysis, Estes provides readers with a deeper understanding of the inseparability of Indigenous sovereignty and ecological sustainability.
Estes presents a strong argument and a richly detailed account of Indigenous struggles, both past and present. His use of oral history emphasizes how strongly memory connects Indigenous culture, weaving together narratives of resilience and resistance that strengthen his argument. Archival research on massacres and uprisings throughout history adds an emotional layer that allows readers to empathize deeply, even if they have no prior knowledge of Indigenous history. Many terms or cultural aspects may be unfamiliar to the average non-Indigenous reader, but Estes excels at breaking them down and explaining the more complex components of the story. Through this careful balance of detail and clarity, the book becomes a profound educational tool for anyone seeking to understand the intersections of colonialism, Indigenous sovereignty, and ecological sustainability.
Estes argues that decolonization is not only a political process, but also a necessity for the survival of our planet. Decolonization, as he presents it, is not merely about reclaiming land but also about dismantling the exploitative systems of settler colonialism and capitalism that prioritize profit over people and the environment. Indigenous practices and philosophies, rooted in sustainable relationships with the land and water, provide a blueprint for a more equitable and harmonious future. Estes emphasizes that these traditions are not relics of the past, but vital living practices that are key to addressing the global ecological crisis. His argument transcends geographical boundaries and can be applied to communities worldwide, particularly those marginalized by colonial and capitalist systems. By situating Indigenous resistance within a global context, Estes illuminates the interconnected struggles for sovereignty, ecological justice, and human rights. His resistance framework resonates with other marginalized communities, offering a model for solidarity and collective action against oppressive systems. The book’s contributions to scholarship on ecological justice underscore the essential role Indigenous communities play as future leaders and stewards of the planet. Estes inspires readers to recognize that supporting Indigenous sovereignty is a necessary step toward building a sustainable and just world for all.
This is a fulfilling text that provides an excellent history of Indigenous resistance, showing how it is deeply tied to colonialism. Estes illustrates how protecting the environment is inseparable from the fight for Indigenous sovereignty, as these struggles are intertwined with the broader quest for justice and survival in the face of systemic oppression. While Estes highlights the resilience and leadership of Indigenous movements, one question that arises is how non-Indigenous allies can support these struggles without perpetuating colonial dynamics. Allies must approach with humility, prioritize listening over leading, and actively challenge the structures of power that sustain colonialism, engaging in decolonial practices and fostering genuine partnerships that respect Indigenous autonomy and knowledge systems.
Our History is the Future: Standing Rock versus the Dakota Access Pipeline and the Long Tradition of Indigenous Resistance is an essential read for anyone interested in environmental justice, Indigenous history, and colonialism. The book is important to Indigenous history and contemporary resistance movements, offering invaluable insights into the resilience and agency of Native communities. Policymakers, activists, scholars, and anyone with even the slightest interest in Indigenous rights should read this book to understand the critical connections between colonial violence, environmental degradation, and Indigenous sovereignty. Estes’ Our History is the Future provides a thought-provoking analysis of the Standing Rock movement, the long history of Indigenous resistance, harmful settler colonialism, and the ongoing struggle for ecological justice. This work masterfully connects past and present struggles, emphasizing the urgent need for solidarity and decolonization to ensure a sustainable and equitable future.
References
Estes, N. (2019). Our History is the Future: Standing Rock versus the Dakota Access Pipeline and the Long Tradition of Indigenous Resistance. London and New York: Verso Books.
© Copyright 2025 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/book-review-our-history-is-the-future-by-nick-estes/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
<item>
<title>COMMENT – The Dangers of Facial Recognition Technologies</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/comment-the-dangers-of-facial-recognition-technologies/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/comment-the-dangers-of-facial-recognition-technologies/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2025 01:43:22 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XV, Issue 1]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1488</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Kate Gouveia Pereira, Toronto Metropolitan University – Toronto, Canada COMMENT – The Dangers of Facial Recognition Technologies [Download PDF] The task of identifying criminals through physical traits has long been pursued by law enforcement, but advances in artificial intelligence (AI) are creating dangerous new opportunities for detection. In the early twentieth century, criminologist Cesare Lombroso […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Kate Gouveia Pereira, Toronto Metropolitan University – Toronto, Canada

COMMENT – The Dangers of Facial Recognition Technologies
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/Pereira_Comment_Facial-recognition.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
The task of identifying criminals through physical traits has long been pursued by law enforcement, but advances in artificial intelligence (AI) are creating dangerous new opportunities for detection. In the early twentieth century, criminologist Cesare Lombroso popularized the “biological positivism” approach that attempted to connect physical traits and criminality. Such use of “criminal anthropology” has been used for decades with negative human rights consequences, including fostering discrimination and dehumanization. These damaging effects may now continue with the use of AI technologies such as facial recognition, where people can program their discriminatory beliefs into seemingly neutral technologies. I argue against the widespread use of facial recognition technology because it is susceptible to prejudices, faults, and discrepancies that threaten human rights.
The task of identifying criminals through physical traits such as facial features has long been pursued by law enforcement, but advances in artificial intelligence (AI) are creating new opportunities for detection. Facial recognition technology involves matching an image of a person with another via recognition software to determine if the person in both pictures is, in fact, the same individual (Gates, 2015). This technology is often used to track people through surveillance cameras, capturing the image of a person and then matching it to a database of images to identify them (Gates, 2015). Before today’s technology existed, photographs were used to identify criminals and prison escapees. Computer-assisted facial recognition began in the 1960s, sometimes for controversial experimental programs such as a Stanford University study that sought to connect homosexuality with certain facial features (see Wang, 2018). As AI technology becomes more advanced – and more utilized by law enforcement and criminal justice systems – scholars warn that these technologies are prone to many of the same errors and biases that humans have. In this critical reflection, I argue against the widespread use of facial recognition technology because it is susceptible to prejudices, faults, and discrepancies that threaten human rights – including rights to freedom from discrimination, to equality before the law, to be considered innocent until proven guilty, and to privacy (United Nations, 1948, Articles 2, 7, 11, 12).
The desire to prevent crime and identify criminals has historically led to problematic attempts to link biological features with criminality. An important example of this work comes from criminologist Cesare Lombroso, who popularized the “biological positivism” approach that attempted to classify humans based on their physical traits, including showing that there was a connection between these physical traits and criminality (White et al., 2017). Lombroso believed that criminals were born, and that certain physical features were representative of different stages of evolution (White et al., 2017). He attempted to identify such criminals by using a form of “criminal anthropology” in which he claimed that certain features in the face, which he argued were more like apes, had links to a person’s criminal inclination (Lombroso, 1911, p. 5). Lombroso argued that murderers and perverts were more likely to have large lips – which he observed is a trait common among Black people (Lombroso, 1911, p. 16). Other traits Lombroso indicated as suspect are big ears, tattoos, extra fingers or toes, and abnormal teeth (White et al., 2017).
Lombroso’s ideas were met with enthusiasm when they were developed in the early twentieth century, but a deeper look at biological positivism shows that these practices are deeply discriminatory and dehumanizing. In fact, these kinds of “criminal anthropology” have been used for decades, with negative human rights consequences. Many of the “criminal” traits identified by Lombroso were often present among people from lower socio-economic classes; the inability to access adequate dental and medical care, for instance, could explain things like irregular teeth patterns (Dunnage, 2017). Yet these stereotypes affected many different law enforcement and criminal justice systems, including in Italy. In 1958, the Scuola Superiore di Polizia police academy published guidelines about how tattoos symbolized “corruption” and “degeneracy” and could be used to identify criminals (Dunnage, 2017). Such stereotypes, fostered in part by Lombroso’s work as a criminologist, continue to impact policing today – including through the widespread use of racial profiling. A 2007 survey in Toronto, Canada, showed that Black citizens were more likely to be stopped by police than people of other backgrounds in the city (Wortley & Owusu-Bempal, 2011).
The damaging and lasting effects of biological positivism and Lombrosian ideologies can now be exacerbated by the development of AI technologies such as facial recognition, where humans can program their discriminatory beliefs into seemingly neutral technologies. Unlike humans, computers lack the capacity for common sense and rely completely on the data they have been programmed with – even if that data is influenced by human bias. For instance, research conducted at MIT Media Lab shows that facial recognition technology is 35% less accurate in identifying faces of females of color than on faces of white males, which means Black females could be more vulnerable to misidentification and being accused of crimes they did not commit (see Wang, 2018, p. 30). In cities like Toronto, where racial profiling is still used by law enforcement, the inclusion of racially biased AI could lead to further discrimination and damage the already fragile relationship between the Black community and the police (Wortley & Owusu-Bempal, 2011). Much like the Stanford experiment that aimed to identify homosexuals or the Italian connection between tattoos and criminality, a concern about AI use is that humans will use certain physical traits as “indicators” of perceived social deviance, thereby making harmful assumptions about innocence and guilt.
Despite these concerns, AI is increasingly used by law enforcement organizations – sometimes in partnership with private entities. Recently, the facial recognition app “Clearview AI” was banned in Canada for collecting more than three billion photos from the Internet without user consent and putting them into a police database, raising concerns about privacy and police overreach (Hill, 2021). This facial recognition app was used by 2,400 American law enforcement agencies and dozens of Canadian law agencies (Hill, 2021). It is notable that Black people are overrepresented in police databases, and that many law enforcement agencies do not have regulations in place to remove mugshots of innocent people in these databases once they have been acquitted (Bacchini & Lorusso, 2019). My concern is that the growing use of AI technology could cause more people to be racially profiled and accused of crimes they did not commit.
Facial recognition technologies are dangerous because they suffer from the same biases as their human programmers and can reinforce discriminatory law enforcement practices. While the promise of quick and efficient crime-solving with the help of physical traits has been appealing since Lombroso’s popularization of biological positivism, the truth is that these practices are discriminatory and run counter to human rights norms associated with equality and justice. AI technologies risk taking racist theories and applying them to today’s world on a massive scale, reinforcing stereotypes that foster racial discrimination and perhaps harm other groups, such as LGBTQ+ individuals and members of marginalized ethnic groups. It is imperative that we recognize facial recognition’s potential for harm and work to prevent people from being wrongfully targeted by law enforcement.
References
Bacchini, F., & Lorusso, L. (2019). Race, again: how face recognition technology reinforces racial discrimination. Journal of Information, Communication and Ethics in Society, 17(3): 321-335.
Dunnage, J. (2017). The legacy of Cesare Lombroso and criminal anthropology in the post-war Italian police: a study of the culture, narrative and memory of a post-fascist institution. Journal of Modern Italian Studies, 22(3): 365-384.
Gates, K. (2015). Can Computers Be Racist? Juniata Voices, 15, 5-17.
Hill, K. (2021, February 3). Clearview Facial Recognition App Ruled Illegal in Canada. The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2021/02/03/technology/clearview-ai-illegal-canada.html.
Lombroso, G. (1911). Criminal Man, According to the Classification of Cesare Lombroso. New York and London: The Knickerbocker Press. Retrieved from http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29895/29895-h/29895-h.htm.
United Nations. (1948). Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/en/about-us/universal-declaration-of-human-rights.
Wang, J. (2018). What’s in Your Face? Discrimination in Facial Recognition Technology. Georgetown University, Graduate School of Arts & Sciences, Thesis Paper.
White, R. D., Haines, F., & Eisler, L. D. (2017). Crime & Criminology: An Introduction to Theory, Third Canadian Edition. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Wortley, S., & Owusu-Bempah, A. (2011). The usual suspects: police stop and search practices
in Canada. Policing & Society, 21(4): 395-407.
© Copyright 2025 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/comment-the-dangers-of-facial-recognition-technologies/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
<item>
<title>Blockade as Reproductive Violence</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/blockade-as-reproductive-violence-reproductive-and-maternal-health-experiences-of-artsakhtsi-women/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/blockade-as-reproductive-violence-reproductive-and-maternal-health-experiences-of-artsakhtsi-women/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2025 01:40:23 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XV, Issue 1]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1487</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Sophia Medzoyan, Barnard College – Columbia University Blockade as Reproductive Violence: Reproductive and Maternal Health Experiences of Artsakhtsi Women [Download PDF] Azerbaijan blockaded the autonomous Republic of Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh) from December 2022 to September 2023, violating Artsakhtsis’ right to health by depriving them of medical care and life essentials. These conditions had a significant impact […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Sophia Medzoyan, Barnard College – Columbia University

Blockade as Reproductive Violence: Reproductive and Maternal Health Experiences of Artsakhtsi Women
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/Medzoyan_Blockade-as-Reproductive-Violence.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
Azerbaijan blockaded the autonomous Republic of Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh) from December 2022 to September 2023, violating Artsakhtsis’ right to health by depriving them of medical care and life essentials. These conditions had a significant impact on Artsakhtsis’ reproductive rights. In collaboration with the Society for Orphaned Armenian Relief (SOAR), I developed a qualitative survey to interview a group of women recently displaced from Artsakh who were either pregnant during the blockade or had given birth to at least one child after September 2020, the start of the 44-Day War. Survey responses construct a narrative of the challenges these Artsakhtsi women faced in meeting their reproductive and maternal health needs, including food insecurity, undermined access to medical resources and services, and chronic stress. Findings also highlight the various responses and coping strategies that respondents used to navigate these barriers, falling into three categories: a community-based system of care, home alternatives to items in shortage, and the prioritization of their children’s health over their own.
<a></a>In December 2022, the state of Azerbaijan initiated a blockade of the only road connecting the autonomous Republic of Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh) to Armenia. Lasting until the end of September 2023 – when Azerbaijan took control over Artsakh and displaced almost the entirety of Artsakh’s population of at least 100,000 people to Armenia – the blockade violated Artsakhtsis’ right to health<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1">[1]</a> by depriving them of medical care and essentials such as food, fuel, medicine, and hygiene products (Human Rights Defender of the Republic of Artsakh, 2023). These conditions had an especially significant impact on pregnant people and mothers by restricting their access to comprehensive maternal and reproductive health services, which I argue is a form of reproductive violence. Through this study, I examine the agentive decision-making processes of Artsakhtsi women regarding their reproductive and maternal health in response to the specific challenges posed by the blockade. In collaboration with the Society for Orphaned Armenian Relief (SOAR), I developed a qualitative survey to interview a group of women recently displaced from Artsakh who were either pregnant during the blockade or had given birth to at least one child after September 2020, the start of the 44-Day War. By analyzing the responses, I construct a narrative of the challenges these Artsakhtsi women faced in meeting their reproductive and maternal health needs, including food insecurity, undermined access to medical resources and services, and chronic stress. I then synthesize the various responses and coping strategies that respondents used to navigate these barriers into three categories: a community-based system of care, home alternatives to items in shortage, and the prioritization of their children’s health over their own.
Background and Literature Review
Armed Conflict and Health
Armed conflict has a significant impact on public health, not only by directly causing fatalities and injuries through violence, but also through the breakdown of health and social services and the displacement of populations (Murray et al., 2002). Inadequate or entirely absent data systems, social breakdown, forced migration, and underreporting or overreporting biases render conflict’s effects on public health extremely difficult to document. In addition to employing public health methodologies to mitigate these challenges, the personal stories of individuals affected by conflict can serve as an effective way to inform the general public and policymakers about the public health implications of a conflict and encourage them to take action (Levy & Sidel, 2016). This process is facilitated by the rise of social media, allowing conflict-affected populations to directly share their experiences with the world at large.
In terms of reproductive and maternal health, women’s (and other gender minorities’) bodies increasingly fall at the center of armed conflict as a tool of population control, ethnic cleansing, and/or genocide. Conflict politicizes, securitizes, and weaponizes women’s bodily and reproductive autonomy, as their sexual and reproductive health (SRH) becomes “not incidental to war but integral to military tactics and strategies” (Hedström & Herder, 2023, p. 2). Women tend to be most vulnerable to restrictions of their bodily autonomy during times of insecurity and crisis, often facing the denial of comprehensive SRH services in these moments of exacerbated need. Building on the Depletion through Social Reproduction (DSR) model, Maria Tanyag (2018) argues that women must often make sacrifices that subordinate their personal needs to that of the family and community during crises such as armed conflict in a phenomenon she terms “the feminized burden of care.” This process manifests in a lack of self-care, such as eating and drinking less during times of scarcity, heightenedmaternal death and pregnancy-related complications, increased exposure to infectious disease, and psychological trauma (Tanyag, 2018).
The weaponization of reproductive capacity during times of crisis can better be understood in terms of an understudied form of harm perpetuated by armed conflict – reproductive violence.<a></a> The Center for Reproductive Rights, an international human rights organization that advocates for the protection of reproductive rights in law, defines reproductive violence as “practices that directly or indirectly compromise and violate reproductive freedom, understood as the capacity of individuals to decide whether they want to have children or not and when, as well as their capacity to access sexual and reproductive health services and information such as contraception, safe abortion, and gynecological and obstetric health services” (Rosero Arteaga & Landazabal, 2020, p. 13). Under international humanitarian law, reproductive violence is often designated as a sub-category of sexual violence, which overlooks and minimizes the specific ways that reproductive violence perpetuates harm (Zammit Borda, 2024). Though they may sometimes overlap, reproductive violence does not always contain a sexual component. For example, forced sterilization is a non-sexual form of reproductive violence. Other acts of reproductive violence can include forced contraception or forced interruption of pregnancy, violence against pregnant people, coerced maternity or pregnancy resulting from rape, and obstacles to accessing reproductive health services (Rosero Arteaga & Landazabal, 2020, p. 15).
The Convention on Elimination of all Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW) expresses the clearest attempt to protect against reproductive violence in international law, recommending that during conflict, states have an obligation to secure “access to reproductive health and rights information…planning services, including emergency contraception; maternal health services, including antenatal care, skilled delivery services, prevention of vertical transmission and emergency obstetric care; safe abortion services; post-abortion care…and care to treat…complications of delivery or other reproductive health complications” (United Nations, 1979). Acts of reproductive violence may constitute genocide, crimes against humanity, and/or war crimes. In the context of genocide, reproductive violence is usually interpreted according to Article II(d) of the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (UN Genocide Convention): “imposing measures intended to prevent births within the group” (United Nations, 1948a). This clause has never been used as a foundation of prosecuting a state for genocide, perhaps because acts that do not directly result in death tend to be taken less seriously in genocide studies (Fein, 1999).
The Blockade of Artsakh: Reproductive Violence in Action
<a></a>Located in the South Caucasus, the region known as Artsakh (also referred to by its Russo-Turkish toponym, Nagorno-Karabakh) has cultivated its own distinctive identity and maintained a relative degree of autonomy despite the expansionist aspirations of various empires across the centuries. Considered a province of Greater Armenia in ancient and medieval times, Artsakh has been inhabited by ethnic Armenians for most of known history, with the Armenian population constituting a majority in the early twentieth century (Chorbajian et al., 1995, p. xi, 53). Over the years, the Armenians of Artsakh both engaged with and resisted the non-Armenian elements around them, especially the Caucasian Albanians, a separate ethnic group that eventually disappeared via assimilation after the Middle Ages (Gippert & Dum-Tragut, 2023). Though Artsakhtsis consider themselves Armenians, they speak their own dialect of the Armenian language, practice their own unique cultural traditions, and celebrate their own distinctive architecture and cultural heritage sites, all of which set them apart from their counterparts in the Republic of Armenia, which lies to the west of Artsakh (CivilNet, 2024).
Following the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, the Republic of Artsakh operated as a de facto independent state despite its internationally unrecognized status (Chaliand, 1995). Since then, Artsakh became embroiled in multiple conflicts with neighboring Azerbaijan, which opposed Artsakh’s declaration of independence. Spanning decades, this conflict culminated in Azerbaijan’s total blockade of the only road connecting Artsakh to Armenia from December 2022 to September 2023, when the Azerbaijani military invaded and occupied Artsakh, displacing nearly the entire population of 100,000 people (United Nations, 2023). Over the period of this nine-month blockade, the state of Azerbaijan violated Artsakhtsi Armenians’ right to access SRH services by preventing the flow of medicine, food, fuel, hygiene supplies, and other necessities in or out of Artsakh (Human Rights Defender of the Republic of Artsakh, 2023). This crisis came on the heels of the devastating 44-Day War between Azerbaijan and Artsakh in 2020, which was a conflict that displaced more than 90,000 Artsakhtsi Armenians and placed the healthcare system under enormous strain, exacerbated by the COVID-19 pandemic (Rostomian et al., 2023).
Experts contend that the blockade constitutes genocidal violence, as defined by international law. Luis Moreno Ocampo, former prosecutor of the International Criminal Court, released a report condemning Azerbaijan for committing genocide by starvation against Artsakhtsi Armenians via the blockade. He cited the UN Genocide Conventions’s Article II(c): “Deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to bring about its physical destruction in whole or in part” (Ocampo, 2023; see also United Nations, 1948a). Similarly, the Lemkin Institute for Genocide Prevention (2023) also released a report about how the blockade imposed conditions of starvation and deprivation of necessities, in conjunction with Azerbaijan’s genocidal rhetoric, thereby showing genocidal intent.
Though data collection on the public health implications of the blockade was minimal, what limited information does exist suggests that the blockade had a particularly detrimental effect on Artsakhtsis’ maternal and reproductive health. A report released by the Human Rights Defender of the Republic of Arstakh (2023) during the blockade cites an acute shortage of medicine and infant formula and increased reproductive risks stemming from blockade-induced stress and fears. Artsakh’s Ministry of Health recorded anemia in over 90% of pregnant people and an increase in medically induced abortion (MOH of Artsakh Rep, 2023), as well as a tripling of early miscarriage rates (CivilNet, 2023).
This study provides qualitative data to describe and document the agentive decision-making processes and coping behaviors of Artsakhtsi Armenians seeking to meet their maternal and reproductive-health related needs throughout the crisis. It aims to fill gaps left by the inadequate data collection administered during the blockade, and to document displacement by amplifying the personal narratives of Artsakhtsi Armenians who experienced the effects of the blockade firsthand. The Armenian population is an underrepresented population in public health literature, despite experiencing extensive conflict in recent history; the only existing study on the effects of conflict in Artsakh on maternal health was conducted by Lara Rostomian et al. (2023) following the 2020 War and was used as a reference point for the design of this study.
Methods
I conducted qualitative data collection in collaboration with the Society for Orphaned Armenian Relief (SOAR) by administering surveys of 13 open-ended questions to a group of 21 women displaced from Artsakh to Armenia. SOAR is a U.S.-based non-profit organization whose primary focus is providing humanitarian aid to orphaned Armenian children internationally. Following the mass displacement from Artsakh, SOAR allocated resources to support displaced Artsakhtsi families through the Families of Fallen Soldiers Relief Fund and the Artsakh Families Fund (Society for Orphaned Armenian Relief, n.d.). SOAR also recently initiated the Maternal and Newborn Health Fund, which works to ensure that vulnerable mothers in Armenia receive quality care during pregnancy and childbirth. The Maternal Fund expanded to support expecting mothers from Artsakh once they arrived in Armenia post-displacement (Society for Orphaned Armenian Relief, 2024).
The subject population, identified through SOAR’s databases from these three humanitarian funds, consisted of Artsakhtsi women displaced from Artsakh to Armenia who were either pregnant during the blockade or who had given birth since September 2020, the beginning of the 44-Day War. This set of criteria assured that all respondents would likely have had some contact with Artsakh’s maternal and reproductive health care system during the period of the blockade from December 2022 through September 2023. At the time the surveys were administered, the respondents ranged in age from 21 to 42, with a mean age of 28. Eight were pregnant at some point during the blockade, two of whom miscarried, and an additional three became pregnant only after their displacement to Armenia. The respondents had resettled in various locations across Armenia, primarily Gyumri and Vanadzor but also Yerevan, Artashat, and Gharibjanyan. The women ranged from expecting their first child to having a total of six children.
The survey instrument focuses on their lived experiences, decision-making, and prioritization processes regarding their reproductive and maternal health during the blockade. I intentionally developed the questions to engage with the respondents as active agents rather than passive victims of the crisis. Most of the survey questions were structured as either open-ended questions or yes-or-no questions with probes encouraging an extended response.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2">[2]</a> The survey instrument and consent form assuring voluntary participation and confidentiality were both developed in English. SOAR provided translation support to translate both into Eastern Armenian, the language spoken in the Republic of Armenia and the one most similar to the unique dialect spoken by Artsakhtsi Armenians. The surveys were then administered over the phone by a social worker affiliated with SOAR who lives in Armenia and is a native speaker of Eastern Armenian. She chose to conduct the surveys by phone to minimize disruption to the respondents, as nearly all the respondents had young children and could not easily attend an in-person session. The surveys took between 15 and 45 minutes to administer, including reading the consent form. The interviewer delivered the questions sensitively with the understanding that nearly all the respondents had undergone recent traumatic experiences. Altogether, she administered a total of 25 surveys, but four of the respondents did not fit the criteria of having given birth since September 2020, so their responses were discounted, leaving 21 respondents. Of the 25 women contacted to be surveyed, none declined participation. After conducting each survey, the interviewer then translated the responses from Eastern Armenian into English.
I analyzed the responses using NVivo qualitative software to code each response according to conceptual categories and topics formulated through the literature review, creating more codes when necessary.<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3">[3]</a> In order to further contextualize the responses with other firsthand accounts, I triangulated the data with additional information collected from social media posts made by Artsakhtsis on Twitter/X throughout the blockade and displacement. These posts help to fill in the gaps left by the lack of formal data collection during the crisis and offer a humanizing account of day-to-day life under the blockade. In determining patterns among categories, I identified the barriers that respondents faced most frequently in meeting their reproductive and maternal health needs, and how they responded to these barriers in terms of coping strategies, alternative means of seeking aid, and decision-making.
Findings: Barriers to Meeting SRH Needs
Food Insecurity
Nearly every respondent described experiencing food insecurity as a significant challenge to their maternal and reproductive health during the blockade. Several recalled waiting in queues outside bakeries and stores for hours, only to return home empty-handed. Antenatal vitamins and baby food were nearly impossible to find. One respondent’s doctor encouraged her to breastfeed her newborn despite her own inadequate diet. She relied on her home’s vegetable garden for fresh produce:
We gathered potato and zucchini from our small garden. That was good for my newborn child, as he started to taste different food besides milk. In recent months I needed sweet tea, but there was no sugar. I needed it to have milk for the baby. I had terrible dizziness that last period of the blockade, especially when I had to stand in long queues.
Several respondents experienced pregnancy complications or reproductive health issues as a direct result of the food shortages. One respondent who miscarried during the blockade specifically attributed her miscarriage to lack of food and vitamins. Another described having to cease a fertility treatment she was undergoing because of how difficult it was to find food during the blockade. Mothers with young children neglected their own health to be able to feed their children, with one lamenting: “There was nothing to eat. Even if we had something, we left it for the child to eat and waited aside. We were terribly exhausted.”
<h3 class="wp-block-heading">Undermined Access to Medical Resources and Services</h3>
Lack of access to medicine, hospitals, and doctor’s offices throughout the blockade served as another significant challenge to the respondents’ maternal and reproductive health. A common experience among the respondents was being unable to locate medicine their doctors prescribed them in pharmacies. One respondent recalled: “When I was pregnant, I had a bad backache and the doctor told me to take ‘Duphaston’ medicine. I could not find it anywhere.” Duphaston, a hormonal medication, is typically prescribed to pregnant people suffering from a progesterone deficiency to prevent miscarriage or premature birth (FamiCord Suisse, 2023). Another described how her inability to access necessary medicine prevented her from conceiving a child in the first place:
Medicine could not be found at all. If we managed to find some in tricky ways, that was too expensive, and sometimes we could not get cars to take us there. I wanted to get pregnant for the second time, but I needed different analyses, and it was not possible. Then, some medicine would be needed that could not be found.
In addition to the scarcity of medicine, respondents shared their struggles locating personal hygiene products such as soap, baby diapers, and menstrual products in stores. A video posted on X after just one month of the blockade shows clothes hung out to dry at night in Stepanakert, Artsakh’s capital city, accompanied by the caption: “I didn’t expect a woman could cry for lack of washing powder. ‘No more baby diapers…I didn’t have any powder for laundry’” (Vanyan, 2023). Respondents also had difficulty obtaining hot water due to frequent electricity cuts and the fuel shortage.
Nearly every respondent spoke about having to walk far distances to reach hospitals and doctor’s offices, as the fuel shortage meant that driving was a luxury few could afford. This was extremely difficult for pregnant people to navigate. As one recalled, “I could attend antenatal check-ups. I went there on foot. But it was too far away, and I got tired. I had pain in my feet and back.” The situation caused excessive worry among mothers, as they feared experiencing an emergency and being unable to reach a hospital in time, especially if their children were to fall ill. The lack of accessibility was exacerbated for those living in the villages.
Additionally, respondents shared that the lack of medical specialists in Artsakh meant that many procedures and operations had to be postponed, with the hope that they could be carried out in the better-equipped medical facilities in Armenia. This process was easier toward the beginning of the blockade, when the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC) was still able to transport patients to Armenia. However, this was no longer possible after the government Azerbaijan began blocking ICRC vehicles traveling along the Lachin Corridor in mid-July 2023 (Hakobyan, 2023). One respondent worried: “My main concern was to get from there [Artsakh] alive; my Cesarean section was to be done. I was afraid I would not manage to have a child.”
Chronic Stress
Nearly every respondent mentioned experiencing stress and anxiety while living through the blockade and displacement. Several spoke about loved ones lost to recent conflict, including the 44-Day War in 2020, or how much they missed their homes in Artsakh. When discussing pregnancy complications – either their own or that of community members – respondents cited chronic stress as a suspected cause of miscarriage, premature delivery, and gestational diabetes. One respondent noted: “At the early stages of the blockade, nearly beginning from the fifteenth day of it, many pregnant women appeared to be in hospitals because of the stress and lack of food. I was one of them. I was kept under care in order not to give birth before the supposed date.” Mothers also blamed themselves for not being able to meet their children’s needs during the blockade. One respondent shared: “The child got ill, and we blamed ourselves because the child was suffering and asking for help, and we could do nothing.” For many, this sense of helplessness continued even after the displacement to Armenia, as resettled Artsakhtsis struggled to make ends meet while navigating the challenges of rehousing and integration. Those who underwent especially traumatic experiences continue to grapple with feelings of profound grief and loss, including one respondent who lost both her husband and son in the Berkadzor fuel depot explosion – a devastating blast that claimed the lives of over two hundred Artsakhtsis in the frantic exodus out of Artsakh.
Stress, trauma, and anxiety also had a significant impact on fertility desires and decisions about reproduction. While some respondents expressed their continued desire to create a family and repopulate after so much loss, roughly half of the women surveyed expressed the opposite sentiment. One respondent explained the reluctance to bear children following the trauma of the past few years, saying: “Many are affected by the war and the blockade, as they are afraid to have boys because they will become soldiers.” The same individual shared that she chose to terminate a pregnancy during the blockade because of her fears of being pregnant during that time. Another respondent described her persistent anxiety surrounding pregnancy throughout the blockade:
I thought about what would happen if I got pregnant in that situation. I know some different cases about pregnancies: a child was born ill, the other with less weight, another one was born dead. Some children were miscarried. I was afraid of those cases. The poor children had no chance to grow in their mothers’ wombs.<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4">[4]</a>
In summary, the blockade imposed numerous challenges including shortages of food, medicine, and hygiene products; hospitals made unreachable due to lack of transportation; medical operations postponed indefinitely; and a pervasive sense of stress and anxiety. These barriers all restricted Artsakhtsis’ abilities to effectively access basic SRH services, treat reproductive and maternal health complications, and make agentive decisions about reproduction.
Findings: Responses and Coping Strategies
Community-Based Care
<a></a>In describing how they navigated these challenges, respondents illustrate a common theme of turning to their own local communities as a resource to better care for their maternal and reproductive health. I choose to broadly define this pattern as “community-based care” to reflect the sense of communal support and continuous communication as a primary means of coping with and mitigating the various difficulties caused by the blockade.
Community-based care strategies were used to survive having inadequate food and medical supplies, for instance. To cope with the food shortages, neighbors traded with each other – such as exchanging oil for salt – and, as one respondent described it, “shar[ing] with each other all we had.” A photo posted on X just prior to the displacement shows two women sharing their small harvests of berries and walnuts through the fence separating their home gardens (Sargsyan, 2023c). When alternative sources of aid became available, including aid packages provided by the government or a local hospital, social media ensured the quick distribution of information among parents. One respondent recalled learning about the availability of food packages through a maternity hospital’s Facebook page. Another described the chaos this resulted in: “If one heard that the Red Cross brought a kind of medicine to a pharmacy, the whole Artsakh seemed to be there in the queues.”
To navigate the lack of accessible medical services, people enacted strategies to connect virtually and identify alternative sources of medical care. One respondent recalled calling her doctor by phone instead of visiting in person, after the physician agreed to conduct check-ups remotely so the patient would not have to walk a long distance. Another respondent, unable to reach hospitals without a means of transportation, came to rely on a local nurse who lived nearby and was able to provide her with an alternative source of medical support as needed.
Activism was another key response to the blockade and its threats to human rights. Artsakhtsi communities organized themselves throughout the blockade to publicize the challenges they faced through activism. While describing her decision-making processes during the blockade, one mother spoke about a protest she participated in:
I remember a protest action organized by parents who became very hopeless. I also took part there. The government promised to think about our problems, but nothing was done. The protest action was organized by those parents who found it impossible to struggle with having nothing during those days: we had no food to feed the children and the elderly.
These protests, organized primarily by mothers, occurred more than once throughout the blockade and are extensively documented on social media. On Day 29 of the blockade, mothers organized outside the ICRC headquarters to demand international action to end the siege, bearing signs in English including, “Artsakh is under humanitarian crisis” (Sargsyan, 2023a). Later, on April 7 – Armenian “Motherhood and Beauty Day” – the Artsakh Mothers’ Club organized another protest calling for an end to the blockade and supporting Artsakh’s right to self-determination. In photos posted on X, women carried signs in Armenian that read, “We don’t want to become widows,” “Artsakh’s self-determination is the only alternative” (Beglaryan, 2023), and “We are not giving up” (Ghavalyan, 2023). Later, on 1 August 2023, more than 100 mothers and their children gathered in protest in Stepanakert’s Renaissance Square to share their concerns with the government of Artsakh (Sargsyan, 2023b).
In all these examples, women – and in particular, mothers – were at the forefront of the action, centering the specific challenges they faced in their role as caregivers and demanding that their government, and the world at large, uphold their human rights. Through activism, these Artsakhtsi women demonstrated not only their commitment to looking out for each other as a group, but also their implicit understanding of how the blockade systematically violated Artsakhtsis’ rights along gendered lines.
Coping with Shortages and Prioritizing Children’s Well-Being
<a></a>Devising creative home remedies served as another prominent coping strategy in response to chronic shortage, often using whatever materials were on hand. One respondent described inventing alternatives for food items that were in short supply, which became increasingly difficult as the blockade progressed: “Instead of oil, we used animal fat…We squeezed salt from soil. But in the last months when we had no salt and oil, nothing could be cooked. We just boiled everything and ate. There was little flour. The bread that was given in queues was made with mixed flour with wheat bran.” Though many of the impossible-to-find medications had no substitute, people turned to home remedies as alternatives whenever possible. One mother described a time that her child fell ill, and lacking antibiotics, she used “homemade stuff – hot water, vinegar” to diminish the fever. When it came to personal hygiene products, women turned to even more creative methods: “We could somehow find alternative solutions for menstrual products and pampers [diapers].<a href="#_ftn5" id="_ftnref5">[5]</a> We did not wash our clothes and hair for days. There were no soaps and shampoos. Our hair got too dry. We used to wash the dishes with soil.”<a></a>
Finally, many mothers expressed that throughout the blockade, they consistently prioritized their children’s health (or, in some cases, their unborn child’s health) over their own as a coping strategy to allocate what resources they did have access to. Most shared that this reflected a change in priorities when compared to their lives pre-blockade. As one respondent described it: “Honestly, during the blockade, we thought about our children more than about ourselves.” Another echoed a similar sentiment: “After my daughter’s birth, the priorities were changed. My child’s health is important more than anything…As a mother I stopped paying attention to my eating. I happened to eat nothing, but I kept bread for my child.” This approach clearly took a toll on the mothers’ own health, with one mother stating outright that following the displacement to Armenia, “[t]here is a need to reinforce the importance of self-care and health [for Artsakhtsi women]. I need to be healthy to take care of my children. Because no one else can do it better for my own children.”
Altogether, these various coping strategies and responses to the blockade – including various manifestations of community-based care and advocacy, homemade alternatives, and the prioritization of children’s needs – reflect a marked change in Artsakhtsi women’s decision-making regarding their reproductive and maternal health.
Discussion and Conclusion
Findings suggest that shortage (of food, medicine, and hygiene products), the difficulty of physically accessing medical care, and persistent psychological stress all served as significant barriers to Artsakhtsi women meeting their maternal and reproductive health needs during the blockade. These conditions fall well within Center for Reproductive Rights’ definition of reproductive violence, which includes “obstacles to accessing reproductive health services” (Rosero Arteaga & Landazabal, 2020), as well as demonstrating a clear violation of Artsakhtsis’ right to access SRH services as outlined by CEDAW (United Nations, 1979). However, Artsakhtsi mothers are not passive victims of their circumstances: they organized protests to call attention to the humanitarian situation, devised homemade remedies and supplies from whatever they had on hand, shared useful information and resources with each other, and sought additional health support from their local communities.
By prioritizing their children’s health needs and disregarding self-care, the Artsakhtsi women surveyed generally follow Tanyag’s (2018) model of the feminized burden of care – when responsibility to maintain households and communities primarily falls upon women during times of crisis, including through sacrifices such as not eating adequately in the face of food shortages. This process tends to result in short-term survival at the expense of long-term depletion. A needs assessment conducted by the Women’s Resource Center of Armenia on women displaced from Artsakh alludes to this burden: “Many women…lacked telephonic communication with the adult men from their families who were actively engaged in the self-defense battles against Azerbaijan. During this period, the entire responsibility for the family and the decision-making process fell upon the women” (WRC Armenia, 2024). This phenomenon indicates a greater need for psychological and social support for Artsakhtsi mothers as they resettle in Armenia, with an emphasis on sustainable self-care practices centered on replenishment rather than further self-sacrifice. Though the government of Armenia has extended the right to free antenatal and pediatric care to Artsakhtsi women in the aftermath of the blockade and displacement (Constantine, 2024), the findings documented here suggest the need for a specific focus on mental and physical health support for mothers after navigating such stressful conditions.
Moving forward, areas for continued research include focusing on the role of sociodemographic factors pre-displacement, particularly with respect to urban and rural residence, when it came to accessing SRH services and navigating the challenges posed by the Artsakh blockade. Future studies might investigate respondents’ locality within Artsakh, including factors such as families who experienced displacement within Artsakh multiple times since the 2020 War, when Azerbaijan invaded and occupied a large swathe of territory, as well as the vastly disparate experiences between Artsakhtsi Armenians who resided in Stepanakert and other urban centers compared to those who lived in more remote villages. Locality likely played a critical role in determining the accessibility of medical services, as villagers would have to travel longer distances to seek care in the cities.
In conclusion, this study is the first to investigate not only the impact of the Artsakh blockade and displacement on maternal and reproductive health, but also the agentive decision-making processes and coping strategies of Artsakh women while navigating these challenges. By examining how the blockade violated the right to safely access comprehensive maternal and reproductive services, it contributes to pre-existing literature exposing the myriad ways that armed conflict perpetuates reproductive violence, as well as adding to the limited literature available that applies this framework to the Armenian population of Artsakh. Moreover, as experts argue that the blockade itself was an act of genocide according to international law (Moreno Ocampo, 2023; Lemkin Institute for Genocide Prevention, 2023), studies like this one are critical to amplifying the lived experiences of Artsakhtsis themselves and demonstrating how the conditions induced by the blockade directly restricted the group’s ability to reproduce. In sharing their stories, this study memorializes both their pain and resilience in the face of such pervasive reproductive violence. Through it all, as one respondent described: “We passed through many fears, and from the psychological point of view, we got stronger.”
Appendix A
<a></a><a></a><a></a>The following are the English-language translations of the questions and probes contained within the survey instrument:
<ol start="1" class="wp-block-list">
<li>How many children do you have? Please list their gender and date of birth.</li>
<li>Do you feel that your priorities as a mother, or expecting mother, changed after December 2022?
<ol start="1" style="list-style-type:lower-alpha" class="wp-block-list">
<li>No [SKIP TO Q3]</li>
<li>Yes [PLEASE EXPLAIN BELOW]</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>Which resources or services with regard to your maternal and reproductive health did you prioritize throughout the blockade and your displacement to Armenia?</li>
<li>What was your decision-making process when it came to receiving or seeking healthcare services for mothers during the blockade? What were some of the factors that affected your decision-making?</li>
<li>Did you have difficulty meeting any of your reproductive or maternal health-related needs during the blockade?
<ol start="1" style="list-style-type:lower-alpha" class="wp-block-list">
<li> No [SKIP TO Q7]</li>
<li>Yes [PLEASE EXPLAIN BELOW]</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>How big of a barrier, ranked from 1 (not a barrier) to 5 (a significant barrier), were each of the following when it came to meeting the reproductive or maternal health-related needs that you described above?
<ol start="1" style="list-style-type:lower-alpha" class="wp-block-list">
<li>Inability to get to a doctor’s office or a hospital due to lack of transportation</li>
<li>Healthcare providers’ inability to provide certain services, operations, supplies, or medicines due to shortages</li>
<li>Lack of access to hygiene products, such as soap, baby diapers, menstrual products</li>
<li>Lack of access to food or nutritional products, including baby formula, baby food, antenatal vitamins</li>
<li>Lack of access to other basic household items such as hot water, electricity, fuel</li>
<li>Other</li>
</ol>
</li>
</ol>
Would you like to share your reasoning behind any of these rankings?
a.     No [SKIP TO Q7]
b.     Yes [PLEASE SHARE BELOW]
<ol start="7" class="wp-block-list">
<li>IF APPLICABLE: Were you able to attend regular antenatal, post-natal, and infant wellness check-ups throughout the blockade?
<ol start="1" style="list-style-type:lower-alpha" class="wp-block-list">
<li>No [PROBE: Please describe any disruptions to your care: what was the cause of the disruption, and for how long did it impact your care?]</li>
<li>Yes [SKIP TO Q8]</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>Were there any alternative sources of care—institutions, programs, organizations, community spaces—that were able to support you as a mother during this time?
<ol start="1" style="list-style-type:lower-alpha" class="wp-block-list">
<li>No [SKIP TO Q9]</li>
<li>Yes [PROBE: What resources did they provide? How did they address your needs? How did you learn about and gain access to these groups or resources?]</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>Do you feel that the instability in Artsakh led to any hesitancy within the community about having children during this time? For example, have community members expressed the desire to not have children, or wait to have children, because of the situation?
<ol start="1" style="list-style-type:lower-alpha" class="wp-block-list">
<li> No [SKIP TO Q10]</li>
<li>Yes [PROBE: Are you aware of any community members who chose to terminate a pregnancy during the blockade?]</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>At this point in time, do you anticipate or plan on having more children in the future? How have your experiences living through the blockade and displacement impacted your feelings about this?</li>
<li>Do you feel that your experiences during the 2020 Artsakh War influenced your decision-making and prioritization of services, resources, and care during the 2023 blockade and displacement?
<ol start="1" style="list-style-type:lower-alpha" class="wp-block-list">
<li>No [SKIP TO Q12]</li>
<li>Yes [PLEASE EXPLAIN BELOW]</li>
</ol>
</li>
<li>Going forward, what resources, services, or other forms of care do you consider most important to supporting and empowering Artsakh women resettling in Armenia in terms of reproductive and maternal health?</li>
<li>Is there anything else you wish to share at this time?</li>
</ol>
Appendix B<a></a>
<figure class="wp-block-table"><table class="has-fixed-layout"><tbody><tr><td>Code</td><td>References</td></tr><tr><td>Aid and Alternative Solutions</td><td>15</td></tr><tr><td>Breastfeeding</td><td>3</td></tr><tr><td>Clothes (Maternity, Baby)</td><td>4</td></tr><tr><td>Desire for Peace</td><td>4</td></tr><tr><td>Desire to Create Family</td><td>9</td></tr><tr><td>Desire to Return to Artsakh</td><td>2</td></tr><tr><td>Issues with Electricity</td><td>9</td></tr><tr><td>Issues with Resettlement</td><td>12</td></tr><tr><td>Issues with Transportation</td><td>25</td></tr><tr><td>Medicine, Pharmacies, Doctors</td><td>37</td></tr><tr><td>Nutrition</td><td>38</td></tr><tr><td>Operations, Treatment Performed During Blockade</td><td>8</td></tr><tr><td>Personal Hygiene</td><td>13</td></tr><tr><td>Pregnancy, Birth Complications</td><td>9</td></tr><tr><td>Prioritization of Child and Child’s Health</td><td>14</td></tr><tr><td>Protest Action, Organizing</td><td>9</td></tr><tr><td>Psychological Stress, Trauma, Anxiety</td><td>27</td></tr><tr><td>Reluctance to Bear Children</td><td>10</td></tr><tr><td>Repopulation Following Displacement</td><td>14</td></tr><tr><td>School, Education</td><td>4</td></tr><tr><td>Screening and Preventative Measures</td><td>1</td></tr><tr><td>Self-Care (Mothers)</td><td>3</td></tr><tr><td>Social Media Communication</td><td>2</td></tr></tbody></table></figure>
 I used the following codes on the qualitative software NVivo 14 to organize and categorize the data, including both the survey responses and review of social media posts. The number of references reflects how many data points were coded under that name.
References
Beglaryan, Artak [@Artak_Beglaryan]. (2023, April 7). Today, on Armenian Mother’s Day, the Women of Artsakh, with the Artsakh Mother’s Club, once again lead calls on the international community to take action…X. Retrieved from https://x.com/Artak_Beglaryan/status/1644378591025659905.
Chaliand, G. (1995). Preface. In L. Chorbajian, P. Donabedian, & C. Mutafian (Eds.), The Caucasian Knot: The History and Politics of Nagorno-Karabagh (pp. xi-xiv). London: Zed Books.
CivilNet. (2023, July 20). Miscarriages surge in Karabakh amid widespread food shortages. Retrieved from https://www.civilnet.am/en/news/745150/miscarriages-surge-in-karabakh-amid-widespread-food-shortages/.
CivilNet. (2024, August 14). Forcibly displaced from Artsakh, they work to preserve dialect despite discrimination. Retrieved from https://www.civilnet.am/en/news/793263/forcibly-displaced-from-artsakh-they-work-to-preserve-dialect-despite-discrimination/.
Constantine, L. L. (2024, June). Feeding Armenia. AGBU Insider. Retrieved from https://agbu.org/success-without-borders/feeding-armenia.
FamiCord Suisse. (2023, May 31). Duphaston in pregnancy—Indications and effects of the medicinal product. Retrieved from https://famicord.lu/en/pregnancy-zone-2/schwangerschaftsinformationen/duphaston-in-der-schwangerschaft-indikationen-und-wirkungen-des-arzneimittels.
Fein, H. (1999). Genocide and gender: The uses of women and group destiny. Journal of Genocide Research, 1(1): 43–63.
Ghavalyan, Anush [@aghavalyan]. (2023, April 7). We don’t give up!  Artsakh women’s message to the world on the Azerbaijan’s ongoing 4-month illegal and inhumane blockade of Nagorno-Karabakh aiming at ethnically…X. Retrieved from https://x.com/aghavalyan/status/1644295597304733697.
Gippert, J., & Dum-Tragut, J. (2023). Preface. In Caucasian Albania: An International Handbook, edited by J. Gippert and J. Dum-Tragut, pp. v–xii. Berlin: De Gruyter Mouton.
Hakobyan, S. (2024, June 12). The born and the unborn in the blockade. Media Max. Retrieved from https://mediamax.am/en/news/special-report/51902/.
Hedström, J., & Herder, T. (2023). Women’s sexual and reproductive health in war and conflict: Are we seeing the full picture? Global Health Action, 16(1). Retrieved from https://www.proquest.com/ibss/docview/2915453073/5A5D9D8E18D64A4BPQ/2?accountid=10226&sourcetype=Scholarly%20Journals.
Human Rights Defender of the Republic of Artsakh. (2023). 150 Days: Report on the Violations of Individual and Collective Rights as a Result of Azerbaijan’s Blockade of Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh). Retrieved from https://web.archive.org/web/20230513180351/https://artsakhombuds.am/en/document/1022.
Lemkin Institute for Genocide Prevention. (2023). Risk Factors and Indicators of the Crime of Genocide in the Republic of Artsakh: Applying the UN Framework of Analysis for Atrocity Crimes to the Nagorno-Karabakh Conflict. Retrieved from https://5d6eef0c-085c-40d1-8ffb-7cddabd099b3.usrfiles.com/ugd/9bc553_2e3babd9d7834d7fbcfa262f88c9fa74.pdf.
Levy, B. S., & Sidel, V. W. (2016). Documenting the Effects of Armed Conflict on Population Health. Annual Review of Public Health, 37: 205–218.
MOH of Artsakh Rep. (2023, August 8). Comprehensive Siege of Artsakh Leads to Significant Increase in Mortality and Morbidity Rates.Facebook. Retrieved from https://www.facebook.com/100064678300433/posts/pfbid0vyAPoGaY3GL96igLsYWRt9z3fuvaF3Q9ahhn9Z3Dr3vC8QDPzq6bqMtv3QrpGHHTl/.
Moreno Ocampo, L. (2023). Expert Opinion: Genocide Against Armenians in 2023. Retrieved from https://luismorenoocampo.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/Armenia-Report-Expert-Opinion.pdf?utm_source=Web&utm_medium=Landing&utm_campaign=Downloads.
Murray, C. J. L., King, G., Lopez, A. D., Tomijima, N., & Krug, E. G. (2002). Armed conflict as a public health problem. The BMJ, 324(7333): 346–349.
Rosero Arteaga, C., & Riaño Landazabal, J. F. (2020). An Examination of Reproductive Violence Against Women and Girls During the Armed Conflict in Colombia. Center for Reproductive Rights. Retrieved from https://reproductiverights.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/09/ENG-FULL-Reproductive-Violence-Conflict-Colombia.pdf.
Rostomian, L., Chiloyan, A., Hentschel, E., & Messerlian, C. (2023). Effects of armed conflict on maternal and infant health: A mixed-methods study of Armenia and the 2020 Nagorno-Karabakh war. BMJ Open, 13(12). Retrieved from https://doi.org/10.1136/bmjopen-2023-076171.
Sargsyan, Siranush [@SiranushSargsy1]. (2023a, January 9). A group of women with their children are protesting in front of the ICRC #ArtsakhBlockade. X. Retrieved from https://x.com/SiranushSargsy1/status/1612363038727852032.
Sargsyan, Siranush [@SiranushSargsy1]. (2023b, August 1). Today, over 100 mothers, along with their kids, gathered in Renaissance Square and met with the President and State Minister, seeking answers to pressing concerns… X. Retrieved from https://x.com/SiranushSargsy1/status/1686443059079237653.
Sargsyan, Siranush [@SiranushSargsy1]. (2023c, September 24). Even through the toughest of times, through blockades and wars, Armenians continue to share their small amounts of garden harvest. Two women exchange berries… X. Retrieved from https://x.com/SiranushSargsy1/status/1705921319580148033.
Society for Orphaned Armenian Relief (SOAR). (n.d.). Major Projects. Retrieved from https://www.soar-us.org/major-projects/.
Society for Orphaned Armenian Relief (SOAR). (2024). The Maternal and Newborn Health Fund. Retrieved from https://www.soar-us.org/the-maternal-and-newborn-health-fund/.
Tanyag, M. (2018). Depleting fragile bodies: The political economy of sexual and reproductive health in crisis situations. Review of International Studies, 44(4): 654–671.
United Nations. (1948a). Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of
Genocide. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/en/genocideprevention/documents/atrocity-crimes/Doc.1_Convention%20on%20the%20Prevention%20and%20Punishment%20of%20the%20Crime%20of%20Genocide.pdf.
United Nations. (1948b). Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/en/about-us/universal-declaration-of-human-rights.
United Nations. (1979). Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women. Retrieved from https://www.ohchr.org/en/instruments-mechanisms/instruments/convention-elimination-all-forms-discrimination-against-women.
United Nations. (2023, October 2). UN Karabakh mission told ‘sudden’ exodus means as few as 50 ethnic Armenians may remain. Retrieved from https://news.un.org/en/story/2023/10/1141782.
Vanyan, Marut [@marutvanian]. (2023, January 13). I didn’t expected a woman could cry for lack of washing powder. “No more baby diapers, at least I didn’t have any powder for laundry.” Good evening from Stepanakert… X. Retrieved from https://x.com/marutvanian/status/1613921467581751296.
WRC Armenia. (2024). Needs Assessment of Forced Displaced Women from Artsakh (Nagorno-Karabakh) Residing in Shelters. Retrieved from https://womenofarmenia.org/wp-content/uploads/2024/01/Needs-assesment-1.pdf.
Zammit Borda, A. (2024). Putting Reproductive Violence on the Agenda: A Case Study of the Yazidis. Journal of Genocide Research, 26(1): 94–114.
© Copyright 2025 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
<hr class="wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity" />
<a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1">[1]</a> The “right to health” is outlined under various international human rights frameworks and laws, including the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Article 25.1 of the UDHR asserts that everyone has the right to “a standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of himself and his family,” including food and medical care. Notably, Article 25.2 contends that motherhood and childhood are entitled “special care and assistance” (United Nations, 1948b).
<a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2">[2]</a> See Appendix A.
<a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3">[3]</a> See Appendix B.
<a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4">[4]</a> Because of these worries, this respondent decided not to conceive a child at that time.
<a href="#_ftnref5" id="_ftn5">[5]</a> The respondent did not specify what she meant by “alternative solutions,” but according to a report released by the Human Rights Defender of the Republic of Artsakh (2023), women resorted to using “rags, napkins, bandages, or even cotton wool for their female hygiene” throughout the blockade. Another respondent explained how she and her sister-in-law invented a new kind of washing powder to do their laundry by combining soap and soda water.
<hr class="wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity" />
Author’s acknowledgement: I’d like to thank my faculty mentor, Dr. Alison Vacca, for all her support and guidance throughout this project. I am eternally grateful to the Society of Orphaned Armenian Relief (SOAR) for their invaluable help in connecting with respondents, administering the surveys, and translating between Armenian and English. Finally, a special thank you to the Laidlaw Foundation for their generous support of Barnard students.
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/blockade-as-reproductive-violence-reproductive-and-maternal-health-experiences-of-artsakhtsi-women/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
<item>
<title>The Illicit Antiquities Trade</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/the-illicit-antiquities-trade-predatory-practices-commodification-cultural-depletion-and-responses/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/the-illicit-antiquities-trade-predatory-practices-commodification-cultural-depletion-and-responses/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2025 01:33:22 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XV, Issue 1]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1486</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Nyssa Itzaithi Kypuros – University of Texas at Tyler The Illicit Antiquities Trade: Predatory Practices, Commodification, Cultural Depletion, and Responses [Download PDF] The illicit antiquities trade is rooted in colonial practices and violates fundamental human rights to cultural heritage, while benefiting museums, private collectors, sellers, and auctioneers. Looting has long been used as a political […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Nyssa Itzaithi Kypuros – University of Texas at Tyler

The Illicit Antiquities Trade: Predatory Practices, Commodification, Cultural Depletion, and Responses
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/Kypuros_The-Antiquities-Trade.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
The illicit antiquities trade is rooted in colonial practices and violates fundamental human rights to cultural heritage, while benefiting museums, private collectors, sellers, and auctioneers. Looting has long been used as a political and economic tool, and it is also sometimes employed for subsistence and/or can function to heighten tensions in conflict zones or economically disadvantaged areas. The demand for cultural property is fueled by the desire for monetary/social/political gain via cultural commodification, while the illicit antiquities trade leads to cultural depletion and erasure in communities who are targeted for their economic or political vulnerability. This paper explores the origins of the illicit antiquities trade, its predatory nature, and its ensuing commodification and depletion of certain cultures. It addresses current responses such as repatriation, as well as offers data from three expert interviews.
It is difficult to pinpoint the origins of the illicit antiquities trade<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1">[1]</a> because taking cultural artifacts has happened since cultures began interacting, but looting occurred on a mass scale during the age of colonization (Palmer, 2024). Trading antiquities was used as a political tool for colonizers to claim superiority over the communities they stole cultural objects from. The age of colonization is often called the “Age of Exploration” or the “Age of Discovery.” From the perspective of the colonizers, they were “discovering” new territories, resources, and treasures. However, colonized peoples experienced this period as having their territories taken, their resources exploited, and their valuables stolen. Colonial looting of antiquities typically served to gain political and social status; it was a way to humiliate an empire’s enemies (Attiah, 2018) while gaining status by gifting stolen antiquities to the heads of colonial powers or selling them for profit (Wiener, 1994). Often, this involved stealing the possessions of Indigenous royal families before executing them; in essence, stripping them of their dignity by keeping their valuables beyond death. This happened so frequently that many looted artifacts remain in museums or in the private collection of royal families of former colonial empires (Palmer, 2024). Furthermore, former colonies have not seen their artifacts returned despite their constant advocacy for repatriation (Van Beurden, 2022). The British empire played a major role in looting in the early twentieth century, during the start of what became modern archaeology.
Fundamental human rights to cultural heritage are outlined in a variety of human rights instruments. The 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights contends in Article 17 that “no one shall be arbitrarily deprived of his property,” while Article 27 protects involvement in the “cultural life of the community” (United Nations, 1948). The right to cultural life is reaffirmed with Article 15 of the 1966 International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights (United Nations, 1966). Cultural rights are more expressly outlined in the 2007 United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, which emphasizes the right to self-determination (including the right to freely pursue cultural development) in Article 3 and guarantees the right to maintain distinct cultural institutions in Article 5, the right to “the right to maintain, protect and develop the past, present and future manifestations of their cultures” (including artifacts) in Article 11, and the right to possess and repatriate cultural objects in Article 12 (United Nations, 2007).
Growing recognition of cultural rights comes at a time when the negative impacts of the illicit antiquities trade are becoming more widely understood. This paper highlights how the modern origins of this trade can be traced to colonialism and the beginnings of modern archaeology. An analysis of its consequences shows that the illicit antiquities trade uses predatory practices and engages in commodification and cultural depletion. Progress toward repatriating stolen artifacts represents an important shift in this trade, and interviews with three issue experts illustrate the real-world impacts of these developments.
Modern Archaeology: Rooted in Looting and Illicit Trade
Archaeology has been around since at least the Late Bronze Age (1550–1200 BC), but modern archaeology started in the nineteenth century. Archaeology started with cultures wanting to know more about their past, and some of the oldest archaeologists were the New Kingdom Egyptians who restored the Old Kingdom’s Sphinx (Hirst, 2020). Modern archaeology became popularized by works such as that of businessman Heinrich Schliemann, Egyptologist William Matthew Flinders Petrie, and Pompeii archaeologist Giuseppe Fiorelli (Lehtinen, 2013). With popular culture’s newfound interest in archaeology, artifacts began traveling around the world – usually at the hands of wealthy Europeans (Hirst, 2020). There were two major players in the modern illicit antiquities trade: the British Empire and the Nazis.
Archaeology soared in popularity in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, just as the British Empire was at the height of its imperial power (Brocklehurst et al., 2004). However, archaeology’s fame was not simply due to a sudden rise in global awareness, but rather because investments were made to validate the superiority of imperial powers by labeling colonized communities as “backwards” compared to the civilized “white man” (Brocklehurst et al., 2004, p. 227; see also Lawrence, 2003). Further, the British would appropriate the cultures of those communities by claiming them as their own through association with the British Empire. In this way, archaeology served as a political tool for the British Empire by both degrading and commodifying the cultures of their colonized states – a process that was often rooted in racism. The British had a strong hold over Egyptology and Egyptian archaeological sites, which provided many artifacts to the British Museum (Brocklehurst et al., 2004), and the antiquities trade in Egypt continued despite being declared illegal in 1891 (Fricke, 2006). Unfortunately, many nations faced similar exploitation and became victims of the illicit antiquities trade by the British Empire in its building of the British Museum; many of these artifacts are still held by the British Museum and/or the British royal family.
Another major perpetrator of looting was the German National Socialist Regime, or the Nazis. Like the British, the Nazis used archaeology as a political tool to promote white nationalism and justify genocide (Arnold, 2006). Rooted in beliefs about eugenics, this form of archaeology was promoted after Adolf Hitler rose to power in 1933; it glorified classical Nordic, Greek, and Roman cultures and connected them to Germany’s future, all linked by the domination of Aryan people over other groups (Arnold, 2006). This stance led to the mass looting of art and artifacts to use for propaganda and to assert political dominance, including the appropriation of Greek and Roman artifacts for propaganda campaigns (Gravenstein, 2022). By the end of their reign, the Nazis had stolen over five million cultural artifacts (Gravenstein, 2022). After World War II, the Allied powers took possession of Nazi-looted art and artifacts with promises to make restitutions, but many pieces remain in museums and have not been returned to their previous owners (Adler, 2007).
Laws aimed at the illicit antiquities trade have existed since the late nineteenth century but were largely unenforceable, although that began to shift after World War II. One of the oldest laws concerning the antiquities trade came from an Egyptian decree in 1891, in which Egypt claimed all objects found during excavation belonged to the state and should be given to the Gaza Museum (Fricke, 2006). El Salvador made a similar claim to cultural property in 1903 (Archeology, 2002), and Sudan followed in 1905 with its own Antiquities Ordinance (Adam, 2017). Iraq passed their first “Law of Antiquities” in 1924, thereby creating the Iraqi State Board of Antiquities (State Board of Antiquities & Heritage, n.d.), and Greece declared cultural and marine finds as property of the state in 1932. Other nations that have made similar laws include Italy, Turkey, Palestine, Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Yemen, Kuwait, and Algeria (Archeology, 2002; Antiquities Coalition, 2021).
In 1970, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) globally recognized the right to recover stolen and illegally traded antiquitieswith its Convention on the Means of Prohibiting the Illicit Import, Export, and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property. The Convention came into force in 1972 and currently has 147 state parties. It established protections for antiquities, which UNESCO (1970) defines as “cultural property” – including “property which, on religious or secular grounds, is specifically designated by each State as being of importance for archaeology, prehistory, history, literature, art or science” and which belongs to a list of categories (UNESCO, 1970, Article 1).  The Convention acknowledges that the illicit antiquities trade is a main cause of “the impoverishment of the cultural heritage” and notes how nations should oppose the practices of illicit trade of cultural property, remove the trade’s causes, stop current practices, and make reparations to the affected communities (UNESCO, 1970, Article 2). The Convention further offers guidance on preventing and stopping illicit trade, from enacting various penalties and sanctions to facilitating the return of cultural property and the issuance of periodic reports (see UNESCO, 1970).
The Convention’s principles were reinforced by state and other global initiatives in the following decades. The United States passed the Cultural Property Implementation Act (CPIA) in 1983 and created a Cultural Property Advisory Committee (CPAC), for instance, which set further standards for the legal trade of antiquities imported into the country (Archeology, 2002). CPIA allows the U.S. president to impose import restrictions on any antiquities at the request of another state that is party to the UNESCO Convention (Archaeological Institute of America, 2010). Requests made to CPAC are reviewed in public sessions, allowing public commentary before CPAC recommendations are delivered (Archaeological Institute of America, 2010). In 1995, the International Institute for the Unification of Private Law (UNIDROIT) Convention on Stolen or Illegally Exported Cultural Objects defined a stolen cultural object as having been unlawfully retained whether it was lawfully excavated (UNIDROIT, 1995). Although not as widely accepted as the UNESCO Convention, the UNIDROIT Convention requires the return of stolen artifacts, compensation for those who return stolen cultural objects, the possibility of court or committee intervention when necessary, and various other restrictions and protocols (see UNIDROIT, 1995). Critics of the UNIDROIT Convention point out that because it requires nations to compensate buyers of stolen antiquities who return them in “good faith,” poorer countries are in a weaker position to reclaim their cultural goods (Archeology, 2002).
The Illicit Antiquities Market and its Impacts
Although there is not one all-encompassing database to track stolen antiquities, several organizations have created databases to monitor the trade of antiquities (which are often classified as “art pieces” rather than cultural objects in these databases). According to Art Basel and USB databases, the art and antiquities trade reached new heights after the COVID-19 pandemic, with a record total of antiquities imports ($30.7 billion) and a second-highest record of exports ($33.4 billion) in 2022 (McAndrew, 2023). While these numbers are not based explicitly on illicit imports and exports, it is important to recognize that many antiquities are sourced under dubious circumstances. In the 2010s, the international market for cultural heritage objects was $60 billion, of which the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) estimated $8 billion was illegal (Amineddoleh, 2013).
Sales channels for antiquities include auction houses, open-sourced auction websites, and antiquities dealers with physical locations (Sargent et al., 2020). According to researchers with the RAND Corporation, the most successful sales channel is auction houses, which are often organized by third parties that have received antiquities from brokers (Sargent et al., 2020). Instead of a centralized black-market antiquities trade, local small-scale smugglers and looters sell their artifacts to brokers (often for a small fee) and smaller organized groups (or “gangs”) sell antiquities to brokers in specific locations, which are then sold to auction houses that can attract high-end buyers (Sargent et al., 2020). However, the more common sales channels are online sites. eBay is currently the most dominant player in the online antiquities market, followed by Facebook and more curated sites like CNG and LiveAuctions.com (Sargent et al., 2020). Facebook groups created to sell trafficked antiquities expand their customer base by adding Facebook friends into the group, where the admin will then take a portion of each sale made through the group (Antiquities Trafficking and Heritage Anthropology Research [ATHAR] Project, n.d.). Many antiquities advertised are still in situ, so that the seller can assess the demand before removing the artifact. This business model has proven popular in the sale of Arabic antiquities, many of which are in war zones (Antiquities Trafficking and Heritage Anthropology Research [ATHAR] Project, n.d.). To a lesser extent, physical storefronts owned by antiquities dealers also take part in the illicit antiquities trade; there are less than 100 storefronts between Europe and North America (Sargent et al., 2020).
This information begs the questions: Where do these antiquities come from and who is buying them? There is currently not a clear database to track the demand for and supply of antiquities, but the International Council of Museums created its “Red List” to track cultural objects that have been traded or stolen, and to create a comprehensive list of objects vulnerable to illicit trade. Problem areas include Afghanistan, Cambodia, China, Central America, Mexico, Colombia, the Dominican Republic, Haiti, Peru, Iraq, Libya, Syria, Yemen, Egypt, and West Africa (International Council of Museums, 2023). Communities whose cultural sites are looted tend to be economically or politically vulnerable, while buyers of illicit antiquities tend to come from privileged states in North America, Europe, Central Asia, Southeast Asia, and the Middle East (Sargent et al., 2020).
So, where do these antiquities end up? While some missing antiquities end up in the hands of private collectors, many buyers of the illicit antiquities market are museums and universities (Amineddoleh, 2013). Since the 1960s, various museums have been charged with obtaining antiquities in illicit or illegal ways, usually through purchases from a third party. These museums are in wealthy, politically powerful states such as the United States and the United Kingdom – and cultural property often remains in these institutions even when home nations ask for their property back. Universities have also been caught obtaining antiquities through dubious means and not being transparent about legal procedures to obtain cultural objects for study. While these museums and universities are not looting antiquities themselves, they are obtaining them in illicit manners and fueling the demand for the illicit antiquities market (Amineddoleh, 2013). As the following sub-sections highlight, this market utilizes predatory practices that facilitate commodification and cultural depletion.
Predatory Practices
The illicit antiquities trade often targets economically vulnerable communities, including those that cannot afford the compensation guidelines outlined by the 1995 UNIDROIT Convention. Targeting such communities can lead to “subsistence looting” – that is, when members of the economically vulnerable community contribute to looting to support themselves financially (Matsuda, 1998). This practice can be explained by using “world systems theory,” which contends that industrialized core economic powers (cores) obtain their wealth by exploiting less industrialized peripheral economic powers (peripheries) by buying primary products or services from the peripheries at cheaper prices (Chirot & Hall, 1982). In the case of the illicit antiquities trade, the cores are the wealthy auction buyers, museums, universities, and other third parties. The peripheries are economically vulnerable communities, such as those found in Latin America (Matsuda, 1998) and Southeast Asia (Byrne, 2016). The primary products are looted artifacts, and the services come from members of local communities who are doing the looting. Subsistence looters are paid meager wages, but those earnings go back into local economies and provide a fast and cheap alternative for buyers seeking to avoid the expensive, time-consuming, and perhaps impossible process of obtaining legal permission to study (or remove objects from) an archaeological site. Indeed, many communities lack the resources to adequately study and preserve their own cultural artifacts, making them often reliant on outside organizations and funders (Matsuda, 1998). Because the demand for the illicit antiquities trade encourages looting, many communities are depleted of their cultural resources before they can study them adequately – and they may also not be able to afford the costs associated with recovering and restoring stolen antiquities. These factors mean this cycle will likely repeat itself until more sustainable practices are used to prevent the illicit antiquities trade.
A good case study to understand the impacts of subsistence looting comes from Latin America. Subsistence looting of Indigenous sites, including those in Guatemala, started on a local scale in the twentieth century using local merchants. International markets for goods such as ceramics, metalwork, textiles, stonework, and figurines emerged as demand grew in cities such as New York, Hollywood, and Paris (Yates, 2015). Buyers were often foreign diplomats, businesspeople, museums, private collectors (Yates, 2015), and academics (Matsuda, 1998) – who all had the power and wealth to purchase in-demand “exotic” items. Smuggling chains were quickly established to meet this demand, often organized by intermediaries who would steal property from local communities, places of religion, and graves without respect for laws (Yates, 2015). The illicit antiquities trade quickly became decentralized and no longer primarily benefited local communities. After the well-intentioned UNESCO Convention came into force in 1972, looting actually increased – particularly in war-torn regions. Subsistence looters may become involved in smuggling operations to support their families, since those illegal activities pay more than serving as local guides or laborers for research teams (Matsuda, 1998; Yates, 2015).
The issue of wartime looting is especially important in relation to the illicit antiquities trade. Wartime looting practices involve sacking museums or cultural sites, which can be used as a political tool during conflict (as noted above), in addition to being a lucrative source of profit. In some cases, cultural property can become collateral damage during war, as was the case when the National Museum in Kabul, Afghanistan, fell victim to air strikes in 1992 and was subsequently looted (Brodie, 2003). Afghanistan’s cultural sites have also been targeted by illegal excavations, with many antiquities ending up in illicit markets and eventually international museums (Brodie, 2003). Archaeologists working in collaboration with invaders or occupiers of a territory often contribute to wartime looting in their efforts to “rescue” antiquities (Hamilakis, 2009). This was the case in Iraq, which was occupied by the U.S. military in 2003. Like Afghanistan, Iraq experienced the ransacking and destruction of antiquities, partly due to archaeological efforts conducted in collaboration with U.S. archaeologists (Hamilakis, 2009). Researchers must seek the approval of occupiers in times of conflict (often at the expense of academic autonomy), displaced communities lose touch with their cultural artifacts, and cultural property can be sent to foreign institutions without formal plans for its return after the war.
Commodification and Cultural Depletion
The popularity of certain cultures supports a lucrative market for artifacts and other cultural goods (Lehtinen, 2013), but harmful impacts occur when a culture is treated as a commodified product (Pollock, 2016). Ever since the popularization of Egyptology in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries by British archaeologists, for example, the Middle East has been a popular area of interest for scholars and the illicit antiquities trade. This area is sometimes called the “Holy Land” in pop culture due its association with Christianity, Judaism, and Islam (Pollock, 2016). However, this branding has also made the Middle East a target for the antiquities market, worsened by the practice of subsistence looting in economically disenfranchised areas affected by war.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2">[2]</a> The demand for cultural property from this area is often driven by private Western funders; the American corporation Hobby Lobby was charged with buying illegally obtained antiquities in Jerusalem for its Christian history exhibit in the Hobby Lobby Museum of the Bible (Newton, 2017). The demand for cultural antiquities as “exotic” luxuries highlights how cultural goods are commodified and sold to the highest bidder, frequently at the expense of local communities and their ability to protect their cultural rights.
Cultural depletion happens because of the commodification of culture; communities experience the erasure or appropriation of their culture when they lose their cultural artifacts to foreign institutions and collectors. A famous historical example comes from U.S. President Thomas Jefferson, who is sometimes called the “Father of American Archaeology” (Hatzenbuehler, 2011) for perpetuating the “myth of the mound builders” near his home in Virginia (Sayre, 1998). He documented “borrows” near his home that were Indigenous burial mounds that had been used for ceremonial practices, but Jefferson wrongly concluded that Indigenous peoples were incapable of building such monuments (Sayre, 1998). His work helped inspire the myth that a race separate from local Indigenous peoples had built the mounds (Tribble, 2013). Jefferson’s “research” has been widely disputed (Hatzenbuehler, 2011); these mounds were built by Indigenous civilizations, whose populations were much larger than those of post-colonial America (Sayre, 1998). The “myth of the mound builders” case is a good example of cultural appropriation and erasure. Not only did this myth appropriate Indigenous structures, claiming their work to be someone else’s, but it also contributed to the erasure of Indigenous culture by omitting the cultural context these structures were part of. This same process of cultural depletion continues today, often fueled by the commodified demand for illicit antiquities.
Cultural depletion also happens with the destruction of culture property, including the intentional removal of permanent structures to transfer to foreign museums. Many statues in museums are missing limbs or other body parts because the removal process required damaging the structure (Cascone, 2022). Today, the Pantheon Marbles – a collection of Ancient Greek sculptures from the Parthenon and other structures from the Acropolis of Athens – are held by the British Museum despite frequent requests by Greek and global authorities for the repatriation (Gazi, 1990). The Marbles were removed between 1801 and 1803 during the occupation of the Ottoman Empire by British ambassador and art collector Lord Elgin, despite the objection of the Turkish authorities. Elgin then sold the Marbles to the British Museum, where they have remained since 1816 despite repeated repatriation efforts. The British Museum claims they can better preserve the artifacts, despite issues such as an improperly sealed roof in the British Museum’s Greek Art Galleries that led to the water damage of several statues (Ruiz, 2021). Museum authorities have also claimed that the Marbles should be considered works of art instead of cultural objects (Poggioli, 2009). Greek Authorities have been unsuccessful in repatriating the Pantheon Marbles and other artifacts taken from the site, despite building a state-of-the-art museum to house the objects in Greece. The Marbles are a symbol of Greek history and culture, and the British Museum withholds Greek agency over their own culture by withholding these artifacts.
A Shift Toward Repatriation
The argument is often made that museums and universities obtain cultural objects to entertain and educate the public, and that they have an academic responsibility to study and share cultural information. However, there is growing acknowledgement that these objects are considered stolen by their home communities – and that artifacts deemed “missing” often show up months or years later in prestigious museums (Amineddoleh, 2013). Objects that once served important functions can sit on display in a museum case or be held in storage, out of touch and sight from their communities of origin and disconnected from cultural practices. The dancer Sophiline Cheam-Shapiro was removed from the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York for performing a customary cultural dance in front of a significant Cambodian statue (Cheam-Shapiro, 2023). In this case and others, the artifact is prevented from performing its cultural function.
In the United States, a major paradigm shift came with the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (NAGPRA) in 1990 (National Park Service, n.d.). This law enabled U.S. institutions receiving federal funding to return Indigenous remains and other cultural objects. For a cultural object to be eligible for repatriation under NAGPRA, it must meet qualifications such as being of established tribal origin (limited to federally recognized tribes), there must be established wrongful removal and tribal consent for the object’s return, and tribes must have the legal and financial resources to make claims (although federal resources are available) (see National Park Service, n.d.). More than 30 years after NAGPRA’s passage, many Indigenous tribes still await their cultural belongs (ProPublica, 2023). Currently, 623 U.S. institutions still hold Indigenous remains, and 46% of those remains were not made available to their tribal associations (ProPublica, 2023). Half of those unavailable remains are held by only 10 institutions: Ohio History Connection, Illinois State Museum, Harvard University, University of California Berkeley, Indiana University, University of Tennessee Knoxville, University of Kentucky, the U.S. Department of the Interior, University of Alabama, and University of Arizona (ProPublica, 2023). These well-funded institutions have the resources to undertake the lengthy and difficult repatriation process.
More recently, the U.S. passed the African American Burial Grounds Preservation Act in 2022 (National Trust for Historic Preservation, 2022). This law allows the National Park Service to identify, document, and preserve unmarked, abandoned, and underserved African American burial grounds. The law was proposed to protect the cultural property and remains of formally enslaved African Americans, many of whom received unmarked or improperly documented burials; it allowed descendants to identify their ancestors’ burial places while preserving African American history (National Trust for Historic Preservation, 2022). While the African American Burial Grounds Preservation Act does not enable the repatriation of African American remains and cultural property, the African American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act (AAGPRA) has been proposed (but not yet approved) to repatriate cultural objects and burial remains from institutions (Dunnavant et al., 2021).
In Canada, various legal actions aim to protect cultural rights among Indigenous peoples. Unlike in the U.S. with its emphasis on federal policies, Canadian repatriation policies are administered at both provincial and municipal levels (Bourgeois, 2021). Alberta is the only province with a repatriation act; its First Nations Sacred and Ceremonial Repatriation Act requires the minister to repatriate sacred ceremonial objects (unless the minister deems the repatriation inappropriate). Outside of Alberta, repatriation is administered through some cultural heritage acts, modern agreements between provincial governments and specific First Nations,<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3">[3]</a> and individual universities and museums that hold repatriation policies. The cultural heritage acts of Saskatchewan and Yukon both include provisions for repatriation, each with their own qualifications and stipulations. Some provinces – such as British Columbia, the Northwest Territories, Quebec, and the Yukon – have formal agreements with First Nations communities addressing Indigenous rights to ownership of their cultural properties and repatriation policies (Bourgeois, 2021). The only Canadian universities that currently have publicly accessible repatriation policies are the University of Alberta, University of British Columbia, and University of Toronto (Bourgeois, 2021). There are nine federal and provincial museums that have implemented repatriation policies; the two federal museums are the Canadian Museum of History and the Canadian War Museum, while more than half of the provincial museums administer repatriation policies (Bourgeois, 2021). Despite such progress, it is estimated that millions of Indigenous cultural artifacts and thousands of Indigenous human remains are still held by Canadian museums (Maracle, 2024).
The adoption of the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNIDRIP) in 2007 helped advance progress toward the repatriation of some cultural artifacts. Among the rights outlined in the introduction, Article 12 of the UNIDRIP declares that Indigenous peoples hold the right to be repatriated their remains and ceremonial objects (United Nations, 2007). Notably, the definition for Indigenous peoples within the UNDRIP is more inclusive than that of Canadian policies, which opens the door for cultural groups that previously had no legal precedent for repatriation. However, the UNIDRIP leaves it up to individual states to incorporate repatriation policies on their own. Since the adoption of the UNIDRIP, countries such as the United Kingdom, the United States, Australia, Canada, and New Zealand have implemented repatriation legislation, while most other countries have taken no action (Hook, 2023).
Perspectives on the Illicit Antiquities Trade
There is a famous catchphrase from the Indiana Jones movies, when archaeology professor/adventurer Jones points at a cultural artifact in peril and declares “That belongs in a museum!” In the more recent 2022 film Uncharted, which was largely inspired by the Indiana Jones franchise, a treasure hunter watches a ship filled with looted artifacts sink to the ocean floor and says, “It’s the property of the Philippines now.”<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4">[4]</a> While both films are meant for entertainment rather than education, this shift is indicative of how public opinion has changed towards the ownership of cultural property. The world has become more aware of heritage rights and the consequences of colonialism, racism, and looting. This, in turn, has caused social and cultural institutions to rethink the ownership and use of antiquities. To better understand evolving perspectives on the antiquities trade, this section offers perspectives from three issue specialists: an Indigenous artist who works with universities and museums, a professor who researches the illicit antiquities trade, and an archaeologist/museum curator at a NAGPRA-compliant institution. This data is drawn from interviews conducted by the author.
Caddo Pottery Artist Jeri Redcorn
Jereldine (Jeri) Redcorn is a self-taught artist known for reviving the previously lost art of Caddo pottery. She credits her extensive research and practice, her upbringing in Indigenous Caddo communities, her career as an educator, and her involvement with the Oklahoma Native arts world for her successes (American Academy of Arts & Sciences, n.d.). In 2009, First Lady Michelle Obama selected one of Redcorn’s pieces to decorate the Oval Office (American Academy of Arts & Sciences, n.d.).
As a member of the Caddo Nation (whose tribal headquarters is in Caddo County, Oklahoma), Redcorn has seen firsthand how Caddo culture was lost and reclaimed by the Caddo people. Like many Indigenous peoples, the Caddo have endured resettlement, bans on speaking their native language, and the loss of family members to residential schools where they were forced to give up their Indigenous heritage and assimilate to white American norms – all processes of ethnocide. However, Redcorn says the Caddo culture is still alive and well. The Caddo still practice their cultural songs and dances, and Redcorn and other Caddo artists collaborate with anthropologists to record Caddo culture for future generations. For Redcorn, this involves reviving Caddo pottery art to reconnect her community with an art that was lost during resettlement.
Redcorn has worked with various museums and anthropologists during more than three decades of practicing pottery art. Through these experiences, she has seen changing perspectives towards Indigenous art. While initially cautious with archaeologists, over the years Redcorn has noticed archaeologists empathize more with the Caddo people and better understand how Indigenous people feel towards grave robbing and antiquities looting. While Redcorn has experienced bad actors and museums that do not bind themselves by a code of ethics (thereby ignoring advice from Indigenous communities), she says these experiences are rare. Redcorn’s experiences with cultural institutions have mostly been positive as they seek to preserve and study the art she lends them. More museums have consulted the Caddo since the passing of NAGPRA; while many Caddo artifacts remain in museums, the Caddo are more empowered to have a “say” over these artifacts. For Redcorn, it is better that museums make decisions with the Caddo Nation than without, because working with museums and universities is crucial for spreading awareness about Caddo culture. As more people are exposed to Caddo art in museums, conferences, or in class, people come to appreciate and respect Caddo culture.
For the Caddo Nation, dealing with NAGPRA is a full-time job because there are so many artifacts and so many legal cases – and each one of them important. For the Caddo and many Indigenous nations in the United States, working towards repatriation and collaborating with cultural institutions is only possible if tribes have the time to invest in these cases and initiatives.
Archaeologist Donna Yates
Donna Yates is an Associate Professor in the Department of Criminal Law and Criminology at Maastricht University in The Netherlands. She was recently awarded a €1.5 million European Research Council starting grant to study how objects such as antiquities influence criminal networks, and other grants have facilitated her research on antiquities trafficking in countries such as Bolivia, Belize, and Mexico (Scottish Centre for Crime and Justice Research, n.d.). She is also affiliated with the interdisciplinary research consortium “Trafficking Culture” (n.d.).
Yates has seen a change in attitudes towards the possession of cultural objects over the course of her career studying the illicit antiquities trade. Both market countries and source countries have invested time and money to regulate this trade, and Yates notes an overall movement for source countries to gain larger sovereignty over their cultural property while encouraging decolonization. Sovereignty is especially important for source countries facing challenges such as economic collapse – which in turn often involves economic vulnerability and warfare, as previously discussed, as well as loss of governmental control and ensuing protections for citizens and their cultural property. Yates cites both Ukraine and Palestine as contemporary areas of interest in the illicit antiquities trade that face the ongoing destruction of cultural property.
Cultural sites are commonly looted during times of economic collapse, and for archaeologists like Yates this means much of her time is spent cleaning up the damage left behind. Yet she contends that the real loss is cultural knowledge; because sites have had their cultural context removed from them, much of what is known about past cultures is built on “shaky ground” (to use the phrase of art historian Elizabeth Marlowe [2015]). The information derived from cultural sites is not fully reliable because much of the context has been damaged or lost, including writings on items that would serve as primary sources of historical knowledge.
While this paper discusses some of the legal precedents for repatriating cultural objects, Yates argues that these laws alone are not enough. Rather, the most successful methods against antiquities trafficking are cooperation with international police and increased social pressure to repatriate stolen items. This was the case with the Willingham Auctions in Cambridge, United Kingdom, which repatriated a pre-Columbian pot that originated from the Tiwanaku region in Bolivia after the Bolivian government asked for it (Drake, 2018). In Yates’ opinion, this is a model for successful repatriation; the auction house did not give the pot back because they were forced to, but rather the pot was repatriated in good faith without expectation of compensation from the Bolivian government. Still, Yates believes that combating the illicit antiquities trade requires regulations. She has researched the use of licenses in the trade of wildlife, for instance, which can be a useful concept in the trade of antiquities. Licenses would limit the number of people who can trade antiquities and there would be criminal penalties for people who obtained cultural objects without a license. Antiquities trafficking often goes hand-in-hand with other illegal activities, including fraud and money laundering, sometimes making evidence of illicit trade hard to trace. While the authorities may not be able to arrest someone for illicit antiquities trafficking, it could be easier to go after related crimes. However, Yates acknowledges that those who buy and traffic antiquities tend to be financially well-off and can afford good lawyers.
While museums and universities are important institutions to spread awareness of different cultures, Yates does not agree that these institutions need to hold ownership over cultural property to do so. This philosophy is part of an increasing scholarly movement that supports source countries’ rights to their cultural objects. Yates suggests that it would be more effective to have countries lend their cultural objects through traveling collections or partnerships. In this way, source countries maintain sovereignty while various parts of the world can learn and appreciate their culture. Yates also addresses the “conservation lie,” which is often used to justify the ownership of foreign antiquities by museums and their use of illicit methods to gain those antiquities. As noted above, museums in market countries are not necessarily better equipped to conserve antiquities and mismanagement can lead to damaged cultural objects. Using conservation as an excuse for illicit trade also implies that source countries are unfit or undeserving of taking care of their own cultural property. The “conservation lie” also quickly falls apart when antiquities stolen during wartime for conservation are then refused return after the war has ended.
As someone who has studied the illicit antiquities trade throughout her career, Yates does not see any benefit in “educating” or punishing subsistence looters. Subsistence looters often do not want to loot because they do not want to destroy or give away their own heritage. Looting is risky because it can lead to imprisonment and a complete loss of livelihood – and looting usually doesn’t make much money in the first place. Most subsistence looters only loot to sustain themselves in communities that have experienced economic collapse. Instead of targeting subsistence looters, Yates suggests bringing in other economic incentives so that subsistence looting is not the only option. Real change often occurs when consumers from market countries become increasingly aware of the consequences of trafficking and their impacts on cultural rights; antiquities become less desirable, and the market for antiquities decreases.
Museum Curator Michelle Rich
Michelle Rich is a trained archaeologist who transitioned to museum curating. She is the Ellen and Harry S. Parker III Assistant Curator of the Indigenous American Art at the Dallas Museum of Art (DMA). She also completed two prestigious Mellon Postdoctoral Curatorial Fellowships at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) and the San Antonio Museum of Art, as well as helps direct the U.S.-Guatemalan El Perú-Waka’ Regional Archaeological Project (ArtNexus, 2018).
Rich explains that museums rarely take donations of new antiquities. While museums occasionally work with living artists, most museums will not accept new donations unless there is proof that the object left the country of origin before 1970, in order to be compliant with the 1970 UNESCO Convention. This means many museums are no longer growing their collections. However, sometimes museums are obligated to accept a donation to prevent it from falling prey to a private institution or collector who may not adequately preserve the object or respect the heritage rights of its culture. However, it is notable that a museum’s ability to properly store and preserve cultural objects is also limited by the time, resources, and storage space of the museum’s team.
When it comes to repatriation, the process is difficult to undertake regardless of the country or legal policy. Each repatriation effort is unique and requires a lot of time and resources from both the museum and the source culture. Sometimes repatriation efforts are also subject to political negotiation, which can lengthen the process of repatriating antiquities. While all museums are different, in Rich’s time working at the DMA only five cultural items have been successfully repatriated. Notably, the DMA is NAGPRA-compliant and is working on updated summaries and care practices to comply with the updated regulations published in NAGPRA in 2023. However, in Rich’s experience most repatriations at the DMA are international and not with Indigenous nations.
Conclusions
Many people in market countries such as the United States have experienced walking through a museum feeling fascinated by cultural objects that are foreign to them, or perhaps even looking on with disinterest. However, few think of how those objects, artworks, or antiquities arrived there. As this paper argues, those museum experiences are often facilitated by the vulnerability and cultural rights abuse of people from an object’s source country. The illicit antiquities trade was born from colonial and imperial looting aimed at degrading Indigenous populations while gaining political power and wealth from trade. While looting has been around for as long as civilizations can remember, the popularity of academic disciplines such as archaeology facilitated the commodification of certain cultures and fueled illicit trade. In the past century, the illicit antiquities trade has become a global market worth billions of dollars – one that preys on communities made vulnerable by economic and/or political factors. Cultural property is destroyed, ransacked, vandalized, and sold for profit in communities during war, often to lower morale and even encourage further violence. Wartime looting can also lead to subsistence looting, where people experiencing economic hardships will loot artifacts to sustain themselves and their families. Subsistence looting, which also happens outside of war, has increased in peripheral countries where the poor lack alternative options to sustain themselves.
The demand for antiquities is fueled by cultural institutions such as museums and universities. While there are national and international legal precedents protecting the right to cultural property, this legislation is often unenforced or limited by the lengthy, expensive legal processes that many victims cannot afford to undertake. The U.S. has one of the only nationally recognized repatriation policies aimed at repatriating Indigenous artifacts and remains, yet an estimated 46% of Native American remains and artifacts documented in cultural institutions have not been made available for repatriation (ProPublica, 2023).
However, things are changing. Many cultural institutions are choosing not to grow their collections of antiquities in order to comply with laws. Institutions are increasingly working with Indigenous artists and scholars to spread cultural awareness, giving Indigenous peoples more agency over their cultural property, even if they choose not to repatriate their artifacts and remains. While the system is not perfect and certainly not everyone will benefit from new protections on heritage rights, these changes have decreased the demand for illicit antiquities. To maintain progress, it is important for scholars, students, and museumgoers to educate themselves on the antiquities trade – including its shameful history of ethnocentrism, exploitation, and theft. Looting and illicit trade threaten archaeological efforts to document history and culture, stripping objects of cultural context and breaking the cardinal archaeological rule of “do no harm.” In our pursuit of cultural knowledge, we must not forget the rights of those whose cultures we study. Archaeologist Susan Lawrence (2003) put it best: “To be globally aware, however, is not the same as to be globalizing” (p. 20).
References
Adam, A. H. A. (2017). Museums in Sudan: History, Current Situation and Challenges. Aus der Archäologie, 28: 1-11.
Adler, A. (2007). Expanding the Scope of Museums’ Ethical Guidelines with Respect to Nazi-Looted Art: Incorporating Restitution Claims Based on Private Sales Made as a Direct Result of Persecution. International Journal of Cultural Property, 14(1): 57-84.
Antiquities Coalition. (2021, November 16).Interactive timelines depicting antiquities demand. Retrieved from https://theantiquitiescoalition.org/multimedia-resources/interactive-timelines/.
Antiquities Trafficking and Heritage Anthropology Research (ATHAR) Project. (n.d.). Homepage. Retrieved from https://atharproject.org/.
American Academy of Arts & Sciences. (n.d.). Jereldine Redcorn. Retrieved from https://www.amacad.org/person/jereldine-redcorn.
Amineddoleh, L. (2013). The Role of Museums in the Trade of Black Market Cultural
Heritage Property. Art Antiquity and Law, 18(3): 227-254.
Archaeological Institute of America. (2010). Convention on Cultural Property Implementation Act (CPIA) of 1983: Fact Sheet. Retrieved from https://www.archaeological.org/convention-on-cultural-property-implementation-act-cpia-of-1983-fact-sheet/.
Archeology. (2002, April 22). International antiquities law since 1900. Retrieved from https://archive.archaeology.org/online/features/schultz/intllaw.html.
Arnold, B. (2006). ‘Arierdämmerung’: Race and Archaeology in Nazi Germany. World Archaeology, 38(1): 8-31,
ArtNexus. (2018). Dallas Museum of Art Appoints Michelle Rich as Assistant Curator of the Arts of the Americas.Retrieved from https://www.artnexus.com/en/news/5d5c431dc70855f6b9ef7f9f/dallas-museum-of-art-appoints-michelle-rich-as-assistant-curator-of-the-arts-of-the-americas.
Attiah, K. (2018, September 12). Is it okay to steal back looted colonial-era treasures? Washington Post. Retrieved from https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/global-opinions/wp/2018/09/12/is-it-okay-to-steal-back-looted-colonial-era-treasures/.
Bourgeois, R. L. (2021). Repatriation in Canada: A Guide for Communities. The Archiving Knowledge: Centering Indigenous Knowledge Systems in Community-Based Archives Project. Retrieved from https://era.library.ualberta.ca/items/2dfb153e-76da-4cac-a968-a3f6b2e3a61c.
Brocklehurst, H., Phillips, R., & Diaz-Andreu, M. (2004). Britain and the Other: The Archaeology of Imperialism. In History, Nationhood and the Question of Britain, edited by H. Brocklehurst & R. Phillips,pp. 227–245. London: Palgrave Macmillan UK.
Brodie, N. (2003). Stolen History: Looting and Illicit Trade. Museum International, 55(3-4): 10-22.
Byrne, D. (2016). The problem with looting: An alternative perspective on antiquities trafficking in Southeast Asia. Journal of Field Archaeology, 41(3): 344–354.
Cascone, S. (2022, April 1). Two Looted Ancient Greek Statues, Including a Stunner That Was on View at the Met, Have Been Returned by the U.S. to Libya. Artnet News. Retrieved from https://news.artnet.com/art-world-archives/met-museum-returns-looted-libyan-bust-2092386.
Cheam-Shapiro, S. (2023, March 22). Met Museum Kicked Me Out for Praying to my Ancestral Gods. Hyperallergic. Retrieved from https://hyperallergic.com/809442/met-museum-kicked-me-out-for-praying-to-my-ancestral-gods/.
Chirot, D., & Hall, T. D. (1982). World-System Theory. Annual Review of Sociology, 8(1): 81-106.
Drake, S. (2018, May 20). Handing an antique pot back to the Bolivian Government. LinkedIn. Retrieved from https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/handing-antique-pot-back-bolivian-government-stephen-drake/.
Dunnavant, J., Justinvil, D., & Colwell, C. (2021, May 19). Craft an African American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. Nature News. Retrieved from https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586-021-01320-4.
Fricke, A. (2006). A new translation of selected Egyptian antiquities laws (1881-1912). In Imperialism, Art and Restitution, edited by J. H. Merryman. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University.
Gazi, A. (1990). Museums and National Cultural Property II. The Parthenon Marbles. Museum Management and Curatorship, 9(3): 241-255.
Gravenstein, S. (2022). Lost Art and Lost Lives: Nazi Art Looting and Art Restitution. The Cupola, Scholarship at Gettysburg College, 982. Retrieved from https://cupola.gettysburg.edu/student_scholarship/982.
Hamilakis, Y. (2009). The “War on Terror” and the Military-Archaeology Complex: Iraq, Ethics, and Neo-Colonialism. Archaeologies, 5: 39-65.
Hatzenbuehler, R. (2011). Questioning Whether Thomas Jefferson was the “Father” of American Archaeology. History and Anthropology, 22(1): 121-129.
Hirst, K. K. (2020, August 25). The History of Archaeology: How Ancient Relic Hunting Became Science. ThoughtCo. Retrieved from https://www.thoughtco.com/the-history-of-archaeology-171205.
Hook, C. (2023). Repatriation of Indigenous Human Remains in Canada: An Analysis of the Issue and Relevant Policies. Dalhousie Journal of Interdisciplinary Management, 17.
International Council of Museums. (2023, March 22). Red Lists. Retrieved from https://icom.museum/en/red-lists/.
International Institute for the Unification of Private Law (UNIDROIT). (1995, June 24). Convention on Stolen or Illegally Exported Cultural Objects. Retrieved from https://www.unidroit.org/instruments/cultural-property/1995-convention/.
Lawrence, S. (2003). Exporting Culture: Archaeology and the Nineteenth-Century British Empire. Historical Archaeology, 37: 20–33.
Lehtinen, L. (2013). How do Archaeology and its Products Appear in Popular Culture and everyday Life? In Archaeology in Society and Daily Life: Challenges and Co-operation in the 21th Century, edited by U. Lähdesmäki, S. Raninen, & K. Nordqvist, pp. 74–82. Tampere: Pirkanmaa Provincial Museum.
Mackenzie, S. (2014, June 11). Illicit Antiquities. Trafficking Culture. Retrieved from https://traffickingculture.org/encyclopedia/terminology/illicit-antiquities.
Maracle, C. (2024, February 8). Canadian museums still working on repatriation policies as U.S. museums shut down indigenous exhibits. CBC News. Retrieved from https://www.cbc.ca/news/indigenous/nagpra-cma-canadian-museum-history-1.7109072.
Marlowe, E. (2015). Shaky Ground: Context, Connoisseurship and the History of Roman Art. New York: Bloomsbury Academic.
Matsuda, D. (1998). The ethics of archaeology, subsistence digging, and artifact looting in Latin America: Point muted counterpoint. International Journal of Cultural Property, 7(1): 87-97.
McAndrew, C. (2023). The Survey of Global Collecting 2023. Art Basel & UBS. Retrieved from https://theartmarket.artbasel.com/.
National Park Service. (n.d.). Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act. Retrieved from https://www.nps.gov/subjects/nagpra/the-law.htm.
National Trust for Historic Preservation. (2022, December 28). African American Burial Grounds Preservation Program Success! Retrieved from https://savingplaces.org/action-center/updates/african-american-burial-grounds-program-success.
Newton, C. (2017, July 12). Hobby Lobby Exposes UAE-Israel Antiquities Trade. Al Jazeera. Retrieved fromhttps://www.aljazeera.com/features/2017/7/12/hobby-lobby-exposes-uae-israel-antiquities-trade.
Palmer, G. L. (2024). Looted artifacts and museums’& perpetuation of imperialism and racism: Implications for the importance of preserving cultural heritage. American Journal of Community Psychology, 73(1-2): 57-65.
Poggioli, S. (2009, October 19). Greece Unveils Museum Meant For ‘Stolen’ Sculptures. NPR. Retrieved from https://www.npr.org/2009/10/19/113889188/greece-unveils-museum-meant-for-stolen-sculptures.
Pollock, S. (2016). Archaeology and Contemporary Warfare. Annual Review of Anthropology, 45(1): 215-231.
ProPublica. (2023). The Repatriation Project. Retrieved from https://www.propublica.org/series/the-repatriation-project.
Ruiz, C. (2021, September 28). Is it raining again in the British Museum’s Parthenon gallery? The Art Newspaper. Retrieved from https://www.theartnewspaper.com/2021/08/11/is-it-raining-again-in-the-british-museums-parthenon-gallery.
Sargent, M., Marrone, J., Evans, A., Lilly, B., Nemeth, E., & Dalzell, S. (2020). Tracking and Disrupting the Illicit Antiquities Trade with Open Source Data. RAND Corporation. Retrieved from https://www.rand.org/pubs/research_reports/RR2706.html.
Sayre, G. M. (1998). The Mound Builders and the Imagination of American Antiquity in Jefferson, Bartram, and Chateaubriand. Early American Literature, 33(3): 225-249.
Scottish Centre for Crime and Justice Research. (n.d.). Dr. Donna Yates. Retrieved from https://www.sccjr.ac.uk/person/dr-donna-yates/.
State Board of Antiquities & Heritage. (n.d.). Homepage. Retrieved from https://sbah.gov.iq/.
Trafficking Culture. (n.d.). Homepage. Retrieved from https://traffickingculture.org/.
Tribble, S. (2013). Mounds, Myths, and Grave Mistakes: Wills De Hass and the Growing Pains of Nineteenth-Century Archaeology. West Virginia History, 7(1): 23-37.
United Nations. (1948). Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/en/about-us/universal-declaration-of-human-rights.
United Nations. (1966). International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights. Retrieved from https://www.ohchr.org/en/instruments-mechanisms/instruments/international-covenant-economic-social-and-cultural-rights.
United Nations. (2007). United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/development/desa/indigenouspeoples/wp-content/uploads/sites/19/2018/11/UNDRIP_E_web.pdf
United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO). (1970). The Convention on the Means of Prohibiting and Preventing the Illicit Import, Export, and Transfer of Ownership of Cultural Property. Retrieved from https://en.unesco.org/about-us/legal-affairs/convention-means-prohibiting-and-preventing-illicit-import-export-and.
Van Beurden, S. (2022, March). Loot: Colonial Collections and African Restitution Debates. Origins. Retrieved from https://origins.osu.edu/read/loot-colonial-collections-and-african-restitution-debates?language_content_entity=en.
Wiener, M. J. (1994). Object lessons: Dutch Colonialism and the looting of Bali. History and Anthropology, 6(4): 347–370.
Yates, D. (2015). Illicit Cultural Property from Latin America: Looting, Trafficking, and Sale. Countering Illicit Traffic in Cultural Goods the Global Challenge of Protecting the World’s Heritage, edited by F. Desmarais, pp. 33–45. Paris: International Council of Museums.
© Copyright 2025 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
<hr class="wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity" />
<a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1">[1]</a> The term “illegal” is sometimes used to describe stolen antiquities – and there are often both local and international laws criminalizing looting, trafficking, or obtaining unauthorized antiquities – but governments have different criteria for defining trafficked or stolen objects. Some researchers prefer the term “illicit” to describe antiquities that are trafficked or otherwise taken from their place of origin, whether they technically constitute being “illegal” (Mackenzie, 2014). This paper therefore uses the terms “illicit antiquities” and “illicit antiquities trade” unless explicitly referencing a legal case.
<a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2">[2]</a> In Israel/Palestine, archaeological studies are mostly reserved for Western scholars and have been criticized for serving nationalistic purposes. These sites are often disturbed and looted by Palestinian subsistence looters (Pollock, 2016).
<a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3">[3]</a> In Canada, “First Nations” refers to the Indigenous peoples who are neither Inuit nor Métis, traditionally living south of the Arctic Circle.
<a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4">[4]</a> The entire film Uncharted deals with antiquities looting; the “bad guys” work for private collector Santiago Moncada, who believes he has rightful ownership of cultural antiquities because his ancestors funded the expedition that looted the artifacts.
<hr class="wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity" />
The author thanks Professor Colleen Hanratty and Professor Thomas Guderjan for their guidance during this research project, and is grateful to Jeri Redcorn, Donna Yates, and Michelle Rich for their interview participation.
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/the-illicit-antiquities-trade-predatory-practices-commodification-cultural-depletion-and-responses/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
<item>
<title>BOOK REVIEW – Acts of Repair, by Natasha Zaretsky</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/book-review-acts-of-repair-justice-truth-and-the-politics-of-memory-in-argentina-by-natasha-zaretsky/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/book-review-acts-of-repair-justice-truth-and-the-politics-of-memory-in-argentina-by-natasha-zaretsky/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2025 01:27:58 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Book Reviews]]></category>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XV, Issue 1]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1485</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Elliott Howes, American University – Washington, D.C. BOOK REVIEW – Acts of Repair: Justice, Truth, and the Politics of Memory in Argentina, by Natasha Zaretsky [Download PDF] The field of genocide studies is often dominated by ideological discussions of international law, politics, and conflict. As scholars debate the definition of genocide, how to prosecute its […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Elliott Howes, American University – Washington, D.C.

BOOK REVIEW – Acts of Repair: Justice, Truth, and the Politics of Memory in Argentina, by Natasha Zaretsky
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/Howes_Book-review_Acts-of-Repair.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
The field of genocide studies is often dominated by ideological discussions of international law, politics, and conflict. As scholars debate the definition of genocide, how to prosecute its perpetrators, or where it is most likely to occur, genocide’s most fundamental impact on ordinary people can be forgotten. Regardless of whether a group receives explicit protection under the 1948 Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (Genocide Convention), genocidal violence is frequently viewed as being of the highest moral concern. All violence is traumatic; its impact can be felt by direct survivors, their families, or anyone who connects on an emotional level with those who have experienced it. The trauma and lasting memory following acts of genocidal violence have the power to defy traditional notions of victimhood and span different social groups, generations, and even survivors of different atrocities.
In Acts of Repair: Justice, Truth, and the Politics of Memory in Argentina, Natasha Zaretsky reveals how survivors of the Holocaust, the deadly 1994 bombing of the Asociación Mutual Israelita Argentina (AMIA) Jewish community center in Buenos Aires, and repression during Argentina’s 1976-1983 dictatorship have all used memory in their search for justice in Argentina. Focusing on the lives of ordinary people, she uses personal narratives of reflection, activism, and healing to draw connections between survivors and highlight the humanity of victimhood in the study of post-genocide societies.
In her book, Zaretsky tells the stories of Sofía (a mother who lost her daughter in the 1994 AMIA bombing) and Jack (a man who moved to New York and Buenos Aires after surviving the Holocaust in Poland), among others. Zaretsky guides readers through their lives with significant quotes from interviews and powerful imagery to describe the little things in their lives that hold meaning. When first introduced to Jack in Chapter One, readers learn that he loves coffee and that he and Zaretsky talked over coffee on many occasions. In Chapter Six, Zaretsky writes: “We sat down for coffee that Jack made carefully by boiling water, putting the ground coffee beans into a filter that he held over a special pot, and pouring that water over the grounds until the coffee was ready…it is the coffee I imagine Jack knew from his days in New York after the war. Jack liked to tell me he was making the ‘good American coffee’” (Zaretsky, 2021, p. 167). Scenes like this one are easy for readers to relate to; these simple, intimate activities evoke emotions of joy and calmness that everyone can understand. Because certain types of victimhood can be difficult to relate to, the imagery used to tell Jack’s story allows the audience to construct emotional ties with him as another human, rather than as a distant victim or survivor.
While the individuals featured in Acts of Repair experienced different periods of violence, Zaretsky chooses to tell their stories together and connect them with the idea of liminality – specifically, liminal spaces in rites of passage or transformation. Zaretsky defines such liminality in reference to the work of anthropologists Victor Turner and Arnold van Gennep, seeing it as “that ambiguous space, a threshold between stages, where you have left one state and have not yet been incorporated into the next” (Zaretsky, 2021, p. 11). This definition of liminality allows Zaretsky to retain a focus on people over politics. The importance of this human-centered approach is highlighted in her analysis of survivors’ experiences and the experiences of activist groups in the aftermath of atrocity.
Zaretsky uses the concept of liminal space to describe the process in which survivors work towards self-healing in a climate void of justice. She details how Sofía chose to write a poem about losing her daughter in the 1994 AMIA bombing (Zaretsky, 2021, p. 26), and how Jack initially chose not to tell her about his experience fleeing the Holocaust (Zaretsky, 2021, p. 34). These seemingly small details show how survivors’ internal struggles with trauma impact not just themselves, but also their relationships. Even in private settings – Sofía at home, or Jack in conversation with Zaretsky – the two survivors find themselves making decisions about how to express themselves. And though these two have very different pasts, Zaretsky tells their stories in ways that conjure up images of a sincere understanding and emotional connection between them.
At the same time Sofía and Jack were making decisions about remembrance, Zaretsky explains how organizations such as the Madres de Playa de Mayo and Memoria Activa were working in public spaces to demand justice in Buenos Aires. After years of protests and calls for action, trials and other forms of justice were undermined by impunity and a lack of transparency. Despite the blatant injustice, the people and organizations discussed in Acts of Repair chose to continue their fight for years to come. Their stories show the significance and power of collective trauma in communities. Collective trauma is a nuanced idea that can be easier understood through the lens of individual cases; reading about how these activists met in difficult weather conditions, marched to call out perpetrators outside of their homes, and made public spaces their own is inspiring, and gives the audience a glimmer of hope.
Zaretsky’s placement of survivor narratives alongside activist movements provides a necessary space for reflecting on what it means to be a survivor of violent atrocities in both personal and social contexts. The ways in which someone expresses themself in public versus in private can be quite different. Her book allows readers to see that victimhood is not just an internal battle with trauma, but a journey in finding ways to express it to others as an act of repair.
Acts of Repair takes an overlooked aspect of genocide studies and brings it to the forefront of a scholarly study. Zaretsky uses an intimate form storytelling that allows readers to see survivors of genocidal violence on a personal level, acknowledging their shared human existence rather than relying on labels or group identities. Her book also explains how memory motivates activist organizations to fight for and inspire change. Zaretsky’s focus on how genocide impacts individuals was incredibly touching, and Acts of Repair deserves full praise for its commitment to human life as a subject of genocide studies.
References
Zaretsky, N. (2021). Acts of Repair: Justice, Truth, and the Politics of Memory in Argentina. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press.
© Copyright 2025 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/book-review-acts-of-repair-justice-truth-and-the-politics-of-memory-in-argentina-by-natasha-zaretsky/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
<item>
<title>COMMENT – A Push to Ban U.S. Involuntary Servitude Under the 13th Amendment</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/comment-a-push-to-ban-u-s-involuntary-servitude-under-the-13th-amendment/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/comment-a-push-to-ban-u-s-involuntary-servitude-under-the-13th-amendment/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2025 01:25:10 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XV, Issue 1]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1484</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Olivia de Paschalis, Loyola Marymount University – Los Angeles, California COMMENT – A Push to Ban U.S. Involuntary Servitude Under the 13th Amendment [Download PDF] The 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution banned slavery, yet thousands of prisoners in the United States are forced into involuntary servitude because its “Punishment Clause” allows forced labor to […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Olivia de Paschalis, Loyola Marymount University – Los Angeles, California

COMMENT – A Push to Ban U.S. Involuntary Servitude Under the 13th Amendment
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/de-Paschalis_Comment_13th-Amendment.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
The 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution banned slavery, yet thousands of prisoners in the United States are forced into involuntary servitude because its “Punishment Clause” allows forced labor to be used as criminal punishment. This practice is rooted in racial prejudice and violates human rights protections against involuntary servitude and discrimination. It is necessary to change the language of the 13th Amendment, using the “Abolition Amendment” to permanently end involuntary servitude in the U.S.
The 13th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution is credited with banning slavery and similar forms of bondage in the United States, yet it contains a stipulation that allows involuntary servitude to be used as a form of criminal punishment. This so-called “Punishment Clause” creates a legal loophole enabling thousands of prisoners to be forced to work within the U.S. prison system, continuing the country’s legacy of slavery due to its racially discriminatory application and its violation of fundamental human rights. Not only does this practice violate the principles of freedom and liberty that many Americans consider central to national identity, but it also infringes on human rights such as freedom from discrimination, freedom from slavery, and the right to free choice of employment and desirable work (United Nations, 1948, Articles 2, 4, 23).
This essay proceeds in four sections: First, it outlines the history of slavery in the U.S. and highlights how this practice connects to present-day forced labor practices made possible by the 13th Amendment’s “Punishment Clause.” Second, it presents theoretical arguments in defense of forced labor as punishment and disputes these assertions. Third, it provides a rationale for banning involuntary servitude, partly by connecting this issue with earlier national debates about the War on Drugs that contributed to this problem. Lastly, this essay recommends changes to permanently end the use of forced labor as punishment in the United States, urging support for an “Abolition Amendment” that rectifies the shortcomings associated with the 13th Amendment.
A History of Involuntary Servitude in the United States
The United States’ legacy of involuntary servitude began with its historical reliance on slavery, which predates the country’s establishment and later violated U.S. ideals proclaimed following its Revolutionary War. While Northern U.S. states generally pursued abolition, slavery became deeply entrenched in the Southern economy and society, especially in relation to its agricultural industries. Tensions between the North and South over slavery led to the U.S. Civil War (1861-1863), and Northern victory resulted in the passage of the 13th Amendment (Gudmestad, 2023).
Ratified in 1865, the 13th Amendment formally abolished slavery and involuntary servitude – but it contained a contingency allowing for involuntary servitude to be used as punishment for a crime. Section 1 of the Amendment reads: “Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction” (Library of Congress, n.d.). This “Punishment Clause” was supported by most white Americans at the time, who were inclined to preserve penal slavery for personal gain and maintain normalized racial inequities (Goodwin, 2019; see also Alexander, 2010). So-called “Black Codes” and Jim Crow laws, both aimed at discriminating against Black Americans, also marked the late nineteenth and early-to-mid-twentieth century. Such strict restrictions punished Black people for petty crimes, causing them to be imprisoned and forced to work under the 13th Amendment’s loophole (Hoffer, 2022). Starting in the 1970s, the U.S. “War on Drugs” campaign and its focus on punishing Black communities for illicit drug use led to the emergence of mass incarceration, which disproportionately affected Black American men (Fernandez, 2022).
Involuntary servitude means permitting the laboring of an individual against their will, for the benefit of another person or entity (Cornell Legal Information Institute, 2023). In these instances, an individual may face punishment if they refuse to engage in such work. In the United States, imprisoned individuals are coerced into labor in conditions synonymous to involuntary servitude; more than 76% of incarcerated workers report they are forced to work under the threat of additional punishment (American Civil Liberties Union, 2022). Given that such involuntary servitude is permitted under the 13th Amendment’s “Punishment Clause,” forced prison labor remains constitutionally protected. It has evolved into a multi-billion-dollar industry that profits more than 4,100 private corporations who utilize such involuntary servitude (Corporate Accountability Lab, 2020). Prison work is a method of production throughout corporate America, used by a wide range of industries from agriculture to clothing (Corporate Accountability Lab, 2020). Incarcerated workers undertake laborious tasks such as making military equipment, working in call centers, or doing 3D printing work (NPR, 2020). Prisoners have no control over which occupation they are assigned to, negating any freedom of choice as laborers.
Arguments in Defense of Involuntary Servitude
Support for the 13th Amendment’s “Punishment Clause” is based on several lines of reasoning. Some are based on perceptions that do not reflect political (or human rights) reality. Some argue, for instance, that forced labor promotes rehabilitation or serves as a justified means of punishment. Other logic centers on preventing recidivism (that is, offenders committing new crimes and returning to prison after their initial release) and increasing financial gain. What these arguments all lack is empathy and respect for universal, inalienable human rights – which posit that everyone, including convicted criminals, have the same fundamental rights (Donnelly & Whelan, 2020).
Among the popular justifications for involuntary servitude is the so-called “Eye for an Eye” argument. This argument maintains that prisoners lack certain human rights because they committed crimes and therefore deserve forced labor. The view was reflected in a 1996 U.S. Second Circuit Court decision in Danneskjold v. Hausrath, where the Court declared that involuntary servitude can be seen as a “method for seeing that prisoners bear the cost of their incarceration” (United States Court of Appeals, Second Circuit, 1996). Politicians such as Democratic Senator Steve Glazer of California agree; Glazer argues that individuals give up certain liberties when they commit serious crimes, justifying prison labor (quoted in Lyons, 2022). These views represent the “Eye for an Eye” argument because they focus on reciprocal justice, with forced labor being a form of payment for crimes committed.
Another common claim is that forced labor is beneficial for rehabilitation and skills development. This argument is based on the idea that prisoners reap a variety of benefits, such as important experience and skills, thereby making involuntary servitude a tool of rehabilitation. This idea was also referenced in Danneskjold v. Hausrath, with the Court stating that forced labor “trains prisoners in discipline and skills of work” (United States Court of Appeals, Second Circuit, 1996). Policymakers often argue that this work prepares prisoners for life outside of incarceration (Lyons, 2022). Essentially, this argument maintains that the problems associated with involuntary servitude are offset by the benefits it produces. Some advocates of forced labor argue it can reduce recidivism rates and improve job skills. There is some evidence to support this argument, such as a study that found prisoners who worked during their time in prison had more employment prospects after release and experienced lower rates of recidivism – although this study was based on a program that was markedly different from traditional prison labor initiatives, and which centered more squarely on creating benefits for prisoners (Duwe, 2015). However, it is important to note that the benefits for forced labor are frequently attributed by external agents, rather than the people experiencing forced labor, and fail to account for issues such as poor working conditions and lack of equal protection.
A related argument stems from “Opportunity Theory,” an idea within the field of criminology which holds that offenders commit crimes based on the possibilities available to do so. Therefore, if forced labor is mandated as a form of punishment, it would reduce the amount of free time prisoners have and thus reduce moments of criminal opportunity (Osgood et al., 1996). One study found that spending more hours doing structured activities was negatively associated with instances of violent misconduct among inmates (Woolredge, 1998). This idea was also referenced in the Danneskjold v. Hausrath decision, with the Court stating that forced labor was an “occupation of a prisoner’s time that would otherwise be filled with mischief” (United States Court of Appeals, Second Circuit, 1996). Yet it is important to note that such research data is complex; the same study that found a negative association between forced labor and violent misconduct also found that involvement in structured activities was correlated with a higher likelihood of theft (Woolredge, 1998). The assertion that crime is less likely to occur simply because a prisoner fills their time is a seemingly flawed one.
Lastly, there is a financial argument in favor of involuntary servitude. This argument holds that the “Punishment Clause” of the 13th Amendment should be maintained because it would be too costly to eliminate it. Paying voluntary laborers a fair wage for the same work would negatively impact various industries and the profitability of the U.S. prison system. The California Department of Finance estimates it would cost $1.5 billion to pay prisoners minimum wage in California alone (Lyons, 2022). Ian Urbina (2007) discusses the American profitability of private prisons and the hundreds of corporations he calls “prisoner profiteers,” which benefit from involuntary servitude – including the U.S. government itself. During World War II, prison factories produced more than $75 million worth of war materials, and in 2002 alone they produced $30 million worth of wires for communication systems (Urbina, 2007). Many corporations reap the benefits of forced labor by paying prisoners little or no wages, building wealth for U.S. businesses and generating lower-priced goods for American consumers.
Arguments for Banning Involuntary Servitude
Opponents of involuntary servitude urge the modification of the 13th Amendment to exclude the “Punishment Clause.” These pushes for change are rooted in a variety of arguments, including those related to discrimination, morality, and human rights protections. First and foremost, it is necessary to acknowledge that forced labor in prisons is inherently inequitable. There are a multitude of factors which severely increase an individual’s chance of being imprisoned and subjected to forced labor, including poverty, mental illness, illiteracy, and drug abuse (Coates, 2015). Each of these circumstances is associated with systemic shortcomings. One study found that roughly half of the individuals in U.S. prison facilities suffer from a mental illness (Kim et al., 2015). It is unjust that factors outside of one’s control, which are often exacerbated by structural failings (such as inadequacies in U.S. educational and health care systems), may render one more at risk for being incarcerated subject to involuntary servitude.
Furthermore, many scholars have connected the “Punishment Clause” to the ongoing repression and exploitation of Black Americans (see Alexander, 2010). Indeed, some argue that an overwhelming desire from the white majority to sustain the personal benefits of slavery helps explain the current state of the 13th Amendment and assert that true freedom cannot be accomplished without its revision (Goodwin, 2019). The racialization of mass incarceration continues a legacy of discrimination against Black Americans, building from a history of Jim Crow segregation laws and disproportionately targeting Black Americans for minor crimes, funneling them into prisons (Hoffer, 2022). Such criminal justice practices aimed to continue a cycle of enslavement by finding new ways to engage in involuntary servitude, even after the end of legal slavery in the U.S. After Jim Crow and other problematic laws were repealed with the Civil Rights Movement, the “War on Drugs” commenced in the 1970s and again disproportionately targeted Black Americans (Fernandez, 2022). The imprisonment and forced labor of Black men for these drug crimes is reflected in recent statistics; while Black individuals make up around only 13% of the entire U.S. population, their incarceration rate is upwards of 38% (Prison Policy Initiative, n.d.).
Many argue that involuntary servitude is immoral because it denies human dignity and violates fundamental human rights. One of these crucial liberties is the right to voluntary and desirable work, including entitlement to a minimum wage. The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) (2022) reports that incarcerated workers earn 13 to 52 cents per hour, and that the U.S. government takes 80% of these earnings for fees. However, forced prison laborers produce $2 billion of goods and $9 billion worth of prison maintenance services (American Civil Liberties Union, 2022). There is clearly an ability to pay these individuals a fair wage, just no incentive to do so because the “Punishment Clause” permits involuntary servitude. These workers are treated as “less than” full citizens (and humans) because they cannot enjoy the same rights as “free” individuals. Indeed, these workers are essentially uncompensated and unprotected by labor laws, such as the U.S. Fair Labor Standards Act (FLSA), which outlines a minimum wage and provisions for overtime pay (U.S. Department of Labor, n.d.). This leaves prison laborers subject to substandard working environments, being unable to organize, and excluded from exercising other rights that free workers are entitled to (Armstrong, 2021).
Proposed Solutions
To remedy the human rights problems outlined in this essay, it is necessary to change the language of the 13th Amendment and ban legal involuntary servitude in the U.S. A proposed “Abolition Amendment” has already been drafted with this aim and was introduced as a joint resolution before the Senate Judiciary Committee in 2021 (Spencer, 2022). It reads that “neither slavery nor indentured servitude may be imposed as a punishment for crime” (United States Congress, 2022). This would effectively eliminate the “Punishment Clause” loophole. However, changes to the U.S. Constitution require a two-thirds vote by the House and Senate, and three-fourths of all state legislatures would need to ratify. While this federal change would be difficult to achieve, fortunately some U.S. states (including Tennessee, Oregon, Alabama, Louisiana, and Vermont) have begun amending their own state constitutions to ban involuntary servitude in their jurisdiction. These efforts include ballot initiatives, which would require voter approval (Spencer, 2022).
Because the power to end involuntary servitude lies in voters’ hands, it is necessary to build political will for changing the 13th Amendment. Activists rallying for change must spread the word and awareness, educating others about the human rights consequences of the “Punishment Clause,” which in turn can lead to putting public pressure on government officials, including lawmakers (American Civil Liberties Union, 2022). Societal pressure can act as a catalyst for constitutional reform, with statewide initiatives potentially leading to federal change in the future. The “Abolition Amendment” solution is feasible, but it requires public support and political will to be enacted by the U.S. Congress. Once involuntary servitude is banned, harmful practices can be justifiably eliminated and labor rights extended to imprisoned individuals. This includes laws identifying prisoners as employees and guaranteeing them the same workplace protections as other workers, such as mandating a fair minimum wage, health and safety standards, the right to unionize, and anti-discrimination protections (American Civil Liberties Union, 2022).
While the common perception is that slavery has been long banned in the United States, the issue of involuntary servitude in prisons shows this is not entirely the case. Thousands of imprisoned individuals are obliged to undertake forced labor that closely resembles indentured servitude to the state. The U.S. Constitution permits these human rights abuses by allowing forced labor as punishment under the 13th Amendment, directly contradicting the norms of equality, freedom, and liberty. Research shows that discrimination and inequality underpin forced labor practices and the U.S. prison system more broadly, disproportionately affecting minorities such as Black men. To uphold basic human rights standards, it is necessary to change the language of the 13th Amendment to ban involuntary servitude once and for all.
References
Alexander, M. (2010). The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness. New York: The New Press.
American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU). (2022). Captive Labor: Exploitation of Incarcerated Workers. Retrieved from https://www.aclu.org/news/human-rights/captive-labor-exploitation-of-incarcerated-workers#:~:text=From%20the%20moment%20they%20enter,due%20to%20a%20criminal%20conviction.
Armstrong, A. C. (2021). Beyond the 13th Amendment-Captive Labor. Ohio State Law Journal, 82(6): 1039-1069. Retrieved from https://moritzlaw.osu.edu/sites/default/files/2022-03/16.%20Armstrong_v82-6_1039-1069.pdf.
Coates, T. (2015). Between the World and Me. New York: Spiegel & Grau.
Cornell Legal Information Institute. (n.d.). Definition: Involuntary Servitude. 22 USC § 7102(8). Retrieved from https://www.law.cornell.edu/definitions/uscode.php?width=840&height=800&iframe=true&def_id=22-USC-2024319248-1892581678&term_occur=999&term_src=title:22:chapter:78:section:7102
Corporate Accountability Lab. (2020, August 5). Private Companies Producing with US Prison Labor in 2020: Prison Labor in the US, Part II. Retrieved from https://corpaccountabilitylab.org/calblog/2020/8/5/private-companies-producing-with-us-prison-labor-in-2020-prison-labor-in-the-us-part-ii.
Donnelly, J., & Whelan, D. J. (2020). International Human Rights, Sixth Edition. New York and London: Routledge.
Duwe, G. (2015). The Benefits of Keeping Idle Hands Busy: An Outcome Evaluation of a Prisoner Reentry Employment Program. Crime and Delinquency, 61(4): 559-586.
Fernandez, M. (2022, June 14). Emancipation on the Ballot: Why Slavery is Still Legal in America – And How Voters Can Take Action. Legal Defense Fund; Legal Defense Fund. Retrieved from https://www.naacpldf.org/13th-amendment-emancipation/.
Finkel, J. (2023). Lecture on Slavery and the U.S. Loyola Marymount University, Los Angeles.
Goodwin, M. (2019). The Thirteenth Amendment: Modern Slavery, Capitalism, and Mass Incarceration. Cornell Law Review, 104(4). Retrieved from https://scholarship.law.cornell.edu/clr/vol104/iss4/4/.
Gudmestad, R. (2023, May 29). What really started the American Civil War? The Conversation. Retrieved from https://theconversation.com/what-really-started-the-american-civil-war-205281.
Hoffer, S. (2022, February 3). Involuntary Servitude: How Prison Labor is Modern Day Slavery. Harvard Political Review. Retrieved from https://harvardpolitics.com/involuntary-servitude-how-prison-labor-is-modern-day-slavery/.
Kim, K., Becker-Cohen, M., & Serakos, M. (2015). The Processing and Treatment of Mentally Ill Persons in the Criminal Justice System A Scan of Practice and Background Analysis. Urban Institute. Retrieved from https://www.urban.org/sites/default/files/publication/48981/2000173-The-Processing-and-Treatment-of-Mentally-Ill-Persons-in-the-Criminal-Justice-System.pdf.
Library of Congress. (n.d.). Thirteenth Amendment. Retrieved from https://constitution.congress.gov/constitution/amendment-13/.
Lyons, B. (2022, July 1). California Lawmakers Reject Ballot Proposal That Aimed to End Forced Prison Labor. LAist. Retrieved from https://laist.com/news/criminal-justice/california-lawmakers-reject-ballot-proposal-that-aimed-to-end-forced-prison-labor.
NPR. (2020, June 29). The Uncounted Workforce. The Indicator from Planet Money. Retrieved from https://www.npr.org/transcripts/884989263.
Osgood, D. W., Wilson, J. K., O’Malley, P. M., Bachman, J. G., & Johnston, L. D. (1996). Routine Activities and Individual Deviant Behavior. American Sociological Review, 61(4): 635-655.
Prison Policy Initiative. (n.d.). Race and ethnic disparities. Retrieved from https://www.prisonpolicy.org/research/race_and_ethnicity/#:~:text=Percent%20of%20people%20in%20prison,450%20per%20100%2C000%20%2B.
Spencer, S. (2022). Emancipation on the Ballot: Why Slavery is Still Legal in America – and How Voters Can Take Action. Legal Defense Fund. Retrieved from https://www.naacpldf.org/13th-amendment-emancipation.
United States Court of Appeals, Second Circuit. (1996). Danneskjold v. Hausrath. Casemine. Retrieved from https://www.casemine.com/judgement/us/5914831aadd7b049344a163e.
U.S. Department of Labor. (n.d.). Wages and the Fair Labor Standards Act. Retrieved fromhttps://www.dol.gov/agencies/whd/flsa.
United Nations. (1948). Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/en/about-us/universal-declaration-of-human-rights.
United States Congress. (2022). S.J.Res.21 – A joint resolution proposing an amendment to the Constitution of the United States to prohibit the use of slavery and involuntary servitude as a punishment for a crime. Retrieved from https://www.congress.gov/bill/117th-congress/senate-joint-resolution/21/text?r=3&s=1.
Urbina, I. (2007). Prison Labor Fuels American War Machine. In Prison Profiteers: Who Makes Money from Mass Incarceration, edited by T. Herivel & P. Wright, pp. 109-118. New York and London: The New Press.
Wooldredge, J. D. (1998). Inmate Lifestyles and Opportunities for Oictimization. Journal of Research in Crime and Delinquency, 35(4): 480-502.

© Copyright 2025 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/comment-a-push-to-ban-u-s-involuntary-servitude-under-the-13th-amendment/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
<item>
<title>Human Rights in the Age of AI: Potential Challenges of an Emerging Technology</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/human-rights-in-the-age-of-ai-potential-challenges-of-an-emerging-technology/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/human-rights-in-the-age-of-ai-potential-challenges-of-an-emerging-technology/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Fri, 02 May 2025 01:17:48 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XV, Issue 1]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1482</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Petroslava Bratanova, Sciences Po – Paris, France Human Rights Challenges in the Age of AI: Potential Challenges of an Emerging Technology [Download PDF] The study examines the potential threats to human rights posed by artificial intelligence (AI). It analyzes case studies, scholarly literature, and legal frameworks to identify key trends and patterns in AI-induced human […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Petroslava Bratanova, Sciences Po – Paris, France

Human Rights Challenges in the Age of AI: Potential Challenges of an Emerging Technology
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/Bratanova_Human-Rights-in-the-Age-of-AI.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
The study examines the potential threats to human rights posed by artificial intelligence (AI). It analyzes case studies, scholarly literature, and legal frameworks to identify key trends and patterns in AI-induced human rights violations. It focuses on issues such as data bias, the “black box” phenomenon, “false positives,” lack of transparency, and systemic reinforcement of societal inequalities. Findings indicate that a range of human rights can be affected by AI, including rights to adequate housing and freedom of expression. While AI has demonstrated significant benefits, its integration into decision-making processes must be guided by frameworks to mitigate risks to human rights.
Artificial intelligence (AI) has evolved into a technology that has revolutionized multiple sectors of society, including policing, banking, and healthcare. It has improved efficiency and reduced labor needs, enabling these sectors to allocate resources more effectively and ensure faster responsiveness. Unlike simple algorithms (where there is a set of predefined rules that do not develop or change over time), AI learns and constantly develops its algorithms during its operation. AI is shown what it should predict or classify by developers, and then AI identifies data patterns and correlations that connect different features with specific potential outcomes (European Crime Prevention Network, 2022).
Despite its positive attributes, AI poses potential risks to human rights – in part because it is developing more rapidly than regulatory frameworks can adapt (Gellers & Gunkel, 2022). This lack of regulation is increasingly important as AI becomes integrated into decision-making that determines people’s access to welfare, education, and justice. Critics contend that AI suffers from inherent data bias, lack of transparency and accountability, and inaccurate predictions. These shortcomings have the potential to violate fundamental human rights norms such as equality and non-discrimination. They contribute to violations of civil and political rights, including rights to privacy, freedom of peaceful assembly and expression, the right to presumption of innocence, and the right to a fair trial. Social, economic, and cultural rights at stake include rights to housing, employment, welfare, and essential services. This research highlights the need for further investigation of how AI can impact human rights. While AI has demonstrated significant benefits, its integration into decision-making processes must be guided by frameworks to mitigate risks to human rights.
Foundational Issues in AI Systems
The ways in which AI functions lead to several foundational problems that impact human rights, including violating core norms of equality and non-discrimination (United Nations, 1948, Articles 1-2).<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1">[1]</a> First, biases in AI can occur if it was trained on data that reflects human bias or is skewed. Some argue that AI mirrors society and its stereotypes, much like the natural cognitive process used by humans themselves, and sometimes such generalizations can even be helpful when making informed decisions (Schauer, 2006). AI does not have any moral standpoint because it reproduces patterns, but perpetuating generalizations becomes harmful when it applies assumptions in ways that unfairly marginalize certain groups. Algorithm-based predictive policing, for instance, has been compared to what law enforcement officers do when they use their “intuition” to stop and search people in the field (Sarre & Livings, n.d.; Redmayne, 2005). The difference between biased decisions made by people and those made by AI is the scale, scope, and systemic impact they have. While human biases are inherently limited to the individuals making them, AI operates on a far broader scale and has the potential to affect far larger groups of people.
Second, another problem is that even if the data used to train AI is unbiased, AI can make biased decisions. Sometimes this relates to the “black box” phenomenon (IBM Data & AI Team, 2025); that is, the reasoning behind how AI identifies data patterns and correlations is not transparent to humans, which raises ethical concerns and complicates the ability to anticipate mistakes made by AI. For instance, we may not be able to trace the reason behind why someone got rejected from university, or by an employer (Blouin, 2021). Even when AI does not explicitly take factors such as race into account, those identity markers can be reflected by other indicators. For example, data about a neighborhood can reflect ethnicity or income level because some minorities or socio-economic classes are segregated in specific areas (Ferris et al., 2020). Finally, a “positive loophole” happens when a self-reinforcing cycle allows biased AI predictions, such as associating certain demographics with criminality, to validate and perpetuate the systemic biases, thereby strengthening the inaccurate associations over time (European Crime Prevention Network, 2022).
Advocates of AI use in law enforcement argue that it can be highly beneficial for identifying perpetrators and preventing crimes, while critics point to its error rates and potential to do harm. The Santa Cruz Police Department in California saw a 19% reduction in theft due to AI use (Cimphony, 2023), supporting claims that AI can benefit law enforcement. Proponents use a utilitarian argument that justifies AI use, even if it sometimes gives “false positives” (identifying innocent people as criminals), because it can save more lives and prevent more crimes than traditional police work alone. Yet AI’s success does not diminish its error rates and the damage it can create for impacted communities; one study on the accuracy of predictive policy software showed only a 0.6% success rate for predicting robberies in 2018 (Sankin & Mattu, 2023). AI has a poor performance record within underrepresented populations, leading to detrimental impacts varying from limiting opportunities and access to basic services, to “false positives” and wrongful terminations (Larkin, 2024). The insufficient representation of certain groups in training data, for instance, might mean AI lacks accuracy in identifying minorities (Blouin, 2021). An early trial of facial recognition software by the London Metropolitan Police Department found that 98% of identifications were incorrect (Santow, 2020). This potential for error – and its disproportionate effect on marginalized groups – was illustrated in a U.S. case against Robert Williams, a Black American who was wrongly accused of theft based on a security tape where facial recognition system misidentified him (Hill, 2020). Ultimately, the use of AI in law enforcement is usually seen as legitimate if its use is proportionate and justified (Feldstein, 2019a), which requires careful consideration of how AI use impacts the enjoyment of fundamental human rights.
<a></a>Threats to Civil and Political Rights
The issues outlined above can lead to the violation of civil and political rights, especially when AI is used for state surveillance. Systems such as facial recognition and so-called “smart policing” are used by 51% of liberal democracies to monitor migration and counter terrorism (Feldstein, 2019b). Authoritarian regimes are more likely to use AI surveillance unlawfully, such as to control and repress their citizens. Civil and political rights under threat include rights to privacy, freedom of peaceful assembly and expression, the right to presumption of innocence, and the right to a fair trial.
When misused, AI can facilitate the violation of the right to privacy – that is, arbitrary or unlawful interference in one’s privacy and personal life (United Nations, 1948, Article 12; United Nations Human Rights, 1966a, Article 17). AI use in the United States illustrates how AI can threaten rights even in liberal democracies. While the right to privacy is not explicitly listed in the U.S. Constitution, it is derived from other listed rights and affirmed through a series of case laws (Linder, n.d.). In Katz v. The United States, the Court extended the interpretation of the Fourth Amendment to include a “reasonable expectation of privacy” (Cornell Law School, n.d.) that prohibits “the wrongful intrusion into one’s private activities” (Stimmel Law, n.d.). Yet today AI has incredible access to data, thanks to the personal data provided by social media (Cataleta, 2020). Research shows how the Washington D.C. Metropolitan Police Department used AI-driven online surveillance tools to monitor individuals’ social media activity and track public protests from 2014 to 2022 (Dyson et al., 2024). The AI software Voyager was used to create 55,000 fake social media accounts and obtain information from approximately 1.2 million user profiles, which was provided to the D.C. police without their consent and against their expectation (Dyson et al., 2024). Another AI software, Dataminr (2025), provides police with information derived from social media about planned protests, their participants, locations, and timing (Dyson et al., 2024). During U.S. President Donald Trump’s first administration, the police used Sprinklr AI software to monitor specific political views by searching social media for the hashtags #ResistTrump, #ResistFacism, and #Anticapitalist (Dyson et al., 2024).
Notably, sometimes the violation of privacy rights intersects with abuses of freedom of peaceful assembly and expression. The rightto freedom of peaceful assembly, including the right to protest, is protected by international human rights (United Nations, 1948, Article 20; United Nations Human Rights, 1966a, Article 21) and the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution. AI-enhanced state surveillance can discourage people from engaging in protests and other forms of political participation, ultimately suppressing their political rights. Moreover, this surveillance also violates the right to freedom of expression, also stipulated in human rights frameworks (United Nations, 1948, Article 19; United Nations Human Rights, 1966a, Article 19) and the U.S. First Amendment. By monitoring critics of the government, AI surveillance creates a chilling effect and discourages individuals from expressing their political beliefs.
AI can also pose a threat to the right to presumption of innocence, which is legallyenshrined in Article 14(2) of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (see United Nations Human Rights, 1966a) and Article 6(2) of the European Convention on Human Rights (see European Court of Human Rights, 1950). Predictive policing disproportionately affects already-marginalized groups, violating the principles of equality and nondiscrimination, and prompts the police to examine people on the presumption of suspicion, often before any crime is even committed (Gless, 2018). It is important to consider predictive policing and how it derives from the theory that crime is contagious (Berkowitz & Macaulay, 1971). Statistical data from 40 U.S. cities showed that there were unusually high levels of crime after high-scale events such as the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, leading some to argue that certain individuals are predisposed to criminal violence if social restraints against it are diminished (Berkowitz & Macaulay, 1971). Predictive policing stems from this idea of crime as contagion, training AI with historical crime data to develop specific correlations connecting factors (such as socio-economic background, and location) to predict areas, times, or circumstances where crimes are likely to occur (European Crime Prevention Network, 2022). This is problematic because the system creates a “positive loophole” due to the over-policing of certain neighborhoods, particularly those with higher populations of marginalized groups; there are more arrests because there is more police presence, not because these neighborhoods are more prone to crime (European Crime Prevention Network, 2022). Yet these outcomes reinforce the algorithm’s perception that predictions were initially correct, causing AI to continue making associations such as linking socio-economic background with criminality.
AI use can also threaten the right to a fair trial, which guarantees the right of individuals to a fair and impartial hearing by an independent tribunal (European Court of Human Rights, 1950, Article 6; United Nations, 1966, Article 14). In Malaysia since 2020, courts in Sabah and Sarawak have used AI to assist in trials of drug possession under Section 12(2) of the Dangerous Drug Act (Lim & Gong, 2020; e-Kehakiman Sabah & Sarawak, 2023). The AI software identifies patterns in cases and produces sentencing recommendations, which the judge can choose to comply with or not (Lim & Gong, 2020). Some claim that AI use in the judicial sector can be beneficial for making the system more transparent (e-Kehakiman Sabah & Sarawak, 2023) and reducing bias (Kleinberg et al., 2018), overcoming challenges by processing large amounts of data without the same human bias constraints (Callahan, 2023). Yet human cognition is shaped by cognitive shortcuts and social influences, and AI is trained with historical data of human decisions. If we accept that there exists some level of bias in judicial decisions, then AI will learn this pattern and reflect it in its predictions, reaffirming bias rather than eliminating it (Javed & Li, 2024). Data shows that stereotypes in law enforcement can be activated without conscious awareness, which can lead to biased judgments (Graham & Lowery, 2004). This can be especially harmful in an ethnically and religiously diverse society like Malaysia (Noor & Manantan, 2022), where there are significant levels of discrimination (Komas, 2023). Research from the United States shows that when judges use AI predictions to justify their decisions, they can use AI as a scapegoat to avoid political fallout from controversial sentences and further entrench systemic bias (Esthappan, 2024). Further research shows that it is mathematically difficult to determine fairness, since fairness is an abstract notion with many nuances (Hao, 2019; Lim & Gong, 2020), and relevant factors may therefore be overlooked by AI and significantly impact judicial decisions.
Threats to Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights
Economic, social, and cultural rights are also threatened by AI use, especially in relation to rights to housing, work, and welfare (Gellers & Gunkel, 2022). The right to an adequate standard of living includes the right to housing (United Nations, 1948, Article 25; United Nations Human Rights, 1966b, Article 11). State parties are obliged to ensure non-discrimination based on race, ethnicity, and socio-economic background (Compton & Hohmann, 2023). This includes immediate state actions such as repealing discriminative laws, as well as longer-term provisions to provide housing to marginalized social groups through subsidies and removing impediments (Compton & Hohmann, 2023). But racial and socio-economic inequalities are perpetuated when AI is used by public or private actors (such as banks, landlords, or credit agencies) to restrict minorities’ access to housing, financing, or insurance. AI creates housing obstacles for marginalized communities in several ways. Some platforms monetize processes that were traditionally free, such as having to pay for endorsements from previous landlords (Compton & Hohmann, 2023). Such financial requirements negatively impact the poor as they seek housing. AI can also render tenants more vulnerable to being unjustly evicted because some systems recommend eviction in cases of delayed payments and other issues without considering the circumstances – or because those recommendations are based on erroneous data (Compton & Hohmann, 2023). Further, AI smart home technologies often monitor tenants without transparency or consent, thereby violating rights to privacy in one’s home (Compton & Hohmann, 2023).
Research highlights how AI data can perpetuate discrimination in housing. Chris Robinson, a 75-year-old applicant for a California senior living community, was wrongly denied housing by an AI-based screening program that flagged him as a “higher-risk renter” because it associated him with a littering conviction (Burns, 2023). Yet research indicates that having a criminal record, especially for a minor conviction, does not reliably predict how someone will perform as a tenant (Walter et al., 2017). Furthermore, landlords apply very rigid criteria without considering the specific circumstances of each case. One study found that landlords reject all applicants with criminal records, regardless of the severity of the crime, and AI can confuse the presence of eviction filings with actual completed evictions (So, 2022). Because housing is often the first step formerly incarcerated people take to rebuild their lives, restricted access to housing can lead to reoffending crimes (Burns, 2023). All these problems may lead to violations of the principle of non-discrimination, which is central to the right to adequate housing. Even though the companies providing AI services contend that the ultimate decisions are made by landlords (see United States District Court, District of Connecticut, 2021), a study found that landlords most often adopt the AI recommendations without further examining the case and regardless of errors (Burns, 2023). In Robinson’s case, AI made a mistake; the conviction belonged to another man in Texas, but Robinson still lost the apartment (Burns, 2023).
AI can also pose threats to the right to work (United Nations, 1948, Article 23; United Nations Human Rights, 1966b, Article 6) and the right to welfare – such as social services and security “in the event of unemployment, sickness, disability, widowhood, old age or other lack of livelihood in circumstances beyond his control” (United Nations, 1948, Article 25.1). This can be seen in the case of Amazon’s use of AI for processing job applications, which demonstrated a bias favoring men because it was trained on data from previously hired employees. Since the tech industry is male-dominated, AI developed a correlation between successful applications and male applicants (Dastin, 2018). Once again, the bias built into the AI system leads to potential violations of human rights, this time impacting one’s ability to secure employment. Court cases underscore AI’s threats to human rights, such as a case against the Dutch welfare fraud detection system, SyRI (Van Bekkum & Borgesius, 2021). In addition to obstructing access to welfare, the court ruled that SyRI violated the right to privacy due to its lack of transparency, excessive data collection, lack of public disclosure and consent, and bias against people of lower socio-economic status (Van Bekkum & Borgesius, 2021). The SyRI case is important because it is one of the first high-profile cases where a government was held accountable for using AI in a way that violated fundamental rights.
Conclusion
<a></a>AI systems have become increasingly complex and deeply embedded in decision-making processes. While AI offers tangible benefits, such as reducing crime rates and improving access to services, it also poses risks to fundamental human rights. The fact that AI violates the central principles of non-discrimination and equality means its negative effects impact both civil and political rights, as well as social, economic, and cultural rights. The creation of “positive loopholes” that lack transparency about how algorithms make inferences and reach decisions, combined with the use of biased data to train AI systems, leads to amplifying existing inequalities and perpetuating systemic injustices. With the increasing autonomy of AI decision-making and plans for even deeper integration of AI in key social systems, this research highlights the need for further investigation of how AI can impact human rights. We must consider the evolving landscape of AI technologies and ensuing regulatory frameworks, since AI will undoubtedly continue to shape the future.
<a></a>References
Berkowitz, L., & Macaulay, J. (1971). “The Contagion of Criminal Violence.” Sociometry, 34(2): 238-260.
Blouin, L. (2021). “Can We Make Artificial Intelligence More Ethical?” University of Michigan-Dearborn. Retrieved from https://umdearborn.edu/news/can-we-make-artificial-intelligence-more-ethical.
Burns, R. (2023, June 29). “Artificial Intelligence Is Making the Housing Crisis Worse.” The Lever. Retrieved from https://www.levernews.com/artificial-intelligence-is-making-the-housing-crisis-worse/.
Callahan, M. (2023, February 24). “Algorithms Were Supposed to Reduce Bias in Criminal Justice – Do They?” The Brink. Boston University. Retrieved from https://www.bu.edu/articles/2023/do-algorithms-reduce-bias-in-criminal-justice/.
Cataleta, M. S. (2020). “Humane Artificial Intelligence: The Fragility of Human Rights Facing AI.” East-West Center. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/resrep25514.
Cimphony. (2023). “AI Predictive Policing Accuracy: 2024 Analysis.” Retrieved from https://www.cimphony.ai/insights/ai-predictive-policing-accuracy-2024-analysis.
Cornell Law School (n.d.). “Invasion of Privacy.” Legal Information Institute. Retrieved from https://www.law.cornell.edu/wex/invasion_of_privacy.
Compton, C., & Hohmann, J. M. (2023). “AI and the Right to Housing.” In Human Rights and Artificial Intelligence: A Deskbook, edited by A. Quintavalla and J. Temperman, pp. 355-370. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Dastin, J. (2018, October 18). “INSIGHT – Amazon scraps secret AI recruiting tool that showed bias against women.” Reuters. Retrieved from https://www.reuters.com/article/us-amazon-com-jobs-automation-insight/amazon-scraps-secret-ai-recruiting-tool-that-showed-bias-against-women-idUSKCN1MK08G/.
Dataminr. (2025, January 9). Homepage. Retrieved from https://www.dataminr.com/.
Dyson, I., Milner, Y., & Griffiths, H. (2024, April 30). “Documents Reveal How DC Police Surveil Social Media Profiles and Protest Activity.” Brennan Center. Retrieved from https://www.brennancenter.org/our-work/analysis-opinion/documents-reveal-how-dc-police-surveil-social-media-profiles-and-protest.
e-Kehakiman Sabah and Sarawak. (2023, May 1). “Artificial Intelligence (AI).” Retrieved from https://ekss-portal.kehakiman.gov.my/portals/web/home/article_view/0/5/1.
Esthappan, S. (2024). “Assessing the Risks of Risk Assessments: Institutional Tensions and Data Driven Judicial Decision-Making in U.S. Pretrial Hearings.” Social Problems.
European Court of Human Rights. (1950). European Convention on Human Rights. Retrieved from https://www.echr.coe.int/documents/d/echr/convention_ENG.
European Crime Prevention Network (EUCPN). (2022). “Artificial Intelligence and Predictive Policing: Risks and Challenges.” Retrieved from https://eucpn.org/sites/default/files/document/files/PP%20%282%29.pdf.
Feldstein, S. (2019a). “Findings and Three Key Insights.” In The Global Expansion of AI Surveillance, pp. 7-11. Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Retrieved from http://www.jstor.org/stable/resrep20995.5.
Feldstein, S. (2019b, September 17). “The Global Expansion of AI Surveillance.” Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Retrieved from https://carnegieendowment.org/2019/09/17/global-expansion-of-ai-surveillance-pub-79847.
Ferris, G., Min, B., & Nayak-Oliver, M. (2020). “Automating Injustice: The Use of Artificial Intelligence and Automated Decision-making Systems in Criminal Justice in Europe.” Fair Trials. Retrieved from https://www.fairtrials.org/app/uploads/2021/11/Automating_Injustice.pdf.
Gellers, J. C., & Gunkel, D. J. (2022, April 1). “Artificial Intelligence and International Human Rights Law: Implications for Humans and Technology in the 21st Century and Beyond.” In Handbook on the Politics and Governance of Big Data and Artificial Intelligence, edited by A. Zwitter & O. J. Gstrein, pp. 430-455. Cheltenham: Edward Elgar Publishing.
Gless, S. (2018). “Predictive Policing: In Defense of ‘True Positives.’” In Being Profiled: Cogitas Ergo Sum. 10 Years of Profiling of the European Citizen, edited by E. Bayamlıoğlu, I. Baraliuc, L. Janssens, & M. Hildebrandt, pp. 76-83. Amsterdam:Amsterdam University Press.
Graham, S., & Lowery, B. S. (2004). “Priming Unconscious Racial Stereotypes about Adolescent Offenders.” Law and Human Behavior, 28(5): 483–504.
Hao, K. (2019, February 4). “This Is How AI Bias Really Happens – and Why It’s so Hard to Fix.” Technology Review. Retrieved from https://www.technologyreview.com/2019/02/04/137602/this-is-how-ai-bias-reallyhappensand-why-its-so-hard-to-fix/.
Hill, K. (2020, June 20). “Wrongfully Accused by an Algorithm.” The New York Times. Retrieved from https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/24/technology/facial-recognition-arrest.html.
IBM Data & AI Team. (2025, January 3). “Shedding light on AI bias with real world examples.” IBM. Retrieved from https://www.ibm.com/think/topics/shedding-light-on-ai-bias-with-real-world-examples.
Javed, K., & Li, J. (2024). “Artificial Intelligence in Judicial Adjudication: Semantic Biasness Classification and Identification in Legal Judgement (SBCILJ).” Heliyon, 10(9). e30184. Retrieved from https://doi.org/10.1016/j.heliyon.2024.e30184.
Kleinberg, J., Ludwig, J., Mullainathan, S., & Rambachan, A. (2018). “Algorithmic Fairness.” AEA Papers and Proceedings, 108: 22-27.
Komas, P. (2023, March 21). “Launch of the Malaysia Racism Report 2022.” KOMAS. Retrieved from https://komas.org/launch-of-the-malaysia-racism-report-2022/.
Larkin, Z. (2024, September 30). “AI Bias – What Is It and How to Avoid It?” Levity. Retrieved from https://levity.ai/blog/ai-bias-how-to-avoid.
Lim, C., & Gong, R. (2020, August). “AI Sentencing in Sabah and Sarawak.” Khazanah Research Institute. Retrieved from https://www.krinstitute.org/assets/contentMS/img/template/editor/200821%20AI%20in%20the%20Courts%20v3_02092020.pdf.
Linder, D. O. (n.d.). “The Right of Privacy: Is It Protected by the Constitution?” University of Missouri-Kansas City School of Law. Retrieved from http://law2.umkc.edu/faculty/projects/ftrials/conlaw/rightofprivacy.html.
Marcu, B. I. (2024, June 20.) “The World’s First Binding Treaty on Artificial Intelligence, Human Rights, Democracy, and the Rule of Law: Regulation of AI in Broad Strokes.” Future of Privacy Forum. Retrieved from https://fpf.org/blog/the-worlds-first-binding-treaty-on-artificial-intelligence-human-rights-democracy-and-the-rule-of-law-regulation-of-ai-in-broad-strokes/.
Noor, E., & Manantan, M. B. (2022). “Artificial Intelligence.” In Raising Standards: Data and Artificial Intelligence in South Asia, pp. 87-136. Asia Society.
Redmayne, M. (2005). “Review: Profiles, Probabilities, and Stereotypes, by F. Schauer.” Journal of Law and Society, 32(2): 333-339.
Sankin, A., & Mattu, S. (2023, October 2). “Predictive Policing Software Terrible at Predicting Crimes.” The Markup. Retrieved from https://themarkup.org/prediction-bias/2023/10/02/predictive-policing-software-terrible-at-predicting-crimes.
Santow, E. (2020). “Can artificial intelligence be trusted with our human rights?” AQ: Australian Quarterly, 91(4): 10-17.
Sarre, R., & Livings, B. (n.d.). “Artificial Intelligence and the Administration of Criminal Justice: Predictive Policing and Predictive Justice.” Australia Report. Retrieved from https://www.penal.org/sites/default/files/files/A-13-2023_0.pdf.
Schauer, F. 2006. Profiles, Probabilities, and Sterotypes. Cambridge: Harvard University Press.
So, W. (2022). “Which Information Matters? Measuring Landlord Assessment of Tenant Screening Reports.” Housing Policy Debate, 33(6): 1484-1510.
Stimmel Law. (n.d.). “The Legal Right to Privacy.” Retrieved from https://www.stimmel-law.com/en/articles/legal-right-privacy.
United Nations. (1948). Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/en/about-us/universal-declaration-of-human-rights.
United Nations Human Rights. (1966a). International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights.Retrieved from https://www.ohchr.org/en/instruments-mechanisms/instruments/international-covenant-civil-and-political-rights.
United Nations Human Rights. (1966b). International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights. Retrieved from https://www.ohchr.org/en/instruments-mechanisms/instruments/international-covenant-economic-social-and-cultural-rights.
United States District Court, District of Connecticut (2021, March 12). “CONNECTICUT FAIR HOUSING CENTER and CARMEN ARROYO, individually and as next of friend for Mikhail Arroyo, Plaintiffs, v. CORELOGIC RENTAL PROPERTYSOLUTIONS, LLC.” Case No. 3:18cv00705-VLB. Retrieved from https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/20511454-govuscourtsctd125021191/#document/p1/a2022099.
Van Bekkum, M., & Borgesius, F. Z. (2021). “Digital welfare fraud detection and the Dutch SyRI judgment.” European Journal of Social Security, 23(4): 323-340.
Walter, R. J., Viglione, J., & Tillyer, M. S. (2017). “One Strike to Second Chances: Using Criminal Backgrounds in Admission Decisions for Assisted Housing.” Housing Policy Debate, 27(5): 734-750.

© Copyright 2025 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
<hr class="wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity" />
<a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1">[1]</a> While international human rights law does not explicitly address AI, it guarantees protections that help guide government duty-bearers in the face of this new technology. Specific AI-focused regulations have started to emerge, including the European Ethical Charter on AI, the Council of Europe’s Framework Convention on AI, and the EU AI Act (Marcu, 2024).
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2025/05/01/human-rights-in-the-age-of-ai-potential-challenges-of-an-emerging-technology/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
<item>
<title>Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2024/12/02/ugandas-anti-homosexuality-act-customary-international-law-and-the-right-to-privacy/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2024/12/02/ugandas-anti-homosexuality-act-customary-international-law-and-the-right-to-privacy/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 02 Dec 2024 20:26:45 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XIV, Issue 2]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1457</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Stephen McDaniel, Pepperdine University Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act: Customary International Law and the Right to Privacy [Download PDF] Uganda’s 2023 Anti-Homosexuality Act has sparked intense debate about cultural relativism and the rights of sexual minorities. This paper investigates what protections sexual minorities have under international law in a multicultural world. While treaty law may be an […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Stephen McDaniel, Pepperdine University

Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act: Customary International Law and the Right to Privacy
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/McDaniel_Ugandas-Anti-Homosexuality-Act.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
Uganda’s 2023 Anti-Homosexuality Act has sparked intense debate about cultural relativism and the rights of sexual minorities. This paper investigates what protections sexual minorities have under international law in a multicultural world. While treaty law may be an unreliable source of protection, customary international law surrounding sexual minorities’ rights to privacy has emerged over the past half-century. An analysis of case law from the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, South Africa, and Botswana illustrates how the right to privacy is upheld out of obligation to customary international law – which Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act blatantly violates. Customary international law therefore provides opportunities for protecting the rights of sexual minorities in Uganda, including using it to leverage international pressure for domestic legislative change.
On 26 May 2023, Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni signed the Anti-Homosexuality Act into domestic law. This piece of legislation has discriminatory objectives, described in a statement by the Human Rights Campaign as “one of the most draconian anti-LGBTQ+ laws ever” (Human Rights Campaign, 2023). This paper analyzes key developments pertaining to the protection of LGBTQ persons under international human rights law and evaluates the points of leverage it holds over Uganda’s law. This specific case demonstrates the inherent tension between international law and state sovereignty and brings into question the course of action states may take against each other to ensure individual human rights. When a state’s law that is deeply rooted in culture is opposed to international law, which law prevails?
Uganda is bound by international human rights law – which relies on the twin pillars of equality and non-discrimination following the atrocities of World War II – but whether those principles apply to LGBTQ persons is not universally accepted. This paper argues that the most compelling case for LGBTQ rights is not grounded in treaty law, but rather in international customary law that has evolved over time. The well-established human right to privacy has led to the decriminalization of homosexual behavior and ensuing LGBTQ rights in countries such as the United States, the United Kingdom, Australia, South Africa, and Botswana. Various aspects of Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act conflict with the right to privacy and are clear violations of international human rights under customary law, even if protections for LGBTQ individuals are less agreed upon under binding international law. The international community has engaged in “naming and shaming” in response to Uganda’s recent legislation and weighed repercussions such as economic sanctions, but it will perhaps take individual claims and persistent international pressure to change Ugandan laws and state behavior.
Cultural Relativism and International Human Rights Law
The debate about Uganda’s 2023 Anti-Homosexuality Act centers around issues of sovereignty and culture that call international law itself into question. Each state is sovereign, meaning it possesses the right to rule its own territory (Klabbers, 2021). Sovereignty and jurisdiction go hand in hand, as jurisdiction enables a state to pass laws over its sovereign domain. It means that each state is independent of the next, having the right to make its own laws and govern itself based on its unique identity and values. If this is true, how can international law even exist? This question becomes more complicated in relation to human rights law, which aims to protect individuals who are already subjects of the state. The American Anthropological Association (AAA)’s 1947 Statement on Human Rights examines how a Universal Declaration of Human Rights could “be applicable to all human beings, and not be a statement of rights conceived only in terms of the values prevalent in the countries of Western Europe and America.” If international law (such as international human rights and related frameworks) is formulated by only powerful and influential states, those norms can never truly be universal. A less powerful state may claim that, in some instances, the nature of such law infringes upon its sovereignty.
The AAA’s (1947) argument likely had pure intentions, aimed at protecting non-Western states from a kind of human rights imperialism, yet it ignores the overarching goals of international human rights law. It is an argument centered around the protection of the larger group, the state and its subculture, at the peril of the individual, whom human rights law aims to protect. This misunderstanding is seen in the AAA’s statement: “There can be no individual freedom, that is, when the group with which the individual identifies itself is not free. There can be no full development of the individual personality as long as the individual is told, by men who have the power to enforce their commands, that the way of life of his group is inferior to that of those who wield the power” (American Anthropological Association Committee for Human Rights, 1947). This statement likens “the individual” to a single state or culture and argues that such a state truly has no freedom when it is subject to those with power. It essentially claims that a state such as Uganda cannot have true sovereignty when it is subject to the laws made by a group of other states. Yet this exact statement, when framed differently, is an argument for the necessity of international human rights law. When the term “individual” is understood to describe a certain group that is subject to a powerful state government, they are the ones at risk. If sexual minorities are subject to oppressive laws made by those in power, then their individual liberty is being infringed upon in the same way the AAA argues the state is limited by human rights law. In fact it is exactly this sort of predicament, in which a group within a state needs protection from its own government, that demands international human rights law. Indeed, Pastor Martin Niemöller illustrated the circumstances necessitating human rights law in words that now mark the walls of the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum (United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, n.d.):
First they came for the Communists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews
And I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left
To speak out for me
The international human rights system that governs the world today was born of the evil of World War II. The atrocities that took place against Jews and other marginalized groups in Europe and East Asia revealed the necessity of a new kind of international law focused on the rights of individuals within states. As an Allied victory grew more certain, the discourse of the Dumbarton Oaks Conference in 1944 began to emphasize the need to give the war a lasting meaning: a new commitment to the protection of individuals (Lauren, 2011). This was realized in the 1948 United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which was (as expressed by the Lebanese delegate) “inspired by the opposition of the barbarous doctrines of Nazism and fascism” and (according to the Indian delegate) “born from the need to reaffirm those rights after their violation during the war” (Morsink, 1993, p. 347). It was painfully evident that individuals needed protection under international law – not from each other, but from their own governments who wielded power over them (Klabbers, 2021). The UDHR and subsequent binding international human rights law were attempts to ensure that the mistakes detailed by Niemöller would not come to pass again; that in cases where “they came” for a certain group, at the very least, international law would speak out on behalf of the marginalized.
This does not mean that cultural values are to be annulled, but that the tension between culture and human rights law needs to be addressed. A system of absolute relativism would result in cultural claims to justify the most outrageous atrocities. The argument that Nazis had the right to behave inhumanely because Hitler had forged a culture that encouraged it is clearly problematic. Similarly, an understanding that dismisses culture in favor of an absolute law is exactly what concerned the AAA: the ideas of the few and powerful being imposed upon the many at the expense of state sovereignty. The answer for true peace is likely found somewhere between the two extremes; one should accept and appreciate the cultural differences that enrich our international community while recognizing that there are individual human beings whose rights must be protected, sometimes from the effects of their own cultures and governments. There is nothing “relative” in the rights that all human beings are entitled to; in fact, its universality is implied in the labeling of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Human rights were intentionally conceived to protect “all members of the human family” (United Nations General Assembly, 1948). While there is a conflict here, it is not between state sovereignty and international law. Rather, the notion of strong cultural relativism is hopelessly at odds with human rights, which grant rights based on the possession of a human identity, regardless of the territory such a human resides in (Donnelly, 1984). As such, an international legal system that privileges weak cultural relativism has developed since World War II (Donnelly, 1984).
Notably, international law can only exist when it stands on a state’s consent to be governed by it. Those in power do not just make law that is directly binding on all others. Rather, a state must ratify a treaty to be legally bound by it, as expressed clearly in Article 11 of the 1969 Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties (United Nations, 2005). This principle is not unique to the Convention but was also expressed in the 1927 Lotus ruling, stating that the international legal obligations of a state “emanate from their own free will as expressed in conventions or by usages generally accepted as expressing principles of law” (World Courts, 1927). The very structure of international law dislodges the cultural relativist argument concerning the incompatibility of human rights law and state sovereignty, which overlooks the consensual nature of international law. It is a system that can only function based on states’ “sovereign right to become less sovereign” (Cassel, 2001).
The events of World War II necessitated a form of international law whose subjects were not the states but the individuals within them. The fact that states have shown a general willingness to surrender their sovereignty by consenting to international human rights law further strengthens the validity of its existence. There are 173 state parties to the 1966 International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR; United Nations, 1967a) and 171 state parties to the 1966 International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights (ICESCR; United Nations, 1967b); Uganda is party to both (United Nations Treaty Collection, 2021). Human rights law was designed to protect the individual from its state, and state consent to this notion only strengthens this truth and emphasizes the importance of action in defense of human rights.
Treaty Law and Protecting Sexual Minorities
International human rights law was founded on the twin pillars of equality and non-discrimination, as seen in Article 13 of the 1945 United Nations Charter which requires the UN’s human rights work to be done “without distinction” (United Nations, 1945a). The emphasis placed on these principles is well-articulated in treaty law and accepted in customary law, and some would even find them to be peremptory norms, known as jus cogens (Michigan Law Review, 1984). One does not need to go far to understand how the very idea of a law targeted at a specific group is a violation of international law. Still, when applied to LGBTQ persons, these principles have not been readily accepted. This is partly a consequence of the international community’s position on LGBTQ rights when the UN was established. At that time, religious and cultural distinctions were widely accepted as a basis for state legislation that discriminated against LGBTQ persons (Forsythe, 2009) – an argument that has not been entirely exhausted, but which is far less accepted in today’s world. Such developments lead to the question: Is broadening respect for LGBTQ rights a consequence of applicable international treaty law, or are they a reflection of individual states becoming more progressive?
Article 2 of the ICCPR, which Uganda has ratified, calls on state parties to ensure that the rights described in the Convention are applied to individuals “without distinction of any kind, such as race, color, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national or social origin, property, birth or other status” (United Nations, 1967a). This statement does not reference “sexual orientation” in the protected categories enumerated. While inclusion can and has been inferred in the term “other status,” Uganda is unlikely to accept this interpretation. In fact, the term “sexual orientation” is not explicitly referenced in the UDHR (United Nations General Assembly, 1948), ICCPR (as noted), or the ICESCR (United Nations, 1967a). Its first reference in the realm of international law was in Toonen v. Australia (1994), in which the UN Human Rights Committee (HRC) addressed the interpretations of “sex” and “other status” in Article 2 of the ICCPR (University of Minnesota, 1994). Ultimately, the Committee found the term “sex” to imply protection based on sexual orientation (Garvey, 2010).
In addressing Article 26 of the ICCPR, which prohibits discrimination, the HRC went on to wrestle with the inclusion of sexual orientation as a protected “other status.” The HRC not only argued for the rights of sexual minorities under the ICCPR but also made a statement on the general character of human rights law. It expressed that, based on the travaux préparatoires,<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1">[1]</a> the group identities labeled in Articles 2 and 26 “should not be read restrictively” and “support an inclusive rather than exhaustive interpretation” (University of Minnesota, 1994). In other words, human rights law is an inclusionary system. The list of identities provided in the ICCPR was not designed to restrict the scope of human rights, but to make possible the inclusion of other groups who gain recognition over time, such as LGBTQ persons. This understanding bodes well for those who take the decisions of the HRC seriously, but the state obligation to these decisions is contestable.
The HRC was empowered by the Optional Protocol to the ICCPR to further achieve the purposes of the Convention (United Nations, 1966). A primary duty of the HRC outlined in the Optional Protocol is to consider communications from individuals who claim their rights under the ICCPR are under attack or being violated (United Nations, 1966). This is precisely what occurred when Nicholas Toonen brought a complaint against Australia in 1994. However, the text of the Optional Protocol does not clarify the force of law its decisions hold. This uncertainty becomes even more prevalent in decisions regarding the HRC’s interpretation of law. For instance, if an individual argues their right to freedom from racial discrimination under ICCPR Article 26 is being violated, the language of the contested article is quite clear. The state, if the violation was indeed found to occur, would be under an obligation not from the HRC but from the treaty itself, pacta sunt servanda.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2">[2]</a> Yet the force of an HRC decision is far more contentious when a complaint is based on an interpretation – especially when there is a substantive disunion between the HRC’s understanding of a treaty and what a state claims it agreed to in its interpretation. It is likely that a state such as Uganda would reject the HRC’s interpretation of Article 2 and not find itself legally bound by it.
The primary argument for the binding nature of HRC communications is made by the Committee itself, although their true force is questionable. In its General Comment No. 33 (2008), it argues that while the HRC is not a judicial body, its findings possess some of the “principal characteristics of a judicial decision” and “are arrived at in a judicial spirit” (United Nations Human Rights Committee, 2008). While this is a reasonable characterization of HRC findings, it is still not a full-throated declaration of the binding nature of Committee decisions. The fact that this is the most authoritative declaration of the HRC’s authority leads one to be skeptical of its true force. A more widely accepted position is the one expressed by former HRC member Gerald L. Neuman: decisions are not legally binding (Neuman, 2018). In fact, “decisions” is a poor use of language. The nomenclature used by the HRC tends to reference “findings,” “recommendations,” “observations,” and “considerations” (Neuman, 2018). It expresses determinations of violation or non-violation, and these findings hold some authority – but the language used to communicate them demonstrates that they do not hold the force of law.
When seeking to understand the position of LGBTQ persons under international human rights law, Western analysts may be inclined to look at Toonen as a key peg upon which an argument can hang. They could argue that, based on the HRC’s conclusion, state parties to the ICCPR are bound to ensure equality and non-discrimination for sexual minorities. This may be a strong enough case for many, but there are certainly those who aren’t easily convinced. The purpose of researching this issue is not to reaffirm the beliefs and interpretations that are already held in the West, but to bring forth the most convincing argument for the sake of those who are reluctant. As such, the most compelling case for LGBTQ rights protection is not found in treaty law but in international custom that has been molded and developed over time.
Customary International Law
Article 38 of the Statute of the International Court of Justice lays out the four sources of international law: international conventions, international custom, general principles of law, and the decisions of the “most highly qualified publicists of the various nations,” the latter being a subsidiary means of determining law (United Nations, 1945b). There is no hierarchical nature to the listing of international conventions and international custom, meaning in a case where treaty law does not speak, such as the subject of the rights of LGBTQ persons, custom may become an undisputed source of law (Klabbers, 2021).
For the establishment of customary law, two components are required: general practices of states and opinio juris. General practices refer to an objective element, essentially analyzing if the principle is one states tend to abide by. Secondly, opinio juris refers to the belief that adhering to this practice is legally obligatory.States engage in many practices, such as rolling out a red carpet for foreign diplomats, but they are not all legally required by law (Klabbers, 2021). Opinio juris makes this distinction. These objective and subjective elements may appear to be at odds with one another, but international case law has shown how the two work in conjunction. The evidence of general practices must be considered along with the rationale behind these practices to determine opinio juris. If one can conclude that states behave a certain way because they believe it is their legal obligation to do so, opinio jur<a href="https://heinonline-org.lib.pepperdine.edu/HOL/Print?collection=usjournals&handle=hein.journals/okcu15&id=611">is</a> may be concluded (Slama, 1990).<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3">[3]</a>
A brief legal history in relation to sexual minorities worldwide helps gauge where customary international law stands on the matter. The criminalization of homosexual relations is not a new phenomenon, originating in the nineteenth century on primarily religious bases (Sable, 2010). However, decriminalization is not entirely new, either; France decriminalized homosexual activity in 1791, and the Netherlands, Spain, Belgium, and Italy followed in the nineteenth century (Forsythe, 2009). The trend of decriminalization has gained considerable momentum in the second half of the twentieth century because of the increased visibility of LGBTQ persons globally (Forsythe, 2009). Consequently, 50 states have decriminalized same-sex relations over the period from 1990-2023 (International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association, n.d.). Uganda’s draconian legislation, however, may be an attempt to push back against these global trends. Still, 130 of 193 UN Member States (67.4%) do not criminalize homosexuality (International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association, n.d.).
These global trends mean a few things for the development of customary international law. First, it demonstrates that the general practice of states is decriminalization, and this reality is likely to solidify further as time passes. However, it also means there are over 60 states that have not yet accepted this norm. To reach any sort of conclusion concerning customary international law, opinio juris must be determined. Are states that are decriminalizing doing so because of perceived legal obligations or cultural shifts? I argue that the strongest argument for the obligation to decriminalize homosexual behavior does not stem from the twin pillars of equality and non-discrimination, but from the well-established human right to privacy. The following section will review decisions concerning the right to privacy in homosexual relations, thus determining its establishment in customary international law.
The Right to Privacy
The United States
The United States has generally lingered behind Europe in the advancement of LGBTQ rights, and the right to privacy is no different. The U.S. Supreme Court in Bowers v. Hardwick (Cornell Law School, 1986) ruled against the claim that a Georgia state law prohibiting sodomy was a violation of the right to privacy, even though this right was conferred in existing SCOTUS case law: Skinner v. Oklahoma (1942), Griswold v. Connecticut (1965),and Roe v. Wade (1973) (Kimble, 1988). It determined that the right to privacy did not extend to homosexual sodomy, despite the Eleventh Circuit Court’s opinion that such activity occurring between consenting adults was private (Vlahos, 1986). The Court concluded that they did not have the power to expand rights and expressed concern that ruling differently would open the door for the protection of other sexual “crimes” committed in private (Kimble, 1988). This ruling must be considered for two reasons: it presents an argument that could be used to dispute the extent of the right to privacy, and its overturning in 2003 contributes to the case for customary international law.
The situation surrounding the U.S. case Lawrence et al. v. Texas (2003) was strikingly similar to the events leading to Bowers. Police entered an apartment on an unrelated matter to find Lawrence and another consenting man engaged in sexual activity, violating a Texas state statute (Jones, 2004). The State Court of Appeals, using Bowers as precedent, ruled that such a law was not unconstitutional under the Fourteenth Amendment (Cornell Law School, 2003). This time the U.S. Supreme Court disagreed, ruling that the Texas statute violated the Due Process Clause and overturning the Bowers decision. The Court stated that Bowers did not sufficiently consider the liberty at stake, reducing a case about individual liberty to one limited to the right of “homosexuals to engage in sodomy” (Cornell Law School, 1986). The Supreme Court, in Lawrence, ruled on a much broader scope, arguing that such a law is guilty of “touching upon the most private human conduct, sexual behavior, and in the most private of places,” seeking to restrict a relationship that “is within the liberty of persons to choose without being punished as criminals” (Cornell Law School, 2003). The Court did not withhold its critique of the Bowers decision, demonstrating that the debate surrounding the criminalization of homosexuality should not be limited to the rights of LGBTQ persons while ignoring the right to privacy. Further, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled this way out of a conviction that such protections are a matter of legal obligation rather than cultural fluctuation.
While Ugandans are not subject to the U.S. Constitution, Uganda is party to the ICCPR, which ensures the right to privacy. The same standard that compelled the U.S. Supreme Court to strike down Bowers exists in international law. Article 17, Section 1 of the ICCPR states that “No one shall be subjected to arbitrary or unlawful interference with his privacy, family, home or correspondence, nor to unlawful attacks on his honor or reputation” (United Nations, 1967a). The key term in this article is “arbitrary.” There are certainly situations in which the right to privacy can or must be violated. If one harbors a convict in their home or holds a hostage, their right to privacy does not protect them from consequences. It can be infringed upon when there are good reasons – notably if the consequences of one’s actions violate the sovereignty of another person or group. A state party to the ICCPR can only justify a violation of the right to privacy if it provides a reason that renders the violation non-arbitrary.
United Kingdom
The decision of the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR) in Dudgeon v. United Kingdom furthers the argument in favor of customary international law and addresses uncertainty surrounding arbitrary violation of the right to privacy. While carrying out an unrelated search warrant on Dudgeon’s home, the police seized his personal papers in which he described homosexual activity. This led to him being questioned at the police station for four and a half hours concerning offenses categorized as “gross indecency” and “buggery” (European Court of Human Rights, 1981). Dudgeon argued before the ECHR that such a law violated Article 8 of the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms, which guarantees the right to respect for private and family life, in conjunction with Article 14, which prohibits discrimination (Kimble, 1988). The defense of the United Kingdom was based on the conservative, religious nature of Northern Ireland, even arguing that if the law were changed, it would be met with strong opposition (Connelly, 1982). This perspective parallels one that is commonly used in defense of Uganda’s law.
Despite this argument, the Court agreed with Dudgeon, concluding that he “suffered and continues to suffer an unjustified interference with his right to respect for his private life,” constituting a breach of Article 8 of the Convention (European Court of Human Rights, 1981). The characterization of the interference as “unjustified” is central to this statement. The Court struck down arguments that this law was necessary for the protection of other marginalized populations or essential for the protection of the morality of society (European Court of Human Rights, 1981). Valuable conclusions can be drawn from this decision. The Court agreed that there was a violation of Article 8 but stated that there was no purpose in examining Article 14 because of this fact (European Court of Human Rights, 1981). It reasoned that there is no need to even consult the matter of discrimination when the right to privacy is violated. As such, it sidestepped the same question that this paper has, likely for the same reasons; in the present moment, the most compelling case international law can present for the decriminalization of homosexuality is the right to privacy. Additionally, it is important to note that this decision was based on the same principles state parties to the ICCPR are bound by, even though the decision was in a European Court.
The most relevant aspect of this decision, at least for the sake of this study, is its aftermath. In 1982, Northern Ireland issued The Homosexual Offences Order, declaring that “a homosexual act in private shall not be an offence if the parties consent thereto and have attained the age of 21 years” (Northern Ireland Assembly, 1982). This law was instated under the belief that it was legally obligated by the treaties the state was party to. In this case, state practice and opinio juris worked in unison: the state’s change in practice was a consequence of the feeling of legal obligation.
Australia
The rationale used in Dudgeon v. United Kingdom is furthered in the analysis of Toonen v. Australia (University of Minnesota, 1994). Toonen argued that the Tasmanian Criminal Code, in its criminalization of private homosexual acts, had violated his human right to privacy (University of Minnesota, 1994). This case is particularly notable because it was brought before the UN Human Rights Committee, which has a level of authority applicable to the formation of customary international law. The Committee, in its examination of the merits of the case, concluded that “it is undisputed that adult consensual sexual activity in private is covered by the concept of privacy” (University of Minnesota, 1994). It determined that the right to privacy enumerated in Article 17 of the ICCPR was incompatible with legislation restricting the private sexual behavior of adults and recommended the repeal of Articles 122(a), (c), and 123 of the Tasmanian Criminal Code. Given the case law examined thus far, such an interpretation is not surprising (Joseph, 1994).
Again, the power of this case regarding customary international law is found in what followed the HRC’s examination of merits. The Tasmanian regional government initially refused to comply with the Committee’s decision, emphasizing the non-binding nature of the HRC’s examinations (Sanders, 1996). The Australian Parliament, however, countered by enacting the Human Rights (Sexual Conduct) Act (1994), enshrining the right to privacy for sexual minorities in law.The High Court determined that this legislation invalidated Tasmania’s state law due to its incompatibility with the right to privacy (Purvis & Castellino, 1997). In this case, the law was not changed because of cultural values, for these values clearly didn’t shift in Tasmania, but because the state felt a legal obligation to enforce such protections. State practice was influenced by the conviction of legal obligation.
South Africa and Botswana
A valid study of international law must extend beyond the Western world, and this paper’s discussion of customary international law therefore includes two cases from the continent of Africa. First, the Constitutional Court of South Africa expressed the opinion in National Coalition for Gay and Lesbian Equality v. Minister of Justice (1998)that aligned with decisions from other parts of the world (Constitutional Court of South Africa, 1998). The case brought before the Court argued that South African common law, which criminalized both sodomy and sexual acts between men, violated the state’s Constitution on several counts, including the right to privacy established in Article 14 (Kilpatrick, 1999). The Court ruled in favor of those who brought the case, emphasizing the victimless and consensual nature of the acts in question: “If, in expressing our sexuality, we act consensually and without harming one another, invasion of that precinct will be a breach of our privacy” (Constitutional Court of South Africa, 1998). The determination that these laws were invalid based on aspects of the Constitution that mirror international agreements once again confirms the right to privacy of LGBTQ persons under international law.
Perhaps the strongest argument supporting customary international law, however, can be found in Botswana. Up until 2021, Botswanan law criminalized homosexuality, although it had been challenged in court. In Kanane v. State (2003), Kanane was charged with committing “an unnatural offence” and “indecent practices between males” (International Commission of Jurists, 2003). His claim that this violated Botswana’s Constitution failed, and Section 164 of the Penal Code was upheld. The deciding factor in this instance was the belief that “gay men and women do not represent a group or class which at this stage has been shown to require protection under the Constitution” (International Commission of Jurists, 2003). Like Bowers in the United States, this ruling would be overturned.
In 2019, The High Court of Botswana overturned this decision with Motschidiemang v. Attorney General Botswana (High Court of Botswana, 2019), holding that sections 164(a), (c), and 165 of the Penal Code conflicted withSections 3 and 9 of Botswana’s Constitution, which ensured a right to privacy. The Court’s opinion breaks down several areas of contradiction between these sections of the Penal Code and the Constitution, with a thorough reliance on international law and case law. Its section on the Right to Privacy essentially argues for the legal obligation to strike down such a law on these bases. It begins by citing the UDHR and ICCPR as evidence that “the limited right to privacy is a cherished fundamental human right” (High Court of Botswana, 2019). It lists a series of international and regional conventions that prescribe the right to privacy in their own regards, including the UN Conventions on Migrant Workers and on the Rights of a Child, the African Union Principles on Freedom and Expression, the American Convention on Human Rights, the Arab Charter on Human Rights, the ASEAN Human Rights Declaration, and the ECHR (High Court of Botswana, 2019). It goes on to reference the Constitutional Court of South Africa’s 1991 ruling and Lawrence v. Texas (2003) as evidence of state practiceto strengthen their conclusion that an individual “has a right to a sphere of private intimacy and autonomy, which is not harmful to any person, particularly that is consensual<a href="https://www.humandignitytrust.org/wp-content/uploads/resources/Motshidiemang-V-Attorney-General-Botswana-2019.pdf">”</a> (High Court of Botswana, 2019).
Botswana’s decision is evidence of emerging customary international law that protects sexual minorities’ right to privacy. It refers to international and regional conventions, case law, and its own Constitution, expressing a legal obligation to tear down invasive legislation. Such a strong ruling coming from the African context demonstrates that this is not an exclusively Western norm, but one that is gradually being expressed throughout the world.
Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act
Various aspects of Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act conflict with the right to privacy and are problematic from a human rights perspective. They include Article 2(2): “A person who commits the offense of homosexuality is liable, on conviction, to imprisonment for life” and Article 2(3): “A person who attempts to perform a sexual act in the circumstances referred to in subsection (1) commits an offense and is liable, on conviction, to imprisonment for a period not exceeding ten years” (Parliament of the Republic of Uganda, 2023a). Laws that criminalize homosexual activity in this manner, regardless of a society’s cultural values, allow for state interference in a consenting adult’s private life and fundamentally violates one’s right to privacy. This breach of privacy becomes even more blatant in Article 13: “A person who knows or has a reasonable suspicion that a person has committed or intends to commit the offense of homosexuality or any other offense under this Act, shall report the matter to police for appropriate action” (Parliament of the Republic of Uganda, 2023a).The law not only provides law enforcement with a right to infringe upon the right to privacy, but requires citizens to infringe upon each other’s rights.
Beyond these fundamental violations, the law is extreme in its inclusion of the possibility of capital punishment in Article 3. It should be noted that most of these offenses that may be punishable by death are condemnable in a heterosexual setting, as well. These include committing the act of homosexuality against children, against the disabled, against one who is elderly or in an unconscious state, done under coercion, or facilitating the contraction of a terminal illness. However, this list of acts, labeled “aggravated homosexuality,” also includes the crime of “serial offense.” The argument could be made that the very practice of the death penalty is a violation of customary international law (McKee, 2000). Presently, 112 states have abolished capital punishment, which constitutes a majority of UN members. However, this majority is not an overwhelming one. In fact, Article 6 of the ICCPR, which enshrines a “right to life,” makes an exception for states that have not abolished the death penalty. It does make a caveat, stating that the death sentence may only be applied to “the most serious crimes” (United Nations, 1967a). For the sake of argument, this paper will operate under the conclusions that stem from the ICCPR rather than theories regarding customary international law. The death penalty can legally be applicable in Uganda, and many of the crimes listed in Article 3 are quite serious. However, the “serial offence” of homosexuality is not. When between consenting adults, there is no violence and there are no victims. It is a private act that, if intervened in by the state, constitutes a violation of the right to privacy.
Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act is in blatant conflict with sexual minorities’ rights under customary international law, but it is important to note that the case under binding international law is less clear. An argument can be made that abolishing such a law wouldn’t go far enough – that the international community should not only focus on getting this legislation repealed, but also pressure Uganda to enshrine the rights of equality of LGBTQ persons in their law. While 130 UN Member States have decriminalized homosexuality, there are only 30 jurisdictions in which same-sex marriage is recognized by the law (Pew Research Center, 2023).<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4">[4]</a> In each of the cases analyzed, the right to privacy of LGBTQ persons preceded the right to marry – which would be necessary under the principles of equality and non-discrimination. In the likely event this trend continues, a concentrated campaign for the right to privacy of sexual minorities may yield better results. The right to privacy has been used effectively to liberate sexual minorities from the most extreme forms of oppression while being cognizant of the reluctance of more conservative cultures.
In the case of Uganda, the violation of international law is clear, and we are left with a question of action. What has the international community done already? Has it been effective? How should it be done? Much of what is being done by foreign governments is merely “naming and shaming” Uganda for its human rights abuses. These include statements by the United Nations (UN News, 2023), the European Union (2023), the United States (United States Department of State, 2023), and the United Kingdom (Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office & The Rt Hon Andrew Mitchell MP, 2023). Much of this is merely urging Ugandan President Museveni to oppose this law and labeling the legislation as a violation of human rights, primarily on discriminatory principles. In many cases, however, naming and shaming does not produce meaningful results, even sometimes causing a state to defend its actions more vehemently (Hafner-Burton, 2008).
More substantive measures have been discussed by Western states, including the potential for economic repercussions. The World Bank Group has acted and barred Uganda from receiving new funding for public financing because of the law (World Bank Group, 2023). Uganda has made clear, however, that it will not be swayed by coercion, with members of Parliament claiming that if the West cuts its aid, they will simply turn to Arab states who will likely sympathize with Uganda’s position (Parliament of the Republic of Uganda, 2023b). When similar legislation (which was later struck down by Uganda’s Constitutional Court on a technicality) passed in 2014, Museveni was indignant at the threat of Western aid cuts: “We don’t need the aid in the first place. A country like Uganda is one of the richest on earth” (quoted in Biryabarema, 2014, para 5).
Clearly, the fight for LGBTQ rights in Uganda is an uphill battle and change may take time. The lack of enforcement mechanisms in an international system based on state sovereignty makes this inevitable. Still, there could be value in reframing the argument for sexual minorities to be one concerning the right to privacy as opposed to non-discrimination or equality – a gradual movement towards equality in Uganda. While the idea of taking “marginal victories” in the realm of human rights is far from ideal, Uganda is firm in its convictions and will be unwilling to move drastically any time soon. Changing the conversation to one surrounding the fundamental right to privacy, rather than equality, could be a catalyst for movement. An argument structured around the “right to be let alone” (Warren & Brandeis, 1890) could find more receptive ears than an argument for absolute equality.
However, the most substantive means of addressing this legislation would require action on behalf of an individual Ugandan rather than the collective international community. The Optional Protocol to the ICCPR makes it possible for a communication concerning Uganda’s law to be brought before the HRC. Article 2 of the Optional Protocol empowers individuals who claim that their rights under the ICCPR have been violated to submit a communication to the HRC (United Nations, 1966). A Ugandan who identifies as LGBTQ could present a communication alleging that their Article 17 protections are being violated, compelling the HRC to submit findings to the claim. While this decision would not be legally binding, it would enable an international body to send a strong message condemning the law, contributing to the strong case built by customary international law against the Anti-Homosexuality Act.
These “solutions” are likely to be met by skepticism, and rightly so. The international system of sovereignty creates circumstances in which, when culture and customary international law clash, there is not much that can be done. Yet it remains imperative that those who claim to stand for human rights remain diligent in their recognition of violations and use of good judgment in addressing them. There is great danger in allowing the Anti-Homosexuality Act to become something that is not contested, discouraged, or even discussed. As such, it is critical that the international community keep a degree of pressure on Uganda’s government – not to alienate or harden them in their beliefs, but to nudge them towards accepting the rights of sexual minorities under customary international law.
References
American Anthropological Association Committee for Human Rights. (1947, June 24). 1947 Statement on Human Rights. Retrieved from https://humanrights.americananthro.org/1947-statement-on-human-rights/.
Biryabarema, E. (2014, March 31). Ugandan President Dismisses Aid Cuts at Rally against Gays. Reuters. Retrieved from https://www.reuters.com/article/uganda-gay/ugandan-president-dismisses-aid-cuts-at-rally-against-gays-idINDEEA2U0DN20140331/.
Cassel, D. (2001). A Framework of Norms: International Human-Rights Law and Sovereignty. Harvard International Review, 22(4): 60-63. Retrieved from https://scholarship.law.nd.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1840&context=law_faculty_scholarship.
Connelly, A. M. (1982). Irish Law and the Judgement of the European Court of Human Rights in the Dudgeon Case. Dublin University Law Journal, 4: 25-40.
Constitutional Court of South Africa. (1998). National Coalition for Gay and Lesbian Equality v. Minister of Justice. Retrieved from https://www.saflii.org/za/cases/ZACC/1998/15.pdf.
Cornell Law School. (1986). Bowers v. Hardwick, 478 U.S. 186. Legal Information Institute. Retrieved from https://www.law.cornell.edu/supremecourt/text/478/186.
Cornell Law School. (2003). Lawrence v. Texas, 539 U.S. 558. Legal Information Institute. Retrieved from https://www.law.cornell.edu/supct/html/02-102.ZS.html.
Donnelly, J. (1984). Cultural Relativism and Universal Human Rights. Human Rights Quarterly, 6(4): 400–419.
European Court of Human Rights. (1981). Dudgeon v. United Kingdom. Retrieved from https://hudoc.echr.coe.int/eng?i=001-57473.
European Union. (2023, May 29). Uganda: Statement by the High Representative Josep Borrell on the Promulgation of the Anti-Homosexuality Bill. Retrieved from https://www.eeas.europa.eu/eeas/uganda-statement-high-representative-josep-borrell-promulgation-anti-homosexuality-bill_en?s=127.
Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office & The Rt Hon Andrew Mitchell MP. (2023, May 29). Minister Mitchell Responds to Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act. Retrieved from https://www.gov.uk/government/news/minister-mitchell-responds-to-ugandas-anti-homosexuality-act#:~:text=The%20UK%20Government%20is%20appalled,discrimination%20for%20everyone%20in%20society.
Forsythe, D. P. (2009). Encyclopedia of Human Rights. Oxford University Press.
Garvey, T. J. (2010, September 22). God v. Gays: The Rights of Sexual Minorities in International Law as Seen through the Doomed Existence of the Brazilian Resolution. Denver Journal of International Law and Policy, 38(4): 659-685. Retrieved from https://digitalcommons.du.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1219&context=djilp.
Hafner-Burton, E. M. (2008). Sticks and Stones: Naming and Shaming the Human Rights Enforcement Problem. International Organization, 62(4): 689-716.
High Court of Botswana. (2019). Motschidiemang v. Attorney General Botswana, MAHGB-000591-16. Retrieved from https://www.humandignitytrust.org/wp-content/uploads/resources/Motshidiemang-V-Attorney-General-Botswana-2019.pdf.
Human Rights Campaign. (2023, May 29). Anti-LGBTQ+ Law in Uganda. Retrieved from https://www.hrc.org/resources/uganda.
International Commission of Jurists.(2003). Kanane v. The State, (2) BLR 67. Court of Appeal. Retrieved from https://www.icj.org/sogicasebook/kanane-v-state-court-of-appeal-botswana-30-july-2003/.
International Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Trans and Intersex Association. (n.d.). Legal Frameworks: Criminalisation of Consensual Same-Sex Sexual Acts. ILGA World Database. Retrieved from https://database.ilga.org/criminalisation-consensual-same-sex-sexual-acts.
Jones, P. A. (2004). Lawrence v. Texas. Washington and Lee Race and Ethnic Ancestry Law Journal, 10: 143-154.
Joseph, S. (1994). Gay Rights under the ICCPR: Commentary on Toonen v. Australia. University of Tasmania Law Review, 13(2): 392-411.
Kilpatrick, G. R. (1999). The National Coalition for Gay and Lesbian Equality v. The Minister of Justice: A New Era in South African Sexual Orientation Protection. North Carolina Journal of International Law and Commercial Regulation, 24(3): 699-726.
Kimble, J. F. (1988). A Comparative Analysis of Dudgeon v. United Kingdom and Bowers v. Hardwick. Arizona Journal of International and Comparative Law, 1988, 200-211.
Klabbers, J. (2021). International Law, 3rd edition. Cambridge University Press.
Lauren, P. G. (2011). The Evolution of International Human Rights: Visions Seen. University of Pennsylvania Press.
McKee, M. (2000). Tinkering with the Machinery of Death: Understanding Why the United States’ Use of the Death Penalty Violates Customary International Law. Buffalo Human Rights Law Review, 6: 153-182.
Michigan Law Review. (1984, February). Survey of Books Relating to the Law. Michigan Law Review, 82(4): 908–913.
Morsink, J. (1993). World War Two and the Universal Declaration. Human Rights Quarterly, 15(2): 357-405.
Neuman, G. (2018). Giving Meaning and Effect to Human Rights: The Contributions of Human Rights Committee Members. The Human Rights Covenants at 50: Their Past, Present, and Future, edited by D. Moeckli, H. Keller, & C. Heri, pp. 31-47. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Northern Ireland Assembly. (1982). Orders in Council, The Homosexual Offences (Northern Ireland) Order, 1982 No. 1536 (N.I. 19). Retrieved from https://www.legislation.gov.uk/nisi/1982/1536/contents.
Parliament of the Republic of Uganda. (2023a). The Anti-Homosexuality Act, 2023. Retrieved from https://www.parliament.go.ug/sites/default/files/The%20Anti-Homosexuality%20Act%2C%202023.pdf.
Parliament of the Republic of Uganda. (2023b, June 30). President assents to Anti-Homosexuality Act. Retrieved from https://www.parliament.go.ug/index.php/news/540/president-assents-anti-homosexuality-act.
Pew Research Center. (2023, June 9). Gay Marriage around the World. Religion & Public Life Project. Retrieved from https://www.pewresearch.org/religion/fact-sheet/gay-marriage-around-the-world/.
Purvis, A., & Castellino, J. (1997). A History of Homosexual Law Reform in Tasmania. University of Tasmania Law Review, 16(1): 12-21.
Sable, S. M. (2010). A Prohibition on Antisodomy Laws through Regional Customary International Law. Law & Sexuality: A Review of Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Legal Issues, 19: 95-136.
Sanders, D. (1996). Getting Lesbian and Gay Issues on the International Human Rights Agenda. Human Rights Quarterly, 18(1): 67-106.
Slama, J. L. (1990). Opinio Juris in Customary International Law. Oklahoma City University Law Review, 15(2): 603-656.
United Nations. (1945a). Charter of the United Nations (p. 5). United Nations Treaty Series Online. Retrieved from https://treaties.un.org/doc/Publication/CTC/uncharter-all-lang.pdf.
United Nations. (1945b). Statute of the International Court of Justice. (1945). United Nations Treaty Series Online, 9. Retrieved from https://treaties.un.org/pages/ViewDetails.aspx?src=TREATY&mtdsg_no=I-3&chapter=1&clang=_en.
United Nations. (1966, December 16). Optional Protocol to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. Retrieved from https://treaties.un.org/Pages/ViewDetails.aspx?src=IND&mtdsg_no=IV-5&chapter=4&clang=_en.
United Nations. (1967a). International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. Retrieved from https://treaties.un.org/doc/Treaties/1976/03/19760323%2006-17%20AM/Ch_IV_04.pdf.
United Nations. (1967b). International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights. Retrieved from https://treaties.un.org/doc/Treaties/1976/01/19760103%2009-57%20PM/Ch_IV_03.pdf.
United Nations. (2005). Vienna Convention on the Laws of Treaties, 1969. Retrieved from https://legal.un.org/ilc/texts/instruments/english/conventions/1_1_1969.pdf.
United Nations General Assembly. (1948, December 16). Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Retrieved from https://documents-dds-ny.un.org/doc/UNDOC/GEN/NL3/093/69/pdf/NL309369.pdf.
United Nations Human Rights Committee. (2008). Obligations of States parties under the Optional Protocol to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights. Geneva.
United Nations Treaty Collection. (2021, November 21). Depositary: Status of Treaties: Chapter IV: Human Rights. Retrieved from https://treaties.un.org/pages/ViewDetails.aspx?src=TREATY&mtdsg_no=IV-4&chapter=4&clang=_en.
United States Department of State. (2023, May 30). On the Enactment of Uganda’s Anti-Homosexuality Act. Retrieved from https://www.state.gov/on-the-enactment-of-ugandas-anti-homosexuality-act/.
United States Holocaust Memorial Museum. (n.d.). Martin Niemöller: “First They Came for…” Retrieved from https://encyclopedia.ushmm.org/content/en/article/martin-niemoeller-first-they-came-for-the-socialists.
UN News. (2023, March 29). UN Rights Experts Condemn Uganda’s ‘Egregious’ Anti-LGBT Legislation. Retrieved from https://news.un.org/en/story/2023/03/1135147.
University of Minnesota. (1994). Toonen v. Australia, Communication No. 488/1992, U.N. Doc CCPR/C/50/D/488/1992 (1994). Human Rights Library. Retrieved from http://hrlibrary.umn.edu/undocs/html/vws488.htm.
Vlahos, S. (1986). Casenote: Bowers v. Hardwick. George Mason University Law Review, 9(1): 185-196.
Warren, S. D., & Brandeis, L. D. (1890). The Right to Privacy. Harvard Law Review, 4(5): 193–220.
World Bank Group. (2023, August 11). World Bank Group Statement on Uganda. Retrieved from https://www.worldbank.org/en/news/statement/2023/08/08/world-bank-group-statement-on-uganda.
World Courts. (1927). The Case of the S.S. Lotus (France v. Turkey). Permanent Court of International Justice. Retrieved from https://www.worldcourts.com/pcij/eng/decisions/1927.09.07_lotus.htm.
© Copyright 2024 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
<hr class="wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity" />
<a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1">[1]</a> The term travaux préparatoires refers to official documents that note the discussions and negotiations that occurred during the drafting process of a treaty.
<a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2">[2]</a> Pacta sunt servanda refers to Article 26 of the Vienna Convention on the Law of Treaties and means that treaties are binding and must be adhered to (United Nations, 2005).
<a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3">[3]</a> Such a principle was displayed in the 1900 Paquette Habana case, in which the United States Supreme Court examined the general practices of other states (such as England, France, Holland, Portugal, Italy, Spain, and Argentina) to determine the customary rule that foreign fishing vessels were exempt from capture, even in times of war law (Klabbers, 2021). While this case was decided long before the Statute of the International Court of Justice, it demonstrates the use of general practices and opinio juris to determine the existence of customary international law.
<a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4">[4]</a> Among the case studies, same sex marriage was recognized in 2006 in South Africa, 2015 in the United States, 2017 in Australia, 2020 in Northern Ireland, and it is not legal in Botswana (Pew Research Center, 2023).
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2024/12/02/ugandas-anti-homosexuality-act-customary-international-law-and-the-right-to-privacy/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
<item>
<title>Weaponizing Food: The Colonization of Indigenous Food Systems</title>
<link>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2024/12/02/weaponizing-food-the-colonization-of-indigenous-food-systems/</link>
<comments>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2024/12/02/weaponizing-food-the-colonization-of-indigenous-food-systems/#respond</comments>
<dc:creator><![CDATA[lkingston54]]></dc:creator>
<pubDate>Mon, 02 Dec 2024 20:23:18 +0000</pubDate>
<category><![CDATA[Volume XIV, Issue 2]]></category>
<guid isPermaLink="false">https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/?p=1456</guid>
<description><![CDATA[Sammie Herr, Webster University – Saint Louis Weaponizing Food: The Colonization of Indigenous Food Systems [Download PDF] The fundamental right to food is outlined in international human rights frameworks and law. Central to the right to food is the concept of “food sovereignty” – “the ability of communities to determine the quantity and quality of […]]]></description>
<content:encoded><![CDATA[
Sammie Herr, Webster University – Saint Louis

Weaponizing Food: The Colonization of Indigenous Food Systems
[<a href="http://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/files/Herr_Weaponizing-Food.pdf">Download PDF</a>]
The fundamental right to food is outlined in international human rights frameworks and law. Central to the right to food is the concept of “food sovereignty” – “the ability of communities to determine the quantity and quality of the food that they consume by controlling how their food is produced and distributed.” However, food sovereignty is frequently denied to Indigenous peoples. This paper focuses on the systemic deprivation of food rights among Indigenous peoples in North America. First, the concepts of settler colonialism and cultural genocide are connected to the destruction of Indigenous food systems and the intentional malnourishment of Indigenous people, including Native children at residential schools. Second, case studies from the Arctic and the Great Lakes illustrate the human rights violations that occur when Indigenous food sovereignty is violated. For the Inuit, the inability to hunt beluga whales (combined with the negative effects of climate change and pollution) has contributed to the loss of traditional hunting and harvesting culture. For the Ojibwe, traditional manoomin wild rice production has become a central focus of Indigenous activism and the fight against environmental degradation by the oil industry. Finally, three approaches offer opportunities for moving forward: Indigenous food sovereignty, the NOURISHING framework, and social media activism.
The fundamental right to food is outlined in international human rights frameworks and law, starting with the foundational 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR). The UDHR states in Article 25 that “everyone has the right to a standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of himself and his family, including food” (United Nations, 1948). Central to the right to food is the concept of “food sovereignty” – “the ability of communities to determine the quantity and quality of the food that they consume by controlling how their food is produced and distributed” (Indian Affairs, n.d., para 1). However, settler colonialism over hundreds of years has contributed to the denial of food sovereignty to Indigenous peoples. The United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples (UNDRIP) views the right to food as a collective right – food sustains not only individuals, but also community and culture (Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, 2008).
The issue of Indigenous food sovereignty requires serious discussion in the United States and Canada, where a variety of factors threaten food rights in Indigenous communities. International human rights frameworks and laws offer a good starting point for understanding the right to food, but they do not go far enough in addressing distinct issues such as food insecurity, cultural genocide, and the forced assimilation of Indigenous peoples. The lasting effects of assimilation cause generations of health problems, for example, which were exacerbated during the COVID-19 pandemic. Between 2000 and 2010, 25 percent of Indigenous people in the United States were food insecure – double the rate of white Americans (Maillacheruvu, 2022). During the pandemic, survey data showed that 56 percent of Indigenous respondents experienced food insecurity and 31 percent experienced “severely low” food security (Maillacheruvu, 2022). Experiencing food insecurity may lead to a wide range of long-term health issues, and structural racism is cited as a fundamental cause of persistent health disparities in the United States (Precker, 2021). For example, First Nations adults in Canada are more likely to face obesity, diabetes, cardiovascular disease, cancer, and mental health issues than non-Indigenous Canadians (Public Health Agency of Canada, 2016).
This paper focuses on the systemic deprivation of food rights among Indigenous peoples in North America. First, the concepts of settler colonialism and cultural genocide are connected to the destruction of Indigenous food systems and the intentional malnourishment of Indigenous people, including Native children at residential schools. Second, case studies from the Arctic and the Great Lakes illustrate the human rights damage that occurs when Indigenous food sovereignty is violated. For the Inuit, the inability to hunt beluga whales (combined with the negative effects of climate change and pollution) has contributed to the loss of traditional hunting culture. For the Ojibwe, traditional manoomin wild rice production has become a central focus of Indigenous activism and the fight against environmental degradation by the oil industry. Finally, three approaches offer opportunities for moving forward: Indigenous food sovereignty, the NOURISHING framework, and social media activism.
Settler Colonialism and Cultural Genocide
Settler colonialism and ensuing cultural genocide have led to generations of human rights violations in Indigenous communities. Patrick Wolfe (2006) argues that settler colonialism is a “structure” rather than an event (p. 390), highlighting examples such as the displacement and assimilation of Indigenous populations worldwide. Wolfe (2006) illustrates his concept of “the elimination of the native” with the example of the U.S. Dawes Severalty Act of 1887, which allowed Indigenous land to be divided into separate lots to be sold as private property – thereby depleting U.S. Indigenous lands by two-thirds in the half-century from 1881. While “reformers” often claimed a desire to “save” Indigenous peoples and provide them with opportunities, U.S. Indian policy “repeatedly included the express intention to destroy the tribe as a whole” (Wolfe, 2006, p. 400). More broadly, the North American Indigenous population dropped by approximately 90 percent due to genocide perpetrated by settlers and their governments after the arrival of Europeans (Gallo, 2019).
Genocide is defined as the intentional physical destruction of an identity group with the intent to eliminate it (United Nations, 1951). Cultural genocide was first discussed by Polish lawyer Raphael Lemkin in relation to the persecution of Jews during the Holocaust. Lemkin created the term genocide, and he was one of the first people to address the cultural attacks that are often transpired for genocidal purposes. A simplified definition states that cultural genocide is an attempt to eradicate a group’s culture, religion, and identity (Mundroff, 2009). Furthermore, sociologist Andrew Woolford claimed in an interview:
If genocide should be understood as the “destruction of group life rather than lives within a group,” then in the case of Canada’s Indigenous peoples, that means understanding what makes them a group, what defines their cultural cohesion, such as a profound attachment to the land and nature. So, in Canada’s colonial past, systematically depriving First Nations of access to their land so European pioneers could settle and railways could be built, is genocidal (quoted in Welch, 2014).
Because food is a “linchpin of society” that is part of one’s culture (Coates, n.d.), food systems were targeted in broader patterns of settler colonialism and cultural genocide. State policies such as the U.S. General Allotment Act of 1887 obstructed Indigenous food sovereignty by redistributing ownership of communal Native lands to white settlers. Treaties between the U.S. government and Indigenous peoples often seemed to protect food systems, but in practice the U.S. continually overlooked and broke the treaty terms when it suited them (Maillacheruvu, 2022). For instance, the Sauk and Fox peoples of what is now Wisconsin received food rations under treaty provisions, but many of the U.S. state-provided foods were non-traditional and unhealthy. The U.S. federal government referred to the rations as “articles of subsistence,” making it clear they had no intent of giving the Indigenous nations nourishing foods but instead wanted to keep members as shells of people (Maillacheruvu, 2022). Similar situations happened to the Ottawa, Wyandot, Delaware, and Chippewa peoples (Maillacheruvu, 2022). Native communities continued to be relocated to the “Indian Territory” (Oklahoma) as settlers occupied their native lands. The Native populations were unable to practice traditional hunting, fishing, and gathering practices, sending their food systems into severe turmoil. Forcing Indigenous populations to live on reservations made them dependent on rations and assimilated them into white society (Frank, 2020; Cote, 2024).
Many Indigenous children in the U.S. and Canada were forced to attend Christian residential schools, which was another tool of cultural genocide. Native children were forcefully removed from their homes and families and brought to residential schools, where they were indoctrinated to speak English, practice Christianity, and adopt white customs. The Indigenous children were often abused and neglected, resulting in physical and sexual violence and malnutrition (Hanson et al., 2020). Hunger was so widespread that scientists used Indigenous children to study the effects of malnourishment; nearly 1,000 students at six residential schools were used as subjects in nutrition experiments between 1948 and 1952 (Mosby & Galloway, 2017). The children were given small portions of rotten, bug-infested food that severely stunted their physical and mental development (Mosby & Galloway, 2017). The lasting effects of hunger on Indigenous communities, as caused by settler colonialism and cultural genocide, include modern health impacts such as generational trauma, obesity and diabetes. Native adults are diagnosed with diabetes three times the rate of the non-Hispanic white population in the United States, and Native persons are twice more likely to perish from diabetes than non-Hispanic white persons (Office of Minority Health, n.d.).
Discussions of cultural genocide often focus on the destruction of artifacts, such as works of art or religious monuments, but they rarely consider the elimination of food systems. Yet Indigenous peoples’ traditional foods are considered an essential part of their culture, in part due to the connection between traditional foods (sometimes called “country” foods) and spirituality (Malli et al., 2023). Indigenous educator Hope Flanagan (2021), also known as Little Wind Woman, argues that the results of colonization and modernization – including habitat destruction and overpopulation – have resulted in the loss of traditional foods and customs for young people. “I was saddened to see that on some reservations you have to get a tribal permit to pick plants, because the challenges the plants are having growing out in the woods because of climate and other habitat changes,” notes Flanagan (2021, p. 6). Therefore, settler colonialism not only threatens physical survival but also erodes traditional food systems that are central to Indigenous spirituality and identity. Flanagan’s (2021) work, and the work of other Indigenous educators, centers on preserving food cultures and sustaining traditional food practices. It is crucial to recognize and address the historical and ongoing injustices that have disrupted vital connections to land, culture, and spiritual well-being.
Case Studies
Inuit of the Arctic
The Inuit, who live in Arctic areas of Canada, Alaska, Greenland, and Russia, have different languages and even different names by which they call themselves. In Canada, the Inuit speak Inuktitut and live primarily in Nunavut (Wilson & Hodgson, 2018). Because of harsh weather conditions, Inuit living in the Arctic have traditionally relied on hunting and fishing since crops cannot grow in the cold weather conditions (Nickel, 2022). With the arrival of white explorers and settlers (who were often on the hunt for gold, oil, and animal products like seals and whales), diseases such as influenza, smallpox, and measles quickly created health crises that sometimes disrupted the Inuit’s’ ability to feed themselves (Bjerregaard et al., 2004). Settler colonial practices, including residential schools, also reached communities in Canada’s Arctic. In modern times, government policies aimed at protecting endangered species have often misunderstood the importance of hunting culture to the Inuit and have threatened Indigenous food rights.
The Inuit have been harvesting beluga whales for more than 4,000 years and many of their cultural traditions center on hunting, eating, and sharing the animals. The Inuit have a strong spiritual connection to the beluga, which they call qilalugaq (Little et al., 2023). In the village of Quantaq (in Nunavik, Northern Canada), the entire whale is used as a food source for the whole community, from the intestines to the thick blubber. These parts are prepared in different ways, such as being eaten raw, boiled, frozen, drained, dried, or fermented. Each part of the whale is an excellent source of healthy, sustainable food for the Inuit; whale meat contains calories, protein, iron, and vitamin A (Little et al., 2023).
The beluga whale is an endangered species. For example, the endangered Alaska Cook Inlet beluga whale population declined by almost 80 percent between 1979 and 2018, from about 1,300 whales to an estimated 279 whales (NOAA, 2024). The decreasing population may be attributed to the ongoing climate crisis. Over the years, the number of whales traditionally hunted per season has dropped drastically; decades ago, about 15 to 20 belugas were hunted per season, but hunting bans have forced the Inuit to find less traditional (and healthy) resources to sustain them. The Canadian government and animal rights activist groups claim that Inuit whaling is causing the population decline. However, factors like water pollutants, commercial fishing, and changing habitats also play a role in harming beluga whale populations. Microplastics found inside beluga whales raise questions about how pollutants can travel so far, while mercury levels in the oceans and oil spills also have repercussions for the beluga populations (Ashworth, 2021). In short, diminished beluga populations are deeply concerning but are likely not caused by small-scale Indigenous whaling that sustains cultural traditions and sustains food systems.
Policy making aimed at protecting belugas often does not take Indigenous food systems into account, although Inuit communities continue to push back against bans. Beluga whales are considered fish according to Canada’s Federal Fisheries Act of 1867, which means they are under conservation by the Department of Fisheries and Oceans (DFO) (Richard & Pike, 1993). In 1949, the DFO introduced the Beluga Protection Regulations under the Fisheries Act, which was revised in 1990. The regulations included limitations on beluga hunting without a license to regulate population control and manage Inuit food sources. In response to these laws, the Inuit began to negotiate terms and demand more self-governance. For instance, a claim occurred in the Eastern Arctic between the Tunngavik government of Nunavut and Canada’s federal government introducing the notion of co-management of Eastern Canadian Arctic small whales (Richard & Pike, 1993). However, in 1986 the International Whaling Commission put forward a complete ban on whaling belugas. Since then, some organizations have worked to lift the ban, arguing that the original prohibition on beluga whale hunting was not based on accurate data (Wenger, 2023). Greenland recently lifted part of its ban, setting a quota of 30 whales per season that the Inuit are allowed to hunt. However, this change sparked outrage because Inuit data was not considered when making this decision – an unfortunate common occurrence with much policy making that impacts Inuit hunting and fishing (Wenger, 2023).
Since Canada’s ban on hunting belugas, the Inuit’s dependence on store-bought food has increased. The Inuit have had to alter their diets to rely on overpriced and unhealthy alternatives. Low-income families must depend on foods that are imported to the Arctic, often making shopping decisions based on price rather than quality or nutritional value. A recent study showed that 57 percent of households in Nunavut were food insecure<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1">[1]</a> in 2017-2018, the highest level in the country (Statistics Canada, 2020). Sappho Gilbert (2022) claims that “country” (traditional) foods such as the beluga whale are about more than just eating well. Inuit speak about the importance of country food to their spirit, describing it as soul food and their identity; losing country food impacts numerous well-being dimensions, not just physical ones (Gibert, 2022). Notably, dependence on store-bought food reflects a longer process of cultural assimilation, and it is evident that hunting knowledge and culture are becoming lost. Martina Tyrrell (2008) writes that Inuit beluga hunters once waited patiently for their prey, then transitioned to running and shooting with guns, then went to people shooting pictures of belugas with cameras. With the modern hunting bans, a hunting “season” can last only one day before the quota is reached where hunting is permitted at all (Tyrrell, 2008).
The Inuit in Canada’s Arctic are unable to maintain their cultural traditions and foodways due to government bans on hunting beluga, which are prompted by the negative effects of the climate crisis and pollution – not over hunting by Indigenous communities. This situation reflects broader issues related to settler colonialism in the Arctic and cultural genocide. Moreover, conditions for the beluga could be improved by respecting Inuit knowledge and upholding their food sovereignty, since the Inuit benefit from protecting beluga populations for future generations. The Inuit could lose a vital part of their identity if the beluga went extinct; the belugas and the Inuit have a shared interest in the animal’s survival.
Ojibwe and Manoomin of the Great Lakes
The Ojibwe refer to themselves as Anishinaabeg, or “True People.” Their nation now resides in the Great Lakes and they have historically told stories through oral tradition, including an ancient prophecy where they would find “the land where food grows on water” (Minnesota Historical Society, n.d.). This prophecy led the Ojibwe to journey from the Northeast, where they originally resided, to the West where they would discover a crop that changed their spirituality and diets: Manoomin (wild rice), which they believed to be granted from their spiritual sources of life (Pluralism Project, 2020). Manoomin is today known as wild rice and is the only native grain to the United States, where it grows in the Great Lakes Basin. There are many reasons that the Ojibwe people have a close attachment to manoomin other than its cultural significance. Manoomin was a dietary staple for the Ojibwe as it is high in protein, low in fat,and contains many essential minerals and vitamins (Great Lakes Indian Fish and Wildlife Commision, n.d.).  The rice harvest in August is a special time for them, when the community takes canoes out to harvest and Ojibwe individuals who moved away return to aid with the harvest and celebrate (Pluralism Project, 2020). Additionally, wild rice is used as an offering for funerals, is served at celebrations, and is used medicinally as a mixed herb paste to treat soreness and inflammation (Stack Whitney, 2015). During the period when the Ojibwe traded with the Europeans at trading posts, manoomin was a source of income in an evolving world. However, this soon became problematic as the demand for manoomin grew as the population grew in the area. The traditional rice harvesting methods changed as the world transformed around them, with Native and non-Native people now harvesting manoomin to trade for goods (Milgroom, 2020).
Since the 1800s, ideas of creating a domesticated strain of wild rice were spread by non-Native groups, and from then on, the crop has been researched and cultivated for financial gain with little respect for the Ojibwe’s spiritual connection and traditions, manoomin’s environmental needs, or the Ojibwe’s dietary needs. Researchers began looking for ways to domesticate the wild rice as early as the 1800s. One of the first researchers to study wild rice was anthropologist Albert Jenks, who declared that Ojibwe communities had “primitive” harvesting techniques that held back their economy, thus stressing the need to replace Indigenous practices with white settler ones (Stack Whitney, 2015). Between 1968 and 2000, the University of Minnesota created and planted nine wild rice strains inspired by Jenks’ research (Stack Whitney, 2015). With these new strains, farmers in Minnesota began to cultivate the newly domesticated crop just like any other commercial crop. A couple of decades later, the Indigenous communities that relied on selling manoomin to food companies had become economically destabilized (Stack Whitney, 2015). Both Native and white settlers were sent into a frenzy to profit from the rice, resorting to improper harvesting techniques to keep up with the demand. Harvesting the rice too early damages the rice beds, causing a portion of ancient varieties to become extinct (Thielen, 2019). Early settler colonialism in the Great Lakes Basin contributed to dwindling wild rice numbers and health issues in the Indigenous populations that relied on manoomin. Jennifer Ballinger (2018) notes that changes in culture that involve a loss of spirituality have negative effects on Indigenous individuals and generational health. Their loss of food sovereignty and their food systems added to the risk of health issues such as diabetes and obesity (Ballinger, 2018; Milgroom, 2020).
The fight to preserve manoomin is also linked to environmental and human development challenges in the Great Lakes region, with one of the main threats emanating from the oil industry. Activists continue to fight against several Enbridge crude oil pipelines, which extend through the Great Lakes. The pipelines originated in the 1950s (Mizner, 2021). An expansion was completed in 2021 in response to pipelines deterioration, which catalyzed many Indigenous groups and activists to protest due to concerns about the reliability of the new pipeline (Global Oil and Gas Exit List, 2024). Many concerns are also centered on Enbridge’s inadequate safety checks, as well as the increased pressure and volume in the pipelines (Oil and Water Don’t Mix, n.d.). Enbridge has a troubling history, having seemingly caused more than 300 pipeline spills in the U.S. since 2002. This includes the largest inshore spill in history, which took place in 1991 in the Kalamazoo River Disaster (Global Oil and Gas Exit List, 2024). The pipelines are capable of spilling and damaging sensitive, biodiverse land and water. If the pipelines leak, they could contaminate drinking water and poison the riverbeds where wild rice grows.
In 2018, the White Earth Band introduced a new law that stated manoomin holds a degree of personhood and is entitled to grow in the proper conditions it needs to thrive, inspired by the “Rights of Nature” movement (Global Oil and Gas Exit List, 2024). Following that, in 2021, the state of Minnesota violated the White Earth Band’s rights and the rights of manoomin by granting Enbridge a permit to continue their pipeline operation (Global Oil and Gas Exit List, 2024). In 2021, the White Earth Band of the Ojibwe Tribal Court attempted to sue the state of Minnesota on behalf of wild rice in Manoomin v. the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources (Duckett, 2022). However, after numerous legal challenges, the case was eventually dropped (Global Oil and Gas Exit List, 2024). As discussed earlier, the Ojibwe still express that they rely physically and spiritually on manoomin to maintain their survival, health, and historic traditions. Even to this day, Indigenous groups are fighting to protect and preserve sacred foods from the same systems that threatened their food sovereignty for centuries. Settler colonialism structures are still prevalent in the U.S. to this day, with non-Native people expecting Indigenous populations like the Ojibwe and the White Earth Band to assimilate further into their vision of the modern day.
Recommendations and Conclusions
The Inuit of the Arctic and the Ojibwe of the Great Lakes are examples of Indigenous people whose food rights have been deeply affected by settler colonialism and cultural genocide. Indigenous voices must be uplifted and considered when making decisions that affect their traditions and livelihoods. Three approaches offer opportunities for moving forward: activism for Indigenous food sovereignty, following the NOURISHING framework, and social media activism.
First, the movement for Indigenous food sovereignty has been growing worldwide, with the goal of ending food insecurity for Native peoples and protecting their ability to make decisions about what they eat – including accessing and protecting traditional foods, if they wish to maintain those traditions. According to the Indigenous Systems Food Network (n.d.), this movement follows four essential principles: 1) Sacred sovereignty, which describes that food is spiritually significant to all Indigenous people as it is a bestowal from the creator. Because of food’s sacredness, colonial laws and influence cannot restrain their customs. 2) Participation, because the food sovereignty movement requires action. This action derives from Indigenous nations upholding their traditions and teaching future generations daily tasks, such as harvesting certain foods. 3) Self-determination, which means Indigenous peoples make their own choices about what is healthy for them to eat. This step would reduce their dependence on grocery stores, which would likely help families stay away from overly expensive and unhealthy foods. 4) Policy, which ensures that Indigenous leaders and peoples worldwide have opportunities to participate in lawmaking that would affect their right to food, including decisions about health, agriculture, fisheries, environmental conservation, and many other topics (Indigenous Food Systems Network, n.d.). Each Indigenous nation has different views on what food means to them, but determining specific community needs is necessary to combat the long-lasting effects of settler colonialism.
With the support of different organizations and nonprofits, like the ones mentioned in this paper, there are many opportunities to practice these principles of the Indigenous food sovereignty. For example, Hope Flanagan from the “Settler Colonialism and Cultural Genocide” section teaches at an organization called Dream for Wild Health. More organizations that offer education to all ages, especially to youth, are essential to keep the Indigenous food traditions and systems alive. An important aspect of these organizations is their diversity, as different groups focus on the varying principles of Indigenous food sovereignty. Another example of this would be Native American Food Sovereignty Alliance (NAFSA), which encourages incentives for all four of the principles. This organization has partnered with a program called GATHER. GATHER’s mission is to educate, award grants and scholarships, and advance Native economic and entrepreneurship goals (First Nations Development Institute, n.d.) There are many more organizations that focus on these issues and are constantly fighting for Indigenous food sovereignty.
Second, the NOURISHING framework is a useful tool to consider for promoting and protecting food sovereignty. NOURISHING is an acronym for ten policy areas that can be used to take action:
Nutrition labeling
Offer healthy foods and standards in public settings;
Usage of economic tools to address the cost of food;
Restrict advertising and promotion of food;
Improve the nutrient basis of food quality;
Set incentives for food services to create healthier environments;
Harness food suppliers to ensure they are keeping up with food health standards;
Inform people about nutrition;
Nutrition counseling;
Give nutrition education/skills (World Cancer Research Fund International, n.d.).
The NOURISHING framework could help improve Indigenous health and facilitate food sovereignty by empowering people to make their own decisions with increased information and resources. Targeted approaches that combine these strategies could improve food costs, food environments, and nutrition education. Researchers point to initiatives such as obligatory food reformulation targets, interpretive nutrition labeling systems applied across all products, and food pricing approaches that both incentivize nutritive products and disincentivize unhealthy nourishment (Browne et al., 2020). While universal policies can improve overall health, data shows they may be markedly less effective for individuals with limited social and economic resources (Browne et al., 2020). Still, the NOURISHING framework offers aid in the fight for Indigenous food sovereignty.
Third, there are many ways that Indigenous youth and communities can communicate through social media to advocate for their goals and to share and celebrate their customs. For example, Willow Allen (n.d.), an Inuk living in the Arctic, shares videos of her family enjoying traditional foods like muktuk (dried beluga whale meat) and cloudberries. Allen uses her platform of more than 800,000 followers to share Inuit culture, advocate for Indigenous rights, and support the food sovereignty movement. Indigenous youth already use social media to access visionary arts, Indigenous storytelling, and connection with community and service providers. A positive aspect of social media is that it gives people the ability to engage in political conversations and speak out about issues in their communities. In doing this, Native individuals continue to raise awareness of integral issues in communities that may not receive sufficient attention in mainstream media (Kennedy, 2021). However, social media does come with negative aspects such as hate speech, bullying, and harassment that can be devastating to Indigenous youth (Kennedy, 2021). For instance, bullying on social media can lead to depression, anxiety, and thoughts of suicide (Carlson & Frazer, 2019) – and more specifically, Indigenous adolescent cyberbullying victims are nearly twice as likely to attempt suicide (Hinduja & Patchin, 2010). Some argue that the inclusion of more Indigenous people at social media companies could facilitate more effective ways to restrict hate speech online and in apps (Kennedy, 2021). Ultimately, the ability to spread knowledge on social media makes it easier for Indigenous individuals and groups to share their own information. The oral storytelling tradition is easily able to carry on in an overall beneficial method with shortened video content such as TikToks and Instagram and Facebook reels.
While the right to food is fundamental and outlined in international human rights frameworks, this right is violated for many Indigenous nations across North America. It is clear from these examples that these Indigenous groups have experienced a great amount of physical and emotional suffering stemming from settler colonialism and acts of cultural genocide, from historical cases to present-day. Governments must prioritize Indigenous voices in policymaking and programming, with respect for Indigenous food sovereignty. Non-Native people can raise Indigenous voices on platforms where their messages can be spread to state decisionmakers, including on social media. This paper fosters awareness of how Indigenous food systems have been (and are) disrupted, thereby spurring positive change to protect access to adequate nutrition and healthcare. These actions could aid in the healing of the generational and cultural trauma passed down from these wrongdoings.
References
Allen, W. (n.d.). “Inuk from the Arctic.” TikTok profile, [@willow.allen. Retrieved from<a href="https://tiktok.com/@therock"> </a>https://www.tiktok.com/@willow.allen.
Ashworth, J. (2021, November 7). “Arctic whales may be consuming thousands of microplastics each year.” Natural History Museum. Retrieved from https://www.nhm.ac.uk/discover/news/2021/november/arctic-whales-may-be-consuming-thousands-of-microplastics-a-year.html.
Ballinger, J. (2018, November). “Potential health impacts due to cultural changes from Manoomin (Zizania palustris) loss for the Fond du Lac Band of Lake Superior Chippewa.” Public Health Review 1(1). Retrieved from https://pubs.lib.umn.edu/index.php/phr/article/view/1567.
Bjerregaard, P., Young, T. K., Dewailly, E., & Ebbesson, S. O. E. (2004). “Review Article: Indigenous health in the Arctic: an overview of the circumpolar Inuit population.” Scandinavian Journal of Public Health, 32(5): 390-395.
Browne, J., Lock, M., Walker, T., Egan, M., & Backholer, K. (2020). “Effects of food policy actions on Indigenous Peoples’ nutrition-related outcomes: A systematic review.” BMJ Global Health, 5(8).
Carlson, B., & Frazer, R. (2019, May 8). “We need to do more about cyberbullying against Indigenous Australians.” The Conversation. Retrieved from https://theconversation.com/we-need-to-do-more-about-cyberbullying-against-indigenous-australians-115297.
Coates, F. (n.d.). “What is Food Culture?” XYUandBEYOND. Retrieved from https://xyuandbeyond.com/food-culture/.
Cote, S. (2024, April 9). “Rations and commodities: Mass genocide through Generational Limited and processed food access.” National Endowment for Financial Education (NEFE). Retrieved from https://www.nefe.org/news/2024/04/mass_genocide_through_generational_limited_and_processed_food_access.aspx.
Duckett, A. (2022, April 19). “Wild Rice Gets its Day in Court.” Earth Law Center. Retrieved from https://www.earthlawcenter.org/blog-entries/2022/4/wild-rice-gets-its-day-in-court.
Feeding America. (2023). “Hunger and food insecurity.” Retrieved from https://www.feedingamerica.org/hunger-in-america/food-insecurity.
First Nations Development Institute. (n.d.). “Gather Food Sovereignty Project.” https://www.firstnations.org/projects/gather-food-sovereignty-project/.
Flanagan, H. (2021). “Elder Voices: Wisdom about Indigenous Peoples’ Food Systems from the Holders of Knowledge.” Current Developments in Nutrition. Retrieved from https://doi.org/10.1093/cdn/nzaa146.
Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations. (2008). “The Right to Food and Indigenous Peoples.” Retrieved from https://www.un.org/esa/socdev/unpfii/documents/Right_to_food.pdf.
Frank, L. E. (2020, November 30). “How Native American diets shifted after European colonization.” History. Retrieved from https://www.history.com/news/native-american-food-shifts.
Gallo, L. N. (2019, February 24). “The Lost Culture & Practices of the Native Americans: The Navajo.” Penn State. Retrieved from https://sites.psu.edu/keepyourculture/2019/02/24/the-lost-culture-practices-of-the-native-americans-the-navajo/#:~:text=Given%20that%20an%20estimated%2080,back%20to%20its%20original%20state.
Gilbert, S. (2022, November 14). “Food Security, Nutrition, and Indigenous Health in the Arctic.” National Institute of Environmental Health Sciences. Retrieved from https://www.niehs.nih.gov/research/supported/translational/peph/podcasts/2022/nov14_food-security/index.cfm.
Global Oil and Gas Exit List. (2024, February). “Line 3 pipeline.” Urgewald. Retrieved from https://gogel.org/line-3-pipeline.
Great Lakes Indian Fish and Wildlife Commission. (n.d.). “Manoomin – Wild Rice: The Good Berry.” Retrieved from https://glifwc.org/publications/pdf/Goodberry_Brochure.pdf.
Hanson, E., Gamez, D., & Manuel, A. (2020, September). “The Residential School System.” Indigenous Foundations. Retrieved from https://indigenousfoundations.arts.ubc.ca/residential-school-system-2020/.
Hayes, T. O. (2021, March 11). “Food insecurity and food insufficiency: Assessing causes and historical trends.” American Action Forum. Retrieved from https://www.americanactionforum.org/research/food-insecurity-and-food-insufficiency-assessing-causes-and-historical-trends/.
Hinduja, S., & Patchin, J. (2010). “Cyberbullying Research Summary: Cyberbullying and Suicide.” Cyberbullying Research Center.Retrieved from https://cyberbullying.org/cyberbullying_and_suicide_research_fact_sheet.pdf.
Indian Affairs. (n.d.). “Why Food Sovereignty Matters.” U.S. Department of the Interior. Retrieved from https://www.bia.gov/service/indigenous-tourism/why-food-sovereignty-matters.
Indigenous Food Systems Network. (n.d.). “Indigenous Food Sovereignty.” Working Group on Indigenous Food Sovereignty. Retrieved from https://www.indigenousfoodsystems.org/food-sovereignty#content.
Kennedy, T. (2021, June 11). “97% of Indigenous People Report Seeing Negative Social Media Content Weekly. Here’s How Platforms Can Help.” The Conversation. Retrieved from https://theconversation.com/97-of-indigenous-people-report-seeing-negative-social-media-content-weekly-heres-how-platforms-can-help-162353.
Little, M., Winters, N., Achouba, A., Magesky, A. M., Ayotte, P. A., Palliser, T., Naylor, A., Jararuse, W., & Lemire, M. (2023). “Weaving together Inuit knowledge and western science: A mixed-methods case study of qilalugaq (beluga whale) in Quaqtaq, Nunavik.” Arctic Science, 9(3). Retrieved from https://cdnsciencepub.com/doi/full/10.1139/as-2022-0039.
Maillacheruvu, S. U. (2022, October 4). “The Historical Determinants of Food Insecurity in Native Communities.” Center on Budget and Policy Priorities. Retrieved from https://www.cbpp.org/research/food-assistance/the-historical-determinants-of-food-insecurity-in-native-communities#:~:text=The%20problem%20of%20food%20insecurity,and%20assets%20exacerbates%20these%20problems.
Malli, A., Monteith, H., Hiscock, E. C., Smith, E. V., Fairman, K., Galloway, T., & Mashford-Pringle, A. (2023). “Impacts of colonization on Indigenous food systems in Canada and the United States: a scoping review.” BMC Public Health, 23(1).
Milgroom, J. (2020, July 20). “Wild rice and the Ojibwe.” MNopedia. Retrieved from https://www.mnopedia.org/thing/wild-rice-and-ojibwe.
Minnesota Historical Society. (n.d.). “The Ojibwe People.” Historic Fort Snelling. Retrieved from https://www.mnhs.org/fortsnelling/learn/native-americans/ojibwe-people#:~:text=The%20ancestors%20of%20the%20Ojibwe,that%20lasted%20for%20many%20centuries.
Mizner, L. S. (2021, September 10). “Enbridge’s Line 3 is Putting Wild Rice at Risk – and Indigenous Water Protectors are Taking a Stand.” Civil Eats. Retrieved from https://civileats.com/2021/05/18/enbridges-line-3-is-putting-wild-rice-at-risk-and-indigenous-water-protectors-are-taking-a-stand/.
Mosby, I., & Galloway, T. (2017, August 14). “’Hunger was never absent’: How residential school diets shaped current patterns of diabetes among Indigenous peoples in Canada.” Canadian Medical Association Journal, 189(32). Retrieved from https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5555756/#:~:text=In%201965%2C%20Indian%20Affairs%20Branch,worms%20or%20corn%20meal%20porridge%2C.
Mundroff, K. (2009). “Other people’s children: A textual and contextual interpretation of the Genocide Convention, Article 2(E).” Harvard International Law Journal, 50(1).
Nickel, R. (2022, August 8). “Cold and hungry: Food inflation bites Canada’s north.” Reuters. Retrieved from https://www.reuters.com/world/americas/cold-hungry-food-inflation-bites-canadas-north-2022-08-08/.
NOAA. (2024, January 17). “Beluga whale.” Retrieved from https://www.fisheries.noaa.gov/species/beluga-whale.
Office of Minority Health. (n.d.). “Diabetes and American Indians/Alaska Natives.” U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. Retrieved from https://minorityhealth.hhs.gov/omh/browse.aspx?lvl=4&lvlid=33.
Oil & Water Don’t Mix. (n.d.). “The Problem with the Line 5 Oil Pipeline.” Retrieved from https://www.oilandwaterdontmix.org/problem.
Pluralism Project. (2020). “Wild Rice- A Sacred Food.” Harvard University. Retrieved from https://pluralism.org/files/pluralism/files/wild_rice-_a_sacred_food.pdf.
Precker, M. (2021, September 22). “Food insecurity’s long-term health consequences.” American Heart Association News. Retrieved from https://www.heart.org/en/news/2021/09/22/food-insecuritys-long-term-health-consequences.
Public Health Agency of Canada. (2016, December 15). “Health Status of Canadians 2016: Report of the Chief Public Health Officer.” Retrieved from https://www.canada.ca/content/dam/hc-sc/healthy-canadians/migration/publications/department-ministere/state-public-health-status-2016-etat-sante-publique-statut/alt/pdf-eng.pdf.
Richard, P. R., & Pike, D. G. (1993). “Small Whale Co-Management in the Eastern Canadian Arctic: A Case History and Analysis.” Arctic, 46(2): 138-143.
Stack Whitney, K. (2015). “Manoomin: The Taming of Wild Rice in the Great Lakes Region.” Environment & Society Portal. Retrieved from https://www.environmentandsociety.org/arcadia/manoomin-taming-wild-rice-great-lakes-region.
Statistics Canada. (2020, June 24). “Household food insecurity, 2017-2018.” Retrieved from https://www150.statcan.gc.ca/n1/pub/82-625-x/2020001/article/00001-eng.htm.
Thielen, A. (2019, August 10). “The True Story of Wild Rice, North America’s Most Misunderstood Grain.” Saveur. Retrieved from https://www.saveur.com/true-story-wild-rice-north-americas-most-misunderstood-grain/.
Tyrrell, M. (2008). “Nunavik Inuit perspectives on Beluga Whale Management in the Canadian Arctic.” Human Organization, 67(3): 322-334.
United Nations. (1948). Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/en/about-us/universal-declaration-of-human-rights.
United Nations. (1951). Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide. Retrieved from https://www.un.org/en/genocideprevention/documents/atrocity-crimes/Doc.1_Convention%20on%20the%20Prevention%20and%20Punishment%20of%20the%20Crime%20of%20Genocide.pdf.
United Nations. (2007). United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples. Retrieved from https://social.desa.un.org/issues/indigenous-peoples/united-nations-declaration-on-the-rights-of-indigenous-peoples.
Welch, M. A. (2014, July 14). “The Genocide Test.” Winnipeg Free Press. Retrieved from https://www.winnipegfreepress.com/breakingnews/2014/07/12/the-genocide-test.
Wenger, M. (2023, January 3). “Inuit organization scientifically investigates beluga hunting ban.” Polar Journal. Retrieved from https://polarjournal.ch/en/2023/01/03/inuit-organization-scientifically-investigates-beluga-hunting-ban/.
Wilson, K., & Hodgson, C. (2018). “Section 1: Introduction to Indigenous Peoples – Inuit.” In Pulling Together: A Guide for Indigenization of Post-Secondary Institutions, edited by Kory Wilson. Retrieved from https://books.twu.ca/indigenizationfoundations/chapter/topic-inuit/.
Wolfe, P. (2006). “Settler colonialism and the elimination of the native.” Journal of Genocide Research, 8(4): 387-409.
World Cancer Research Fund International. (n.d.). “NOURISHING Framework.” Retrieved from https://www.wcrf.org/policy/nutrition-policy/nourishing-framework/.
© Copyright 2024 Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights. All rights reserved. 
Righting Wrongs: A Journal of Human Rights is an academic journal that provides space for undergraduate students to explore human rights issues, challenge current actions and frameworks, and engage in problem-solving aimed at tackling some of the world’s most pressing issues. This open-access journal is available online at www.webster.edu/rightingwrongs.
<hr class="wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity" />
<a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1">[1]</a> Food insecurity is not having consistent access to enough food for each household member to live an active, healthy life (Feeding America, 2023). Food insecurity can also include a diet lacking quality, variousness, or desirability (Hayes, 2021).
]]></content:encoded>
<wfw:commentRss>https://blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/2024/12/02/weaponizing-food-the-colonization-of-indigenous-food-systems/feed/</wfw:commentRss>
<slash:comments>0</slash:comments>
</item>
</channel>
</rss>

If you would like to create a banner that links to this page (i.e. this validation result), do the following:

Download the "valid RSS" banner.
Upload the image to your own server. (This step is important. Please do not link directly to the image on this server.)
Add this HTML to your page (change the image src attribute if necessary):

<a href="http://www.feedvalidator.org/check.cgi?url=https%3A//blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/feed/"><img src="valid-rss-rogers.png" alt="[Valid RSS]" title="Validate my RSS feed" /></a>

If you would like to create a text link instead, here is the URL you can use:

http://www.feedvalidator.org/check.cgi?url=https%3A//blogs.webster.edu/humanrights/feed/

Home · About · News · Docs · Terms