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At Kampala’s sprawling Owino market, Millicent Mukwezi opens up a bundle of second-hand clothes while her assistant keeps an eye on the buyers eagerly rifling through in search of bargains. 

Mukwezi buys the clothing from a trader in the Ugandan capital who imports them from the United States and takes them to the market to sell. She favors U.S. clothing because the quality is reliable. The prices are good too – a second-hand Adidas sweatshirt sells for 60,000 Ugandan shillings ($16), a fraction of what a new one would cost. 

“My customers return because of the quality we offer,” says Mukwezi. “Here, you can get designer clothes and brands at very reasonable prices.”

Every day, hundreds of shoppers squeeze through the narrow lanes that separate makeshift wooden stalls, eager to grab a bargain. The sprawling Owino market is one of the largest in East Africa, providing livelihoods to an estimated 100,000 people, 70 percent of them women.

Owino is just one of the many markets for secondhand clothing—known locally as mitumba—that exist across East Africa. It’s a trade that allows wealthier, mostly Western countries to export discarded clothing that might otherwise end up in landfills and provides livelihoods for millions of women in the region. The Mitumba Consortium Association of Kenya, a trade body, estimates that 4.9 million people in East Africa make their living from the trade, most of them women.

But the industry faces multiple threats. Some European countries are seeking to restrict exports of used clothes amid claims they are simply exporting an environmental headache to poorer parts of the world because anything that can’t be resold ends up in landfills. Mukwezi confirms this, saying she prefers clothing shipments from the United States because she can sell everything. When she gets shipments from China, she said, “you find you can’t sell half of it. You either have to find a way to dispose of it or give it away—and that’s not good business.”

She may find herself having to source from other countries soon though. The Owino traders all complained that the cost of U.S. consignments has risen since January, when Washington ended a preferential trade agreement over Uganda’s widely criticized crackdown on homosexuality. The African Growth and Opportunity Act (AGOA) aims to boost sub-Saharan African nations’ economies by providing duty-free access to the U.S. market and requires that those countries allow unrestricted access for U.S. imports. Economists say the Ugandan government used the country’s removal from AGOA to increase tariffs on used clothing imports—a charge the government denied when contacted. But the Uganda Dealers in Used Clothing and Shoes Association, a trade body, said rates had gone up by 3 cents a kilo in January, an increase that was driving some out of business. “We are seeing most of our members drop off,” said Lydia Ndagire, the association’s vice chair.

Francis Walugembe, an economist at the Kampala-based public policy research firm Atlas Consultants, said the apparent move to increase taxes “was retaliatory,” adding that “its timing, coupled with statements against the sector by state officials immediately after the U.S. announced its intended action on AGOA, shows a coordinated effort.”

Julie Nabwire, a supplier of used clothes, poses in her shop in Kampala, Uganda in April 2024. (Esther Mbambazi for The Fuller Project).

Uganda is not the only country in the region to see secondhand clothing imports from the United States—the world’s largest exporter of used clothing, with sales of more than $950 million in 2022—as damaging to local garment manufacturing. In 2015, Kenya, Rwanda, Tanzania, and Uganda pushed for a ban on secondhand clothes through the East African Community, a trade bloc. Kenya rowed back after Washington threatened to respond by removing the country from AGOA, which would have hit its clothing exports. Uganda and Tanzania subsequently followed suit under pressure from the Secondary Materials and Recycled Textiles Association, a powerful lobby that represents 130 traders in the United States and Canada. Only Rwanda went ahead with a ban—a move that left thousands of women in the secondhand clothing sector jobless, according to the Rwandan Small-Scale Traders’ Association.

For Fred Muhumuza, a development economist based in Kampala, AGOA has become more about politics than trade. Last year, Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni again said he would issue a ban on imports of used clothing, though the threat was not carried out.

“Small-scale traders are a pawn in the trade wars between African governments and Washington,” Muhumuza said. “We have seen a tit-for-tat between governments on policy issues, but sadly, it is these small traders who suffer losses or must adapt to punitive policy changes that make their livelihoods harder.”

U.S. officials in Washington and Kampala did not respond to requests for comment.

On the supply side, there are also challenges ahead. France, Denmark, and Sweden proposed this year that the European Union restrict exports of used clothes, arguing that the bloc needs to do more to recycle them at home rather than exporting the problem of disposing them to African countries. “Africa must no longer be the dustbin of fast-fashion,” France’s environment ministry told Reuters.

Traders sift through used clothes for sale at Owino market in Kampala, Uganda in April 2024. (Esther Mbambazi for The Fuller Project).

Teresia Wairimu, the chairperson of the Mitumba Consortium Association of Kenya, warned that such a move would hurt millions of Kenyan women who depend on the trade. Kenya imported $202 million worth of used clothes in 2021 more than any other African country, according to data tracked by the United Nations.

Back in Kampala, the used-clothes sellers may not always follow the diplomatic wranglings that are impacting their lives. But they are clear on one thing: The clothes they buy have suddenly gotten more expensive, and that’s hitting their profits hard.

Susan Wamambiri, whose name has been changed at her request, is selling off the last of the secondhand clothing she and her partners bought from the United States before prices shot up. Her frustration audible, the 37-year-old accuses Uganda’s government of trying to put used-clothes sellers like her out of business.

“From January, we’ve had to pay taxes more per kilo, which is unfair,” she said. “Our association says this is the state’s way of retaliating against what the U.S. has done over homosexuality laws. They are trying to put us out of business in favor of new clothes. Where are we supposed to make a living?”

Betty Ndagire contributed additional reporting.

Nasir Mansoor has spent 40 years fighting for Pakistan’s workers. Whether demanding compensation on behalf of the hundreds of people who died in a devastating 2012 factory fire in Karachi or demonstrating against Pakistani suppliers to global fashion brands violating minimum wage rules, he’s battled many of the country’s widespread labor injustices.

Yet so far, little has improved, said Mansoor, who heads Pakistan’s National Trade Union Federation in Karachi. Despite spending most of his time dealing with issues in the country’s garment sector, labor laws are still routinely flouted inside factories. Not even European Union trade schemes such as the Generalized Scheme of Preferences—which benefits developing countries such as Pakistan but requires them to comply with international conventions on labor rights—have helped curb violations in an industry notorious for them. Regulations and trade protocols look good on paper, but they rarely trickle down to the factory level. “Nobody cares,” Mansoor said. “Not the government who makes commitments, not the brands, and not the suppliers. The workers are suffering.”

But change might finally be on the horizon after Germany’s new Supply Chain Act came into force last year. As Europe’s largest economy and importer of clothing, Germany now requires certain companies to put risk-management systems in place to prevent, minimize, and eliminate human rights violations for workers across their entire global value chains. Signed into law by German Chancellor Olaf Scholz in January 2023, the law covers issues such as forced labor, union-busting, and inadequate wages, for the first time giving legal power to protections that were previously based on voluntary commitments. Companies that violate the rules face fines of up to 8 million euros ($8.7 million).

For decades, Western companies based in countries with highly paid workers and strong labor protections have sourced from low-income countries where such laws don’t exist or are weakly enforced. While this business model cuts costs, it’s made it incredibly difficult for workers to seek justice when problems arise. Given the garment sector’s long history of poor labor conditions—whose victims are a predominantly female workforce—rights groups say the industry will feel some of the highest impacts of new due diligence laws such as Germany’s.

Until now, promises made by fashion brands to safeguard workers stitching clothes in factories around the world have been largely voluntary and poorly monitored. If the promises failed or fell short and that information became public, the main fallout was reputational damage. As governments come to realize that a purely voluntary regimen produces limited results, there is now a growing global movement to ensure that companies are legally required to protect the people working at all stages of their supply chains.

The German law is just the latest example of these new due diligence rules—and it’s the one with the highest impact, given the size of the country’s market. A number of other Western countries have also adopted similar legislation in recent years, including France and Norway. A landmark European Union law that would mandate all member states to implement similar regulation is in the final stages of being greenlighted.

Although the United States has legislation to prevent forced labor in its global supply chains, such as the 2021 Uyghur Forced Labor Prevention Act, there are no federal laws that protect workers in other countries from abuses that fall short of forced labor. That said, a proposed New York state bill, the Fashion Act, would legally require most major U.S. and international brands to identify, prevent, and remediate human rights violations in their supply chain if passed, with noncompliance subject to fines. Since major fashion brands could hardly avoid selling their products in New York, the law would effectively put the United States on a similar legal level as Germany and France.

Abuses in textile manufacturing have been well documented. Horror stories about brutal violence or building collapses make the news when there’s a major incident, but every day, members of a predominantly female workforce live on low wages, work long hours, and endure irregular contracts. Trade unions, when they are allowed, are often unable to protect workers. A decade ago, the European Parliament described the conditions of garment workers in Asia as “slave labour.”

As of January, Germany’s new law applies to any company with at least 1,000 employees in the country, which covers many of the world’s best-known fast fashion retailers, such as Zara and Primark. Since last January, German authorities say they have received 71 complaints or notices of violations and conducted 650 of their own assessments, including evaluating companies’ risk management.

In Pakistan, the very existence of the German law was enough to spark action. Last year, Mansoor and other union representatives reached out to fashion brands that sourced some of their clothing in Pakistan to raise concerns about severe labor violations in garment factories. Just four months later, he and his colleagues found themselves in face-to-face meetings with several of those brands—a first in his 40-year career. “This is a big achievement,” he said. “Otherwise, [the brands] never sit with us. Even when the workers died in the factory fire, the brand never sat with us.”

Nearly 12 years on from the 2012 fire, which killed more than 250 people, violations are still rife for Pakistan’s 4.4 million garment sector workers, who produce for many of the major global brands. Several of these violations were highlighted in research conducted by FEMNET, a German women’s rights nonprofit, and the European Center for Constitutional and Human Rights (ECCHR), a Berlin-based nongovernmental organization, into how companies covered by the Supply Chain Act were implementing their due diligence obligations in Pakistan. With the help of Mansoor and Zehra Khan, the general secretary of the Home-Based Women Workers Federation, interviews with more than 350 garment workers revealed the severity of long-known issues.

Nearly all workers interviewed were paid less than a living wage, which was 67,200 Pakistan rupees (roughly $243) per month in 2022, according to the Asia Floor Wage Alliance. Nearly 30 percent were even paid below the legal minimum wage of 25,000 Pakistani rupees per month (roughly $90) for unskilled workers. Almost 100 percent had not been given a written employment contract, while more than three-quarters were either not registered with the social security system—a legal requirement—or didn’t know if they were.

When Mansoor, Khan, and some of the organizations raised the violations with seven global fashion brands implicated, they were pleasantly surprised. One German retailer reacted swiftly, asking its supplier where the violations had occurred to sign a 14-point memorandum of understanding to address the issues. (We’re unable to name the companies involved because negotiations are ongoing.) The factory complied, agreeing to respect minimum wages and provide contract letters, training on labor laws, and—for the first time—worker bonuses.

In February, the factory registered an additional 400 workers with the social security system (up from roughly 100) and will continue to enroll more, according to Khan. “That is a huge number for us,” she said.

It’s had a knock-on effect, too. Four of the German brand’s other Pakistani suppliers are also willing to sign the memorandum, Khan noted, which could impact another 2,000 workers or so. “The law is opening up space for [the unions] to negotiate, to be heard, and to be taken seriously,” said Miriam Saage-Maass, the legal director at ECCHR.

After decades of issues being swept under the carpet, it’s a positive step, Mansoor said. But he’s cautious. Of the six remaining global fashion brands contacted, three are in discussions with the union, while three didn’t respond. Implementation is key, he said, particularly because there has already been pushback from some Pakistani factory owners.

Last month, EU member states finally approved a due diligence directive after long delays, during which the original draft was watered down. As it moves to the next stage—a vote in the European Parliament—before taking effect, critics argue that the rules are now too diluted and cover too few companies to be truly effective.Still, the fact that the EU is acting at all has been described as an important moment, and unionists such as Mansoor and Khan wait thousands of miles away with bated breath for the final outcome. Solidarity from Europe is important, Khan said, and could change the lives of Pakistan’s workers. “The eyes and the ears of the people are looking to [the brands],” Mansoor said. “And they are being made accountable for their mistakes.”

As Shadi prepares to become a mother for the first time, the Iranian 30-year-old is so concerned about her unborn daughter’s future that she is considering leaving her homeland.

“The challenges and inequality we face as women start from birth,” said Shadi, a housewife in Tehran, who did not give her full name for fear of persecution. “The hijab is imposed on girls from a young age, restricting their freedom in society and affecting how they grow up as well as their opportunities in life,” she added.

Iran has imposed a strict dress code on women since a revolution swept the ruling Islamic regime into power 45 years ago, obliging them to cover their hair and wear loose-fitting clothes. Authorities have stepped up enforcement of the rules since the death of Mahsa Amini in police custody in September 2022 triggered major protests across the country, during which women openly flouted the code. Last year, Iran’s parliament approved a bill to strengthen punishments for such violations.

Although the protests have subsided, the hijab has been a prominent issue ahead of the elections that will occur on first day of March for Iran’s parliament and the executive council that appoints the country’s supreme leader. Turnout is expected to be low, with young voters particularly disillusioned with the political process—a trend that contributed to the 2022 protests. A recent poll found that only 30 percent of Iranians intend to vote, according to the semiofficial Iranian Students’ News Agency. Many are also voting with their feet and migrating to other countries.

Shadi said that she worried about her daughter growing up in an “environment that denies her her most basic rights,” adding, “I want to move as soon as possible to a country where basic freedoms are more readily available.”

Such freedoms are increasingly under threat for Iran’s female citizens, according to women’s rights advocates and United Nations experts, who say the hijab crackdown is creating a chilling effect on women’s rights activism and legitimizing broader gender discrimination.

According to several women interviewed by the Fuller Project, this means that Iranian women now cannot drive, do their jobs, or even have a coffee without worrying about having their cars impounded, being fired, or getting hit with fines if the hijab is not worn—or worn too loosely. “This crackdown on women’s dress code will further degrade women’s rights to work, study, drive, and participate fully in public life,” said Rothna Begum, a senior women’s rights researcher at Human Rights Watch.

The hijab bill was passed in September and is still awaiting its expected approval by the Guardian Council—Iran’s hard-line watchdog body—before it can become law. It would increase fines, introduce jail sentences of up to 10 years for women who defy dress rules, and widen gender segregation in places ranging from universities and hospitals to parks. U.N. experts have said it could amount to “gender apartheid.”

“The Iranian authorities have been doubling down their oppressive methods of policing and are punishing women and girls to quell widespread defiance of degrading and discriminatory compulsory veiling laws since the popular ‘Woman, Life, Freedom’ uprising,” said Mansoureh Mills, an Iran researcher for Amnesty International.

Amini’s death, which occured under police custody after she was arrested for allegedly wearing her hijab too loosely, triggered some of the worst political unrest seen in Iran in decades. While the protests have ebbed, women continue to defy the dress code by posting photos online of themselves unveiled or going out in public without the headscarf.

Anahid, a 21-year-old performing arts student, said she was pulled over in December by police in Tehran while driving and told that her car was being impounded because she had violated the dress regulations. Anahid—whose name has been changed for her protection—said she spent five days dealing with various government offices over the issue and had to pay fines totaling more than $110 to reclaim her vehicle.

“Driving in the streets of the capital has become perilous … but I will not allow such intimidation to alter my driving or clothing,” Anahid said, recounting how some of her female friends had experienced similar incidents.

Whether women do not wear the hijab properly while behind the wheel, at the workplace or simply sitting at a cafe, penalties for noncompliance can be severe. Women convicted of violating veiling laws have been subjected to “degrading punishments,” including being forced to wash dead bodies for Islamic burials and clean government buildings, according to a report published in August 2023 by Javaid Rehman, the U.N. special rapporteur on human rights in Iran.

But it’s not just women who are falling foul of the dress code and being penalized. Ali, a 40-year-old man who owns a cafe on Tehran’s Keshavarz Boulevard, said his business had been shut down twice by authorities because his female customers were not wearing the hijab properly. Authorities have temporarily closed thousands of businesses, from shops to offices, since Amini’s death—because either female employees or customers were seen without the hijab, according to various media reports.

Under the Hijab and Chastity Bill, businesses that flout the law could be fined up to three months of their income. But Ali—who asked that his real name be withheld for security concerns—said he supported the protest movement and that he would not ask women visiting his cafe to cover their hair. “I won’t do it, no matter the losses,” said Ali, who said he expected more raids on his business and further closures over dress code violations. “It’s a normal price to be paid for change to happen in the country.”

Hard-line clerics, top judges, and President Ebrahim Raisi have repeatedly issued warnings in recent months to women who violate the dress code, according to Iran International, a London-based television station that is critical of the Iranian government. At a public event in August, Raisi said, “I am telling you that the removal of the hijab will definitely come to an end.”

Iran is regularly ranked as one of the worst countries to be a woman in terms of gender parity for economic opportunities, education, health concerns, and political leadership, according to research by the World Bank and the World Economic Forum (WEF). Although more women graduate from university than men, Iran has one of the lowest rates of female employment and biggest gender pay gaps worldwide, the WEF’s latest Gender Gap Report shows.

Masoumeh Bagheri, a member of a state-appointed team to empower women who are heads of households in Tehran province, said there is still an entrenched belief in Iran that women belong in the home, and added that their role in society is widely seen as “secondary, complementary, and sometimes unnecessary.”

Such attitudes have left Samira Akbari, a jobless, 25-year-old computer science graduate in Tehran, pessimistic about her career prospects. Akbari—who also asked that her real name be withheld—said she was delighted when she landed her first permanent job for an online store in July 2023 after years of taking short-term contracts to build up her resume. But she was fired after just three weeks and replaced by a male intern.

Akbari said she did not know if hijab regulations played a part in her dismissal, but that her boss had explained that her male colleagues were uncomfortable with her presence.

“I would’ve understood if I was performing poorly, but instead, it’s my teammates not being comfortable around women that got me sacked,” said Akbari, who has since been unemployed.

GAZA—As bombs rain down on Gaza, Maryam Abu Akar has managed to escape death twice. But her loved ones have not. Maryam’s 17-year-old daughter, Sarah, was killed when a bomb landed on their two-story home on Oct. 17—ripping the teenager’s body in half.

In the wake of Sarah’s death, Maryam relied on her husband, Salama, for support. “He helped me bear the loss of my daughter. He told me that everything would be better and that our daughter went to heaven,” the 40-year-old said in an interview in her husband’s family home in Khan Younis, a city in southern Gaza.

Seven weeks later, Salama was chatting with a neighbor when a bomb landed nearby, killing them both. In an instant, Maryam became a widow—and the sole caregiver for their remaining four children. She is far from alone. Thousands of women in Gaza have been widowed by the war or left in charge of households, and aid experts fear that their worsening plight is being overlooked in the humanitarian response.

“I do not know how I will face his absence and raise the children without him,” Maryam said, tears streaming down her pallid cheeks. “Sometimes, when the children make me angry, I tell them: ‘I will call your father.’ And then I remember that he is not here.”

Maryam’s late daughter and husband are among more than 23,000 Palestinians who have been killed in Israeli attacks on Gaza since early October—with about 70 percent of the victims estimated to be women and children—according to CARE International, a global humanitarian organization.

On Oct. 7, the Palestinian militant group Hamas attacked southern Israel, killing about 1,200 people—mainly civilians—and taking more than 240 hostage, according to Israeli figures. Growing evidence is emerging of widespread sexual violence by the Hamas attackers against Israeli women and girls.

Israel responded to the attack with a massive bombing campaign in Gaza that has resulted in the highest civilian death toll in the long-running conflict since 2005. More than 2,780 women in Gaza have been widowed, data from U.N. Women Arab States shows. With at least 85 percent of Gaza’s 2.3 million residents displaced and food, fuel, medicine, and water scarce, these newly female-headed households are struggling to cope, several humanitarian organizations said.

These women not only have to contend with a deeply rooted patriarchal society and systemic legal inequities, but they are now increasingly vulnerable to gender-based violence, unable to support themselves and their families, and lack access to organizations that can help them—be it with food, safe shelter, or health care, several aid experts said.

“Most of the burden will be on the women,” said Lucy Talgieh, head of the women’s program at the Palestinian Conflict Transformation Center, a civil society organization based in Bethlehem. “They have to be strong—to live, and to help their children, and to start a new life, maybe with an injured husband who has become disabled, or maybe as a widow with four to five children to care for.”

A woman reacts while another prepares traditional unleavened bread on an open fire at a school run by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees in the Near East (UNRWA) in Rafah in the southern Gaza Strip. (Photo by SAID KHATIB/AFP via Getty Images)

Laws in Gaza place women under the protection and guardianship of men, and fail to protect female citizens against honor killings, marital rape, and domestic violence, the United Nations said in a 2018 report.

A woman can lose her right to spousal maintenance if she chooses to leave her husband’s home, and in 2021, a Hamas-run Islamic court ruled that women need the permission of men to travel in Gaza.

Although female literacy rates are high in Gaza, only 17 percent of women were active in the workforce as of 2021, compared to 69 percent of men, data from the Palestinian Central Bureau of Statistics shows.

In 2017, Gaza had the world’s highest unemployment rate at 44 percent, according to the United Nations Conference on Trade and Development. Most women in Gaza have never had a formal job, and now, even if they could work, there are virtually no opportunities available because of the war.

At least two-thirds of jobs in Gaza have been lost since the war started—roughly 192,000 jobs—the International Labour Organization said in late December, warning that women working in agriculture could lose out if rising unemployment results in men taking their jobs.

Maryam married at 20 and never finished university. She has been a housewife almost her entire adult life and was financially dependent on her late husband, who earned about $9 a day selling clothes in a market.

“I got used to relying on him to raise my children. He was the only breadwinner for us,” Maryam said. “I am not accustomed to bearing the responsibility alone. I do not know how I will continue the path with my children.”

For Gaza’s widows, grief and the trauma of war are compounded by the challenge of suddenly becoming the sole breadwinner, aid workers said.

CARE International said some mothers are only eating once a day because they are putting their children’s health first amid World Food Programme warnings that cases of dehydration and malnutrition are rising.

“There are heightened feelings of fear, anxiety, grief, and anger, and in an emergency, this is associated with the breakdown of social structures, family separation, and the disruption of support networks,” said Nour Beydoun, the regional advisor on protection and gender in emergencies for CARE.

As many women’s organizations in Gaza struggle to remain operational, CARE is working with community leaders and influencers to organize support networks and provide psychosocial support.

Such activities are a reminder of normal life and crucial in helping to “preserve and protect the human soul,” said Sanam Anderlini, the founder and CEO of the International Civil Society Action Network, a women, peace, and security organization.

“I think Palestinians have learned and instinctively understood that to preserve normalcy is itself a form of resistance,” she added.

For serious mental health issues, CARE is attempting to tap into the existing health care infrastructure to get people referred to psychiatrists and provided with medication.

However, Gaza’s only psychiatric hospital stopped functioning in November after it was damaged in an attack. As of mid-December, less than a third of Gaza’s 36 hospitals were still operating, and only partially, according to the World Health Organization.


Research by a range of organizations from the World Bank to the U.N. Human Rights Office has found that gender-based violence, including sexual exploitation and trafficking, increases during war and in post-conflict situations due to economic hardship, displacement, and the breakdown of social structures.

“The first thing that happens is that levels of poverty force women into risky work, like sex work, and forces children into work early,” Anderlini said. “We also see a huge spike in early marriage of girls.”

About 1.4 million Palestinians in Gaza are currently residing in U.N. shelters, and aid agencies have warned that overcrowding in such spaces increases the risk of abuse against women and girls.

Helping widows and female heads of household to find work and make money to support their families is a key way to prevent women and children from being forced to turn to high-risk work as their only option, according to Anderlini and Talgieh.

For example, the Palestinian Conflict Transformation Center is planning to help women join the workforce and develop their own money-making enterprises, as well as provide seed funding for small businesses.

“They will be working, even on a small-scale level at home selling things, but they will find their way with the help of the community, the [nongovernmental organizations],” Talgieh said. “These women have to find ways to survive, and they will.”

One such woman, Widad Abu Jama, a mother of six, recently lost her husband. The 45-year-old said Israeli soldiers shot and killed him when he went to his farm to check on his livestock and look for food for his family.

“I feel like I lost my life, not just my husband,” Jama said, sitting in the crowded classroom of a school that is now being used as a U.N. shelter. Her children were huddled around her, crying from the hunger and the cold.

“I got married at the age of 15. I lived with my husband for a very long time, and I grew up in his house. We worked together on our agricultural land. We spent long hours taking care of the crop. We built our lives together,” Jama explained.

“Now I will go to the land without him. I will be alone among the crops.”

In our turbulent and divided world, there is one unifying constant: Women and girls bear the brunt of conflict. Across most of the globe, they are excluded from war and peace–level decisions. And yet, they suffer disproportionately when things fall apart. They are at home with small children and elderly relatives when bombs start to fall. Their bodies are instrumentalized as weapons of terror. They scramble for food, water, and fuel when male relatives are called up for fighting. And they pick up the pieces when their communities become collateral damage.

It is in part because of these experiences that women are often among those most committed to dialogue and bringing an end to violence. This year showcased women’s vulnerabilities—and their unique peacemaking powers. Here are five ways women made a difference in 2023.

1. Women on the Front Lines in Ukraine

The women of Ukraine have remained steadfast since Russia invaded their country nearly two years ago. More than 60,000 women serve in the military, while millions more ensure social cohesion and spearhead the humanitarian response on the home front.

Two days after Russia invaded Ukraine, the Ukrainian Women’s Fund pivoted from an organization dedicated to preventing gender discrimination and promoting equal opportunities for women into a wartime relief agency. The fund issued rapid response grants and mobilized its vast network of Ukrainian women’s organizations to provide emergency assistance to families fleeing the war. Between March and November of 2022, the fund’s grants to coalitions, partnerships, and civil society organizations totaled almost $750,000, according to its website. These female-led organizations arranged transit to evacuate families from areas of hostility, created shelters for displaced people, distributed humanitarian aid, and organized medical and psychological support for people traumatized by the horrors of war.

The Ukrainian Women’s Fund is currently engaging women’s rights organizations in discussions and planning for Ukraine’s recovery strategy. “Women who are protecting the country from inside, they know how to be crisis managers now,” Natalia Karbowska, the fund’s director of strategic development, said in an interview with the Georgetown Institute for Women, Peace, and Security. That skill will be needed for the country when it starts its recovery, she said.

The Ukrainian National Action Plan to implement the U.N. Security Council’s “Women, Peace and Security” resolution, first adopted in 2016  and updated in 2022 to focus on amplifying women’s leadership in post-conflict recovery and transitional justice initiatives, received a boost from the Biden administration in October with $2 million in supplemental funding.

2. Sudanese Women Fighting for Survival

Despite being sidelined by the gender constraints of Islamic law, in which women are legally required to obey their husbands, women have actively helped keep other women alive amid the conflict in Sudan.

After fighting broke out in April between forces loyal to two rival generals, women were targeted for sexual assault and rape. Their homes were occupied. They struggled to find places to safely give birth as the country’s health care system collapsed. And they—and their children—surged to the nation’s borders, eager to seek refuge in neighboring countries.

Even before the most recent civil strife, Sudanese women had been embattled. Women’s groups had consistently been excluded from power—despite the fact that they played a key role in the grassroots movement that toppled the country’s former military dictator, Omar al-Bashir, in 2019. Back then, female protestors reported that they were beaten; had their heads shaved; and were forced to undress, photographed, and blackmailed. But although the groups of protestors hoped to have a say in reconstructing Sudanese civil society, al-Bashir’s oppressive regime gave way to renewed gender oppression by military commanders.

This year, more than 49 female-led organizations and initiatives formed the Peace for Sudan Platform to support humanitarian aid as well as female-led collective advocacy for an end to the conflict. Women became key providers of support services and emergency relief, operating in the shadows and expanding the margin of possibility through the smart use of technology. Women’s groups in this network organized on the ground through WhatsApp. They launched campaigns to provide health care to displaced pregnant women and distributed hygiene kits.

From abroad, female Sudanese doctors used WhatsApp to provide telehealth services in online clinics. Other women helped high-profile Sudanese activists escape their home country, setting them up with papers and support overseas. “Sudan’s women’s movement has morphed from fighting for rights to fighting for lives,” Neha Wadeker wrote in Foreign Policy.

3. A Pen and a Prize for Peace

On Oct. 6, in the midst of a massive crackdown on female activists by Tehran’s rulers, Iranian human rights activist Narges Mohammadi was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Recognizing her “fight against the oppression of women in Iran and her fight to promote human rights and freedom for all,” the Nobel committee lauded Mohammadi’s more than 30 years of activism, despite “tremendous personal costs,” which have included 13 arrests, five convictions, and a total of 31 years of prison sentences and 154 lashes. At the time of the Nobel announcement, Mohammadi was serving a 10-year sentence in Tehran’s Evin prison, where she continued to document and share stories of state-sponsored sexual assault and battery of female activists and prisoners. In August and October the criminal court found Mohammadi guilty in new trials, adding over two years to her sentence. She reported that new charges were once again brought against her in November.

Outside the walls of her captivity, Mohammadi’s work has been resonant. A brutal campaign of official repression put an end to the massive street protests that erupted in 2022 after a 22-year-old Kurdish-Iranian woman, Mahsa Amini, died in the custody of the country’s morality police. Yet resistance continues online and through acts of civil disobedience, with some women still refusing to wear a headscarf. The regime has responded to perceived threats with added police patrols, hardened warnings, a stricter headscarf law, and mass arrests.

On the day Mohammadi’s family received the Nobel Prize on her behalf, Mohammadi began a hunger strike in prison in solidarity with Iran’s Baha’i religious minority. In her Nobel Prize lecture, delivered by her children, Ali and Kiana Rahmani in Oslo on Dec. 10, Mohammadi wrote she was just one among “the millions of proud and resilient Iranian women who have risen up against oppression, repression, discrimination, and tyranny.”

4. Dialogue for an End to Bloodshed

One day after Mohammadi was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, terrorists affiliated with Hamas, the Palestinian militant group that rules the Gaza Strip, carried out a surprise attack within Israel, killing approximately 1,200 people and taking about 240 hostages. Vivian Silver, the 74-year-old co-founder of Women Wage Peace, Israel’s largest grassroots peace movement that was founded in the embers of the 2014 Gaza war, was originally believed to be among the hostages. On Nov. 13, her family learned that she was among the dead.

Silver, a Canadian Israeli feminist, had dedicated decades of her life to Israel-Palestine peace. She opposed the Israeli blockade of Gaza, in place since 2007, and regularly traveled to the border to pick up sick Palestinians and drive them to Israeli hospitals for treatment. She brought Israeli and Palestinian artisans together to collaborate.

Just three days before the Oct. 7 attack, Silver gathered in Jerusalem with hundreds of other activists from Women Wage Peace and its Palestinian partner group, Women of the Sun. They marched to a rally at the Tolerance Museum, then traveled to the shore of the Dead Sea, where they pulled up seats to a symbolic negotiating table. Together, they called for a peaceful, political agreement to the region’s longstanding conflict—a “Mothers’ Call” for an end to “the vicious cycle of bloodshed.”

“We are not pro-Israel or pro-Palestine,” Yael Braudo-Bahat, the co-director of Women Wage Peace, said to Foreign Policy. “We are pro-peace.”

Women of the Sun, founded by Reem Hajajreh, sent aid to women in Gaza until the banks closed. Even while its own movement in the West Bank is increasingly restricted due to rising settler violence, the group works for an inclusive and sustainable peace.

Marwa Hammad, Women of the Sun’s fundraising coordinator and one of the cofounders, works actively with Women Wage Peace to train women to run in local elections, and she plans to restart her group’s trauma healing program after the war. Before Oct. 7, she held Zoom workshops with women from the West Bank and Gaza. The war interrupted those conversations, but not the organization’s dedication to building peace.

“I think that the presence of the woman should be [in negotiations],” Hammad told Foreign Policy. “I think no woman would choose the war. It would be the last that they would choose.”

Women of the Sun and Women Waging Peace were recently nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize.

5. Awakening Humanity Amid Rampant Brutality

For nearly two decades, the eastern provinces of the  Democratic Republic of Congo have been awash in violence as more than 130 non-state armed militias clash with the Congolese army in a fight over land and critical resources including cobalt and gold. The war has displaced 6.9 million people and increasing lawlessness has left women and girls vulnerable to sexual violence, leading to what the U.N.’s refugee agency called a shocking “epidemic” of gender-based violence.

Yet women have emerged as the country’s most promising agents of peace.  Activists such as Liberata Buratwa, who runs a network of female peace monitors, have demanded accountability and security from the Congolese army even as women are excluded from political life and official peacebuilding efforts.

“We want peace, and we’ll keep fighting for it,” said Buratwa in a recent interview. “We are continuing to contact the authorities so that peace can return and we can go home.”

Others, such as Pétronille Vaweka, senior mediator for Engaged Women for Peace in Africa (FEPA), have ventured into rebel-held areas to plead with leaders for dialogue. “I know what [the rebels] do, but we have no other choice than to approach them,” Vaweka told U.N. Peacekeeping this month. “I try to awaken humanity in every person.” FEPA has trained a network of 100 women in negotiation, mediation, and conflict resolution.

These grassroots movements are driving real change. Women represented 40 percent of civil society and community representatives and 30 percent of facilitation teams at a round of  regional peace talks last year.

As 2024 dawns, Mohammadi’s words continue to ring true: “Women will not give up. We are fueled by a will to survive, whether we are inside prison or outside.”

After her husband moved to Saudi Arabia for work, 27-year-old Fadya Salman started sending nude pictures of herself from their home in the Yemeni capital Sana’a. It wasn’t the same as being together, but it helped keep their bond alive.

Then her phone got stolen. The thief threatened to publish the photos online unless Salman——whose name has been changed here to protect the safety of this story’s sources—went out with him. She had become a victim of what authorities in many countries call “sextortion”—the act of threatening to share nude or explicit images unless demands for money or sexual acts are met.

Salman refused. Eventually, her family learned what had happened, and in 2022, she was murdered. A childhood friend who asked not to be named said her younger brother had killed her under pressure from their father in a so-called honor killing. A criminal investigation officer in Yemen confirmed that she had been killed, though no charges have been brought, as is often the case with such killings.

“It was a nightmare,” the friend said while describing Salman’s ordeal. “When a woman is put in a situation like that, she’s on her own. She can’t trust anyone to help her. She can’t go to a male relative because they’ll assume she’s to blame, and another woman won’t be able to help.” 

The U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation and its international law enforcement agency warned this year that sextortion is becoming a global crisis. Deep-rooted patriarchal traditions have made women in the Middle East and North Africa particularly vulnerable to this blackmail, activists say. While the bulk of cases are never reported to authorities, a 2019 survey by Transparency International found that one in five people polled in Jordan, Lebanon, and Palestine had experienced sextortion or knew someone who had—among the worst rates in the world. 

Widespread societal attitudes that place the burden of preserving familial honor on women often prevent victims from seeking justice. Instead, as in Salman’s case, the blackmail can have tragic consequences. 

Such strict societal codes are particularly pronounced in Yemen, which ranked last in the World Economic Forum’s Gender Gap Index for 15 consecutive years (from 2006 to 2020) and has a troubled history of so-called honor killings. 

Amaal Aldobai, a Yemeni women’s rights activist and head of the Centre for Combating Violence Against Women, said that women are easy prey for perpetrators of sextortion.

“If a woman falls victim to sextortion, she cannot tell her family because they will sentence her to death instead of getting justice,” Aldobai said.

While some women are lured into sending private images by promises of marriage, Yemeni activist Mokhtar Abdel Moez said that the majority fall victim to gangs that hack into women’s phones and coerce them into prostitution or paying a large sum of money.

“This results in hundreds of cases of divorce, murder, and suicide every year,” he said. “What is incredible is that, in some incidents, women gave in to coercion and were forced into prostitution to avoid the publishing of images that are not even scandalous yet are enough to lead to their murder merely for being in a strange man’s possession.”

Abdel Moez is the founder of Sanad, a nonprofit organization in Yemen that supports cybercrime victims through a network of around 400 volunteer digital experts. When he began the group in March 2020, he didn’t expect to find so many cases of sextortion.

Sanad has received about 17,000 reports of cybercrimes since its launch, 6,000 of which were reported in 2023. Abdel Moez estimates that about one in four are cases of sextortion.

Official figures are far lower. An official at the Ministry of Interior in the Houthi-led government in Sana’a, who asked not to be named as he is not authorized to speak to the media, said that 114 electronic crimes—including sextortion—were reported in 2022. 

Yemen’s Saudi-backed administration in Aden keeps no tally of reported sextortion cases, but multiple officials said they had received dozens of such reports, mostly targeting women. 

Fearing their families’ wrath and distrusting the two rival administrations fighting over power, vulnerable victims instead seek out activists such as Moez and his team. When they receive a report of a crime, the team at Sanad works to identify and contact the extortionist to try to persuade them to hand over and delete the blackmail content. 

Egyptian activist Mohamed El-Yamani started a network called Qawem (or “Resist” in English) in 2020, after a young woman took her own life out of fear that her ex-boyfriend would expose private images of her.

Egypt ranked 134th out of 146 countries in the 2023 Gender Gap Index, and El-Yamani says his group has received reports of more than 100,000 cases of sextortion since it started. But he believes that this is only a small fraction of the crimes committed. 

El-Yamani said that Qawem has successfully intervened in 4,000 cases, using a network of volunteers to dissuade each perpetrator by tracing his location and threatening to expose his actions to his family, friends, and colleagues. Realizing that the victim has support is often enough to deter blackmailers, but if it doesn’t, Qawem encourages victims to report the perpetrators to the authorities. 

In one case, El-Yamani said, images of a girl from a prominent family in Egypt were published online, showing her without a headscarf. The girl had refused to accede to the demands of her blackmailer, who wanted money and video calls with her. When the content was published, she was accused of recklessness and made to stay home from school.

El-Yamani said Qawem managed to defuse the situation by tracking down the blackmailer and getting him to apologize and remove the content from the internet, while also convincing the girl’s father to allow his daughter to return to school.

Egypt, El-Yamani added, is a regional leader in tackling the problem. Authorities have created digital investigation units throughout the country to handle such crimes, and they have passed laws to ensure that the identities of victims who come forward remain hidden. Qawem-style interventions would be much harder in countries such as Yemen and Syria, he said.

“Many women in these countries would rather deal with their sextortionists secretly, regardless of the consequences, as their families would hold them responsible for not protecting their family’s honor,” El-Yamani said. 

Experts say that the patriarchal nature of family relations in some Middle Eastern countries has contributed to the problem.

“One common factor in all 3,657 cases that approached us is the victims’ blind trust in the perpetrator, due to them lacking the feeling of being loved and embraced in their own surroundings,” said Zainab al-Aasi, a Syrian psychiatrist and the founder of a nonprofit called Gardenia that offers legal and mental support to female victims of sextortion.

In Yemen, there are no laws addressing sextortion, said Fawzia el-Meressi, a board member at the Yemeni Women’s Union, a nonprofit. Even if there were, she argued, such crimes against women would not stop; they are the result of a patriarchal system that “creates a huge void between her and her male family members, which is exploited by criminals.” 

Omaima, 21, whose name has also been changed for her safety, connected online with a man introduced to her by a friend as a researcher for a women’s health organization. The man offered payment for information about her life—a persuasive offer in Yemen, one of the poorest countries in the world, where 80 percent of the population depends on humanitarian aid. 

At first, Omaima responded to the questions he sent via WhatsApp, sharing details about her relationship with her husband and pictures of her without a headscarf—a major taboo in the strict Muslim society that she is part of.

Then the questions began to take on a sexual nature, making her feel uncomfortable, she said. But after she began to ignore him, the man threatened to send the photos to her husband, carrying out the threat when she refused to engage. 

Her husband divorced her. “He didn’t even hear me out,” Omaima said.


This piece is published in collaboration with Egab, a group that works with journalists across the Middle East and Africa

KERICHO, Kenya, and SAVAR, Bangladesh—Rose Nyunja was just 18 when she began working in the tea plantations of Kericho, Kenya’s biggest tea-growing region and a major source of employment for poor women in the country. For decades, she toiled away in the tea gardens, picking the leaves by hand. 

Then came the harvesting machinery. Women like Nyunja started to lose their jobs by the thousands to machines that could each replace more than 100 workers.

One evening in 2020, Nyunja returned to the staff quarters to find her front door barricaded. She’d been fired. Nyunja pleaded with her supervisor to save her job — and her home. Instead, company security ejected her from the compound.

“My 26 years of service meant nothing to them,” she says, fighting back tears. “I was given one hour to remove my household items and leave. I have never experienced such humiliation and embarrassment in my life. I worked diligently for over two decades and what have I got? Nothing.”

As Kenya’s tea estates automate to improve productivity, workers like Nyunja represent a broader global trend: women are more likely than men to lose their jobs. A 2019 study from Britain found that 70 percent of jobs at high risk from automation are held by women. And this April, a University of North Carolina study found that almost 80 percent of the female workforce in the US will be affected by advances in generative artificial intelligence, compared to 58% of men.

While recent advances in generative AI have sharpened concerns about loss of jobs for white-collar workers, job losses due to companies ramping up automation have been taking place for years, as seen in Kenya. Kweilin Ellingrud, a director at McKinsey Global Institute, says her research shows that automation is fourteen times more likely to impact low-wage workers than high earners.

“I think the reason it’s grabbing headlines is because it is also affecting higher wage jobs for the first time,” says Ellingrud. “I think now generative AI is focusing and impacting jobs across the spectrum — it affects your job, it affects my job. Some of us, myself included, aren’t used to thinking: ‘How will my work have to change? How will my job change?’”

In Kericho, Roselyne Wasike, a tea picker, says her income has fallen by almost half, from $150 a month to $80 a month, as the machines take over larger shares of work on the plantation. Even those who have managed to keep their jobs cannot escape the impact of automation. Many of them are widows and single mothers. 

“These machines have disadvantaged women by making them redundant instead of giving them other tasks within the tea estates,” Wasike says.

The Kenya Plantation and Agricultural Workers Union says that 30,000 women have lost their jobs as a result of automation in the past five years. About 60 percent of the 75,000 workers currently employed in the tea sector are women, down from an estimated 75 percent in 2017, according to Dickson Sang, the secretary-general of the union.

The resentment towards the machines boiled over into violence this May. Kericho residents torched nine harvesting machines worth $1.2 million in a plantation owned by Ekaterra, the producer of Lipton and TAZO teas. The clash resulted in two deaths and the arrest of Kericho’s governor. Ekaterra suspended operations for two weeks, leaving more than 16,000 employees without work.

One of the areas of dispute had been a provision in the industry’s collective bargaining agreement that workers, most of whom are women, would be kept on as machine operators. Labor leaders say multinationals have “flatly refused” to implement this.

“I do not condone the destruction of property. But these workers are now fighting back because the tea firms keep moving the goalposts,” says Sang.

Ready-made garments worker works in a garments factory in Bangladesh. (Photo by Kazi Salahuddin Razu/NurPhoto via Getty Images)

Ellingrud says 85 percent of jobs impacted by generative AI will be concentrated in four job categories: food services, customer service and sales, office administration, and manufacturing. The first three are dominated by women. Even in manufacturing, women workers like Nyunja are vulnerable compared to men, who have a higher chance of being re-trained for roles involving automation. 

The COVID-19 pandemic showed that women are more likely to lose jobs during periods of economic upheaval, and are slower to return to the workforce, Ellingrud says: “Women’s unemployment is more sticky.”

Her research at McKinsey has found that 12 million people will need to switch jobs by 2030, and that women are 1.5 times more likely than men to have to change their occupation. She says this means governments and businesses need to urgently take targeted actions to re-skill and up-skill women.

Automation has also radically changed the make-up of Bangladesh’s garment industry, once hailed for transforming women’s employment prospects. Women once made up over 80 percent of the garment workforce today they account for less than 60 percent. In 2019 the government projected that half a million garment workers, mostly women, would lose their jobs to automation.

At Moni Garment and Training Center in Savar, a garment hub north of the capital Dhaka, Mizanur Rahman drills his trainees on how to operate machines used for weaving and knitting. A former garment worker himself, he says being sensitive to small areas of concern goes a long way towards making women feel more comfortable. 

This includes hiring female instructors for female trainees and offering flexible hours so that women can show up before or after taking care of household chores. He says the confidence women gain from their training can lead to increased recognition at work.

“Many of my trainees perform well and are promoted to supervisor or line chief positions,” Rahman says.

Supervisory roles and roles operating automated technology are likely to be among the key jobs that survive in a post-automation landscape. Both tend to be dominated by men. In Bangladesh’s garment industry, women have long made up less than 5 percent of supervisors despite being a significant majority of the workforce.

There have been some signs of success. The Gender Equality and Returns project, run by the World Bank’s International Finance Corporation and the International Labor Organization, says 60 percent of its trainees have been promoted to supervisory positions, and the number of female supervisors in the industry has jumped to 12 percent since the program began in 2016.

Abdullah Hil Rakib, a director at the Bangladesh Garment Manufacturers and Exporters Association, the country’s largest trade association for the industry, says the key obstacle to women thriving in supervisory or machine operator roles is psychological.

“It’s a barrier in our mindset,” he says. He points out that automation means less physically strenuous work for both men and women, eliminating one barrier that would have previously made some jobs less accessible for women.

“Even when a man runs a heavy automatic cutter machine, he only pushes a switch on and off. He does not need to do more,” Rakib says.

Ellingrud says about 10 percent of jobs created every year tend to be new roles that didn’t exist before, but women take up these jobs at a lower rate than men. People won’t be losing their jobs to AI, she says, but to people who know how to use AI; women who are unable to adapt risk being left out of the new economy.

Adaptation feels like a distant prospect in Kericho, where Nyunja hawks vegetables on the street to make ends meet.

“I used to be able to take care of my family and pay my children’s school fees,” Nyunja says. “Now my future looks bleak. I can barely pay my rent, let alone send my child to school.”

Maher Sattar contributed reporting from New York.

KOLHAPUR, MAHARASHTRA: 44-year-old Neeta Kashid has no time to rest. The community health worker’s day is packed with visits to women and children in her village in southwest Maharashtra, assisting them with health emergencies, providing maternal and neonatal support, conducting surveys and immunization campaigns, and acting as the face of the Indian government’s health and sanitation drives in the area. On top of all this, she has to tend to a small farm. Despite being a full-time frontline health worker, she makes less than minimum wage, and relies on extra income from selling produce to make ends meet.

“My salary is not enough to survive,” said Kashid, “I have two school-going children. I need to pay their fees and raise them.”

Kashid is one of roughly a million Accredited Social Health Activists (ASHA), part of an Indian government program that serves as a critical link between rural and poor communities and the public healthcare system. They were catapulted into the spotlight for their role in ensuring access to primary care for the rural poor as COVID-19 devastated India in 2021, winning a Global Health Leader Award from the World Health Organization.

But the award has also spurred increased scrutiny of their working conditions, not just for ASHA workers, but for community health workers (CHWs) all over the world. CHW programs have been lauded as a cost-effective way to reduce maternal and infant mortality, HIV, tuberculosis, and many other diseases over the past decades. But the reason they’re cost-effective is because this overwhelmingly female workforce is poorly paid, like Kashid, or not paid at all — in many countries they are an all-volunteer corps. 

A 2022 report by Women in Global Health, a global nonprofit, estimates there are 6 million female health workers who are unpaid or underpaid, and say they believe this is a conservative figure due to a shortage of available data. Their research built on a 2015 paper in Lancet which claimed that unpaid work by CHWs potentially contributed $1.4 trillion to the global economy — implying that the unpaid labor of mostly women health workers was subsidizing almost 2.5% of global GDP at the time.

A woman collects a blood sample from another woman's hand.
An ASHA worker collecting blood samples in the rural parts of Kolhapur. ASHA The community health workers were not trained for the COVID-19 jobs but were instructed to execute any job that was required at the frontline. (Abhijeet Gurjar for Foreign Policy and The Fuller Project)

“Why is it that we don’t put a price tag on this particular labor force and build that into the cost of these programs?” says Roopa Dhatt, a physician who is the executive director of Women in Global Health. “It is exploitation, and it should be called out.”

ASHA workers across India have gone on strike this year, and continue to strike in some states, demanding better pay and formal employment status, which would come with health and pension benefits. They are part of a growing wave of organizing around the world by health workers and experts calling on the governments, donors, and nonprofits who have reaped the benefits of CHW labor to match their rhetoric of praise with a living wage.

“[CHWs] are an anonymous donor, a nameless benefactor to everyone else,” says Madeleine Ballard, the executive director of the Community Health Impact Coalition, which advocates for the professionalization of CHWs around the world. “In the vast majority of communities around the world, CHWs are the working poor. In the context of poverty and limited access to decent work opportunities for women, this is not a free choice to volunteer, but it’s actually wage slavery. I don’t volunteer for my community 37 hours a week, you know?”

“The irony is a lot of these programs are funded by international organizations that have a real rhetoric around women’s empowerment,” Ballard adds. “And that’s used to provide moral cover for what are, in effect, programs in which female labor is cheap.”

Two women stand while weighing a baby.
Neeta Kashid, an ASHA worker weighing a born baby as her routine duty in Mhasave village, Kolhapur district of Maharashtra, the western states of India. (Abhijeet Gurjar for Foreign Policy and The Fuller Project)

A job so great it can’t be paid

CHW programs have evolved through what Ballard calls a couple of “hype cycles”. The Chinese government pioneered village health workers starting in the 1930s. These “barefoot doctors” became famous worldwide in the ’50s and ’60s, and by the ’70s had inspired programs globally as the international community rallied around the goal of providing primary healthcare for all by the end of the 20th century.

The economic crises of the ’80s marked a setback for the growth of these programs, but interest in them was revived in the new millennium as the HIV pandemic focused attention on providing services to rural communities across the African continent. CHWs came to be seen as an effective way to reach marginalized and vulnerable populations in tackling the biggest problems in global public health at the time, such as malaria and tuberculosis. Today, CHWs are going through another hype cycle as yet another pandemic rips through the  globe.

“The amount of money that goes into hospital care is so extraordinary, and the evidence that investing in hospitals themselves will improve the health of a population — it just doesn’t exist,” says Henry Perry, a doctor who’s a leading researcher on CHWs at Johns Hopkins University. “CAT scanners, open heart surgery, kidney transplants, all of this stuff is valuable, but it’s very expensive when you compare the return on investment to teaching community health workers how to diagnose and treat childhood pneumonia or detect hypertension.”

The ASHA program has its roots in a 2002 program that started in Chhattisgarh, one of the poorest states in India, and was adopted nationwide in 2005. In India’s case, the focus was on child mortality.

“ASHA became a necessity for services being provided by the government,” says Sujatha Rao, a former Health Secretary at the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare who was involved in launching the project. “The key target was of course reducing maternal and infant mortality levels that were unacceptably high and had to be brought down.”

When the program was introduced, the responsibilities of ASHA workers were limited to creating awareness, providing counsel, mobilizing the community, and providing some primary medical care. Over the years, these responsibilities have increased, and so have their hours — going from working a handful of hours a week to a full-time workload.

“In 2009, when I joined as an ASHA worker, we had 5-10 indicators that we had to focus on,” said Netradipa Patil, a union leader representing more than 3,000 ASHA workers in Kolhapur, Maharashtra. “Now, we have to focus on 74 indicators.”

A woman stands outside a door carrying a blue tote bag and holding a sheet of paper in front of two women.
Neeta Kashid performing a survey during COVID-19 in Mhasave village, Kolhapur. ASHA employees were critical in reporting, surveying, medicine, counselling, medical screening, and filing various reports. (Abhijeet Gurjar for Foreign Policy and The Fuller Project)

Then came COVID-19. As praise poured in from all directions for their frontline work, ASHA workers themselves were floundering with little support. Kashid was physically assaulted by a villager for trying to enforce the government’s quarantine rules. Another ASHA worker, 43-year-old Usha Jadhav, had a heart attack which doctors told her was due to irregular meal timings and high levels of stress from her work.

For many experts, the struggles of CHWs during COVID-19 laid bare the lie behind a common trope used to justify their lack of pay: that women are innately motivated to serve their neighbors and community, and that to pay them would sully the spiritual benefits of their work.

Instead, researchers like Kenneth Maes at Oregon State University are finding that far from being in a satisfied state of fulfillment, CHWs in Ethiopia experience more psychological distress throughout the year compared to others in their areas, partly due to the strain of their work and partly due to their poor economic status.

Neeta Kashid, an ASHA worker with her co-workers visiting Mhasave village for routine work in the district Kolhapur, Maharashtra, the western states of India. (Abhijeet Gurjar for Foreign Policy and The Fuller Project)

“It’s emotional blackmail,” says Margaret Odera, a Nairobi-based CHW who is working to create a national association of CHWs in Kenya. “I have had people come visit us from the USA who say ‘you community health workers are doing a great job.’ And if we say ‘so you will pay us?’ [They say] ‘We can’t, because your job is so great that you can’t be paid.”

For Odera, the matter is straightforward. Doctors derive satisfaction from their work too, but they’re still paid; CHWs are health professionals providing vital services, and should be paid accordingly. 

She details the health statistics she’s gathered for her latest report to her supervisors: children who have been dewormed; children born inside the hospital and outside; children who are malnourished; mothers who are pregnant; community members with non-communicable diseases. The list goes on.

She recalls: “One time my son was asking me: ‘Mom, you go to the hospital every day. I think you’re a doctor. But at the end of the month, when I ask you to buy me something, you say you don’t have any money. What’s happening?’ And you know, I have nothing to say.”

On April 15, Fahima Hashim awoke to the sound of her nephew shouting her name. “The war has started!” he yelled. Her family hunkered down in their Khartoum home, hoping the conflict between two warring factions of Sudan’s military would be short-lived, and they’d be able to wait it out.

“I didn’t sleep at night,” Hashim recalled. “I’d sleep when everyone woke up, because I wanted to protect them from anything [that might happen] in their sleep.” 

After 14 days, supplies started to run low, and Hashim decided they needed to flee. It wasn’t the first time. 

In 2014, Sudan’s military dictator Omar al-Bashir accused Hashim of destroying the fabric of Sudanese society because of her work as the founder of Salmmah Women’s Resource Center, a group that documented violence against women and fought for reforms to Sudan’s legal system. She escaped to Canada and built a new life for herself and her daughter. When al-Bashir fell from power five years later, she thought it would finally be safe to return.

Women like Hashim were at the forefront of a grassroots movement to topple al-Bashir—one of the revolution’s most iconic images was of a young woman named Alaa Salah standing atop a car in front of army headquarters with her finger raised in fierce protest. These women had hoped al-Bashir’s downfall would earn them equal rights and freedoms alongside men at last. Instead, the transitional government—led by fundamentalist military commanders who had served under al-Bashir—sidelined women, continued to emphasize the primacy of Islamic law, and supported a coup in 2021. 

Far from securing equality and a seat at the negotiating table, Sudanese women continued to be targeted with sexual violence, systemic exclusion from the political sphere, and imposition of strict dress codes. 

“After the revolution, whenever women talked about representation or participation or [the need] to include women’s rights … [male politicians] just said ‘this is actually not the right time’ and ‘these women are so annoying,’” said 31-year-old activist Lina Marwan, who was arrested in January 2019 alongside 86 other young women during intense protests against the al-Bashir administration.

Despite the backslide, women such as Marwan and Hashim refuse to give up. They continue to coalesce in online spaces, leading emergency relief efforts, organizing health care, and helping women and children to flee the country. They’re still fighting for what they’ve demanded for nearly a century: a meaningful seat at the peace talks and a significant role in the governance of a new Sudan.

Three women sit on the ground. One woman writes on a notebook with a pen.
Women are interviewed under the shade of a tree outside at a camp for the internally displaced in al-Suwar. (Photo by AFP via Getty Images)

Sudan has a rich history of strong women’s rights movements that stretches back to the 19th century. The formation of the Sudanese Women’s Union in the 1950s marked a critical moment as women took up the cause of independence from British colonial rule. In 2018-19, their momentous protests against al-Bashir in front of the Army Central Command led to them being called Kandakat after powerful historical queens.

“You could hear in the cell [that] the girls are talking and chatting,” said Marwan about her time in prison during that period. “The girls are beautiful and very strong and have a very revolutionary spirit, and they made a lot of joy inside this dark, lifeless place.”

But Sudanese leaders have always attacked values they deemed antithetical to Islam and Sudanese culture. Sudan’s first dictator, Ibrahim Abboud, banned the Sudanese Women’s Union in 1958. In the 1980s, Jaafar Muhammad Nimeiry’s military dictatorship imposed Islamic law on the country, removing a ban on female genital mutilation in the process. Al-Bashir came to power in 1989 on the back of a military-led Islamization project that institutionalized discriminatory anti-women policies, such as stoning and flogging for women who wore pants or refused to cover their hair.

“The women’s movement has always been a target for dictators. And that shows you how strong the women’s movement was,” said Quscondy Abdulshafi, an advisor at Freedom House, a Washington, D.C.-based think tank.

When al-Bashir fell, Sudanese women saw a wide range of possibilities open up in front of them. Sudan’s new Constitutional Declaration contained strong language about the role of women and a 40 percent quota requirement for women’s participation in parliament. Religion was separated  from the state, and al-Bashir’s public order act was repealed—reflecting the hopeful nature of that moment for women.

But the promise was short-lived. The military-led transitional government soon revealed that it had not strayed far from the conservative Islamic ideology of al-Bashir’s regime. On reviewing civil society proposals for a new democratic government, the 10-member military council expressed a key reservation: “The declaration failed to mention the sources of legislation, and the Islamic Sharia law and tradition should be the source of legislation,” Lt. Gen. Shamseddine Kabbashi, a spokesman for the military council, told reporters at a press conference.

Following the 2021 coup, the military leaders dissolved the ruling body instituted by the Constitution Declaration and declared a state of emergency. Then, they turned on themselves. In April, civil war broke up between two rival generals. The transitional government had included the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), a paramilitary unit that faces several accusations of mass rape; this group is now at the forefront of the civil war. 

Today, women are experiencing widespread gender-based violence, sexual assault, and rape; pregnant women are struggling to give birth as the health care system crumbles; and women and children make up the majority of the refugee population fleeing across Sudan’s borders.

Since the outbreak of civil war, Sudan’s women’s movement has morphed from fighting for rights to fighting for lives. Women have become key providers of support services and emergency relief. 

“Women from civil society all around Sudan, they have a WhatsApp group called Women for Peace,” Marwan said. The group is providing health care for displaced pregnant women and distributing hygiene kits for women and girls. 

They’re providing some services for men, but the focus is on women. “Because throughout environmental disasters or anything that’s broken out in Sudan, men started to see women’s needs as secondary,” Marwan explained.

Other groups include Sudanese women doctors based abroad who participate in WhatsApp clinics, providing telemedicine services. Some, such as Sara Abdelgalil, a National Health Service physician in the United Kingdom, are also coordinating with organizations on the ground to provide online training for Sudanese medical students who still have access to the internet.

Meanwhile, from Canada, Hashim is helping high-profile activists escape the country. She’s organizing paperwork and visas with the support of women’s rights organizations, raising money for the harrowing bus journey from Sudan into Egypt, and securing funds to support women with rent and food for at least three months as they settle into their new lives. 

Hashim is also engaged with a WhatsApp group called Women Against the War, which supports Sudanese resistance committees. 

Foreign-policy experts such as Sanam Naraghi Anderlini, the executive director of the International Civil Society Action Network, a women, peace, and security organization, say research shows that the presence of women can make a massive difference in peacebuilding. Including women as negotiators, mediators, and signatories increases the likelihood of an agreement lasting at least two years by 20 percent, and the likelihood of it lasting at least 15 years by 35 percent.

“[Women] are bringing a very stark human lens into these political power discussions,” Anderlini said. “The women are going to be asking, ‘does your cease-fire include stopping rape? Does it include getting the RSF soldiers out of people’s homes? Stopping the looting? What are the elements of the cease-fire?”

Hashim wants to take it a step further: She believes that a new Sudan will rise only if women take control of the country. She says the women’s movement has already developed its own policies on climate change, health, and reproductive rights. They were working out their preferred educational policies when the war broke out.

“Enough is enough,” Hashim said. “I think men have destroyed Sudan. What has the army done? The war in South Sudan. The war in Darfur. It’s been 67 years since independence, and those men haven’t done anything [for] Sudan. They made it worse.”

“I think we should make a shadow government with all our ministers,” she said. “It can only be done by women, by feminists.” 

The 33-year-old woman had attempted suicide twice: the years-long investigations and trials had been that stressful. Even then, she said she had only reported a fraction of the sexual abuse she’d suffered, fearing she might be punished for false accusations if her allegations were dismissed under South Korea’s strict rape law.

“This is the painful reality faced by victims on the ground. Yet these politicians only keep talking about so-called false sex crime accusers as a winning strategy for elections,” said the woman, who requested not to be named for fear of public shaming.

The politicians she refers to are now in charge. President Yoon Suk-yeol came to power in May last year on a platform that included anti-feminist ideas, accusing them of causing the country’s low birth rate and denying structural sexism existed in the country, despite social and economic indicators that strongly suggest otherwise. One of his chief campaign promises was that he would go after people who lie about being raped.

Since Yoon took office, the number of people investigated in cases of “false accusations” has surged. While most of these cases don’t involve sexual assault, South Korean women’s rights activists say politicians and much of the media have focused on false allegations of rape, fomenting a hostile environment that silences genuine rape survivors.

South Korean President dressed in a blue suit stands at a podium.
South Korean President Yoon Suk-yeol speaks during the 20th Presidential inauguration reception at the National Assembly on May 10, 2022 in Seoul, South Korea. (Photo by Lee Jin-Man – Pool/Getty Images)

Not long ago, a feminist wave was sweeping across the economically advanced but culturally conservative country, launching Asia’s most powerful #MeToo movement and taking down powerful abusers, including a presidential contender. But these women are now facing a major political backlash. A men’s rights movement that rejects the notion of male privilege has rallied around the belief that false accusations of rape and sexual assault are widespread, and it helped fuel Yoon’s rise to the presidency. Though official statistics on the number of sexual assault cases reported in 2022 have not yet been released, The Fuller Project and Foreign Policy spoke to several women’s rights advocates who say they’ve already noticed a “chilling effect” on rape survivors thinking about filing a case.

“When victims call us for help these days, one of the most common questions they ask is, ‘Would I be charged with false accusation if I report my case?’” said Yun Gyeong-jin, an official at the nonprofit Korea Sexual Violence Relief Center (KSVRC). “Now, many victims seem to think not once, but twice, three times before making a decision on whether to report or not. It’s a worrying situation.”

Earlier this year, South Korean prosecutors announced that the number of indictments in “false accusations” was 68.8 percent higher in the second half of 2022 compared to the previous six months, before Yoon began his term. A flurry of sensational headlines greeted the announcement. “Those who falsely claim ‘I’ve been raped’ will become convicts if caught by this prosecutor,” one proclaimed.

Prosecutors say the increase is the result of a course correction after the previous center-left administration restricted their powers. But feminists say the focus on rape is telling.

“Although the prosecutors’ latest crackdown targeted … false accusations of all kinds, only false sexual assault complaints were promoted and recognized as the most typical case of false accusation. It’s because we live in a world where catching false complaints of sexual assault is considered a key accomplishment,” said a joint statement by about 50 women’s rights groups.

At the heart of the controversy is a 1953 law that defines rape on the basis of physical violence, not lack of consent. The switch from coercion-based to consent-based rape law has been adopted in recent decades by several countries, mostly in Europe, reflecting United Nations guidelines that favor the latter. Feminists in South Korea have been trying to reform the law for years, but their efforts have created a sense of panic among some men who believe it would result in a flood of false allegations of rape.

“This is a law aimed at killing men,” wrote one commentator on FMKorea, a prominent right-wing website popular among young men. 

South Korea has become a global economic powerhouse, but it continues to suffer some of the widest gender inequities among wealthy countries. It has the largest gender pay gap—by a significant margin—among OECD countries, and women only account for 15 percent of managerial positions in government and the private sector. The country is considered exceptionally safe, except that nearly 90 percent of violent crimes are committed against women.

The global #MeToo movement inspired many South Korean feminists to hit the streets and voice their grievances like never before, and they successfully campaigned to legalize abortion and pushed through landmark legal changes on the widespread problem of tech-based sexual abuse, most notably spycam porn crimes. But this has also motivated a men’s rights counter-movement to fight back with vigor. When Yoon, a former chief prosecutor and presidential candidate, began to roll out campaign promises that echoed their rallying cries, they lined up behind him.

Hundreds of men and women in South Korea sit on the ground holding #MeToo posters.
In 2018, South Korea vowed to strengthen laws against sexual assault and implement measures to reduce harassment as the #MeToo campaign swept the country and sparked calls for meaningful action to tackle sexual abuse. (Photo by Seung-il Ryu/NurPhoto via Getty Images)

During his campaign, Yoon promised to dismantle the country’s gender equality ministry, which is highly controversial with the men’s rights movement. When the ministry, after years of deliberation and pressure from feminist groups, suggested updating the rape law to base it on consent, the proposal drew such swift, angry condemnations from the ruling party’s lawmakers that they withdrew the idea in just nine hours. Now, the Yoon administration is considering removing reformation of the law from its gender equality ministry’s five-year plan to ensure it won’t be officially discussed during his term in office, which ends in 2027.

“The changes in the political and social climates are clearly having a chilling effect,” one prominent advocate for sexual assault victims told The Fuller Project and Foreign Policy. The advocate goes by the nicknames “Witch” or “D” in order to protect herself from the harassment that frequently targets women who speak out about rape in South Korea. 

Witch knows this harassment from personal experience. A survivor herself, she had to fight off a barrage of criminal accusations brought up by her rapist after she reported him. They included defamation, false accusation, insult, coercion, and even sexual harassment. After her assailant was eventually convicted and jailed, she adopted the insult her attacker’s friends had once hurled at her as a gesture of defiance against the witch hunt that she experienced for reporting the crime.

Since then, Witch has set out to help other victims who endure similar “revenge accusations.” She educates experts from prosecutors to court judges about legal hurdles that push many victims into silence and monitors sexual abuse trials on behalf of victims. 

Other women have turned up in courtrooms to join her in a show of solidarity since the #MeToo campaign kicked off in 2018. These women now fear their hard work will be undone by the growing political clamor to punish “false accusations”—a call that defies statistical realities. Witch said some survivors who had recently sought her help had given up on the idea of reporting the crime.

Approximately 0.78 percent of sexual assault cases in South Korea are pursued by prosecutors for false claims, according to state data. The country already has one of the world’s toughest laws against false accusers, punishable with up to 10 years in prison—compared to up to five years in countries such as the United States and Germany. 

Meanwhile, defamation is considered a criminal offense in South Korea, and speaking the truth can still be a crime. Article 310 of the Criminal Act states that a claim is not defamatory only if it is both true and solely for the public interest, and has come under widespread criticism from the United Nations and Korean activists.

The result, women’s groups say, is an environment where only 1.4 percent of those who experienced sexual violence in South Korea seek help from the authorities, according to a government survey. Those whose rape complaints are dismissed by the authorities can be potentially pursued for false accusation—a risk that now looms larger in the eyes of many victims.

The Fuller Project and Foreign Policy reached out to a spokesperson at the South Korean president’s office by text but did not receive a response.

The Ministry of Gender Equality and Family said in a written statement it is taking a “victim-centered” and “strong punishment” approach to follow the president’s orders to protect victims of gender-based violence and plans to roll out an anti-stalking law this summer.

But these claims have gained little traction with the country’s feminists, who are struggling to figure out how to move forward.

“It feels like the clock of our society is sliding backward,” Witch said. “But women can’t go back to the past now,” she added, echoing several victims and advocates.

“We certainly feel bitter about the reality, but we also see this as an opportunity,” said Kim Dong-eun, another activist at KSVRC. Her group plans to capitalize on the public attention on the consent-based rape law and combat pervasive online misinformation about it, such as allegations from men’s rights activists that it would require people to sign a written consent form to have sex.

She draws some hope from the fact that Yoon’s pledge to dismantle the gender equality ministry has failed to materialize due to opposition from the rival center-left party, which took a strong stand on the issue after months of protest and pressure from women’s rights groups. 

“The odds seem to be stacked against us, but we’ll try our best to ride this out,” Kim said.

The survivor who had attempted suicide finally did manage to see her abuser convicted in court with the help of Witch. 

“I’m not a very educated person, but I know this much,” the 33-year-old woman said. “My life, my truth, and my right to be protected from violence are precious, and they are not some kind of a chip in someone’s political game.”

PORT LOKO, Sierra Leone—Standing in the scorching afternoon heat, Aminata Bilkisu Kanu takes off her sunglasses to wipe away the beads of sweat trickling down her face as she appeals to the crowd of mostly male voters.

“Think ‘women’ when voting in the June 24 elections,” she tells them. “We keep your resources within; the men take them away.”

The 24-year-old single mother is the first woman to run for the national parliament from Mamoi village, part of the Masimera Chiefdom in Port Loko District, located in the conservative north of the country. Patriarchal culture runs deep in Sierra Leone, but it is even stronger in the north and parts of the east, where customs do not allow for women to become a paramount chief, the traditional name for the district leader. 

But this election is the first since the country passed a landmark gender quota law earlier this year. The law clearly states that the workforce in any public or private institution must be at least 30 percent female, and Bilkisu is hoping this will help her shake things up.

“It is very tough for us!” she told The Fuller Project and Foreign Policy.

Ever since they were introduced in modern form in Argentina in 1991, gender quotas for national elections have been criticized by opponents on the grounds that they are non-meritocratic, undemocratic, and nepotistic. But that hasn’t stopped their adoption by the majority of countries in the world, and on June 24, Sierra Leone will become the latest to hold elections with a gender quota in place.

Today, there’s a growing consensus among academics that these quotas “work.” Studies from across the world have shown that, aside from putting more women in positions of power, quotas also typically lead to legislatures with higher qualifications and greater diversity in terms of class, age, and experience, and can shift budget priorities from defense spending to education and health care.

“It depends on what ‘works’ means,” said Alice Kang, a University of Nebraska-Lincoln professor who coauthored a cross-national analysis on the effectiveness of gender quotas. “Does having a quota save a country from descending into authoritarianism? No, it doesn’t.

“[But] we found that quotas are perhaps the most impactful thing in terms of explaining why some countries have much higher levels of women’s representation than others. Back in the day, people thought religion, how wealthy a country was, or electoral systems made the difference. Compared to other factors, we found that [gender] quotas were having a significant and large effect.”

Scholars warn that the effectiveness of gender quotas varies widely from country to country, and their success is heavily influenced by factors such as the existence of strong enforcement mechanisms and the political will to implement them.

“The devil is totally in the details,” said Jennifer Piscopo, coeditor of The Impact of Gender Quotas, a book that dives into case studies from Europe, Latin America, Africa, and Asia.

“Most Latin American countries have a proportional representation system, which means that when voters go to the polls, they’re voting for a party list,” she said. “A lot of the first quota laws said parties [had] to nominate 30 percent women. OK, great; so where do parties put their 30 percent women? They put the women at the bottom 30 percent of the list. If you’re at the bottom of the list, you’re probably not going to get a seat, because the further down the list you are, the less likely it is that the party won enough seats to get to you.”

Bilkisu is at the bottom of her party’s list. She’s candidate number nine out of 10 in her district for the All People’s Congress, Sierra Leone’s largest opposition party. Sierra Leone also has a proportional representation system; for Bilkisu to go to Parliament, her party must win 88 percent of the vote in Port Loko District to gain nine seats, far more than projected.

But Bilkisu remains sanguine. 

“The men are warming up to us,” she said. “The turnout is great in my door-to-door campaign. I see a lot of cooperation from them. So there is a chance for me.”

From exception to entitlement

Even in countries where quota laws are considered weak, researchers are finding that they still play a role in empowering women. 

In Nepal, researcher Punam Yadav found that political quotas “not only accelerate women’s representation in politics, but also strengthen their position in society. [Quotas] establish women’s credibility, pave the way for future generations and shift the social perception of women’s presence in politics from being an exception to being an entitlement.” 

Women who are elected in countries with gender quotas are often criticized as being less qualified than the men they replaced, or for being proxies of powerful men. But recent scholarship has begun to debunk these views. 

A 2017 study from Sweden partially titled “The Crisis of the Mediocre Man” found that “far from being at odds with meritocracy, this quota raised the competence of male politicians.” The study said this was the result of the departure of mediocre male leaders who faced a more competitive landscape due to the increased participation of women.

On the nepotism charge, Piscopo says the perception had a lot to do with cherry picking examples.

“OK, maybe there’s a woman who’s the wife of the party boss,” she said. “Well, how many brothers, or sons, of party bosses end up running for office? 

“At certain points, you run out of wives and daughters. There’s not an infinite supply, and you start tapping into networks that you ordinarily wouldn’t be tapping into.”

Parties reluctant to embrace quotas often claim they’re having trouble finding qualified women, Piscopo said, but she attributed this to a lack of political will to find them. She cited the example of Mexico, where women’s groups put out a full-page ad with the names of 1,000 women who were qualified to run for office after some political leaders said they couldn’t find any.

“Remember when Mitt Romney said he had ‘binders full of women’?” Piscopo said, recalling a famous campaign gaffe by the 2012 U.S. presidential candidate. “I love that quote. We all made fun of Mitt Romney, but actually, if we step back from the inartful phrasing, what he’s saying is civil society organizations made lists of qualified women for his cabinet and turned them over to him.”

Mexico is an example of how creative approaches can strengthen gender quota laws that are initially weak. Early efforts fell far short of reaching the gender quota, partly due to parties placing female candidates in races that were lost causes. In response, the country’s electoral agency categorized each seat as an easy win, an easy loss, or a competitive race for each political party based on previous results and demanded that female candidates be fielded in equal numbers in each of the three categories. The result is that Mexico now has gender parity in parliament.

Piscopo, Kang, and several other academics said it was especially critical that strong penalties exist for parties that fail to meet quota requirements, such as removing them from the ballot. When countries lack this political will, the number of women in office can remain stubbornly low. 

In Brazil, which implemented a 30 percent quota in 1997 but has only 17.7 percent women in its national parliament today, parties have been accused of promoting “ghost candidates”—submitting women as candidates to meet the quota without actually campaigning for them—sometimes without the women even knowing they’re on the ballot.

In Sierra Leone, a recent report by the Institute of Governance Reform, a civil society group based in Freetown, the capital, states the country is unlikely to hit its goal of electing 30 percent women, with parties accused of placing female candidates too low on their candidate lists to win. 

Meanwhile, the next Parliament of 149 members will include 14 paramount chiefs representing the country’s 14 geographical districts. Elections for the chiefs have already been conducted, and only one woman was elected. In nine of the districts, mostly in the north, women are still barred from becoming paramount chief. 

Nemata Majeks-Walker, the founder and head of 50/50, a women’s rights group that advocates for gender parity in Sierra Leone, said the passage of the quota was “mere lip service.” 

“I don’t feel there is the political will anywhere,” she said. “I think it is just a show, a mere show. It’s as if the men in Parliament were scared of the women taking their places.”

Bilkisu holds out hope that her party will make the changes needed to give women like her a fighting chance. 

“I want to encourage my party to amend its constitution in the future so that it will not only give us 30 percent on paper, but [also] ensure safe seats for women by enshrining the positioning of women at the top of the list,” she said. “If not, the 30 percent quota won’t work.”

SAN SALVADOR, El Salvador—Alba Lorena Santos had just returned home from running errands when her headache began. She saw blood running down her legs. She was five months pregnant.

Santos told her daughter to call their neighbor, a relative by marriage, for help. She fainted shortly after. When she woke up, she remembers the neighbor telling her the baby—a boy—had died.

The next day the neighbor returned and said the police were there to ask some questions. Still sick and feverish, Santos said she was put into a police car and asked: “Why did you kill him? Not even dogs do that.”

It was only later in court that Santos said she was able to piece together what took place over those two December days in 2009.

“The neighbor reported me,” Santos said. “She accused me of killing him.”

Abigail Cortez, a lawyer with the Citizens Association for the Decriminalization of Abortion in El Salvador, said Santos actually had an obstetric emergency, not an abortion, and should have received medical help. Instead, Santos was convicted for aggravated homicide and sentenced to 30 years. The neighbor’s testimony was a key part of the prosecution’s narrative that the baby had been killed, rather than dying as the result of a medical emergency.

Twenty-five years ago this April, El Salvador passed a total ban on abortions—no exceptions for rape, incest, or the health or life of the mother—transforming society in this Central American nation. Now, the ban might finally be overturned. 

The Inter-American Court of Human Rights has begun hearing Beatriz v. El Salvador, investigating the case of a woman who was seriously ill from lupus, arthritis, and renal failure but denied an abortion even though the fetus would not survive outside the uterus. The woman died not long after. With this case, the court will rule for the first time on whether the absolute prohibition of abortion violates a woman’s right to life and health. 

The court’s verdict could have a far-reaching impact across the Latin American nations that have accepted the jurisdiction of the court by ratifying the American Convention on Human Rights, and set an important precedent for a region that’s one of the most restrictive in the world for abortion. In particular, it could spell the end of total abortion bans in five countries that recognize the court’s jurisdiction: Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic, Haiti, Honduras, and El Salvador. 

With over 50 women incarcerated since the ban was passed, El Salvador is one of the most widely documented examples of a country imprisoning women for abortion. The Fuller Project and Foreign Policy have reviewed court documents or pardon requests related to 25 cases from 1999 to 2018 of pregnant women accused of aggravated homicide, attempted aggravated homicide, and abortion. They reveal how the country’s abortion ban made neighbors, doctors, police, and judges—the very people meant to help these women—turn against them instead.

“The system doesn’t seek the truth. It seeks to blame these women,” Cortez said.

But translating a favorable ruling into political change could still prove difficult. The court’s ruling is technically legally binding, but a lack of enforcement mechanism means countries don’t always follow through on implementing their directives. The ban continues to be popular, particularly as anti-abortion evangelical churches with strong connections to the United States have gained influence here, and advocates in El Salvador warn the United States could be heading down its path.

“El Salvador shows us the cruelty of the total criminalization of abortion,” said Cristina Rosero, senior legal advisor for Latin America and the Caribbean for the Center for Reproductive Rights. “Those who face greater barriers to reach the health system are precisely the most persecuted for the crime.”

Santos lived five hours away from the nearest hospital when she lost her child.

“My pregnancy was the result of rape,” Santos said. “Despite this, I’ve always said, if I wanted to abort, I would have done it in the first weeks.”

It would be years before she would see her two daughters again.

“My family abandoned me,” Santos said. “My brothers told me that I was a perra [dog]. One told me that I was a murderer.”

Eventually, Santos came to know other women in prison who were in the same situation as her. She and 16 others formed a group known as “Las 17,” and their lawyers were successful in mobilizing an international campaign for their release. In 2019, after a decade in prison, Santos was finally released, her sentence commuted after the Salvadoran Supreme Court found her rights were violated during her trial.

A woman and a man stand while holding signs that say libertad para las y mas
Members of civil organizations show signs as they wait the release of Maria del Transito Orellana, Cinthia Marcela Rodriguez and Alba Lorena Rodriguez who were sentenced to jail under charges of abortion at Ilopango Women’s Prison on March 7, 2019 in San Salvador, El Salvador. (Photo by Alex Peña/Getty Images)

“They put us between a rock and a hard place,” said Juan José Guzmán, president of the Salvadoran Association of Gynecologists and Obstetricians. “The doctor almost turns into a judge.”

Guzmán has seen it all: hammocks slung on a pole to form a makeshift stretcher for women in labor in rural areas, a woman giving birth in the bed of a pickup truck, others arriving with babies in their arms because the hospital was so far away that they already gave birth. 

He recalled that, around the mid-2000s, doctors in the public hospitals in El Salvador were told they had to report any suspected abortions to authorities. If they failed to do so, they could risk prosecution themselves. 

Instead of worrying about patients’ care, doctors became worried about the legal repercussions of their actions, he said. Obstetric emergencies posed multiple quandaries: Should I notify the public prosecutor’s office? Should I call the police? Should I examine the patient, or would that contaminate the crime scene? Should I wait for forensic medicine, even though it could take hours? In emergencies, there’s no time to delay. Every second counts. 

“These situations are so difficult,” Guzmán said. 

In 2019, Cortez and her colleagues successfully sued the Salvadoran state at the Inter-American Court of Human Rights on behalf of Manuela, a woman who they said had arrived at the hospital with postpartum preeclampsia, was refused an abortion, and died soon after from lymphatic cancer while in prison. 

The court found that the state had violated Manuela’s rights to life and health and ruled that health care staff should no longer report patients to authorities for suspected abortions. This November, the Salvadoran government finally complied with the ruling and issued a new pre- and postnatal protocol saying doctors should not report patients to authorities and would not be punished for failing to report. 

A portrait of a woman's (Manuela) face sits in front of a group of people sitting down.
Women representatives of the feminist collective watch on a screen the hearing of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights (ICHR), over the case of Manuela. (Photo by MARVIN RECINOS/AFP via Getty Images)

Forensic pathologists, whose autopsies on fetuses play a central role in the cases against these women, also became controversial figures in the medical community. 

Jose Miguel Fortín Magaña, the director of El Salvador’s Forensic Medicine Institute from 2010 to 2015, became a highly polarizing figure in the country when he said in 2014 that “the 17” were in prison for infanticide, not abortion, as documented by his institution’s autopsies. In other words, he was claiming their babies were killed after being born alive.

Fortín Magaña said that he recognized deep-seated machismo existed in Salvadoran society, but said he did not believe it could influence autopsies.

“Autopsies don’t have a political affiliation,” he said recently in his office in San Salvador. “They simply spoke of what had been the cause of death of these children.”

“Doctors give hard facts. You can like it or not, but it’s just a hard fact.”

But lawyers for the women have cast doubt on a key scientific test used in these autopsies. The floating lung test, called the docimasia, had been used to prove in court that babies had air in their lungs and were therefore alive outside their mother’s womb at some point before they died. 

In the test’s simplest form, the lungs are placed in water: If they float, they are believed to have been filled with air, meaning the baby had taken in breaths of outside air. In El Salvador, this test is often used to elevate the women’s crime to homicide rather than abortion. 

Gregory J. Davis, a professor of pathology and laboratory medicine at the University of Kentucky, called the test “invalid in unattended births” and said that the test has been considered unreliable for more than 100 years in an analysis provided to defense lawyers in 2014.

Some form of this test was used on at least 10 of the cases reviewed by the Fuller Project and Foreign Policy. Fortín Magaña defended its use. It has evolved, he said, adding more scientific forms of the examination, such as analysis of lung tissue. 

“From a medical perspective, there was evidence of the birth of these children,” Fortín Magaña said.

The role played by doctors in these situations is fraught in other ways as well. Hospitals have direct contact with public prosecutors’ offices to report potential cases of gender violence. However, this often leads to investigations into possible abortions, according to Guzmán and two police sources.


It’s common for police to arrive quickly to question women suspected of abortion. 

“The longer you wait, the more the truth is lost,” said police investigator Miguel, who requested his name be withheld as he was not authorized to give an interview. 

Under the Salvadoran Constitution, life is defined as starting at conception. This means any abortion case should be investigated as a potential homicide. Miguel arrives on the scene keeping this in mind.

“Your [the woman’s] objective was to abort and that everything went well and you didn’t have to go to the hospital,” he said, explaining how he approaches these cases. “But since the abortion was incomplete, you have a part [of the baby] in your body that can cause your death. So you arrive at the hospital and you [start to] prepare your story.” 

“As an investigator, I have to go while you are developing your story and you see that it has holes, so if I take too long, you fill the holes.”

Omar Flores, a lawyer who has worked on these cases, said the ban has created an “attitude of trying to obtain convictions.” For a case to qualify as a homicide, there must be a motive. In suspected abortion cases, Miguel said this could be a failed relationship, rape, or even the mother’s young age or her lack of resources to take care of the baby. 

Cortez and her colleagues at the Citizens Association said the police consistently breach protocols in place that are meant to ensure they act with sensitivity toward the women. The Fuller Project and Foreign Policy documented seven abortion-related cases that show the police failing to follow these rules, including one case where an 18-year-old was arrested in the emergency room while being treated for tearing during childbirth. The officer told the court the arrest was justified: “She was conscious,” the officer explained.

Miguel has attended workshops on gender violence and said it has changed how he approaches investigations, especially when dealing with victims who have experienced traumatic events.

A woman wearing teal pants and a gray t-shirt is escorted in handcuffs by four police officers.
Theodora de Carmen Vasquez (2nd-R) is escorted at the end of the hearing held to review her 2008 sentence – handed down under a draconian anti-abortion law after she suffered a miscarriage – in San Salvador on December 13, 2017. (OSCAR RIVERA/AFP via Getty Images)

Despite these workshops, several lawyers told the Fuller Project and Foreign Policy that machismo still prevails and can be seen in phrases and expressions used in court.

For instance, in one trial the judge defined perinatal asphyxia as “the aggression produced against the newborn baby near the moment of birth because of lack of oxygen,” a definition that assumes culpability and does not have a scientific basis. 

Meanwhile, El Salvador has a strikingly low conviction rate for rape and sexual violence. 

“I was the victim, and I was considered guilty,” Santos said. “My rapist, who was responsible for everything that was happening to me? He was all fine, outside with his kids and his family.”

The overall landscape remains precarious. Salvadoran President Nayib Bukele once supported loosening abortion restrictions as the mayor of San Salvador for the left-wing FMLN party but has since backtracked after aligning with right-wing politicians to secure the presidency. Women’s rights advocates say the government already dragged its feet in implementing the Inter-American Court’s Manuela ruling on doctors no longer referring women to police for suspected abortions.

Meanwhile, women are still being tried for abortion in El Salvador—eight have ongoing trials. Santos looks forward to the day when women will no longer face this kind of prosecutorial environment.

“I hope more women don’t experience the same situation. When you go through these moments, you feel cornered on all sides,” she said.

LIMA, Peru—When Dina Boluarte was abruptly sworn in on Dec. 7, 2022, the fact that she was the first female president in Peru’s 201-year history was widely noted, yet barely explored by Peruvian media. Journalists had other things on their minds: Boluarte’s inauguration took place just hours after her predecessor Pedro Castillo was impeached for attempting to dissolve Congress and rule by decree, bringing down the curtain on a 17-month administration that had tipped the Andean republic into unremitting political instability and chaos. 

Boluarte’s professional credentials as a lawyer felt like a qualitative leap forward for the presidency—regardless of the fact that she, like her predecessor, had never held public office before becoming vice president for the self-declared Marxist-Leninist Free Peru party in the June 2021 elections.

The youngest of 14 children from a working-class family in the remote Andean market town of Chalhuanca, nearly 10,000 feet above sea level, Boluarte said in her maiden presidential speech that her priority would be to fight for “the nobodies, the excluded, the others, to have the opportunity and access that has historically been denied to them.”

A woman wearing a sash with Peru's flag on it stands in a courtroom with a yellow suit and has her arms raised in the air
Vice President Dina Boluarte sworn in as Peru’s new leader after Congress removes President Pedro Castillo. (Photo by Congress of Republic of Peru / Handout/Anadolu Agency via Getty Images)

“More than a politician, I am a Peruvian citizen and mother who fully understands the high responsibility that history has put on my shoulders,” she declared. “Responding to that high responsibility is [a show of] my respect for the millions of Peruvian mothers who day after day provide sustenance for their families.” 

Now, three months since Boluarte’s swearing in, her presidency has descended into a dark mess of severe human rights violations, its legitimacy decimated by allegations of principle-free political opportunism, brutal authoritarianism, and racism. It looks increasingly inevitable that Peru’s first ever female president will face a similar fate to Castillo, the country’s first ever campesino president (in Peru, the term means someone of indigenous ancestry who works the land), with a post-presidency dogged by legal problems and a potentially lengthy jail sentence.

At the time of writing, 48 Peruvians had been killed by security forces, some while protesting violently; some while demonstrating peacefully; and some who were just bystanders, including a medical intern treating an injured protester. Another dozen people died after protestors’ road blockades prevented them from receiving emergency medical treatment, and one police officer was found dead in a burnt-out patrol car. 

In a searing report released in February, Amnesty International warned that Boluarte had presided over an out-of-control police and armed forces that, motivated by “systemic racism ingrained in Peruvian society,” had repeatedly violated international human rights standards by using “lethal ammunition to control demonstrations.” Many Peruvians view Boluarte as having blood on her hands. Three-quarters want her to resign.

“We are not celebrating her presidency,” Indigenous feminist activist Tarcila Rivera Zea said. “For us, it has meant pain and sadness, with so many deaths. More than anything else, it is a feeling of frustration and disappointment.

A man wearing an orange backpack and white hard hat with yellow gloves raises his harms in front of a group of police with shields.
Protesters clash with the police during a demonstration against the government of Peruvian President Dina Boluarte in Lima on February 4, 2023. (Photo by ERNESTO BENAVIDES/AFP via Getty Images)

Boluarte, 60, who is bilingual in Spanish and the indigenous Quechua language, started her presidency relatively well. Indeed, in her inaugural address, she distanced herself from Castillo, referencing her “revulsion” at his flagrant alleged graft and condemning his “attempted coup.” Having been expelled from the Free Peru party nearly a year earlier after openly disagreeing with the party’s more extreme politics—and after managing to stay clear of her predecessor’s endless corruption scandals—she had some credibility in the matter. 

But her legacy, to the extent she has one, will remain inseparable from that of her predecessor. This is not only a matter of the authoritarian excesses of her leadership over security forces, but also her emphasis on social conservatism, which has been one of the few areas of common ground between Free Peru’s presidential administrations and the hard-right congressional majority. Free Peru’s campaign manifesto has even been accused of advocating “machismo Leninism” for accusing the state of “subcontracting” its obligation to provide for the children of separated parents to absent fathers by requiring them to pay child support.

“It’s also a lesson learned,” Rivera Zea added. “What her presidency shows is that it is not enough to be a woman or speak Quechua if you don’t have that sensibility or identification with the historically excluded. She could have been a president who showed strength, wisdom, justice, and respect for human rights. Instead, she has aligned herself with the worst in Peruvian politics.”

Far from being carried on the back of a feminist wave, Boluarte’s rise to power came at a particularly challenging time for gender rights in Peru, even as some other Latin American nations have been relaxing restrictions on abortion and increasingly tackling gender violence. Peru was already one of the most socially conservative societies in Latin America, with what are thought to be some of the highest rates of sexual violence in the region, and where abortion is only allowed in cases where the mother’s health is at risk.

It is unclear whether Boluarte has ever identified with the feminist movement, although she has shown an appreciation of gender issues. “[Boluarte’s] not a feminist in the sense of a feminist activist,” Alexandra Ames, a political scientist at Lima’s University of the Pacific, said. “But she’s definitely a woman who feels that she has got ahead by working hard, harder than men would normally have to, and seems to have that awareness.”

While she was vice president, Boluarte also served as minister for development and social inclusion, a role that would normally have a strong gender component. During that time, gender rights came under a sustained assault from lawmakers, one that might have been met with effective resistance from a different executive.

Members of Congress sought to further restrict already highly limited abortion rights with a blanket ban, and change the name of the Ministry of Women to the Ministry for the Family—a switch that in Peru’s machista society could have potentially life-and-death policy consequences for, for example, women facing abusive partners. 

But the most damaging counter reform has been a new law allowing parents to block classes with a gender focus—or, as Peruvian conservatives call it, gender ideology. 

First introduced to the national curriculum in 2004, gender focus concepts, which include sex education, were aimed at raising awareness among boys and girls of the harms caused by Peru’s patriarchal culture—everything from wage disparities to femicide. Conservatives, often fundamentalist evangelical Christians, caricature gender focus as “cultural Marxism” that encourages premature sexual activity and pressures children into homosexuality and transgenderism.

“Getting rid of gender focus will do enormous damage,” warned Gloria Montenegro, former minister of women. “You’re getting rid of sex education, of a girl’s right to understand herself, to make informed choices, or have good self-esteem. What is so lamentable is that in Peru, we already have so many cases of physical and sexual abuse, of women being raped, often in their own homes, and this is going to make all of that worse.” 

Throughout the debate over the curriculum, Boluarte was notable for her silence. She did, at different points during her work as a minister, show protocolary support for gendered development policies, including to empower indigenous women. But she failed to provide any substantive leadership, much less confront the attack on gender focus.

Boluarte did restore gender parity in her government after Castillo’s notorious cabinet appointments, which were not just overwhelmingly male but frequently involved ministers with a track record of misogynistic statements and even domestic abuse—including, briefly, one prime minister

Ironically, however, that parity was just a return to the status quo ante in a country which, despite its entrenched patriarchy, had previously had some half dozen female prime ministers. Indeed, at one point, just before Castillo’s surprise election victory, almost all the major roles of state barring the presidency had been occupied by women, including the prime minister, foreign minister, defense minister, speaker of Congress, chief prosecutor, head of the judiciary, and chair of the constitutional court.

Boluarte’s term is scheduled to end in 2026, although the deadly repression of anti-government protests means she faces huge and potentially irresistible pressure to resign. Either way, her story as Peru’s first female president seems unlikely to end happily.

Montenegro said Boluarte’s mistake was not realizing she didn’t need to cross the political aisle to build a base of power. “She abandoned the Free Peru program, which, as a party of the left, had a strong social agenda, especially for rural Peru,” she said. “She’s an Andean woman; she should have understood. Where’s the political skill, the ability to broker political compromise and then sell that to the population?”

Protesters are now demanding a constituent assembly to draft a new constitution capable of addressing stark economic injustices. However, a new constitution could also entrench gender inequality. Although there have been no polls on the issue of gender rights in a new constitution, surveys show that most voters want a conservative Magna Carta when it comes to social issues, including prohibiting same-sex marriage and reinstating both compulsory military service and the death penalty.

As for Boluarte personally, the moment she loses her presidential immunity she faces criminal exposure as a head of government who presided over heavily armed police and soldiers gunning down anti-government protesters.

“She’s going to have very serious problems with the justice system,” Montenegro said. “She doesn’t seem to understand that there is no statute of limitations for human rights violations.”

On Aug. 16, 2021, the day after Kabul fell to the Taliban and the United States began its hasty withdrawal, journalist Zahra Joya woke up in despair.

Joya, then 28, was a woman to be reckoned with. Eight months earlier, using money from her government salary, she founded Rukhshana Media, a newsroom committed to listening to women and telling their stories. By 2021, it had already produced articles that won international acclaim. Now, the Taliban threatened to dismantle all she had built.

Today, 18 months later, her newsroom is a fraction of what it once was, and most of her staff toil in secret. But they persist, often anonymously—shining a sliver of light into the increasingly dark world of the women of Afghanistan.

The United States and other Western governments should take note. The women of Afghanistan, after 20 years of relative freedom, will not be content to slink into the shadows. Their continued protest and fight are an essential lever of power for the United States and all other countries that share a stake in promoting recovery and ultimately peace and security in Afghanistan.

How a nation state empowers or disempowers women is a key predictor of how it will behave among the community of nations. More than two decades of research have affirmed that women are essential to security, and their well-being and empowerment play a determinant role in the prevention of war and assurance of peace. We also know that women have a central role in advancing democratic freedom.

Simply put, it is in the strategic interest of the United States to create and maintain a foreign policy that prioritizes women. To do so, it will first have to understand what it got so terribly wrong in Afghanistan.


Whatever gains women made in Afghanistan during the past two decades have mostly slipped away over the last 18 months. In 2021, women held 27 percent of the seats in Afghanistan’s National Assembly, worked in government positions, and attended university. Afghanistan and the international community financed the training and deployment of thousands of midwives, reducing the maternal death rate from 1,600 women per 100,000 births in 2002 to 638 women per 100,000 births in 2017.

Now, a steady drumbeat of onerous restrictions ensure that women are kept in their homes, unable to access jobs, health care, and education. This year, the Taliban ordered all female health care workers to wear a full hijab, including face coverings. In late December 2022, Taliban leaders issued a decree that bars Afghan women from working for nongovernmental organizations. The lost income from barring women from the workforce could cost Afghanistan as much as 5 percent of its GDP or about $1 billion, according to the United Nations—plunging the country deeper into poverty, exacerbating food insecurity, and threatening stability.

The United States and its allies in the war on terrorism invested billions of dollars to bolster the status of women in Afghanistan, pushing programs to elevate basic health care, include women in governance, and advance educational opportunities. Many of them fell short.

For example, the Afghan Ministry of Interior Affairs—with support from the internationally funded, U.N.-administered Law and Order Trust Fund for Afghanistan—set a goal of hiring 5,000 female police officers by June 2014, yet it failed to plan for and build restroom and locker room facilities to accommodate them. Afghanistan never reached its goal. That, in turn, created a counterinsurgency security gap. In a gender-segregated society, female police officers are essential for conducting searches of women at checkpoints. Now, some suicide bombers disguise themselves as women to evade searches.

We already know in many cases that the programs created to advance women’s inclusion lacked a key component: the voices of Afghan women on the ground, the only people who truly understand how to navigate the strictures of Afghanistan’s male-controlled society. The United States’ 2017 Women, Peace, and Security Act affirms that women’s rights should be at the center of peace and security planning. Yet in the reality of the war-fighting bureaucracy, women are often an afterthought. Indeed, the U.S. National Security Strategy and National Defense Strategy, two essential documents that guide the country’s peace and security posture, included few references to gender issues except with regard to gender-based violence.

Engaging in a war and subsequent stability operation without this key intelligence has real consequences. The United States “often struggled to understand or mitigate the cultural and social barriers to supporting women and girls,” which led U.S. agencies to set unrealistic goals, wrote John Sopko, special inspector general for Afghanistan reconstruction, in his August 2021 report, “Lessons From Twenty Years of Afghanistan Reconstruction.” As Melanne Verveer, executive director of the Georgetown Institute for Women, Peace and Security, pointed out at a recent Atlantic Council panel I moderated, had the United States done more to empower women and done it better, Afghanistan might look different today. “When the dust settles and we finally go back and analyze all the things that went wrong [in Afghanistan], one of them will certainly be that we did not fully ensure the meaningful participation of women in Afghanistan,” Verveer said.

These shortcomings deserve close examination, both for reasons of accountability and the potential to learn from these mistakes. From its start, the George W. Bush administration used women’s rights and empowerment as a justification for its war in Afghanistan. “The fight against terrorism is also a fight for the rights and dignity of women,” then-first lady Laura Bush said during the administration’s weekly radio address, delivered on Nov. 17, 2001—a little more than a month after U.S. ground troops began their assault. She focused on the suffering of women and children under the brutal rule of the Taliban. In the Obama administration, then-U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton told the Taliban that women’s rights were nonnegotiable, and she led efforts to advance understanding of the connection between gender and security within government.

Yet 20 years of war and more than $2 trillion later, the Taliban are back in power, and women are once again veiled, shut in their homes, and excluded from civic life. Given the grandeur of past gender goals and scope of the United States’ failure, U.S. taxpayers deserve a reckoning. The U.S. response to the fall of Kabul raises stark questions about whether women’s rights are valued, especially in the midst of a crisis. As the Taliban took over Kabul, officials scrambled—caught off guard—and turned to civil society to help evacuate and get visas for women leaders, who faced imminent danger.


If the United States wants to maintain peace, stabilize rogue nations, and ensure that its next military endeavor succeeds, it must examine how its policies and practices to support and empower women went so dreadfully wrong in Afghanistan. We need to know what went well so we can replicate it—and what failed so we can fix it.

The bipartisan Afghanistan War Commission is tasked by Congress with conducting a review of U.S. military, intelligence, foreign assistance, and diplomatic involvement in Afghanistan. The 16 commissioners include only two women, a composition that hardly lives up to the United States’ own Women, Peace, and Security Act, which affirms the importance of women having a full seat at the policymaking table. If this commission is tasked with examining 20 years of involvement in Afghanistan and gleaning the lessons learned with regard to women’s rights, then it is seemingly off to a poor start.

Afghanistan—the failures endured and the inroads achieved—provides some of the most important potential policymaking lessons in recent history related to applying a gender lens to foreign policy, lessons that stand to be lost if not given their full due by this commission. Gender issues are such a pervasive contributor to the United States’ failures in the country that one could argue they deserve to stand at the center of this effort, if not as a stand-alone commission.

We don’t know—and may never know—whether a different approach to women’s rights and empowerment in Afghanistan would have changed the outcome, but we need to ask the questions. The findings should inform U.S. security strategy going forward.

Until we have better answers, we must do what we can to keep what little the United States built for the women in Afghanistan from crumbling further and to support Afghan women leaders, both inside and outside the country, who have established inroads to support others—even if the effort takes decades. The Taliban are erasing women from public life in Afghanistan, wrote Richard Bennett, U.N. special rapporteur on Afghanistan, in a recent report. Women said they feel targeted and unsafe, but “they continue to resist violations of their human rights,” he wrote. “We know that what has happened to us is not right. Some of us could have left the country, but we did not. We decided to stay and fight for women’s place in Afghan society,” the women told Bennett.

Afghan women don’t have the option to walk away from the consequences of the failed promises that now govern their daily lives. The U.S. government shouldn’t either. The United States cannot hide in the shadow of its failures and hope to dodge its responsibilities. The situation is dire, and the world is watching.

The arc of history is long. If the United States give up on supporting women in a forceful way, then it will pay for it down the line. Not investing in the well-being of women is a factor in military failure. If the United States and its allies want any chance at maintaining stability and security in the region, then they must support women leaders at every level, both in and outside of Afghanistan, to promote immediate and long-term work as well as spur other countries to do the same. Most importantly, they must listen to the women of Afghanistan. That’s why we at the Fuller Project continue to support Afghanistan’s female journalists by publishing their stories and amplifying their voices—women like Joya.

Joya’s life in Afghanistan mirrors the triumphs and struggles of the women and girls of Afghanistan. She began her life under Taliban rule, dressing as a boy to attend her elementary school. In 2001, after the United States chased the Taliban from the country, Joya shed her disguise, finished her education, and embarked on her journalism career. She was often the only woman in the newsroom. The absence of women’s voices motivated her to create Rukhshana Media, named for a young woman stoned to death by the Taliban.

Joya belongs to a generation of women who experienced an Afghan society free of the Taliban. She is accustomed to freedom, and she feels its absence acutely. She feels, she said, like she has traveled back in time.

These days, Joya works in exile after Taliban threats against female journalists forced her to flee Kabul. She edits stories from her remaining colleagues in Afghanistan. When the Taliban took power in August 2021, 2,490 women worked as journalists. By December 2021, that number had dwindled to 410, according to Reporters Without Borders.

“It’s very painful and sad,” Joya told actress Angelina Jolie in an interview for Time magazine’s Women of the Year. “Honestly, we don’t do simple journalism these days; we are trying to write for our freedom.”

She is ready to do her part to pull Afghanistan back. She wants to hire more journalists, tell more stories, and maintain the freedom of expression she sees as her birthright.

That is democracy building worthy of investment.

PATTAYA, Thailand—The neon-lit red light district screams of sex.

In an apartment near Pattaya’s infamous Walking Street, Auchanaporn Pilasata studies her reflection in the mirror, applies another layer of plum-shade lipstick, and touches up her black eyeliner. In the corner of her mirror are two photographs: one from when she looked like a scrawny 15-year-old boy, and another, post-transition, as the stunning woman she is today.

The 37-year-old, who goes by Anna, has been a transgender sex worker for 17 years. While transitioning, she left a low-paying job in a cosmetics packaging factory on the outskirts of Bangkok to become a cabaret dancer in nearby Pattaya, a beach town with a reputation for wild nightlife. She took a temporary job at a “special” massage parlor to earn some cash. Her very first client propositioned her for sex.

“He said, ‘I give you 3,000 baht [$85]. One hour,’” Anna recalled. “[When] I worked in factory, [I made] 6,000 baht in one month. This is the beginning [of] my story [as a] sex worker.”

Thai sex workers wait for customers in the street of Soi Nana on Sukhumvit road, a notorious hang out for foreigners looking for sex workers. (Photo by Olivier CHOUCHANA/Gamma-Rapho via Getty Images)

Thailand has long been one of the world’s major sex tourism destinations. Estimates of sex work’s contribution to GDP vary widely because the industry operates almost entirely underground. But in 2015, the black market research company Havocscope valued it at $6.4 billion per year—about 1.5 percent of the country’s GDP that year.

Despite earning billions annually, the industry is effectively illegal, controversial among Thais, and highly stigmatized. Now, the debate over sex work is spilling into public forums, with a progressive lawmaker introducing a bill in parliament to legalize it. Its proponents argue that criminalization has deprived sex workers of basic labor rights and protections enjoyed by other workers, making them more vulnerable to health risks, harassment, exploitation, and violence—while making sex work itself no less visible.

Visiting Thailand and not noticing any sex workers? It’s like going to “KFC and you never see fried chicken,” Anna said.

The majority of sex workers in the world are women, and a 2017 projection by the Thai Department of Disease Control conservatively estimated that 129,000 of 144,000 sex workers in the country were female. But it’s men who make the decisions about what they can do with their bodies.

Women held 16 percent of Thailand’s parliamentary seats in 2021, the same figure as 10 years ago. By comparison, women made up 20 percent of Saudi Arabia’s governing assembly and 28 percent of the U.S. Congress that year.

The fight for legalization is an uphill battle. Conservative factions within the country and global anti-trafficking organizations remain strongly opposed to sex work. The U.S. Agency for International Development calls Thailand a “source, transit, and destination country” for trafficking, and opponents of the bill say the sex industry enables widespread abuse of women and children across the country and in neighboring Cambodia, Laos, and Myanmar.

Surviving day by day

Historical reports of sex work existing in Thailand date back to the 1300s. The modern sex industry in Thailand boomed while serving a wave of Chinese immigrants in the early 1900s, Japanese soldiers during World War II, and U.S. soldiers during the Vietnam War. But many Thais grew resentful of its visibility and notoriety. The country adopted the Suppression of Prostitution Act in 1960, followed by the 1996 Prevention and Suppression of Prostitution Act, which outlawed almost all of the activities associated with sex work and income earned from it.

The push against prostitution was further bolstered in the 2000s, when the U.S. government, the religious right, and abolitionist feminists came together in an unlikely alliance. Their goal was to eliminate prostitution. The U.S. movement gained traction globally as those forces traveled to campaign against sex work in countries abroad, including Thailand.

Within Thailand, officials often downplay the prevalence of prostitution in order to present a more positive view of the country to the outside world and appease constituents opposed to sex work. After a Jan. 14 inspection, police said they were “satisfied” after finding no “illegal prostitutes” working in Pattaya, much to the amusement of social media commentators.

“Why don’t they ask all the girl [sic] standing all around if they have seen some sexworkers,” one Facebook user posted.

In practice, the revenues from sex work sustain a robust illicit economy and can be an important lifeline for women whose backgrounds range from educated college graduates to poor rural farmers. Many believe that some form of legal recognition, either decriminalization or legalization, would help to reduce violence against sex workers and give them rights and benefits that would help them, particularly during difficult financial times.

In 2020, when the COVID-19 pandemic brought the world to a standstill and global tourism dried up, around 91 percent of Thai sex workers lost their jobs due to lockdowns, border closures, and social-distancing measures, according to the World Health Organization. As illegal workers, they did not qualify for government relief benefits during the pandemic.

“A lot of [sex workers] could not pay the rent and they had to sleep on the street,” said Supachai Sukthongsa, the Pattaya manager of Service Workers in Group (SWING), a services and support group. “They worked and cleaned up at the bar in exchange for small money and food, just enough to survive day by day.”

The pandemic also reduced access to health care services. Whether they get their business through dating apps, pimps, or on the street, sex workers face numerous risks to their health and safety. The Sex Workers Project, an advocacy organization based in New York, found that sex workers globally face a 45 percent to 75 percent chance of experiencing violence on the job. Transgender women such as Anna face an added layer of danger from clients who turn violent after discovering their identities.

“When I go to the police station,” Anna said, they don’t “help me because [of] my job, because I work illegal work here in Thailand.”

Two women sit in the back of a police truck.
Two Thai women are transported in a pickup truck after being arrested by the police for selling sex on the streets in Pattaya city. (Photo by Jonas Gratzer/LightRocket via Getty Images)

Sex workers frequently accuse Thai police of extorting or ignoring them. Researchers such as Ronald Weitzer, a sociologist and professor with expertise in sex work in Thailand, also accuse police of being heavily involved in sex tourism and profiting off of the industry.

“The authorities, especially the police, have a vested interest in keeping prostitution illegal,” Weitzer said. “They get payoffs.”

Gen. Surachate Hakparn, deputy commissioner-general of the Royal Thai Police, said he believes legalizing sex work could cut down on such activities.

“I admit that there is corruption going on, but it’s only a fraction of police officers doing that,” he said. “From a law enforcement perspective, if it is legalized, it’s good for the police. We don’t need to keep disciplining our subordinates about corruption. And we can put the resources and time into something else.”

Push for legalization gathers momentum

Globally, the legal status of sex work is divided into three broad categories: criminalization, legalization, and decriminalization.

The legalization model regulates the registration, health care, and welfare of sex workers. In contrast, the decriminalization model simply removes penalties for pursuing the activity.

There are also hybrid models, such as the Nordic model in countries such as Sweden and Norway, which blend elements of legalization and decriminalization.

It’s the criminalization model that’s employed by about half the world, including most of the United States. It involves the criminalization of every party: the seller, the buyer, and third parties such as pimps or traffickers.

According to the 2018 Global Slavery Index, published by an Australian human rights organization, Thailand is home to about 610,000 human trafficking victims. Although the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime says most of these victims are trafficked for manual labor, some women and girls are forced into sex work.

While the U.S. government says the Thai government is doing an increasingly good job fighting against trafficking, hard-line anti-traffickers remain vehemently against legalization.

“It’s consumption with nothing in return,” said Sanphasit Koompraphant, the chairperson of Thailand’s Anti-Trafficking Alliance. “It’s sexual exploitation.”

But the criminalization model most anti-traffickers support has come increasingly under attack from sex work activists.

A growing body of research shows that criminalization forces sex workers to operate under more dangerous conditions, increasing risks of sexually transmitted infections, physical abuse, and exploitation—including by police. Aside from stigmatizing the work, bans also mean that many sex workers will end up with a criminal record if caught soliciting, making it harder for them to get other jobs and pushing them deeper into the sex industry.

Weitzer argues that criminalizing sex work has not succeeded in stopping its proliferation and has strong parallels to the U.S. war on drugs.

“The evidence is clear that it’s a complete failure,” he said.

In June 2022, Tunyawaj Kamolwongwat, a progressive parliamentarian with the upstart Move Forward Party, drafted a bill that would establish designated zones for legal sex work. To ensure compliance with its proposed regulations, he said the bill calls for random checks to be carried out to verify licenses, the age of the sex workers, and whether illegal drugs are present.

He said the bill also outlines how the industry will be taxed and specifies locations where it can’t be practiced or advertised, such as near temples and schools.

“It has to [be] away from the children,” Tunyawaj said.

But some sex workers also oppose legalization. Juno Mac, a prominent sex worker and activist, said legalization can create a “two-tiered system” in which wealthier establishments can afford to comply with regulations, while marginalized sex workers operating independently cannot.

Rather than the special regulation and taxation that comes with legalization, Mac prefers decriminalization, which treats sex work like any other work.

Sex worker rights activist seen wearing a cosplay of Gangubai Kathiawadi movie during a pride parade demonstration. (Photo by Varuth Pongsapipatt/SOPA Images/LightRocket via Getty Images)

Weitzer noted that decriminalization also has limitations, with the lack of regulations allowing existing bad actors—rampant throughout the industry—to continue exploiting workers.

But its supporters say the decriminalization model is more likely to help sex workers better integrate into mainstream society.

“If [we have] legalization, that means that we have the specific law to say this kind of job [is] legal. But we don’t want to have a specific law,” said Surang Janyam, the founder and director of SWING. “If we have specific laws for sex workers, we should have specific laws with every occupation. Decriminalize will [make us] equal as other people.”

Whether through legalization or decriminalization, Weitzer said the odds are stacked against changing the legal status of sex work.

“The majority of legislators are opposed to it, and every time it’s been proposed in the past, I don’t think it’s even gotten out of committee,” Weitzer said.

The last major push was in 2003, when proposed legislation was debated but failed to pass.

Tunyawaj’s June 2022 bill was not reviewed by the board of the parliamentary committee for youth, women, and other vulnerable groups until November 2022. At that point, the committee recommended transferring it to Thailand’s Ministry of Social Development and Human Security. The draft bill will be reviewed again in the next term of the government, and Tunyawaj hopes that having the backing of the Ministry will improve its chances. The fate of the bill now rests in the hands the new government, which will be elected in May.

If reelected, Tunyawaj promises to “keep pushing this bill.”

His coalition is growing. Surachate said the main thing missing is political will.

“The government can solve this matter, if they take it seriously,” he said.

Neha Wadekar is a Nairobi-based journalist.

Navaon Siradapuvadol contributed reporting to this article.

This story was supported by the United Nations Foundation.

JHARGRAM, India—The U.N. World Food Programme describes it as “eating last and least.” Alaka Mahato calls it “eating light.”

The small rice and vegetable field behind her home that supplies much of her family’s food yielded only 40% of its normal half-ton harvest after unusually heavy rains last November, well after the monsoon ended in September. The result is that the 52-year-old’s budget for groceries is suffocatingly tight, and her pantry is bare: no onions, potatoes, or any of the other staples found in most Indian kitchens. 

On days when there isn’t enough food for her household of three, Mahato will make do with what’s left after her husband and youngest daughter finish eating—a handful of rice and some water. Sometimes she asks her adult daughter, who lives in a separate household, for financial help, though this creates conflict at home.

“My husband says we will not take money from our daughter. But then we will have to die,” Mahato says.

Food sits in two different pots on the floor.
Many kitchens in Jhargram lack most of the staples common in South Asian pantries, such as potato and onions. (Ritwika Mitra for The Fuller Project)

Around the world, women eat less than men under tough conditions such as conflict, famine, or disasters. The World Food Programme predicts that climate change will produce economic and environmental shocks that will exacerbate this inequality, and it says this impact can already be seen in places like Mahato’s hometown. Jhargram, a district not far from the Bay of Bengal and the Sundarbans rainforest, is one of West Bengal’s many climate hot spots—areas that are especially affected by global warming. Over the past decade, agriculture here has been disrupted by intense flooding, cyclones, and sea level rise.

The hunger gap between the genders had been shrinking in recent decades, but it rose dramatically during the COVID-19 pandemic. CARE International, a global humanitarian organization, estimates that 150 million more women than men went hungry in 2021, compared with a difference of just 17.9 million in 2018.

Its analysis drew from several global data sets, including the U.N. Food and Agriculture Organization’s latest report on the state of food security, which found that the hunger gap grew in 2020 and 2021, fueled by widening disparities in Latin America, the Caribbean, and Asia. The U.N. attributed this to the disproportionate impact that the pandemic-triggered economic crisis has had on women, saying they were more affected by job and income losses and bore a larger caregiving burden, looking after sick family members and children out of school. 

Researchers at CARE say this should serve as a warning about the likely impacts of climate shocks on hunger levels among men and women. One shortcoming is that sex-disaggregated food indicators in major global data sets focus mainly on women’s reproductive role, such as statistics about anemia among women of childbearing age. This means policymakers can fail to detect a nutritional crisis in which men are relatively well-fed compared with women, unless it shows up in anemia statistics. It also means food crises disproportionately affecting elderly women don’t register at all.

“Yes, it’s true that women eat last and least, but what we’re trying to unpack is the root cause,” says Gregory Spira, the head of the gender, food, and climate justice programs at CARE. Not only do patriarchal norms in many vulnerable countries result in policy responses designed primarily with men’s needs in mind, he says, but they also create social pressure on women to put men’s needs ahead of their own.

A woman sits on her bed.
Bedani Shabar, an indigenous widow, says food was almost impossible to find during India’s COVID-19 lockdown in 2021. (Ritwika Mitra for The Fuller Project)

“When there’s a shock or misallocation of resources, we really see women not having the power to take action. Women don’t have the power to make decisions about what they eat, when they eat. Without that decision-making power, women cannot control basic questions. As climate change advances, there is increased competition when it comes to food and everything else, and women lose out because they’re disadvantaged compared to men.”

The CARE report highlighted the problem in India, where many women and girls suffer from hunger in spite of strong economic growth that has led the International Monetary Fund to project the country will become the world’s third-largest economy by 2027.

India slipped from 94th place in 2020 to 107th out of 121 countries in this year’s Global Hunger Index, a report compiled by Irish and German aid agencies. The country is home to a quarter of the world’s undernourished people, according to the World Food Programme. 

The Fuller Project and Foreign Policy interviewed several women in Jhargram, including Mahato, who said they regularly eat less than their husbands and children. The impact can be glimpsed in the prevalence of anemia cases in West Bengal among females ages 15 to 49, which rose from 62.5% in 2015-2016 to 71.4% in 2019-2020, according to the latest available data from the Indian government’s National Family Health Survey. Officials in the region point to climate change as the primary factor behind the increase, with the data covering a period before the pandemic had a significant impact in India. 

The late rains last year came after Jhargram, like much of the southern part of the state of West Bengal, had already been hit by several cyclones and floods in recent years. The region is home to over 30 million people. 

“If there is drought, there is extreme drought. When there is rainfall, there is extreme rainfall,” says Joy Chakraborty, an assistant director with the local government’s department of agriculture in Jhargram. “The maximum temperatures are shooting up, and the soil is so hot that you will find it difficult to breathe.”

Most of the population here belongs to groups officially designated as marginalized tribes or castes, a population the World Food Programme says will “face the brunt” of a climate-driven rise in hunger. Chakraborty says almost everyone here relies on a system of government rations—food supplied by the government to those who live below the poverty line. 

Under strain from the impacts of climate change and the pandemic, the system is falling short. Indigenous women have staged protests over claims that they haven’t been paid for work they’ve performed under West Bengal’s guaranteed rural employment scheme, as the state budget struggles to cope with the demands placed on it. The Right to Food & Work Campaign, a network of advocacy organizations in the state, said at a news conference that the nonpayment of wages significantly affected hunger among single women and widows.

Women are increasingly becoming primary breadwinners for their homes as climate change pushes men to migrate away to find work outside their towns and villages. As agricultural production in the area suffers due to climate change, males are prioritized in terms of getting fed, leaving women and their girls so hungry they say they struggle to function and focus at work and school. Predatory behavior has also increased as local economies collapse and people become more desperate. Over the past decade, there has been a steady rise in trafficking in the Sundarbans, with young girls getting kidnapped by neighbors or sold by family members to traffickers or into early marriage.

A young girl stands next to plants picking them.
Bedani Shabar fears a balanced diet is and will remain a distant reality for her 10-year-old daughter Padmarani. (Ritwika Mitra for The Fuller Project)

Bedani Shabar, a woman belonging to an Indigenous group who also frequently eats less than the rest of her family, says the food distribution system broke down during the first pandemic lockdown in 2020. “There was a lot of distress then,” she recalls. “It was a situation where there was no food. And there were no rations. We had to survive on rice with salt.”

Then there’s the lack of protein. Families receive only rice, wheat, and whole-wheat flour from the government.

“No eggs, no milk, no lentils,” says Shabar’s 10-year-old daughter, Padmarani, when talking about her diet. Mahato’s 14-year-old daughter, Urmila, says she can’t focus at school and gets frequent headaches. She says her periods are irregular, missing one every other month—a common problem for girls who lack adequate nutrition.

Three out of five pregnant women in West Bengal are anemic, and their protein-poor diet will have generational impacts, warns Abhay Bang, a doctor and community health researcher, adding that the effect will be particularly pronounced in the area’s Indigenous communities.

“When an Indigenous girl transitions into adulthood, she has smaller body size, less height, and low weight—when she gives birth, the baby born to her will also be small in size,” he says. “The next generation will be affected, and this cycle will continue.”

Maher Sattar in New York contributed to this article.

When headlines scream of war, economic collapse, and rising authoritarianism, stories about women and how they drive change are often silenced. Yet women are on the front lines of every crisis and conflict. In 2022, they have pushed against entrenched interests to chip away at social norms and rules that often keep them from reaching their full potential. They have won office, changed laws, enlisted allies, and made real progress in the struggle for equality.

Since 2018, The Fuller Project has partnered with Foreign Policy to examine critical issues pertaining to women’s rights around the world. This reporting features in our shared “The Full Story” column and beyond. Here is a collection of the most profound ways women have made an impact this year, as chronicled by The Fuller Project and FP.

As we look to 2023, there is reason for hope.


1. Iran’s protest movement

Since the Sept. 16 death of 22-year-old Mahsa Amini in the custody of Iran’s so-called morality police—which enforced strict religious rules, including an Islamic dress code—Iranian women and their allies have poured into the streets of Tehran as well as localities large and small to protest their government’s decadeslong oppression of women. Protesters are risking arrest and death: At least 481 demonstrators have so far been killed by Iranian authorities, according to reports from the Human Rights Activists News Agency in Iran.

Iranian women’s bid to reclaim their rights has earned widespread international support and prompted solidarity protests in cities from Seoul to Toronto. Many Iran fans at the FIFA World Cup in Qatar even held signs emblazoned with the movement’s slogan: “Women, Life, Freedom.” Iran’s players faced swift reprisals from their government when, in support of the protesters, they refused to sing the national anthem at their opening match against England.

This month, Iran’s attorney general, Mohammad Javad Montazeri, announced that the government had abolished the morality police in an apparent concession to protesters. The announcement did little to quell the unrest. As Sina Toossi argued in Foreign Policy, “it would be a mistake to assume the government’s move represents anything other than an incremental shift.”


2. Climate change advocacy

Women are disproportionately affected by climate change. The United Nations Environment Programme estimates that women account for 80 percent of those displaced by climate change. Yet because women often work in the informal economy, the toll that environmental catastrophe takes on their livelihoods may be undocumented or unrecognized. The Fuller Project’s Disha Shetty reported from Pune, India, in July and found that an unbearably hot summer in South Asia led to a precipitous drop in productivity and income for women who work in or near their homes.

It should come as no surprise, then, that women are at the forefront of the global climate movement. From the Fridays for Future movement led by Swedish activist Greta Thunberg—which counts 14 million members in 7,500 cities—to the Green Generation Initiative led by Kenyan activist Elizabeth Wathuti—which has planted more than 30,000 trees in that country—to the Rise Up Movement led by Ugandan activist Vanessa Nakate—which works to save the Democratic Republic of the Congo’s rainforest—women have demanded and received a seat at the negotiating table. Participating countries at the U.N. climate change conference in November, known as COP27, agreed to create a “loss and damage” fund to support developing countries that are particularly vulnerable to climate change. An idea previously considered fringe, these activists helped bring loss and damage into the mainstream.


3. Latin America’s green wave

Protestors stand outside celebrating the decriminalization of abortion in Colombia.
Pro-Choice demonstrators celebrate outside the Justice Palace after the Constitutional Court voted in favor of decriminalizing abortion up to 24 weeks of gestation on February 21, 2022 in Bogota, Colombia. (Photo by Guillermo Legaria Schweizer/Getty Images)

This year, a grassroots movement of women demanding reproductive autonomy continued its march across Latin America. The so-called green wave began in Rosario, Argentina, in 2003 with a gathering of 10,000 women in green bandanas who demanded the decriminalization of abortion and right to contraception in their country. It soon spread across the nation and culminated in a massive protest outside Argentina’s National Congress in 2019. In 2020, Argentina legalized abortion until 14 weeks of pregnancy.

Argentina’s green wave sparked protests in Mexico, Ecuador, Chile, Peru, and Colombia. In Mexico, the Supreme Court ruled in 2021 that criminal prosecution for abortion is unconstitutional. This year, Colombia decriminalized abortion up to 24 weeks, Ecuador legalized abortion in rape cases, and Mexico’s Quintana Roo became the last state in the country to decriminalize abortion following the 2021 court ruling.

All these steps toward reproductive rights in Latin America have appeared starker when compared to the trajectory of the United States. The U.S. Supreme Court in June overturned the landmark precedent Roe v. Wade case, which had guaranteed a woman’s right to an abortion. Ten U.S. states have already enacted total bans on the procedure. Foreign Policy mapped how the U.S. downward spiral on abortion rights goes against the global current of liberalization, and The Fuller Project’s Erica Hensley chronicled how American women are fighting back.

FP’s Catherine Osborn argued that the green wave has been more successful than U.S. abortion rights activism because it is fundamentally focused on the intersection between issues. “Claims that legalizing abortion would not only promote privacy and individual choice (Roe’s linchpin) but also improve access to health care and decrease social inequalities have been key in victorious lawsuits in Latin America,” she wrote.


4. Ukraine’s women farmers

Even as Russian soldiers occupied her apricot orchard—and even as the bombs fell close enough that she could see the smoke plumes from her wheat fields—Nadiia Ivanova kept farming.

“I have 45 fields, large and small, and I found a Russian missile in each one of them,” Ivanova told Amie Ferris-Rotman, who was reporting for The Fuller Project near Mykolaiv in southern Ukraine, a Ukrainian-controlled territory near the Black Sea.

She is one of some 10,000 women who run farming enterprises in Ukraine and are fighting to keep up production. Ukraine is often referred to as the breadbasket of Europe and is a large supplier of wheat to Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine has exacerbated a global food shortage and a hunger crisis in the Middle East and Africa that disproportionately impacts women and girls. It grew so severe that the U.N. intervened over the summer to broker a deal with Turkey to ship grain safely out of Ukraine via the Black Sea.

Ukraine’s women farmers have persisted, however—housing and feeding Ukrainian soldiers as well as fighting to ensure their crops get to market. The women see food as their opportunity to do their part in the war effort.

“These are our weapons,” said farmworker Valentyna Fedorenko, holding up a bucket of fresh green cucumbers. “By feeding the people, we are equipping them to fight.


5. Afghan women resisting the Taliban

In the year since the Taliban regained control of Afghanistan, two decades of gains in women’s employment and education have all but disappeared. Fuller Project reporters have collaborated with Rukhshana Media, a woman-led Afghan newsroom, to document the new realities for women in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan; in “The Full Story,” we have highlighted the plight of queer Afghans. The picture is grim.

The Taliban have ordered women to remain in their homes, barred women from most jobs, and reimposed mandatory face coverings for women in public. Women also may not travel without a male guardian. The new restrictions have limited women’s access to health care, education, and work. The U.N. said the lost income from barring women from the workforce could cost Afghanistan as much as 5 percent of its GDP, plunging the country into deeper poverty and exacerbating food insecurity.

Despite these setbacks, some Afghan women are rising up in rare protests—at great personal risk, reported FP’s Lynne O’Donnell. “Many activists want the world, and especially the United States, where successive administrations greased the path to the Taliban’s return to power, to do more to hold the regime to account,” she wrote.

These are stories of women fighting for rights, for themselves, and for others. Thousands more remain to be told.

KATHMANDU, Nepal—Around half the world’s population is expected to watch the 2022 FIFA World Cup final, but Sirmita Pasi won’t be among them.

Her husband, Ramsagar Pasi, departed for Qatar two years ago, tired of not finding employment in Banke, a mostly rural area in western Nepal. He was leaving to become a construction worker on soccer stadiums for the World Cup, she said, and made two promises. On his return, he’d upgrade their house, which was made of hay, mud, and wood; and he’d provide a quality education for their two children.

Instead, he came back this April in a coffin. He’s one of 6,500 South Asian migrant workers a Guardian investigation estimates died due to unexplained circumstances after working long hours in extreme heat in Qatar, in the decade since the country won the right to host FIFA’s flagship tournament. 

In almost all cases, their death certificates list cause of death as natural, unknown, cardiac failure, or respiratory failure. A World Health Organization expert called these descriptions “meaningless,” as they don’t explain what caused the cardiac or respiratory failures.

Pasi said she was told her husband died from a heart attack. She couldn’t believe it, even when she saw the 32-year-old’s body arrive at their courtyard.

“He was so young, so healthy,” Pasi said, who assumed more than $5,000 in debt from her late husband.

The most controversial World Cup in recent memory is now drawing to a close. Despite high-profile campaigns by human rights and LGBTQ groups, the event has delivered record viewership numbers for FIFA and the Qatari government is considering a bid for the Olympics. As the world moves on, widows like Pasi are left picking up the pieces of their shattered lives.

In Nepal, Bangladesh, India, and elsewhere in South Asia, these women bear what sociologists call the “triple burden”—taking on their husbands’ share of child care and housework as well as becoming the primary income earner. In South Asia, they also have to cope with the social stigma of being a widow, lack of agency, and conflicts with relatives over their husband’s assets. Widows who are immigrants also have difficulties obtaining official documentation of the death of their spouse.

But one of the biggest headaches for widows is debt, with most migrants borrowing heavily from local money lenders at high interest rates to fund their move abroad. Responsibility for the loans is passed on to their wives after their deaths, and now, thousands of widows across the subcontinent are saddled with thousands of dollars in debt.

“I have so many problems, not just one or two,” Pasi said. “How to earn, how to get food, how to raise my children.”

“How are you watching this”?

Namrata Raju, India director at Equidem

In Nepal, the government disburses compensation of about $5,000 to the families of dead migrants. Rights groups said this accomplishes little more than covering the debt the workers typically take on to go abroad.

Compensation schemes tend to be run on shoestring budgets where they do exist. Bangladesh’s program is funded by the government and also offers a modest $5,000. In India, which has experienced the highest number of deaths, states like Kerala with large numbers of migrants abroad offer a similar amount in compensation. Nepal’s fund is financed by the workers themselves, who contribute about $30 each before they leave the country.

#PayUpFIFA, a campaign of unions, fan groups, and advocacy organizations led by Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, is calling for FIFA and the government of Qatar to step in and provide $440 million in compensation to workers who’ve been exploited or injured and to the family members of those who’ve died.

The government of Qatar has said 400 to 500 workers have died. They argue the number of deaths is not unusual considering there are 2 million migrants in the country, making up an estimated 95 percent of the labor force. 

But campaigners said the numbers are indeed stark given most migrants are young and able-bodied and that the government’s estimate excludes thousands of deaths due to unexplained causes.

“In a well-resourced health care system, less than 1 percent of deaths should be effectively unexplained,” said Ella Knight, a researcher on migrant labor rights at Amnesty International. “Some of the data we’ve looked at out of Bangladesh shows that 70 percent of migrant deaths [in Qatar] were unexplained.”

People carry a body in a coffin outside of an airport in Nepal.
People load a coffin carrying body of Nepalese migrant worker who died in Qatar at Tribhuwan International airport in Kathmandu, Nepal. (Photo by Rojan Shrestha/NurPhoto via Getty Images)

The amount the campaign is demanding is equivalent to the total prize money for the tournament. It’s received an ambivalent response from FIFA, which said it is willing to engage in continued dialogue. The demand has been laughed off by the Qatari government, whose labor minister called it a “publicity stunt.” 

The death of yet another migrant worker during the group stages of the tournament—a Filipino man who fell while performing repairs at a FIFA training base—provoked some reflection but not the kind campaigners were hoping for. Upon hearing about the accident, Qatar’s World Cup chief, Nasser al-Khater, observed: “Death is a natural part of life, whether it’s at work, whether it’s in your sleep.”

Namrata Raju, India director at Equidem, one of the groups taking part in the #PayUpFIFA campaign, said a major obstacle in gathering support is that Qatar has business ties with most countries in the world—and so does FIFA.

“It’s a crisis of conscience,” she said. “This is a global labor question. Because how can a labor market like this exist in a modern era? Why should any country or any company be premised on modern-day slavery? It’s a question for every single football fan around the world. How are you watching this?”

Problems That Keep Compounding

Worried about the quality of the public education system in Nepal, the Pasi family had enrolled their two children in a private school with the expectation that Ramsagar’s income in Qatar would pay for it. Now, Pasi said she’ll be forced to pull her kids out of the school because they don’t have enough money for the next academic session’s tuition, which begins in April.

So many widows are in deep financial trouble after their husbands died in the Persian Gulf that researchers said they’ve discovered lenders exploiting their sense of vulnerability. 

Lekh Nath Paudel, a doctoral fellow at the University of Lausanne researching families of Nepali migrant workers, said financial institutions, such as microfinance organizations, tell women they could lose everything if their husbands die abroad, and they convince them to invest remittances into projects, such as small farms, that are often connected to those financial institutions.

Women farmers harvest crops on their farm.
Women in South Asia have to take on the “triple burden” of household duties, child care and being the sole breadwinner in the absence of their husbands. (Photo by Frank Bienewald/LightRocket via Getty Images)

“The fear of the death of migrant workers and the fear of injuries to migrant workers is being used as a tool to do emotional blackmail,” Paudel said. “Instead of leading to prosperity as promised, you’re more indebted because the money you’ve been sending back has been put into a particular enterprise, and often, the investment doesn’t work out. This triggers another round of migration.”

The loss of a husband can also be the loss of an important ally. Many women in South Asia, especially poor women like the wives of migrant workers in the Gulf, live with their in-laws. If their husbands die, then they have very little clout in conflicts with their in-laws over land, assets, and any compensation they might receive as a result of the death.

“Most widows are facing the problem of being denied any rights to property if they don’t do as the father-in-law or mother-in-law wishes,” said Sanju Jaiswal, who said her husband died in Qatar while working there as a food delivery worker.

Mohna Ansari, a former member of Nepal’s National Human Rights Commission, said this problem is especially acute in the southern parts of Madhesh, which borders India and is Nepal’s smallest and most populous province, home to 6.1 million people of the roughly 30.4 million people in the country.

Many of the widows of migrant workers in that area come from across the border in India. Ansari said these women frequently don’t have citizenship papers or even marriage certificates, as in-laws hold off on getting these documents registered to maintain leverage over them.

“The in-laws are often suspicious that if they get the legal documents made, the wife will take control of the money or property and run away,” Ansari said. “She’s never seen as a full family member.”

In these circumstances, “the wife never gets the compensation—never,” she added.

Rubi Khatun, a widow in Madhesh province who is originally from India, said she still doesn’t have Nepali citizenship even though she was married to a Nepali man for 13 years. She said her husband was always working abroad and was never present in the country long enough for them to process their official documents. 

Two years ago, she said her 30-year-old husband returned from Qatar suffering from kidney problems and died soon after.

“After he died, I went to Kathmandu to claim compensation from the [government’s] foreign employment board,” Khatun said. “But I couldn’t get anything because of my citizenship.”

Khatun said the failed trip to Kathmandu cost her 50,000 rupees (or $384)—more than six times the $61 monthly salary she makes as a hotel cleaner raising two children by herself.

Although the compensation amount being demanded by the #PayUpFIFA campaign was chosen for its symbolic value, if it is successful, then it could have a concrete impact on the lives of indebted widows. In Pasi’s case, her husband originally borrowed about $1,400 (or 180,000 Nepali rupees) to pay recruiters to find him a job in Qatar. But the first job didn’t work out, and he had to take out more loans to find another gig. 

With 36 percent annual interest compounding these loans, she said the total owed has become more than $5,000. Pasi, a day laborer who earns $3 to $4 per day on other people’s farms, is now responsible for this amount.

“The money was taken from local money lenders,” she said. “The interest keeps multiplying every year. Money lenders keep coming to my home. They ask, ‘Give me money.’ Since we have problems even managing food, how can we settle loans? I’m really in a helpless situation.”

Maher Sattar is a Senior Editor at The Fuller Project (in New York).

Bhadra Sharma is a freelance journalist (in Kathmandu, who has written frequently for The New York Times and the Kathmandu Post)

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