Global Free Speech

Global Free Speech covers international stories and trends affecting the right to speak, publish, and share ideas across borders. From government crackdowns to grassroots movements, this category highlights the global fight for free expression in diverse political and cultural landscapes.

Photo by: Stephen Barnes/Medical/Alamy UK news this week is dominated by a damning report led by senior midwife Donna Ockenden that reveals how more than 500 mothers and babies were harmed or died at maternity units in Nottingham. This isn’t the first scandal Ockenden has investigated. A few years back terrible failings were revealed in Shropshire hospitals run by the Shrewsbury and Telford NHS Trust where 201 babies and nine mothers died.  We spoke to Ockenden for the magazine and she repeated this: “women aren’t listened to”. Another common thread was cover-up. Secrecy is not a one-off, it’s a pattern, wrote Martin Bright when he reported on the Shropshire scandal for Index. As Bright said, “this is not a historical story; it is an ongoing crisis”. Maternity scandals happen not only in Britain but all over the world. Last year’s protests in Morocco were ignited after eight women died in a maternity ward in Agadir because of severe medical neglect. In Egypt last week Omnia Sweidan, a former resident physician in obstetrics and gynaecology at Alexandria’s El-Shatby University Hospital, wrote a Facebook post detailing a series of abusive incidents faced by women at Alexandria’s Al-Shatby Hospital. It was read and shared by tens of thousands. Within 24 hours of posting, instead of the government declaring an investigation, security forces arrested Sweidan. While she was apparently later released, she’s been accused of spreading false news and misusing social media. She could end up in jail. Meanwhile, Afghanistan has one of the highest maternal mortality rates in the world – the figures of deaths and injuries are rising, but to what no one really knows. The Taliban won’t publish the data, probably to cover-up the true numbers. I’ve navigated maternity services myself in the UK. I’ve generally had good experiences and I’m very grateful to the NHS. But my experiences have not been uncomplicated – my daughter very nearly died. What saved her, I’ve been told, were a few factors – my race (white), my class (middle), where I live (London) and the fact that I relentlessly badgered those at my local hospital for weeks on end saying things didn’t feel right. Let me be clear here though: one shouldn’t have to be a dogged white Londoner to get good medical care. And a recent health committee report revealed terrible inequalities faced by people who are members of ethnic minorities, stating that “[B]abies that are Black or Black British Asian or Asian British have a more than 50% higher risk of perinatal mortality”. At Index we typically work on stories where dissidents take on the powerful: leaders, oligarchs and tech bros. The victims of maternity care scandals might not appear the same. But there is much that unites them. At the end of the day if the response you get from a doctor or nurse to a basic medical request is a shrug or a sneer, your free speech is being violated. If the systems view calls for accountability as dissent that must be silenced, then they are censoring. We grew up being told we’re lucky, that childbirth was one of the leading causes of death before the advent of modern medicine. For many of us that’s true. Just not all of us. That’s a travesty demanding urgent attention – in Nottingham and beyond. READ MORE

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UK news this week is dominated by a damning report led by senior midwife Donna Ockenden that reveals how more…

Photo: Yunus Tuğ/Unsplash I’m a woman in the Afghanistan of 2026. Here, days tick like gears in a clock, each moment predictable, each night a mirror of the last. Adventure sleeps and routine reigns. This is my life. I wake up every morning to the sound of the dove that always perches on the window of the small square room that I share with my two sisters. Usually, my phone’s alarm rings after I freshen up. I never turn it off in case I sleep in, and the coo‑hoo‑hoo of the bird fails to wake me up. I pour a mug of steaming cardamom green tea, which my Mom always brews, and then turn on my laptop, open Google Meet, and join the meeting to teach World History. When I was young, I often declared that the last thing I would ever become was a teacher. Yet life has a way of surprising us. Here I am now, an online teacher to more than 70 students. Among them are Afghan girls who remind me of the resilience of my homeland, and boys and girls scattered across the world: from India and the USA to Argentina, Iran and Italy. Each name on my roster feels like a window into another culture, yet together they form a single classroom bound by curiosity, respect and hope.  Here, electricity comes and goes. My device can run out of charge in the middle of class. Or the internet can weaken until voices stretch like rubber bands, vowels pulled long until they snap back into silence. As a teacher in a country where education in any form is forbidden for girls after a certain age, I cannot deny the fear – the fear that the government may target me, as it has targeted so many before.  I teach two classes in a row, and by the time I finish, it is already noon, the hour when the kitchen calls. The weather is hot nowadays, so hot that I sometimes wonder if I am cooking vegetables while the earth is cooking me. Lunch is mine to prepare, usually a simple plate of vegetables with naan. Dinner belongs to my mother, who conjures rice and dishes I dare not attempt, reminding me daily that after all I am a teacher not a chef. As soon as I’ve had my last bite of food it is time to join my French class. I love learning new languages, which is why I speak a decent amount of Urdu, Turkish, Persian, Dari and Pashto, my mother tongue.  I spend my entire afternoon joining one university class after another, each related to my majors in Health Science and Law & Political Science. My classmates are a mix of determined Afghan sisters, who refuse to surrender their right to education and students across the globe from Asia and Europe to the Americas. Studying online is like scaling the same mountain twice – once for knowledge, once for discipline. Yet without peace of mind, attention slips away. I fix my gaze on the laptop screen, listening to the professor’s voice carried across continents, yet louder than the lecture are my siblings’ quarrels, the neighbours’ laughter and the cries of handcart vendors: “Eggplant, one kilo for 50 Afghani! Cucumbers, only 20 Afghani!” At times, I recall the street prices more easily than the fact that a healthy heart beats 70 times a minute and blood pressure rests at 120/80.  And about my evenings? I spend it doing admin work for the US-based accredited online school I work for and on my assignments. But that doesn’t mean I don’t catch up with the news and, to be honest, weep in between. I hear about new laws for women and girls, laws that say a girl can be married off as soon as she reaches puberty, even at nine. I hear that a woman cannot ask for a divorce simply because she is beaten black and blue by her husband. I wonder, then, what counts as a “good reason”. I see women struck in public, the sharp crack of a hand against skin breaks the air in the street, for a strand of hair slipping from the veil or for refusing to wear the suffocating blue burqa. I hear the muffled sobs of women turned away from tourist sites, their footsteps dragging on gravel as if they are unworthy of seeing the beauty of their own country.  At night, I can do one of the three things: write poetry or prose, read a book online or watch a movie. Then I wonder how you, my fellow 21-year-olds, think of me, an Afghan woman? Here, people see me in different ways. For my mother, I am the daughter she loves deeply, yet she worries about mockery, because I remain single in a family where cousins younger than me are already married with children. She hears the whispers: “Marry her off as soon as someone steps forward, or she’ll remain unmarried forever.” They would not care if I ended up with a husband who treats me like clay to be moulded at the flick of his hand, demanding I bend until I break. For my father, I am the child he once opposed educating, convinced that a girl working outside the home was a shame. Yet now he accepts the salary I earn from teaching online, money that feeds his children, my mother and my grandmother. For my youngest siblings, I am the invisible fairy who slips coins under their pillows in exchange for broken teeth, leaving behind wonder in the middle of the night.  For my mentor, speaking with me on Zoom inside my four‑walled room, it feels like visiting a prisoner – she sees me through glass, hears me through a phone and knows the bars are invisible but real.  For my students, I am the confidante who absorbs their frustration, the one they ask: “How did Afghanistan fall from being the cradle of civilisations to this?”  For my professors, I am the student who never misses a class, always the first to raise her virtual hand on Google Meet and who turns in every assignment perfectly on time.  To my own self, I am a yearner who longs to see the whole world, to meet new people, to taste dishes I have never known and to sit on the rides of an amusement park – the roller coasters and spinning wheels – screaming my lungs out into the night air. I dream of having the chance to shape better laws for the girls of my country and beyond, laws that protect rather than punish. I imagine living in a way that defies the 157 edicts by the current regime that dictate how women must move, dress and survive. Just to prove, these laws make no sense.  My friends, I wonder how it feels when you walk to university with a bag slung over your shoulder, how it feels to graduate, to send your cap flying into the sky. To work somewhere with dignity. To practise your culture freely. To follow your faith, knowing it is the right interpretation and not extremism. To be called the pride of the family instead of its shame. To enjoy life, and not merely survive it. I know there are many of you who advocate for the rights of the oppressed. But why don’t we truly come together? Why don’t we make our efforts visible? Because silence is the ally of oppression, and visibility is the seed of change. If we stand together, our voices will rise higher than the walls built to contain us. And one day, the world will remember not the edicts that tried to break us, but the courage that made us unbreakable. With hope and friendship, Samreen  Samreen Makhfi, 21, lives in Kabul. Her life is very different and constrained compared to what she imagined and hoped for. She told Index that writing this letter was important to her for many reasons. First, because she feels Afghanistan is a country that is often discussed, but without people actually helping those inside. She also said that each word is an act of defiance. She is told to be silent and yet here she is able to share her story, her joys and her struggles. Ultimately, she said, “writing is not just expression; it is resistance, it is survival. It is the therapy that steadies me against the weight of what I cannot control. It helps me feel stronger!”   READ MORE

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I’m a woman in the Afghanistan of 2026. Here, days tick like gears in a clock, each moment predictable, each…

Dr Mahrang Baloch before being sentenced to life imprisonment. Photo: Isak Khan In June 2026, Dr Mahrang Baloch was sentenced to life in prison by an anti-terrorism court in Quetta, Balochistan’s capital. She and fellow Baloch activist Sibghatullah Shahji had been accused of inciting a crowd into killing a federal constabulary official during a 2024 Baloch Unity Committee rally. Dr Mahrang Baloch, leader of the Baloch Yakjehti Committee (BYC), is an advocate for Baloch rights, campaigning against state practices of enforced disappearances, extra-judicial killings and other human rights abuses in Pakistan’s Balochistan province. The defendants, who have already been held in solitary confinement for two years, deny the charges. Before her sentencing, Dr Mahrang Baloch participated in a written interview with Akbar Notezai. Some of her responses have been edited for clarity and brevity. Can you describe the conditions inside Hudda Jail? I am presently being held, with my two political collegues Beebow Baloch and Gulzadi Baloch, in solitary confinement in Barrack No 9 of Hudda Jail. Even though the jail has a separate ward for female prisoners, we have deliberately been kept isolated in a separate barrack. Over the last 14 months, my meetings have been limited to only to a few family members and lawyers. This severe restriction is a clear and continuous violation of my fundamental rights. Families of forcibly disappeared persons and ordinary people from across Balochistan have come to meet with us, but they are stopped at the prison gate. The objective, it seems, is to weaken our resistance and to disconnect us, ideologically and politically, from our people and the Baloch national movement. We have also faced restrictions on our access to books. At first, I was denied permission to bring books from my personal library into the jail. The restriction was temporarily lifted after we protested. But today, if we ask for new books we have to negotiate the same obstacles again. In October 2025 our trial was shifted to inside the jail, denying journalists and members of Balochistan’s civil society access to our hearings. This violates the fundamental principle of a fair and transparent trial. The charges filed against us themselves are politically motivated and made in bad faith; the Anti-Terrorism Court (ATC) has conducted our cases in a highly biased manner. In February, we formally requested the replacement of the presiding judge; even though no decision has been formally taken with respect to our application, the trial has not been halted. What impact has solitary confinement had on you? The barrack where we have been imprisoned was originally built to hold dangerous and high-profile prisoners. Even though our contact with outside life has been severely restricted, solitary confinement will not weaken my resolve. For me, prison and torture have become symbols of resistance, carrying a very significant meaning in my life. My childhood was shaped in the shadow of the state’s torture cells, thanks to my father’s struggle for freedom. My father, Ghaffar Baloch, was once imprisoned in this same jail. I visited him here with Eid cards. The torture cells, where thousands of forcibly disappeared Baloch were detained, remained alive in my imagination. Every night, I would mentally reconstruct those dark spaces in my mind. When my father was released after his third enforced disappearance, the stories of torture he shared became permanently engraved in my memory. I often imagined the darkness of those torture cells; the unbearable reality of state violence, the point where a person begins to pray for death every single day. After my father’s murder, I began to carry the deep urge to one day see the torture cell where he had been held. I wondered constantly about his final moments, about the suffering he endured. From that moment on, I made it the purpose of my life to work for the freedom of every individual trapped in such torture cells. My pain found meaning after I joined the struggle against enforced disappearances in Balochistan. Whenever we grew exhausted during sit-ins or long marches, we reminded ourselves of the young people of our nation, enduring detention and worse because they cared about the future and dignity of our people. Whenever one of our people were released from a torture cell, I experienced the same joy that I had felt when my father was himself released from detention. I always made sure to meet them. Gradually, the part of my mind that had been occupied the images of my father’s mutilated body and wounded face became filled with the faces of the newly freed Baloch youth. I took inspiration from them. On beginning a new campaign, I always tell myself that if our efforts lead to the release of even one forcibly disappeared person, that alone would be our greatest success. All other hardships would become meaningless. Becoming part of this struggle has allowed me to heal. The movement gave meaning and purpose to our collective pain and national suffering. That is why solitary confinement and prison cannot break me. As for the Baloch people, solitary confinement has become a place where we write, study the struggles for freedom of people around the world and strengthen our political consciousness. The paradox is that imprisonment only makes our movement stronger. How has solitary confinement affected you, physically and emotionally? Solitary confinement for 14 months, combined with restricted movement and delays in receiving medical care, has led to me suffering since last October from severe back pain and radiculopathy. The lack of timely diagnosis and proper medical treatment worsened my condition. I was eventually transferred to a hospital in February 2026, where I was diagnosed with a lumbar disc prolapse. Despite the diagnosis I am still being denied physiotherapy, which is an essential part of the recovery process. Solitary confinement leaves deep physical and psychological scars on political prisoners. The state’s objective is not just to punish us, but also to weaken our revolutionary identity, morale and political resistance. Our struggle is directed at ending every form of state oppression, which is why we continue to endure the inhumane conditions of solitary confinement with resolve. The state seeks to spread fear among the people by imprisoning them. Yet even within these prison walls, we continue to show our people that oppressed nations can continue to resist state violence effectively. When states choose repression and force over tolerance for dissent, they cease to become institutions of justice and instead turn into instruments of fear. But fear is always temporary. Genuine popular movements of the people will eventually overcome fear and turn it into a source of strength. The irony is that state repression has made people fearless. The killing of innocent individuals and the constant demand for justice have deepened public political consciousness. This is the purpose that I share with every Baloch political activist: that our people understand the importance of collective strength, resistance and political awareness. If my solitary confinement helps strengthen that purpose, then I will endure this imprisonment with pride and determination. What role does the BYC play in Balochistan? The BYC is an indigenous movement of Balochistan. After the state’s implementation of its “kill and dump” policy in Balochistan in 2009, it launched a crackdown on active political parties and movements. Over the past two decades, thousands of innocent Baloch people have been killed. There was an urgent need for a strong public movement against what many Baloch view as an ongoing genocide, with even women and children no longer safe. It was under these conditions that the BYC emerged. Beginning with resistance protests across Balochistan, the movement gradually evolved into a broad public movement that gained widespread support throughout the region. The BYC has played a central role in documenting human rights violations and in advocating for national and political rights in Balochistan. International human rights organisations have largely been denied access to the region under the pretext of security concerns. Representatives of the Working Group on Enforced or Involuntary Disappearances have been denied access to Balochistan for 15 years, preventing independent observation and reporting on ongoing human rights abuses. Similarly, many international institutions have been prevented from reporting effectively on the situation in Balochistan. The BYC functions simultaneously as a human rights organisation and as a civil rights movement. It has organised major public gatherings such as the March Against Baloch Genocide, the Raji Muchi and the Dalbandin gathering. Bringing together people from every segment of Baloch society, these mass assemblies served as public referendums against the state’s repressive policies. Alongside organising sit-ins and public demonstrations, the BYC has also become one of the most active bodies documenting and reporting human rights violations in Balochistan. In 2025 alone, the BYC collected data on 1,250 cases of enforced disappearances. This was despite the organisation itself facing an intense state crackdown, with much of its central leadership imprisoned and many activists subjected to harassment and intimidation. The strong participation of women within the BYC also reflects the movement’s progressive political vision. Women have been mobilised, educated about their fundamental rights and encouraged to become active participants and leaders within the organisation. What challenges have you faced promoting nonviolent resistance in Balochistan? Promoting nonviolent resistance and democratic political struggle in Balochistan is an extremely difficult task, given that students, journalists and human rights activists are routinely silenced through state-sanctioned enforced disappearances, killings and targeted violence. Peaceful political movements are often labelled as “anti-state” or “security threats”; activists are subjected to profiling, harassment, arrests and fabricated criminal cases. At present, more than 50 cases have been filed against me and other BYC leaders across Balochistan. Every protest organised by families of missing persons has resulted in cases being registered against us, evidence of the continuation of state policies aimed at suppressing freedom of expression and peaceful political dissent. Even First Information Reports (FIRs) related to the actions of armed groups have been filed against peaceful political activists. This represents an extreme form of state brutality whereby nonviolent political workers are deliberately linked to armed organisations in order to justify the violence inflicted on them by the state. Despite all these pressures and hardships, the people of Balochistan have not abandoned peaceful politics. For the BYC, nonviolent resistance is not merely a political struggle; it is a continuous effort to create space for human rights, justice and dialogue, in an environment dominated by fear, silence and repression. Does reading helping you overcome the isolation of solitary confinement? Books have been my greatest source of support during my solitary confinement, along with my memories of the Baloch resistance movement and the courage of those who have endured repression before us. Books have strengthened my political consciousness, intellectual depth and belief in resistance. They have expanded my understanding and helped me remain connected to my inner strength. Much of our protest inside prison has centred around access to books. Reading about revolutionary movements and political figures has given me the opportunity to reflect deeply on my own struggle, beliefs and purpose in life. Through this process, I have been able to understand my mission with greater clarity. Books have also helped me endure the weakest and most difficult moments of solitary confinement, by giving me the capacity to better understand and carry the pain and suffering of my people. Some of the books I have read during this period include:   Interview with History – Oriana Fallaci The Writings of Mao The Power of Habit – Charles Duhigg Living My Life – Emma Goldman Roots – Alex Haley No Friend but the Mountains: Writings from Manus Prison – Behrouz Boochani The Political Thought of Abdullah Öcalan – Abdullah Öcalan The Geopolitics of Shaming: When Human Rights Pressure Works and When It Doesn’t – Rochelle Teman The Paradox of Repression and Nonviolent Movements – Dalia Ziada Indira Gandhi and the Year That Transformed India – Srinath Raghavan Long Walk to Freedom – Nelson Mandela Mahr-e-Aflak – Surat Khan Marri The Song of Youth – Yang Mo World Order – Henry Kissinger Prisoners of Geography: Ten Maps That Tell You Everything You Need to Know About Global Politics – Tim Marshall Resistance and Decolonization – Amircarl Cabral Men in the Sun – Ghassan Kanafani Remotely Colonial: History and Politics in Balochistan – Nina Swidler Back to the Future: The Khanate of Kalat and the Genesis of Baluch – Martin Axmann Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media – Edward S. Herman and Noam Chomsky Battle Ground: 10 Conflicts that Explain the New Middle East – Christopher Phillips Baloch Aur Un Ka Watan (The Baloch and Their Homeland) – Dr Farooq Baloch READ MORE

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In June 2026, Dr Mahrang Baloch was sentenced to life in prison by an anti-terrorism court in Quetta, Balochistan’s capital.…

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