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.

An Ai Weiwei billboard in Manchester, January 2026. Photo: Andrii Shevchuk/Alamy This article first appeared in the Spring 2026 issue of Index on Censorship, The monster unleashed: How Hungary’s illliberal vision is seducing the Western world published on 2 April 2026.  Ai Weiwei’s new book is, in a sense, anything but new. “Censorship, through intimidation and sanction is evident in the history of the Chinese Communist Party,” he writes in Ai Weiwei on Censorship, recently published in the United Kingdom by Thames and Hudson. This frame of reference does more than anthologise, however. History puts the present in context. “For over 70 years, censorship policies have been a core function of the regime and a widely accepted aspect of society. The first to be sanctioned were always those with independent thought or differing political ideologies.” Index spoke with Ai via email. He was in a Cambridge cafe during his UK book tour in February 2026. The university town is not unfamiliar for Ai; his teenage son goes to school in the city. But over the last decade, Ai has lived a peripatetic existence. He keeps a studio in Berlin but no longer lives there. Cambridge was home for a while. In 2020, at the beginning of the pandemic, Ai moved to Portugal. But he does not call that country, or any other, home. “I do not have a country, nor a homeland, but I don’t need one,” Ai told Index. “I just need to wake up every day and recognise that I am still alive.” Last August, Ai briefly travelled to Kharkiv, a frontline of the four-year war started by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. “It was a surreal experience to witness Ukrainians defending their own territory and their national dignity,” he said. “Their commitment is immense.” In mid-December, Ai visited China for the first time since leaving in 2015. “Meeting up with my ninety-three-year-old mother was a special experience,” he said. “I feel [that] in certain respects China has not changed at all. But it also felt unfamiliar – a sensation I had never experienced before.” Ai posted a limited number of pictures and videos of the trip – without commentary – on Instagram in real time, though they could not be viewed in China itself. Ai is critical of social media platforms in general. They “engage in active and passive censorship under governmental influence,” he said. Nevertheless, he does use Instagram, “as a diary, to deposit traces of my everyday life,” he explains. All that said, Ai is concerned about the ubiquitous presence of social media in everyday life. It is gradually turning us passive and docile, he thinks. “Today, trying to maintain independent thought is far more difficult than it was in the past,” he told Index. “Controlled by major powers, large capital, huge corporations, and dominant technology, the internet is serving to extract even greater resources, exploit humanity’s information, guide consumption, and even mislead public opinion to manipulate the populace.” Artificial intelligence has, over the last few years, become the dominant presence in the global conversation about the reach – and overreach – of technology and commerce into the private lives of citizens. Ai equally distrusts AI. In his opinion, it is already boxing us into a more homogenised global society. He referenced an incident (without specifying the precise details) where someone testing China’s Deepseek AI platform asked it to talk about Ai Weiwei. Deepseek’s response? “Let’s talk about something else.” “[AI] is commonly described as a liberating productive force, but … systems impose new constraints on traditional ways of human existence, producing a reality that is more unpredictable, chaotic, and disruptive,” Ai said. “Eventually, we are going to lose the poetic aspect of human nature, which includes each individual’s possibility [sic] of making mistakes according to their own habits.” The symbiotic relationship between big data and censorship is a key theme in Ai’s book. In the country where he grew up, he notes, this relationship has created an inescapable panopticon. “[In] China, censorship operates around the clock, infiltrating every channel of communication. It impacts all forms of personal expression related to the public, whether communicated through publications, art exhibitions or social networks.” Ai Weiwei’s Study of Perspective is a universal gesture of defiance to the world. Photo: Ercilla/Alam Running in the family Ai Weiwei comes from a family of dissenters. His father, Ai Qing, was one of modern China’s most influential poets. A key text of his is Understanding Writers and Respecting Writers, published in 1942. “Writers ask for no privileges other than the freedom to write,” Ai Qing wrote in the essay. “Only when artistic creation is granted … can art play a role in advancing social reform.” In the early days of the communist revolution, Mao Zedong sought Ai Qing’s advice about the potential role that culture could play in a communist society. But their views were not compatible. Despite being a voracious reader and lover of poetry, Mao did not believe that writers should be treated with respect or understanding. Ai Weiwei was born in Beijing in 1957 – the same year that Mao launched the so-called Anti-Rightist Campaign. 300,000 individuals, including many artists and intellectuals, were exiled to China’s remote border regions, to undergo reform and political education. Ai Qing was banished to Heilongjiang Province, in the far northeast. A decade later, at the onset of the Cultural Revolution, Ai Qing was moved to the desert region of Little Siberia. Daily duties included cleaning toilets. Ai joined his father in political exile. “That experience with my father helped me recognise the worst aspect of human nature: blindness and ignorance,” Ai told Index. From his father, Ai learned that the artist’s life – despite the difficulties that this would, of necessity, entail – could help in forging a path towards political resistance. In 1981, Ai left China to study in the USA, at the Parsons School of Design in New York. His artistic mentors from that period included the Irish-American artist Sean Scully and Allen Ginsberg, the acclaimed poet. In 1988, Ai put on his first solo art show, Old Shoes, Safe Sex, at New York’s Ethan Cohen Gallery. Five years later, Ai returned to China to be with his father, who had fallen ill. Ai Qing died in 1996, aged 86. The biographies of father and son have many commonalities. Both received their artistic education in the West (Ai Qing, between 1929 and 1932, in Paris); both were publicly persecuted and silenced for refusing to conform with the China Communist Party’s codes of political censorship. Ai’s difficult relationship with the Chinese authorities began in 2005 when he started a blog in China. “To express yourself needs a reason, but expressing yourself is the reason,” his first post read. “This is my question: where are those lives?” another blog post, from the summer of 2008, asked. Ai was referring to the estimated 80,000 individuals killed in an earthquake in the southwestern Chinese province of Sichuan. In the wake of the natural disaster, the Chinese government censored and controlled information, so Ai decided to undertake a “citizens’ investigation”. Accompanied by followers from his blog, he travelled to the ruins of the earthquake and began to document the names of those who perished. “I met many families who lost their children,” said Ai. “I was trying to raise a collective voice in pursuit of fairness and justice, but it felt almost impossible.” The following summer, as the 20th anniversary of the Tiananmen protests approached, Sina – China’s biggest news portal – shut down Ai’s blog because he refused to self-censor his posts. Ai, remarkably, seems almost blasé when recalling this period of censorship: “In one moment we believe that a certain space for freedom exists, but in another moment that space disappears. This is part of the normal order.” Under surveillance In early April 2011, the Chinese authorities detained Ai at Beijing International Airport, as he was about to board a flight for Hong Kong. His interrogators put absurd allegations to him about his conduct, claiming that he was engaged in “economic crimes”, but keeping the details vague. The politically motivated accusations, Ai told Index, were meant to break my “commitment to truth justice” and “to tarnish my reputation”. He said: “I was secretly detained for 81 days, but I was not subjected to verbal, physical harm or humiliation. The harm I endured was more of a psychological nature.” The episode gave Ai a valuable insight into how power works within a complex state bureaucracy. “It was not about right or wrong; but [about] the singularity and certainty of power’s inviolability”, he said. “Which makes all the efforts you have made appear pale and powerless in its presence.” Despite his release without charge, Ai’s passport was confiscated by the state. Then in the autumn of 2015, he discovered a hidden listening device inside his Beijing art studio. The authorities had “assumed I was engaged in secret and disreputable activities,” he said. “I believed they would come to recognise their misjudgement since my actions were entirely open and public.” Farcically, the authorities asked Ai to return the surveillance device – which he described as resembling an outdated relic “from the Cold War era”. By then, his passport had been returned. He was free to travel. Ai left Beijing for Berlin. The following February, as the refugee crisis sparked by unrest in the Middle East gripped Europe, Ai and a team of artists created a public art installation in Berlin, placing 14,000 unused life vests around the pillars of the Konzerthaus, a landmark concert hall in the German capital. Not just China But censorship exists in the West too. In 2023, Ai’s exhibition at London’s Lisson Gallery was cancelled after Ai posted and then deleted social media posts about the Hamas Israel conflict. Ai was keen to point out that recently, he was asked by Britain’s Royal Academy Magazine to write an opinion piece about artists’ ability (or lack thereof) to speak truth to power. “I submitted the article, and then I was informed that due to a reduction in the magazine’s pages, they could not publish my piece,” Ai explained. “Similar things have happened many times in the UK, where they use gentlemanly British politeness to make the most ruthless decisions.” [see box below]. The Royal Academy Magazine was asked for comment, Ai mentioned other examples of western censorship. “The global film market is now dominated by China,” he said. “There is a desire not to offend major financial backers, so most of my films are rejected by many major international film festivals.” Ai’s documentary films include Coronation (2020), which secretly filmed hospitals, homes, and quarantine sites in Wuhan, China – the first city to be hit by the global COVID-19 pandemic – and Human Flow (2017), which provided a detailed and emotional exploration of the global refugee crisis. “Everything is Art. Everything is Politics,” reads a caption in the latter film’s opening sequence. Thirty minutes later, another caption appears on the screen. “When the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, there were 11 countries around the world with border fences and walls,” it reads. “By 2016, 70 countries had built border fences and walls.” But can artists transcend borders and governments? Ai believes yes. Presently, his art is being showcased in exhibitions in New Delhi, Cambridge and Cologne. Later in the year, Ai will be staging exhibitions in Seattle, Guimarães in Portugal, and Gyeongju in South Korea, aside from a Manchester show in July 2026 called Button up! which reflects on two centuries of Chinese British relations, globalisation and interconnected power structures which cause wars and global crises. At 68, the outspoken and resilient Chinese artist shows no signs of slowing down. Undoubtedly, being a man without a country must take its toll. But there are some advantages too. “I can imagine going anywhere,” Ai said. “The earth is round, and at any latitude or longitude there is the possibility of survival.” Is this the definition of true freedom, the freedom that Ai Qing wrote about back in the 1940s? Not exactly. “Humanity’s longing for freedom, and the price it pays in pursuit of freedom, is an enduring endeavour,” Ai concluded. “But freedom is an unattainable goal.” Ai Weiwei’s book On Censorship was published by Thames and Hudson in January 2026   Truth is at the heart of all art by Ai Weiwei For an artist, speaking the truth is not optional; it is the essential quality of art itself. The very existence of art arises from an individual’s particular experience, something that cannot be replaced. Using that experience to express oneself, whether through words or images, is one of the most fundamental ways in which art exists. It is a responsibility, and it is also an obligation. For if art loses its perseverance in truth, its effort to speak true words, then it becomes like a river without water, or a field or mountain without trees – art would lose its very possibility of existing in the world. Yet in most circumstances, this is not what we see. We encounter many kinds of expression, many forms and languages, but how distant are these forms and languages from art’s essential appeal? We can say that what we usually see is the reiteration of already accepted values, without any expression that offers new possibilities, new sensibilities, or wholly individual feelings. Every artist, like every individual, knows that speaking the truth and insisting on one’s own perspective is dangerous, and may exact a heavy price. Books may go unpublished, exhibitions may be closed, concerts cancelled. We see this every day. Those who refuse to betray their conscience and insist on telling the truth are always the first to be punished. My father, as a poet, endured such punishment throughout his life. He was not an activist nor someone engaged in politics, but rather a poet in the purest sense – someone who would not, in any circumstances, betray his conscience, a man who would speak his mind without calculating gain or loss. He paid dearly for this. He was exiled for 20 years. The year I was born was the year he was exiled. I, too, became collateral, enduring the catastrophic consequences of his truth-telling. When I was growing up, I did not feel the need to speak the truth because I did not yet know what truth was. But when I reached a certain age, I began to recognise what was false. I detest falsehood to the extreme, because it alters the quality of our lives. It makes us look at our surroundings without confidence. Meanwhile, once we recognise untruth, we no longer dare to look at ourselves. Even so, speaking the truth remains difficult. First of all, language as a form of expression – or art as a form of expression – requires being seen or heard, which is a difficult process in itself. My voice was not heard or seen until I was nearly 50 years old; only then did I find my language and my manner of expression. But this language and manner of expression are not permanent. They are like a plant, and do not have an eternal lifespan. Therefore, as artists, we must continuously challenge and doubt ourselves in our understanding of truth, seeking ways to break through censorship – including self-censorship. In this process of pursuing truth, the path is strewn with thorns and full of obstacles; there is a real risk of falling into the abyss at any moment. Even so, I have paid every price required, and I am proud of that, because I am not doing it for myself but for the world we see with our own eyes, so that it may become clearer, and so that we may express ourselves with greater accuracy. An artist’s being truly exists when there is both self-awareness of the real and self-expression of the real. This “self” does not inherently exist on its own; rather, it emerges when confronted with a certain reality. Ai Weiwei is a Chinese artist whose exhibitions are held all over the world. This article was originally written for the Royal Academy magazine, but did not appear READ MORE

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This article first appeared in the Spring 2026 issue of Index on Censorship, The monster unleashed: How Hungary’s illliberal vision is…

From left to right, Diana Burkot, Taso Pletner, Mariya Vladimirovna Alyokhina, Olga Borisova and Alina Petrova, members of Pussy Riot at the Neisse Film Festival in Görlitz, Germany. Photo: Paul Glaser/dpa/Alamy This article first appeared in the Spring 2026 issue of Index on Censorship, The monster unleashed: How Hungary’s illliberal vision is seducing the Western world published on 2 April 2026.  Three years ago, I moved to Britain from my native Russia. Ten years ago, I became a member of the feminist protest and performance art group Pussy Riot. But before all that, you may be surprised to learn I was a policewoman. “Scram, quick, from here on in it only gets worse.” I heard that sort of thing a lot at the age of 18, after I started working for the Police Patrol and Checkpoint Service in St Petersburg. How did my colleagues, who had worked in the system all their lives, see me? “This young chick breezed in, wearing nail extensions and a pink puffer jacket.” How did I see myself? Inspired by the TV series Dexter, I made believe that I was Debra Morgan – a real tough cookie who kicked bad-guy butt. I wanted to be like that. When they asked me why I’d decided to “throw my life away on policing junkies and alcoholics, instead of just joining them”, I talked about justice. About protecting the public. About helping people. They answered me with a condescending pat on the shoulder. “An innocent kid,” they said. I joined an outfit that was 80% men. The older ones played at “fathers” with me and the young ones worked on polishing their pick-up skills. Dirty jokes and misogyny were the norm. If you felt uncomfortable with that, then you were in the wrong place. I became a junior sergeant, with two gold stripes on my shoulders. It seemed to me that a representative of authority should have an aura of sternness, but I didn’t have any. “Olya, you’re a cop. You’re a cop,” I used to repeat to myself. And, thanks to my theatrical past, it worked. “You are now committing a civil offence,” I would declare with supreme confidence as I approached yet another group of people drinking beer outside a metro station. You come to realise that you have a right to make demands. A right to arrest people. You represent power. The very moment when you put on your uniform and start feeling your power is when your professional deformation begins. Setting aside your own existential suffering, helping those who genuinely need your help really does bring a sense of satisfaction. But everything that this system is built on is wrong. The reforms of the noughties didn’t actually change anything. The militia became the police and the uniform changed colour from grey to navy blue, while the bureaucracy increased and remained in the hands of people with the same old worldview, who still exploit it every day to further their own interests. Borisova’s official police photo One day, after the usual “standard check”, our unit commander started finding fault with my employment record book. He claimed that I’d pulled the thread out of it myself, which was absolute nonsense – I’d simply been issued with one like that. And that wasn’t the first time he’d suddenly accused me of something. When he left, I walked under an archway with one of my colleagues and cried, because I couldn’t understand why the commander was treating me like that. You’ve probably never seen cops cry. More and more often I caught myself thinking that the one thing I was most afraid of in this life was becoming like them: hard-boiled cynics, discontented and envious. Or like my poor colleague, who never took bribes: a wretched whipping-boy, standing there soaked-through in the rain. As I snivelled under that archway, trying to light a slim cigarette with trembling fingers, my partner advised me simply to tough it out until our commander turned his attention to someone else. That answer didn’t satisfy me back then, at the age of 19. And now I understand that the real problem wasn’t that I was a girl. That causes more problems – you have to stand up for yourself – but it isn’t the root cause of everything. The real problem is the chain of power and coercion. You just put up with it all until eventually you rise high enough for the roles to be reversed. Another year would go by before I left the police. When I arrived at the base to collect my things, my unit commander – the same man who had kept picking on me, the same man who had got drunk, lost all his personal documents, including his police ID card, and ended up in a car crash – told me condescendingly: “Well now, Olya, I always knew this wasn’t your thing.” Only a few months later I would join my first demonstration. And my first protest was also an act of mourning. Politician Boris Nemtsov had been murdered only metres away from the Kremlin. He had been critical of President Vladimir Putin’s provocative aggression against Ukraine. He had been the voice of Russians who opposed war, a charismatic individual about whom I knew almost nothing. But when I saw on Twitter that this opposition politician had been shot in the centre of Moscow, I couldn’t simply stop there. I started avidly reading everything about the opposition movement in Russia. While I was gathering my documents to join the police, Pussy Riot were beaten with whips by Cossacks in Sochi. While I was trying to prove to myself that I could be a good cop, people in Russia were protesting against Putin. The number of political prisoners grew, new repressive laws were passed, opposition leader Alexei Navalny’s websites were blocked. I learned about a huge community that fought against injustice, cast light on the trials of artists, put together aid parcels for people who were arrested, organised protest demonstrations and wanted a different future for Russia. The resounding slogans “Russia without Putin!” and “Freedom for political prisoners” hung in the air everywhere; they swept right round the cities of Russia. And I really liked that. I became an activist. At the age of 21, I moved to Moscow, enthralled by the idea of doing something important together with people who thought the same way I did. I devoured news and history. I read about the war in Chechnya, about murdered civil rights activists, about terrorist attacks, about how they were starting to extinguish freedom of speech. The more I read, the more obvious it became that these tragic events are not isolated instances. They’re interconnected. This understanding gave me a strange feeling of firm ground under my feet. It didn’t make me physically stronger but it gave me a definite stance: I have the right to make a political statement. I started working with political prisoners. We provided legal aid and told them about the new political trials every day. It’s impossible not to burn out doing this kind of work – reading about torture in the prison camps, talking to the relatives of people jailed for posts on Facebook. By the time you’ve helped one, they’ve arrested another six. They say growing up means accepting the fact that the world is unjust. That injustice is part of the order of things. And the longer you resist, the more painful your fall will be. But you’re bound to fall anyway. The world is unjust, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen to your own heart. Five years went by like this. I carried on going to meetings and taking part in protests. I saw someone receiving a suspended sentence for disagreeing with the authorities as a victory or a miracle. Would you be prepared to sacrifice five years of your life for a post on the internet? More and more people left the country. The West introduced sanctions against Russia following the annexation of Crimea, but people in Europe carried on shaking Putin’s hand while in Crimea activists were being abducted. “We are deeply concerned.” Thank you. The 2018 World Cup was held in Russia. Not a single European country boycotted it. That same summer, in the Central African Republic, the forces of “Putin’s chef”, Yevgeny Prigozhin, killed a group of Russian journalists who went there to shoot a documentary about Putin’s interests in Africa. Two months later, my friend Petya Verzilov was poisoned with military nerve gas. Because he had spoiled Putin’s party by organising a protest in which he and other members of Pussy Riot ran on to the pitch during the final of the World Cup, or because he was due to fly out to the Central African Republic? I don’t know. But understanding the non-random nature of the chain of tragic events no longer provided me with a firm footing. I started envying people who weren’t interested in that. “After all, you could simply live a normal life. What can you change?” my mother said. Two years later, Navalny was poisoned with a similar toxin. It was a miracle he survived. Peering into the future of my country was more frightening than any movie. Putin started bombing Ukraine. A war began. No, that’s wrong… My country started a war. People in Kyiv slept in the metro stations with their nursing infants. Russian soldiers shot people in Bucha. Mariupol was almost totally destroyed. This was very painful and terrifying. I didn’t know how to stop it. This is how Maria Alekhina and I described it in the book we wrote, Political Girl: “Paralysis. Numbness. Fear. Numbness. Pain. Numbness. What are you called, devils? We’re called words you didn’t know before. We’re called missile strike, we’re called shelter. We are called the army of the fucking Russian Federation.” All these years we’d been saying that Putin wouldn’t stop unless we knocked him back hard. I had to accept in my heart that the point we had reached now meant this was impossible. Like many of my friends, I left the country. I bought a one-way ticket to Georgia. I didn’t have a plan but a plan found me. My friend Masha from Pussy Riot called me. She invited me to join an anti-war tour around Europe, where we would collect money for a Ukrainian hospital. At that moment she was under house arrest in Moscow, facing her second criminal charge. But she dressed up in the green uniform of a food delivery girl, escaped from the house that was surrounded by cops and got across the border. For almost three years we performed our show Riot Days – four girls in a van without any official ID, without a plan, without a home. But the shared goal of doing at least something useful before our country slithered down into fascism justified our existence. For more than two years now I’ve been glancing out of the window, trying to imbibe someone else’s sense of home. During the first year of the war there was still the casual attitude of “Well, we don’t know when it will end. Maybe the war will be over in a month”. But the moment arrived when I realised that what was happening in Russia couldn’t be ended with the signing of some document or other. That we have no future as a society if we don’t serve penance for this war, if we don’t help to restore everything that we have destroyed, if we don’t give back what we tried to seize by force. I miss my home, my parents, my friends. I remember the feel of everything in my flat. I can close my eyes and touch the tablecloth on the table in the living room, feel the coldness of the door handle in my room. In today’s Russia, to be against the war is a crime. I can’t go back home. Last year, I was sentenced in my absence to eight years in prison. If I had killed someone and I had enough money for a good lawyer, I’d probably have been given a shorter sentence. My native country is preserved in my memory as a mosaic of doors, traffic lights on familiar streets, tastes, bus stops, songs and smells. When I see blogs with streets that I know, I gaze at them for a long time, as if I’m peering through a little window at another planet I can never go to. I try not to romanticise things. The bottom line is that my country chewed me up and spat me out. The world is unjust, it’s true. But that doesn’t absolve you from the need to make a choice. I don’t regret a single decision I’ve made. I’m at liberty. I don’t have to engage in self-censorship. I can carry on working and speaking out. It’s not a matter of victory. I haven’t won any victory. But I didn’t submit, and that is enough. Translated from Russian by Andrew Bromfield READ MORE

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This article first appeared in the Spring 2026 issue of Index on Censorship, The monster unleashed: How Hungary’s illliberal vision is…

People attend the funeral of Lebanese journalist Amal Khalil in Baissariyeh, Lebanon, April 23, 2026. Photo: AAli Hashisho/Xinhua/Alamy This Sunday is World Press Freedom Day. Like International Women’s Day, every day should really be World Press Freedom Day. Journalists are powerful watchdogs and protecting them should be a baseline requirement for a free society. But given how woeful the state of media freedom is right now – the number of murdered journalists being at a record high – a day of focus is clearly much needed. So too is a monument. The UK will have its first one dedicated to journalists killed in conflict zones next year, the design of which has just been revealed. Former Index trustee Sarah Sands spoke to us about it. Meanwhile, the Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ), run by Jodie Ginsberg who used to to work at Index, is calling for an independent global body to support investigations into attacks on the media. Veteran foreign correspondent Christina Lamb echoed these calls, speaking days after Lebanese journalist Amal Khalil was killed in an Israeli airstrike. That there are many people working hard to address the dire situation is welcome. At Index these threats impact us on several levels. They feed into our campaigning programmes, while the editorial team work with people very much at the coal face. I joined the organisation in 2017 and one of the first articles I edited featured an interview with a Mexican journalist called Javier Valdez. A few months later Valdez was dead, shot 12 times by an unidentified gunman in broad daylight. That same year, and for several years after, I was in regular email correspondence with Andrei Aleksandrau, a former Index colleague and journalist from Belarus. In 2021 he was arrested in Minsk. A year later, another one of our contributors, Larysa Shchyrakova, was arrested. Fortunately Shchyrakova is out of jail and you can read about her experiences here. Aleksandrau is still being held. We also published Victoria Roschyna from Ukraine who was killed in 2024. I could list many similar examples, suffice to say the Index archive is a treasure trove, but it’s also a space where the words of the murdered and the wrongfully detained stand still, ossified, a sad and damning testament to the perils of simply observing. As I said, World Press Freedom Day should be every day and we work on media freedom issues 24/7. Still, we have commissioned a trilogy of pieces this week with the date in mind: Oren Persico writes from Israel on the media ecosystem there; Nedim Turfent, a former political prisoner in Turkey, talks about the threats directed at exiled media in Europe; and Dahlia Kholaif speaks to people on the ground in the Gulf about how the Iran war has amplified the ugly authoritarian reality of these states. Are journalists the canary in the coalmine, the first to be attacked during a democratic backslide? Perhaps, though I’ve heard artists and minority groups claim the same. What’s true is that journalists are the much needed fourth estate. They are a vital check on governments and the powerful. Journalists risk their lives to inform ordinary citizens about what is happening – and they’re now under unprecedented attack around the world. That fact should shame us all. READ MORE

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This Sunday is World Press Freedom Day. Like International Women’s Day, every day should really be World Press Freedom Day.…

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