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.

The UK plans to ban under 16s from accessing social media. Photo: Nick Fancher/Unsplash The UK government has announced a ban on social media for under-16s and then some kind of social media curfew at night for children between 17 and 18. I’m pretty sympathetic to the idea that we need to hold social media companies to account for children and young people’s unfettered access to the kind of content that would be pretty bad for me as an adult if I sought it out. I know of young teenagers who have been lured into sending nude pictures to a sexy “woman” online and then told the images will be sent to all their friends unless they hand over a lot of money. And anorexic girls who find others online to compare what food they have eaten and how to outwit the doctors and parents who are trying to help them. And 14-year-old boys who are pushed vile misogynistic content from the manosphere because the algorithm has identified them as being just that, a 14-year-old boy. Most young people will have seen hardcore violent porn – stuff that my generation couldn’t have even accessed in licensed porn shops – by the age of 11 or 12. At one time a few years ago, kids regularly shared videos of beheadings in the playground. When we carried out research for our Gen Z themed issue last year, many young people said they had seen the video footage of Charlie Kirk being shot. But ban children from most social media platforms altogether? What is their right to free expression? YouTube can push you manosphere videos, but many young people use YouTube to learn: from understanding maths to grasping complicated concepts. This is important in general and especially important for dyslexic kids who have problems reading, or for children from poorer households without books. Social media – often a gateway to the internet more broadly – can open up a world that as a teenager you might never experience at home: music, books and culture. Social media often gives people the words to describe how they feel and who they are. Instagram is just as much a place to share dance routines and comedy sketches as it is to learn about politics and news. Social media is a place of protest too, and yes, even for the under-18s. We didn’t object to the revelation that youth revolts against an elderly oligarchy in Nepal were organised via the gaming site Discord, and that a viral video of a schoolboy kicked them off. In 2026 digital rights are a central part of freedom of expression, not just an add-on, and freedom of expression is not just something you get as a grown-up. This is before we consider whether a social media ban is possible. It undoubtedly isn’t. Australia which introduced a ban (although not on YouTube, gaming sites or education sites) has shown us that young people and families can very well circumvent it. At least 60% of young people are still on social media, including on many much less regulated than sites like Snapchat. VPNs make it easier to bypass all national regulation. We use VPNs at Index as an extra layer of security and privacy and we acknowledge the crucial role they play in authoritarian states. Do we want the government to ban them too – or fine children’s parents if they let them use them? How the hell do you police a curfew for 17 to 18 year olds anyway? Will neighbours report young people hanging around the streets after 9pm on their phones? Governments who introduce policies they know won’t work just discredit themselves. The thing that shocked me most about Prime Minister Keir Starmer’s announcement was that there was no mention of the trade-offs between a social media ban and free expression as if it simply wasn’t an issue. No reassurance that the government wouldn’t decide at some stage that the ban on social media and gaming might extend to adults taking part in perfectly legitimate behaviour which the government might disapprove of. Or an admission that the government itself uses social media sites freely to push its own messages (including the latest announcement). In many ways, the government’s ban on social media for children feels like an evasion. The government doesn’t want to address the deep problems social media causes for all of us: that X is a platform run by a US-based trillionaire, Elon Musk, who wants to use it to influence our national politics. Or that Mark Zuckerberg talks a good free speech game but his company, Meta, is trying to suppress a book, Sarah Wynn Williams’ Careless People, about how the company operates. Or that extremist views and racist conspiracy theories – including from bad actors which ban social media in their own countries –  are being used to cause deep societal divisions and bring huge financial rewards for the social media companies themselves. That’s before we even talk about tax evasion and the way our data (and our children’s data) is being monetised.  How social media platforms operate is untransparent, complicated and changing all the time. How children are affected – or not – is doubly complicated. Platforms have vast computing resources – and could be regulated by government to be more transparent about the way they operate without affecting free expression. Then we might all be able to decide democratically what sort of a society we want online –  for us and our children. My kids, now in their 20s, grew up in the current atmosphere. Their generation distrust many things they read online, share tips on how to avoid scams and go on regular detoxes from social media so they don’t endlessly scroll. They have vast networks of real friends online but are increasingly trying to do more things IRL (in real life). They are incredibly lucky to be living in a liberal democracy, which mostly doesn’t restrict access to social media and where the internet has opened up their minds to untold possibilities and ideas. In China, social media is accessed through government-monitored websites centred round WeChat: every interaction can be seen by the censors if they choose to. VPNs regularly get blocked. Russia is tightening its grip on cyber space and people often find the internet has been taken down by the security services. It’s a similar story in Iran, which is just coming out of a months-long internet blockade. And in these countries and others, we regularly hear of people who comment or like a social media post from a person or organisation the government doesn’t like and end up in prison or worse. It would be hyperbolic at this stage to suggest the UK is moving in the direction of China, Russia and Iran. But nor should we downplay what a paternalistic move this is. It bypasses the benefits of the internet for children without actually tackling the risks. The internet, when it started, opened up a world of free expression. Today governments should be thinking about how to protect that right to free expression for everyone including young people, not issuing unenforceable bans that will ultimately punish teenagers and their parents –  and which ministers know won’t work. Perhaps the Prime Minister and his cabinet should be looking a little carefully at the older generation’s behaviour. Recent US research showed that it is the over 65s who are most likely to spread misinformation and fake news online. Or is this the next step? Remove the internet from the teens, next the boomers and then all of us.   READ MORE

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The UK government has announced a ban on social media for under-16s and then some kind of social media curfew…

Photo: Fauzan Saari/Unsplash George Orwell didn’t mince his words when it came to international sporting events. In 1945, following Dynamo Moscow’s draw with Chelsea FC – a result that delighted Joseph Stalin – Orwell described such fixtures as “mimic warfare” and “orgies of hate”. Football fans will no doubt take issue with Orwell, arguing that the beautiful game is just as unifying as it is divisive and I’ll admit to a soft spot for a major tournament. But as with all things Orwell, the man has a point. Today the 2026 World Cup begins, hosted between the USA, Canada and Mexico. Players and referees have already been denied entry to the USA in a sign that the Trump administration’s immigration policy impacts everyone. This isn’t really a free speech issue, but it speaks to a broader chill around immigration, that has also targeted people on the basis of their speech. Organisations that campaign for media freedom are worried. The Press Freedom Tracker has expressed concerns about the role of ICE agents during the tournament and how journalists may be detained for less than favourable reporting. The Committee to Protect Journalists (CPJ) have issued guidance for foreign reporters in the country too. Seeing this, a friend of mine, a former Moscow correspondent, noted that the advice was strikingly reminiscent of guidance issued during the 2018 World Cup in Vladimir Putin’s Russia. Your average sports correspondent may not have a problem. Football is fairly safe to report on if you stick to what’s happening on the pitch. It does though become more dangerous once you probe beneath. Speak to journalists behind Football Leaks, a cross-border investigation that revealed “how agents, intermediaries and club officials are perverting sporting ethics and tax regulations to maximise their access to the riches generated from football, at the expense of the quality of the game, the development of talent and the wishes of the fans”. Getting the stories out as part of this investigation was riddled with risk. It makes sense. We know the rich and powerful abuse legal systems and professional football is a game of the rich and powerful. Of more immediate concern are the stories beyond the fixtures, the ones that curious journalists may understandably want to pursue once on the ground in the three countries. While media freedom in Canada remains high, it’s far more fragile in the USA and even more so in Mexico. I’ve heard reports of walls being erected and banners deployed to conceal poverty and urban decay in Mexico. As the nation tries to put its best foot forward, in every sense, will they want reporters snapping away at this? But it’s not all bad. Teachers in Mexico are protesting near the World Cup stadium in an attempt to use this sensitive moment to push through a pay rise. They may very well succeed and the president, Claudia Sheinbaum, has apparently ruled out a heavy-handed response, presumably in part concerned about the current global spotlight. This is far from the grotesque sportswashing exercise of Qatar 2022, a tournament “built on the corpses of migrant workers and the stolen wealth of the Qatari people”, and as a Qatari human rights activist wrote for us at the time. READ MORE

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George Orwell didn’t mince his words when it came to international sporting events. In 1945, following Dynamo Moscow’s draw with…

President Donald Trump and FIFA President Gianni Infantino at the White House for the World Cup 2025 draw. Photo: White House “We don’t live on the moon, we live on planet Earth. We have to respect that we are not kings of the world, who can rule over governments and police forces.” These were the words of FIFA president Gianni Infantino at a press conference ahead of the World Cup which has started this week. Infantino was responding to criticism of FIFA’s organisation of football’s greatest tournament, which is being held in the USA, Mexico and Canada. Historically, FIFA has sought to present football as neutral territory, distant from ideological and partisan disputes. The World Cup started out as a symbol of global unity, a celebration of diversity, dialogue between cultures, and football’s ability to bring people together in an increasingly polarised world. However, neutrality can also be interpreted as a way of silencing certain debates. Whenever the organisation decides to limit the free expression of athletes, fans, or host cities, accusations arise that it is privileging a specific view of what can or cannot be said within the sporting environment. The World Cup of today is a money-making juggernaut. The 2026 event is likely to see $11.5 billion pour into FIFA’s coffers and questions over the organisation’s propriety are never far away. As the tournament begins, a series of events has highlighted a debate that goes far beyond the pitch: to what extent is freedom of expression being respected at the world’s biggest sporting event and how much influence do the host countries have in who can do or say what? One of the highest profile incidents related to Somali referee Omar Artan. Selected to officiate at the World Cup, Artan would have become the first Somali referee to participate in the tournament. However, he was not allowed entry into the USA by immigration authorities, preventing his participation in the competition. Somalia is one of the many countries on a travel ban list issued by Trump’s government. The referee’s banning provoked an international reaction and was met with indignation in his country of origin, where the referee was treated as a hero upon his return. Addressing crowds in Mogadishu on his return, Artan said, “Somalia belongs to all of us. Whether times are good or difficult, I want to tell our youth not to lose hope in our country.” For many observers, the case symbolised the conflict between the sometimes harsh immigration policies of individual countries and the principles of universality that should guide a global event like the World Cup. While governments have the sovereign right to control their borders, critics argue that preventing the presence of professionals accredited by FIFA itself contradicts the spirit of inclusion that the organisation claims to uphold. The participation of Iran, at war with the USA, is also proving a tricky challenge for FIFA. The Iranian Football Federation reported problems involving fans who had bought tickets for World Cup matches but subsequently had their travel permits revoked or faced obstacles entering the host country. The federation said: “This incident raises serious questions about the influence of non-sporting and political considerations on the organisation of the world’s biggest football event.” In a tournament presented as a global celebration, the possibility that political and diplomatic factors could interfere with fan attendance has reignited concerns about indirect discrimination. The issue is not just about the right to watch a match. Modern football is also a space for cultural expression and collective identity. When certain groups face additional barriers to attend the event, it seems the voices of some fans are considered to be worth listening to more than others. The challenges of running a global event with participation from countries with vastly differing social attitudes is also a prickly problem for FIFA. Seattle is one of the host cities of the competition and six matches will be played at the city’s main stadium. As the tournament coincides with Pride month, one of the matches – between Egypt and Iran – has been designated a Pride match. Seattle’s mayor-elect Kate Wilson wrote on Instagram, “With matches on Juneteenth and Pride, we get to show the world that in Seattle, everyone is welcome…What an incredible honor!” Iran and Egypt are not quite so impressed. Homosexuality is banned in Iran with LGBTQ+ individuals sometimes facing the death penalty. It is not explicitly banned in Egypt but people are frequently detained and prosecuted under morality laws. The Egyptian football federation made an official complaint, saying it “categorically rejects the holding of any activities related to supporting homosexuality”. The Iranians chipped in, saying, “It is an unreasonable and illogical thing [for a match between the two teams] to support a specific group.” The episode laid bare another challenge faced by FIFA in the 21st century: how to reconcile profoundly different cultures, beliefs, and worldviews within the same event? In a globalised environment, what for some represents a legitimate expression of identity may be seen by others as an inappropriate political message. The line separating individual expression and political positioning becomes increasingly difficult to define. Infantino has tried to shrug off the criticism of these items as well as absurdly high ticket prices (despite which more than six million tickets have been sold). At the pre-tournament press conference Infantino called on fans to “chill and relax” in face of the problems faced by some. He also stated that he should be given credit for Iran being allowed to participate at all, given the USA is at war with the country. Infantino’s supporters believe that the leader seeks to prevent external issues from dominating the World Cup narrative, his critics argue that this stance ignores legitimate problems related to rights, inclusion, and transparency. Interestingly, these controversies contrast with the institutional message promoted by FIFA itself. On several occasions, Infantino has highlighted football’s role as a tool for peace and international dialogue. The organisation frequently emphasises that the sport has the unique ability to unite people regardless of nationality, religion, origin, or political stance. However, recent events demonstrate how complex this mission becomes when confronted with migration policies, diplomatic interests, and cultural disputes. Another important aspect of the debate involves the press. Major sporting events usually attract journalists from all over the world, responsible not only for covering the matches, but also for investigating social, economic, and political issues related to the tournament. Press freedom organisations warn that access to information and the possibility of reporting on sensitive topics without restrictions are fundamental elements for ensuring transparency. When certain issues generate discomfort for governments or organisers, the risk of indirect pressure on journalistic coverage arises. The 2026 World Cup demonstrates that discussions about censorship and freedom of expression are no longer limited to the explicit prohibition of speech. Today, they appear in more subtle issues: who is authorised to enter the country, what symbols are allowed in stadiums, what demonstrations are considered acceptable, and what topics can be discussed without generating reprisals. In a world marked by geopolitical tensions, debates about identity, and security concerns, the promise of a football capable of uniting all peoples is put to the test. The 2026 World Cup will be remembered for the goals, the misses and the champions. But it may also be remembered as a milestone in an increasingly relevant discussion: how to balance security, diversity, and freedom of expression in a truly global event. The answer to this question may be as important for the future of football as any result achieved on the field. READ MORE

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“We don’t live on the moon, we live on planet Earth. We have to respect that we are not kings…

An Afghan teacher. Photo: Yunus Tuğ/Unsplash+ I was sitting in the staffroom of the school where I teach. It was a hot afternoon, and the weather made everything feel heavier. The room was small and crowded, with furniture pushed tightly against the walls as if it had been forced into place years ago and never moved again. Beside me stood an old grey metal cupboard where we kept our daily lesson plans. Its doors were stiff and heavy, and sometimes we had to push hard just to open it properly. The room had only one window. Because the building was above the second floor, the window had been built high into the wall according to local customs, so people could not easily look into their neighbours’ homes. From where I sat beside the cupboard, I could glimpse the sky. It was pale blue mixed with grey, but the sunlight spread across it so harshly that it almost looked white. The brightness felt distant, as if it belonged to another world outside the room. Beside me sat Basira, one of my colleagues who had studied architectural engineering at university. Sometimes she looked at that window and spoke about the years she had spent drawing designs and construction plans, believing she was building a future for herself. She once told me that architecture had taught her to think about light, openness and possibility. Now she sat in a room where even the architecture carried silence and limitation. It was a private school, because that was the only place I could find work. In Afghanistan, private schools are usually attended by the children of businessmen, powerful families and those who can afford better educational opportunities. I studied in a public school myself and I have always believed that education does not depend entirely on the type of school someone attends, but on the determination and enthusiasm of the student. But when I went looking for a job, my opportunities were restricted. After the Taliban came to power in Afghanistan, women were stopped from teaching boys over the age of seven, and girls over the age of 11. Many high school teachers lost their jobs, their profession, their source of independence, stability and participation in society. Some of them moved down to teach at primary school. At the same time, women from other professions, like Basira, went into teaching because it was the only job open to them. The result is that a private school in Kabul or Mazar has an infinite supply of highly qualified women teachers and can treat them as badly as they like. We live under threat. As one of my colleagues said to me once: “Bring a knife and kill us instead. How can we live after being fired with no future and no place in society?” A simple example: laptops. I was expected to bring my own – but I did not have one. This article is typed on a phone. I use my phone for my lesson plans and everything else. But even our phones had to stay hidden most of the time because teachers were not supposed to use them openly during school hours. The administration believed phones distracted teachers from teaching and worried they would spend time scrolling through social media instead of focusing on students. Cameras were installed in every classroom and hallway, and teachers were constantly watched by the school administration. At break, 17 teachers shared the staffroom. Now, four were outside supervising students during the break, while the rest of us squeezed together wherever we could find space. Sometimes we sat so close it felt as if we were sitting in each other’s laps. Beside me sat Freshta, who had studied English literature and spent two years studying nursing before her education was interrupted. She had dreamed of becoming a doctor, but now she taught Oxford Science to young children in a private school. I was studying medicine myself, carrying my own unfinished hopes quietly beside me each day. Across the room sat Yalda, who had studied law and imagined a future in the courts, before the Taliban returned. Teaching was never supposed to be her life. Susan was one of the few who truly loved teaching. She studied mathematics and taught the Afghan curriculum, while I taught Oxford mathematics, which was slightly more advanced. But even Susan was easily replaceable. Our headteacher often spoke of our students studying for their future, but all the time his teachers were learning how temporary they were. Sometimes the worry of losing this last remaining job reminded me of The Metamorphosis, where Gregor worries about work even after turning into an insect. When it comes down to it, people care less about who leaves than about who can still be useful. Across the room one of our middle-aged teachers, Ustad Ziba, was struggling. She suffers from heart problems and finds it difficult to breathe while teaching in a mask. One of her hands constantly pulls the mask down and pushes it back up again as she gasps for air. We thought we were lucky to be in a school where, after much discussion, women teachers were not required to wear the full burqa inside. Instead, we wear a hijab, a headscarf that covers a woman’s hair, neck, shoulders and sometimes the chest, so that not even a single strand of hair is visible. It is worn with a long, loose dress that covers the entire body. In addition, all teachers wear a medical face mask, which covers the nose and mouth. On hot days though, even this lighter face covering is restrictive. Before these rules, long dresses were my favourite clothes. But after they became mandatory, my feelings changed. Whenever I wear them now, I feel as if I am tied with ropes. As I walk, I am constantly afraid of slipping because the long skirt sometimes gets stuck under my feet. When I move around the classroom while teaching, I often think, “What if I suddenly fall in front of my students?” Even simple movements no longer feel natural or comfortable. I was eating a biscuit with a glass of green tea when our male headteacher, a man around 37 years old, came in. In school, he wears local Afghan clothes because in formal workplaces it has become compulsory for men as well as women. Today, he was wearing a long tunic (perahan), loose trousers (tunban) and a long outer coat. No face mask for him though. I could see his kind, anxious face. Our headteacher is an educated man and has two daughters. From the time he started at our school he has always spoken to us in a calm and respectful way. Unlike many others, he did not seem happy about the restrictions placed on women. I felt that he understood our struggles, even if he could not openly speak against the rules. He was part of the school administration, but always afraid that Taliban officials might suddenly arrive without warning to inspect the building. It was always a shocking event: dusty white pick-up trucks would roll up,  armed men sitting in the front. The back opened onto a space for carrying groups of fighters. Truckloads of dust and fear. They would enter our school without even asking permission from the administration, park their vehicles outside the gates and step out with guns hanging from their shoulders. They’d walk through the corridors as if they were searching for a fugitive or someone who had committed a terrible crime. Their radios crackled in their hands while teachers and children lowered their eyes and became silent. Even before they spoke, terror spread through the building. That day, the headteacher told us about something he had heard the day before. A woman walking beside her husband in the market had been stopped because her mask was not covering her face properly. As he spoke, I imagined the scene clearly in my mind. In many provinces, women are beaten with whips by the morality police. This time though he said there were also female workers with the Taliban patrol. They surrounded the woman in the crowded market while male officers stood nearby watching. The woman resisted, perhaps only by trying to protect herself or pull her veil closer around her face, and then the female officers were ordered to beat her. Afterward, they grabbed her by the arms and pulled her toward the waiting vehicle to take her away. All the people watched silently, as if a film scene were unfolding in front of them, yet no one dared to speak. Fear held every voice down. I imagined the dirt roads of the market, the carriages and carts parked around the crowded streets, and the salesmen with tired faces standing helplessly behind their vegetables and goods. Dust hung in the hot air while the woman was dragged away, and everyone pretended not to see because in that moment even looking too long could be dangerous. He lowered his gaze and looked down. There was a kind of silent shame on his face, a silence that many men in Afghanistan seem to carry when they witness these restrictions, but cannot openly oppose them.  The weight of it all bore down on the room. We teachers looked at each other. Yalda pressed her mask tighter against her face, as if trying to disappear into it. Freshta looked down, as if she was searching on the floor for the lost sparkles in her eyes. I stopped eating my biscuit. For a few seconds, no one spoke. The silence was so deep that it felt like even breathing had become louder than usual. The headteacher said: “Dear teachers, your dignity is more important than anything to us. We don’t want any of you to be beaten or arrested on the excuse that you are wearing makeup, using nail polish or not properly covering your face and body.” After that, he left the room. But the heaviness of his words, and the heaviness of these rules, stayed in the room. At that moment something inside me tightened. The room felt even smaller. I looked away and stayed silent. I thought about all the years I had spent studying and working for a future I believed in. I had worked so hard to become someone. Yet now, even the smallest choices, how I dressed, whether I covered my face with a mask on a hot afternoon, no longer belonged to me. I realised that I wanted to scream. Not just a sound, something deeper. I wanted to scream that I exist. That I am a human being. That I have thoughts and a heart and a voice. But the scream did not come out. It stayed inside my throat like a stone that I could not swallow or remove. I wiped my tears before anyone could notice. Outside, life continued as normal. Inside us, something had already changed, even if nothing around us did. I can still feel that scream now. I’m putting it here. Rahmati is a 24-year-old and lives in Kabul, Afghanistan. She had been studying at Kabul University for two years, but her education was stopped. She currently works in education and writes under a pen name for her safety. Some personal details have been adjusted to protect her identity and her family. This story is very personal to her. It reflects the emotional reality of living under restrictions and the silence experienced by many Afghan women. Writing has become her only way to express what cannot be safely spoken in daily life. She hopes that, through publication, these experiences will be seen and understood by a wider audience. READ MORE

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I was sitting in the staffroom of the school where I teach. It was a hot afternoon, and the weather…

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