foreignpolicy--2020-07-21--For Sri Lankan Refugees, a Free and Fair Australia Is a Myth

For Sri Lankan Refugees , a Free and Fair Australia Is a Myth Adiga is no stranger to debates on exoticism .
He intended his debut novel to render the Indian underclass visible .
Instead , some critics slammed his Man Booker Prize-winning The White Tiger for employing an unconvincing title character and upholding Western fetishes about a “ Dark ” India .
Amnesty is set in Australia—and it is less about what migrants run from and more about what they run to .
The pressure to belong to a host country often overwhelms a migrant ’ s need to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for Dhananjaya , who narrates his story to an imaginary Australian audience and sheds his birth name for “ Danny ” —an insight , perhaps , into how assimilation pressures in host countries can become the dominant driver of migrants ’ new identities .
After a state-condoned pogrom in 1983 in which thousands of Tamils were killed , waves of Sri Lankan Tamil migrants left to Australia fearing for their safety .
They continued to leave during the 26-year civil war that followed .
In 2012—which is around the time Danny , the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was the largest source of boat arrivals to Australia .
Even though many claimants provided evidence of torture , Australia accepted only 11.6 percent of applicants , deporting about 37 percent on the basis of a single interview .
In the years since , debates about why Sri Lankan Tamils migrate have been highly politicized .
Over the last decade , both the Sri Lankan and Australian governments claimed—despite reams of evidence to the contrary—that Sri Lanka ’ s asylum-seekers were economic migrants and , by implication , that they are not victims @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Australia passed the racist Immigration Restriction Act , also known as the White Australia policy .
This legislation prohibited non-European migration and even deported so-called “ undesirable ” migrants already in the country .
Adiga—himself a South Asian born immigrant to Australia—knows this history .
In Amnesty , the Sri Lankan guests of a rich Tamil Australian doctor ask : “ Wasn ’ t Australia thick with racists , though ?
… Don ’ t they have a law called the White Australia law ?
” Over time , the Australian government recognized @ @ @ @ @ @ @ And so the White Australia policy became less restrictive on racial grounds—letting in British migrants , then “ beautiful Balts , ” and from the late 1940s select temporary migrants from Asia and the Middle East.These migrants—documented , skilled , and beneficial to the Australian economy—often have very different experiences from asylum-seekers or unskilled migrants .
These early migrants to Australia still had to be fair-skinned and fit Australian aesthetic ideals .
In 1947 , the English-speaking Burghers ( an ethnic group in Sri Lanka descended from European settlers and Sri Lankans who @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ancestry made them suitable migrants .
Waves of Burgher families migrated to Australia when the Sri Lankan government passed an act that discriminated against non-Sinhala speakers , including Tamils and Burghers , in 1956 .
Skilled professionals , Sinhalese and Tamil , also began migrating for employment in the 1980s as ethnic fractures in Sri Lanka began to deepen .
But these migrants—documented , skilled , and beneficial to the Australian economy—often have very different experiences from asylum-seekers or unskilled migrants .
Indeed , some blue-collar Sri Lankan migrants earn less than a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ are health professionals .
Adiga is sensitive to such differences in opportunity .
In Amnesty , he writes , “ rich Asians and poor Asians don ’ t seem to talk a lot to each other.
” While such divisions—which in some ways replicate class inequality in Sri Lanka—are not revelatory , Adiga also demonstrates how a lack of solidarity between these groups can leave both susceptible to exploitation along racial lines .
Danny is both a political migrant— “ a victim of state torture ” —and an economic migrant .
He is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tamil emigre who now owns a mansion with a private tennis court and pool .
But he also migrates because of noneconomic factors : a “ menacing ” Sri Lankan government , pervasive violence in his hometown , and victim-blaming—Danny ’ s father doesn ’ t believe he was tortured .
Approximately 4,500 Sri Lankan asylum-seekers arrived in Australia by boat between 2009 and 2013 , after the bloody end of the conflict .
Like these migrants , Danny also considers getting to Australia by boat .
The route is not safe , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and in detention .
Indeed , over the last 20 years , over 2,000 people died trying to reach Australian shores .
Since he has enough savings , Danny decides against it .
He chooses instead to enroll in an Australian technical institute , believing he can apply for refugee status upon arrival .
The illusion of a fair Australia is a recurrent theme in Amnesty .
Danny ’ s ambivalence about Australia morphs into cynicism about individual activists attempting to resist systemic injustice .
Some , Danny recognizes , are simply virtue @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ineffective , Danny decides , as their stakes in reform are so low : “ hundreds in the street will hold up signs for you … but in the end , they ’ ll go home , and you will be deported.
” Those activists who are citizens enjoy a political economy thriving on the exploitation of undocumented migrants—they eat food produced via migrant labor on farms and enjoy houses kept clean by inexpensive migrant work .
For the undocumented migrant , who has given up hope and to whom reform appears impossible @ @ @ @ @ @ @ even complicit—it only props up the deceitful image of a fair Australia.Those activists who are citizens enjoy a political economy thriving on the exploitation of undocumented migrants .
In the end , Danny doesn ’ t apply to change his visa status—presumably daunted by the inhumane conditions under which Australia detains its asylum-seekers , leading to frequent self-harm attempts .
( Asylum seekers in detention are 200 times more likely to self-harm compared to the average Australian ; Since 2000 , at least 12 individuals hoping to migrate to Australia were suspected to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ . )
He observes , “ People will eat nails , and drink things , and cut their wrists to get out.
” Instead he returns to his technical college .
But even here , he finds , “ White people were cheating foreigners , and foreigners were cheating white people.
” It turns out he has enrolled in a diploma mill , a billion-dollar global industry .
International students pay fees .
They receive diplomas , employment , and , in Australia , a backdoor to permanent residency .
In the real @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s second-largest export ( after minerals ) .
But credential fraud has tarnished the reputation of the sector .
Indeed , the owner of a multimillion-dollar “ ghost college ” was arrested as recently as 2015 .
Adiga highlights the hypocrisy of such schemes .
On the one hand , international student tuition bolsters the Australian economy .
If international students work part time , they pay income taxes .
On the other hand , these students are not eligible for Medicare ( the Australian national health insurance scheme that is funded @ @ @ @ @ @ @ welfare benefits .
When the recent coronavirus pandemic hit , international students were asked to return to their home countries , because the Australian government wouldn ’ t support them .
In the novel , Danny drops out of the technical college .
Ignorant of the law , he then overstays his student visa .
Now , neither a legal resident nor an asylum-seeker , he finds himself “ an illegal ’ s illegal.
” He is trapped in his own “ custom-made cell , ” and there is “ no one to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ one to represent [ him ] in court.
” The dark irony of Amnesty is that although Danny covets the ostensibly “ blind and fair ” nature of the Australian legal system , he spends a great deal of time being hunted down by it .
In Sydney , he seeks refuge in the company of other undocumented immigrants .
His shield is the invisibility of the working class— “ I ’ m just the brown man working at the back of the store ” — and he takes refuge in the company @ @ @ @ @ @ @ homeless Australians he observes sheltering underneath a bridge .
Despite his cynicism , Danny forms a friendship with a well-off Indian couple : Radha and Prakash .
Radha is married to an unnamed white man ( sometimes referred to as the “ top-top man ” ) who is invisible , powerful , and controlling .
The nonwhite characters tread carefully around this individual .
Unknown to her wealthy husband , Radha sleeps with Prakash in her various apartments , and Danny is hired to clean up afterward .
When Radha is murdered—the murderer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ suspense—Danny suspects Prakash may be responsible .
The reader is also left to wonder what hand the “ top-top man ” —a symbol of an oppressive and omnipresent whiteness—has played in the crime.As an invisible spectator , Danny begins to see how well-to-do migrants themselves contribute to an exclusionary Australia .
Danny knows that sharing any information about Prakash ’ s relationship with Radha may result in his own discovery and deportation .
Australian law is “ this object of wonder , this incorruptible thing , the blondest animal in Australia , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ nature , it is “ fairer , much fairer ” than in Sri Lanka , where “ the law [ is ] a burning cigarette on your forearm.
” That is enough motivation to avoid risking deportation .
At some point , the suspected murderer ( Prakash ) and the undocumented immigrant ( Danny ) , who both face potential detention , become entrapped in a prisoner ’ s dilemma : If Danny speaks out , Prakash could be imprisoned for murder ; if Prakash speaks out in turn , Danny could be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in Prakash .
( “ This is all that Prakash is today , an instinct to survive.
” ) He discerns that any brown man is an easy target to pin a crime on .
He begins to empathize with Prakash , another South Asian being hunted down by the law .
There is perhaps even solidarity between the two : Both live in “ a city and a civilization built on the principle of the exclusion of men and women who were not white.
” Such knowledge , Adiga reminds us , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to the presence of another .
This is Adiga ’ s literary triumph .
He creates a rivalry and a false equivalence between two men who are both criminals in the eyes of the law—the murderer who is a citizen and the undocumented immigrant whose only crime was overstaying a visa .
Both may face similar outcomes under Australian law despite committing incomparable transgressions .
Like Danny once did , such asylum-seekers may still believe in the romantic image of Australia —diverse , open , and fair—sustained in part by skilled immigrants of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the country ’ s economy .
Like post-migration Danny , they too will find that a fair Australia is an illusion—a myth that masks deeply entrenched systems of exclusion .

Batticaloa, Sri Lanka, is home to singing fish and mermaids. That’s the kind of story you can find on travel websites. You can also find these exotic legends in Aravind Adiga’s new murder mystery, Amnesty—whose protagonist, Dhananjaya Rajaratnam, is an undocumented Sri Lankan Tamil in Australia with a tortured past.
Batticaloa, Sri Lanka, is home to singing fish and mermaids. That’s the kind of story you can find on travel websites. You can also find these exotic legends in Aravind Adiga’s new murder mystery, Amnesty—whose protagonist, Dhananjaya Rajaratnam, is an undocumented Sri Lankan Tamil in Australia with a tortured past.
Adiga is no stranger to debates on exoticism. He intended his debut novel to render the Indian underclass visible. Instead, some critics slammed his Man Booker Prize-winning The White Tiger for employing an unconvincing title character and upholding Western fetishes about a “Dark” India. Amnesty is set in Australia—and it is less about what migrants run from and more about what they run to.
Amnesty, Aravind Adiga, Simon & Schuster, 272 pp., , February 2020
The pressure to belong to a host country often overwhelms a migrant’s need to examine the past. This is true for Dhananjaya, who narrates his story to an imaginary Australian audience and sheds his birth name for “Danny”—an insight, perhaps, into how assimilation pressures in host countries can become the dominant driver of migrants’ new identities.
After a state-condoned pogrom in 1983 in which thousands of Tamils were killed, waves of Sri Lankan Tamil migrants left to Australia fearing for their safety. They continued to leave during the 26-year civil war that followed. In 2012—which is around the time Danny, the novel’s protagonist, migrated—Sri Lanka was the largest source of boat arrivals to Australia. Even though many claimants provided evidence of torture, Australia accepted only 11.6 percent of applicants, deporting about 37 percent on the basis of a single interview.
In the years since, debates about why Sri Lankan Tamils migrate have been highly politicized. Over the last decade, both the Sri Lankan and Australian governments claimed—despite reams of evidence to the contrary—that Sri Lanka’s asylum-seekers were economic migrants and, by implication, that they are not victims of political violence.
Sri Lankan migration to Australia has a long history. Before 1870, few individuals moved between the two British colonies. The first sizable movements occurred between 1870 and 1900, when approximately 500 Sri Lankans migrated to Australia to work on sugar plantations.
In 1901, Australia passed the racist Immigration Restriction Act, also known as the White Australia policy. This legislation prohibited non-European migration and even deported so-called “undesirable” migrants already in the country. Adiga—himself a South Asian born immigrant to Australia—knows this history. In Amnesty, the Sri Lankan guests of a rich Tamil Australian doctor ask: “Wasn’t Australia thick with racists, though? … Don’t they have a law called the White Australia law?” Over time, the Australian government recognized it needed to populate or perish. And so the White Australia policy became less restrictive on racial grounds—letting in British migrants, then “beautiful Balts,” and from the late 1940s select temporary migrants from Asia and the Middle East.These migrants—documented, skilled, and beneficial to the Australian economy—often have very different experiences from asylum-seekers or unskilled migrants.
These early migrants to Australia still had to be fair-skinned and fit Australian aesthetic ideals. In 1947, the English-speaking Burghers (an ethnic group in Sri Lanka descended from European settlers and Sri Lankans who had relationships) claimed that their European ancestry made them suitable migrants. Waves of Burgher families migrated to Australia when the Sri Lankan government passed an act that discriminated against non-Sinhala speakers, including Tamils and Burghers, in 1956.
Skilled professionals, Sinhalese and Tamil, also began migrating for employment in the 1980s as ethnic fractures in Sri Lanka began to deepen. But these migrants—documented, skilled, and beneficial to the Australian economy—often have very different experiences from asylum-seekers or unskilled migrants. Indeed, some blue-collar Sri Lankan migrants earn less than a quarter of salaries earned by migrants who are health professionals. Adiga is sensitive to such differences in opportunity. In Amnesty, he writes, “rich Asians and poor Asians don’t seem to talk a lot to each other.” While such divisions—which in some ways replicate class inequality in Sri Lanka—are not revelatory, Adiga also demonstrates how a lack of solidarity between these groups can leave both susceptible to exploitation along racial lines.
Danny is both a political migrant—“a victim of state torture”—and an economic migrant. He is seduced by the promise of the successful Tamil emigre who now owns a mansion with a private tennis court and pool. But he also migrates because of noneconomic factors: a “menacing” Sri Lankan government, pervasive violence in his hometown, and victim-blaming—Danny’s father doesn’t believe he was tortured.
The current Sri Lankan government, led by Gotabaya Rajapaksa, a former defense secretary who oversaw military operations during the end of Sri Lanka’s civil conflict, denies that the state committed any human rights abuses. This denialism has been proved false by video footage of women being raped en masse and surrendered militants being shot at close range. Gotabaya’s false claims nevertheless allow the Australian government to forcibly return asylum-seekers (who may then be persecuted by state authorities in Sri Lanka) in violation of their right to life and Australia’s commitments to the principal of non-refoulement under the United Nations refugee convention.
Approximately 4,500 Sri Lankan asylum-seekers arrived in Australia by boat between 2009 and 2013, after the bloody end of the conflict. Like these migrants, Danny also considers getting to Australia by boat. The route is not safe, and there are risks in Australian waters and in detention. Indeed, over the last 20 years, over 2,000 people died trying to reach Australian shores. Since he has enough savings, Danny decides against it. He chooses instead to enroll in an Australian technical institute, believing he can apply for refugee status upon arrival.
The illusion of a fair Australia is a recurrent theme in Amnesty. Danny’s ambivalence about Australia morphs into cynicism about individual activists attempting to resist systemic injustice. Some, Danny recognizes, are simply virtue signaling. Others can afford to be ineffective, Danny decides, as their stakes in reform are so low: “hundreds in the street will hold up signs for you … but in the end, they’ll go home, and you will be deported.” Those activists who are citizens enjoy a political economy thriving on the exploitation of undocumented migrants—they eat food produced via migrant labor on farms and enjoy houses kept clean by inexpensive migrant work. For the undocumented migrant, who has given up hope and to whom reform appears impossible, such activism seems futile and perhaps even complicit—it only props up the deceitful image of a fair Australia.Those activists who are citizens enjoy a political economy thriving on the exploitation of undocumented migrants.
In the end, Danny doesn’t apply to change his visa status—presumably daunted by the inhumane conditions under which Australia detains its asylum-seekers, leading to frequent self-harm attempts. (Asylum seekers in detention are 200 times more likely to self-harm compared to the average Australian; Since 2000, at least 12 individuals hoping to migrate to Australia were suspected to have died by suicide while in detention.) He observes, “People will eat nails, and drink things, and cut their wrists to get out.”
Instead he returns to his technical college. But even here, he finds, “White people were cheating foreigners, and foreigners were cheating white people.” It turns out he has enrolled in a diploma mill, a billion-dollar global industry. International students pay fees. They receive diplomas, employment, and, in Australia, a backdoor to permanent residency.
In the real world, education services may be Australia’s second-largest export (after minerals). But credential fraud has tarnished the reputation of the sector. Indeed, the owner of a multimillion-dollar “ghost college” was arrested as recently as 2015. Adiga highlights the hypocrisy of such schemes. On the one hand, international student tuition bolsters the Australian economy. If international students work part time, they pay income taxes. On the other hand, these students are not eligible for Medicare (the Australian national health insurance scheme that is funded mainly through taxation) nor many other welfare benefits. When the recent coronavirus pandemic hit, international students were asked to return to their home countries, because the Australian government wouldn’t support them.
In the novel, Danny drops out of the technical college. Ignorant of the law, he then overstays his student visa. Now, neither a legal resident nor an asylum-seeker, he finds himself “an illegal’s illegal.” He is trapped in his own “custom-made cell,” and there is “no one to scream for [him] and no one to represent [him] in court.”
The dark irony of Amnesty is that although Danny covets the ostensibly “blind and fair” nature of the Australian legal system, he spends a great deal of time being hunted down by it. In Sydney, he seeks refuge in the company of other undocumented immigrants. His shield is the invisibility of the working class—“I’m just the brown man working at the back of the store”— and he takes refuge in the company of other invisible people, like the homeless Australians he observes sheltering underneath a bridge.
As an invisible spectator, Danny begins to see how well-to-do migrants themselves contribute to an exclusionary Australia—ignoring and abandoning their less wealthy counterparts despite sharing the same culture. In 2013-2014, one-third of Sri Lankan migrant taxpayers in Australia were employed as professionals. These are the privileged immigrants. They inhabit a parallel universe of private schooling, apartments in expensive neighborhoods, and fancy cars.
Despite his cynicism, Danny forms a friendship with a well-off Indian couple: Radha and Prakash. Radha is married to an unnamed white man (sometimes referred to as the “top-top man”) who is invisible, powerful, and controlling. The nonwhite characters tread carefully around this individual. Unknown to her wealthy husband, Radha sleeps with Prakash in her various apartments, and Danny is hired to clean up afterward. When Radha is murdered—the murderer’s identity is a source of suspense—Danny suspects Prakash may be responsible. The reader is also left to wonder what hand the “top-top man”—a symbol of an oppressive and omnipresent whiteness—has played in the crime.As an invisible spectator, Danny begins to see how well-to-do migrants themselves contribute to an exclusionary Australia.
Danny knows that sharing any information about Prakash’s relationship with Radha may result in his own discovery and deportation. Australian law is “this object of wonder, this incorruptible thing, the blondest animal in Australia,” Adiga writes. But despite its exclusionary nature, it is “fairer, much fairer” than in Sri Lanka, where “the law [is] a burning cigarette on your forearm.” That is enough motivation to avoid risking deportation.
At some point, the suspected murderer (Prakash) and the undocumented immigrant (Danny), who both face potential detention, become entrapped in a prisoner’s dilemma: If Danny speaks out, Prakash could be imprisoned for murder; if Prakash speaks out in turn, Danny could be deported.
Danny begins to recognize himself in Prakash. (“This is all that Prakash is today, an instinct to survive.”) He discerns that any brown man is an easy target to pin a crime on. He begins to empathize with Prakash, another South Asian being hunted down by the law. There is perhaps even solidarity between the two: Both live in “a city and a civilization built on the principle of the exclusion of men and women who were not white.” Such knowledge, Adiga reminds us, precludes one brown man from remaining indifferent to the presence of another.
This is Adiga’s literary triumph. He creates a rivalry and a false equivalence between two men who are both criminals in the eyes of the law—the murderer who is a citizen and the undocumented immigrant whose only crime was overstaying a visa. Both may face similar outcomes under Australian law despite committing incomparable transgressions.
In April 2019, a series of coordinated suicide explosions killed around 300 people in Sri Lanka. Since then, six boats carrying asylum-seekers from Sri Lanka were turned away by the Australian government. For Australia, such individuals—willing to die to escape violence in their home countries—are criminals the moment they step on a boat.
Like Danny once did, such asylum-seekers may still believe in the romantic image of Australia —diverse, open, and fair—sustained in part by skilled immigrants of varying nationalities who are welcomed to bolster the country’s economy. Like post-migration Danny, they too will find that a fair Australia is an illusion—a myth that masks deeply entrenched systems of exclusion.


foreignpolicy--2020-07-21--There Is No Arctic Axis

There Is No Arctic Axis

There Is No Arctic Axis As observers speak of a new Cold War between the United States and China , policymakers seem to misunderstand Sino-Russian relations in the Arctic as an alliance .
This stems in part from the lack of a quantified framework to understand the ongoing shifts in the international system : the return of nationalism , fractures in the rules-based liberal order , and the rise of nontraditional security threats such as climate change .
The misreading of the relationship in the Arctic also stems from a lack of subject-matter expertise among policymakers on what drives Sino-Russian @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the Arctic region .
After Russia ’ s annexation of Crimea in 2014 , Western sanctions dried up existing capital and technology pools for Russian energy projects in the Arctic .
The sanctions targeted Western companies cooperating with Russian energy firms and investing in Russian Arctic projects , paving the way for Chinese state firms to engage .
The Kremlin ’ s need for foreign capital places Beijing in a position of power in the Arctic , but Russia is wary of Chinese investment .
Moscow is attuned to both the potential @ @ @ @ @ @ @ : Overreliance on China to fulfill Russia ’ s economic security agenda in the Arctic could increase Beijing ’ s regional footprint .
Russia and China ’ s Arctic partnership is not an alliance—it is driven by business .
Despite mutually beneficial interests in the region , commercial realpolitik is at the heart of their engagement .
For now , the partnership in the Arctic navigates existing fault lines , such as Beijing ’ s failure to acknowledge Russia ’ s annexation of Crimea and Moscow ’ s nonalignment in the developing India-China @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to their shared interest in maintaining domestic stability .
Long-term economic development ventures and the viability of non-Western multilateral bodies , such as the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation , are critical for their shared vision of world order .
Both Russia and China have a strategic interest in the resource bounty of the Arctic , but most known oil and natural gas deposits fall within the delineated exclusive economic zones ( EEZ ) of the Arctic-rim states , according to the United States Geological Survey .
In this sense , Beijing is constrained by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ its sights on the international waters of the Arctic Ocean , which it sees as global commons .
This understanding underpins Beijing ’ s Arctic identity project : On this basis , China considers itself a “ near-Arctic ” state .
By virtue of its geography , Russia is the largest Arctic stakeholder , accounting for most of the region ’ s natural gas and oil reserves .
As stated , these resources fall well within Moscow ’ s EEZ—with access and exploitation reserved under international law for Russia .
As a result @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the Arctic are inaccurate .
The Arctic can not host a race for resources because the winners are largely already determined .
The vast resource potential of the Russian Arctic EEZ is the nation ’ s future economic base , and Moscow will protect its energy ventures as national security assets .
China and Russia do have a natural affinity in terms of energy security .
Beijing ’ s energy appetite is insatiable , and it is committed to an import diversification strategy from Africa to the Arctic .
Climate change is @ @ @ @ @ @ @ easier to navigate year-round , offering Beijing access to Russian Arctic resources—primarily liquefied natural gas—that is quicker and cheaper than other transport corridors .
In 2012 , Vladimir Putin , then Russia ’ s prime minister , said , “ I am convinced that China ’ s economic growth is by no means a threat , but a challenge that carries colossal potential for business cooperation—a chance to catch the Chinese wind in the sails of our economy.
” Russia has certainly caught the wind in the Arctic , welcoming capital injections from @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and building infrastructure such as icebreakers , and accepting Chinese stakes in Arctic energy ventures .
Polling shows that Russians are increasingly wary of China .
Such commercial deals suggest warming ties , but the Arctic partnership should be seen in terms of the Russian proverb , “ Trust , but verify.
” Putin and Chinese President Xi Jinping are cautious , as evidenced by the protracted amount of time it takes to ink bilateral deals .
Russia and China ’ s relationship is fraught with historical resentment and some mutual suspicion—and not @ @ @ @ @ @ @ is more apparent on the Russian side than on the Chinese side : For Beijing , the relationship is more or less colored by indifference .
But polling shows that Russians are increasingly wary of China , with their favorable view of Beijing falling from 72 percent in 2019 to 65 percent in 2020 .
The Russian Arctic gas giant Novatek has limited Beijing ’ s influence : China ’ s state entities are unable to hold controlling stakes in joint Arctic ventures such as its Yamal LNG project , which will inject @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gas into the global market .
The China National Petroleum Corporation holds a 20 percent stake , China ’ s Silk Road Fund has 9.9 percent , France ’ s Total holds 20 percent , and the 50.1 percent balance remains with Novatek .
There is no indication that Moscow will deviate from this approach : In Novatek ’ s second joint venture , it holds a 60 percent stake , Total has 10 percent , a consortium of Japanese firms holds 10 percent , and Chinese firms collectively hold 20 percent .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ multipolar system are reflected in Russia and China ’ s Arctic engagement .
The region ’ s sole governance institution , the Arctic Council , put China ’ s Arctic observer application on the back burner for years , as both Russia and Canada were wary of the internationalization of the Arctic .
In 2013 , China became a formal observer under new detailed criteria : Observer states must “ recognize Arctic States ’ sovereignty ” and the “ extensive legal framework ” that applies to the Arctic Ocean , “ including , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” Beijing signed up to an international agreement that in effect requires acceptance of Arctic-state sovereignty , including delineated maritime zones .
Moreover , some disconnect remains in Russia and China ’ s Arctic coordination .
Beijing ’ s 2018 Arctic Policy contrasts with its obligations as an Arctic Council observer .
China appears to adhere to the management of Arctic shipping routes according to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea , but the 2018 policy raises tension with Russia over Article 234 , known as the ice rule @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to regulate ice-covered areas within their national jurisdiction .
As climate change decreases year-round ice coverage , Beijing is likely to push back against Moscow ’ s use of Article 234 and seek free transit of the parts of the Northern Sea Route within international waters .
In June , Moscow accused one of its leading Arctic scientists , Valery Mitko , of spying for Beijing .
Mitko is charged with treason for handing over classified information on Arctic research and submarine sensor technology to China .
But perhaps more telling is the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the incident , with neither formally commenting on the arrest .
For now , Beijing and Moscow appear to agree to disagree—so long as the Arctic natural-gas business is booming .
Beyond the Arctic , the coronavirus pandemic has exacerbated existing fault lines in the Russia-China relationship .
Bilateral competition to secure influence in Southeast Asian nations has stepped up .
Moscow ’ s recent coronavirus response management effort involved health care assistance and the push to shore up support in the region for a multilateral approach to future pandemics .
Further soft-power @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Moscow have raced to provide European nations with masks and ventilators .
On balance , China engaging in the Arctic in a mutually beneficial partnership with Russia is probably in Western interests , as long as Beijing is somewhat constrained by its own agreements with Moscow .
It is doubtful that Western stakeholders could muster the resources to address two assertive states in the Arctic .
The past decade has emboldened Moscow , and it may be difficult to coax it toward engagement with the West .
Should Russia stay its course , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be driven by commercial interests .
It is hard to foresee an alliance of equals emerging from this period of strategic coordination in the Arctic .

As observers speak of a new Cold War between the United States and China, policymakers seem to misunderstand Sino-Russian relations in the Arctic as an alliance . This stems in part from the lack of a quantified framework to understand the ongoing shifts in the international system: the return of nationalism, fractures in the rules-based liberal order, and the rise of nontraditional security threats such as climate change. The misreading of the relationship in the Arctic also stems from a lack of subject-matter expertise among policymakers on what drives Sino-Russian ties—a shortfall that will shape future understanding of the Arctic region.
As observers speak of a new Cold War between the United States and China, policymakers seem to misunderstand Sino-Russian relations in the Arctic as an alliance. This stems in part from the lack of a quantified framework to understand the ongoing shifts in the international system: the return of nationalism, fractures in the rules-based liberal order, and the rise of nontraditional security threats such as climate change. The misreading of the relationship in the Arctic also stems from a lack of subject-matter expertise among policymakers on what drives Sino-Russian ties—a shortfall that will shape future understanding of the Arctic region.
After Russia’s annexation of Crimea in 2014, Western sanctions dried up existing capital and technology pools for Russian energy projects in the Arctic. The sanctions targeted Western companies cooperating with Russian energy firms and investing in Russian Arctic projects, paving the way for Chinese state firms to engage. The Kremlin’s need for foreign capital places Beijing in a position of power in the Arctic, but Russia is wary of Chinese investment. Moscow is attuned to both the potential and pitfalls of doing business with Beijing: Overreliance on China to fulfill Russia’s economic security agenda in the Arctic could increase Beijing’s regional footprint.
Russia and China’s Arctic partnership is not an alliance—it is driven by business. Despite mutually beneficial interests in the region, commercial realpolitik is at the heart of their engagement. For now, the partnership in the Arctic navigates existing fault lines, such as Beijing’s failure to acknowledge Russia’s annexation of Crimea and Moscow’s nonalignment in the developing India-China conflict. Any regional cooperation is due to their shared interest in maintaining domestic stability. Long-term economic development ventures and the viability of non-Western multilateral bodies, such as the Shanghai Cooperation Organisation, are critical for their shared vision of world order.
Both Russia and China have a strategic interest in the resource bounty of the Arctic, but most known oil and natural gas deposits fall within the delineated exclusive economic zones (EEZ) of the Arctic-rim states, according to the United States Geological Survey. In this sense, Beijing is constrained by international law. But China has set its sights on the international waters of the Arctic Ocean, which it sees as global commons. This understanding underpins Beijing’s Arctic identity project: On this basis, China considers itself a “near-Arctic” state.
By virtue of its geography, Russia is the largest Arctic stakeholder, accounting for most of the region’s natural gas and oil reserves. As stated, these resources fall well within Moscow’s EEZ—with access and exploitation reserved under international law for Russia. As a result, suggestions of so-called resource great games in the Arctic are inaccurate. The Arctic cannot host a race for resources because the winners are largely already determined. The vast resource potential of the Russian Arctic EEZ is the nation’s future economic base, and Moscow will protect its energy ventures as national security assets.
China and Russia do have a natural affinity in terms of energy security. Beijing’s energy appetite is insatiable, and it is committed to an import diversification strategy from Africa to the Arctic. Climate change is making Russia’s Northern Sea Route easier to navigate year-round, offering Beijing access to Russian Arctic resources—primarily liquefied natural gas—that is quicker and cheaper than other transport corridors. In 2012, Vladimir Putin, then Russia’s prime minister, said, “I am convinced that China’s economic growth is by no means a threat, but a challenge that carries colossal potential for business cooperation—a chance to catch the Chinese wind in the sails of our economy.” Russia has certainly caught the wind in the Arctic, welcoming capital injections from Beijing for developing the Northern Sea Route and building infrastructure such as icebreakers, and accepting Chinese stakes in Arctic energy ventures.
Polling shows that Russians are increasingly wary of China.
Such commercial deals suggest warming ties, but the Arctic partnership should be seen in terms of the Russian proverb, “Trust, but verify.” Putin and Chinese President Xi Jinping are cautious, as evidenced by the protracted amount of time it takes to ink bilateral deals. Russia and China’s relationship is fraught with historical resentment and some mutual suspicion—and not just among the political elites. This is more apparent on the Russian side than on the Chinese side: For Beijing, the relationship is more or less colored by indifference. But polling shows that Russians are increasingly wary of China, with their favorable view of Beijing falling from 72 percent in 2019 to 65 percent in 2020.
The Russian Arctic gas giant Novatek has limited Beijing’s influence: China’s state entities are unable to hold controlling stakes in joint Arctic ventures such as its Yamal LNG project, which will inject 16.5 million metric tons of liquefied natural gas into the global market. The China National Petroleum Corporation holds a 20 percent stake, China’s Silk Road Fund has 9.9 percent, France’s Total holds 20 percent, and the 50.1 percent balance remains with Novatek. There is no indication that Moscow will deviate from this approach: In Novatek’s second joint venture, it holds a 60 percent stake, Total has 10 percent, a consortium of Japanese firms holds 10 percent, and Chinese firms collectively hold 20 percent.
Frictions over their respective positions in a multipolar system are reflected in Russia and China’s Arctic engagement. The region’s sole governance institution, the Arctic Council, put China’s Arctic observer application on the back burner for years, as both Russia and Canada were wary of the internationalization of the Arctic. In 2013, China became a formal observer under new detailed criteria: Observer states must “recognize Arctic States’ sovereignty” and the “extensive legal framework” that applies to the Arctic Ocean, “including, notably, the Law of the Sea.” Beijing signed up to an international agreement that in effect requires acceptance of Arctic-state sovereignty, including delineated maritime zones.
Moreover, some disconnect remains in Russia and China’s Arctic coordination. Beijing’s 2018 Arctic Policy contrasts with its obligations as an Arctic Council observer. China appears to adhere to the management of Arctic shipping routes according to the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, but the 2018 policy raises tension with Russia over Article 234, known as the ice rule, which grants coastal states special authority to regulate ice-covered areas within their national jurisdiction. As climate change decreases year-round ice coverage, Beijing is likely to push back against Moscow’s use of Article 234 and seek free transit of the parts of the Northern Sea Route within international waters.
In June, Moscow accused one of its leading Arctic scientists, Valery Mitko, of spying for Beijing. Mitko is charged with treason for handing over classified information on Arctic research and submarine sensor technology to China. But perhaps more telling is the way that both countries have hushed up the incident, with neither formally commenting on the arrest. For now, Beijing and Moscow appear to agree to disagree—so long as the Arctic natural-gas business is booming.
Beyond the Arctic, the coronavirus pandemic has exacerbated existing fault lines in the Russia-China relationship. Bilateral competition to secure influence in Southeast Asian nations has stepped up. Moscow’s recent coronavirus response management effort involved health care assistance and the push to shore up support in the region for a multilateral approach to future pandemics. Further soft-power competition has emerged as both Beijing and Moscow have raced to provide European nations with masks and ventilators.
On balance, China engaging in the Arctic in a mutually beneficial partnership with Russia is probably in Western interests, as long as Beijing is somewhat constrained by its own agreements with Moscow. It is doubtful that Western stakeholders could muster the resources to address two assertive states in the Arctic. The past decade has emboldened Moscow, and it may be difficult to coax it toward engagement with the West.
Should Russia stay its course, any deeper engagement with Beijing will ultimately be driven by commercial interests. It is hard to foresee an alliance of equals emerging from this period of strategic coordination in the Arctic.


foreignpolicy--2020-07-21--How the Coronavirus Crisis Is Silencing Dissent and Sparking Repression

Although COVID-19 tamped down many existing social movements , government pandemic responses sparked new ones .
In Mexico , there has been a rise in protests involving health care workers demanding better access to personal protective equipment .
In Iran , anti-government demonstrations continued in response to widespread corruption , poor service delivery , and economic hardship—all exacerbated by the pandemic .
Many of the protest movements that emerged prior to the pandemic were motivated by mistrust of governments seen as corrupt , poor economic managers , and providing subpar governance .
In places where state responses to the health @ @ @ @ @ @ @ governments have only exacerbated these existing grievances , increasing the likelihood that these movements will resurface as soon as restrictions are lifted .
The successful and large-scale rise of the global Black Lives Matter protests is a case in point .
The protests have gained traction globally in part because of how the coronavirus crisis has highlighted systemic racial disparities ( A common rally sign reads : “ Racism is a pandemic ” ) , leaving clear winners and losers in its path .
Other movements are restarting amid similar tensions over government @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Tunisia , there are more demonstrations now than prior to the pandemic , with people taking to the streets over the worst economic crisis in decades .
In Lebanon , too , previous discontent with the government ’ s response to economic collapse has resurged .
Unlike the predominantly peaceful protests seen prior to the pandemic , many of these demonstrations have been violent .
Such power grabs have been far from rare during the COVID-19 pandemic .
In Hungary , Prime Minister Viktor Orban was bestowed the power to rule by decree @ @ @ @ @ @ @ new power was followed with arbitrary arrests of opponents and restrictions on the press .
In Egypt , President Abdel Fattah al-Sisi moved to shore up his position by cracking down on the media and ratifying new amendments granting him sweeping authorities—the majority of which have no clear ties to public health issues .
In Venezuela , the quarantine offered an opportunity for the Nicolás Maduro regime to target the opposition and arrest allies of opposition leader Juan Guaidó ( who is viewed by scores of countries as Venezuela ’ s rightful ruler @ @ @ @ @ @ @ outbreak allowed the regime to silence protests and arrest opposition leaders , enact constitutional changes , and elect and install a new parliament .
Across West Africa more broadly , governments are subtly exploiting the crisis to repress opposition and manipulate elections .
In many cases , rising state repression took the form of direct violence against civilians as governments became more likely to suppress their citizens and crack down on opposition and minority groups , often under the guise of lockdown measures .
A spike in civilian targeting was reported in multiple @ @ @ @ @ @ @ as can be seen in the graph below ) , Nigeria , and South Africa .
In the Philippines , the threat of lethal enforcement of lockdown measures kept many at home , initially resulting in a drop in crimes against civilians related to the state ’ s notorious war on drugs .
However , in recent weeks , reports of violence against civilians have neared pre-pandemic levels in the country , and they show few signs of slowing as the government moves forward with a new Anti-Terrorism Act that expands the state @ @ @ @ @ @ @ detention .
In Hong Kong , new legislation around a national security law—passed after demonstrations against plans to allow extradition to mainland China began to resume—raises the risk that Hong Kong residents will face arbitrary detention and unfair trial .
Although government resources are undoubtedly spread thin by the pandemic , conflicts involving state forces continue to rage .
Despite mounting cases of COVID-19 in India , for example , state forces remain engaged on multiple fronts , from Kashmir to the Red Corridor , and more recently along the Line of Actual @ @ @ @ @ @ @ meanwhile , have intensified their operations against the Kurdistan Workers ’ Party ( PKK ) , launching new operations against the group in June .
In Myanmar , the military ramped up its campaign of airstrikes and shelling against rebel groups in Rakhine and Shan states .
In Libya , fighting between the Khalifa Haftar-led Libyan National Army and the Turkish-backed Government of National Accord escalated .
In Yemen , fighting between Houthi and anti-Houthi forces continued , despite the declaration of a cease-fire .
Some nonstate actors , meanwhile , took the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ state forces—expanding their active territories and consolidating their positions .
The Islamic State encouraged its fighters early on to carry out attacks against the group ’ s opponents , in order to capitalize on the fact that they would be struggling to manage the ongoing crisis .
In Mozambique , Islamist militants ( many with ties to the Islamic State ) stepped up attacks against civilians and armed forces in the northeastern Cabo Delgado province , with insurgency activity there tripling .
In Somalia , al-Shabab continued to launch daily attacks , hindering @ @ @ @ @ @ @ jihadi group JNIM continued its attacks on state forces after announcing that COVID-19 was a “ God-sent soldier ” that was weakening the Malian Armed Forces .
In Afghanistan , the Taliban continued their battles with Afghan forces to further exhaust Kabul ’ s limited resources—knowing this could result in increased concessions during negotiations .
In Mexico , with state forces preoccupied with the public health emergency , cartels seized the moment to intensify their turf wars and expand to new territories , resulting in a spike in attacks on state forces ( @ @ @ @ @ @ @ below ) .
Alongside wearing down state forces on the battlefield , nonstate actors have also tried to vie for greater legitimacy with local populations , especially in contexts where the government has failed to provide necessities .
For example , the Taliban in Afghanistan vowed to cease fighting in areas they control if those areas were hit with the virus “ so that health workers [ could ] deliver assistance to that area.
” The Taliban also held workshops on preventing the spread of the virus and distributed personal protective equipment .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ food to local populations—a tactic they have long employed to establish their support among marginalized communities .
The gangs in the Northern Triangle—also known as maras—have enforced curfews and suspended extortion collections as a so-called relief effort .
Simultaneously , competition among nonstate actors has risen in certain areas .
In Africa , intergroup clashes rose by an average rate of 25 percent .
In Mexico , the fragmentation of cartels has led to an increase in criminal violence in recent years , stemming from heightened competition among splinter groups over existing drug @ @ @ @ @ @ @ these trends by disrupting markets and trafficking routes , which has , in turned , fueled clashes over the control of territory .
Similar trends can be seen in Honduras , where both gang violence and the associated death toll have spiked due to intergang fighting between the larger mara groups like MS-13 and Barrio 18 and smaller local gangs .
Mob violence targeting those thought to be spreading the virus increased throughout the COVID-19 pandemic ( as can be seen in the map below ) .
In China , in the early @ @ @ @ @ @ @ reports of vigilantes acting as “ epidemic prevention personnel , ” assaulting those not wearing masks .
In India , mobs targeted Muslims , whom they blamed for the spread of the coronavirus—a rumor stoked by a leader of the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party , who called for a boycott of Muslim vendors .
In Central America , including in Costa Rica and Panama , residents blocked roads or entries to their communities to “ keep the virus out.
” Around the world , and in India especially , health care workers have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they spread the virus given their work in close proximity to those infected .
Across the United Kingdom and the Netherlands , attacks on 5G telecommunications towers have taken place following disinformation campaigns that the towers are linked to the spread of the virus .
Unrest in prisons , too , has risen around the world alongside fears of close quarters and poor detention conditions fueling the spread of COVID-19 .
As infection rates begin to decline in many parts of the world and restrictions are lifted , violence involving nonstate actors will @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , will remain possible , targeting those who are marginalized or blamed for the crisis .
State leaders , especially those facing upcoming reelection , will be assessed based on their response to the pandemic .
Those perceived to be tackling the crisis effectively , such as New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern , are likely to see a surge in public support .
Those perceived to have been ineffective—such as U.S. President Donald Trump—may suffer the consequences .
In countries where leaders expanded and entrenched their powers , state repression is likely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ stifled .
And in other nations , particularly where the health of the current regime was impacted , there may be instability among the senior ranks , such as in Iran , where a number of senior leaders were infected , or in Burundi , where President Pierre Nkurunziza , who died in June just weeks after elections that were marred by violence , is thought to be the first head of state to die from COVID-19 complications .
A rise in demonstrations around the world has already begun , and a resurgence @ @ @ @ @ @ @ especially as the health crisis has only served to further exacerbate many of the original grievances that spurred these movements .
Extreme events like the coronavirus pandemic have significant and direct impacts on disorder .
Governments can adopt immediate legislation to limit the activity of citizens , and state and nonstate actors alike can exploit the unrest surrounding a pandemic , natural disaster , or the like to advance their political priorities .
To address the impact of these shocks on foreign policy , access to data during such contentious periods is paramount @ @ @ @ @ @ @ need real-time data on the rate and spread of medical cases during a pandemic in order to craft an appropriate public health response , but they also need real-time data collection infrastructure to track how a pandemic affects political violence and protest trends in parallel .
Only then can they develop appropriate security policies that complement their public health policies by anticipating how the latter may disrupt the security environment—ensuring that security and public health responses work in tandem , rather than in opposition .

As the coronavirus pandemic has disrupted political and economic systems around the world, it has also changed the nature of disorder—group dynamics including political violence and protests. Since the start of the outbreak, the Armed Conflict Location & Event Data Project has monitored the impact of COVID-19 on global disorder, looking at the ways in which demonstrations, state repression, and mob violence have shifted amid the pandemic. As countries begin to reopen, some shifts may hold. In places where democratic backsliding occurred, for example, leaders will likely capitalize on newly won emergency powers to further stifle opposition. Others may mutate and evolve—although demonstrations precipitously declined after the introduction of movement restrictions, they’re now bouncing back to pre-pandemic levels and, in many areas, are returning with even more force.
As the virus spread and governments imposed movement restrictions, many of the large-scale social movements of 2019 came to a halt, including the October Revolution in Iraq; the Hirak Movement in Algeria; opposition to the Citizenship Amendment Act in India; and the student movement in Chile, as can be seen in the graph below. In a number of cases, local populations turned to new forms of protest to make their voices heard while respecting social distancing guidelines. These included pot-banging protests in Brazil, balcony protests in Spain, and car protests in South Korea.
Although COVID-19 tamped down many existing social movements, government pandemic responses sparked new ones. In Mexico, there has been a rise in protests involving health care workers demanding better access to personal protective equipment. In Iran, anti-government demonstrations continued in response to widespread corruption, poor service delivery, and economic hardship—all exacerbated by the pandemic.
Many of the protest movements that emerged prior to the pandemic were motivated by mistrust of governments seen as corrupt, poor economic managers, and providing subpar governance. In places where state responses to the health crisis have failed or fallen short, governments have only exacerbated these existing grievances, increasing the likelihood that these movements will resurface as soon as restrictions are lifted.
The successful and large-scale rise of the global Black Lives Matter protests is a case in point. The protests have gained traction globally in part because of how the coronavirus crisis has highlighted systemic racial disparities (A common rally sign reads: “Racism is a pandemic”), leaving clear winners and losers in its path. Other movements are restarting amid similar tensions over government shortcomings during the health crisis. In Tunisia, there are more demonstrations now than prior to the pandemic, with people taking to the streets over the worst economic crisis in decades. In Lebanon, too, previous discontent with the government’s response to economic collapse has resurged. Unlike the predominantly peaceful protests seen prior to the pandemic, many of these demonstrations have been violent.
While exceptional state of emergency legislation may be considered appropriate to protect citizens during crisis situations—and may even be met with initial public support—there is a risk that such laws will be used to suppress opposition and popular mobilization, especially when there is no end to the measures in sight. States of emergency can provide cover to governments—and especially authoritarian regimes—to engage in higher levels of human rights violations, leading to a rise in violence targeting civilians.
Such power grabs have been far from rare during the COVID-19 pandemic. In Hungary, Prime Minister Viktor Orban was bestowed the power to rule by decree with no stated end date; this new power was followed with arbitrary arrests of opponents and restrictions on the press. In Egypt, President Abdel Fattah al-Sisi moved to shore up his position by cracking down on the media and ratifying new amendments granting him sweeping authorities—the majority of which have no clear ties to public health issues. In Venezuela, the quarantine offered an opportunity for the Nicolás Maduro regime to target the opposition and arrest allies of opposition leader Juan Guaidó (who is viewed by scores of countries as Venezuela’s rightful ruler). In Guinea, the coronavirus outbreak allowed the regime to silence protests and arrest opposition leaders, enact constitutional changes, and elect and install a new parliament. Across West Africa more broadly, governments are subtly exploiting the crisis to repress opposition and manipulate elections.
In many cases, rising state repression took the form of direct violence against civilians as governments became more likely to suppress their citizens and crack down on opposition and minority groups, often under the guise of lockdown measures. A spike in civilian targeting was reported in multiple countries across Africa, including Uganda (as can be seen in the graph below), Nigeria, and South Africa. In the Philippines, the threat of lethal enforcement of lockdown measures kept many at home, initially resulting in a drop in crimes against civilians related to the state’s notorious war on drugs. However, in recent weeks, reports of violence against civilians have neared pre-pandemic levels in the country, and they show few signs of slowing as the government moves forward with a new Anti-Terrorism Act that expands the state’s capacity for warrantless arrests and detention. In Hong Kong, new legislation around a national security law—passed after demonstrations against plans to allow extradition to mainland China began to resume—raises the risk that Hong Kong residents will face arbitrary detention and unfair trial.
Despite widespread hope that the pandemic would bring the world’s warring parties to the negotiating table, it was unlikely that COVID-19, as a health crisis, would directly impact conflict patterns. Nearly four months after the U.N. secretary-general’s call for a cease-fire to all conflicts, the data shows as much: Most warring parties have either refused to declare a cease-fire (as in Myanmar, where the military rejected calls for a cease-fire) or failed at cease-fire attempts (as in the Philippines, where both the Philippine government and the New People’s Army each announced a unilateral cease-fire, yet violence continued, as can be seen in the graph below).
Although government resources are undoubtedly spread thin by the pandemic, conflicts involving state forces continue to rage. Despite mounting cases of COVID-19 in India, for example, state forces remain engaged on multiple fronts, from Kashmir to the Red Corridor, and more recently along the Line of Actual Control with China. Turkish forces, meanwhile, have intensified their operations against the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), launching new operations against the group in June. In Myanmar, the military ramped up its campaign of airstrikes and shelling against rebel groups in Rakhine and Shan states. In Libya, fighting between the Khalifa Haftar-led Libyan National Army and the Turkish-backed Government of National Accord escalated. In Yemen, fighting between Houthi and anti-Houthi forces continued, despite the declaration of a cease-fire.
Some nonstate actors, meanwhile, took the opportunity to scale up their activity against state forces—expanding their active territories and consolidating their positions. The Islamic State encouraged its fighters early on to carry out attacks against the group’s opponents, in order to capitalize on the fact that they would be struggling to manage the ongoing crisis. In Mozambique, Islamist militants (many with ties to the Islamic State) stepped up attacks against civilians and armed forces in the northeastern Cabo Delgado province, with insurgency activity there tripling. In Somalia, al-Shabab continued to launch daily attacks, hindering humanitarian aid. In Mali, the jihadi group JNIM continued its attacks on state forces after announcing that COVID-19 was a “God-sent soldier” that was weakening the Malian Armed Forces. In Afghanistan, the Taliban continued their battles with Afghan forces to further exhaust Kabul’s limited resources—knowing this could result in increased concessions during negotiations. In Mexico, with state forces preoccupied with the public health emergency, cartels seized the moment to intensify their turf wars and expand to new territories, resulting in a spike in attacks on state forces (as can be seen in the map below).
Cartel Violence in Mexico Since WHO Pandemic Announcement
Alongside wearing down state forces on the battlefield, nonstate actors have also tried to vie for greater legitimacy with local populations, especially in contexts where the government has failed to provide necessities. For example, the Taliban in Afghanistan vowed to cease fighting in areas they control if those areas were hit with the virus “so that health workers [could] deliver assistance to that area.” The Taliban also held workshops on preventing the spread of the virus and distributed personal protective equipment. Mexican cartels likewise imposed curfews and distributed food to local populations—a tactic they have long employed to establish their support among marginalized communities. The gangs in the Northern Triangle—also known as maras—have enforced curfews and suspended extortion collections as a so-called relief effort.
Simultaneously, competition among nonstate actors has risen in certain areas. In Africa, intergroup clashes rose by an average rate of 25 percent. In Mexico, the fragmentation of cartels has led to an increase in criminal violence in recent years, stemming from heightened competition among splinter groups over existing drug trade infrastructure. The pandemic has intensified these trends by disrupting markets and trafficking routes, which has, in turned, fueled clashes over the control of territory. Similar trends can be seen in Honduras, where both gang violence and the associated death toll have spiked due to intergang fighting between the larger mara groups like MS-13 and Barrio 18 and smaller local gangs.
Local security providers have long protected their communities wherever the state is not trusted to guarantee security. These groups can be formally organized, as is the case with local communal militias, or can come together spontaneously, as in the case of vigilante mobs taking justice into their own hands. Local security providers have reacted to perceived threats to their communities during previous health crises, such as in response to cholera in Brazilian favelas, to HIV/AIDS in Haiti, or to SARS in New York’s Chinatown neighborhood.
Mob violence targeting those thought to be spreading the virus increased throughout the COVID-19 pandemic (as can be seen in the map below). In China, in the early days of the pandemic, there were reports of vigilantes acting as “epidemic prevention personnel,” assaulting those not wearing masks. In India, mobs targeted Muslims, whom they blamed for the spread of the coronavirus—a rumor stoked by a leader of the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party, who called for a boycott of Muslim vendors. In Central America, including in Costa Rica and Panama, residents blocked roads or entries to their communities to “keep the virus out.” Around the world, and in India especially, health care workers have been targeted due to the fear that they spread the virus given their work in close proximity to those infected. Across the United Kingdom and the Netherlands, attacks on 5G telecommunications towers have taken place following disinformation campaigns that the towers are linked to the spread of the virus. Unrest in prisons, too, has risen around the world alongside fears of close quarters and poor detention conditions fueling the spread of COVID-19.
Global Mob Violence Since WHO Pandemic Announcement
As infection rates begin to decline in many parts of the world and restrictions are lifted, violence involving nonstate actors will likely continue. Mob violence, too, will remain possible, targeting those who are marginalized or blamed for the crisis.
State leaders, especially those facing upcoming reelection, will be assessed based on their response to the pandemic. Those perceived to be tackling the crisis effectively, such as New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern, are likely to see a surge in public support. Those perceived to have been ineffective—such as U.S. President Donald Trump—may suffer the consequences. In countries where leaders expanded and entrenched their powers, state repression is likely to continue, with the opposition increasingly stifled. And in other nations, particularly where the health of the current regime was impacted, there may be instability among the senior ranks, such as in Iran, where a number of senior leaders were infected, or in Burundi, where President Pierre Nkurunziza, who died in June just weeks after elections that were marred by violence, is thought to be the first head of state to die from COVID-19 complications.


foreignpolicy--2020-07-21--Pentagon Legislative Chief Calls It Quits

The U.S. Defense Department ’ s top legislative official will leave the agency on Friday , two officials familiar with the matter told Foreign Policy , matching the Trump administration ’ s record for civilian vacancies as the White House scrambles to get more nominees through confirmation .
The departure of Robert Hood , assistant secretary of defense for legislative affairs , will leave the Pentagon without a point person to help guide eight Trump administration nominees for high-ranking civilian roles through confirmation .
That includes Anthony Tata , President Donald Trump ’ s controversial choice to lead the Pentagon @ @ @ @ @ @ @ targeted for a confirmation hearing next week despite offensive and conspiratorial tweets revealed by CNN .
It was not immediately clear when Hood officially announced his resignation , or where his next position will be .
Hood ’ s resignation would leave 21 of 60 senior positions at the Pentagon vacant or unfilled , matching a high-water mark for the administration first reached in March .
The departure is another blow to Defense Secretary Mark Esper , who had made finding new nominees a priority at the outset of his tenure last summer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this time in the cycle—some rather controversial to boot—would be tough under the best circumstances , ” Mara Karlin , a former deputy assistant secretary of defense during President Barack Obama ’ s administration , told Foreign Policy .
Without a point person on legislative affairs , she said , “ it will be even less likely.
” Hood departs as the Pentagon has seen its relationship with Capitol Hill reach a low point on a range of issues .
Earlier this year , Esper faced bipartisan pushback from lawmakers after the Trump @ @ @ @ @ @ @ toward the U.S.-Mexico border wall from accounts overseen by Congress , raising anger about a possible end run around lawmakers .
Congress also pushed back forcefully on Esper ’ s handling of the White House ’ s demands for active-duty U.S. troop deployments to the Washington area during nationwide protests against police brutality and racial injustice after the death of George Floyd , with House Armed Services Chairman Adam Smith , a Democrat , slamming a seeming “ lack of coordination ” in the response .
Former Senate aides say that Hood , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ George W. Bush administration and a former senior aide to Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich , was active in getting nominees onto the legislative calendar , answering questions from lawmakers , and arranging office calls between the Trump administration ’ s picks and senators to hash out issues ahead of their confirmation hearings .
But with the Pentagon ’ s legislative affairs shop left without a Senate-confirmed leader and the upper chamber hanging in the balance in November ’ s election , Republicans may be more focused on passing a stimulus package @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pandemic than helping to clear the decks on White House nominees .
“ There are a lot more pressing issues than who the undersecretary of the Air Force is going to be for the next few months , ” a former Senate aide told Foreign Policy .
Hood ’ s resignation also comes amid an accelerated pace of departures at the Pentagon , as the White House has sought to place Trump loyalists in top jobs instead of more mainstream Republican picks .
In June , Kathryn Wheelbarger , who worked under the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Secretary James Mattis , resigned after performing the duties of assistant secretary of defense for international security affairs for nearly two years .
Her announcement came just days after Elaine McCusker , the Pentagon ’ s acting comptroller , resigned after questioning Trump ’ s military aid freeze to Ukraine the previous summer .
Both Wheelbarger and McCusker saw their nominations for high-level positions in the Pentagon rescinded over questions about their loyalty to Trump , and Undersecretary of Defense for Policy John Rood was also fired in February after pushing back against @ @ @ @ @ @ @ House of Representatives to impeach Trump .
Amid a series of governmentwide interviews of political appointees in the administration that are being seen as loyalty tests , irst reported by Foreign Policy , the White House has also moved to slot Trump favorites into high-level acting Pentagon roles—some of them outside of the confirmation process .
Hood is leaving at a consequential time in the legislative calendar for the Pentagon .
The House is slated to vote Tuesday on the final passage of the Defense Department ’ s final authorizing bill for the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that losing the legislative chief at this time could force Pentagon budget fights back out into the open .
“ Losing the legislative affairs chief at this moment is akin to the groom walking away from the bride at the altar , ” said Joel Rubin , a former deputy assistant secretary for House affairs during the Obama administration .
“ When you lose a key player , it risks the strategy collapsing .
All of the internal bureaucratic tussles can spill out into the open .
”

The U.S. Defense Department’s top legislative official will leave the agency on Friday, two officials familiar with the matter told Foreign Policy , matching the Trump administration’s record for civilian vacancies as the White House scrambles to get more nominees through confirmation.
The U.S. Defense Department’s top legislative official will leave the agency on Friday, two officials familiar with the matter told Foreign Policy, matching the Trump administration’s record for civilian vacancies as the White House scrambles to get more nominees through confirmation.
The departure of Robert Hood, assistant secretary of defense for legislative affairs, will leave the Pentagon without a point person to help guide eight Trump administration nominees for high-ranking civilian roles through confirmation. That includes Anthony Tata, President Donald Trump’s controversial choice to lead the Pentagon’s policy shop, who is targeted for a confirmation hearing next week despite offensive and conspiratorial tweets revealed by CNN.
It was not immediately clear when Hood officially announced his resignation, or where his next position will be. Hood’s resignation would leave 21 of 60 senior positions at the Pentagon vacant or unfilled, matching a high-water mark for the administration first reached in March. The departure is another blow to Defense Secretary Mark Esper, who had made finding new nominees a priority at the outset of his tenure last summer.
“Pushing through eight nominations at this time in the cycle—some rather controversial to boot—would be tough under the best circumstances,” Mara Karlin, a former deputy assistant secretary of defense during President Barack Obama’s administration, told Foreign Policy. Without a point person on legislative affairs, she said, “it will be even less likely.”
Hood departs as the Pentagon has seen its relationship with Capitol Hill reach a low point on a range of issues. Earlier this year, Esper faced bipartisan pushback from lawmakers after the Trump administration opted to reprogram billions of dollars toward the U.S.-Mexico border wall from accounts overseen by Congress, raising anger about a possible end run around lawmakers.
Congress also pushed back forcefully on Esper’s handling of the White House’s demands for active-duty U.S. troop deployments to the Washington area during nationwide protests against police brutality and racial injustice after the death of George Floyd, with House Armed Services Chairman Adam Smith, a Democrat, slamming a seeming “lack of coordination” in the response.
Former Senate aides say that Hood, a long-tenured legislative affairs staffer during the George W. Bush administration and a former senior aide to Speaker of the House Newt Gingrich, was active in getting nominees onto the legislative calendar, answering questions from lawmakers, and arranging office calls between the Trump administration’s picks and senators to hash out issues ahead of their confirmation hearings.
But with the Pentagon’s legislative affairs shop left without a Senate-confirmed leader and the upper chamber hanging in the balance in November’s election, Republicans may be more focused on passing a stimulus package to ease unemployment caused by the coronavirus pandemic than helping to clear the decks on White House nominees.
“There are a lot more pressing issues than who the undersecretary of the Air Force is going to be for the next few months,” a former Senate aide told Foreign Policy.
Hood’s resignation also comes amid an accelerated pace of departures at the Pentagon, as the White House has sought to place Trump loyalists in top jobs instead of more mainstream Republican picks.
In June, Kathryn Wheelbarger, who worked under the late Sen. John McCain and former Defense Secretary James Mattis, resigned after performing the duties of assistant secretary of defense for international security affairs for nearly two years. Her announcement came just days after Elaine McCusker, the Pentagon’s acting comptroller, resigned after questioning Trump’s military aid freeze to Ukraine the previous summer.
Both Wheelbarger and McCusker saw their nominations for high-level positions in the Pentagon rescinded over questions about their loyalty to Trump, and Undersecretary of Defense for Policy John Rood was also fired in February after pushing back against the Ukraine hold, which led the House of Representatives to impeach Trump.
Amid a series of governmentwide interviews of political appointees in the administration that are being seen as loyalty tests, irst reported by Foreign Policy, the White House has also moved to slot Trump favorites into high-level acting Pentagon roles—some of them outside of the confirmation process.
Hood is leaving at a consequential time in the legislative calendar for the Pentagon. The House is slated to vote Tuesday on the final passage of the Defense Department’s final authorizing bill for the year, and some former officials fear that losing the legislative chief at this time could force Pentagon budget fights back out into the open.
“Losing the legislative affairs chief at this moment is akin to the groom walking away from the bride at the altar,” said Joel Rubin, a former deputy assistant secretary for House affairs during the Obama administration. “When you lose a key player, it risks the strategy collapsing. All of the internal bureaucratic tussles can spill out into the open.”