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    <title>JURIST - Hotline</title>
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    <description>Real-time comments on legal news by newsmakers, activists, legal experts and special guests</description>
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            <title>Can Algorithms Respect Human Dignity? The Problem with Predictive Justice</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2026/03/can-algorithms-respect-human-dignity-the-problem-with-predictive-justice/</link>
            <pubDate>Fri, 20 Mar 2026 14:54:48 EDT</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>Tuğba Tosun Çobanoğlu</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109489</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[Around the world, algorithms are increasingly being asked to do something once reserved for human judgment: help decide who should remain free and who should be deprived of liberty.

In recent years, algorithmic risk assessment tools have grown more deeply embedded in criminal justice systems worldwide. From bail decisions to sentencing recommendations, predictive technologies promise efficiency, consistency, and data-driven objectivity. Yet behind these promises lies a pressing constitutional and human rights question: can algorithmic decision-making ever truly respect the principle of human dignity?

Courts and policymakers have begun to rely on algorithmic tools to estimate the likelihood that an individual will reoffend. These systems analyze historical data, demographic indicators, and behavioral patterns in order to generate risk scores that influence judicial outcomes. While such technologies are often presented as neutral instruments, they raise profound concerns about transparency, accountability, and fairness.

One of the central problems lies in the opacity of algorithmic reasoning. Many predictive systems operate as proprietary “black boxes,” meaning that even judges and defendants may not fully understand how a particular risk score was produced. When liberty is at stake, such opacity becomes deeply problematic. Legal systems founded upon the rule of law require decisions that can be explained, contested, and justified. Algorithms that cannot be meaningfully scrutinized risk undermining this fundamental principle.

Beyond issues of transparency, predictive justice also raises serious concerns regarding structural bias. Algorithms are trained on historical datasets that may reflect existing social inequalities. If past policing practices disproportionately targeted certain communities, the resulting data will inevitably reproduce those disparities. The algorithm may therefore appear objective while quietly reinforcing systemic discrimination. Several well-known cases, such as the use of the COMPAS risk assessment tool in the United States, have already demonstrated how algorithmic systems may reproduce entrenched disparities.

Perhaps the most significant challenge, however, concerns the concept of human dignity. In many constitutional traditions—particularly within European legal thought—human dignity functions as a foundational principle that limits the ways in which individuals may be treated by the state. Human beings cannot be reduced to mere objects of administrative calculation. They must remain subjects of rights, capable of being judged as individuals rather than statistical probabilities.

Predictive risk assessments, by contrast, operate through generalization. They evaluate individuals not primarily on the basis of their personal actions, but through patterns derived from large datasets. In doing so, they risk transforming legal judgment into a form of statistical management. The individual defendant becomes less a person before the law and more a data point within a predictive model.

This tension is particularly visible in criminal justice contexts, where decisions about liberty carry profound moral and legal significance. Judicial reasoning traditionally requires individualized evaluation, consideration of circumstances, and the exercise of human judgment. When algorithmic outputs begin to shape these decisions, there is a danger that statistical reasoning may gradually replace normative legal reasoning.

None of this means that technology has no role in modern legal systems. Data-driven tools may assist courts by identifying patterns or highlighting relevant information. However, they must remain assistive rather than determinative. Algorithms may inform judicial decision-making — but they cannot replace the responsibility of judges to interpret the law and evaluate the unique circumstances of each case.

Ultimately, the rise of predictive justice forces legal systems to confront a fundamental question: how far should we allow algorithmic reasoning to penetrate the domain of human judgment?

Efficiency and technological innovation are valuable goals, but they cannot come at the expense of constitutional principles. If algorithmic tools begin to shape legal outcomes in ways that obscure accountability or reduce individuals to probabilistic risk profiles, the legitimacy of the justice system itself may be placed at risk.

The challenge for contemporary legal systems is therefore not simply to regulate artificial intelligence, but to ensure that technological innovation remains firmly grounded in the principles of human dignity, fairness, and the rule of law.

Tuğba Tosun Çobanoğlu is an independent researcher working at the intersection of family counseling, sociology, psychology, international law, and political science.]]></content:encoded>
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            <title>Who Rules Myanmar? Five Years On, International Law Has No Clear Answer</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2026/03/who-rules-myanmar-five-years-on-international-law-has-no-clear-answer/</link>
            <pubDate>Fri, 13 Mar 2026 13:11:58 EDT</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>Anonymous</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109443</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[An estimated 89,000 lives lost; 30,000 arbitrary detentions; 3.4 million people displaced. In the five years since the February 2021 coup, these ever-rising figures have come to define Myanmar. From a legal standpoint, the military, operating as the State Administration Council (SAC), asserts de facto control through territorial occupation and administrative force. On the other hand, the National Unity Government (NUG), a government in exile, emerged from the ousted Committee Representing the Pyidaungsu Hluttaw (CRPH). The NUG claims de jure legitimacy as the democratic successor to the 2020 elections.

While the international community officially recognizes a “humanitarian catastrophe” and largely condemns the SAC, it remains divided in its formal recognition and effective legal intervention. Recent shifts, including the SAC’s contested 2025-2026 elections and the ongoing ICJ proceedings in The Gambia v. Myanmar, further fuel this legal paradox. Ultimately, after five years, the question remains: Who actually rules Myanmar in the eyes of the law?

Using the Montevideo Convention as the primary legal yardstick, a state must possess a permanent population, a defined territory, a government, and the capacity to enter into international relations. In terms of territory, the SAC maintains physical control over the capital and the majority of urban areas. By enforcing administrative rules and maintaining state functions, even through coercive force, the SAC signals a degree of de facto governance. The SAC's territorial grip has not gone uncontested. The Civil Disobedience Movement (CDM) mounted significant resistance, and while the NUG initially funded CDM civil servants, those payments have since been discontinued, exposing the limits of the NUG's own administrative reach. The SAC’s repeated mandates ordering civil servants back to work highlight a persistent failure to secure the “consent of the governed” necessary for stable administration. Nonetheless, the SAC keeps the government sectors running in urban areas, even if staffed by those threatened with prosecution under the 2010 People's Military Service Law. In 2024, the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights (OHCHR) released a report citing the NUG's claim that Ethnic Armed Organisations (EAOs) and People's Defense Forces (PDFs) fully controlled 48 townships. Even the military's own provisional census results suggested limited SAC territorial reach. 

A critical factor that has recently been more widely discussed is the NUG’s funding of Myanmar’s UN membership fees, approximately $1 million, since the 2021 coup to secure its voting rights through 2026. This allows the NUG to maintain a de jure legal personality through Ambassador U Kyaw Moe Tun, effectively blocking the SAC from the global stage. While diplomatic presence does not always equate to legal sovereignty, the fact that this funding comes from the Myanmar public through the NUG may carry legal weight. This raises a question: Does this continuous public funding provide a 'rolling mandate' that supersedes the natural expiration of the 2020 election results? This battle for representation extends to the International Court of Justice (ICJ). In January 2026, ahead of the landmark hearings in The Gambia v. Myanmar, the NUG asserted itself as the sole legitimate representative before the Court and stated that “Allowing the junta to represent Myanmar at the ICJ would be an affront to the dignity of the Rohingya people and to all the people of Myanmar. The International Court of Justice must listen to the voices of the people.” 

The legal foundation of the conflict remains rooted in the competing interpretations of the 2008 Constitution. The SAC justifies the coup as a constitutional response to alleged 2020 election fraud, while the NUG draws its mandate from the ousted CRPH as the legitimate, elected representatives. However, as the conflict enters its fifth year, both sides face a ‘test of time’. The NUG’s original electoral mandate faces natural expiration, yet the SAC’s attempt to manufacture a new mandate has failed to gain international traction. Following the military-run elections that were completed in early 2026, Philippine Foreign Secretary Theresa Lazaro confirmed that ASEAN has not endorsed the results, signalling a regional refusal to recognize the SAC. Nevertheless, the unresolved paradox remains, especially when most neighboring countries and aid agencies are forced to deal with the SAC for practical matters like cross-border trade and disaster relief following the March 2025 earthquake. 

The way forward for Myanmar hinges on a fundamental conflict between two core doctrines of international law: de facto and de jure legitimacy. However, international law is notoriously pragmatic towards a ‘government-in-exile’ like the NUG that lacks physical territory and often sees its diplomatic standing erode over time. Yet, five years on, the NUG’s ability to maintain both a diplomatic vote and a public treasury suggests that the 'test of time' may not favour the SAC as clearly as history would predict. For the people of Myanmar, legal legitimacy has always been secondary to the more urgent question of who can end the violence—and on that count, neither claimant has yet made its case.

For security reasons, the author of this piece has requested anonymity. JURIST has verified their credentials and expertise.]]></content:encoded>
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            <title>Orbital data centers and the legal vacuum threatening AI governance</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2026/03/orbital-data-centers-and-the-legal-vacuum-threatening-ai-governance/</link>
            <pubDate>Thu, 12 Mar 2026 09:54:40 EDT</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>Vishal Sharma</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109438</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[In the first week of February 2026, the geography of human intelligence officially detached from the Earth. With a landmark filing to the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) on February 4, SpaceX proposed a network of one million solar-powered satellites designed not for communication, but for computation. This "Orbital Data Center" system, bolstered by the recent SpaceX-xAI merger, aims to move massive AI workloads into Low Earth Orbit (LEO). The rationale is a matter of cold physics; Earth is running out of "cool."
The "Cloud" has always been a misnomer, usually a marketing term designed to make us forget about the hum of massive server farms and the millions of gallons of water required to cool them. But as 2026 begins, the terrestrial Cloud has hit a wall. Between the staggering electricity demands of generative AI and the resistance from local communities facing water shortages, data centers have become an environmental and political liability. Space, however, with its 24/7 solar abundance and the infinite cryogenic sink of the vacuum is the only remaining frontier for the next gigawatt-scale supercomputer.
Yet, as our digital infrastructure leaves the atmosphere, it enters a legal vacuum. We are witnessing the birth of "Digital Soil," which can be broadly defined as a new form of territory where power is exercised not by planting flags, but by controlling the orbital GPU clusters that process a nation's intelligence.

The Jurisdictional Mirage
We are currently navigating the most advanced technology in human history using a legal map drawn in 1967. The Outer Space Treaty (OST), the "Constitution" of the stars, was designed to prevent nuclear silos on the Moon, not to regulate the flow of encrypted petabytes.
The core of the crisis lies in Article VI of the OST, which holds that a satellite remains under the "authorization and continuing supervision" of its Launching State. In a world of simple hardware, this was a clear line of liability. In 2026, it creates what we can call a "Jurisdictional Mirage."
Consider the legal superposition of data on a SpaceX orbital server where the United States retains physical "jurisdiction and control" over the satellite hardware under the OST. Simultaneously, under Earth-bound laws such as India’s Digital Personal Data Protection (DPDP) Act or Europe’s General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR), the data itself remains subject to the sovereignty of the user’s home nation. If a data breach occurs 500 kilometers above the Earth, which regulator has the standing to issue a warrant? A terrestrial court cannot seize an orbital server, and the Launching State has no treaty obligation to enforce foreign privacy laws. We are inadvertently building "Legal Ghost Ships," which are high-performance processors that operate in a state of permanent "offshore" status, beyond the reach of any democratic audit or subpoena.

Controlling the 'Digital Soil' of the Stars
International law prohibits nations from claiming territory in space. However, power in 2026 is no longer about land; it is about infrastructure. Control the systems that process intelligence, route communications, and manage autonomous operations—traditional territorial sovereignty becomes secondary.
This is the emergence of Digital Soil, a new form of territory defined not by geography, but by control over computational foundations. Orbital AI systems are uniquely positioned to escape traditional state pressure. They cannot be easily shut down, sanctioned, or inspected. They exist in a permanent condition of functional “offshoring,” shielded by distance and legal ambiguity.
By situating the world’s most powerful AI models in an orbital environment where no single nation can exercise clear oversight, tech giants are effectively seceding from the terrestrial social contract. They are establishing a digital territory that is immune to the "kill-switches" of sovereign states. For emerging economies and Global South democracies, the implications are severe. If orbital infrastructure becomes the backbone of global AI, exclusion from its governance will translate directly into a new form of digital dependency.

The Risk of the 'Lunar Jurisdictional Trap'
This crisis intensifies as we push toward permanent lunar operations. The "Lunar Jurisdictional Trap" is the inevitable result of this governance gap. Future settlements will rely entirely on orbital AI for oxygen regulation, navigation, and resource allocation.
If this infrastructure is governed by a patchwork of 20th-century treaties, we risk a "Winner-Takes-All" scenario. A data blockade in the Cislunar Maritime Corridor which will be the strategic shipping lane of the 21st-century would be as consequential as a naval blockade was in the age of sail. We are sleepwalking into a future where the most vital resources of the space age are held in private, unaccountable hands, shielded by the very treaties meant to keep space "the province of all mankind."

A Manifesto for Functional Neutrality
We cannot wait for a "Space GDPR" that will take decades to ratify. We need a principle of "Functional Neutrality"—rules that apply to what systems do, not where they are physically located.
First, the United Nations must designate specific orbital strata as "International Data Commons." Much like the High Seas or Antarctica, these zones should be protected by multilateral frameworks that prevent any single nation or corporation from exercising unilateral control over critical computational infrastructure. These zones would ensure that the "Digital Soil" of our future remains a global public good.
Second, several regulators privately acknowledge that no existing inspection or seizure mechanism applies once computation leaves the atmosphere, for a simple reason: a regulator cannot physically board an orbital server to conduct an audit. Accountability must therefore become architectural. International law should mandate "Agentic Compliance," which would include cryptographically secured observer algorithms built into the hardware to provide real-time, verifiable proof of compliance with Earth-bound privacy laws. This is the only way to pierce the veil of the "Legal Ghost Ship."

The Final Frontier of Accountability
The migration of our digital lives to the stars is a technical necessity. We cannot sustain the AI revolution on a planet already struggling with climate stress and resource scarcity. But as we reach for the stars, we must not leave our hard-won principles of justice, sovereignty, and human rights on the launchpad.
We are currently architecting the foundation of a multi-planetary society. The question is not whether humanity will reach the Moon and beyond. It is whether, by the time we do, the most vital systems sustaining that future will already be governed by the highest bidder rather than the public interest. If we fail to secure the digital soil of our future now, we may discover too late that sovereignty was lost, not through conquest, but through neglect.



Vishal Sharma is an AI governance advocate who specializes in data privacy and cyber law. He holds engineering and law degrees from NALSAR University.

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            <title>Black Voting Rights in Mississippi: A System Built to Exclude</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2026/03/black-voting-rights-in-mississippi-a-system-built-to-exclude/</link>
            <pubDate>Mon, 09 Mar 2026 15:09:15 EDT</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>Trey Walk | Human Rights Watch</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109412</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[On the night of June 12, 1963, Medgar Evers stepped out of his Oldsmobile parked in the driveway of his Jackson, Mississippi home, carrying t-shirts that read, "Jim Crow Must Go." He had returned from a civil rights meeting where he'd discussed voter registration strategies. A bullet struck him moments later, fired by a white man crouched in honeysuckle bushes across the street. This moment fueled the civil rights movement, and represented the tactics some in Mississippi would deploy to ensure Black citizens did not have a political voice.

July 2025 would have marked Evers' 100th birthday. Jackson, the Mississippi capital, hosted a celebration, bringing together local and national politicians, community members, and activists in a city that has become ground zero for a new kind of rights struggle.

In Mississippi, 38 percent of residents are Black yet there are no Black statewide elected officials. The last time a Black person held statewide office in Mississippi was during Reconstruction, more than 140 years ago. This is the result of a political system built to ensure that demographics do not translate into political representation.

The mechanics of racial injustice in Mississippi have changed and grown more complex, but the present-day reality traces back to the ideas that fueled the violence Evers faced. Mississippi no longer uses lynch mobs, cross burnings, home bombings, poll taxes, and literacy tests. Now, divestment from public services and infrastructure, gerrymandering, felony disenfranchisement, and state takeovers serve to reinforce a racial hierarchy.
1890 Constitutional Convention
During the 12 years of Reconstruction after the end of chattel slavery, Mississippi elected more than 200 Black men to public office, more than any other state except South Carolina. This included statewide representatives: two United States senators, Hiram Revels and Blanche K. Bruce; lieutenant governor Alexander Davis; and secretary of state James Hill. Recently Emancipated Black people took their new freedom to vote seriously, and their political representation flourished. Until it didn’t. Reconstruction fell in 1877, when President Rutherford Hayes removed federal troops who had been warding off white supremacist violence. Across the South, white former Confederates regained power and made their first tasks to create a legal architecture to deny Black political power. In Mississippi, the 1890 Constitutional Convention was its blueprint.

When the all-white delegation gathered in Jackson to rewrite the state constitution, they made their ambitions clear. Solomon Saladin Calhoon, the convention's president, said, "We came here to exclude the Negro. Nothing short of this will answer." Because the recently enacted 13th, 14th, and 15th amendments to the U.S. Constitution forbid explicit racial hierarchy, legislators designed laws that could achieve the same results through seemingly neutral means.

A $2 poll tax to participate in elections, targeted Black people who still faced limited economic opportunity after centuries of forced labor and exclusion. After decades in which Black literacy was unlawful, literacy tests required voters to read, "any section of the state constitution" or demonstrate their understanding of it to the satisfaction of white registrars. They often asked Black applicants impossible questions such as, “how many gumballs are in this jar?”

One of the most durable tools developed during this period was felony disenfranchisement, which strips the right to vote for a felony conviction. Delegates chose a list of crimes that they thought were most likely to be committed by Black people – burglary, theft, and arson, crimes that included acts some recently emancipated people used to resist being held captive on their former plantations.

The results were devastating. Black voter registration dropped from 97 percent in 1868 to just 6 percent by 1892. Mississippi’s legal disenfranchisement model would spread across the South and hinder Black people’s enjoyment of human rights for generations.
Narrative of Black Incompetence
Mississippi needed a justification for these exclusionary mechanisms. White officials set about crafting a story that falsely characterized the brief period of Black political power during Reconstruction as evidence that Black people were unfit to govern, and unfit for democracy. This narrative was repeated in speeches, films, textbooks, and street conversations

President Andrew Johnson wrote to Congress in 1867, “It must be acknowledged that in the progress of nations Negroes have shown less capacity for government than any other race of people.”

President Woodrow Wilson, a scholar by training, believed historians who depicted Reconstruction as a disaster that required white “redemption.” He hosted the first film screening at the White House in 1915—of D.W. Griffith's Birth of a Nation, which portrayed the Ku Klux Klan as heroic saviors rescuing the South from Black people. The film's vast influence sparked increased Klan membership and a new wave of racial violence.

This narrative transformed racial exclusion into a logical course of action. If Black people were inherently unfit to govern, then making it harder for them to vote, elect candidates, and serve in elected office, was responsible.

“We’ve had to wear these lies about us for years,” said Frank Figgers, a Jackson community leader. “Since Reconstruction Black people have been told that we can't govern and we put up a fierce fight to reject that."
Black Participation Prevented with Violence
White Mississippians also used violence to crush Black people’s efforts to build political power. Between 1877 and 1950, mobs of white people lynched at least 654 Black men, women, and children in Mississippi. Reverend George W. Lee was shot in the head in 1955 for helping Black citizens register. Lamar "Ditney" Smith was gunned down in daylight on a courthouse lawn while carrying absentee ballots. Herbert Lee, who helped found his county's NAACP branch, was killed by a white state representative in 1961 for his voter registration efforts.

During 1964’s Freedom Summer, when college students from across the country traveled to Mississippi to challenge Jim Crow, the Klan murdered three young men for teaching Black Mississippians to read and vote. Michael Schwerner, James Cheney, and Andrew Goodman became national symbols of the state's commitment to maintaining its racial order through terror.

The assassination of Medgar Evers was especially remarkable. As the NAACP's first field secretary in the state, Evers had worked to desegregate the University of Mississippi, investigated the lynching of 14-year-old Emmett Till, and organized voter registration drives across a state where such activities could mean death.

When Byron De La Beckwith was finally convicted in 1994 for the murder, 31 years later, the delay itself sent a message. Mississippi would protect those who protected white supremacy, even when their methods were deadly and unlawful.
Black Participation Thwarted by Political System 
More than a century later, Black disenfranchisement remains a defining feature of Mississippi’s political landscape.

Today, at least 43,700 Black Mississippians, over 5 percent of the state’s Black adult population, cannot vote, according to the Sentencing Project. Mississippi has an overall felony disenfranchisement rate of 3.08 percent. Black Mississippians represent over 60 percent of the disenfranchised population despite only making up 37 percent of the state’s population. Across the US, 1.7 percent of adult citizens cannot vote due to felony disenfranchisement.

Individuals seeking to regain voting rights in Mississippi must either receive a gubernatorial pardon, requiring public hearings and newspaper notices that can trigger community opposition, or convince two-thirds of both legislative chambers to pass individual bills." According to a report by the Advancement Project, Mississippi Votes, and OneVoice, between 2000 and 2015, only 335 people successfully navigated this gauntlet out of 166,494 people who completed their sentences. The process ensures that disenfranchisement remains effectively permanent.

At the same time, racial gerrymandering continues. The federal government acknowledged Mississippi’s history of suppressing Black political power in the Voting Rights Act of 1965 by making the state seek federal permission to change voting laws and maps. Federal courts and the US Department of Justice have intervened on behalf of Black voters repeatedly.

As recently as 2024, a federal court ordered the state to redraw its legislative maps after finding they diluted Black voting power. The court wrote “that Mississippi has a long and dubious history of discriminating against blacks is indisputable.” It goes on to say that the legislature's history of map drawing since 1980 is a “continuation of official discrimination.” The court also found that despite Black voters remaining cohesive in their political choices, white voters had consistently opposed the candidate preferred by Black voters, creating a dynamic in which demographic change never translates into statewide power for Black Mississippians. While the court agreed that the state had weakened Black voting power, the voters won under the Voting Rights Act but lost their constitutional claim because they could not prove the state intended to discriminate. This outcome illustrates why the Voting Rights Act is a critical safeguard -- it protects voters based on discriminatory outcomes rather than requiring the nearly impossible task of proving racist intent.

The Supreme Court's 2013 decision in Shelby v. Holder removed the federal oversight that had protected voting rights for nearly 50 years. Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg's dissent forecasted that striking down the requirement was like "throwing away your umbrella in a rainstorm." According to the Brennan Center for Justice, the downpour came. It found that states have implemented over one hundred restrictive voting laws in the decade that followed.
White Flight Drains Jackson of Resources
As Black Mississippians have found themselves locked out of statewide power, the city of Jackson has become an exception: a place where Black political participation could flourish. The city's transformation from majority-white to majority-Black created opportunities for meaningful representation that had been absent since Reconstruction. Jackson and the surrounding area account for almost 20 percent of the state’s Black population. About 14 percent of Mississippi’s Black population lives in Jackson compared with 7 percent of the total population of the state. Another 5 percent of the state’s Black population live within 10 miles of the city. )



In the post-civil rights era, Jackson experienced dramatic white flight, partially encouraged by organizations like the White Citizens Council, which initiated a campaign to encourage white families to move to avoid integration. The group wrote about integration, “If we quit resisting, we will be committing cultural, and probably racial, suicide.” Jackson’s population over a few decades went from being two-thirds white to over three-quarters Black. The city eventually began electing Black representatives to lead the police and courts and manage municipal resources.



This included the 1997 election of Harvey Johnson Jr. as Jackson's first Black mayor. Looking back on that night of victory, Johnson recalled the overwhelming response: "We shut down the street outside of our campaign headquarters. Hundreds of people came to extend their well wishes. I felt an air of excitement there that night."

But soon after the celebration ended, Johnson would have to address stark reality. From 1990 to 2000, nearly 35,000 white residents departed Jackson for the surrounding counties of Madison and Rankin, taking their tax base with them. The city's population dropped from 250,000 in 1985 to fewer than 150,000 today, while the surrounding suburbs flourished.



The exodus from Jackson was partially enabled by federal and state policies and funds that made suburban development popular and that had the effect of siphoning of resources that could have gone to the city.

“I've just watched millions and millions of dollars be directed to these new projects in suburban communities,” he said.



Johnson also wondered if his election was a manifestation of Black political power that would incite backlash. "I worry that the moment I became mayor was the beginning of the end of democracy in Jackson.”
Pluralism and Democracy at the State Legislature
As Jackson's resources contracted, so too did Black political influence at the state level, engineered through deliberately drawn district lines.

Almost every state representative or senator is of the same race as the majority of the population within their district boundary.

These state senate and house districts are artificial constructs, delineated with political outcomes at top of mind. Human Rights Watch compared their populations to those within two other sets of administrative boundaries, counties and census tracts, that are more representative of real communities and developed with different intentions.

State Senate and House boundaries are much less diverse and create more white majority units than counties or census tracts. Between 8.5 and 9.7 percent of census tracts and counties have no majority race, with both Black and white populations below 50 percent. Yet no Senate districts and only 1 house district are designed without a clear race majority.



With few exceptions, political boundaries drawn in a way in which white representatives are rarely electorally accountable to Black voters and comprise the majority of the legislature.



State Control and 2023 Jackson Takeover Bills
In 2023, Mississippi's legislature passed two laws that radically altered Jackson's governance, stripping power from elected Black officials and transferring it to appointed bodies whose members are all white. House Bill 1020 created a new court system within the Capitol Complex Improvement District, a state-created economic zone that encompasses downtown and the city's predominantly white northeastern neighborhoods. Judges for this court are appointed by the state supreme court chief justice rather than elected. Senate Bill 2343 expanded the state-run Capitol Police Department's jurisdiction to cover nearly the entire city, a broad grant of authority to a law enforcement agency that is accountable to state officials rather than Jackson's elected mayor and city council.

State lawmakers defended the legislation by citing Jackson’s rising crime rates and court backlogs as urgent public safety concerns that the legislature was obligated to respond to because Jackson is the capital city. Rep. Trey Lamar argued that the separate court system would help address case delays in criminal proceedings, along with lawmakers who argued Capitol Police expansion would create additional law enforcement presence to deter crime and supplement the Jackson Police Department, which had been under-resourced.

The Improvement district court represented what some described as separate justice systems for white and Black residents within the same city.

Devin Branch, a community organizer in West Jackson discussing the impact of Capitol Police patrolling the city, said, “This felt like an occupation."

Zakiya Summers, who represents Jackson in the legislature, remembers being surprised that the bill was pushed through so quickly. She said, “I thought the Black and Jackson delegations would have a chance to engage,” but she suspects that, “Leadership didn't need our votes."

The legislative debate revealed the racial nature of the bills. White Republican legislators questioned whether Jackson possessed "the best and brightest" to serve as local judges, suggesting that the majority-Black city lacked adequate talent for self-governance. Representative Trey Lamar, the white legislator from Senatobia who sponsored the court takeover, lives three hours from Jackson and acknowledged that none of his constituents had requested the legislation. When Black legislators pointed to poverty and disinvestment as root causes of the city's challenges, Lamar suggested the real problem was "a lack of somebody at home to steer young people in the right direction"—a dog whistle that echoed racist stereotypes about Black people dating back to Reconstruction.

The legislative debate not only had racial undertones; it showed selective application of the state’s concerns. Lawmakers continually pointed to public safety and court reform as justifications for the changes, but they did not provide answers for why similar interventions were not proposed in other Mississippi cities dealing with similar challenges. For instance, the city of Tupelo was exempt from a state-led commission overseeing its tax expenditure, which was required of Jackson to pass its 1 percent sales tax. The state also created new elected judge positions across Mississippi but failed to add judges in Hinds County, even though its caseload had grown more than other areas. In another example, lawmakers did not explain why Northeast Jackson, a wealthier area with a large white population and lower crime rates, was included in the new court district. This drove the belief among some that Jackson was being singled out because of its racial demographics.
A Longer Pattern of State Takeovers in Jackson
The 2023 legislation was the latest in a broader pattern of state intervention disempowering Jackson's Black political leadership

Jackson residents voted in 2014 for a 1 percent sales tax to raise funds to improve the city’s aging infrastructure, which suffers from decades of disinvestment. The state responded by creating a new commission that would oversee the funds, with Jackson officials appointing a minority of members. The majority-white city of Tupelo, the only other city Mississippi allowed to implement a local sales tax, was not subject to state oversight. More recently, state legislators considered a measure to restrict city leadership to only spend revenue from the tax on the city’s water system, rather than a broader set of infrastructure improvements.

Mayor Johnson said, “With Jackson's enactment of the sales tax, the legislature put on a commission to basically oversee not the collection of the money, but the expenditure of the money. And I consider that an affront to local elected officials here in the city and an affront to the political gains made over the years by Black citizens in Jackson.”

The 2022 water crisis provided another opportunity for state intervention. After decades of disinvestment in Jackson's water system, flooding at the city's treatment plant left 170,000 residents without safe water for weeks. Jackson’s leaders had warned about the danger of disinvestment in the water system and requested state assistance for years. The shrinking tax base, a problem with its origins in the pattern of white flight that started in the 1970s, made raising funds for infrastructure a difficult task for local leaders.

A 2024 EPA Office of Inspector General report found that the lack of state financial support was a primary cause. The report notes the Mississippi State Department of Health received nearly $265 million in federal funds in the form of loans, to be distributed at the local level. Jackson received $51 million of the $265 million, which the report found to be inadequate to address the city’s repair needs. Reports by the EPA and the Project on Government Oversight noted that Mississippi’s practice of sending federal funds to local governments in the form of loans, rather than grants, burden the city’s low and middle income residents.

“States have a responsibility in creating systems that don't leave depopulating municipalities vulnerable… [Mississippi has shown] reticence to create solutions for Jackson that is inextricably tied to race and racism,” said Professor Andre Perry of the Brookings Institution in a 2022 interview with the American Society of Engineers.

International human rights law also speaks to this responsibility. The International Covenant of Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights (ICESCR) guarantees the rights to health, education, and an adequate standard of living. The Covenant recognizes that resources are a limiting factor, but obliges governments to work towards the progressive realization of these rights “to the maximum of [their] available resources.” Furthermore, governments can only take deliberately “retrogressive” steps, often represented by patterns of disinvestment, in very limited circumstances. The United States has not ratified the treaty, but it still offers strong practical guidance as to how officials at all levels of government should work to realize the rights it codifies.

When federal courts appointed an outside manager to oversee the water system, Governor Tate Reeves blamed the issues on local incompetence. He said, “I don't think it's very likely that the city is going to operate the water system anytime soon, if ever.”

The latest battle is over the Jackson-Medgar Wiley Evers International Airport, which generates millions in revenue and creates thousands of jobs in the Jackson area. In 2016, Mississippi’s majority-white legislature passed a law that would abolish Jackson’s majority-Black elected airport authority and replace it with an appointed board, selected by state officials who are all white.

Jackson sued the state legislature, arguing the state takeover of the airport would violate the equal protection clause of the US Constitution. A federal judge ruled in May 2025 that Jackson had legal standing to make its case in court. Judge Carlton Reeves wrote the city has been singled out for treatment to which no other cities in Mississippi are subject. Jackson is now preparing to argue the 2016 airport takeover law is a form of racial discrimination, even though it is seemingly race-neutral. The city will rely on the US Constitution’s equal protection clause, which the court noted was created in the aftermath of the Civil War to protect newly emancipated Black Americans from discrimination.

The city has filed similar legal claims about the Jackson baseball stadium, which the state attorney general demanded Jackson surrender in September 2024, arguing the city violated the 1944 deed that required the land be used for parks. The litigation is ongoing.

"It hurts democracy, it hurts the psyche of Black people,” Rep. Summers said. “We assume Black people can't govern and white people need to be in charge and control resources."

Community activists Oleta Fitzgerald and Phaedra Robinson said this pattern causes fatigue. "We're fighting battle after battle so our community, our kids, our old people can survive," they said in an interview with Human Rights Watch. "Courts are stacked, the legislature is stacked. it's always been a fight for us in Mississippi, and it feels like they want to go back to the good old days."

Mississippi has cited public safety, government efficiency and reform, scarcity of resources as justification for takeovers. These are race-neutral motivations. However, the pattern of selective intervention exclusively targeting Mississippi’s majority-Black capital city, combined with the exclusion of local Black officials from decision-making processes, means that these “neutral” policies have discriminatory effects.
The Cost, Violation of International Human Rights Law
Mississippi's actions implicate not just the US constitution but US obligations under international human rights law. The International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, ratified by the United States in 1992, guarantees that elected representatives must "exercise governmental power" and remain "accountable through the electoral process." Mississippi's pattern of stripping authority from Black-elected officials is at odds with the spirit and perhaps the letter of these obligations.

The Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Racial Discrimination, ratified by the U.S. in 1994, prohibits state actions that have racially discriminatory effects, even if they appear to have race-neutral intent. Mississippi's takeover of Jackson clearly may amount to a violation of US obligations under that treaty.

Under both treaties, the federal government and states must take effective steps to protect people against violations of their rights and to provide effective remedies for human rights violations that do occur. In Jackson, historical violations have metastasized, creating new mechanisms of exclusion for a new century.

Peyton McCrary, a historian with the U.S. Department of Justice Civil Rights Division, believes the Voting Rights Act should have prevented state officials from engaging in various forms of political takeover in Jackson . "It would have been rejected soundly," he told reporters. "I have no doubt that it would have been rejected. It would pretty much have been an open-and-shut case."
Medgar Evers' Legacy and Contemporary Activism 
Kelcy Higgins grew up in the Mississippi Delta, shaped by her grandmother's civic involvement and her own early encounters with racism. Higgins has worked for Planned Parenthood in one of the most restrictive states for reproductive rights, and for political campaigns in a state where Black candidates rarely win statewide. She remains involved in efforts to ensure her community can gain adequate representation and be governed by officials who meet the needs of their constituents.

Higgins participated in the Jackson Undivided Coalition, a group of community organizations that opposed the 2023 Jackson takeover bills. She remembers worrying when the laws passed could ripple beyond Mississippi. "Whatever they'll do to Jackson, they'll do to somebody else. The state's approach to the city of Jackson, with the court and the Capitol Police, that's not something they came up with on their own. They talk to their peers and they share the same advice and consultants all across the country."

Higgins said that the most noticeable change since the laws have gone into effect is the increased presence of state police across Jackson. She said she and her friends see the Capitol Police as “the state's surveillance team.” Community groups are still monitoring the implementation of the new state run court and police presence, looking to ensure local residents still have pathways to hold CCID officials accountable.

Activists across the state like Higgins, continue to work daily to improve the conditions of life for Black people in Mississippi, driven by the legacy of social movements. Keenon Walker, an organizer with Mississippi Votes, said, “I have the pleasure of having met the children of Medgar Evers and Vernon Dahmer,” referring to another Mississippi civil rights leader, “and when I sit down and listen to them talk it’s empowering. It makes me want to keep fighting. To know that I'm so close to this history, I feel a sense of duty to keep the work going.”

One hundred years after his birth, sixty-two years after his death, Medgar Evers’ fight continues. The price of political participation in Mississippi remains high for Black citizens. Kelcy Higgins holds on to a better future, saying, “it isn’t going to be like this forever.”

Trey Walk is a US researcher and advocate at Human Rights Watch. The article includes data analysis by Brian Root, senior quantitative analyst at Human Rights Watch.]]></content:encoded>
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            <title>When Power Cannot Hear: Political Stuttering and the Fate of Iran</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2026/03/when-power-cannot-hear-political-stuttering-and-the-fate-of-iran/</link>
            <pubDate>Sun, 01 Mar 2026 23:48:54 EST</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>AmirAli Maleki</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109363</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[Editor's Note: This op-ed was submitted to JURIST prior to the joint US-Israeli military strikes on Iran that began on February 28, 2026. The author is based in Tehran. JURIST has confirmed that he is safe. Due to ongoing internet disruptions and security conditions on the ground, he is currently unable to file. He will share his perspectives on the unfolding situation when he is able to do so. We publish his essay now because its arguments about the relationship between political language, negotiation, and state power have taken on an immediacy its author could not have anticipated.

Mother and child
Sit before the house door,
Looking upon the peace.
Few seem to die:
A premonition, sent from the golden light,
Holds the soul back;
A promise retains the eldest. 
Celebration of Peace - by Friedrich Hölderlin, Translated by James Mitchell

Peace, Hölderlin suggests, begins as language—as a promise that holds. A few weeks after the protests erupted across Iran at the end of 2025, schools reopened in person. When I walked into my philosophy class, the students had only one question: When will the United States attack? Will it attack at all? What will happen? Is negotiation good for us, or bad? They were asking with a seriousness that no teenager should have to learn so early. They were not asking about missiles; they were asking about language. About promises and threats, about rumors and silence, about the strange ritual of diplomacy that seems to decide the fate of nations while ordinary people watch from the dark. Their words have stayed with me ever since. They were the beginning of this manifesto: an attempt to think about negotiation not as a technical instrument of foreign policy but as a problem in the philosophy of language and law, as a drama in which regimes confront the limits of their own speech.

The diplomat and historian Henry Kissinger once drew a distinction that feels almost theological itself. He argued that negotiation has two dimensions: psychological and theological. The idea runs through his work, from Diplomacy (1994) to his portraits of mid-twentieth-century statecraft in Leadership: Six Studies in World Strategy (2022). In the psychological mode, adversaries meet not because they trust each other but because they recognize the danger of misunderstanding. Negotiation becomes a way to manage uncertainty. Even without agreement, conversation stabilizes the world. In the theological mode, the adversary is not merely mistaken but illegitimate. Dialogue becomes betrayal. Compromise becomes sin. Negotiation collapses before it begins because language itself is closed. According to this interpretation, negotiation fails when language is treated as complete rather than provisional—when vocabulary is sacred, not contingent. But this distinction, insightful as it is, leaves an unanswered question: why do some regimes fail at negotiation even when they try? Why do leaders who believe in their own strength either concede too much or lash out in fury? Kissinger noticed the pattern without naming it. Leaders with absolute confidence are often poor negotiators. They cannot calibrate language because they believe it is already complete. They speak as if certainty were clarity. They negotiate as if listening were weakness. They fall into what I call political stuttering. Political stuttering is not hesitation. It is speech that repeats itself because it cannot change. It is language that believes it is final. It is the condition in which power confuses volume with truth. Slogans replace arguments; ritual replaces conversation. The state speaks constantly yet says nothing new. And when it meets an adversary, it cannot translate itself into a vocabulary the other side can hear.

Here the philosophy of Hans-Georg Gadamer becomes indispensable. In Truth and Method (1960), Gadamer argues that understanding is always dialogical: we do not stand outside language and use it as a tool; we live inside it. Meaning is never complete. There is always something unsaid, something that escapes expression. This incompleteness is not a flaw but the very condition of understanding. Dialogue exists because no one possesses language fully. Gadamer’s insight carries a political warning: if understanding happens only in language, then regimes that close language close reality. They silence dissent, yes, but they also silence self‑knowledge. They begin to believe their own formulas. They repeat them louder and more often until words detach from experience. When such a regime enters negotiation, it discovers that its vocabulary cannot carry the complexity of reality. It stutters. To see this pattern in practice, consider the Hungarian Revolution of 1956. In October of that year, a popular uprising in Hungary challenged the rigid communist regime backed by the Soviet Union. The reformist leader Imre Nagy attempted to open political space and negotiate Hungary’s neutrality and withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact—an alliance that bound Eastern Bloc countries under Soviet influence. After initial signals of possible openness, the Soviets intervened militarily, arresting negotiators and crushing the uprising with overwhelming force. The Soviet leadership could not translate Nagy’s language of reform into a shared political vocabulary, viewing his demands as betrayal rather than legitimate negotiation. Their refusal to engage meaningfully with those linguistic signals turned negotiation into coercion and ultimately violence. The failure of diplomacy in 1956 did not occur because of a lack of military power, but because the vocabulary of authority could not accommodate plurality, reform, or shared meaning. The Soviet refusal to admit conceptual openness in the language of negotiation exemplifies political stuttering at its most destructive.

Kissinger’s psychological negotiation assumes that adversaries can admit misunderstanding. Gadamer explains why that admission is necessary: because language itself is incomplete. Negotiation succeeds when both sides accept that their words are provisional. It fails when one side insists that its vocabulary is sacred. At that point, diplomacy becomes theater—summits without translation, communiqués without comprehension, agreements that cannot survive contact with reality. This is especially visible in systems that reduce public discourse to a single dimension. In such regimes, speech becomes ritual. Citizens learn to repeat phrases rather than argue. Officials speak in formulas that cannot be questioned. Over time, the state loses fluency. It cannot describe crises honestly because honesty would require new language. It cannot negotiate effectively because negotiation demands nuance. It oscillates between concession and aggression because it lacks a vocabulary for recognition. Another historical illustration of linguistic impasse in diplomacy is the Sino‑Soviet split—the rupture in relations between the People’s Republic of China and the Soviet Union in the 1960s. Initially bound by the 1950 Treaty of Friendship, Alliance, and Mutual Assistance, the two governments diverged ideologically over interpretations of Marxism‑Leninism and approaches to global strategy. As tensions escalated, high‑level meetings and negotiations failed not because of material incapacity but because each side’s language was constrained by absolutist ideological claims. China accused the Soviet leadership of betrayal of revolutionary orthodoxy, while the Soviets saw Chinese criticisms as destabilizing and illegitimate.

Written communication replaced face‑to‑face dialogue, each party issuing doctrinal statements that reaffirmed rather than questioned its foundational premises. In July 1963, a series of negotiations in Moscow collapsed because both sides maintained incompatible ideological vocabularies, making mutual understanding impossible. Continued efforts in 1964 likewise yielded no substantive rapprochement. This diplomatic impasse demonstrates how ideological certainty can disable negotiation by preventing the linguistic flexibility necessary for translation between political vocabularies.

History offers many such examples. Revolutionary governments that once defined legitimacy through absolute ideology often found that both war and negotiation forced them into translation. Some survived by expanding their language; others could not. The pressure of dialogue exposed contradictions that slogans had concealed. Their authority did not collapse in a single moment of defeat; it eroded as their words lost meaning. Long before institutions fell, language had already fractured. This pattern is not confined to any single country or era. Wherever legitimacy is tied to a rigid vocabulary, negotiation becomes dangerous. War forces explanation; peace requires translation. Both expose the limits of language. A regime that cannot tolerate plural speech internally cannot sustain dialogue externally. Its leaders must either concede unpredictably or escalate irrationally because they cannot explain compromise to themselves.

Legal philosophy often treats negotiation as inherently rational, a neutral technique for resolving disputes. But negotiation presupposes a shared grammar of recognition. Without that grammar, dialogue becomes performance. Agreements become fragile. Each side speaks, but neither hears. Political stuttering deepens until reality breaks through in crisis.

Think again of those students. They sensed the disconnect between official speech and lived experience. They knew that declarations of strength and threats of retaliation did not answer their question: What will happen to us? They were confronting a hermeneutic crisis before they knew the word. They were asking whether language still connected rulers and ruled, enemies and allies, promises and consequences. Kissinger’s distinction explains the surface of their fear. Gadamer explains its depth. When governments speak only in theological terms, negotiation becomes taboo. When they attempt psychological negotiation without linguistic openness, it becomes incoherent. Political stuttering emerges precisely there: power speaks louder yet communicates less; it negotiates yet cannot hear; it promises yet cannot define success.

This manifesto proposes a simple test for negotiation in legal philosophy. Do regimes allow plural speech within their own borders? Do they tolerate ambiguity in public language? Can they translate ideology into arguments that others can contest? If not, negotiation will not stabilize them. It will expose them. Their language will fracture under the pressure of dialogue. Some governments survive this encounter. They reform. They widen their vocabulary. They discover that legitimacy can be renewed through conversation. Others cannot. They discover that their identity depended on silence. When silence breaks, meaning dissolves. They confront a choice between linguistic transformation and internal collapse. In certain contemporary systems, this dilemma is especially acute. Where revolutionary legitimacy has been fused with theological certainty, both war and negotiation threaten the same outcome. War forces explanation to citizens who demand clarity. Negotiation forces translation before an external audience that demands coherence. Each path compels language to expand. If language cannot expand, authority contracts. What appears as geopolitical crisis is often a crisis of vocabulary. Political stuttering names this moment. It is the echo of power speaking without listening. It is the repetition of certainty in the face of contradiction. It is the illusion that louder speech can repair broken meaning. But language does not obey power indefinitely. When words detach from reality, they collapse. And when they collapse, institutions follow.

The students who asked about war were really asking about trust in language. They wanted to know whether promises meant anything, whether threats were real, whether negotiation could be understood. Their questions were the purest form of political philosophy. They were asking whether language still made a common world possible. I write this manifesto for them. Negotiation is not always a path to peace. Sometimes it is a mirror held up to power. It reveals whether a regime can speak in more than one voice, whether it can hear disagreement without panic, whether it can translate conviction into argument. Systems that forbid dialogue eventually suffocate in their own words. Systems that accept linguistic incompleteness can adapt, survive, and coexist. Political stuttering is the warning sign. It is the sound of ideology colliding with reality. It is the moment when language begins to collapse before institutions do. And when that collapse begins, neither war nor negotiation can save a regime that has nothing left to say. The fate of governments may depend less on their weapons than on their grammar—and on their courage to admit that understanding begins not in certainty, but in dialogue.



AmirAli Maleki is a researcher specializing in international law and the philosophy of law, and the Editor of PraxisPublication.com. Based in Iran, he works in the fields of political philosophy, Islamic philosophy, and hermeneutics. 


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            <title>From Sheffield to Tehran: Gen Z and the Borderless Expectation of Justice</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2026/02/from-sheffield-to-tehran-gen-z-and-the-borderless-expectation-of-justice/</link>
            <pubDate>Tue, 24 Feb 2026 14:10:40 EST</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>AmirAli Maleki</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109345</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[In December 2025, I (born in 2002) logged in from Iran to speak to students gathered in “Arts Tower LT5” at the University of Sheffield. The screen flickered; their winter coats rustled in a distant auditorium I could not see. I told them something that felt obvious and astonishing at once: look how close we have become. I speak from Iran; you listen in Sheffield; you understand me. This is not because we share politics or language. It is because we have watched each other for years. We have heard each other’s grief and arguments through the same glowing windows. That, I said, is the quiet revolution of Generation Z. We are no longer strangers.

What I did not fully articulate that night is that this intimacy is changing international law itself. It is creating a new kind of political subject—the global student, the connected witness, people whose very incompleteness, as the next section explores, is what allows them to act together.

The Generation Without a Stable Name

Georges Didi-Huberman's work, which I had been revisiting before that lecture, offers a difficult insight: the people without identity are always incomplete, always in the act of redefining themselves. “The people” is never a closed substance; it is a process, a montage, a fragile construction built from fragments of memory, images, grief, and desire. He explained that making the people “visible” is not enough. One must create forms through which they can appear to themselves, to others, and to history. This is what he called making the people sensible—turning abstraction into experience.

Generation Z lives inside that unfinished category. It is not a nation, not a class, not a religion. It is a temporal cohort shaped by the internet, the algorithm, and the collapse of informational borders. Its members speak in memes, short videos, sudden solidarities, and ephemeral campaigns. Their incompleteness is not a defect; it is their condition of possibility. They are perpetually redefining themselves because they inhabit a world where identity is negotiated in real time before an audience of millions.

In this sense, Gen Z is the first generation to feel the law before reading it. They encounter international law not as treaties in archives but as hashtags about war crimes, videos of refugees crossing seas, leaked documents, live-streamed protests, viral court decisions. Their imagination of justice is formed through proximity. The Palestinian child, the Ukrainian soldier, the Sudanese nurse, the Afghan student, the Iranian protester—these figures appear on the same glowing screen. They are not abstractions but presences. The result is an emotional cartography of the planet, where suffering and dignity circulate faster than diplomats. This does not mean Gen Z agrees on everything. It means disagreement is informed by shared visibility. They do not share ideology; they share exposure. That exposure produces a new sense of “the people” that is global, unstable, and porous. International law, once written for states and spoken by ministries, now finds itself read by teenagers with Wi-Fi.

Acting Without Borders

What does it mean for international law when millions feel themselves to be actors? The question leads us to Cornelius Castoriadis, who argued that societies are not merely governed by institutions; they are created by imaginaries. The social imaginary is the collective capacity to invent meanings, norms, and expectations. Institutions survive only when people act as if they are real. International law has always depended on imagination. The idea that a state can be bound by a treaty, that crimes against humanity can be prosecuted beyond borders, that refugees have rights independent of governments—these are fictions sustained by belief. For centuries, that belief was confined to elites: diplomats, judges, scholars. Gen Z disrupts that enclosure. They act within the law’s imagination without waiting for permission.

They crowdsource evidence. They map atrocities. They pressure corporations. They mobilize petitions that cross continents in hours. They create moral weather systems that institutions cannot ignore. Their activism is messy, impulsive, sometimes naive. Yet it transforms the meaning of agency. Castoriadis taught that autonomy begins when people recognize themselves as creators of their norms. Gen Z does exactly that. They treat international law not as a distant cathedral but as an unfinished project.

A recent episode illustrates the mechanism with particular clarity. In recent weeks, medical students at University of Tehran refused to sit for their examinations after a classmate was killed during protests, gathering at the gates of the campus to demand accountability. The act was local in cause yet transnational in intelligibility. Students at Columbia University, who months earlier had organized encampments and teach-ins over distant wars, immediately recognized the grammar of the gesture: the suspension of routine, the conversion of academic ritual into public testimony, the insistence that a university is a moral space as well as an intellectual one. Such parallels do not arise from coordination or ideological uniformity. They emerge from what might be called a shared grammar of protest, learned not through ideology but through sustained digital exposure. Students today resemble one another not because they have become identical, but because they have seen more of humanity than any generation before them, and in that sustained exposure have learned how strikingly similar human vulnerability, grief, and aspiration appear across borders. Their protests thus function as a kind of aesthetic repetition: different contexts, similar forms, each transforming a campus into a stage where private loss becomes a universal claim for justice.

The information revolution accelerates resemblance. Teenagers in Lagos, Seoul, São Paulo, and Tehran watch the same court rulings on TikTok, read the same UN statements, remix the same slogans. They are not identical, but they are synchronized. Their expectations of justice converge: accountability for war crimes, dignity for migrants, climate responsibility, gender equality. This convergence is not imposed; it emerges from shared attention. Resemblance reshapes law’s geography. When expectations align across borders, legal norms begin to feel borderless. A viral video of police violence in one country sparks protests in another. A landmark climate ruling inspires lawsuits elsewhere. The law travels through imitation. Gen Z becomes a vector of legal diffusion, a network of observers who refuse to let injustice remain local.

Al-Farabi and the City That Speaks

Centuries before hashtags, al-Farabi imagined the virtuous city, where human perfection arises through cooperation and communication. In his treatise Fusul al-Muntaza’a, he wrote that humans possess the readiness for all crafts and virtues, yet these qualities appear only through repetition, interaction, and shared habit. The ruler of the virtuous city is not merely a sovereign; he is a guide who harmonizes knowledge and community, bringing people into proximity so they can recognize their potential. Al-Farabi’s insight is strangely modern. Communication creates resemblance. When people exchange stories, they discover common needs. When they listen, they become neighbors in imagination before geography allows it. Gen Z inhabits the largest communicative city in history: the digital commons. Their daily interactions echo al-Farabi’s belief that virtue grows through connection. In this new city, the king is not a person but a protocol: the network itself. Its authority is diffuse, unstable, contested—yet it echoes something al-Farabi imagined in concentrated form. Fusul al-Muntaza'a wrote of a ruler whose wisdom transcended any single city:
Once the first type is realized, its rank and station stand higher than that of a mere statesman whose only function is to administer individual cities. Rather, he governs all cities through his wisdom and sets the whole commonwealth in order; in truth, he is a king.
Yet it produces something remarkable. Young people learn to speak across borders. They translate experiences, adopt causes, borrow legal vocabularies. They begin to think in terms of international law before they learn national constitutions. They grow up knowing that their voice can reach foreign courts, global audiences, distant allies. The resemblance born of communication does not erase difference. It reveals it. al-Farabi’s virtuous city was not uniform; it was ordered toward shared flourishing. Likewise, Gen Z’s world is not identical; it is entangled. Similarity here means mutual intelligibility. It means a protest in Tehran can be understood in Manchester, a climate strike in Stockholm can echo in Nairobi. This is why Gen Z is the generation of international law. Not because they study it more, but because they live inside its logic of interdependence. Their friendships, fears, and ambitions cross borders daily. They experience the world as a system of responsibilities. When a bomb falls in Gaza or Kyiv, they feel implicated. When a court rules in The Hague, they feel addressed.

The Law After Zedification

International law was born from treaties between princes. It matured through wars and charters. Today, it encounters a generation that refuses to be merely governed by rules written elsewhere and long ago. Gen Z watches, questions, documents, and imitates. Their global synchronicity reshapes the law, and their shared exposure produces new expectations of justice. They make the law sensible, visible, audible—not as spectators but as participants who insist that law be lived, felt, and contested. This Zedification does not promise justice automatically. It can amplify misinformation, moral panic, or shallow outrage. Yet it does something equally profound: it establishes a horizon of expectation that no institution can entirely ignore. Every viral video, every shared testimony, every collective call for accountability stretches the boundaries of what law must address. Judges are compelled to speak clearly. Diplomats must justify their positions. States are held accountable not only in capitals, but across a digital commons where millions of eyes follow every decision.

When I think back to Sheffield, I remember the quiet after the lecture. A student told me, “I never thought someone from your country would sound like me.” I told him he was wrong. We did not sound alike because we were identical. We sounded alike because we had listened long enough to share a horizon. That horizon is the same one Gen Z brings to law itself—a horizon where distance no longer excuses neglect, and where shared attention becomes a force of change. Gen Z is incomplete, like Didi-Huberman’s people. It is imaginative, like Castoriadis’s society. It seeks connection, like al-Farabi’s city. And in its restless resemblance, international law discovers a new terrain: a borderless expectation of justice carried by millions who refuse to be strangers. The law is no longer only text or treaty; it is a process, a conversation, a network of witnesses and actors. Its authority emerges from collective recognition, not coercion alone.

This is the promise of Zedification: not a utopia, not an end to disagreement, but a law that is plural, alive, and accountable to the very people it was long imagined to serve from afar. It is confident enough to be reshaped, humble enough to be questioned, and bold enough to imagine a future in which suffering anywhere resonates everywhere. In the hands of a generation that understands both immediacy and interdependence, international law is no longer distant. It listens. And, at last, it can be heard—in words that Paul Laurence Dunbar, writing more than a century ago, gave to the very ideal Gen Z now carries forward:
Enthroned upon the mighty truth,
Within the confines of the laws,
True Justice seeth not the man,
But only hears his cause.
Unconscious of his creed or race,
She cannot see, but only weighs;
For Justice with unbandaged eyes
Would be oppression in disguise.



AmirAli Maleki is a researcher specializing in international law and the philosophy of law, and the Editor of PraxisPublication.com. He works in the fields of political philosophy, Islamic philosophy, and hermeneutics. 

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            <title>The Lunar Jurisdictional Trap: Why AI and Nuclear Ambition Are Outpacing Space Law</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2026/01/the-lunar-jurisdictional-trap-why-ai-and-nuclear-ambition-are-outpacing-space-law/</link>
            <pubDate>Fri, 09 Jan 2026 14:47:27 EST</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>Vishal Sharma</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109206</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[The recent unveiling of Russia's Selena project, a nuclear power plant slated for the lunar surface by 2035 under the joint Russo-Chinese International Lunar Research Station program, has been hailed as an unprecedented ambition of engineering. But beneath the proposed cooling towers lies a volatile reality. We are about to place the highest-stakes technologies of the 21st century—autonomous artificial intelligence (AI) and nuclear fission—on a legal foundation that has been frozen since the Cold War.

As we transition from brief exploration to permanent cislunar infrastructure, we are entering a Jurisdictional Overlap. Here, the aging mandates of the 1967 Outer Space Treaty (OST) are colliding with the digital-age realities of data sovereignty and AI liability. If we do not close this gap, the Moon won’t just be a frontier; it will be a legal black site.
Sovereignty Friction: Article II vs. Article VIII
The central tension lies in the structural contradiction of the OST. Article II forbids National Appropriation, decreeing the Moon as the province of all mankind. However, Article VIII grants States jurisdiction and control over their registered objects and personnel.

This creates a Legal Enclave problem. If a Russian nuclear reactor is managed by an autonomous AI, does the digital soil it occupies become a de facto extension of Russian territory? This isn't just theoretical. If we apply Russian Federal Law No. 152-FZ (on Personal Data) to the health and biometric data of a multinational crew on that base, we risk a creeping sovereignty. Under 152-FZ, personal data of citizens must be processed using databases located within Russian territory, a requirement that, when applied to a lunar base, effectively turns the province of mankind into a sovereign data colony.
Algorithm as Actor: The Liability Gap
The Selena project is designed for autonomy, introducing a terrifying gap in the 1972 Liability Convention. International space law differentiates between Absolute Liability under Article II (for damage on Earth) and Fault-Based Liability under Article III (for damage in space).

Fault is a human-centric legal construct requiring proof of negligence or intent. How does a claimant prove fault when the damage—perhaps a radiological leak—is the result of a black-box AI algorithm? Under current frameworks, a State might argue that an unpredictable algorithmic error does not constitute fault, effectively shielding themselves from the consequences of a lunar catastrophe. We are in desperate need of a Strict Liability standard for autonomous space systems; under Article VI of the OST, states already bear international responsibility for national activities, yet we have no mechanism to hold an algorithm accountable. 
Cyber-Kinetic Risks and the New Lex Spacialis
The liability gap becomes even more precarious when we recognize that these AI systems do not operate in isolation. We must stop viewing the Moon as a distant rock and start viewing it as a critical data environment. A nuclear reactor on the lunar surface is, in essence, the ultimate high-stakes IoT (Internet of Things) device.

A cyber-breach of a lunar power grid isn't a mere data leak; it is a kinetic event. It could render safety zones uninhabitable for centuries, violating the Article IX mandate to avoid harmful contamination. The traditional silos of Space Law and Tech Law are no longer sufficient. We are witnessing the birth of Cislunar Cyber Law, where the integrity of a firewall is as vital to life as the integrity of a spacesuit.
A Call for Legal Architects
Cislunar space is currently a gray zone of data privacy and algorithmic unaccountability. We cannot rely on the goodwill of spacefaring nations to fill this void. 

The question for our profession is no longer if we will practice law on the Moon, but how we will protect the integrity of the digital frontier. We need a new Lex Spacialis, one that moves beyond the limitation of weapons and begins the far more difficult task of governing the data, the AI, and the nuclear heart of our next civilization.

The vacuum of space is being filled. The only question is whether it will be filled by the rule of law or the rule of the strongest signal.

Vishal Sharma is an AI governance advocate who specializes in data privacy and cyber law. He holds engineering and law degrees from NALSAR University.]]></content:encoded>
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            <title>Israel&#8217;s Death Penalty Bill Would Bring Darkness, Not Deterrence</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2025/12/israels-death-penalty-bill-would-bring-darkness-not-deterrence/</link>
            <pubDate>Thu, 11 Dec 2025 16:33:18 EST</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>Joel Zivot</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109145</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[On November 10, right-wing Knesset member Itamar Ben-Gvir proposed a bill that would use the death penalty to punish Palestinian terrorists convicted of killing Israeli citizens. Some Knesset members have argued that such a law would prevent future prisoner release swaps, as there would be little value for a dead prisoner in such an exchange. It is further claimed that the threat of execution will discourage terrorism. The government intends to medicalize execution by using lethal injection, the most common method in the US death penalty.

This death penalty bill, if passed, will be unenforceable and a violation of current Israeli law. A willingness on the part of Palestinian terrorists to die as martyrs runs counter to any claim that execution will serve as a deterrent. Importantly, it also fails to address the fuel that fires the conflict.  The Israeli Government will be mistaken if it expects broad support from Israeli courts or Israeli physicians. The Israeli Supreme Court can declare laws passed by the Knesset invalid if they violate Basic Laws. The Israel Medical Association has indicated that execution is not a problem in need of a medical fix.

Israel lacks a formal written constitution, yet it has still established judicial review. The US Supreme Court established the doctrine of judicial review in the landmark case of Marbury v. Madison (1803). In 1995, the Israeli Supreme Court recognized the Basic Laws on Human Dignity and Liberty and on Freedom of Occupation as a source of higher law, thereby allowing the court to review legislation passed by the Knesset. Israeli courts have interpreted this to forbid corporal and degrading punishment. In the months leading up to October 7, 2023, the Netanyahu government pursued actions intended to limit the Israeli Supreme Court's power of judicial review. This proposed judicial overhaul has been a bitter point of political disagreement. Death penalty legislation is precisely the sort of issue that should be addressed by judicial review.

These same constitutional principles have shaped Israeli jurisprudence on state-inflicted suffering. In the 1999 case Public Committee Against Torture in Israel v. the Government of Israel, the High Court of Justice unanimously held that some physical interrogation methods used by the General Security Service (Shin Bet) were illegal under current Israeli law. Although Israel ratified the UN Convention against Torture in 1991, it has yet to enact a specific and comprehensive law that defines and criminalizes torture. For Israel, the last two years have been a constant state of war, against the backdrop of many more wars and violence. Surrounded by death and mourning, Israeli society finds itself in a bitter political and philosophical divide. Israel has had little choice but to defend itself. This use of force, including deadly force, is permitted under international law.

Torture is the deliberate infliction of severe pain or suffering on a person for reasons including punishment, extracting a confession, interrogation for information, or intimidating third parties. Separate from debates about the morality of torture is the question of whether torture works at all. Expert consensus based on scientific evidence and historical analysis asserts that torture is ineffective in extracting reliable information. While this may be true, author Naomi Klein claims that when it comes to social control, nothing works quite like torture—suggesting deterrence operates through fear rather than rational calculation. By this reasoning, the mechanism of deterrence is via an in terrorem effect. Israel has effectively used the targeted killing of enemy belligerent leadership. To do so, such killing must comply with the laws of war. Despite this action, Israel continues to be subjected to frequent acts of terrorism.

Expanded death penalty advocates in Israel may implicitly echo Klein’s position when they argue for capital punishment. Many countries and international bodies, such as the European Union and the majority of the UN General Assembly, consider the death penalty to violate fundamental human rights, specifically the right to life and the right to live free from torture or cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment. Even if one is agnostic on the rightness or wrongness of capital punishment, the US death penalty is a disaster. It is racist, classist, arbitrary, not an effective deterrent against crime, and kills by torture. It certainly can’t be improved by medical or scientific assistance. Regarding execution, Israel would be foolish to emulate the US.

In the US, lethal injection and nitrogen gas asphyxiation mimic medical and scientific acts, demanding commentary from the medical and scientific community. The Court, unironically, would like physicians to design a cruel-free method of execution. The American Board of Anesthesiology, the American Medical Association, the World Medical Association, and many other medical bodies stand in staunch opposition to the death penalty. Execution is not a medical act, even if it seeks to impersonate one. US death penalty jurisprudence defines execution success as the production of a corpse. By that standard, the US death penalty is a roaring success. This ignores the fact that lethal injection causes prisoners to die by drowning in their own blood, and execution by nitrogen gas has produced, in every instance, death after struggling, gasping, and writhing in agony.

Post-war Israeli societal recovery will need a version of itself not mired in violence. For the foreseeable future, Israel will need to protect its borders. It can’t rely on pledges of peace from neighbors, even if such promises were made, and it will require more than ever to maintain an immaculate political and legal system to guard against depravity. While war and violence may be necessary for Israel’s defense, it is unlikely that the enemies of Israel will be mollified by capital punishment. Israel needs to defeat the teachings and worldview of Hamas and the like, but that requires more time and effort.

Israel needs a legal regime, recognized as legitimate, and empowered with judicial review. Executing Palestinian terrorists by lethal injection will cause a cruel, torturous, and, according to existing Israeli law, unlawful death. The current Israeli government will get no official support from the Israel Medical Association, and an ever-escalating use of violence to solve complex political problems will have a counterproductive and erosive effect on Israeli society. Such decisions run counter to Israel’s desire to serve as a light unto the nations. If Israel chooses the execution path, darkness will be the ultimate consequence.

Joel Zivot is a practicing physician in anesthesiology and intensive care medicine and a senior fellow in ethics at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia. Zivot, who also holds a legal master’s degree, is a recognized expert who advocates against the use of lethal injection in the death penalty and against the use of the tools of medicine as an arm of state power. Follow him on “X”/Twitter @joel_zivot]]></content:encoded>
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            <title>How a Cold War Sanctions Law Could Become a Tool for Domestic Control</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2025/12/how-a-cold-war-sanctions-law-could-become-a-tool-for-domestic-control/</link>
            <pubDate>Fri, 05 Dec 2025 16:18:51 EST</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>Nadine Jones</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109126</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[On November 5, the US Supreme Court heard oral arguments in Learning Resources Inc. v. Trump and Trump v. V.O.S. Selections Inc., two consolidated cases challenging President Donald Trump’s “Liberation Day” tariffs imposed on China, Mexico, Canada and other countries. The plaintiffs argue, and the lower courts agreed, that the president’s use of the International Emergency Economic Powers Act (IEEPA) to impose tariffs was unlawful.

The lower courts held that these so-called “IEEPA tariffs” were, in reality, a tax on American importers. Taxation is a constitutional power belonging to Congress unless Congress expressly delegates it, and IEEPA is not one of those delegations. It is a sanctions statute, aimed at foreign individuals, foreign governments, foreign territories, and foreign-controlled property. Nothing in its design or history suggests it can be used to impose financial burdens on American companies moving American-owned goods.

During oral argument, government lawyers leaned heavily on a single phrase in IEEPA—“regulate importation”—arguing that this includes the power to impose tariffs on imports. The liberal Justices [1] pushed back immediately, noting that Trump’s tariffs function as taxes on Americans, and the government did not dispute the point.

Even several conservative justices [2] expressed doubt. They reminded the government that raising revenue for the US Treasury is Congress’s responsibility under Article I. And once the power to impose taxes under IEEPA slips from Congress to the president, they warned, Congress may never get it back. Once that taxation genie is out of that Article I bottle, it’s not going back.

Still, some conservative justices floated theories that hinted at a willingness to salvage President Trump’s program. A few pointed to IEEPA’s “licensing” authority and suggested Congress may have envisioned licensing fees. The Solicitor General for Oregon corrected them: IEEPA licenses exist to create exceptions to embargoes, not to generate revenue.

Other Justices invoked President Richard Nixon’s 1971 tariffs as evidence of historical presidential tariff authority. But those actions pre-dated IEEPA. And after that experience, Congress reacted by writing more specific statutes — Section 232 of the Trade Expansion Act, and Section 301, Section 122 of the Trade Act of 1974 — all of which delegate tariff power with explicit limits. IEEPA contains none of those guardrails.

By the end of the argument, a few conservative justices floated yet another idea: perhaps tariffs were permissible under IEEPA so long as generating revenue wasn’t the president’s “primary intent,” even if billions still flowed into the Treasury.

Key Takeaways

Many observers left convinced the Court would strike down Trump’s use of IEEPA. I did not. Instead, I heard a Court struggling to find a rationale — any rationale — to uphold the president’s actions. When the conservative justices started hypothesizing about presidents charging fees at national parks and generating revenues, it became clear how far some were willing to stretch IEEPA.

The Court also discussed the broad deference presidents receive when declaring national threats. I agree that deference is warranted. Presidents see intelligence the public and judiciary never will. But deference is not unlimited, and turning a foreign-facing sanctions law into a tool for taxing Americans for the sake of “national security” is unnecessary. There are other tax-tariff laws that a president can use.

Why Treating IEEPA’s Sanctions Power as a Tariff Power Is Dangerous

Tariffs and sanctions are not interchangeable. Sanctions under IEEPA have always been foreign-facing. Domestic effects appear only when a US person voluntarily engages with a designated foreign actor or sanctioned country. Domestic harm is secondary, rare, and avoidable.

Trump’s 2025 tariffs flip that design completely.

For the first time in IEEPA’s history, US persons (i.e., US importers of record) are the primary target of the economic burden. American importers pay the penalty. Any impact on foreign nations is incidental. If the Court upholds this use of IEEPA, it effectively rewrites the statute into a presidential power to impose financial obligations on Americans by Executive Order.

What Happens If the 'Foreign-Facing' IEEPA Becomes Primarily Domestically Focused?

If the Court endorses this theory, Presidents will no longer need Congress to impose revenue-generating measures. IEEPA is a statute designed to allow presidents to address foreign national security threats using economic strangleholds as the primary means. It affords presidents a high degree of nimbleness, minimal oversight, and far-reaching authority.

But what happens if the same rapid-fire-far-reaching-no-oversight authority is used against domestic players? Any president, not just the current one, would only need to designate a domestic actor as a “foreign-influenced threat” to trigger the apparatus of IEEPA. Under IEEPA’s Section 1702, such a designation triggers sweeping consequences, including asset freezes, bank compliance obligations, reporting requirements, civil and criminal penalties, employer notices, and tax burdens (should the Supreme Court rule in the Trump Administration’s favor). IEEPA’s mechanisms were built to cut off terrorism financing, not for domestic targets. But if allowed by the Supreme Court, these consequences could be directed to domestic players and possibly solely for politically-motivated purposes.

A single Executive Order targeting a US person or US group that alleges a foreign-linked threat activates the entire IEEPA apparatus. Banks freeze assets. Employers receive OFAC alerts (perhaps to garnish an IEEPA individualized tax?). Everyday transactions are interrupted because of the person’s designated status.

Now, throw a political motivation into the mix: What happens to judges whose rulings defy the Trump Administration? What happens to governors who resist federal directives? What happens to political opponents or other vocal critics? Simply put, any American could find themselves trapped in an IEEPA national security web that was never intended to ensnare them. And who within the three branches of government could restrain this use of the IEEPA once allowed? No one.

Conclusion

The Supreme Court now faces a defining question: Will IEEPA remain what Congress wrote – an external-facing tool for confronting foreign threats, or will the Court create a precedent allowing the statute to operate primarily against Americans?

This case is about more than just cheap imports from China. It is about whether we allow a foreign-facing emergency statute to be transformed into a domestic taxing authority. The consequences will extend far beyond trade policy and stand to fundamentally redefine the limits of presidential power.

Notes:

[1] Justices Sonia Sotomayor (appointed by President Barack Obama), Ketanji Brown Jackson (appointed by President Joe Biden), and Elena Kagan (Obama)

[2] Chief Justice John Roberts (appointed by President George W. Bush), Justices Samuel Alito (Bush), Amy Coney Barrett (appointed by President Donald Trump), Neil Gorsuch (Trump), Brett Kavanaugh (Trump), and Clarence Thomas (appointed by President George H.W. Bush).

Nadine Jones is an attorney living in Jersey City with over 20 years of legal practice, including serving as General Counsel to a multi-billion dollar US-based logistics company. She is currently in the consulting space.

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            <title>No Congressional Approval Needed: The President&#8217;s Unchecked Power Over US Communications</title>
            <link>https://www.jurist.org/commentary/2025/12/no-congressional-approval-needed-the-presidents-unchecked-power-over-us-communications/</link>
            <pubDate>Fri, 05 Dec 2025 12:40:10 EST</pubDate>
            <dc:creator>Frederick M. Joyce</dc:creator>
                            <category><![CDATA[Uncategorized]]></category>
                        <guid isPermaLink="false">https://www.jurist.org/commentary/?p=109117</guid>
            <description><![CDATA[]]></description>
            <content:encoded><![CDATA[A recent article in the Washington Post concerning widespread internet shutdowns in Russia for alleged wartime defense purposes got me thinking: How hard would it be for this to happen in the US? It took me about a minute of online research to answer my own question: not hard at all.

Express Presidential Powers over US Communications Networks

As a semi-retired telecommunications attorney, the first thing that came to mind was a rarely (if ever) invoked provision of the Communications Act of 1934 that grants certain “war powers” to the President with respect to US communications infrastructure. The Communications Act is our Nation’s central communications law, under which the Federal Communications Commission was created and all our Nation’s mobile telephone, radio and television stations are licensed.

Buried toward the back pages of the Communications Act is Section 706 (codified as 47 USC § 606), bluntly labelled “War Powers of President,” which grants the President specific powers over US communications infrastructure and services during “wartime” or a “national emergency.” Under Section 706, the President has several sweeping and perhaps troubling authorities, including the ability to direct “carriers” (that is, mobile and wireline phone companies) to “prioritize” communications essential for national defense. The President can also suspend or modify FCC regulations for communication facilities, take control of or use wire or radio communication facilities, and order the closing of communication stations.

In short, without so much as a by-your-leave or late-night text message to Congress, the President has wide discretion, supported by federal law, to do precisely what Russian authorities have done throughout that somewhat less-than-democratically run country: order a shutdown of all licensed mobile radio networks in the US if the President deems it “in the interest of national security or defense.”

With the current Administration’s frequent, shall we say, expansive interpretations of laws regarding tariffs, military police powers, and termination of Congressionally-funded programs among other things, it strikes me as worth noting that this is one area where broad Presidential authority is expressly granted with zero Congressional oversight.

What is a War or National Emergency? 

Well, surely our laws wouldn’t allow a President to routinely and summarily shut down the internet or broadcasting networks without some sound justifications, right? The problem is that the Communications Act does not define "war" or "national emergency" in any way that would constrain any President, even one with modest views of Executive Powers, from inappropriately exercising Section 706.

The war powers language arises from federal radio laws that existed prior to World War I; with some modifications these powers were included in the Communications Act of 1934. Back then, before we had “wars” on terror, immigration, drugs, poverty, and other global scourges, Congress presumably didn’t think it was necessary to expressly define a “war” in the Communications Act.

And so, from 1934 until now, these critical terms, “war” and “national security,” remain without any useful definition, modifications, or constraints in our Nation’s most important communications law. The staggering powers found in Section 706 can be invoked by any President, without Congressional consent, any time there is a purported “national emergency.”

How Often Have These War Powers Been Invoked?

One might assume that, since the passage of this law in 1934, some President would have had reason to invoke these broad powers over our Nation’s communications networks. Congress formally declared war in World War II, and while there have been no subsequent formal declarations of war, military force has been Congressionally authorized in Korea, Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Still, at no time since the adoption of this law in 1934 have its war power provisions ever been invoked by any President.

So then, what’s the worry? Who cares if we have a somnolent statutory provision that, at the mere perceived threat to our “National Security,” could be roused from nearly a century-long slumber?

Well, to state the painfully obvious, the current Administration seems to follow its own ideas regarding our legal system, checks and balances, and general notions of fair play. In September the President asked the Chairman of the FCC to revoke the broadcasting licenses of any TV network that had the temerity to broadcast “bad press” about the Administration. Similar threats to revoke broadcasting licenses were issued in recent weeks in response to a TV reporter’s “attitude.” Given this conspicuously low standard for broadcast license revocations (broadcasting anything but “positive news” about the current Administration), it’s almost a wonder that Section 706 has not yet been invoked by this President.

Still, it's fair to ponder why any President would want to impair US Internet services. After all, wouldn’t that adversely impact the President’s own ability to text and contact followers on social media?

To me, the real problem is the unchecked leverage that this authority grants any sitting President over our Nation’s entire communications infrastructure. Section 706 grants the President authority to shut down all, or some, radio stations. If I, as President, think that certain broadcasters are distributing “negative news” that “threatens national security,” all I need do is warn all mobile service providers not to carry that content or risk having their networks shut down by Presidential edict.

Before we have an opportunity to witness such creative uses of Section 706, Congress really ought to revisit this law and place appropriate checks on this broad and potentially dangerous Executive Power. As currently written, it’s the type of law that even Russian authorities could live with.

Frederick M. Joyce, Esq. was previously the Chairman of the Telecommunications Group at Venable LLP law firm in Washington, D.C. and Chief Cyber and Communications Counsel for the US Coast Guard. Neither Venable nor the US Coast Guard has anything to do with the opinions expressed in this article.

&nbsp;]]></content:encoded>
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