Category: English

Source: The Conversation – USA – By Christopher Hernandez, Assistant Professor of Anthropology, Loyola University Chicago

Picture an aircraft streaking across the sky at hundreds of miles per hour, unleashing millions of laser pulses into a dense tropical forest. The objective: map thousands of square miles, including the ground beneath the canopy, in fine detail within a matter of days.

Once the stuff of science fiction, aerial lidar – light detection and ranging – is transforming how archaeologists map sites. Some have hailed this mapping technique as a revolutionary survey method.

Yet when used to scan Indigenous lands and ancestral remains, this powerful technology often advances a more troubling, extractive agenda. As an archaeologist who has worked with lidar and collaborated with people who live in areas that have been surveyed from the sky, I’m concerned that this technology can disempower and objectify people, raising an ethical dilemma for the field of archaeology.

The darker side of lidar

Lidar is a remote sensing technology that uses light to measure distance. Aerial systems work by firing millions of laser pulses per second from an aircraft in motion. For archaeologists, the goal is for enough of those pulses to slip through gaps in the forest canopy, bounce off the ground and return to the laser source with enough energy to measure how far they traveled. Researchers can then use computer programs to analyze the data and create images of the Earth’s surface.

The power of this mapping technology has led to a global flurry of research, with some people even calling for the laser mapping of the entire landmass of Earth. Yet, in all the excitement and media buzz, there are important ethical issues that have gone largely unaddressed.

To rapidly map regions in fine detail, researchers need national but not necessarily local permission to carry out an aerial scan. It’s similar to how Google can map your home without your consent.

In archaeology, a point of debate is whether it is acceptable to collect data remotely when researchers are denied access on the ground. War zones are extreme cases, but there are many other reasons researchers might be restricted from setting foot in a particular location.

For example, many Native North Americans do not trust or want archaeologists to study their ancestral remains. The same is true for many Indigenous groups across the globe. In these cases, an aerial laser scan without local or descendant consent becomes a form of surveillance, enabling outsiders to extract artifacts and appropriate other resources, including knowledge about ancestral remains. These harms are not new; Indigenous peoples have long lived with their consequences.

A highly publicized case in Honduras illustrates just how fraught lidar technology can be.

La Mosquitia controversy

In 2015, journalist Douglas Preston sparked a media frenzy with his National Geographic report on archaeological work in Honduras’s La Mosquitia region. Joining a research team that used aerial lidar, he claimed the investigators had discovered a “lost city,” widely referred to in Honduras as Ciudad Blanca, or the White City. Preston described the newly mapped settlement and the surrounding area as “remote and uninhabited … scarcely studied and virtually unknown.”

While Preston’s statements could be dismissed as another swashbuckling adventure story meant to popularize archaeology, many pointed out the more troubling effects.

Miskitu peoples have long lived in La Mosquitia and have always known about the archaeological sites within their ancestral homelands. In what some call “Christopher Columbus syndrome,” such narratives of discovery erase Indigenous presence, knowledge and agency while enabling dispossession.

The media hype led to an expedition that included Juan Orlando Hernández, then-president of Honduras, pardoned of drug trafficking by U.S. President Donald Trump in 2025. Expedition members removed artifacts from La Mosquitia without consulting or obtaining consent from Indigenous groups living in the region.

In response, MASTA (Mosquitia Asla Takanka–Unity of La Moskitia), an organization run by Moskitu peoples, issued the following statement:

“We [MASTA] demand the application of international agreements/documents related to the prior, free, and informed consultation process in the Muskitia, in order to formalize the protection and conservation model proposed by the Indigenous People.” (translation by author)

Their demands, however, seem to have been largely ignored.

The La Mosquitia controversy is one example from a global struggle. Colonialism has changed somewhat in appearance, but it did not end – and Indigenous peoples have been fighting back for generations. Today, calls for consent and collaboration in research on Indigenous lands and heritage are growing louder, backed by frameworks such as the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples and the International Labour Organization’s Convention 169.

A collaborative way forward

Despite the dilemmas raised by aerial lidar mapping, I contend it’s possible to use this technology in a way that promotes Indigenous agency, autonomy and well-being. As part of the Mensabak Archaeological Project, I have partnered with the Hach Winik people, referred to by outsiders as Lacandon Maya, who live in Puerto Bello Metzabok, Chiapas, Mexico, to conduct archaeological research.

Metzabok is part of a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, where research often requires multiple federal permissions. Locals protect what, from a Hach Winik perspective, is not an objectified nature but a living, conscious forest. This land is communally owned by the Hack Winik under agreements made with the Mexican federal government.

Building on the the Mensabak Archaeological Project’s collaborative methodology, I developed and implemented a culturally sensitive process of informed consent prior to conducting an aerial laser scan.

In 2018, I spoke via Whatsapp with the Metzabok community leader, called the Comisario, to discuss potential research, including the possibility of an aerial lidar survey. We agreed to meet in person, and after our initial discussion, the Comisario convened an “asamblea” – the public forum where community members formally deliberate matters that affect them.

At the asamblea, Mensabak Archaeological Project founder Joel Palka and I presented past and proposed research. Local colleagues encouraged the use of engaging images and helped us explain concepts in a mix of Spanish and Hach T’an, the Hach Winik language. Because Palka is fluent in Hach T’an and Spanish, he could participate in all the discussions.

Critically, we made sure to discuss the potential benefits and risks of any proposed investigation, including an aerial scan of the community.

The Q&A portion was lively. Many attendees said they could see a value in mapping their forest and the ground beneath the canopy. Community members viewed lidar as a way to record their territory and even promote responsible tourism. There was some hesitation about the potential for increased looting due to media attention or when the federal government released some of the mapping data. But most people felt prepared for that possibility thanks to decades of experience protecting their forest.

In the end, the community formally gave its consent to proceed. Still, consent is an ongoing process, and one must be prepared to stop at any point should the consenting party withdraw permission.

Aerial lidar can benefit all parties

Too often, in my experience, archaeologists remain unaware – or even defensive – when confronted with issues of Indigenous oppression and consent in aerial lidar research.

But another path is possible. Obtaining culturally sensitive informed consent could become a standard practice in aerial lidar research. Indigenous communities can become active collaborators rather than being treated as passive objects.

In Metzabok, our aerial mapping project was an act of relationship-building. We demonstrated that cutting-edge science can align with Indigenous autonomy and well-being when grounded in dialogue, transparency, respect and consent.

The real challenge is not mapping faster or in finer detail, but whether researchers can do so justly, humanely and with greater accountability to the peoples whose lands and ancestral remains we study. Done right, aerial lidar can spark a true revolution, aligning Western science and technology with Indigenous futures.

Christopher Hernandez received funding from the National Science Foundation (grant number SPRF 1715009) for the lidar work in Puerto Bello Metzabok.

– ref. Aerial lidar mapping can reveal archaeological sites while overlooking Indigenous peoples and their knowledge – https://theconversation.com/aerial-lidar-mapping-can-reveal-archaeological-sites-while-overlooking-indigenous-peoples-and-their-knowledge-261332

Source: The Conversation – USA – By Mehr Mumtaz, PhD Candidate in Sociology, The Ohio State University

In January 2025, Seema received an email from the International Organization for Migration saying that her flight from Pakistan to the United States, which she and her family were booked on after months of extensive interviewing and background checks by U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, had been canceled.

“We had sold our TV and refrigerator,” her husband, Samir, told me during an interview for my dissertation project on Afghan migration to America after the 2021 U.S. military withdrawal from Afghanistan. “We had told our landlord that we were vacating our apartment. Then it was all canceled.”

The U.S. withdrawal in August 2021 triggered a rapid political collapse that left millions of Afghan civilians in limbo. As the Taliban swept across the country and reclaimed power, Afghans who had worked alongside U.S. forces and international NGOs faced immediate danger.

Women, minorities and human rights advocates feared the loss of basic freedoms and possible Taliban reprisals. With evacuation pathways unclear and protections unevenly applied, panic spread as families tried to escape before they were cut off entirely.

Seema, Samir – pseudonyms to protect their identity – and their children are among tens of thousands of Afghan refugee families who immediately fled to neighboring Pakistan in late 2021 on the U.S. government’s recommendation for Afghans to process their immigration cases in third countries. However, many Afghans soon encountered Pakistan’s mass deportation campaign, underway since 2023, as they awaited U.S. resettlement.

Following the fall of Kabul in 2021, President Joe Biden directed the federal government to launch Operation Allies Welcome and other immigration pathways in an effort to resettle Afghans who had worked for U.S. forces and were at risk of being targeted by the Taliban. Beginning in early 2025, however, the U.S. refugee system retreated from the commitments U.S. leaders once made to protect Afghan civilians.

The costs of suspension

Until recently, some Afghans waiting in Pakistan hoped they would eventually be resettled in the United States through the few humanitarian pathways still open to them. However, that hope has dimmed.

The suspension of U.S. refugee resettlement during the first days of Donald Trump’s second presidency, along with additional immigration restrictions issued after the November 2025 shooting of National Guard personnel in Washington, D.C., have frozen the processing of all Afghan cases – including those already approved.

The Trump administration has justified these measures as necessary to protect U.S. safety and national interests.

For families like Seema’s, U.S. policy decisions have left them insecure and abandoned. As a scholar focused on international migration, I believe Seema’s story highlights a common thread among many Afghans stranded in Pakistan: Many of those who supported the U.S. are questioning the worth of the U.S.’s decades-long mission for promoting security, democracy and human rights in Afghanistan.

Exposed to the Taliban’s retaliation, regional deportation regimes and a collapsing refugee protection system, Afghans are holding the U.S. and other international governments responsible for abandoning them.

Caught between abandonment and deportation

Trained as a gynecologist, Seema worked at a private clinic in Afghanistan. And alongside her husband Samir, she served as managing director of an organization that led U.S.-funded projects for women and children.

“We took two projects from the U.S. Embassy,” she told me. “We established a resource center, bought computers, gave girls internet access and trained them in digital literacy.”

That work, funded and promoted by the U.S. government, made Seema and Samir targets. Even before 2021, they received threats from the Taliban. After the Taliban takeover in 2021, the threats escalated.

Fearing for their lives, they fled their home and attempted but failed to enter the Kabul airport multiple times during the chaotic U.S. evacuation in 2021. They ultimately escaped to Pakistan.

In Pakistan, a former colleague at the U.S. embassy recommended Seema for a Priority 2 visa – an immigration pathway created specifically for Afghans who supported U.S.-funded programs.

But when she and Samir tried to follow up with the U.S. Embassy in Pakistan in 2022, they received no response. A few months later they learned that changes to the U.S. Refugee Admissions Program in early 2022 likely caused their referral to be lost.

As U.S. processing stalled, Pakistan’s stance toward Afghan refugees hardened. Since late 2023, the Pakistani government has accelerated deportations under its “Illegal Foreigners’ Repatriation Plan” that targets both undocumented Afghans and those who once held legal refugee status. More than 1 million Afghans have already been deported.

Human rights groups warn that these removals violate the principle of nonrefoulement, which prohibits returning people to countries where they face serious harm. Under Taliban rule, women’s rights, employment opportunities and personal safety in Afghanistan have been systematically diminished.

Yet while Pakistan deports, the U.S. and other countries where Afghan refugees had once been able to resettle, including Germany, continue to close their doors.

A promise made, then suspended

In 2024, the U.S government accepted Seema’s refugee resettlement case, which she submitted in late 2022 with the assistance of SHARP, a local organization in Pakistan that works to protect Afghan refugees amid the country’s intensifying immigration crackdown. After several rounds of interviews, background checks, biometrics and medical exams, she and her family were told they would soon leave for the U.S.

Then the cancellation email arrived.

Seema and her family fear for their safety and their children’s future. Their children can no longer go to a school in Pakistan, as many Pakistani schools refuse to enroll Afghan students.

Police raids across major cities have also forced Afghan families to stay indoors, afraid to work or move freely. With no stable income, Seema and Samir struggle to meet basic needs.

“When I came to Pakistan, I was 40 years old,” Samir said. “Now I’m 44. Four years of my life have gone waiting for the U.S. case.” His voice hardened with anger. “We worked with the U.S. for 20 years. We fought terrorism. We supported democracy. What was the benefit?”

For decades, the U.S. government relied on the critical leadership of Afghan civilians like Seema and Samir to promote peace, security and women’s empowerment.

These partnerships were not symbolic. They were deeply embedded in everyday Afghan life.

With a smile on her face, Seema said that before 2021 “it never crossed my mind to leave Afghanistan because we were helping people in our country.”

Seema now fears being forced to return to Afghanistan, where her work and identity place her at grave risk of being targeted by the Taliban. Her request is modest. “At least let those whose cases were approved, whose flights were booked, resettle in the U.S.,” she said.

Her plea echoes across Pakistan, where thousands of Afghan families remain stranded.

Their lives now hinge on policy choices that will determine whether the United States honors the obligations it made during two decades of intervention that reshaped Afghan lives and livelihoods.

Mehr Mumtaz receives funding from the Russell Sage Foundation Dissertation Grant, and the Mershon Center for International Security’s Graduate Research Grant.

– ref. Afghan migrants stranded in Pakistan after the US suspends refugee resettlement – https://theconversation.com/afghan-migrants-stranded-in-pakistan-after-the-us-suspends-refugee-resettlement-273680

Source: The Conversation – USA – By Kaitlyn M. Sims, Assistant Professor of Public Policy, University of Denver

Only 33 of Colorado’s 64 counties have an emergency shelter program specifically for survivors of domestic violence. In the greater Denver area, which includes Adams, Arapahoe, Broomfield, Denver, Douglas and Jefferson counties, there are only five shelter programs for survivors.

I study the policies and programs that serve survivors of domestic violence. In 2020, I created the most up-to-date registry of domestic violence shelter programs in the U.S. These programs are hugely impactful for their clients, but not every survivor in need is able to find an open shelter bed. In fact, most U.S. counties lack a specific shelter for victims of domestic violence.

One in three women in the United States experience intimate partner violence in their lifetime. Every day, thousands of survivors are not able to get the housing assistance they need at existing programs due to funding and resource limitations, according to the annual Domestic Violence Counts Report.

Domestic violence survivors regularly cite safe and secure housing as one of their most pressing needs. Women who experience intimate partner violence are four times as likely to be housing unstable as women who have not been abused by a partner.

Yet, housing-insecure survivors face a startling lack of options for safe places to turn. One of the most well-known and longest-standing service options are what are known as emergency domestic violence shelters. These front-line service providers can house survivors safely for between 30 and 60 days. In addition to emergency housing, shelter programs often offer complementary services such as counseling and legal aid. But these shelters are limited, and so is affordable housing.

Limited housing for survivors

The biggest arm of the federal social safety net for long-term housing is the Housing Choice Voucher, often called Section 8. These vouchers help low-income, disabled and elderly beneficiaries to rent housing up to a predefined fair market amount.

With a voucher, households pay about 30% of their income in rent, and the voucher covers the remainder. For domestic violence survivors who need long-term housing, subsidized housing vouchers can provide support beyond a short-term shelter stay. Long-term housing helps set up survivors for successful and affordable independent living.

In many U.S. communities, however, demand for vouchers is far greater than supply. Roughly half of people who ultimately receive a voucher wait at least two years to get one. In Colorado, the average wait time was 14 months as of 2024. Most public housing authorities in Colorado open their waitlists for only a few days each year, leaving potential applicants waiting months just to get in line.

Even when service providers such as shelter advocates or housing navigators have access to money, it can be difficult to spend on behalf of their clients. High housing costs and landlord bias against survivors can make it challenging to place survivors in long-term housing that survivors can afford in the long run, even when they do have a Housing Choice Voucher.

In Denver, the fair market rent defined by the Department of Housing and Urban Development for a two-bedroom apartment is US$2,089. In order to afford that apartment independently without being rent burdened – defined by the U.S. Census Bureau as spending no more than 30% of total household income on rent – a survivor would need to earn $6,963 per month, or more than $83,000 per year. For a single-income household, this would mean earning more than $40 per hour while working full time.

For housing-insecure victims of domestic violence, many of whom are fleeing with children, this is an untenable housing cost. In a survey of 3,400 residents at 215 emergency domestic violence shelters conducted by researchers at the University of Connecticut and the National Resource Center on Domestic Violence, 78% had a child under age 18 and 68% had a child with them in the shelter. The same survey found that the majority of sheltered residents had, at most, a high school education.

Barriers to safe housing

When there isn’t an emergency shelter in their area, or if the local shelter is full, many domestic violence shelter programs are still able to offer survivors nonresidential services such as legal assistance and safety planning. Nonshelter programs like the Rose Andom Center in Denver also support survivors who need help connecting to resources, but their ability to support victims at risk of homelessness beyond a few days is limited.

Other types of housing supports introduce new problems for survivors. Emergency homelessness shelters often have restrictions to entry. The restrictions include not allowing clients to bring all of their belongings or requiring sobriety. Many of these organizations, including the Denver Rescue Mission, are open only to men or women without children and operate only overnight, leaving folks with nowhere to go during the day.

Domestic violence service providers may be able to pay for a survivor to stay in a hotel for a few days, but hotels can be unsafe, unclean and retraumatizing. For example, hotels lack the kinds of security systems and cameras that are common at emergency domestic violence shelters to prevent abusers from contacting survivors staying there.

Survivors of domestic violence also face the same general housing challenges as those not fleeing violence: an affordability crisis in rentals, necessary time to find a place, and security deposits and moving costs. Yet the nature of domestic violence means these challenges are more intractable.

For example, survivors who share custody of children with their abusers must get permission from the child’s other parent, and often the court, in order to move. Domestic violence makes it more likely that survivors will have a history of evictions, making finding housing even more challenging.

With limited shelter availability and long waits for long-term housing assistance such as Section 8, housing-insecure survivors of domestic violence can find themselves with few safe, stable options. This can mean that survivors looking to separate from their abusers are not able to leave – subjecting them, and their children, to further violence.

Kaitlyn M. Sims receives funding from the Wisconsin Department of Children and Families, the Arnold Ventures Foundation, and the Institute for Humane Studies.

– ref. Colorado has emergency domestic violence shelters in only half its counties, leaving survivors without safe housing options – https://theconversation.com/colorado-has-emergency-domestic-violence-shelters-in-only-half-its-counties-leaving-survivors-without-safe-housing-options-271168

Source: The Conversation – USA (2) – By Roxana Shafiee, Environmental Fellow, Center for the Environment, Harvard University; Harvard Kennedy School

Heat pumps can reduce carbon emissions associated with heating buildings, and many states have set aggressive targets to increase their use in the coming decades. But while heat pumps are often cheaper choices for new buildings, getting homeowners to install them in existing homes isn’t so easy.

Current energy prices, including the rising cost of electricity, mean that homeowners may experience higher heating bills by replacing their current heating systems with heat pumps – at least in some regions of the country.

Heat pumps, which use electricity to move heat from the outside in, are used in only 14% of U.S. households. They are common primarily in warm southern states such as Florida where winter heating needs are relatively low. In the Northeast, where winters are colder and longer, only about 5% of households use a heat pump.

In our new study, my co-author Dan Schrag and I examined how heat pump adoption would change annual heating bills for the average-size household in each county across the U.S. We wanted to understand where heat pumps may already be cost-effective and where other factors may be preventing households from making the switch.

Wide variation in home heating

Across the U.S., people heat their homes with a range of fuels, mainly because of differences in climate, pricing and infrastructure. In colder regions – northern states and states across the Rocky Mountains – most people use natural gas or propane to provide reliable winter heating. In California, most households also use natural gas for heating.

In warmer, southern states, including Florida and Texas, where electricity prices are cheaper, most households use electricity for heating – either in electric furnaces, baseboard resistance heating or to run heat pumps. In the Pacific northwest, where electricity prices are low due to abundant hydropower, electricity is also a dominant heating fuel.

The type of community also affects homes’ fuel choices. Homes in cities are more likely to use natural gas relative to rural areas, where natural gas distribution networks are not as well developed. In rural areas, homes are more likely to use heating oil and propane, which can be stored on property in tanks. Oil is also more commonly used in the Northeast, where properties are older – particularly in New England, where a third of households still rely on oil for heating.

Why heat pumps?

Instead of generating heat by burning fuels such as natural gas that directly emit carbon, heat pumps use electricity to move heat from one place to another. Air-source heat pumps extract the heat of outside air, and ground-source heat pumps, sometimes called geothermal heat pumps, extract heat stored in the ground.

Heat pump efficiency depends on the local climate: A heat pump operated in Florida will provide more heat per unit of electricity used than one in colder northern states such as Minnesota or Massachusetts.

But they are highly efficient: An air-source heat pump can reduce household heating energy use by roughly 30% to 50% relative to existing fossil-based systems and up to 75% relative to inefficient electric systems such as baseboard heaters.

Heat pumps can also reduce emissions of greenhouse gases, although that depends on how their electricity is generated – whether from fossil fuels or cleaner energy, such as wind and solar.

Heat pumps can lower heating bills

We found that for households currently using oil, propane or non-heat pump forms of electric heating – such as electric furnaces or baseboard resistive heaters – installing a heat pump would reduce heating bills across all parts of the country.

The amount a household can save on energy costs with a heat pump depends on region and heating type, averaging between $200 and $500 a year for the average-size household currently using propane or oil.

However, savings can be significantly greater: We found the greatest opportunity for savings in households using inefficient forms of electric heating in northern regions. High electricity prices in the Northeast, for example, mean that heat pumps can save consumers up to $3,000 a year over what they would pay to heat with an electric furnace or to use baseboard heating.

A challenge in converting homes using natural gas

Unfortunately for the households that use natural gas in colder, northern regions – making up around half of the country’s annual heating needs – installing a heat pump could raise their annual heating bills. Our analysis shows that bills could increase by as much as $1,200 per year in northern regions, where electricity costs are as much as five times greater than natural gas per kilowatt-hour.

Even households that install ground-source heat pumps, the most efficient type of heat pump, would still see bill increases in regions with the highest electricity prices relative to natural gas.

Installation costs

In parts of the country where households would see their energy costs drop after installing a heat pump, the savings would eventually offset the upfront costs. But those costs can be significant and discourage people from buying.

On average, it costs $17,000 to install an air-source heat pump and typically at least $30,000 to install a ground-source heat pump.

Some homes may also need upgrades to their electrical systems, which can increase the total installation price even more, by tens of thousands of dollars in some cases, if costly service upgrades are required.

In places where air conditioning is typical, homes may be able to offset some costs by using heat pumps to replace their air conditioning units as well as their heating systems. For instance, a new program in California aims to encourage homeowners who are installing central air conditioning or replacing broken AC systems to get energy-efficient heat pumps that provide both heating and cooling.

Rising costs of electricity

A main finding of our analysis was that the cost of electricity is key to encouraging people to install heat pumps.

Electricity prices have risen sharply across the U.S. in recent years, driven by factors such as extreme weather, aging infrastructure and increasing demand for electric power. New data center demand has added further pressure and raised questions about who bears these costs.

Heat pump installations will also increase electricity demand on the grid: The full electrification of home heating across the country would increase peak electricity demand by about 70%. But heat pumps – when used in concert with other technologies such as hot-water storage – can provide opportunities for grid balancing and be paired with discounted or time-of-use rate structures to reduce overall operating costs. In some states, regulators have ordered utilities to discount electricity costs for homes that use heat pumps.

But ultimately, encouraging households to embrace heat pumps and broader economy-wide electrification, including electric vehicles, will require more than just technological fixes and a lot more electricity – it will require lower power prices.

Roxana Shafiee does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.

– ref. Americans want heat pumps – but high electricity prices may get in the way – https://theconversation.com/americans-want-heat-pumps-but-high-electricity-prices-may-get-in-the-way-273981