‘Pylon wars’ show why big energy plans need locals on board

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Simone Abram, Professor in the Department of Anthropology, Director of Durham Energy Institute, Durham University

David Iliff / shutterstock

Thousands of new electricity pylons are to be built across parts of England under the government’s plans to decarbonise the electricity. And some people aren’t happy.

A glance at recent Daily Telegraph articles seem to suggest most of the genteel English countryside is about to be taken over by evil metal monsters. Headlines talk of “noisy” pylons set to “scythe through” “unspoiled countryside”, leading to a “pylon penalty” for house prices and even “mass social unrest”.

While some of the stories are rather over the top, they reflect a genuine unease, and there have been significant campaigns against pylons. In Suffolk, for instance, resistance is building against plans for a 114-mile-long transmission line connecting new offshore wind farms to Norwich and beyond.

So why do these towering steel structures evoke such powerful feelings?


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Pylons have had a particular fascination since they were first introduced in the 1920s. Even then, the biggest challenge was to get “wayleaves” (permission) to cross farmland. To calm rural protest groups, the government’s electricity board commissioned an architect, Reginald Blomfield, to design transmission towers with an eye to “visual amenity”.

Man stands on wire high above countryside
Pylon cleaning, 1946.
Smith Archive / Alamy

In the most protected areas, expensive underground cabling was used to hide the transmission lines altogether. The board used its copious marketing materials to emphasise that this option was around six times more expensive, and therefore only for exceptional use. By the 1940s pylons were much cheaper than underground cables, providing a techno-economic rationale that remains politically persuasive today.

Why we love the countryside

One reason pylons are so controversial is related to a particularly English fascination with landscape. The geographer David Matless wrote some years ago of the “powerful historical connection” between Englishness and a vision of its countryside. People feel a degree of ownership over a varied landscape, encompassing lowland and upland, north and south, picturesque and bleak, and often have strong opinions about what “fits”, what constitutes “heritage” and what is “out of place”.

Even if most of England is privately owned and commercially farmed, many people still imagine the land as a public good tied to national sentiments and see pylons as intruders in the landscape.

Pylons in fields above reservoir
Intruders? Pylons in England’s Peak District.
Martin Charles Hatch / shutterstock

This could also explain why proposals to build infrastructure across the English countryside often provoke significant objections. My research on planning in the Home Counties (the areas surrounding London) back in the 1990s revealed a very determined population of well-educated and well-resourced people willing to spend significant amounts of time and money ensuring that the landscape met their expectations.

Concerted efforts had seen off a proposal from the then Conservative government to build a motorway through the Chiltern Hills to the west of London, for example.

There were, and still are, innumerable village groups willing to turn up to public enquiries and to pay lawyers to launch appeals and legal challenges. They may have been sceptical of the more grungy road protesters (historically embodied by the indomitable Swampy), but there was certainly common purpose.

My conclusion at the time was never to underestimate the effectiveness of local action where people’s vision of the English countryside was challenged. More recently, plans to run the HS2 rail line through those same hills ran into fierce local opposition, which prompted significant redesigns.

That’s all well and good, but today we face catastrophic climate change and biodiversity loss. Wind turbines are one of the most effective ways to decarbonise electricity supplies, but they are in different places from the old coal and gas power stations. Ironically, the same love of landscape that pushed wind farms out to sea now fuels opposition to the cables that bring the power back to land.

Democratic decisions?

One of the challenges here is that decisions over things like high-voltage transmission lines are based on models that seek to “optimise” the design of equipment, on the basis of cost or effectiveness, or both. These models have no way to account for landscape and heritage value or aesthetics and should never be the sole basis for decisions about infrastructure.

Running pylons across Suffolk might be the cheapest route with least electrical loss, but is it the best option? What would the alternatives be? Starting the discussion from the basis of techno-economic modelling often preempts a properly balanced debate.

This isn’t an argument for or against big pylons. It’s a call for more democratic planning and not less.

Studies consistently show that people resent being excluded from decisions that reshape their landscape and environment. Planning is a political process, and in any such process, humiliating your opponent rarely leads to long-term harmony.

Top down decisions about “national infrastructure” may save time on paper but are not a good way to make progress. It appears autocratic and shifts objectors onto the streets or into the courts.

Real consultation takes time and effort. But it builds trust and leads to better outcomes.

Maybe pylons are the least-worst option. Maybe not. But we won’t know unless we ask – and listen.


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The Conversation

Simone Abram receives funding from EPSRC for research on integrated energy systems and equality, diversity and inclusion in energy research. She received funding from the Norwegian Research Council for research on socially-inclusive energy transitions. Her Chair is co-funded by Ørsted UK but she does not represent the company in any way and any views expressed here remain independent.

ref. ‘Pylon wars’ show why big energy plans need locals on board – https://theconversation.com/pylon-wars-show-why-big-energy-plans-need-locals-on-board-258877

Why snappy dogs, scratchy cats, and hungry worms were part of a medieval woman’s vision of the afterlife

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Diane Watt, Professor of English, University of Surrey

Detail from The Mouth of Hell in The Hours of Catherine of Cleves (1440). The Morgan Library & Museum

The afterlife is not typically associated with aggressive pets and insatiable worms. But these are exactly the creatures that appeared to an unnamed woman recluse living in Winchester, England, over the course of three nights in the summer of 1422. The woman was an anchoress. That means she had chosen – and subsequently vowed – to live in solitary confinement within a small cell attached to a church for the rest of her life.

The recluse wrote a vivid account of her vision and sent it to her confessor and a circle of influential churchmen. Her letter, known today as A Revelation of Purgatory, makes her one of the earliest known women writers in the English language.

Despite deserving this accolade, the Winchester recluse did not appear alongside her more famous contemporaries or near contemporaries, Julian of Norwich (1342 – after 1416) and Margery Kempe (circa  1373 – after 1438), in the British Library’s hugely successful recent exhibition, Medieval Women: In Their Own Words. One likely reason for this is that the manuscript copy of the full account of the vision was not available for display at the time. That situation has now changed.


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The British Library has just announced the purchase of five medieval manuscripts from Longleat House in Wiltshire. One of these manuscripts contains the complete surviving version of the recluse’s letter, which, although referred to in an incomplete version elsewhere as “a revelation recently shown to a holy woman”, is untitled in this particular manuscript. This may be another reason for this woman’s writing having been overlooked until very recently. This exciting purchase will hopefully now give the Winchester recluse and her writing the attention they deserve.

Painting of angels feeding souls through a purgatorial furnace
Angels feeding souls through a purgatorial furnace in the 15th century manuscript Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry.
Wikimedia Commons

In her vivid, technicolor visions, the recluse watched a dead friend, a nun named Margaret, ushered to the forefront of purgatory by a cat and dog that she had adored and pampered when she was alive.

Transformed into vicious satanic minions, Margaret’s former pets joined the many devils responsible for doling out her punishments. They tore endlessly at her flesh and bit and scratched her relentlessly. They did so to remind her that, as a nun, she had broken her vows by keeping them as her companions in her nunnery and by devoting too much love and attention to them.

In Margaret’s heart, too, a voracious little worm had taken up residence – a so-called “worm of conscience” – that was intent on consuming her from the inside out as part of her torment.




Read more:
Cats in the middle ages: what medieval manuscripts teach us about our ancestors’ pets


So deeply troubling was this vision of her friend’s suffering that the Winchester recluse immediately summoned her young maid, and the two women started to pray for the nun’s soul. On the very next day the recluse decided there was nothing for it but to document her visions of Margaret’s fate. She not only detailed all she had seen, but also stipulated which prayers, and how many, should be said on behalf of poor Margaret to deliver her from her suffering and help her reach the gates of heaven.

The recluse’s letter is very specific about the date of these visions: they took place on St Lawrence’s day, August 10 1322, which fell on a Sunday that year. There was – and still is – a small church dedicated to this saint very close to the cathedral in Winchester (the so-called Mother Church of Winchester).

As an anchoress, the author would almost certainly have occupied a cell attached to a church somewhere in Winchester. This would also have allowed her the time and the space for contemplation, study and writing.




Read more:
Dogs in the middle ages: what medieval writing tells us about our ancestors’ pets


As has been argued in a recent blog and podcast for the University of Surrey’s Mapping Medieval Women Writers project, it is quite possible that the Church of St Lawrence was the location of her cell, where she experienced her visions, and where she wrote down her account of them.

This manuscript now permanently joins an unparalleled collection of medieval women’s writing in England held in the British Library. It includes not only The Book of Margery Kempe, manuscripts of both the short and long texts of Julian of Norwich’s Revelations, but also the Lais and Fables of Marie de France, the Boke of Saints Albans attributed to Juliana Berners, and the letters of the 15th-century Norfolk gentlewoman Margaret Paston and other female family members.

As such, the work of this unnamed Winchester anchoress now takes up its rightful place alongside the writing of her hitherto better-known literary sisters.

The Conversation

Diane Watt has received funding from the AHRC, British Academy and Leverhulme Trust.

Liz Herbert McAvoy received funding for an associated project from the Leverhulme Trust.

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

ref. Why snappy dogs, scratchy cats, and hungry worms were part of a medieval woman’s vision of the afterlife – https://theconversation.com/why-snappy-dogs-scratchy-cats-and-hungry-worms-were-part-of-a-medieval-womans-vision-of-the-afterlife-259409

Parting by Sebastian Haffner: the forgotten German novel of the early 1930s that’s become a bestseller

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Andrea Hammel, Professor of German, Aberystwyth University

Sebastian Haffner and his novel, Abschied (Parting). Wiki Commons/Canva, CC BY

Abschied (Parting) by Sebastian Haffner (1907-1999) is dominating the bestseller charts in Germany. It has been published posthumously, over 25 years after his death, after the manuscript was found in a drawer.

The novel is a love story between Raimund, a young non-Jewish German student of law from Berlin, and Teddy, a young Jewish woman from Vienna. Raimund and Teddy meet on August 31 1930 in Berlin and the novel covers the time they spend in Berlin and Paris together.

Abschied was written between October 18 and November 23 1932, just before the Nazi takeover. It reads in the breathless, immediate manner in which it was clearly conceived. It also gives a personal insight into the zeitgeist of the final months of the Weimar Republic.

Haffner was born Raimund Pretzel in Berlin, where he trained as a lawyer. He disagreed with the Nazi regime and emigrated to London in 1938. There, in order to protect his family in Germany from potential Nazi retribution he changed his name.


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It is estimated that around 80,000 German-speaking refugees from Nazism lived in the UK by September 1939. Most of these refugees were Jewish, but there was also a sizeable number who, like Haffner, had fled for political reasons. Many politically committed exiles arrived soon after 1933 but this was not the case for Haffner. In the 1930s he was busy being a young man in Berlin, training as a lawyer and enjoying himself.

Haffner’s father was an educationalist who had a library with 10,000 volumes. As a young man Haffner liked reading, and toyed with the idea of becoming a writer and journalist, but his father advised him to study law and aim for a career in the civil service. Political developments in Germany made this option increasingly unpalatable. Initially Haffner found it difficult to see a way out. As he wrote in Defying Hitler: “Daily life […] made it difficult to see the situation clearly.”

In the book he also describes how he and other Germans acquiesced to the new regime. Haffner was disgusted with his own reaction to the SA (the Nazi party’s private army) entering the library of the court building where he was a pupil, asking those present whether they were Aryan and throwing out Jewish members of the court.

When questioned by an SA man, Haffner replied that he was indeed Aryan and felt immediately ashamed: “A moment too late I felt the shame, the defeat. I had said, ‘Yes’. […] What a humiliation to have answered the unjustified question whether I was Aryan so easily, even if the fact was of no importance to me.” Haffner never really took up his career as a lawyer, because it would have meant upholding Nazi laws and Nazi justice. Instead he started working as a journalist and writer, first in Germany and after his escape in 1938 in the UK.

Life in the UK

Soon after his arrival in the UK, Haffner finished a book titled Defying Hitler (1939). The memoir was both autobiographical and a political history of the period – but after the outbreak of the second world war it was considered not polemical enough, and was dismissed as an unsuitable explanation for the rise of Nazism at the time. But the intermingling of private and public history is of great interest to readers in the 21st century. Defying Hitler was published posthumously in German (2000) and in English (2003) and became a bestseller in both languages.

After Defying Hitler, Haffner turned to writing another book, Germany: Jekyll and Hyde (1940). It was more clearly anti-Nazi and focused on his journalism – during the war, he worked for the Foreign Office on anti-Nazi propaganda and he was later employed by The Observer as a political journalist. The book was a success, and Winston Churchill is said to have told his cabinet to read it.

The handwritten manuscript for Abschied, which was never published in Haffner’s lifetime, was found in a drawer by his son Oliver Pretzel, some time after his father’s death.

The German critic Volker Weidemann who wrote the epilogue to Parting toys with the idea that it was never published because its focus on the love story was considered a bit too trivial for such a great writer. Thanks to his work for The Observer after 1941, Haffner was a well-regarded political journalist and historical biographer. He became the paper’s German correspondent in 1954, and was well known for his column in West Germany’s Stern magazine and for his biographies, including one on Churchill (1967).

The perspective of a young non-Jewish German living a relatively ordinary life in the early 1930s makes Abschied a fascinating read. Academics have been exploring everyday life under Nazi rule for nearly half a century now, but it seems that modern readers are still keen to learn about it today.

Perhaps the novel resonates with so many German readers because we live in a time where many struggle with the inevitable continuation of everyday life while politics is becoming ever more extraordinary.

The Conversation

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

ref. Parting by Sebastian Haffner: the forgotten German novel of the early 1930s that’s become a bestseller – https://theconversation.com/parting-by-sebastian-haffner-the-forgotten-german-novel-of-the-early-1930s-thats-become-a-bestseller-260154

How often should you really be washing your bedding? A microbiologist explains

Source: The Conversation – UK – By Primrose Freestone, Senior Lecturer in Clinical Microbiology, University of Leicester

Andrey_Popov/Shutterstock

Most of us spend around a third of our lives in bed. Sleep isn’t just downtime; it’s essential for normal brain function and overall health. And while we often focus on how many hours we’re getting, the quality of our sleep environment matters too. A clean, welcoming bed with crisp sheets, soft pillowcases and fresh blankets not only feels good, it also supports better rest.

But how often should we really be washing our bed linens?

According to a 2022 YouGov poll, just 28% of Brits wash their sheets once a week. A surprising number admitted to leaving it much longer, with some stretching to eight weeks or more between washes. So what’s the science-backed guidance?

Let’s break down what’s actually happening in your bed every night – and why regular washing is more than just a question of cleanliness.


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Each night, as we sleep, we shed hundreds of thousands of skin cells, excrete oils from our sebaceous glands, and sweat up to half a pint of fluid – even if we’ve showered just before bed. Our skin hosts millions of bacteria and fungi, many of which are transferred onto sheets, pillows and duvets as we move during the night.

That fresh sweat may be odourless, but bacteria on our skin, particularly staphylococci, break it down into smelly byproducts. This is often why you wake up with body odour, even if you went to bed clean.

But it’s not just about microbes. During the day, our hair and bodies collect pollutants, dust, pollen and allergens, which can also transfer to our bedding. These can trigger allergies, affect breathing, and contribute to poor air quality in the bedroom.

Dust mites, fungi and other unseen bedfellows

The flakes of skin we shed every night become food for dust mites – microscopic creatures that thrive in warm, damp bedding and mattresses. The mites themselves aren’t dangerous, but their faecal droppings are potent allergens that can aggravate eczema, asthma and allergic rhinitis.

Fungi also find your bed appealing. Some species, like aspergillus fumigatus, have been detected in used bed pillows and can cause serious lung infections, particularly in people with weakened immune systems.

If you sleep with pets, the microbial party gets even livelier. Animals introduce extra hair, dander, dirt and sometimes faecal traces into your sheets and blankets, increasing the frequency at which you should be washing them.




Read more:
There are benefits to sharing a bed with your pet — as long as you’re scrupulously clean


So, how often should you wash your bedding?

Sheets and pillowcases

  • When: Weekly, or every three to four days if you’ve been ill, sweat heavily, or share your bed with pets.

  • Why: To remove sweat, oils, microbes, allergens and dead skin cells.

  • How: Wash at 60°C or higher with detergent to kill bacteria and dust mites. For deeper sanitisation, tumble dry or iron. To target dust mites inside pillows, freeze for at least 8 hours.

Mattresses

  • When: Vacuum at least weekly and air the mattress every few days.

  • Why: Sweat increases moisture levels, creating a breeding ground for mites.

  • Tips: Use a plastic or allergen-proof mattress protector and replace the mattress every seven years to maintain hygiene and support.

Pillow interiors

Blankets and duvet covers

  • When: Every two weeks, or more often if pets sleep on them.

  • Why: They trap skin cells, sweat and allergens.

  • How: Wash at 60°C or as high as the care label allows. Some guidance recommends treating these like towels: regular and hot washes keep them hygienic.

Duvets

  • When: Every three to four months, depending on usage and whether pets or children share your bed.

  • Why: Even with a cover, body oils and mites eventually seep into the filling.

  • How: Check the label: many duvets are machine-washable, others may require professional cleaning.

Your bed may look clean – but it’s teeming with microbes, allergens, mites and irritants that build up fast. Washing your bedding isn’t just about keeping things fresh; it’s a matter of health.

Regular laundering removes the biological soup of sweat, skin, dust and microbes, which helps to reduce allergic reactions, prevent infections and keep odours at bay. And as research continues to show the profound effect of sleep on everything from heart health to mental clarity, a hygienic sleep environment is a small but powerful investment in your wellbeing.

So go ahead – strip the bed. Wash those sheets. Freeze your pillows. Your microbes (and your sinuses) will thank you.

Sweet dreams – and happy laundering.

The Conversation

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

ref. How often should you really be washing your bedding? A microbiologist explains – https://theconversation.com/how-often-should-you-really-be-washing-your-bedding-a-microbiologist-explains-256516

Undersea cables are vulnerable to sabotage – but this takes skill and specialist equipment

Source: The Conversation – UK – By John Aitken, Associate, RAND Europe, RAND Europe

Countries have come to rely on a network of cables and pipes under the sea for their energy and communications. So it has been worrying to read headlines about communications cables being cut and, in one case, an undersea gas pipeline being blown up..

Critical undersea infrastructure (CUI) as these connections are known, supports about US$9 trillion (£6.6 trillion) worth of trade per day. A coordinated attack on this network could undoubtedly have devastating consequences.

But, as a former submarine commander who researches maritime security, I believe that attacking and disrupting the network is not as easy as some reports might make it appear. Deliberately snagging a pipeline with a dragging anchor in relatively shallow waters can cause a lot of damage, but it is fairly indiscriminate trick with a shelf life, since the damage can be repaired, and deniability becomes increasingly difficult.

Targeting the cable networks in deeper waters require more sophisticated methods, which are much more challenging to carry out.

A hostile state wishing to attack this network first needs to locate the cables they wish to target. The majority of the newer commercial cables are very clearly charted, but their positions are not exact.


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Cables and pipelines, even the heaviest ones, will drift somewhat as they are laid, and the deeper the water they sit in, the greater the distance they may drift.

Those newer cables are often buried in a shallow trench to protect them, which
makes locating and accessing them more challenging. Older cables were laid in slightly less exact navigational times, some before the GPS network was
available for civilian use. They are not in pristine or predictable patterns.

The positions of cables used by the military are generally not advertised at all, for reasons of security. Locating the target cable requires a detailed
understanding of the topography and features of the seabed. That sort of picture can only be built up by survey and reconnaissance.

Accurately surveying the seabed takes time and significant effort. And to get certainty of the picture, the survey or reconnaissance operation needs to be conducted in overlapping rows. This is painstaking work which is conditional upon the state of the sea.

Specialist equipment

Identifying a cable against the seabed or in the trench in which it lies requires a sonar resolution of something in the order of one or two metres, requiring specialist equipment.

In 2024, several submarine telecommunications cables were disrupted in the Baltic Sea. Although there had been suspicions about ships dragging their anchors to damage the cables, authorities were not able to confirm this. The damage has not been conclusively attributed to a third party.

There have been fears about “hybrid warfare”: deniable actions taken another nation that are enough to cause disruption, but are not enough to be an attributable act of war.

In 2017, the UK chief of the defence staff said that Russia posed a threat to undersea cables. Russia has spent considerable money, time and effort in developing the
platforms and capabilities that could target undersea infrastructure, if the country so wished.

An organisation called the Main Directorate of Deep-Sea Research (GUGI) operates deep-diving nuclear submarines, as well as a survey ship that is equipped with a deep diving submersible capable of operating at 6,000 metres.

Russian navy

The Russian navy also operates survey vessels such as the Akademik Vladimirsky. The precise sensors that the ship is equipped with are unknown – but in a 2012 research expedition to the South Pole it deployed a proton magnetometer, which can be used to discover metallic objects on the seabed such as pipelines.

However, there is no suggestion that these survey vessels have been involved in disrupting undersea infrastructure. Nevertheless, operations by such vessels do not go unobserved by the west. Indicators and warnings of their deployments can be gained from imagery, and western submarines are capable of tracking and observing their patrols.

The threat posed to Europe’s critical undersea infrastructure is real, and the consequences of a successful attack could be catastrophic. But this is a difficult business in a very challenging environment.

The most acute threat is in the littoral (shore zone), where cables make landfall and in the shallows around those landing places. Protecting these chokepoints should be a top priority.

That, in turn, requires adequate numbers of attack submarines capable of
monitoring and, if necessary, deterring or disrupting hostile activity. Vigilance,
investment, and realism – not alarmism – will be the foundation of a credible undersea defence.

The Conversation

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

ref. Undersea cables are vulnerable to sabotage – but this takes skill and specialist equipment – https://theconversation.com/undersea-cables-are-vulnerable-to-sabotage-but-this-takes-skill-and-specialist-equipment-259417

Overuse of riprap to prevent riverbank erosion is harming B.C. rivers

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Charlotte Milne, PhD Candidate, Institute for Resources, Environment and Sustainability, University of British Columbia

Every spring, melting snow and heavy rainfall brings a higher risk of flooding and riverbank erosion to parts of Canada. Bank erosion is responsible for a significant portion of annual flood damage in Canada, with estimates suggesting the costs could grow as high as $13.6 billion anually by the end of the century.

In British Columbia, erosion is primarily managed by “hardening” riverbanks with large rocks called riprap. These rocks are so prevalent along B.C. rivers that you might think they are part of the natural environment, but they are not.

Hardened riverbanks offer temporary protection from river movement, but riprap can lead to degraded rivers. Erosion is a natural process that helps maintain healthy and diverse river habitat. However, as societies expand, there is more demand to control river movement and prevent erosion.

Through my work as a river scientist and flood risk researcher in New Zealand and Canada, I have witnessed the sometimes devastating impacts of river erosion and have also seen just how lifeless rivers can become when overly restricted.

Of course we need to protect people, property and infrastructure from riverbank erosion. But current erosion management is hurting B.C. rivers.

The problem with riprap

Riprap is essential for stabilizing riverbanks when infrastructure and property are at immediate risk. The rocks are often laid down as “temporary” erosion prevention before or during floods.

The problem is, if you harden one area with riprap, that bank transfers the erosion-hungry current elsewhere, driving the need for further riprap to be installed.

The exact impact that riprap is having on B.C. waterways requires more research, but professionals working in the province’s rivers are already seeing the damage.

During a workshop I led with colleagues from Resilient Waters and Watershed Watch, we found that in a group of 83 river and flood management professionals, 53 had witnessed adverse impacts from riprap use in the province’s Lower Mainland region.

It is now estimated that more than half of the gravel sections of the Fraser River have been hardened through riprap. To date, there has been limited consideration of the environmental consequences of such widespread bank hardening.

Riprap can bury the shallow spawning habitats preferred by many fish. It can prevent the “undercutting” of banks, a process that creates important spaces that salmon species prefer for shelter.

In addition, riprap causes water temperatures to rise as rocks trap heat from sunlight that would normally be shaded by riparian vegetation. That lack of vegetation also means less wood and debris in the rivers, which would normally add essential habitat complexity that is preferred by many fish species.

Riprap also acts as a potential migration barrier for salmon and other species trying to navigate the riverbanks. Finally, as riprap lessens available habitat for indigenous species, it can offer preferential habitat for invasive ones instead.

Given the potential for environmental harm, there have been calls to limit riprap use in British Columbia. Experts have suggested it should only be used in essential cases, ideally in river systems that are already heavily impacted by humans.

Bioengineering, revegetation alternatives

The good news is that there are bank-stabilizing alternatives to riprap.

Bioengineering involves using vegetation to create or support engineered structures. For example, live tree cuttings can be woven together to create wattles or brush mattresses. This process creates living tree walls and coverings that grow and strengthen over time.

Revegetation is another approach, using riparian planting to strengthen riverbanks with root systems. In some cases, this can be as simple as laying down seeds at the right time of year, often with other erosion control options like mulch terraces.

The key to the success of bioengineering and revegetation efforts is that they need to be done proactively. Unlike riprap, which can be installed as an emergency response measure, vegetation needs time to grow.

Next steps for B.C.

boulders along a shoreline near some trees. Buildings are seen in the background
Riprap along part of Vancouver’s False Creek in July 2020. Given the potential for environmental harm, there have been calls to limit riprap use in British Columbia.
(Shutterstock)

Is it possible to move on from our over-reliance on riprap in B.C.?

During our workshop, experts discussed what needs to happen to support environmentally friendly bank stabilization options.

First off, we need to be talking about the overuse of riprap more. Currently, decision-makers and property-owners are often unaware of the potential harm that riprap can have on our rivers, or that alternatives exist. While many alternatives won’t be appropriate in extreme erosion cases, for the province’s smaller and healthier rivers, they would be ideal.

For this to happen, the bank-stabilization regulation process in B.C. needs to change. Currently it is hard to receive consent or funding to undertake bank strengthening activities outside of emergency riprap installation.

The B.C. government needs to adapt local guidelines and regulations to allow wider use of alternative methods, prioritizing proactive bank strengthening. They can draw on findings from elsewhere in Canada where alternative bank-stabilization options are already being tested.

Shifting away from a dependence on riprap won’t be easy, but in a province that relies on healthy rivers and fish, it should be a priority.

As one workshop attendee put it: “We don’t want to see sterile kilometres of riprap.”

The Conversation

Charlotte Milne receives funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada and the Public Scholars Initiative at UBC. The research mentioned in this article received funding from UBC’s Sustainability Scholars Program and support from Resilient Waters and the Watershed Watch Salmon Society.

ref. Overuse of riprap to prevent riverbank erosion is harming B.C. rivers – https://theconversation.com/overuse-of-riprap-to-prevent-riverbank-erosion-is-harming-b-c-rivers-255283

Why are we so obsessed with bringing back the woolly mammoth?

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Rebecca Woods, Associate Professor, Institute for the History & Philosophy of Science & Technology, University of Toronto

A photograph of a steppe mammoth on display at the Australian Museum in Sydney. (Unsplash/April Pethybridge), CC BY

In just the last several months, de-extinction — bringing back extinct species by recreating them or organisms that resemble them — has moved closer from science fiction to science fact. Colossal Biosciences — an American for-profit de-extinction startup headed by geneticists George Church and Beth Shapiro — announced two major achievements almost back-to-back.

In the first, scientists spliced part of the woolly mammoth’s genome into mice to create “woolly mice,” incredibly cute pom-pom like rodents sporting coats that express the genes of long-extinct woolly mammoths.

Reuters reports on the woolly mice developed by Colossal Biosciences.

Just a few weeks later, Colossal announced an even bigger achievement, claiming to have brought back the dire wolf, a contemporary of the woolly mammoth who, like their Ice Age proboscidean co-travellers, last roamed the Earth roughly 10,000 years ago.




Read more:
Colossal Bioscience’s attempt to de-extinct the dire wolf is a dangerously deceptive publicity stunt


Mammoth popularity

Woolly mammoths are at the forefront of these controversial de-extinction efforts. Despite a deep bench of more recently extinct species — the dodo, the moa, passenger pigeons, the bucardo, quagga, thylacine, aurochs and a whole host of others — readily available to take centre stage in de-extinction efforts, woolly mammoths figure prominently in de-extinction stories, both scientific and popular.

Woolly mammoths featured prominently in the imagery of Revive & Restore, a “genetic rescue” conglomerate of scientists and futurists headed by tech-guru Steward Brand; in 2021, Colossal “established ownership” over woolly mammoth revival. Colossal’s own logo visualizes CRISP-R, the gene-splicing technology that facilitates de-extinction, and the signature spiralled tusks of Mammuthus primigenius.

In popular culture, woolly mammoths have been a source of fascination for the last several centuries. Thomas Jefferson famously held out hope that live mammoths would be found beyond the frontier of American colonialism in the late-1700s, while early excavations of American mastodons were major events in the early 1800s. American painter Charles Willson Peale captured the first such excavation in oils, and later capitalized on that mastadon’s skeleton in his Philadelphia museum.

More recently, Manny the mammoth featured in the ongoing Ice Age animated film franchise, first launched in 2002.

Climate icons

At the same time, woolly mammoths have also become an emblem of the contemporary climate crisis. During the recent wave of defacing famous artwork in order to draw attention to the climate crisis, environmental activists painted the (fortunately artificial) tusks of the Royal B.C. Museum’s woolly mammoth model bright pink.

In a 2023 publicity stunt, the Australian cultured-meat startup, Vow, unveiled a mammoth meatball produced out of the woolly mammoth’s genome with sheep DNA as filler. Not for sale, the mammoth meatball was scorched before an audience at the Dutch science museum, Nemo.

The stunt was intended to call attention, again, to the plight of the Earth’s climate, the unsustainability of industrialized food systems and the potential for lab-grown meat to square this particular circle.

Model animals

For a creature that no human being has ever seen live and in the flesh, woolly mammoths certainly get a lot of media exposure. How did this long-extinct species become the emblem of contemporary extinction and de-extinction?

People have been interacting with the remains of woolly mammoths for hundreds of years. Dig a hole deep enough almost anywhere in the northern hemisphere, and you are apt to come across the bones or maybe the tusks of extinct mammoths or mastodons.

In early modern Europe, mammoth fossils were famously interpreted as the bones of unicorns and giants before being recognized as belonging to elephant-like creatures around 1700. Only around 1800 were mammoths recognized as a distinct and extinct species of proboscidea.

Elsewhere in Arctic regions, especially Siberia, Indigenous Peoples were familiar with mammoth remains preserved by permafrost. As rivers and their tributaries surged during annual thaws, whole carcasses of mammoths (and woolly rhinos) were sometimes exposed.

Local peoples who came across these remains, apparently recently dead but belonging to creatures they never saw walking the Earth’s surface, surmised that they were great burrowing rodent-like animals that tunnelled through the ground and perished if they accidentally came into contact with atmosphere.




Read more:
Ancient DNA suggests woolly mammoths roamed the Earth more recently than previously thought


Around the Arctic, including in Alaska, permafrost prevented the fossilization of mammoth tusks as well as bodies, and this ice ivory was — and remains — an important element of Arctic economies, carved locally and exchanged into historically regional, and now global, markets.

Continued relevance

Despite their association with the distant past, woolly mammoths have long resonated with modern human cultures as their fossilized or preserved body parts entered economic practices and knowledge systems alike. But as the extinction of once numerous species like the passenger pigeon, the American bison and African elephant began to loom over the late 19th century, woolly mammoths took on new meanings in the context of modern extinction and emergent understandings of human evolution.

a mural of woolly mammoths
A mural by by paleoartist Charles R. Knight depicting wooly mammoths, displayed at the American Museum of Natural History.
(United States Geological Survey)

Revolutions in geology, archeology, paleontology and related disciplines were changing long-held assumptions about the origin of humankind.

Narratives of the rise of “man the hunter” arose in natural history institutions such as the American Museum of Natural History and the Field Museum in Chicago. These origin stories were explicitly connected to the presumed extinction of woolly mammoths and their evolutionary relatives, the mastodons.

These led to some of the most powerful expressions of mammoths in visual form, like the frescoes and paintings produced by renowned paleoartist Charles R. Knight.

At the same time, cave paintings in France, Spain and elsewhere came to light in the early 20th century. For example, the 40,000-year-old frescoes at Rouffignac, France clearly depicting woolly mammoths were interpreted as further evidence of this deep and powerful historical connection.

It is this connection — the association of the rise of modern humankind with the decline and extinction of the woolly mammoth — that feeds today’s continued fascination. Notions of human complicity in extinction stories have long been embedded in modern scientific understandings of woolly mammoths. It is no accident that woolly mammoths are so central to de-extinction projects and climate activism alike.

The Conversation

Rebecca Woods received funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada.

ref. Why are we so obsessed with bringing back the woolly mammoth? – https://theconversation.com/why-are-we-so-obsessed-with-bringing-back-the-woolly-mammoth-253432

Lilo & Stitch: With love, a bereaved child feels safe enough to grieve and grow

Source: The Conversation – Canada – By Elena Merenda, Associate Head of Early Childhood Studies, University of Guelph-Humber

Lilo’s story offers a meaningful glimpse into how grief shows up in children through their emotions and actions. (Disney)

This story contains spoilers about Lilo & Stitch.

At first glance, Disney’s Lilo & Stitch, set in Hawaii, seems like a playful, heartwarming film about an alien’s misadventures and a young girl’s search for connection and friendship. But there’s a deeper story — one about childhood grief in the life of the main character, Lilo, and how she navigates the loss of her parents.

Lilo’s story offers a meaningful glimpse into how grief shows up in children through their emotions and actions.

Grief in childhood is often misunderstood and overlooked. A common misconception is that children don’t grieve because they’re too young to understand loss. But just because children don’t express grief the way adults do, it doesn’t mean they aren’t grieving.

As an early child educator who teaches families and post-secondary students about children’s grief, I often say this: anyone who is capable of loving is capable of grieving — and children are deeply capable of love.

Children express grief through behaviours

Lilo’s grief is never directly named in the film, but it’s everywhere — she lashes out, isolates herself and clings tightly to Stitch. These behaviours mirror how many children express grief through actions rather than words.

Research from the National Child Traumatic Stress Network notes that young children often grieve through behaviour — aggression, regression, somatic complaints or withdrawal. This is tied to their stage of cognitive development.

As the theory of cognitive development by renowned psychologist Jean Piaget outlines, children aged two to seven think concretely and egocentrically, making abstract concepts like death hard to understand.

In one scene, Lilo insists on feeding a sandwich to her pet fish Pudge, believing he controls the weather — an imaginative ritual that helps her feel a sense of control in a world that feels uncertain and unstable. In multiple scenes she refuses to listen to her sister Nani, reflecting how grief often shows up through routines, symbolic actions or emotional withdrawal.

Grief can make children feel ‘different’

The Canadian Alliance for Children’s Grief estimates that one in 14 children in Canada will lose a parent or sibling before age 18. Yet despite how common it is, childhood grief is often overlooked — especially in schools, where emotional pain may go unnoticed.

A dog-like character has his tongue out and teeth bared while smiling.
Feeling ‘different’ may go unnoticed in schools.
(Disney)

In Lilo & Stitch, we see this reality through Lilo. She knows she doesn’t fit in and asks her sister why no one likes her. Her classmates tease her for being “weird” and emotionally reactive. In one scene, she tries to share a handmade bracelet during dance class, only to be mocked and excluded. The moment may seem small but it reveals a deeper truth: grief can make children feel isolated, overwhelmed and fundamentally different from their peers.

Research confirms this. Studies in the Journal of School Psychology show that bereaved children often describe themselves as “not normal” or “different,” especially when their peers haven’t experienced a similar loss. Without safe, validating spaces to process their grief, these feelings can lead to loneliness, behavioural struggles and low self-esteem.

Grief grows with us

Grief in childhood isn’t a single moment — it evolves and deepens over time. As children grow, so does their understanding of what they’ve lost. They often revisit their grief at new developmental stages, carrying it in different ways.

Lilo & Stitch reflects this beautifully. Lilo doesn’t talk much about her parents’ death, but we see her grief in the routines she clings to — like listening to Elvis or sharing old family photos. These aren’t just quirks; they’re ways she keeps her parents close.

This reflects what grief researchers call the continuing bonds theory, which emphasizes that maintaining emotional connections to the deceased can support healthy adaptation. Grief isn’t something children “get over.” It’s something they learn to carry — with support, connection and love.

Healing doesn’t mean Lilo returns to who she was before her parents’ deaths. Her grief remains, but she begins to rebuild her world with Stitch, Nani and her new ‘ohana (family).

They don’t replace what was lost, but they become a space where grief and love can coexist.

One of the film’s most memorable lines captures this truth:

“This is my family. I found it, all on my own. It’s little and broken but still good. Yeah… still good.”

Connection is the path to healing

Just as grief is rooted in love, healing is rooted in connection.

Lilo’s healing comes from presence. Despite the chaos he brings, Stitch stays. Nani, overwhelmed and unsure, keeps showing up.

Their love and steady, unconditional presence allow Lilo to begin feeling safe enough to grieve and grow.

‘Lilo & Stitch’ trailer.

This reflects what attachment research tells us: strong, secure relationships are among the most powerful protective factors for children navigating loss. When a child feels emotionally safe with a caregiver, they’re better able to regulate emotions, build resilience and integrate the pain of loss into their development. In bereavement, the presence of a stable, responsive adult can determine whether a child’s grief becomes traumatic — or transformative.

In Lilo & Stitch, connection becomes both the container for Lilo’s grief and the bridge to her healing. The film gently reminds us: love may be the reason we grieve, but it’s also the most powerful way through it.

How caregivers can support a grieving child

1. Maintain routine and consistency.

In times of grief, structure helps children feel safe. Predictable routines — like mealtimes, bedtime rituals and daily rhythms — offer a sense of stability when everything else feels uncertain

2. Normalize and validate emotions.

Help your child name what they’re feeling and let them know it’s OK. Say things like, “It’s OK to feel that way,” or “Whatever you feel is welcome here.” Validation helps reduce shame and gives children permission to process their grief openly.

3. Answer questions honestly.

Children need truthful, age-appropriate information about what has happened. Avoid euphemisms like “went to sleep” or “passed away,” which can cause confusion. Instead, use clear, simple language: “Their body stopped working and they died.” Honesty builds trust and supports children’s cognitive and emotional development as they process the permanence of death.

4. Seek support.

Grief can feel overwhelming — for children and their parents or caregivers. Reach out to school counsellors, grief therapists or local support groups, because support can reduce isolation, support expression and improve coping in grieving families.

The Conversation

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

ref. Lilo & Stitch: With love, a bereaved child feels safe enough to grieve and grow – https://theconversation.com/lilo-and-stitch-with-love-a-bereaved-child-feels-safe-enough-to-grieve-and-grow-259873

Alcohol and colonialism: the curious story of the Bulawayo beer gardens

Source: The Conversation – Africa – By Maurice Hutton, Research Associate, School of Environment, Education and Development, University of Manchester

Kontuthu Ziyathunqa – Smoke Rising – was what they used to call Bulawayo when the city was the industrial powerhouse of Zimbabwe. Now, many of its factories lie dormant or derelict. The daily torrent of workers flowing eastward at dawn, and back out to the high-density western suburbs at dusk, has diminished to a trickle.

But there is an intriguing industrial-era institution that lives on in most of the older western suburbs (formerly called townships). It is the municipal beer hall or beer garden, built in the colonial days for the racially segregated African worker communities. There are dozens of these halls and garden complexes, still serving customers and emitting muffled sounds of merriment to this day.




Read more:
Mbare Art Space: a colonial beer hall in Zimbabwe has become a vibrant arts centre


Like other urban areas in Rhodesia (colonial Zimbabwe), Bulawayo was informally segregated from its inception, and more formally segregated after the second world war. Under British rule (1893-1965) and then independent white minority rule (1965-1980), municipal drinking amenities were built in the townships to maintain control of African drinking and sociality. At the same time, they raised much-needed revenue for township welfare and recreational services.




Read more:
Zimbabwe’s economy crashed – so how do citizens still cling to myths of urban and economic success?


I researched the history of these beer halls and gardens as part of my PhD project on the development of the segregated African townships in late colonial Bulawayo. As my historical account shows, they played a key role in the contested township development process.

From beer halls to beer gardens

Bulawayo’s oldest and most famous beer hall, MaKhumalo, also known as Big Bhawa, was built more than a century ago. It still stands at the heart of the historic Makokoba neighbourhood. It’s enormous, but austere, and in the early days it was oppressively managed. Drinkers would describe feeling like prisoners there.

The more picturesque beer gardens began to emerge in the 1950s, reflecting the developmental idealism of Hugh Ashton. The Lesotho-born anthropologist was educated at the Universities of Oxford, London and Cape Town, and took up the new directorship of African administration in Bulawayo in 1949.

He was tuned into new anthropological ideas about social change, as well as developmental ideas spreading through postwar colonial administrations – about “stabilising” and “detribalising” African workers to create a more passive and productive urban working class. He saw a reformed municipal beer system as a key tool for achieving these goals.

Ashton wanted to make the beer system more legitimate and the venues more community-building. He proposed constructing beer garden complexes with trees, rocks, games facilities, food stalls and events like “traditional dancing”. So the atmosphere would be convivial and respectable, but also controllable, enticing all classes and boosting profits to fund better social services. As we shall see, this strategy was full of contradictions…

Industrial beer brewing

MaKhumalo, MaMkhwananzi, MaNdlovu, MaSilela. These beer garden names, emblazoned on the beer dispensaries that stick up above the ramparts of each garden complex, referenced the role that women traditionally played in beer brewing in southern Africa. This helped authenticate the council’s “home brew”.

But the reality was that the beer was now produced in a massive industrial brewery managed by a Polish man. It was piped down from steel tanks at the tops of the dispensary buildings into the plastic mugs of thirsty punters at small bar windows below. (It was also sold in plastic calabashes and cardboard cartons.)

And the beer garden bureaucracy, which offered a rare opportunity for African men to attain higher-grade public sector jobs, became increasingly complex and strictly audited.

As the townships rapidly expanded, with beer gardens dotted about them, sales of the council’s “traditional” beer – the quality of which Ashton and his staff obsessed over – went up and up.

Extensive beer advertising in the council’s free magazine mixed symbols of tradition (beer as food) with symbols of modern middle-classness.

Beer monopoly system

The system’s success relied on the Bulawayo council having a monopoly on the sale of so-called “native beer”. This traditional brew is typically made by malting, mashing, boiling and then fermenting sorghum, millet or maize grains. Racialised Rhodesian liquor laws restricted African access to “European” beers, wines and spirits.

So, the beer hall or garden was the only public venue where Africans could legally drink (apart from a tiny elite, for whom a few exclusive “cocktail lounges” were built). The council cracked down harshly on “liquor offences” like home brewing.

This beer monopoly system was quite prevalent in southern and eastern Africa, though rarely at the scale to which it grew in Bulawayo. Nearly everywhere, the system caused resentment among African townspeople, and so it became politically charged.

In several colonies, beer halls became sites of protest, or were boycotted (most famously in South Africa). And they usually faced stiff competition from illicit drinking dens known as shebeens.

In Bulawayo, the more the city council “improved” its beer system after the Second World War, the more contradictory the system became. It actively encouraged mass consumption of “traditional” beer, so that funds could be raised for “modern” health, housing and welfare services in the townships. Ashton himself was painfully aware of the contradictions.

In his guest introduction to a 1974 ethnographic monograph on Bulawayo’s beer gardens, he wrote:

The ambivalence of my position is obvious. How can one maintain a healthy community and a healthy profit at one and the same time? I can almost hear the critical reader questioning my morality and even my sanity. And why not? I have often done so myself.

Many citizen groups – both African and European – questioned the system too. They called it illogical, if not immoral; even some government ministers said it had gone too far. And when some beer gardens were constructed close to European residential areas, to cater for African domestic workers, many Europeans reacted with fear and fury.

As Zimbabweans’ struggle for independence took off in the 1960s, African residents increasingly associated the beer halls and gardens with state neglect, repression, or pacification. They periodically boycotted or vandalised them. Nevertheless, with few alternative options, attendance rates remained high: MaKhumalo recorded 50,000 visitors on one Sunday in 1970.

After independence

After Zimbabwe gained independence in 1980, the township beer gardens remained in municipal hands. They continued to be popular, even though racial desegregation had finally given township residents access to other social spaces across the city.

The colonial-era municipal beers continued to be produced, with Ngwebu (“The Royal Brew”) becoming a patriotic beverage for the Ndebele – the city’s majority ethnic group.

But with the deindustrialisation of Bulawayo since the late 1990s, tens of thousands of blue collar workers have moved to greener pastures, mostly South Africa. The old drinking rhythm of the city’s workforce has changed, and for the young, the beer gardens hold little allure. Increasingly, they have been leased out to private individuals to run.




Read more:
Beer, politics and identity – the chequered history behind Namibian brewing success


Nevertheless, there is always a daily trickle of regulars to the beer gardens, where mugs and calabashes are passed around among friends or burial society members. Some punters play darts or pool. And there are always some who sit alone, ruminating – perhaps in the company of ghosts from the past.

The beer gardens of Bulawayo embody the moral and practical contradictions of late colonial development – and the ways in which such systems and infrastructures may live on, but change meaning, in the post-colony.

The Conversation

Maurice Hutton received funding from the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC) and the University of Edinburgh’s College of Humanities and Social Sciences to conduct the research on which this article is based.

ref. Alcohol and colonialism: the curious story of the Bulawayo beer gardens – https://theconversation.com/alcohol-and-colonialism-the-curious-story-of-the-bulawayo-beer-gardens-256511

Samora Machel’s vision for Mozambique didn’t survive: what has taken its place?

Source: The Conversation – Africa (2) – By Luca Bussotti, Professor at the PhD Course in Peace, Democracy, Social Movements and Human Development, Universidade Técnica de Moçambique (UDM)

Samora Moisés Machel, the first president of independent Mozambique, was born in 1933 in Gaza province, in the south of the country. He died in an unexplained plane crash on 19 October 1986, in Mbuzini, South Africa.

Authoritarian and popular, humble and arrogant, visionary and tactical. All these words have been used to describe Machel. Despite these contradictions, there was one quality that everyone recognised in him: his charisma. At the time this gift wasn’t lacking in many political leaders of emerging countries, especially those of Marxist-Leninist inspiration. Cuba’s revolutionary leader Fidel Castro above all.

Their common faith went beyond any personal or family interest. It was a faith for the progress of humanity, for the liberation of oppressed peoples from the colonial yoke, from the chains of capitalism and from traditional values and practices considered regressive.

Machel’s enlightenment programme was as fascinating as it was difficult to achieve in Mozambique in the mid-1970s. Small farmers, with all their “traditional” beliefs, made up the majority of the population. It was a political battle for social justice as well as a cultural crusade.

Machel’s speech on 25 June 1975, at the Machava Stadium in Maputo, proclaiming Mozambique’s independence from Portugal, highlighted the contradictions. The new head of state addressed the “workers”, who represented a small minority of the Mozambican people. At the same time, he called for freedom from colonial-capitalist oppression and the effective, total independence of the new country, already identifying its possible enemies: the unproductive and exploitative bourgeoisie.

The task of nation-building

Machel’s charisma recalled that of the proto-nationalist hero Gungunhana, who had tried to resist the Portuguese occupation at the end of the 19th century. Machel’s grandfather, Maguivelani, was related to the “terrible” Gungunhana, the last emperor of Gaza, who was defeated in 1895 by Mouzinho de Albuquerque after years of struggle. He was deported to Portugal, where he died in 1906.

Paradoxically, the anti-traditionalist Machel was the descendant of a great traditional chief. This heritage played a role in shaping his personality and political action.

Machel’s main task was to build a nation that only existed because of political unification under the Portuguese. The initial choices, embedded in the Cold War atmosphere, forced the nationalist Machel to opt for a rapprochement with the Soviet Union. Mozambique formally adopted a Marxist-Leninist doctrine at its Third Congress in 1977.

That approach meant political intolerance and the repression of “dissidents”, as well as the marginalisation of certain ethnic groups, above all the Amakhuwa people, who did not sympathise with Machel’s party, Frelimo.

The forces opposed to the Marxist-Leninist solution expected democratic elections to be held after the proclamation of independence from Portugal. But this opportunity never came. Portugal handed over power to Frelimo (Lusaka Accords, 1974), ignoring the existence of other political groups.

The treatment of leaders who opposed Frelimo’s vision was harsh. On their return from abroad, many were imprisoned in concentration camps in the north of the country.

They included the resistance leader Joana Simeão, along with others such as Uria Simango, former vice-president of Frelimo, his wife, Celina Simango, and Lázaro Kavandame, the former Makonde leader who left Frelimo because he didn’t agree with its political line.

They were put on arbitrary trial and executed. The dates and the method of execution are still officially unknown, despite the former president Joaquim Chissano’s public apology, in 2014, for these deaths.

About a year after independence, an armed opposition, Renamo, was formed. It was financed first by Ian Smith’s Southern Rhodesian government, and then by the South African apartheid regime.

Renamo, contrary to Machel’s expectations, had a solid popular base in central and northern Mozambique, especially among peasant populations who had expressed opposition to the policies of collectivisation and cooperation imposed by the Marxist-Leninist government.

And it was war which led Machel to a controversial agreement with the South African apartheid enemy. The Nkomati Accords, signed in 1984, provided for the end of Mozambique’s logistical support to the exiled African National Congress in Mozambique and South Africa’s military and financial support to Renamo.

This agreement did not bring peace. On the contrary, the war intensified, as the South African regime continued to finance Renamo.

Machel died in 1986, with the war still raging, unable to see the end of a conflict that had devastated Mozambique and which defeated the socialist principles.

The General Peace Accords between the Mozambican government, represented by the president, Chissano, and Renamo, represented by its leader, Afonso Dhlakama, were only signed in Rome in 1992.

End of an era

Machel took the first, important steps towards a rapprochement with the west, as demonstrated by his visit to Ronald Reagan in Washington in September 1985.

It can be said that with his death the First Mozambican Republic ended, with all its positive and negative elements. The dream of building a fair Mozambique with an equitable distribution of national wealth came to an end.

Machel had worked hard to ensure that health, education, transport, water and energy were distributed equally among Mozambicans. A poor but fair welfare state was born. But it was quickly dismantled in the years following his death. The Mozambican state had very few resources to devote to the welfare state. The rest was done by the rapid abandonment of an ideology, the socialist ideology, which by then the Frelimo elite no longer believed in.

In addition, international financial institutions entered the country, with the notorious structural adjustment policies, as early as 1987.

Corruption, which Machel sought to combat with various measures, and which he addressed at many of his rallies, spread across the country and all its institutions. The Frelimo political elite soon became the richest slice of the nation.

Several observers began to speak of a kleptocracy. The country suffered from continuous corruption scandals. One of the biggest became known as “hidden debt,” in which the political elite, including one of ex-president Armando Guebuza’s sons and former intelligence chief, Gregório Leão, were convicted of a scheme that cost the public treasury more than US$2 billion.

However, the main defeat was the fall of an inapplicable socialism.

The adoption of a capitalist, liberal and democratic model, at least formally, put an end to the arbitrary violations of human rights as in the age of the socialist state, such as “Operation Production” of 1983. The programme aimed to move “unproductive” people living in cities to the countryside to promote agricultural production.

In reality, it turned into arbitrary detentions and displacement of entire families, increasing the systematic violation of human rights by the state.

At the same time, the end of socialism meant democratic openness. Since the 1990 constitution, Mozambique has had as its fundamental principles respect for civil and political freedoms based on the 1948 Declaration of Human Rights. Still, socio-economic rights have been denied as a result of the dismantling of the welfare state.

How he’s remembered

Today, many people miss Machel’s rule. Those who were close to him, such as José Óscar Monteiro, the former interior minister, recall him as an ethical statesman, intolerant of corruption and abuses against “his” people. So do some of the international media.

Others, since the 1980s, such as Amnesty International, have denounced the serious violations of the most basic human rights by the Mozambican government and its leader.

What remains of Machel today is above all his ethical teaching. He died poor, committed to the cause of his nation, leaving his heirs moral prestige.

It is curious that his figure is associated, even in musical compositions by contemporary rappers from Mozambique, with his historical enemy, Dhlakama, who died in 2018.

This popular tribute is proof of the distance between the country’s current ruling class and a “people” who are looking to the charismatic figure of Venâncio Mondlane, the so-called “people’s president”. But that’s another story that won’t fit here.

The Conversation

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

ref. Samora Machel’s vision for Mozambique didn’t survive: what has taken its place? – https://theconversation.com/samora-machels-vision-for-mozambique-didnt-survive-what-has-taken-its-place-260110