Category: The Conversation – Global Perspectives

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Darius von Guttner Sporzynski, Professor of History, Australian Catholic University

A new evolutionary study has found human penises are large compared with other primates: for two reasons. The first is reproduction. The second is that size works as a signal, attracting potential mates and intimidating rivals. In evolutionary terms, the penis is big because it is meant to be noticed.

That finding lands awkwardly in a world that has spent centuries hiding, shrinking, censoring or symbolically neutralising the penis whenever it becomes too visible.

A single object captures this tension between biological display and cultural embarrassment: the fig leaf.

The fig leaf’s story begins, as so many Western stories do, in Genesis. Adam and Eve eat from the tree of knowledge, realise they are naked, and stitch fig leaves together to cover themselves. Nakedness becomes linked with moral awareness, guilt and self-consciousness.

Nudity no longer neutral

Early Christian art absorbed this lesson. In late antique mosaics and medieval manuscripts, Adam and Eve clutch leaves over their groins with a mixture of alarm and regret. Nudity is no longer neutral. It signals sin, punishment, or humiliation. The only bodies shown naked are the damned.

Then comes a sharp reversal. Ancient Greek and Roman sculpture, rediscovered in Renaissance Italy, presents the naked male body as strong, balanced, and admirable. Heroes, gods, and athletes are unclothed because they have nothing to hide. Their genitals are visible, proportioned, and unremarkable. This is not erotic display so much as confidence made stone.

Michelangelo’s David sits squarely in this tradition. Carved between 1501 and 1504, he is naked, alert and physically present. His body is not idealised into abstraction. It is specific, human, and unmistakably male. Florentines reportedly threw stones when the statue was first installed. Before long, authorities added a garland of metal fig leaves to protect public sensibilities, which remained in place until around the 16th century.

This was not an isolated decision. Over the next century, the Reformation fractured Christian Europe, giving birth to Protestantism, and the Catholic Church doubled down on moral discipline. Naked bodies in art became political liabilities. The Council of Trent’s decrees on religious imagery reflected concerns that the prominent display of naked bodies in sacred art risked drawing attention to human physicality rather than directing devotion towards God. This led to what later historians have called the “Fig Leaf Campaign”.

Across Rome and beyond, sculpted genitals were chipped away, painted over, draped, or concealed with leaves. Michelangelo’s Last Judgement in the Sistine Chapel was altered after his death by Daniele da Volterra, who was hired to cover up visible genitalia with drapery. He earned the nickname “the breeches maker” for his efforts.

Classical statues in the Vatican acquired permanent marble underwear. A literal drawer of removed stone penises is rumoured to have existed. Whether or not that is true, the impulse behind it certainly was.

Strikingly, the fig leaf does not erase the penis. It points to it. The cover announces the presence of something that must not be seen. As several writers note, concealment tends to sharpen attention rather than dull it. The fig leaf becomes a visual alarm bell.

Resisting biology

This brings us back to the present. The new evolutionary research argues human penis size evolved partly because it is visible.

For most of our species’ history, before clothes, the penis was on display during daily life. It became a cue others learned to read quickly and unconsciously. Larger size was associated with attractiveness and with competitive threat.

From that perspective, centuries of fig leaves look less like moral refinement and more like cultural resistance to biology. The body insists on signalling. Society keeps trying to mute the signal.

Victorian Britain provides a late and almost comic example. When Queen Victoria was presented with a plaster cast of David, in around 1857, a detachable fig leaf was hastily produced and kept on standby for royal visits.

The leaf survives today, displayed separately in the Victoria and Albert Museum. The statue stands naked again, but the object designed to hide him has become a museum piece in its own right.

Even now, museums still debate whether to remove historic coverings. Social media platforms struggle to define what kinds of nudity are acceptable. Statues are boxed up for diplomatic visits. The anxiety persists, even if the fig leaf itself has become unfashionable.

Evolutionary biology suggests the human penis became prominent because it mattered socially – but our cultural history shows centuries of effort devoted to pretending it does not. The fig leaf sits at the centre of this contradiction: a small, awkward object carrying an enormous cultural load.

Darius von Guttner Sporzynski 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. The penis evolved to be noticed – but the artful fig leaf has hidden it for centuries – https://theconversation.com/the-penis-evolved-to-be-noticed-but-the-artful-fig-leaf-has-hidden-it-for-centuries-274286

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Wellett Potter, Senior Lecturer in Law, University of New England

Would you create an interactive “digital twin” of yourself that can communicate with loved ones after your death?

Generative artificial intelligence (AI) has made it possible to seemingly resurrect the dead. So-called griefbots or deathbots – an AI-generated voice, video avatar or text-based chatbot trained on the data of a deceased person – proliferate in the booming digital afterlife industry, also known as grief tech.

Deathbots are usually created by the bereaved, often as part of the grieving process. But there are also services that allow you to create a digital twin of yourself while you’re still alive. So why not create one for when you’re gone?

As with any application of new technology, the idea of such digital immortality raises many legal questions – and most of them don’t have a clear answer.

Your AI afterlife

To create an AI digital twin of yourself, you can sign up for a service that provides this feature, and answer a series of questions to provide data about who you are. You also record stories, memories and thoughts in your own voice. You might also upload your visual likeness in the form of images or video.

The AI software then creates a digital replica based on that training data. After you die and the company is notified of your death, your loved ones can interact with your digital twin.

But in doing this, you’re also delegating agency to a company to create a digital AI simulation of yourself after death.

From the get go, this is different to using AI to “resurrect” a dead person who can’t consent to this. Instead, a living person is essentially licensing data about themselves to an AI afterlife company before they’ve died. They’re engaging in a deliberate, contractual creation of AI-generated data for posthumous use.

However, there are many unanswered questions. What about copyright? What about your privacy?. What happens if the technology becomes outdated or the business closes? Does the data get sold on? Does the digital twin also “die”, and what effect does this have for a second time on the bereaved?

What does the law say?

Currently, Australian law doesn’t protect a person’s identity, voice, presence, values or personality as such. In contrast to the United States, Australians don’t have a general publicity or personality right. This means, for an Australian citizen, there’s currently no legal right for you to own or control your identity – the use of your voice, image or likeness.

In short, the law doesn’t recognise a proprietary right in most of the unique things that make you “you”.

Under copyright law, the concept of your presence or self is abstract, much like an idea is. Copyright doesn’t offer protection for “your presence” or “the self” as such. That’s because there has to be material form in specific categories of works for copyright to exist: these are tangible things, such as books or photos.

However, typed responses or the voice recordings submitted to the AI for training are material. This means the data used to train the AI to create your digital twin would likely be protectable. But fully autonomous AI generated output is unlikely to have any copyright attached to it. Under current Australian law, it would likely be considered authorless because it didn’t originate from the “independent intellectual effort” of a human, but from a machine.

Moral rights in copyright protect a creator’s reputation against false attribution and against derogatory treatment of their work. However, they wouldn’t apply to a digital twin. This is because moral rights attach to actual works created by a human author, not any AI-generated output.

So where does that leave your digital twin? Although it’s unlikely copyright applies to AI-generated output, in their terms and conditions companies may assert ownership of the AI-generated data, users may be granted rights in outputs, or the company may reserve extensive reuse rights. It’s something to look out for.

There are ethical risks, too

Using AI to make digital copies of people – living or dead – also raises ethical risks. For example, even though the training data for your digital twin might be locked upon your death, others will be accessing it in the future by interacting with it. What happens if the technology misrepresents the deceased person’s morals and ethics?

As AI is usually probabilistic and based on algorithms, there may be risk of creep or distortion, where the responses drift over time. The deathbot could lose its resemblance to the original person. It’s not clear what recourse the bereaved may have if this happens.

AI-enabled deathbots and digital twins can help people grieve, but the effects so far are largely anecdotal – more study is needed. At the same time, there’s potential for bereaved relatives to form a dependence on the AI version of their loved one, rather than processing their grief in a healthier way. If the outputs of AI-powered grief tech cause distress, how can this be managed, and who will be held responsible?

The current state of the law clearly shows more regulation is needed in this burgeoning grief tech industry. Even if you consent to the use of your data for an AI digital twin after you die, it’s difficult to anticipate new technologies changing how your data is used in the future.

For now, it’s important to always read the terms and conditions if you decide to create a digital afterlife for yourself. After all, you are bound by the contract you sign.

Wellett Potter is a member of the Copyright Society of Australia and the Asia-Pacific Copyright Association.

– ref. An ‘AI afterlife’ is now a real option – but what becomes of your legal status? – https://theconversation.com/an-ai-afterlife-is-now-a-real-option-but-what-becomes-of-your-legal-status-274021

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Meaghan O’Donnell, Professor and Head, Research, Phoenix Australia, Centre for Posttraumatic Mental Health, The University of Melbourne

In their day-to-day work, first responders – including police, firefighters, paramedics and lifesavers – often witness terrible things happening to other people, and may be in danger themselves.

For some people, this can lead to post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which usually involves intrusive memories and flashbacks, negative thoughts and emotions, feeling constantly on guard, and avoiding things that remind them of the trauma.

But our research – which tested a mobile app focused on building resilience with firefighters – shows PTSD isn’t inevitable. We found depression, anxiety and PTSD symptoms were less likely when firefighters used a mental health program that was self-led, specifically addressed trauma and focused on teaching practical skills.

First responders’ mental health

First responders report high rates of psychiatric disorders and often have symptoms of depression (such as persistent feelings of sadness), anxiety (such as nervousness or restlessness) and post-traumatic stress (including distressing flashbacks).

Sometimes symptoms aren’t severe enough for a diagnosis.

But left untreated,these “sub-clinical” symptoms can escalate into PTSD, which can severely impact day-to-day life. So targeting symptoms early is important.

However, stigma – as well as concerns about confidentiality and career implications – can prevent first responders from seeking help.

What we already knew about building resilience

For the past decade, we have been testing a program designed to give people exposed to traumatic events the skills to manage their distress and foster their own recovery.

The “Skills for Life Adjustment and Resilience” (SOLAR) program is:

• skills-based – it teaches people specific strategies and tools to improve their mental health
• trauma-informed, meaning it has been designed for people who have been exposed to trauma, and avoids re-traumatisation
• and has a psychosocial focus, focusing on what people can do in their relationships, behaviour and thinking to improve their mental health.

Participants complete modules focused on:

• the connection between physical health and mental health
• staying socially connected
• managing strong emotions
• engaging and re-engaging in meaningful activities
• coming to terms with traumatic events
• managing worry and rumination.

The SOLAR program trains coaches to deliver these modules in their communities. Importantly, these coaches don’t necessarily have specific mental health training, such as Australian Red Cross volunteers, community nurses and case workers.

What our new research did

The evidence shows the SOLAR program is effective at improving wellbeing and reducing depression, post-traumatic stress and anxiety symptoms.

But working with firefighters in New South Wales, they told us they wanted a self-led program they could complete confidentially, independently of their employer, and in their own time – a mobile app. So we wanted to test if the program would still be effective delivered this way.

A total of 163 firefighters took part in our recent randomised control trial, either using the app we co-designed with them, or a mood monitoring app.

A mood monitoring app tracks daily emotions to help understand patterns in how someone is feeling. There is evidence to show it can be useful for some people in reducing symptoms.

But this kind of app doesn’t teach a person practical skills that can be applied to different situations. And it does not specifically address stressful or traumatic experiences. So we wanted to test if taking a skills approach made a significant difference.

What we found

Eight weeks after they started using one of the two apps, we followed up with the firefighters.

The study found those who used the SOLAR app had significantly lower symptoms of depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress, compared to those in the mood monitoring group.

We followed up with participants again three months after their post-treatment assessment.

We found:

• depression was much lower in the group who learned practical skills about trauma, compared to those who used the mood monitoring app, and
• anxiety and post-traumatic stress symptoms had reduced significantly for both groups since starting their program (but there was no real difference between them).

What does this mean?

Both apps improved mental health.

But the results show using the SOLAR app, which focused on building skills and specifically addressing trauma, reduced mental symptoms more quickly. It was especially useful for tackling depression longer term.

Firefighters also told us they liked the app. This is important – an app is only effective when people use it.

Around half of the firefighters started using it completed all the modules. This is much higher than usual for mental health apps. Typically, only around 3% of those who start using a mental health app complete them.

The more modules a firefighter completed, the more their mental health improved.

The takeaway

It’s common for firefighters and other first responders to struggle with mental health symptoms. Our study demonstrates the importance of intervening early and teaching practical skills for resilience, so that those symptoms don’t develop into a disorder such as PTSD.

A program that is self-led, confidential and evidence-based can help protect the mental health of first responders while they do the work they love, protecting us.

Meaghan O’Donnell (Phoenix Australia) receives funding from government funding bodies such as National Health and Medical Research Council, and Department of Veterans’ Affairs, and philanthropic bodies such as Wellcome Trust Fund (UK), Latrobe Health Foundation, and Ramsay Health Foundation. Funding for this study in this Conversation article was from icare, NSW.

Tracey Varker (Phoenix Australia) receives funding from government funding bodies such as Department of Veterans’ Affairs, and philanthropic foundations such as Latrobe Health Services Foundation. Funding for the study described in this Conversation article was from icare NSW.

– ref. Firefighters face repeat trauma. We learned how to reduce their risk of PTSD – https://theconversation.com/firefighters-face-repeat-trauma-we-learned-how-to-reduce-their-risk-of-ptsd-269283

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Keith Rathbone, Senior Lecturer, Modern European History and Sports History, Macquarie University

Since the murder of 11 Israeli hostages at the 1972 Munich Summer Olympics, security has been fundamental for games stakeholders.

The 2024 Paris games set new benchmarks for security at a mega-event, and now the presence of American security officials in Milan Cortina threatens to darken this year’s Winter Olympics before they even start.

Security at the games

The scale of security at the games has magnified considerably since the 1970s.

For the 2024 Olympics, the French government mobilised an unprecedented 45,000 police officers from around the nation.

For the opening ceremony, these forces cordoned off six kilometres of the Seine River.

Advocates point to Paris as an example of security done correctly.

Milipol Paris – one of the world’s largest annual conferences on policing and security – pointed to lower crime across the country during the games and a complete absence of any of the feared large security events. It stated:

The operation demonstrated the effectiveness of advanced planning, inter-agency cooperation and strong logistical coordination. Authorities and observers are now reflecting on which elements of the Paris 2024 model might be applied to future large-scale events.

However, critics complained the security measures infringed on civil liberties.

Controversy as ICE heads to Italy

Ahead of the Milan Cortina games, which run from February 4-23, Italian officials promised they were “ready to meet the challenge of security”.

A newly established cybersecurity headquarters will include officials from around the globe, who will sift through intelligence reports and react to issues in real time.

As well as this, security will feature:

• 6,000 officers to protect the two major locations – Milan and Cortina d’Ampezzo
• a no-fly zone around key sites
• a constant restricted access cordon around some sites (as seen in Paris).

Some of the security officers working in the cybersecurity headquarters will come from the United States.

Traditionally the US diplomatic security service provides protection for US athletes and officials attending mega-events overseas. It has been involved in the games since 1976.

Late last month, however, news broke that some of the officers will be from “a unit of US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE)”.

US and Italian officials were quick to differentiate between Homeland Security Investigations (HSI), which handles cross-border crime, and Enforcement and Removal Operations, the department responsible for the brutal crackdown on immigrant communities across the US.

The HSI has helped protect athletes at previous events and will be stationed at the US Consulate in Milan to provide support to the broader US security team at the games.

But the organisation’s reputation precedes them, and Italians are wary.

In Milan, demonstrators expressed outrage. Left-wing Mayor Giuseppe Sala called ICE a “a militia that kills” while protests broke out in the host cities.

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US-European relations are stretched

The presence of ICE has also illuminated fractures within Italian Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni’s governing coalition.

Foreign Minister Antonio Tajani defended the inclusion of the US officers, saying “it’s not like the SS are coming”, referring to the Nazis paramilitary force in Germany.

However, local officials, including those from Meloni’s centre-right coalition, expressed concerns.

The tension inside Meloni’s government reflects broader concerns on the continent about US-European relations.

US Vice President JD Vance and Secretary of State Marco Rubio will attend the opening ceremony in Milan, despite some Europeans viewing Vance as the mouthpiece for US President Donald Trump’s imperial agenda.

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Trump’s desire to take over Greenland has undermined American and European support for trans-Atlantic amity and the NATO alliance.

Just ahead of the Olympics, Danish veterans marched outside the US Embassy after Trump disparaged NATO’s contribution to US-led operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. These protests added to Danes’ fears about Trump’s Greenland ambition.

Tensions in Denmark remain high as the Americans and the Danes gear up to play ice hockey in the opening round robin of the men’s competition.

Elsewhere, politicians in the US on both sides have raised concerns that Trump’s bombastic rhetoric will make it harder for American athletes to compete and win.

A double standard?

Critics argue there is an American exception when it comes to global politics interfering in international sport.

Under Trump, the US has attacked Iran and Venezuela, called on Canada to become its 51st state, threatened to occupy Greenland and engaged in cross-border operations in Mexico.

Despite this, US competitors can still wear their nation’s colours at the Olympics.

Compare this to Belarussian and Russian athletes, who are only eligible to compete as Individual Neutral Athletes after the Russian invasion of Ukraine, and only under the condition they have not been publicly supportive of the invasion. An International Olympic Committee (IOC) body assesses each competitor’s eligibility.

Israeli athletes have also been under the spotlight amid geopolitical tensions in the region.

Following the Israeli invasion of Gaza in October 2023, a panel of independent experts at the United Nations urged soccer’s governing body FIFA to ban Israeli athletes, stating:

sporting bodies must not turn a blind eye to grave human rights violations.

But FIFA, and the IOC, have recently defended Israeli athletes’ right to participate in international sport in the face of boycotts and protests.

Competitors from Israel can represent their country at the Winter Olympics.

The political developments which have caused ructions worldwide ironically come after the IOC’s 2021 decision to update the Olympic motto to supposedly recognise the “unifying power of sport and the importance of solidarity”.

The change was a simple one, adding the word “together” after the original three-word motto: “faster, higher, stronger”.

It remains to be seen whether the Milan Cortina games live up to every aspect of the “faster, higher, stronger – together” motto, not just the first three words.

Keith Rathbone 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. Winter Olympic security tightens as US-European tensions grow – https://theconversation.com/winter-olympic-security-tightens-as-us-european-tensions-grow-274530

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By T.J. Thomson, Associate Professor of Visual Communication & Digital Media, RMIT University

Instagram is one of Australia’s most popular social media platforms. Almost two in three Aussies have an account.

Ushering in 2026 and what he calls “synthetic everything” on our feeds, Head of Instagram Adam Mosseri has signalled the platform will likely adjust its algorithms to surface more original content instead of AI slop.

Finding ways to tackle widespread AI content is the latest in a long series of shifts Instagram has undergone over the past decade. Some are obvious and others are more subtle. But all affect user experience and behaviour, and, more broadly, how we see and understand the online social world.

To identify some of these patterns, I examined ten years’ worth of Instagram posts from a single account (@australianassociatedpress) for an upcoming study.

This involved looking at nearly 2,000 posts and more than 5,000 media assets. I selected the AAP account as an example of a noteworthy Australian account with public service value.

I found six key shifts over this timeframe. Although user practices vary, this analysis provides a glimpse into some larger ways the AAP account – and social media more broadly – has been changing in the past decade.

Reflecting on some of these changes also provides hints at how social media might change in the future, and what that means for society.

1. Media orientations have shifted

When it launched in 2010, Instagram quickly became known as the platform that re-popularised the square image format. Square photography has been around for more than 100 years but its popularity waned in the 1980s when newer cameras made the non-square rectangular format dominant.

Instagram forced users to post square images for the platform’s first five years. However, the balance between square and horizontal images has given way to vertical media over time.

On the AAP account that shift happened over the last two years, with 84.4% of all its posts now in vertical orientation.

2. Media types have changed

As with orientations, the media types being posted have also changed. This is due, in part, to platform affordances: what the platform allows or enables a user to do.

As an example, Instagram didn’t allow users to post videos until 2013, three years after the platform started. It added the option to post “stories” (short-lived image/video posts of up to 15 seconds) and live broadcasts in 2016. Reels (longer-lasting videos of up to 90 seconds) came later in 2020.

Some accounts are more video-heavy than others, to try to compete with other video-heavy platforms such as YouTube and TikTok. But we can see a larger trend in the shift from single-image posts to multi-asset posts. Instagram calls these “carousels”, a feature introduced in 2017.

The AAP went from publishing just single-image posts in the first years of the account to gradually using more carousels. In the most recent year, they accounted for 85.9% of all posts.

3. Media are becoming more multimodal

A typical Instagram account grid from the mid-2000s had a mix of carefully curated photographs that were clean, colourful and simple in composition.

Fast-forward a decade, and posts have become much more multimodal. Text is being overlaid on images and videos and the compositions are mixing media types more frequently.

There are subtitles on videos, labels on photos, quote cards, and “headline” posts that try to tell a mini story on the post itself without the user having to read the accompanying post description.

On the AAP account, the proportion of text on posts never rose above 10% between 2015 and 2024. Then, in 2025, it skyrocketed to being on 84.4% of its posts.

4. User practices change

Over time, user practices have also changed in response to cultural trends and changes of the platform design itself.

An example of this is social media accounts starting to insert hashtags in a post comment rather than directly in the post description. This is supposed to help the post’s algorithmic ranking.

Another key change over this timeframe was Instagram’s decision in 2019 to hide “likes” on posts. The thinking behind this decision was to try to reduce the pressure on account owners to make content that was driven by the number of “like” interactions a post received. It was also hypothesised to help with users’ mental health.

In 2021, Instagram left it up to users to decide whether to show or hide “likes” on their account’s posts.

5. The platform became more commercialised

Instagram introduced a Shop tab in 2020 – users could now buy things without leaving the app.

The number of ads, sponsored posts, and suggested accounts has increased over time. Looking through your own feed, you might find that one-third to one-half of the content you now encounter was paid for.

6. The user experience shifts with algorithms and AI

Instagram introduced its “ranked feed” back in 2016. This meant that rather than seeing content in reverse chronological order, users would see content that an algorithm thought users would be interested in. These algorithms consider aspects such as account owner behaviour (view time, “likes”, comments) and what other users find engaging.

An option to opt back in to a reverse chronological feed was then introduced in 2022.

To compete with apps such as Snapchat, Instagram introduced augmented reality effects on the platform in 2017.

It also introduced AI-powered search in 2023, and has experimented with AI-powered profiles and other features. One of these is turning the content of a direct message into an AI image.

Looking ahead

Overall, we see more convergence and homogenisation.

Social media platforms are looking more similar as they seek to replicate the features of competitors. Media formats are looking more similar as the design of smartphones and software favour vertical media. Compositions are looking more multimodal as type, audio, still imagery, and video are increasingly mixed.

And, with the corresponding rise of AI-generated content, users’ hunger for authenticity might grow even more.

T.J. Thomson receives funding from the Australian Research Council. He is an affiliate with the ARC Centre of Excellence for Automated Decision Making & Society.

– ref. I studied 10 years of Instagram posts. Here’s how social media has changed – https://theconversation.com/i-studied-10-years-of-instagram-posts-heres-how-social-media-has-changed-272898

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Wanning Sun, Professor of Media and Cultural Studies, University of Technology Sydney

Delivering parcels is just one of the 19 different jobs Hu Anyan cycles through over 20 years, as tracked in his Chinese bestseller I Deliver Parcels in Beijing. He also tries his luck working as a convenience-store clerk, a cleaner and in a bike shop, a warehouse, a vegetable market and even an anime design company – always at the very bottom of the ladder.

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Review: I Deliver Parcels in Beijing – Hu Anyan (Allen Lane)

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Some jobs last weeks, some days, some barely survive the training shift. Bosses disappear, wages evaporate, contracts turn out to be imaginary and rules are invented on the spot. With a blend of hope and resignation, Hu repeatedly comes to realise the true qualifications for survival in the city are a strong back, a flexible sense of dignity and a high tolerance for absurdity.

Hu, now aged 47, grew up in Guangzhou, a major city in south China. He has worked in cities big and small, including a brief stint across the border in Vietnam.

They are “places with apparent unlimited potential for development, yet I seemed to have gotten nowhere,” he writes. They promise opportunity, then charge rent on his naivety and optimism. He seems to move through the world with a certain innocence about how it truly works, yet possesses an uncommon capacity for deep, searching reflection.

He writes with dry humour and an eye for the absurd – security guards guarding nothing, managers creating chaos and delivery algorithms ruling lives with godlike indifference. But he also writes like a field researcher issued a hard hat instead of a research grant. His prose has a forensic, documentary precision – wages counted to the cents, shifts timed, fines itemised, and injustices recorded without melodrama.

When he completed his trial as a parcel deliverer, he writes:

an assistant foreman […] told me that although the probationary period wasn’t paid, he would make it up by giving me three extra days of vacation. […] But it wasn’t even a month before the same guy had a dispute with the other foreman and quit. No one mentioned those paid days off ever again.

China’s ‘development didn’t suit me’

This reporting of everyday injustice at work is peppered with occasional philosophical reflections on human nature and the meaning of work. He calmly observes of mean and unhelpful co-workers: “Selflessness may be a noble virtue, but I suppose it isn’t fundamental to being human.”

The real charm is his tone. Even when dealing with exploitation, Hu delivers it with light-footed sarcasm, letting absurdity do the heavy lifting. Writing about heavy workload in the delivery company he works for, he simply comments “capitalists aren’t known for sympathising with workers”.

At times, he reveals his battles with social anxiety, depression and occasional bouts of illness. In one memorable scene, he describes going back and forth between hospitals, community clinics and small medical offices, carefully comparing prices before settling on where to get an IV drip to bring his fever down.

That kind of careful penny-pinching, being unable to justify spending even on one’s own health, feels painfully familiar to anyone trying to survive on very little.

Hu’s story is a personal one about structural inequality and everyday injustice. But he doesn’t sound resentful that China’s economic growth hasn’t benefited him. He just states, matter-of-factly, that China’s “development didn’t suit me”.

His personal account also functions as a practical lesson in the political economy of labour. In that sense, the lesson is not uniquely Chinese. Rather than relying on theories of profit and value, he uses his experience as a courier to show how the gig economy of late capitalism operates globally.

He meticulously calculates how the supposed average monthly pay of 7,000 yuan a month (around A$1,435) he could expect to earn translates in reality. It means working 26 days a month, 11 hours a day – to earn 30 yuan (A$6.16) an hour and 0.5 yuan (ten cents) a minute.

I had to complete a delivery every four minutes in order not to run at a loss. If that becomes unworkable, I would have to consider a change of job.

‘Oddly soothing’

For urban educated readers, both in China and elsewhere, who are crushed by emails, mortgages, childcare and performance anxiety, it can be oddly soothing to read about a life lived under more precarious conditions.

Hu’s calm endurance could work like a psychological release valve – things are hard, yes, but not this hard. The result lets middle-class readers feel ethically awake without feeling accused. This makes the book as reassuring as it is unsettling.

I Deliver Parcels in Beijing is also popular with Hu’s social peers – the urban underclasses and rural migrant workers: it shows that their struggles and small victories are worthy of being recorded and remembered.

A key, albeit implicit, theme circulating the book is unequal access to social mobility. Each of the 19 jobs Hu cycled through may look different on the surface, but rather than climbing a social ladder, he merely shuffles horizontally, stagnating on the same rung: “twelve years have passed, and with the same workload as before, my pay was somehow still lower”.

There is much musing about the meaning of freedom in the book. But freedom, for Hu, is not about the right to vote, but to choose who one wants to be, rather than what society expects one to become.

There’s no cataloguing of human rights abuses – the familiar trope of English-language coverage of China. Nor is the book a sociological exercise by an intellectual, for whom Hu’s world might be an object of study. And it certainly isn’t some diasporic Chinese writer’s rendition of China, often calibrated to the expectations of festival-going, liberal middle-class readers abroad.

Instead, the book speaks from inside the experience it describes, with no apparent desire to translate itself – at least initially – into the moral or political idioms readers might expect. That’s precisely where its quiet power lies.

It doesn’t tell you what to think about China – it shows you a life you would otherwise almost never get to see. The translation, superbly done, helps enhance this objective.

The luxury of being noticed

Like worker-poet Zheng Xiaoqiong and worker-photographer Zhan Youbing, Hu the worker-writer becomes a self-appointed “surrogate ethnographer”, patiently recording rules, rhythms, hierarchies, and survival strategies from the inside. He produces not theory, but something more valuable: reality, rendered with authenticity and credibility.

“I often sat in Jingtong Roosevelt Plaza after finishing my deliveries and watched the passers-by and the salespeople in stores, and the different delivery drivers back and forth,” he writes. “Mostly I supposed they were numb, thinking nothing at all, mechanically going about their days like I once did.”

Social researchers outside China dream of accessing the trove of evidence-based, granular, situated knowledge this book contains – but they rarely do.

Hu is one of the millions of internal labour migrants in China who struggle to survive at the bottom of the social ladder – and a rare case of a worker who became a recognised writer. He has published two books since this one.

His rise was not the result of structural change, but exceptional literary talent and sharp intellectual acuity. Meanwhile, the great majority of China’s urban underclasses and rural migrant workers remain locked in the kind of precarious, exhausting existence Hu describes – without the chance to turn their experiences into art, and without the luxury of being noticed at all.

Wanning Sun 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. China’s new literary star had 19 jobs before ‘writer’ – including bike courier and bakery apprentice – https://theconversation.com/chinas-new-literary-star-had-19-jobs-before-writer-including-bike-courier-and-bakery-apprentice-272447

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Berna Akcali Gur, Lecturer in Outer Space Law, Queen Mary University of London

The Lunar Gateway is planned space station that will orbit the Moon. It is part of the Nasa‑led Artemis programme. Artemis aims to return humans to the Moon, establishing a sustainable presence there for scientific and commercial purposes, and eventually reach Mars.

However, the modular space station now faces delays, cost concerns and potential US funding cuts. This raises a fundamental question: is an orbiting space station necessary to achieve lunar objectives, including scientific ones?

The president’s proposed 2026 budget for Nasa sought to cancel Gateway. Ultimately, push back from within the Senate led to continued funding for the lunar outpost. But debate continues among policymakers as to its value and necessity within the Artemis programme.

Cancelling Gateway would also raise deeper questions about the future of US commitment to international cooperation within Artemis. It would therefore risk eroding US influence over global partnerships that will define the future of deep space exploration.

Gateway was designed to support these ambitions by acting as a staging point for crewed and robotic missions (such as lunar rovers), as a platform for scientific research and as a testbed for technologies crucial to landing humans on Mars.

It is a multinational endeavour. Nasa is joined by four international partners, the Canadian Space Agency, the European Space Agency (Esa), the Japan Aerospace Exploration Agency and the United Arab Emirates’ Mohammed Bin Rashid Space Centre.

Most components contributed by these partners have already been produced and delivered to the US for integration and testing. But the project has been beset by rising costs and persistent debates over its value.

If cancelled, the US abandonment of the most multinational component of the Artemis programme, at a time when trust in such alliances is under unprecedented strain, could be far reaching.

It will be assembled module by module, with each partner contributing components and with the possibility of additional partners joining over time.

Strategic aims

Gateway reflects a broader strategic aim of Artemis, to pursue lunar exploration through partnerships with industry and other nations, helping spread the financial cost – rather than as a sole US venture. This is particularly important amid intensifying competition – primarily with China.

China and Russia are pursuing their own multinational lunar project, a surface base called the International Lunar Research Station. Gateway could act as an important counterweight, helping reinforce US leadership at the Moon.

In its quarter-century of operation, the ISS has hosted more than 290 people from 26 countries, alongside its five international partners, including Russia. More than 4,000 experiments have been conducted in this unique laboratory.

In 2030, the ISS is due to be succeeded by separate private and national space stations in low Earth orbit. As such, Lunar Gateway could repeat the strategic, stabilising role among different nations that the ISS has played for decades.

However, it is essential to examine carefully whether Gateway’s strategic value is truly matched by its operational and financial feasibility.

It could be argued that the rest of the Artemis programme is not dependant on the lunar space station, making its rationales increasingly difficult to defend.

Some critics focus on technical issues, others say the Gateway’s original purpose has faded, while others argue that lunar missions can proceed without an orbital outpost.

Sustainable exploration

Supporters counter that the Lunar Gateway offers a critical platform for testing technology in deep space, enabling sustainable lunar exploration, fostering international cooperation and laying the groundwork for a long term human presence and economy at the Moon. The debate now centres on whether there are more effective ways to achieve these goals.

Despite uncertainties, commercial and national partners remain dedicated to delivering their commitments. Esa is supplying the International Habitation Module (IHAB) alongside refuelling and communications systems. Canada is building Gateway’s robotic arm, Canadarm3, the UAE is producing an airlock module and Japan is contributing life support systems and habitation components.

US company Northrop Grumman is responsible for developing the Habitat and Logistics Outpost (Halo), and American firm Maxar is to build the power and propulsion element (PPE). A substantial portion of this hardware has already been delivered and is undergoing integration and testing.

If the Gateway project ends, the most responsible path forward to avoid discouraging future contributors to Artemis projects would be to establish a clear plan to repurpose the hardware for other missions.

Cancellation without such a strategy risks creating a vacuum that rival coalitions, could exploit. But it could also open the door to new alternatives, potentially including one led by Esa.

Esa has reaffirmed its commitment to Gateway even if the US ultimately reconsiders its own role. For emerging space nations, access to such an outpost would help develop their capabilities in exploration. That access translates directly into geopolitical influence.

Space endeavours are expensive, risky and often difficult to justify to the public. Yet sustainable exploration beyond Earth’s orbit will require a long-term, collaborative approach rather than a series of isolated missions.

If the Gateway no longer makes technical or operational sense for the US, its benefits could still be achieved through another project.

This could be located on the lunar surface, integrated into a Mars mission or could take an entirely new form. But if the US dismisses Gateway’s value as a long term outpost without ensuring that its broader benefits are preserved, it risks missing an opportunity that will shape its long term influence in international trust, leadership and the future shape of space cooperation.

Berna Akcali Gur 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. What’s the point of a space station around the Moon? – https://theconversation.com/whats-the-point-of-a-space-station-around-the-moon-274765

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Gibson Ncube, Senior Lecturer, Stellenbosch University

The film Rafiki is a charming love story that plays out in urban Kenya. It follows two teenage girls whose close friendship slowly turns into first love. Directed by rising filmmaker Wanuri Kahiu, it was celebrated as groundbreaking by critics and at festivals when it was released in 2018. But back home in Kenya, where homosexuality is criminal, the film was banned.

On 23 January 2026, after an eight-year legal campaign by the film producers, the Kenyan Court of Appeals ruled that the 2018 ban was not reasonable in terms of the country’s constitution. This means the producers can now submit the film for classification under Kenya’s Films and Stage Plays Act as part of the process to allow public screenings.

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The court stressed that depicting a same-sex relationship doesn’t amount to promoting illegal conduct, which is how the state-funded Kenya Film Classification Board had justified the ban in 2018. The film’s happy ending was perceived to be “promoting homosexuality”. The ban quickly became a symbol of the problems filmmakers face whenever they challenge traditional views on sex, gender and morality.

The ruling marks more than the ongoing rehabilitation of a single film. It signals a subtle but significant shift in how African film might negotiate censorship in the years to come.

My research as a scholar of African queer cinemas has focused on how such moments reveal the fragile yet transformative possibilities through which African film cultures negotiate visibility and legitimacy. And the right to imagine queer futures and freedom of speech on their own terms.

At first glance, the ruling might appear modest. Kenya has not decriminalised same-sex relations, and legal restrictions on LGBTIQ+ lives remain firmly in place. Even so, Rafiki’s chance of a return is very important.

It marks the first time a Kenyan film previously prohibited for queer content has been potentially permitted public circulation. Other recently banned queer-themed films like I am Samuel remain banned.

Although largely symbolic, the gesture disrupts long-standing assumptions about what African films can show, who they can centre, and which lives can be made visible.

Censorship and representation

African film industries have historically operated under difficult systems of moral, religious, and political regulation. From colonial censorship boards to postcolonial classification authorities, film has been treated as requiring constant surveillance.

Sexuality, especially queer sexuality, has been one of the most heavily policed domains. Films tackling same-sex desire have often been banned, restricted to festival circuits, or forced into underground circulation. In South Africa, the film Inxeba/The Wound was effectively banned from mainstream cinemas. In Nigeria, the first independent queer film Ìfé was prohibited from cinemas.

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Read more:
How young filmmakers are protecting artistic freedom in Kenya

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Rafiki’s initial banning followed this pattern. Despite being selected for screening at the important Cannes Film Festival, it was deemed unsuitable for Kenyan audiences. An internationally celebrated Kenyan film could be screened overseas but not in Nairobi.

So the ruling disrupts this asymmetry. It shows that national cinemas cannot indefinitely insulate themselves from transnational circuits. Overseas, African queer films increasingly gain visibility, prestige and market value.

Kenyan law appears, in this sense, to be more flexible and changing in response to international attention, cultural pressure and public image.

African audiences

One of the most significant implications of the potential unbanning concerns the question of audiences. Bans don’t just suppress content; they also actively shape who is imagined as the viewers. For decades, queer African films have been implicitly addressed to foreign audiences, festivals and academic readers, rather than to local publics.

Allowing Rafiki to screen at home will challenge this idea. It will open a space, even if it’s a fragile one, for Kenyan audiences to encounter queer lives. Not as abstract political controversies but as intimate, everyday narratives. Rafiki tells a deliberately modest story, grounded in the innocence of first love and the textures of everyday life in the city.

This matters because being represented is not only about being visible. It’s also about producing audiences. More than depicting queer lives, films like Rafiki shape new viewing communities and new forms of recognition.

In this sense, the ruling contributes to a slow reconfiguration of African film publics. It suggests that African audiences are not uniformly conservative or inherently hostile to queer narratives. Instead, they are plural and capable of engaging with complex stories about identity, love and desire.

These publics have been changing, thanks in part to streaming platforms and digital technologies. Even where films are banned from cinemas, viewers can still watch, share and debate them online. This shift is important as cinema spaces themselves are declining across many African countries.

African filmmakers

For African filmmakers, the ruling carries both practical and symbolic importance. Practically, it signals the possibility that national classification regimes may become more negotiable and more responsive to legal challenges and public pressure. The 2018 High Court ruling that temporarily lifted the ban to allow limited screenings had already established an important precedent. The current unbanning consolidates that into institutional practice.

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Read more:
Banning African films like Rafiki and Inxeba doesn’t diminish their influence

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Symbolically, the decision offers a measure of protection to filmmakers who dare to take aesthetic and political risks. Rafiki was shot cautiously in order to evade state surveillance.

It teaches us that queer storytelling is no longer automatically incompatible with national cinema. This may encourage a new generation of African directors, screenwriters and producers to pursue narratives once seen as too dangerous, too marginal, or too commercially unviable.

But caution should not be thrown to the wind. The ruling does not signal the end of censorship, nor does it guarantee a hospitable environment for filmmakers. Classification boards still retain broad powers, and political backlash remains likely.

A fragile opening …

The unbanning of Rafiki should not be overstated. Legal prohibitions against same-sex relations remain in force. Violence against queer communities persists, and cultural backlash is inevitable. Yet openings in cultural policy often precede legal and social change, not the other way around.

Cinema, precisely because it works through emotions and the visual, can create the conditions for new ethical and political sensibilities to emerge.

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Read more:
Queer film in Africa is rising – even in countries with the harshest anti-LGBTIQ+ laws

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Rafiki’s return would ultimately represent a possibility that African films can speak more openly about intimacy, vulnerability and difference. A possibility that African audiences can encounter these stories on their own terms.

This story was updated to clarify details of the legal ruling.

Gibson Ncube receives funding from the National Research Foundation (South Africa).

– ref. Banning Rafiki was unlawful: why new court ruling is an important moment for African film – https://theconversation.com/banning-rafiki-was-unlawful-why-new-court-ruling-is-an-important-moment-for-african-film-274542

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Christopher Lean, Research Fellow in Philosophy, Centre of Excellence in Synthetic Biology, Macquarie University

Less than a year ago, United States company Colossal Biosciences announced it had “resurrected” the dire wolf, a megafauna-hunting wolf species that had been extinct for 10,000 years.

Within two days of Colossal’s announcement, the Interior Secretary of the US, Doug Burgum, used the idea of resurrection to justify weakening environmental protection laws: “pick your favourite species and call up Colossal”.

His reasoning appeared to confirm critics’ fears about de-extinction technology. If we can bring any species back, why protect them to begin with?

In a new study published in Biological Conservation, we put this idea to the test. We found no evidence people will accept extinction more readily if they’re promised de-extinction. But it’s important to communicate about de-extinction efforts with care.

The ‘moral hazard’ of de-extinction

Since the emergence of de-extinction technology, critics have argued it potentially undermines support for conserving existing species.

In other words, de-extinction technology poses a “moral hazard”. This is a situation in which someone is willing to behave in riskier ways than they would otherwise, because someone or something else will bear the cost or deal with the consequences. Behaving recklessly because you have health insurance is a classic example.

The moral hazard of de-extinction technology is that if we believe extinct species can be brought back, we may be more willing to let species go extinct in the first place.

This concern mirrors debates in other areas of environmental policy. For example, critics of carbon capture and solar radiation modification worry that believing we can later fix climate change may weaken the incentive to reduce emissions now. However, most studies investigating this claim found these technologies don’t reduce people’s support for also cutting back carbon emissions.

Our study is the first to investigate whether de-extinction technology reduces people’s concern about the extinction of existing species.

What we found

We presented 363 people from a wide range of backgrounds with several scenarios. These described a company doing something that yields an economic or public benefit, but results in the extinction of an existing endangered species.

For example, in one scenario a company intended to build a highway for a new port through the last habitat of the dusky gopher frog, a critically endangered species. The construction would lead to the frog’s extinction.

There were two versions of each scenario, differing in how the company would compensate for the species’ extinction.

In the “environmental compensation” version, a large investment would be made to preserve other species. In the “de-extinction” version, de-extinction technology would be used to reintroduce the DNA of the extinct species into a related species at a later date.

For each scenario, people were asked: did they think the project was good for the public? Was the species extinction justified? Did compensation make the company less blameworthy for causing the species extinction? Should we allow projects like this one in the future?

Finally, in cases where de-extinction was proposed, we asked if the respondent believed the companies’ claims that genetic engineering could be used to successfully recreate the extinct species.

A warning against spin

We found no evidence that proposing de-extinction makes people more accepting of extinction than compensation for environmental destruction would.

Therefore, moral hazard alone is not a reason to outright reject the ethical deployment of de-extinction technology. Further, overemphasising potential but unsubstantiated hazards of de-extinction research may undermine the development of effective tools for preserving current species.

We did, however, find one reason for caution.

There was a correlation between a person’s belief that de-extinction could resurrect the species and the belief that causing its extinction would be acceptable.

This is a correlation, so we can’t tell which belief comes first. It could be that these people already think extinction is justified to gain access to economic benefits, and then adopt the view that de-extinction is possible to excuse that belief.

A more worrying possibility is the reverse: believing that de-extinction is possible could have led to these individuals viewing extinction as acceptable. A strong belief in de-extinction’s success could either act as an excuse for extinction, or a reason for extinction.

This creates a major risk if those who develop de-extinction technology overstate or mislead the public about what this tech can achieve.

Avoid misleading claims

It’s crucial the companies and scientists working on de-extinction efforts communicate accurately and without hype. Claims that de-extinction can reverse extinction are misleading. Genetic engineering can introduce lost traits from an extinct species into a closely related living species and restore lost ecological functions, but it can’t re-create the extinct species.

Problems arise when companies present these limits cautiously within the scientific community but make stronger claims in public-facing communication.

Doing so encourages the false belief that extinction is fully reversible. This risks undermining the ethical justification for any de-extinction efforts.

This risk can be avoided. For example, the de-extinction project attempting to restore aurochs (ancient cattle) to Europe clearly states it’s creating aurochs 2.0. It’s an ecological proxy for the extinct species, not the species itself.

Colossal Biosciences attracts widespread controversy for publicising its projects, which include “resurrection” of the woolly mammoth, the dodo, and the thylacine.

Our results show claims that de-extinction will necessarily create a moral hazard are unjustified.

However, de-extinction advocates bear a burden to be cautious and clear in their communication about what their technology offers – and what it can’t do.

Christopher Lean receives funding from the Australian Government through the ARC Centre of Excellence in Synthetic Biology (project number CE200100029).

Andrew James Latham has been supported by a Marie Skłodowska-Curie Postdoctoral Fellowship.

Annie Sandrussi receives funding from the Australian Government through the ARC Centre of Excellence in Synthetic Biology (project number CE200100029).

Wendy Rogers receives funding from The Australian Research Council. She is a Chief Investigator in the ARC Centre of Excellence in Synthetic Biology (project number CE200100029), funded by the Australian Government.

– ref. Some companies claim they can ‘resurrect’ species. Does that make people more comfortable with extinction? – https://theconversation.com/some-companies-claim-they-can-resurrect-species-does-that-make-people-more-comfortable-with-extinction-273583

Source: The Conversation – Global Perspectives – By Tilman Ruff, Honorary Principal Fellow, School of Population and Global Health, The University of Melbourne

The New START treaty, the last remaining agreement constraining Russian and US nuclear weapons, is due to lapse on February 4.

There are no negotiations to extend the terms of the treaty, either. As US President Donald Trump said dismissively in a recent interview, “if it expires, it expires”.

The importance of the New START treaty is hard to overstate. As other nuclear treaties have been abrogated in recent years, this was the only deal left with notification, inspection, verification and treaty compliance mechanisms between Russia and the US. Between them, they possess 87% of the world’s nuclear weapons.

The demise of the treaty will bring a definitive and alarming end to nuclear restraint between the two powers. It may very well accelerate the global nuclear arms race, too.

What is New START?

The New START or Prague Treaty was signed by then-US President Barack Obama and his Russian counterpart, Dimitri Medvedev, in Prague on April 8, 2010. It entered into force the following year.

It superseded a 2002 treaty that obligated Russia and the United States to reduce their operationally deployed, strategic nuclear warheads to between 1,700 and 2,200 by the end of 2012.

The New START Treaty called for further reductions on long-range nuclear weapons and provided greater specificity about different types of launchers. The new limits were:

• 700 deployed intercontinental and submarine-launched ballistic missiles (together with heavy bombers)
• 1,550 nuclear warheads deployed on those platforms, and
• 800 launchers (both deployed and non-deployed).

These reductions were achieved by February 5, 2018.

The treaty included mechanisms for compliance and verification, which have worked effectively. It provided for twice-yearly exchanges of data and ongoing mutual notification about the movement of strategic nuclear forces, which in practice occurred on a nearly daily basis.

Importantly, the treaty also mandated short-notice, on-site inspections of missiles, warheads and launchers covered by the treaty, providing valuable and stabilising insights into the other’s nuclear deployments.

Lastly, the treaty established a bilateral consultative commission and clear procedures to resolve questions or disputes.

Limitations of the deal

The treaty was criticised at the time for its modest reductions and the limited types of nuclear weapons it covered.

But the most enduring downside was the political price Obama paid to achieve ratification by the US Senate.

To secure sufficient Republican support, he agreed to a long-term program of renewal and modernisation of the entire US nuclear arsenal – in addition to the facilities and programs that produce and maintain nuclear weapons. The overall pricetag was estimated to reach well over US$2 trillion.

This has arguably done more harm by entrenching the United States’ possession of nuclear weapons and thwarting prospects for disarmament.

As the New START treaty was about to expire in 2021, Russia offered to extend it for another five years, as allowed under the terms. US President Donald Trump, however, refused to reciprocate.

After winning the 2020 US presidential election, Joe Biden did agree to extend the treaty on February 3, 2021, just two days before it would have expired. The treaty does not provide for any further extensions.

In February 2023, Russia suspended its implementation of key aspects of the treaty, including stockpile data exchange and on-site inspections. It did not formally withdraw, however, and committed to continue to abide by the treaty’s numerical limits on warheads, missiles and launchers.

What could happen next

With the imminent expiry of the treaty this year, Russian President Vladimir Putin announced in September 2025 that he was prepared to continue observing the numerical limits for one more year if the US acted similarly.

Besides an off-the-cuff comment by Trump – “it sounds like a good idea to me” – the US did not formally respond to the Russian offer.

Trump has further complicated matters by insisting that negotiations on any future nuclear arms control agreements include China. However, China has consistently refused this. There is also no precedent for such trilateral nuclear control or disarmament negotiations, which would no doubt be long and complex. Though growing, China’s arsenal is still less than 12% the size of the US arsenal and less than 11% the size of Russia’s.

The New START treaty now looks set to expire without any agreement to continue to observe its limits until a successor treaty is negotiated.

This means Russia and the US could increase their deployed warheads by 60% and 110%, respectively, within a matter of months. This is because both have the capacity to load a larger number of warheads on their missiles and bombers than they currently do. Both countries also have large numbers of warheads in reserve or slated for dismantlement, but still intact.

If they took these steps, both countries could effectively double their deployed strategic nuclear arsenals.

The end of the treaty’s verification, data exchanges, and compliance and notification processes would also lead to increased uncertainty and distrust. This, in turn, could lead to a further build-up of both countries’ already gargantuan military capabilities.

An ominous warning

The most unsettling part of this development: it means nuclear disarmament, and even more modest arms control, is now moribund.

No new negotiations for disarmament or even reducing nuclear risks are currently under way. None are scheduled to begin.

At a minimum, after New START expires this week, both Russia and the US should agree to stick to its limits until they negotiate further reductions.

And, 56 years after making a binding commitment in the nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty to achieve nuclear disarmament, both nations should work to implement a verifiable agreement among all nuclear-armed states to eliminate their arsenals.

But Russia, the US and and other nuclear-armed states are moving in the opposite direction.

Trump’s actions since taking office a second time – from bombing Iran to toppling Venezuela’s leader – show his general disdain for international law and treaties. They also affirm his desire to use any instrument of power to assert US (and his personal) interests and supremacy.

Putin, meanwhile, has used of a nuclear-capable intermediate-range ballistic missile to strike Ukraine, made repeated threats to use nuclear weapons against Kyiv and the West, and continued his unprecedented and profoundly dangerous weaponisation of Ukraine’s nuclear power plants.

These moves signal a more aggressive Russian stance that rides roughshod over the UN Charter, as well.

All of this bodes ill for preventing nuclear war and making progress on nuclear disarmament.

Tilman Ruff is affiliated with International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War, the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons, the Medical Association for Prevention of War, Doctors for the Environment Australia and the Public Health Association of Australia.

– ref. The only remaining US-Russia nuclear treaty expires this week. Could a new arms race soon accelerate? – https://theconversation.com/the-only-remaining-us-russia-nuclear-treaty-expires-this-week-could-a-new-arms-race-soon-accelerate-269508