I’ve always struggled with words. Growing up as a typical dyslexic student, reading and writing felt like enemy number one. Letters danced on the page, words seemed to rearrange themselves just to taunt me, and spelling (re)tests were a weekly ordeal.

By the time I hit secondary school, the label of “too stupid” seemed permanently stuck to my back. Teachers, even the well-meaning ones, advised me to temper my expectations. They said my inability to spell or string together a coherent essay would hold me back in life, as though the occasional “i” before “e” slip were a harbinger of doom. Words felt alien, and I felt unwelcome in their world.

Yet here I am, sitting in my cozy studio flat in Scotland, waiting out the relentless winds of Storm Eowyn. Not only am I writing, an activity younger me could scarcely imagine voluntarily choosing to do, but I’m somehow also a PhD student. I’m studying, researching, and preparing to present my findings in academic journals, environments I once assumed were as closed off to me as professional ballet.

How did I get here? A little self-belief, a lot of determination, and, I’ll admit, a very helpful Grammarly subscription. My saving grace was an addictive curiosity to understand how things work, finding the hidden patterns and solving the puzzles. Reading and writing still don’t come easy but they are the tools to understanding the inner workings of society, the cheat codes and formulas written over generations to understand the problems of today.

Goals for Writing

The truth is, I’m not here because I’ve magically become a perfect writer. I’m here because I’ve finally realized that writing isn’t about perfection. It’s about connection. Writing is about sharing your story, your perspective, and your ideas with the world. It’s about reaching out to others and saying, “This is what I’ve seen. This is what I’ve felt. Does it resonate with you?”

So, what are my goals for writing here? They’re twofold:

1. To practice my writing. Writing is a skill, and like any skill, it gets better with practice. This blog is my space to experiment, to stumble, to learn, and, hopefully, to grow.
2. To share the stories and research I believe are too important to stay hidden in academic journals.

For years, I’ve avoided identifying as a writer because I equated writing with flawless grammar, elegant phrasing, and effortless wit. Those were the benchmarks I thought writers had to meet, and I was convinced I could never reach them. Over time, though, I’ve come to understand that writing is less about grammar and more about authenticity. It’s about finding your voice and using it to say something meaningful.

Blogging, for me, is the perfect medium for this. It’s informal enough to feel approachable yet structured enough to encourage thoughtful communication. More than that, it’s a platform for amplifying stories that matter, stories that might otherwise remain buried under the avalanche of academic jargon and paywalled research papers (the irony of some of these blogs being paywalled is not lost on me).

Research: Uncovering Hidden Stories

One of the most incredible aspects of pursuing a PhD is the opportunity to dive deep into stories that often go unnoticed. These are stories of resilience, creativity, and adaptability — stories that challenge our assumptions and expand our understanding of the human experience. Yet so many of these narratives remain hidden in the dusty corners of academic journals, accessible only to a select few.

My research focuses on placemaking within refugee camps. In essence, I study how displaced people transform top-down emergency shelters, initially designed for short-term use, into spaces that reflect the reality of protracted displacement. Refugee camps are often portrayed as transient — a temporary fix for an immediate crisis. But the truth is, many camps exist for decades, becoming semi-permanent cities in their own right.

What fascinates me is how people adapt to these circumstances. They turn cookie-cutter shelters into homes. They set up shops, schools, and places of worship. They plant gardens and paint murals. They create communities in the most unlikely of places. This process of placemaking, of turning spaces into places, is a testament to the resilience and creativity of the human spirit.

Unfortunately, these stories often get lost in the noise. The world today feels inundated with hateful rhetoric. Social media amplifies negativity, drowning out voices of hope and innovation. It’s easy to become cynical, to assume the world is irreparably broken. But my research, and the stories I’ve encountered through it, reminds me that hope is never entirely extinguished. People adapt. They find ways to thrive, even in the most difficult circumstances.

Through writing, I hope to amplify these untold stories of hope and humanity. I want to shine a light on the incredible ways people navigate and redefine their realities, not just as a testament to their resilience but as a reminder of what’s possible when we refuse to give up.

Finding My Voice as a Writer

Admittedly, I’m still finding my voice as a writer. This blog is a big part of that journey. Writing is like stepping into a conversation that’s already in progress. It’s intimidating, especially when the room is filled with seasoned writers who seem to know exactly what to say and how to say it. But I’ve come to realize that I don’t need to mimic anyone else’s voice. I just need to use my own.

That’s easier said than done, of course. Impostor syndrome is a frequent companion, whispering in my ear that I don’t belong here, that my words aren’t good enough. But writing is as much about perseverance as it is about creativity. It’s about showing up, even when the words don’t come easily, and trusting that your voice matters.

I’ve also realized that writing can be an act of vulnerability. Sharing your thoughts, your stories, and your ideas with the world is daunting. It’s opening yourself up to critique, to misunderstanding, to judgment. But it’s also opening yourself up to connection, to empathy, to understanding. And that’s what makes it worth it.

Beyond Academia

While a significant part of my writing will focus on my research, I also want to explore other topics that resonate with me. Academia can be isolating. The pressure to publish, the endless deadlines, and the constant comparison can take a toll. I want to share what I’ve learned about surviving in this environment. Whether it’s tips for managing imposter syndrome, reflections on the highs and lows of PhD life, or just musings on the importance of taking breaks, I hope my experiences can offer some encouragement to others navigating similar journeys. Life is too rich and varied to be confined to a single narrative, and I believe our stories are most powerful when they embrace that complexity.

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It is hard to ignore the current news cycle and claims that Trump intends for the US could “take over” and “own” Gaza, resettling its population in the process. Whether he legally or feasibly can is another blog article waiting to be written but as this ordeal unravels something I wanted to reflect on, something that has been big in the news recently both from the defunding of USAID and other countries like the UK speaking of crackdowns on the funding of asylum seekers.

In recent years, the global refugee crisis has intensified, with millions seeking safety from conflict, persecution, and environmental disasters. While the international community often emphasizes solidarity and shared responsibility, a glaring disparity exists in how refugees are received and supported across different regions. This disparity is particularly evident between the Global North and the Global South, both in terms of the number of refugees hosted and the financial resources allocated for their care.

The Disproportionate Burden on the Global South

Despite possessing fewer economic resources, countries in the Global South host a significant majority of the world’s refugees. According to the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), low-income countries, which represent about 9% of the global population and only 0.6% of the global gross domestic product (GDP), host approximately 18% of all refugees. (unhcr.org) In total, developing nations accommodate around 85% of the global refugee population. (thenewhumanitarian.org)

But what is the Cost?

The Centre for Global Development’s analysis reveals that in 2023, OECD countries allocated $29 billion of Official Development Assistance (ODA) to hosting refugees and asylum seekers domestically. Notably, the United Kingdom reported the highest per capita expenditure, approximately $26,000 per refugee, surpassing other nations by a significant margin. This elevated cost is attributed to factors such as the UK’s reliance on private-sector accommodation and extended asylum processing times, which prolong support periods before refugees can enter the workforce. (Center for Global Development)

In recent developments, both the UK and the USA have initiated substantial reductions in international aid funding. The UK has decreased its aid budget from 0.7% to 0.5% of GDP, with a portion redirected to domestic refugee support. Simultaneously, the USA, under President Trump’s administration, has paused foreign aid funding and withdrawn from the World Health Organization. These actions have led to halted aid distributions and significant humanitarian setbacks globally. (The Guardian, Financial Times)

Curtailing international aid can have adverse effects on both donor and recipient countries. For donor nations like the UK and the USA, reducing aid may undermine global health initiatives, economic development, and geopolitical stability, potentially leading to increased migration pressures. Investing in international aid addresses root causes of displacement, such as conflict and poverty, thereby reducing the need for costly domestic refugee support. Therefore, maintaining robust international aid budgets is a strategic approach to fostering global stability and mitigating the long-term financial and social costs associated with hosting refugees.

The Human Cost

While many host nations and communities display remarkable generosity, the prolonged presence of refugees can strain local economies, infrastructure, and social cohesion. Economic competition and cultural differences sometimes lead to tensions, exacerbating existing challenges in host countries.

Lebanon, for instance, has taken in over a million Syrian refugees, significantly burdening its already fragile economy. The strain on infrastructure, employment, and housing has fueled social unrest and heightened anti-refugee sentiment, contributing to the country’s ongoing economic collapse (Amnesty International, 2023).

In South Africa, xenophobic violence against foreign nationals — including refugees and asylum seekers — has erupted periodically. Accusations that migrants are taking jobs and overburdening social services have fueled resentment, leading to violent attacks and calls for stricter immigration policies (Human Rights Watch, 2023).

Turkey, home to nearly 3.6 million Syrian refugees, has witnessed growing tensions as political parties exploit anti-refugee sentiment to rally nationalist support. This has led to increasing restrictions on refugee rights and mobility, further marginalizing displaced populations (Reuters, 2022).

One of the most significant challenges of hosting refugees is the potential spillover of conflict. Neighboring countries often become entangled in the geopolitical consequences of regional crises. For instance, Chad, which hosts thousands of refugees fleeing violence in Sudan, faces rising instability. The influx of displaced people has intensified competition over scarce resources, escalating local conflicts and threatening national security (International Crisis Group, 2023).

The UK’s Crackdown on Asylum Seeker Funding

The UK has also shifted its refugee and asylum policies in recent years, focusing on limiting support for asylum seekers. This shift aligns with broader trends in the Global North, where restrictive policies are gaining traction. These policies include reducing financial support for asylum seekers, increasing deportations, and tightening visa restrictions.

As wealthier nations limit their support, the responsibility of hosting and supporting refugees falls more heavily on developing countries. This shift is evident in Greece, where stringent EU migration policies have led to overcrowded and underfunded refugee camps, leaving thousands in dire conditions (The Guardian, 2023).

Additionally, humanitarian crises in transit countries have worsened. Libya, for example, has seen a rise in migrant detention centers with reports of human rights abuses, as EU-backed policies prevent refugees from crossing into Europe (Amnesty International, 2022).

These policies also present moral and ethical dilemmas, as limiting asylum and aid contradicts long-standing commitments to human rights and humanitarian principles. The UK’s Rwanda asylum policy, which aims to deport asylum seekers to Rwanda instead of processing them in the UK, has been widely criticized for violating international human rights standards (BBC, 2023).

Closing Thoughts

The defunding of USAID and the limitation of international aid funding in general threatens global stability. Without adequate support, already fragile regions will face increased economic and social turmoil, leading to further displacement and conflict. The Global North’s retreat from responsibility creates a vacuum that developing nations cannot fill alone.

Strengthening international cooperation is critical in addressing the refugee crisis. Wealthier nations must collaborate to distribute the refugee burden more equitably through resettlement programs and increased funding for humanitarian efforts. Increasing funding for host nations should be a priority, ensuring that developing countries are not left to shoulder the responsibility alone.

This can be achieved through initiatives like the Global Compact on Refugees, which aims to enhance burden-sharing. Finally, advancing sustainable solutions is essential. Long-term strategies, including economic development and conflict resolution, should be at the forefront of international aid efforts.

Programs such as the World Bank’s Jobs Compacts in Ethiopia and Jordan have demonstrated success in integrating refugees into local economies while benefiting host communities (World Bank, 2022).

Without urgent policy shifts and renewed commitments to international aid, the crisis will only deepen, with far-reaching consequences for global stability and human rights.

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The “4-Year Rule” is a concept that offers peace of mind by helping individuals understand their creative process and, ultimately, their marketability in the arts. This idea, originally explored in a video that resonated deeply with me, emphasizes that art — and by extension, research, writing, and other creative pursuits — is not a get-rich-quick scheme. Instead, it is a marathon, a series of iterative processes that unfold over four years to make the most meaningful impact.

When I watched this video, I thought about my own creative endeavours but later, about the transferability to my research. The concept felt universal, applying not only to artistic growth but also to the intellectual development required in academia, particularly in PhD research.

The inspiration for the 4-Year Rule stems from the natural four-year chunks we experience in life — undergraduate studies, structured education, and various career cycles. Sergio, the creator of this idea, discusses how this structured timeframe serves as a blueprint for personal and professional growth, providing a sense of direction and peace of mind.

One of the most compelling insights from the video is the connection to David Wallace’s articulation of the creative process in four stages: preparation, incubation, illumination, and verification. These stages closely mirror the academic research process, especially within a PhD journey. Understanding these phases can demystify the process of learning and creating, alleviating the pressure to have everything figured out immediately.

Preparation

The preparation stage is where everything feels crucial — every new piece of information, every theory, every methodology seems like the most important thing. This phase, while exciting, can also be overwhelming.

As a PhD student, I see this reflected in my own research process. The urge to learn everything, to dive into every buzzword, and to follow every potential research path can be paralyzing. There is always another book, another article, another framework to explore. But what’s important to recognize is that this feeling is not only normal but necessary.

This phase is all about self-informing — learning deeply about a topic, engaging with different schools of thought, and expanding your intellectual toolkit. However, just as in the creative industries, knowledge alone is not enough. A photographer does not become skilled by merely studying the works of great artists; they must go out and take photos, experimenting with composition, lighting, and technique. Similarly, researchers must engage with their work actively — through literature reviews, draft writing, and critical engagement with their field.

Unlike in the arts, where sketching or prototyping can feel more immediate, the academic world often lacks a tangible equivalent. Writing drafts, however imperfect, is crucial. Creating research memos, summarizing key readings, or even blogging about research ideas, I find, helps bridge the gap between passive learning and active engagement.

In this stage, it is essential to explore different methodologies, writing styles, and theoretical frameworks. This is the time to broaden one’s understanding and experiment without fear of making mistakes. At the end of this phase, you emerge as a more well-rounded and comprehensive researcher.

Incubation

Incubation is the period of reflection and refinement. It’s the stage where all the information gathered in the preparation phase begins to settle, allowing for the emergence of deeper insights. This is where creativity and research start to take shape.

Sergio describes this phase as the “What If?” stage. In academia, this is where research gaps become apparent. When reading journal articles, the introduction often highlights these gaps — the unexplored angles, the missing connections. This is where original research finds its footing.

For first-year PhD students, this phase is critical. It is the time to identify the specific niche of research, to refine questions, and to determine methodologies. Questions like “What if I conducted interviews instead of surveys?” or “What if I examined this urban theory through a different lens?” help to shape the direction of the research.

At this stage, the process is still exploratory. You are not yet expected to have definitive answers. Instead, the goal is to narrow down the focus logically while maintaining an openness to new insights. As Sergio puts it:

“It’s not until you’ve tried everything that you start to narrow down some focus.”

This resonates deeply with academic research. While it is essential to continue learning and questioning, the incubation phase is about deepening understanding and adding layers of complexity to one’s work.

An interesting term Sergio uses is “tinkering.” This perfectly describes the iterative nature of research and creative work. Tinkering involves small, detailed adjustments — tweaking hypotheses, revisiting data, refining arguments. It’s a process of micro-decisions that ultimately shape the final outcome.

For researchers, this might mean reworking the theoretical framework, testing different methodologies, or refining the scope of a study. It is an iterative cycle that builds towards clarity and coherence.

Illumination

Illumination is the moment when everything starts to come together. The preparation and incubation phases lay the groundwork, and now, the connections begin to form. This is the stage of breakthroughs, where ideas solidify and the research starts to feel meaningful.

In this phase, the accumulated knowledge reaches a tipping point. Suddenly, concepts that once seemed abstract begin to make sense. The neurons start connecting, and patterns emerge.

As a PhD student, I don’t necessarily feel any smarter than I did during my master’s or undergraduate years. However, I do feel more attuned to my field. Even now, I experience moments of illumination — those “Aha!” moments where pieces of research align unexpectedly. These moments become more frequent with time, reinforcing the idea that knowledge-building is a gradual process.

Verification

Verification is the final stage — the culmination of years of learning, questioning, and refining. At this point, you are no longer just absorbing knowledge; you are contributing to it. This is where the research solidifies into something tangible and meaningful.

By the time you reach the final year of a PhD, you have tested hypotheses, explored methodologies, and refined your ideas through countless iterations. Now, you are expected to validate your findings, justify your research, and demonstrate its significance. This is a daunting but exciting transition — from student to expert.

This phase is also where the broader impact of your work becomes evident. It is time to share insights through publications, conferences, and discussions with peers. Just as an artist exhibits their work, a researcher must disseminate their findings to make an impact. Learning how to communicate research effectively is as important as conducting it.

The thought of becoming a world-leading expert in a niche area can be intimidating. However, this is the natural progression of deep engagement with a subject over time. By the end of this process, you will possess knowledge and insights that no one else in the world does. While this may not automatically make you a Nobel Prize laureate, it does establish you as a significant voice in your field.

Conclusion

Not everyone follows a strict four-year PhD timeline — some complete it in three, others take five or more years. However, the stages of preparation, incubation, illumination, and verification remain relevant regardless of the duration. Understanding this process provides reassurance that knowledge and expertise develop over time. You don’t need to know everything at once; breakthroughs will come with patience and persistence.

The 4-Year Rule is not just a method — it is a mindset. Whether in art, research, or any creative endeavor, trusting the process allows for sustainable growth, meaningful impact, and ultimately, success (I hope).

Watch it here: The 4 Year Rule

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Recently, I went to see Captain America: Brave New World, a title that is surely a direct reference to Aldous Huxley’s dystopian novel. There’s a lot to say about the themes in this latest instalment and the way previous Marvel projects, like Endgame and The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, have engaged with ideas of world governance. But what really stood out to me was Harrison Ford’s portrayal of the yet-again recast Thaddeus “Thunderbolt” Ross.

Viral interviews featuring Ford’s take on the role have been making the rounds, and one moment, in particular, caught my attention. When asked about doing the CGI-heavy action sequences, Ford casually admitted that he was happy to do the “silly stuff” because, well — he’s getting paid. His delivery was effortlessly charismatic, and the sheer bluntness of his reasoning was both hilarious and, in a way, liberating.

This persona — someone who knows exactly why they are doing something and embraces it — felt like a lesson worth exploring. It got me thinking: What can we, as researchers, learn from Harrison Ford?

“There are aspects of personality that I now realise to be typically midwestern. There is a reticence. There’s, a tinge of anger that’s part of my nature. There is a kind of work ethic, morality. Which just comes from where I come from.”

On Fear

Thinking back to drama class, I remember how silly everything felt. I’m not alone in this; Ford himself admitted that acting came to him more as a necessity than a burning passion. Having struggled with his grades, he enrolled in a drama class almost by accident, confessing: “I found at first that I was terribly frightened of this.” But here lies the first lesson we can take from him. He continued because he wanted to conquer that fear: “I felt challenged by this fear, I continued to do it because I wanted to overcome the fear.” From overcoming that initial hesitancy, Ford found a deeper engagement with the subject and, ultimately, a place in society that he hadn’t felt before.

For researchers, fear often manifests as imposter syndrome, fear of failure, or the daunting nature of tackling big, complex problems. Ford’s approach reminds us that fear can be a catalyst rather than a barrier — something to lean into rather than avoid.

On Ambition

One sentiment I strongly relate to is Ford’s rejection of a conventional career path. He spoke of his disdain for “professional careers after which they would retire, play golf, and die.” This philosophy shaped every choice I made after turning 16 — my A-levels, my degrees, abandoning a traditional architecture route in favour of research. It wasn’t the easy choice, and even today, I question whether it was the right one. But Ford puts it well: “I wanted excitement, I wanted a challenge, and I didn’t want a real job.”

Choices like these are not easy; obstacles can feel impenetrable. After Ford’s first professional acting role, a producer bluntly told him he should consider another occupation. He later recalled the producer saying: “The first time Tony Curtis was ever in a movie, the first time he delivered a bag of groceries, you took one look at that guy and you said, ‘That’s a movie star.’” The message? Ford didn’t have it.

Researchers encounter similar naysayers — whether it’s reviewers rejecting a paper, advisors doubting a project, or our own inner critic whispering that we’re not good enough. But Ford’s story teaches us persistence: the external (and internal) doubters don’t define our potential.

On Resilience

Despite early roles, including American Graffiti, Ford’s career wasn’t an instant success. To support his young family, he became a carpenter. But this wasn’t giving up — it was a way to wait it out. Then came his breakthrough: while reading lines for actors auditioning for a little-known film called Star Wars, he unknowingly read his way into history as Han Solo.

This kind of resilience is crucial in research. We often face setbacks — funding rejections, failed experiments, lost data. But Ford’s story is a testament to endurance: sometimes, success isn’t about immediate wins but about positioning yourself for the right opportunity.

On Authenticity: A Real Man in an Unreal World

One of the defining traits of Ford’s characters — Han Solo, Indiana Jones — is their relatability. Unlike the superhuman heroes of his era, his characters showed fear. Indiana Jones, for instance, famously fears snakes. “I wanted to allow the audience to see his fear,” Ford once said. Similarly, Han Solo never had a plan; he improvised. In a way, Ford himself was a real man in an unreal world — just as many researchers feel navigating academia.

In research, embracing our human side — our struggles, fears, and moments of uncertainty — makes us better scholars. It reminds us that we don’t need to have all the answers upfront.

On Doing What You Want

Harrison Ford is a household name, the “star of the century” with hit after hit, from Star Wars to Blade Runner to now the MCU, it is as if Harrison Ford makes pop culture but does he care?

Despite his commercial success, Ford has always balanced blockbuster roles with personal passion projects. “I wanted to take the success of more popular films and allow me to make choices which would be less obvious… to stretch people’s sense of who I was.” I would say that is the healthiest balance, being able to care about your audience enough to give them what they want, to know what they want but also to continue that challenge that drove him into the career in the first place. It is clear that Ford cares, but he knows what he cares about and the rest is redundant.

This is a lesson in balance. As researchers, we juggle institutional expectations, funding pressures, and personal academic interests. Ford’s approach suggests a middle path: deliver what’s expected while ensuring room for personal exploration.

On Selective Engagement

Ford has never been one to chase fame. He moved from LA to Wyoming and remains notoriously reserved in interviews. “Why are people watching me? Am I in a zoo?” he once quipped. While some critics say he seems uninterested in his own stardom, Ford has simply established boundaries — he knows what he wants from his career and what he doesn’t.

For researchers, this is a reminder that we don’t have to engage with every demand. Not every committee, conference, or collaboration requires our participation. Setting boundaries allows us to focus on what truly matters.

On Balancing Passion and Detachment

When asked if the excitement of Star Wars fandom meant a lot to him, Ford dryly responded: “For them, maybe.” This wasn’t cynicism but a reflection of his ability to separate his work from public perception. He loves his craft but doesn’t let nostalgia overshadow it.

In academia, it’s easy to become consumed by our work, to measure worth by citations or external validation. Ford’s attitude suggests a healthier approach: care deeply about your work, but don’t let external noise dictate its value.

Closing thoughts

In a moving interview, Ford reveals a glimpse into his childhood. at the age of 12, after moving to a new school and becoming an outsider he became the target of bullying, more than that, the victim of the school sport, pushing him down a hill into the brambles. but what is catching is the attitude towards this he says “I don’t really know how it started, but I know that my reaction was just to pick myself up, dust myself off and crawl back up to the top again.” It may be hard to imagine Han Solo or Indiana Jones in this position but the resistance of the man behind these characters shines through into the performance.

As researchers, we can learn a lot from Harrison Ford — how to handle stress, pressure, and fear. We can express ourselves on our own terms, balance passion with detachment, and embrace authenticity. Most of all, we can learn to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and climb back up the hill — every single time.

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It has dawned on me that this time last year, I was writing a research proposal for a program in Scotland — a city I had never been to, in a subject I wasn’t entirely familiar with. It felt like a long shot at best. I assumed I would apply and never hear back, but I did. I went through the interviews, essays, and presentations, and now here I am, reflecting on it as if it were a distant memory.

The year that followed was filled with lessons, hard truths, and revelations. I had my first tutoring job, went through two laptops trying to finish my master’s degree (which taught me the importance of insurance), and despite studying architecture for four years, finally experienced burnout. Then, the weekend after finishing my master’s, I moved to Scotland — because why waste time?

The biggest lesson I have learned is that you can only absorb so much information without producing any output.

In doing a PhD, I have (unsurprisingly) been reading a lot. I read to identify research gaps, understand research methodologies, explore the contextual background of my study, and even to learn how to do a PhD. Combined with the constant influx of new information on contemporary issues related to my field, it can feel overwhelming.

But consuming all this information — reading, listening, watching — creates an immense amount of input that can become mentally exhausting without an outlet.

This is where I discovered writing (as if that’s not the most obvious thing).

However, I mean writing for different purposes — not just waiting for my supervisor to request a polished chapter of my thesis. Instead, I have embraced writing in different forms: messy meditations on current affairs here on Medium, unpublishable ramblings and rants, structured academic writing, research notes, and summaries purely for my own reflection.

Meditations

These allow me to engage with broader societal issues, articulate my thoughts on evolving topics, and practice communicating complex ideas to a wider audience. They also provide a space to test arguments and perspectives before incorporating them into academic work. Writing about current affairs helps me refine my analytical skills and stay informed while also offering a creative outlet outside of academic writing.

Unpublishable Ramblings and Rants

These serve as a mental release, helping me process frustrations and challenges without the pressure of producing perfect prose. They act as a form of therapy, letting me externalize emotions that might otherwise hinder my academic progress. Writing freely without concern for structure or coherence allows me to work through difficult ideas and emotional roadblocks, making it easier to return to more structured writing later.

Summaries for Personal Reflection

These help consolidate knowledge, making it easier to retain key concepts and see connections between different ideas. They are invaluable when revisiting past readings and ensuring that important insights don’t get lost in the flood of information. Writing summaries also aids in creating a reference bank of key arguments, methodologies, and frameworks, which is incredibly useful when writing formal chapter drafts or preparing for discussions with my supervisor.

Conclusion

This shift has helped me process information more effectively, clarify my thoughts, and alleviate some of the overwhelming feelings that come with the PhD journey. Writing, in its many forms, has become my way of making sense of the constant stream of knowledge and ensuring that all this input doesn’t go to waste.

More importantly, writing has given me a sense of control over my learning process. Instead of passively consuming vast amounts of research, I actively engage with it, make connections, and develop my own perspectives. Writing in different formats — whether informal reflections or structured academic papers — has also helped me recognize my own growth as a researcher.

As I continue my PhD journey, I know that the way I write and think will continue to evolve. There will be moments of frustration, but also breakthroughs that make it all worthwhile. For now, I embrace writing as both a tool and a companion — one that allows me to process, reflect, and, ultimately, contribute something meaningful to my field.

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I was inspired to watch Bad Hombres (2017) after seeing a news report where members of a suburban community were interviewed following the deportation of one of their neighbours. What struck me was how distraught they were — praising this man’s hard work, his community spirit, and how he had contributed to their area. And yet, they had all voted for Trump. They subscribed to the “Bad Hombres” rhetoric but saw this particular person as an exception — their “Good Hombre.”

This reminded me of a recurring theme I’ve encountered in my research on refugee camps — the categorization of refugees into “good” and “bad.” There’s always a perceived distinction between those deemed “deserving” of safety and those considered a threat. It’s an idea I plan to explore further, but for now, I want to share my thoughts on this documentary.

A Trump 1.0 Timevault

Directed by award-winning journalist Stef Biemans, Bad Hombres (2017) is a compelling documentary that offers an intimate look at life along the U.S.-Mexico border. Biemans, known for his immersive, boots-on-the-ground storytelling, approaches this subject not with sweeping political statements but by listening to those directly affected — migrants, border patrol agents, ranchers, and activists.

At a time when discussions about immigration, security, and identity dominated U.S. political discourse, Bad Hombres captured a specific moment in history — Trump’s first term, a time when anti-immigration rhetoric about the border was at its peak. Now, revisiting this documentary as Trump’s second administration begins, it feels like opening a time capsule. The faces and stories may change, but the underlying tensions remain the same.

Rather than presenting a binary narrative of right vs. wrong, Biemans uncovers the contradictions within border communities — people who live with the daily consequences of migration policies yet still support the systems that create these struggles.

It keeps our cattle from straying.

Within the first minute, Bad Hombres establishes its tone: sharp, observant, and occasionally ironic. Biemans stands at the border wall speaking through it to Roberto Mendoza, a cattle rancher. When asked about the wall, Mendoza responds, “It’s great. Keeps our cattle from straying.”

This single statement encapsulates a larger truth — how the border, often framed in political debates as a matter of national security, is, for many, simply a part of their daily existence. The people in these border towns don’t engage in theoretical discussions about walls; they live with them.

Biemans travel along the border, meeting people on both sides — some desperately trying to cross, others trying to stop them. He speaks to:

• Migrants facing displacement and danger.
• Ranchers and residents navigating life in a militarized zone.
• Border patrol agents and vigilantes patrolling the desert.

Each interaction reveals a different layer of the border crisis, moving beyond headlines and statistics to show the human cost of policies and prejudices.

Betrayal and the Vigilante Border Patrol

The documentary shifts tone abruptly with a jarring voicemail message from the National Socialist Movement — a white nationalist group that claims to be “the only party in America dedicated to white interests.” Their message: “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.”

This scene lays bare the extremism that has seeped into mainstream political discourse. On the surface, it seems like a clear-cut issue — white nationalism is dangerous, intolerant, and fundamentally anti-democratic. But Biemans doesn’t just dismiss these individuals as radicals and move on. Instead, he digs into why people adopt these beliefs.

In Arizona, he meets a man actively “hunting for immigrants.” His association with Nazi ideology is unmistakable — his dog shares a name with Hitler’s, and Nazi symbols appear in later scenes. He is, by all definitions, a racist. But when pressed about his motivations, his response is revealing: “I’m not a fan of any politician. They’ve systematically betrayed us.”

This statement echoes throughout the documentary. Migration, in many ways, becomes a scapegoat for broader systemic failures. The struggles of working-class Americans — job losses, economic instability, declining public services — are real. But rather than blaming corporate greed or government policies, many redirect their anger toward migrants, who are easier to label as “the other.”

Biemans also highlights how these groups use carefully crafted language to distance themselves from the historical atrocities of Nazism. When referring to Nazi symbols, they call them “cultural symbols”, pointing out that the swastika has existed for thousands of years. When discussing their ideology, they insist they are simply “national socialists,” avoiding direct Nazi references. The goal is clear — to make their ideology seem less extreme, and more palatable, even when their actions suggest otherwise.

Immediate contrast

One of the most striking elements of Bad Hombres is its use of contrast to challenge dominant narratives. The same objects, places, and actions take on drastically different meanings depending on who is telling the story.

In Arizona, black water jugs are described as “the icon of drug and human smuggling.” For border patrol agents and vigilantes, these jugs symbolize criminal activity, left behind by those attempting to cross illegally. They are framed as evidence of lawlessness — proof of the chaos unfolding at the border.

But moments later, Biemans takes us into a small migrant supply shop, where these same water jugs are sold alongside other survival gear — shoes designed to leave no footprints, food rations, and basic medical supplies. Here, the jugs tell an entirely different story: one of desperation. They are not tools of crime, but lifelines, carried by migrants who have no choice but to face the brutal desert heat with only a few liters of water to sustain them.

This contrast — between a symbol of crime and a symbol of survival — forces viewers to reconsider how narratives are shaped and manipulated.

A similar contrast emerges in the discussion of “La Bestia”, the freight trains used by migrants to cross Mexico. To many, the train is infamous — a “migrant killer,” known for causing countless deaths and injuries. Authorities and media depict it as an extension of the dangers posed by migration. These contrasting narratives highlight the complexity of the border crisis. Objects and actions are not inherently good or bad — it is the lens through which we view them that dictates the story.

Pilgrimage

The migrant journey depicted in Bad Hombres carries an undeniable spiritual weight. From the very beginning, the path north is marked by symbols of faith, sacrifice, and suffering, echoing the hardships of historical pilgrimages.

At the start of the journey, crosses line the landscape, with solemn reminders of those who never made it. In migrant shelters, red dots on maps mark places where travellers perished — silent testaments to the dangers ahead. These markers serve both as warnings and as sites of remembrance, much like shrines along ancient pilgrimage routes.

This religious undertone extends beyond symbols — it is found in the acts of generosity that sustain the migrants. Just as medieval pilgrims relied on the kindness of strangers for food and shelter, modern migrants depend on volunteers, churches, and aid workers who provide them with supplies. These moments of human compassion stand in stark contrast to the hostility they face from governments and border patrols.

Biblical allusions arise naturally in the retelling of migrant struggles. After being robbed at gunpoint and stripped of his belongings, one Guatemalan migrant recalls how he had nothing left but banana leaves to cover himself. The moment sparks a discussion about Adam and Eve, drawing a parallel between his forced vulnerability and the biblical story of exile. Like Adam and Eve cast out of Eden, he is left exposed, forced to continue his journey with nothing but hope and perseverance.

The Soundscape of Borders

The documentary’s sound design plays a crucial role in shaping its emotional depth, subtly guiding the viewer’s perception of the unfolding narratives. The first montage of the border is accompanied by a hauntingly familiar melody — one that feels reminiscent of The Last of Us theme. Whether intentional or not, this musical choice immediately evokes themes of loss, survival, and resilience, mirroring the harsh realities faced by those living along the border.

Throughout the film, the contrast in musical tones reflects the stark juxtapositions in the documentary’s storytelling. At moments of hope and determination, the soundtrack swells with warmth, reinforcing the sense of perseverance that drives migrants forward. But in scenes of fear, desperation, or violence, the music shifts — becoming more subdued, tense, or even absent, amplifying the weight of the moment.

Conclusion

One thing becomes abundantly clear by the end of Bad Hombres: for both migrants and members of the nationalist movements opposing them, this is more than just politics — it is a calling, a struggle that transcends borders and even life and death itself.

Revisiting this documentary in the context of a second Trump administration underscores a grim reality: this is not an issue that can be solved with walls, arrests, or policies rooted in fear. The border is not the true problem — it is merely a symptom of much deeper global injustices.

What Bad Hombres reveals so effectively is the sheer desperation that drives people to risk everything for a better future. When you witness the suffering, the resilience, and the hope of those making the journey, it becomes impossible to reduce migration to a simple issue of legality or sovereignty. Instead, it exposes a fundamental failure of the global system — one that forces people into impossible choices, tears families apart, and creates cycles of displacement that walls can never stop.

Ultimately, the documentary leaves us with an uncomfortable truth: until the root causes of inequality, violence, and economic disparity are addressed, migration will continue — not as an act of defiance, but as an act of survival.

Watch it here: Bad Hombres — Netflix

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At first glance, this documentary, which follows three Syria Civil Defence volunteers as they work in Aleppo and across Syria without weapons, acting as first responders, appears to be a powerful testament to the bravery of individuals risking their lives to help their communities. Through raw and emotional storytelling, the film captures their tireless efforts in the midst of devastation, presenting a gripping narrative of resilience and sacrifice. The documentary immerses viewers in the harrowing realities of war, offering a first-hand look at the urgent and dangerous work undertaken by these volunteers.

However, a deeper exploration of the film and its subjects reveals a more complex and contested reception. While many have praised the documentary for shedding light on the humanitarian crisis and highlighting the courage of those on the front lines, others have questioned its portrayal of events and the organizations it features. Various interpretations and political narratives have emerged, leading to debates about its accuracy, objectivity, and underlying messages.

This article will first examine the documentary as a work of art, analysing its cinematography, storytelling techniques, and emotional impact independently of external perspectives. By considering the director’s approach, use of visuals, and narrative structure, we can assess the film’s artistic merit and its ability to engage and inform audiences. Following this, the article will explore the broader controversy surrounding the documentary, discussing the differing viewpoints and the reasons behind the divided reception. Through this dual lens, we aim to provide a balanced analysis that acknowledges both the documentary’s artistic achievements and the complexities of its subject matter.

Fade in from black

The film opens with a scene of sheer desperation and terror. Over a black screen, the distant, hollowed-out echoes of an airstrike linger before the urgency of human voices takes over. A handheld camera thrusts us into the chaos, following rescuers as they scramble through rubble, pulling dust-covered children from the wreckage. The camera’s instability — sometimes obstructed, sometimes unfocused as the operator momentarily prioritizes helping over filming — adds a visceral rawness that feels too real to be staged. Just as a moment of clarity emerges, another missile strikes, plunging us back into confusion and devastation.

This jarring cold open evokes the stylized intensity of a Hollywood action thriller, but there’s no polish here — only dust, disarray, and the weight of reality. The disorienting urgency serves as both an emotional gut punch and a grim introduction to the world of the White Helmets.

Then, silence. Over a black background, stark statistics appear — undeniable, inescapable. A tense orchestral swell underscores the weight of these numbers, culminating in the title card. This transition cements the film’s message: behind every dramatic rescue, every moment of frantic survival, there is an ever-growing toll, measured in lives lost and saved.

Cinematic shots and intimate interviews

When introducing the White Helmet volunteers, the film momentarily slows down, offering a brief respite from the chaos. Carefully composed establishing shots of food and daily life in Aleppo provide a glimpse into their world beyond the rubble. These scenes, rich in color and texture, contrast starkly with the destruction we’ve just witnessed.

The interviews are filmed with as close to studio-quality equipment as possible. The sharpness of the footage, the shallow depth of field — where the background blurs into soft bokeh — mirrors the dust and ash that filled the air in earlier scenes. This subtle visual choice links their personal reflections to the devastation they endure daily.

But calm is fleeting. As the volunteers sit down to eat, the distant, thunderous roar of jets cuts through the moment. The atmosphere shifts abruptly, and the polished cinematography gives way to the raw, unstable footage from the film’s opening. The camera jolts, horns blare, and we are once again thrust into the frenzied urgency of a rescue, racing through the city to the site of yet another explosion.

One of the most striking visual parallels is the comparison between birds and warplanes — both reduced to black specks in the sky, blurred and difficult to capture. The imagery is haunting: one represents freedom, the other destruction, yet from a distance, they are almost indistinguishable.

Emotion

One of the documentary’s greatest strengths is its ability to capture a vast spectrum of emotions. Moments of pure joy and relief — such as the miraculous rescue of a newborn from beneath the rubble — stand in stark contrast to the sheer panic and dread upon hearing that an airstrike has hit the area where a volunteer’s family resides. The emotional weight of each moment is palpable, growing heavier as the attacks intensify. The faces of the White Helmets, once hopeful and determined, begin to show the strain of unrelenting devastation.

This raw emotional depth extends beyond the war zone. During their training in Turkey, the weight of separation and loss is deeply felt. One volunteer breaks down on the phone, his grief overwhelming. Another steps in, his voice carrying a stern frustration, while a third offers quiet reassurance. In this brief exchange, we see the unspoken bond between them — a brotherhood forged in crisis. Their pain, their isolation, and their resilience are undeniable.

Yet, despite everything, a thread of optimism runs through the documentary. The volunteers acknowledge the suffering, the desperation, yet remain unwavering in their commitment to saving lives. This persistence is embodied in the moments of hope: the “miracle baby” pulled from the ruins, Mahmoud’s quiet strength, and the young children who still dare to dream of a future. The image of a little boy kicking a football, unburdened by the horrors around him, is particularly powerful — proof that hope, no matter how fragile, endures.

The film’s score, composed by Patrick Jonsson, echoes these emotions with haunting precision. The swelling strings pull the viewer in, as if pleading for empathy, yet carry an underlying sense of determination. The music does not merely accompany the visuals — it amplifies them, making the sorrow deeper, the victories sweeter, and the perseverance of the White Helmets all the more inspiring.

What did the critics think?

I am not alone in recognizing The White Helmets as an extraordinary achievement in both cinematography and documentary filmmaking. Its impact was widely acknowledged, culminating in a win for Best Documentary (Short Subject) at the 89th Academy Awards. The film also received the Cinema for Peace Most Valuable Documentary of the Year Award in 2017. However, its success has been accompanied by political controversy, including the denial of entry to the U.S. for the film’s cinematographer, Khaled Khateeb, preventing him from attending the Oscars.

Critically, The White Helmets has been met with near-universal acclaim. It holds a 100% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes based on six reviews, with an average rating of 8.50/10. French news outlet France 24 described the documentary as portraying the White Helmets as “nothing less than heroes,” with widespread support for their nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize. The documentary highlights the group’s claims of absolute neutrality in the Syrian civil war, emphasizing their role as humanitarian rescuers.

However, not all perspectives align with this portrayal. Both the Syrian government and Russia have accused the White Helmets of supporting extremist factions, including the al-Nusra Front (which later distanced itself from al-Qaeda). Critics argue that the group’s operations predominantly take place in rebel-controlled areas, which has fueled skepticism about their neutrality. In a 2014 interview with France 24’s Observers, White Helmets leader Raed Saleh addressed this, stating: “On the ground, we don’t make distinctions between people. We will save anyone’s life. In practice, however, we mainly operate in areas that have been liberated or that are under the control of the Islamic State group, because that’s where there are bombings.”

The documentary does not shy away from this complexity. It openly acknowledges that one of the volunteers previously belonged to an armed group. Rather than concealing this fact, the filmmakers allow him to share his personal journey. In a particularly striking moment, he reflects: “Better to rescue a soul than to take one.” Another volunteer, Abu Omar, reaffirms their mission, stating: “Any human being, no matter who they are or which side they’re on, if they need our help… it’s our duty to save them.”

Ultimately, The White Helmets is a film that provokes discussion — not just about the war in Syria, but about the nature of humanitarian aid, neutrality in conflict, and the power of human resilience.

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Refugee camps often evoke images of heart-wrenching tragedy and suffering — stark white tents scattered across barren landscapes, muddy paths, overcrowded spaces, and the sound of distressing stories on TV. Growing up, I remember seeing these images on WaterAid adverts, where the focus was on the urgent need for water, sanitation, and basic living conditions. They always seemed distant, almost like something happening in far-off places that felt disconnected from my everyday life.

But today, as we watch the news — especially with the ongoing crisis in Gaza — these images of refugee camps dominate our screens. Only now, they feel different. The scale of displacement and the severity of humanitarian needs have shifted, yet the fundamental nature of a refugee camp remains the same: a place of refuge, but also one of uncertainty.

So, what exactly are refugee camps, and why do they exist? To really understand them, we need to look beyond the advertisements and news reports. It’s crucial to grasp what a “camp” is in the first place, the different types that exist, and the complex laws that govern them. In this post, we’ll dive into what makes a refugee camp, how they operate, and why the reality we see today is so different from the one we might have imagined as children.

The Basics of a Camp

In its most basic sense, a “camp” is simply a place where people are gathered, usually in response to an emergency or crisis. These camps can take many forms, each with its own purpose and set of rules. The legal protections and rights granted to the people within these camps can vary significantly, depending on the type of camp and the laws that apply to it.

It’s important to understand the difference between spontaneous and forced gatherings, as well as open and closed camps. Spontaneous camps are typically set up by people themselves in the face of immediate danger or displacement, often in response to a sudden crisis like war or natural disasters. Forced camps, on the other hand, are those where individuals are compelled by authorities to gather in one place, sometimes under duress or as a form of control. The nature of the camp — whether open (allowing people to come and go freely) or closed (restricting movement and often monitored by authorities) — also plays a significant role in shaping the experience of those living there.

What Is a Refugee Camp?

A refugee camp is a temporary settlement established to house individuals who have been forced to flee their home countries due to war, persecution, or natural disasters. These individuals, known as refugees, seek asylum in another country, usually a neighbouring nation, where they hope to find safety and basic humanitarian support. Most people in refugee camps have fled violent conflicts, ethnic persecution, or severe instability, making these camps a crucial form of immediate protection.

Refugee camps are primarily set up and managed by the government of the host country, in coordination with the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). The UNHCR plays a central role in ensuring the protection, assistance, and legal rights of displaced people. These camps provide essential services such as shelter, food, medical care, and sanitation. However, while they are designed to offer temporary relief, they are not intended to be permanent homes. The ultimate goal is to help refugees either return safely to their home country when conditions improve or resettle in another country where they can rebuild their lives.

The Legal Framework of Refugee Camps

To ensure the safety of refugees, international law mandates that refugee camps be located a reasonable distance from active conflict zones — particularly from the borders of the refugees’ country of origin. This requirement, outlined in the 1969 Convention Governing the Specific Aspects of Refugee Problems in Africa, prevents camps from becoming military targets or being misused for armed conflict.

The protection of refugee camps is further reinforced by UN Security Council Resolution 1208 (1998), which emphasizes the importance of maintaining the civilian and humanitarian character of these settlements.

The primary legal frameworks governing refugee camps include:

• The 1951 Refugee Convention (which defines refugee rights and host country obligations).
• The 1969 OAU Refugee Convention (specific to African refugee crises).

One of the key principles in refugee law is non-refoulement, which prohibits the forced return of refugees to a country where they face serious threats to their life or freedom. The UNHCR ensures that refugees have access to asylum procedures if they do not wish to return home.

It’s important to note that being in a refugee camp does not automatically grant official refugee status under the 1951 Convention. In cases of mass displacement, entire groups may receive temporary protection without undergoing individual asylum assessments. While this grants them access to basic aid, it often limits their legal rights. In some cases, the UNHCR issues individual refugee cards, which serve as identity documents and may offer limited freedoms.

Refugee camps are a temporary response to humanitarian emergencies. However, many refugees remain in these camps for years, sometimes even decades, due to prolonged crises and political barriers to resettlement or repatriation.

Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs)

Not everyone in camps qualifies as a refugee. Some are internally displaced persons (IDPs) — people forced to flee their homes due to conflict, persecution, or disaster but who have not crossed an international border.

Unlike refugees, who receive legal protection under international conventions, IDPs remain under the jurisdiction of their own national government. This distinction greatly impacts the assistance and rights available to them.

While IDPs may receive aid from international organizations, their protection depends on their government’s policies. Unlike refugee camps, which fall under the UNHCR’s mandate, no single international agency is dedicated to IDPs. Instead, their well-being is governed by domestic law, with occasional intervention based on international human rights standards.

Some IDPs are returnees — former refugees who have returned to their home country. The UNHCR may offer limited protection to returnees, but only if agreements exist between the organization and the state. These agreements vary widely and do not always guarantee long-term security.

Camps and International Humanitarian Law

Refugee camps — and camps for internally displaced persons — are protected under international humanitarian law (IHL).

However, not all camps are legally permitted. While camps for prisoners of war (POWs) and civilian internees may be allowed under specific conditions, other types are strictly prohibited:

• Concentration camps
• Forced labor camps
• Extermination camps

These were historically used as tools of oppression, forced labor, and genocide. International law explicitly forbids their existence and condemns the use of forced civilian gathering for military or political purposes.

Governments are legally responsible for ensuring the safety and well-being of displaced persons within camps, including providing adequate shelter, food, and medical care. While NGOs and international organizations assist with aid, the ultimate duty falls on host states.

Conclusion

A refugee camp is a temporary settlement designed to provide immediate relief to those forced to flee their homes due to war, violence, or crises. These camps, managed by governments and the UNHCR, are governed by international law to ensure safety and protection. However, life in a refugee camp is often difficult, and many displaced people remain in limbo for years.

While refugee camps serve as crucial humanitarian responses, they are not long-term solutions. The ultimate goal is to find permanent, dignified resettlement — whether through voluntary repatriation, integration into host countries, or resettlement elsewhere.

At their core, refugee camps are not just places of survival; they are spaces where the rights, dignity, and future of displaced people are shaped by the actions of governments, organizations, and global policies. Understanding their complexities is essential for creating a world that respects the rights of refugees and ensures their well-being in times of crisis.

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Donald Trump’s inauguration in 2025 has reignited intense discussions about the future of refugee and asylum policies, both within the United States and on the global stage. His first term, marked by sweeping and often controversial shifts in immigration policy, profoundly impacted asylum seekers and refugees. Now, with Trump returning to lead one of the world’s most influential nations, the stakes are higher than ever. What does this mean for the 435,333 refugees and 184,161 asylum seekers in the United States, and for the millions of displaced people worldwide? The implications extend far beyond America’s borders, shaping the global narrative on human rights

A Retrospective (Trump 1.0)

During his first term from 2017 to 2021, the Trump administration swiftly implemented policies that made it more challenging for asylum seekers to obtain protection in the United States. For example, the practice of “metering” was introduced, whereby the number of asylum applications accepted daily at ports of entry was limited. This led to asylum seekers being forced to wait in dangerous and often unsanitary conditions in Mexico. Reports from advocacy groups, including the Immigrant Legal Resource Center (ILRC), describe “metering” as a deliberate strategy to deter asylum seekers by making the process as arduous as possible. The ILRC emphasized that this policy exposed individuals to violence and exploitation, severely compromising their safety.

Another key policy was the Third-Country Transit Bar, which denied asylum to individuals who had travelled through another country without seeking protection there first. This rule disproportionately affected Central Americans fleeing violence and systemic corruption, as noted by the ILRC. Critics argued that this policy ignored the realities of migration, often putting asylum seekers at further risk in transit countries such as Mexico.

The Migrant Protection Protocols, commonly known as the “Remain in Mexico” policy, required asylum seekers to wait in Mexico while their U.S. cases were processed. A Human Rights Watch report highlighted the dire conditions in border cities like Tijuana and Ciudad Juárez, where limited resources and high rates of violence endangered the lives of those awaiting court dates. These policies collectively aimed to curtail asylum claims, justified by the Trump administration as measures to secure the border and reduce “fraudulent” applications.

The Domestic Impacts of Trump 2.0

Since his return to office, Trump’s administration has introduced new policies reshaping the asylum landscape in the U.S. One such policy is the imposition of asylum application fees, an unprecedented move in U.S. history. The ILRC has criticized this approach, arguing that “placing financial barriers on asylum applications undermines the core principle of offering protection to the vulnerable, regardless of their economic status.” This policy effectively limits access to asylum for those fleeing persecution who often arrive with little to no financial resources.

Another development is the increased detention of asylum seekers. Detention practices have been expanded under Trump’s second term, focusing on confining individuals awaiting asylum decisions. Reports from the ACLU describe detention centres as overcrowded and unsanitary, with prolonged confinement taking a severe psychological toll on families and children. Legal experts have emphasized that these practices not only dehumanize asylum seekers but also fail to address the root causes of migration.

Additionally, the administration has moved to restrict or eliminate asylum claims based on domestic violence or gang violence. This policy disproportionately affects women and children from countries like Honduras and El Salvador, where such threats are widespread. The ILRC has noted that this shift “ignores the lived realities of individuals fleeing persecution and undermines the U.S.’s obligations under international law.” By narrowing the grounds for asylum, the administration further limits access to protection for some of the most vulnerable groups.

Global Implications: The International Ripple Effect

The United States has long been a leader in international refugee resettlement and funding, but Trump’s policies are causing significant ripple effects worldwide. During his first term, Trump cut funding to organizations like the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA), which supports Palestinian refugees. Similar cuts are being implemented again, exacerbating humanitarian crises in regions like Gaza. The BBC reported that the withdrawal of U.S. funding has “exacerbated the humanitarian crisis, leaving schools and healthcare facilities underfunded.” Such actions undermine the capacity of international agencies to provide essential services to displaced populations.

The BBC further reported that “Trump’s order to freeze foreign aid appears to have had immediate consequences,” especially in the case of refugees in conflict zones. Shawn Van Diver, the president of the non-profit #AfghanEvac that assists Afghan refugees who worked with the U.S., told the BBC, “Refugee families or anyone in the Special Immigration Visa program are stuck in limbo.” Additionally, Ukraine says “many” humanitarian programs funded by the U.S. have been suspended after the Trump administration halted nearly all foreign aid.

Moreover, U.S. immigration policies often set a precedent for other nations. A more restrictive stance by the U.S. could embolden countries in Europe and elsewhere to adopt similar measures, potentially leading to a global decline in refugee protections. Advocates have warned that this trend risks dismantling the international refugee system, making it harder for displaced individuals to find safety. The BBC highlighted the importance of U.S. leadership in maintaining global standards for asylum and refugee protection, warning that a retreat from these commitments could have devastating consequences.

The Human Cost

The human cost of these policy changes is significant, as illustrated by the experiences of those directly affected. For example, on his first day back in office, President Trump signed an order ending birthright citizenship. This decision has created legal uncertainties for thousands of children born to immigrant parents. This measure was met with immense criticism and described by presiding Judge John Coughenour as “a blatantly unconstitutional order.” The order to end birthright citizenship had originally been slated to take effect on February 19; however, this was temporarily blocked.

The 14th Amendment was adopted in 1868 after the Civil War ended. The 13th Amendment abolished slavery, while the 14th settled the question of citizenship for freed, American-born former slaves. The amendment reads:

“All persons born or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and of the state wherein they reside.”

The last time there was a dispute about what the amendment meant was more than a century ago. In 1898, the U.S. Supreme Court affirmed that birthright citizenship applies to the children of immigrants in the case of Wong Kim Ark v. United States. Courts have not re-examined the issue since, and for the last 127 years, the U.S. has granted citizenship to nearly anyone born on U.S. soil, regardless of their parents’ status (the few exceptions include children of foreign diplomats).

Another controversial policy proposal involves the relocation of Palestinian populations from the Gaza Strip to Egypt and Jordan. This suggestion has been met with widespread condemnation from UN representatives and Palestinian leaders, who have likened it to “ethnic cleansing.” A BBC report highlighted the impracticality of this proposal, quoting a UN spokesperson who described it as “a dangerous oversimplification of a complex issue.” Such policies not only fail to address the underlying causes of displacement but also risk violating international law.

Conclusion

It is important to note that none of these decisions have been made without some degree of reasoning. While highly criticized, supporters argue that these measures are necessary to protect national security, maintain economic stability, and ensure a fair and efficient immigration system. However, as a researcher specializing in humanitarian issues and a reader focused on refugee camps, I find that the concerns covered in this piece are significant and the framing of policies, source selection and language are indicative of my academic field.

As Trump’s second term unfolds, asylum seekers and refugees face an uncertain future. Policy proposals suggest a continuation or escalation of restrictive measures. The stakes are high, not only for the United States but for the global commitment to human rights and the protection of the vulnerable.

Recommended Article: What a second Trump term could mean for asylum | Immigrant Legal Resource Center | ILRC

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Oftentimes, the term “refugee” is accompanied by a photo like the one above: children with big, sparkly eyes and enigmatic smiles hiding painful truths. While these images may be powerful and evocative, revealing the harsh realities faced by millions around the world, they fail to capture the full scope of the 122.6 million people worldwide who are forcibly displaced. Behind every image is a complex web of legal definitions, political narratives, and deeply personal stories that shape our understanding of what it means to be a refugee.

The word “refugee” carries immense weight and has different meanings for different people. To organizations like the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), it is a precise legal term aimed at aiding humanitarian efforts by categorizing forms of displacement. To voters and politicians, it often becomes a political term, encapsulating snappy but polarizing slogans such as “stop the boats” or “build a wall,” which assign different agendas to displaced communities. For displaced individuals, it is also a descriptor — a term laden with both loss and resilience. To truly understand the breadth of this term, it is crucial to unpack its various dimensions: legal, political, and personal.

As Dantas (2023) notes, “The term refugee is not new. One of the first groups of displaced people considered refugees was the Huguenots, who fled France in the late 17th century because of religious persecution.” Indeed, the term has a long history of describing populations who flee conflict and persecution, often as a means of escaping death. From the Huguenots to modern-day Syrians, Afghans, and Venezuelans, the term has consistently marked the intersection of human vulnerability and resilience.

Legal Definition

The 1951 Refugee Convention is the cornerstone of the modern legal definition of a refugee. It defines a refugee as:

“Someone who is unable or unwilling to return to their country of origin owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group, or political opinion.”

This definition established a crucial framework for identifying and protecting individuals fleeing persecution. It enshrined the principle of non-refoulement, which prohibits states from returning refugees to territories where they face serious threats to their life or freedom. The convention also laid out the rights of refugees and the obligations of states to provide them with safety.

However, the process of determining whether someone meets this definition can be highly bureaucratic and contentious. Refugee status determination often involves lengthy interviews, extensive documentation, and an assessment of whether the fear of persecution is truly “well-founded.” This process, while necessary for upholding international standards, can create barriers for individuals in urgent need of protection. It also leaves many people in limbo, awaiting decisions that could determine the course of their lives.

Moreover, the legal definition does not account for those displaced by factors such as climate change, economic instability, or generalized violence — categories often referred to as “grey areas.” While these individuals may not meet the strict criteria of the 1951 Convention, they too face immense challenges and require international attention. As the world grapples with evolving crises, some scholars and advocates argue for an expanded definition of “refugee” to reflect these realities.

A Political Tool

While the legal framework aims to protect refugees, the term “refugee” has also become a political tool. It is only since the invention of the passport and the solidification of borders that the concept of “refugee” has taken on its modern political significance. Borders delineate sovereignty, and within this framework, the movement of refugees often sparks debates about immigration, national identity, and security.

As Al Waer (2023) observes, refugees are “people with no political identity, very limited political rights, and with little certainty about where they will stay.” This statelessness makes refugees particularly vulnerable to being used as symbols in broader political debates. For some, the term “refugee” evokes a moral imperative to provide sanctuary and uphold human rights. For others, it becomes a flashpoint for fear and division, fuelling exclusionary policies and rhetoric.

In political discourse, refugees are often reduced to numbers or stereotypes. They are framed either as victims deserving of charity or as threats to economic stability and cultural cohesion. For example, slogans like “stop the boats” and “build a wall” encapsulate a vision of refugees as invaders, diverting attention from the systemic issues driving displacement. These narratives can overshadow the individual stories of loss, resilience, and hope that define the refugee experience.

This politicization has real-world consequences. Policies shaped by fear and exclusion can lead to restrictive asylum systems, detention centres, and pushbacks at borders. These measures not only violate international law but also compound the suffering of those already fleeing unimaginable circumstances. On the other hand, some nations have embraced refugees as contributors to society, recognizing their potential to enrich communities culturally and economically. The dichotomy highlights the power of political narratives in shaping public perceptions and policies.

A Deeply Personal Descriptor

Beyond its legal and political dimensions, the term “refugee” is also a deeply personal descriptor. For those who identify as refugees, it can carry a sense of shared experience and resilience. It acknowledges the challenges of displacement and the courage required to rebuild one’s life in unfamiliar circumstances. At the same time, it can also be a marker of loss — of home, community, and identity.

Dantas (2023) contextualizes this further, noting that populations such as the Huguenots and Jews escaping pogroms in the 19th century were considered refugees long before the advent of modern bureaucratic structures. These historical examples remind us that displacement is not a new phenomenon. What has changed is the way the term is framed and the implications it carries. For some, being labeled a refugee is empowering, signifying survival against the odds. For others, it is a source of stigma, reinforcing their exclusion from mainstream society.

The personal dimension of the term also highlights the diversity within refugee communities. Refugees come from different countries, cultures, and backgrounds, and their experiences of displacement vary widely. Some are forced to flee suddenly, leaving everything behind, while others endure protracted periods of instability before crossing borders. Recognizing this diversity is essential to understanding the human stories behind the label.

To truly grasp the complexities of the term “refugee,” we must move beyond simplistic definitions and narratives. Refugees are not just legal categories, political symbols, or abstract statistics — they are individuals with hopes, dreams, and agency. Their stories challenge us to confront uncomfortable truths about inequality, conflict, and our shared responsibility as global citizens.

Conclusion

The term “refugee” is far more than a label. It is a legal designation that provides a framework for protection, a political tool that shapes discourse and policy, and a personal identity that reflects both loss and resilience. Each of these dimensions offers valuable insights, but none can fully capture the complexity of the refugee experience. As we continue to grapple with the challenges of displacement, it is crucial to approach the topic with nuance, empathy, and a commitment to justice.

This blog post is just the beginning of a deeper exploration into the many facets of this term. In future posts, I will delve further into the legal frameworks, political debates, and personal stories that define what it means to be a refugee. For now, I hope this serves as a foundation for understanding the multifaceted nature of this important and timely issue.

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On Thursday evening, a notification from The Guardian caught my attention: “Planned UK people-smuggling laws risk ‘criminalising’ asylum seekers.” Intrigued and concerned, I rushed home to read the full article on my laptop. The report outlined how the proposed legislation could impose a five-year prison sentence on asylum seekers who cross the Channel and refuse rescue.

This immediately raised red flags for me. The idea of penalizing vulnerable individuals fleeing conflict, persecution, or extreme hardship simply for seeking safety seemed not only harsh but also potentially in violation of international human rights agreements. The law appeared to blur the line between cracking down on criminal people-smuggling networks and punishing those in desperate need of asylum. Determined to learn more, I delved deeper into the topic, eager to understand the full impact of this controversial proposal.

Potential Criminalisation of Asylum Seekers

One of the most controversial elements of Bill 173 is its provision that asylum seekers who refuse rescue while crossing the Channel could face up to five years in prison. The justification for this measure is unclear, as many who make the perilous journey are fleeing war, persecution, and human rights abuses. Human rights organisations argue that such policies punish the victims rather than the perpetrators of smuggling.

Enver Solomon, the chief executive of the Refugee Council, stated:

“Criminalising men, women and children who have fled conflicts in countries such as Sudan does not disrupt the smuggling gangs’ business model. When a refugee is clambering into a boat with an armed criminal threatening them, they are not thinking about UK laws but are simply trying to stay alive.”

Implications for Families and Modern Slavery Survivors

There is also concern about the unintended consequences of this bill, particularly for parents travelling with children. A government impact assessment admitted:

“Although it is very unlikely, there is no absolute bar to prosecuting parents who have taken their children on journeys which come within the ambit of the endangerment offence, which could result in the breakup of families.”

Additionally, charities working with survivors of modern slavery fear that harsher criminal penalties could lead to victims being wrongly prosecuted. Many individuals who undertake these dangerous crossings are coerced, manipulated, or misled by smugglers, further complicating the ethical implications of criminalisation.

Failure to Address the Root Causes of Displacement

A recurring critique of Bill 173 is that it fails to address the root causes driving forced migration. Alison Pickup, executive director of the charity Asylum Aid, noted:

“Further criminalisation and measures blocking people from protection will do nothing to address the causes of forced displacement and unauthorised movement through Europe to the UK.”

Many asylum seekers embark on perilous journeys due to factors such as conflict, persecution, and economic instability. Critics argue that instead of increasing criminal penalties, the UK should focus on establishing safer legal pathways for asylum seekers, thereby reducing reliance on smugglers.

Alternative Media Perspectives

Rob Powell (Sky News, January 30) Powell provides an in-depth look at the escalating tensions along the French border. He reports that “cars have been set on fire, and local police officers have been followed home by those attempting to facilitate crossings.” His analysis also highlights the role of social media in people-smuggling operations, where traffickers use online platforms to coordinate and advertise their services.

Adam Parsons (Sky News, January 8) Before the bill was officially proposed on January 30, Parsons explored speculation surrounding its potential impact. At its core, the legislation seeks to cut off financing for what the Foreign Office describes as “organised immigration networks,” aiming to deter smugglers from profiting off human trafficking.

While the rhetoric behind the policy is strong, its effectiveness remains uncertain. In theory, if these individuals were in Britain, they could be arrested, and their assets frozen. However, enforcing sanctions will likely require cooperation with European nations — a process complicated by Brexit.

Parsons also notes a subtle but significant shift in language. For years, the government has referred to those crossing the Channel as “illegal migrants,” despite ongoing disputes between UK and international law regarding their legal status. Now, the Foreign Office is using the term “irregular migration.” Whether this signals a genuine shift in tone or is merely a stylistic choice remains to be seen.

Dominic Casciani (BBC, January 30) Casciani focuses on the legal and enforcement aspects of the proposed policy. He reports that endangering lives at sea will become a criminal offence carrying a prison sentence of up to five years — one of several measures aimed at cracking down on smuggling networks.

Additionally, Casciani elaborates that the government plans to introduce a 14-year jail sentence for those caught purchasing small boat parts. This measure, much like counter-terrorism-style powers, is intended to disrupt smuggling operations at an earlier stage, according to Home Secretary Yvette Cooper in an interview with the BBC’s Chris Mason.

Casciani also underscores the potential effectiveness of these measures by comparing people smuggling to drug trafficking. While the latter involves thousands of perpetrators, police estimate that smuggling networks involve “hundreds rather than thousands,” making it a crime where “concerted effort and legislation can make a real difference.”

The idea is not entirely new, but…

In 2023, Keir Starmer vowed to “smash” people-smuggling gangs, delivering this message in front of the Europol building. He emphasized the importance of treating this issue with the same level of seriousness as terrorism, stating, “The reason operations here work so well is because they deal with terrorist cases. We need to put this vile trade — putting people into boats — into the same category, so it is dealt with as seriously.”

The Conservative Party argues that the current approach builds upon existing policies rather than introducing something radically new. However, there’s more to this agreement with the EU than meets the eye. Under the proposed deal, the UK would essentially mirror the arrangements in place for EU member states, where they have the right to send back asylum seekers but must also accept a quota of them.

One notable difference, however, is the new approach to enforcement. Current rules prevent law enforcement from intervening until after a small boat has crossed. The novelty of the proposed legislation is that individuals could be prosecuted before the actual crossing, based on evidence of preparations for trafficking.

For example, in a recent case, Amanj Hasan Zada was sentenced to 17 years in prison for organizing small boat crossings from Preston. The National Crime Agency only won the case last November, with evidence connecting his actions to specific crossings. Under the proposed new powers, authorities would only need to show that suspects, like Zada, were involved in preparatory activities, such as funding boats or promoting crossings.

Recommended article: Planned UK people-smuggling laws risk ‘criminalising’ asylum seekers, charities say | Immigration and asylum | The Guardian and Ministers talk about ‘smashing the gangs’ but real success still resembles ‘stop the boats’ slogan | Politics News | Sky News

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