Category: Justice/Race

The environment as a necropolitical actor in global border regimes

Posted on by Emily

By Marielys Padua Soto.

Borders are often depicted as man-made barriers such as fences, checkpoints and walls. But some of the deadliest borders in the world are not built by human hands. Instead, they are deserts, seas and jungles, environments transformed into barriers through policy neglect and the criminalization of mobility. By closing legal pathways, states force migrants into lethal landscapes, where the environment itself becomes a tool of governance. This perspective aligns with the broader literature on border violence, which increasingly examines how states govern mobility through indirect, dispersed forms of harm. Some scholars argue that borders operate not only through policing but through exposure, abandonment and deterrence. My analysis contributes to these debates by proposing the environment as a necropolitical actor, a terrain through which sovereignty delegates lethal force while maintaining plausible deniability.

Environmental borders in practice

The necropolitics of environmental exposure is visible across migration corridors worldwide. In the English Channel, the absence of safe routes has forced asylum seekers into fragile boats, leading to repeated mass drownings documented by the IOM’s Missing Migrants Project. Along the US–Mexico border, US border deterrence policies have diverted migrants into the Sonoran Desert, where extreme heat has produced thousands of deaths, an outcome extensively documented in Jason De Leon’s The Land of Open Graves. In Latin America, the Darién Gap between Colombia and Panama has become one of the world’s most dangerous corridors, with Human Rights Watch reporting rising migrant deaths due to flooding, exposure and wildlife as routes have shifted deeper into the jungle. Similarly, in Calais, authorities have repeatedly destroyed migrant camps and repurposed the land as nature reserves, turning the environment itself into a hostile space, a process described as environmental racism.

These cases show that the environment is not an innocent backdrop but an active participant in the politics of death, a necropolitical actor shaped by human control. By denying safe routes and pushing people into danger, states weaponize nature, outsourcing death to environmental conditions. Violence thus appears natural, when it is in fact the direct product of political choice.

Sonoran Desert, Southern Arizona (image: Kevin Dooley, Flickr)

Killing by letting die

In contemporary border regimes, sovereignty no longer needs to kill directly. It can kill by letting die. When states impose legal and bureaucratic barriers that make safe movement impossible, they push migrants into lethal terrains. The desert becomes a border wall made of sand and heat. The sea becomes a liquid grave. The jungle becomes an entangled labyrinth of exhaustion and decay. To call the environment a necropolitical actor is not to humanize it, but to recognize how power operates through it. It acquires agency, not because it possesses intent, but because policy transforms it into an enforcer of sovereignty.

In this framework, the environment functions as a vehicle through which death is outsourced. Governments avoid direct accountability by framing deaths as natural disasters or personal misfortunes. The official narrative speaks of dehydration, drowning or disappearance and never of deterrence, denial or deliberate omission. But these deaths are not random. They are the logical consequences of a system that treats movement as a threat and suffering as a deterrent. The desert embodies the politics of abandonment. In its vast emptiness, borders are drawn not by fences but by thirst. Migrants exposed to extreme heat and dehydration die slowly, their bones merging into the terrain that kills them. This violence is dispersed, invisible and bureaucratically convenient. When the state refuses to provide safe routes or humanitarian assistance, it allows the environment to perform exclusion in its stead.

The sea, by contrast, enforces the politics of disappearance. It swallows evidence, conceals bodies and erases traces of suffering. Each year, thousands of migrants vanish in transit across oceans and gulfs, their deaths registered as missing. Maritime deterrence policies, such as the withdrawal of rescue missions and the criminalization of humanitarian efforts, transform the sea into a border patrol. The waves do the killing, while sovereignty remains unseen. Meanwhile, the jungle enacts the politics of filtering. Dense, humid and unforgiving, it tests who can endure and who cannot.

Political natural selection

The landscape therefore becomes a mechanism of natural selection, but one no longer governed by evolution, chance or biology. What appears to be a natural struggle for survival is, in truth, a carefully engineered condition of exposure. Borders have transformed the environment into testing grounds where only those able to endure extreme deprivation may pass. Survival then becomes a political qualification. The environment performs the work of sorting, filtering and eliminating – functions once attributed to nature but now orchestrated by policy. In this way, Darwin’s principle of adaptation is repurposed as an instrument of governance: a political natural selection that decides who lives to reach safety and who is consumed by nature.

In each of these environments, death is bureaucratized and rationalized as the unintended side effect of migration control, rather than its intended function. The repetition of these patterns across geographies reveals a clear logic: deterrence through exposure. The goal is not simply to stop migration but to make the act of movement itself agonizing. The genius and cruelty of environmental necropolitics lies in its credibility. Death appears natural, even inevitable. Who can blame the sea for a storm, the desert for the sun or the jungle for its predators? In this narrative, the environment is cast as the killer, and the state as a distant observer. Such framing conceals responsibility and depoliticizes violence. By framing border deaths as tragedies, governments and media reinforce the illusion of nature’s neutrality. And yet, every drowning, every body recovered from the desert or the jungle, points to a deliberate architecture of neglect. The absence of rescue missions and the refusal to open safe corridors are not passive omissions, they are political choices.

These choices also rely on language. Death is reclassified through euphemisms: missing migrants, fatalities along migratory routes, unidentified remains, or lost at sea become categories that depersonalize tragedy and detach it from accountability. Through such vocabulary, violence is rendered technical, detached and manageable. The environment becomes a convenient scapegoat for policies designed to deter through death. The border thus speaks in the language of statistics, not mourning, where human loss is counted but never named, and suffering is recorded but never owned. This form of governance thrives on denial. By outsourcing violence to the environment, states maintain an image of legality and civility. They can claim adherence to international law while presiding over a system that kills through omission. Environmental borders thus become sites of plausible deniability: a place where policy and nature fuse to produce death without accountability.

Why recognizing the environment as an actor matters

Recognizing the environment as a necropolitical actor demands a shift in how we understand border violence. Safe migration corridors, legal pathways and the restoration of search-and-rescue operations are not acts of benevolence: they are obligations arising from this recognition and from international law. As climate change accelerates displacement and environmental frontiers expand, the convergence between ecology and sovereignty will only deepen. The challenge, then, is not merely to rescue those who cross, but to dismantle the structures that make such crossings deadly. Safe corridors and legal migration pathways are urgent necessities. Anything less ensures that deserts, seas and jungles will continue to serve as silent enforcers of exclusion.

Marielys Padua Soto is a lawyer and researcher currently completing an MA in Migration and Refugee Studies at The American University in Cairo. She specializes in migration, forced displacement, and refugee protection, with field experience in the USA, Latin America, Europe, and the MENA region. Her Master’s thesis is entitled ‘The Smuggled Body: Understanding Sudanese Journeys Along the Sudan–Egypt Smuggling Routes’.

Vigilante bordering – implications for immigrant rights protection in South Africa

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A special series from the Migration Research Group of the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies at the University of Bristol.

By Enocent Nemuramba.

In August 2022, a group of men and women gathered at the entrance of Kalafong Hospital in Atteridgeville, a township near Pretoria, South Africa. They were not patients, nor were they staff. They were members of Operation Dudula (hereafter Dudula), a vigilante movement that has grown in visibility over the last three years. Their objective was simple, if chilling: to block access to health care for anyone whom they suspected of being a foreign national (or immigrant) based on the colour of their skin or the language that they spoke. Patients were turned away, accused of ‘stealing’ resources. In some cases, healthcare workers themselves were intimidated for treating immigrants.

This spectacle of exclusion has not ended. In 2025, Dudula (which loosely means to ‘push back’, ‘drive back’ or ‘push out’ in the local Zulu language) extended its activities to dozens of clinics across Gauteng and KwaZulu-Natal provinces. As the group explained in a public statement: ‘Our goal is clear, to protect our people’s rights and ensure public services prioritise South Africans first.’ Later, the movement targeted schools, delivering letters to principals in Soweto that warned against enrolling undocumented children. The vigilante group’s de facto leader, Zandile Dabula, was even more explicit: ‘We’re going to be stationed at schools, and no foreign child will be allowed to attend a public school.’

What began as sporadic harassment has hardened into a strategy, to recast public services as checkpoints of belonging. Hospitals and school gates have become borders. Citizens and non-citizens are separated not by officials in uniforms but by self-appointed vigilantes.

Members of Operation Dudula stage a protest against immigrants in Gauteng Province, November 2025 (image: Bhekisisa Centre for Health Journalism).

From everyday bordering to vigilante bordering

Migration scholars describe ‘everyday bordering’ (Yuval-Davis et al. 2018) as the dispersal of immigration control into daily life, from landlords checking passports to nurses being asked to check who is entitled to care. Dudula takes this dynamic a step further.

The movement’s modus operandi amounts to what I call vigilante bordering, an overt and extra-legal enforcement of access by organised non-state actors who appropriate the logics of the border and re-stage them in ordinary sites. Unlike bureaucratic bordering, which disperses the state’s authority into welfare and work, vigilante bordering relies on coercion, intimidation and public spectacle to impose exclusionary rules of access. This often means operating alongside and sometimes against the law. The concept entails mobilising vigilantism to create everyday ‘border posts’ that confront and, in practice, curtail constitutional guarantees.

Dudula illustrates this phenomenon vividly. Hospitals and schools, spaces meant to symbolise universal rights, are re-imagined as checkpoints. Vigilantes patrol entry, scrutinise bodies and determine belonging. In so doing, they reproduce the aesthetics of border control while producing new geographies of exclusion.

Vigilante mobilisation and the making of vigilante borders

Operation Dudula did not appear from nowhere. It is a culmination of long-standing frustrations by South Africans with unemployment, inequality and weak service delivery, which are frequently channelled into xenophobic scapegoating. What distinguishes Dudula from earlier waves of anti-migrant violence in South Africa is its organised and performative character.

Rather than spontaneous riots, Dudula stages carefully choreographed blockades, livestreams confrontations and issues press statements. While their actions fall within the broader subject of policing everyday life in South Africa, as described by Buur and Jensen (2004), vigilante mobilisation functions as informal social control that blurs with state authority. In Dudula’s case, this control is explicitly redeployed to construct vigilante borders.

The consequences of vigilante bordering can be fatal. A sick one-year-old child died after the mother, from Malawi, was denied access to Johannesburg’s Alexandra Clinic by members of Dudula. The cumulative impact of these tragic events is that, over time, they instil fear in immigrant communities, prompting some to avoid hospitals altogether, which can delay treatment for tuberculosis, HIV or maternal health. Vigilante bordering in the health sector not only reshapes mobility but also impacts access at the most intimate scale.

Rights under siege

South Africa’s Bill of Rights enshrines socio-economic rights and the country’s Constitutional Court has repeatedly affirmed that these extend to all who live in it. The right to basic education (Section 29) is unconditional and the right to emergency health care (Section 27) is explicit. By disrupting access to both, Dudula challenges not only migrants’ rights but the state’s constitutional order.

Before the advent of vigilante bordering at the gates of public health institutions, immigrants had long been subjected to what migration scholars refer to as medical xenophobia. In abstract terms, it ‘refers to the negative attitudes and practices of health professionals and employees towards migrants and refugees based purely on their identity as non-South African’ (Crush and Tawodzera, 2013). These sustained practices of medical exclusion, which are now punctuated by intimidation at facilities, can have outsized effects. They do not simply inconvenience migrants, they also corrode trust in the health system itself.

Civil society organisations, medical NGOs and legal advocates have sounded the alarm on vigilante mobilisation at health centres and schools. Médecins Sans Frontières has documented cases where Dudula intimidation effectively denied care, including reports of security staff and healthcare workers acting in collusion with the vigilante groups. Education rights groups have condemned school gate blockades as unlawful and harmful to child development.

Beyond South Africa

While Operation Dudula is distinctive, its orientation and approach are in no way unique. Across Europe, community patrols have targeted refugee housing. In the United States, volunteer militias monitor the southern border. In each case, vigilantes position themselves as defenders of sovereignty, translating social anxieties into exclusionary practices.

What South Africa shows is how such movements can turn inward, with hospitals and schools, rather than border posts, becoming the stage. The immediate implications are that any site of welfare provision can now be reframed as a border, eroding the universality of rights through the spread of vigilante bordering.

Towards counter-mobilisation

What, then, is to be done? I contend that the state has an obligation to preserve the rule of law and ensure the depoliticisation of hospitals and schools. So far, the timid response by the South African government and law enforcement authorities has only served to embolden vigilante groups such as Dudula. Some of their members are now engaging in open confrontation with immigrants inside hospital facilities. For as long as these vigilante groups are allowed to carry out their unlawful activities with impunity, vigilante bordering is bound to get worse.

South African civil society actors, from the media to NGOs, should be commended for the proactive approach they have taken to record and challenge vigilante bordering incidents across the country. Journalists, NGOs and community leaders deserve ongoing support to ensure that they continue exposing human rights abuses by groups like Dudula. Their advocacy efforts place the spotlight on the actions of vigilante groups and provide the impetus needed to constantly challenge and contest them. Over time, this reduces the spectre of accepting vigilante impunity as the norm.

Public education is necessary to help increase awareness about the dangers of denying healthcare access to a segment of the population. Dudula has garnered public sympathy for its actions by conveniently claiming that they are protecting ‘public resources’ by restricting non-South Africans from accessing public services. What is missing from the ongoing discourse on Dudula’s actions is that health access restrictions not only pose health risks to immigrants but can potentially impact the health security of communities in which immigrants reside, especially if there is an outbreak of a communicable disease.

Conclusion

Operation Dudula’s vigilante mobilisation is a demonstration of how everyday bordering is being appropriated by non-state actors to reshape everyday spaces like hospitals and schools into sites of exclusion. This new form of bordering, which I refer to as vigilante bordering, mimics the state’s control of access while undermining human right protections.

Recognising vigilante bordering matters for migration scholarship because it shifts the analytical gaze from state policy to non-state mobilisation. It matters for human rights advocates because it highlights the fragility of universal rights when enforcement is outsourced to vigilante actors. And it matters for everyday South Africans because it warns how easily the spaces of care and learning can be transformed into spaces of exclusion.

Enocent Nemuramba is a second-year PhD student in Politics at the University of Bristol and a member of the SPAIS Migration Group. His research interests include the ways in which multi-scalar power structures mediate migrant political economies. For his PhD research project he is using a critical multi-scalar lens to study how Zimbabwean immigrants living in the middle-income suburbs of Cape Town make and establish home.

‘El Carrusel’: digitising the US-Mexico border with(out) the CBP One app

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Migration, Mobilities and Digital Technologies – a special series published in association with the ESRC Centre for Sociodigital Futures.

By Martin Rogard.

Many people had been waiting in Mexico for months to make their asylum claim legally in the US when, at midday on 20th January 2025, all CBP One appointments with the US Border Force were suddenly cancelled. The CBP One app, which was the only legal land asylum route for people arriving at the US’s southern border, was discontinued the moment Donald Trump’s inauguration began.  

The MAGA wing of the US Republican Party had long campaigned to shut down Biden’s controversial CBP One app, claiming it had become a back door facilitating undocumented immigration into the US. I spent two years researching this app – and the various claims made about it – for a chapter of my PhD thesis on the digitalisation of bordering practices, only to realise that it would be discontinued overnight. But how did this app compare to the COVID-era asylum ban that Trump has now effectively reinstated?

The US-Mexico border fence at Tijuana, 2021 (image: Barbara Zandoval on Unsplash)

Far from the open border policy its detractors portrayed it as, the CBP One app – which has previously been used to automate commercial travel processing – became a mandatory pre-registration step for all non-Mexican US asylum seekers arriving by land. This new protocol, which included a 5-year asylum ban penalty for non-compliance, made:

… people who traveled through a third country but failed to seek asylum or other protections in those countries ineligible for asylum in the United States… [except for those people who can reach central and northern Mexico and make an appointment]… through a DHS [Department of Homeland Security] scheduling system (AIC, 2023; see also Federal Register, 2023: 31399).

Since the app was the only such ‘scheduling system’, the protocol effectively forced asylum-seeking individuals and families to wait in Mexico for months by making their asylum eligibility contingent on securing an appointment through a glitchy, geofenced and data-harvesting lottery system.

CBP One has therefore been part of a shadowy binational bordering scheme colloquially known as ‘El Carrusel’ or ‘the merry-go-round’. The majority of people who made their long journeys to the restricted locations in Mexico where the app could function were swiftly targeted by the heavily militarised Mexican migration governance regime, which included parastatal security agencies such as the ‘grupo enlace’, which claims to enforce government contracts. Migrants report being forcibly bussed back down to Mexico’s border with Guatemala before they had a chance to pre-book or attend their CBP One appointments. Others who evaded ‘El Carrusel’ became highly visible targets for extortion, abduction, theft, exploitation and torture. As a Human Rights Watch report (2024: 4) states, ‘The more difficult it is for migrants to cross the US-Mexico border, the more money cartels make, whether from smuggling operations or from kidnapping and extortion.’

Migrants who did manage to attend their appointment on time after clearing the app’s highly data extractive preliminary security checks were subjected to a ‘credible-fear’ interview. Those deemed convincingly fearful of persecution were granted admission into the US under a temporary, criminalised and precarious status known as ‘humanitarian parole’ while they waited for their asylum decisions – the majority of which were denials, expeditiously followed by detention and eventual deportation.

The CBP One policy has recently been replaced with Trump’s renewed ‘Remain in Mexico’ asylum ban (an indiscriminate policy officially known as ‘Migrant Protection Protocols’ or MPP). In the US, as elsewhere, election cycles tend to be punctuated with big promises of ‘fixing’ the broken asylum system and/or finally ‘securing’ or ‘taking back control’ of national borders. Beneath the rhetoric, however, MPP, CBP One and Trump’s recent flurry of ‘emergency’ executive orders only maintain the status quo: they subject racialised people fleeing persecution and violence to further suffering and containment, failing to meet the standards of international law or provide truly accessible, safe and legal routes for asylum.

Despite the recent termination of the CBP One app as an asylum tool, much of my research remains relevant because it speaks to broader patterns of border digitisation that are expanding states’ reach far beyond pre-existing democratic and legal limits (see also Albert Sanchez-Graells’ post on AI and MigTech in this series). CBP One was repurposed for asylum processing during the COVID-19 pandemic with little public attention. At the time, humanitarian shelter workers in Mexico were tasked with filling out questionnaires on the app on behalf of asylum seekers under a deceptive US government promise to expedite their claims; in reality the app was introduced alongside restrictive immigration policies ‘that sought to increase penalties for crossing the border unlawfully, even to request asylum, and greatly reduce the number of migrants eligible for asylum’ (Kocher, 2023: 6).

But the CBP One app was never just the efficacious ‘scheduling tool’ that the DHS claimed it to be. It was principally a mass-scale data-gathering experiment that exploited undocumented migrants in order to extract a large-scale, non-cooperative dataset featuring biographic, biometric and live-location information. These data were avowedly shared across an equivocal ‘law enforcement community’, likely to train risk-predictive policing algorithms (AIC, 2025: 6; Longo, 2017: 150-153).

As Matthew Longo explains in The Politics of Borders, contemporary ‘smart’ borders have become increasingly reliant on large risk-predictive algorithms in order to ensure that ‘the good [are] let in quickly, and only the risky are slowed down… a process that depends heavily on data’ (Longo, 2017: 141; see also Travis Van Isacker’s post in this series, ‘Who’s in the fast lane?’). These large algorithms are known as ‘convolutional neural networks’. They work by combining the users’ biometric data (facial recognition, iris scans, liveness checks) and biographical data (travel history, gender, age, recent contacts) to build adaptive and multi-layered ‘risk profiles’. The more data they are fed, the better these so-called neural networks allegedly become at predicting and flagging potential ‘criminals,’ ‘terrorists’ and ‘impostors’ prior to any crime, attack or threat having taken place.

Before the CBP One app, for legal and practical reasons, the US’s physical borders were its primary site of personal data accumulation and surveillance. There are restrictions around the private information states can uncooperatively capture from non-citizens outside their jurisdictions. By requiring prospective asylum seekers to book an appointment via a smartphone while they waited in Mexico, the US decentralised and expanded its surveillance capacity far beyond preexisting limits. Conveniently, the geofenced app – requiring live location and prohibiting VPNs – forced its users to remain in Mexico. Since CBP One users were outside its jurisdiction, the US could shed its accountability for the human rights abuses asylum seekers faced while waiting across the border.

The app required the latest phone technology, updated software and stable broadband, excluding anyone unable to meet these expensive requirements. Its limit of four language options also disempowered those who didn’t read English, Spanish, French or Haitian Creole as well as anyone without good literacy skills. Similarly, the app’s so-called ‘glitches’ and design choices, prevented its users from correcting mistakes, contacting support or speaking to a human. The app automatically deleted profiles flagged as spurious, disadvantaging families and/or people with similar names and/or facial features (see, for example, Kocher, 2023: 7-8).

While this ‘smart’ digitised asylum system promised efficiency, its black box design prevented accountability and transparency for the harms it caused. Furthermore, as Human Rights Watch (2024: 26) explains, the insufficient number of appointments available on the app was presented as being due to ‘limited capacity’. Yet, this limited capacity largely reflected the US government’s prioritising of removal proceedings and hyper-securitised bordering over humanely processing asylum seekers.

By amassing vast archives of personal data from non-citizens, which were then shared domestically and internationally without their informed consent, the CBP One app fuelled a new wave of discriminatory and abusive bordering practices. Sold as a ‘technological fix’ this digitisation only perpetuated cycles of violence and disempowerment while expanding the US’s imperial reach beyond existing democratic, physical and legal limits.

Martin Rogard is a doctoral candidate in political theory at the University of Bristol. His research explores how artefactually mediated practices of memory-making and forgetting constitute and unsettle (b)ordering processes in the North American borderlands.

After border externalisation: migration, race and labour in Mauritania

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New writing on migration and mobilities – an MMB special series

By Hassan Ould Moctar.

In March 2024, the Mauritanian government signed a migration partnership agreement with Spain and the European Commission, the stated aim being to address a surge of unwanted migrant arrivals on the Canary Islands. While unprecedented in financial scope, this was just the latest in a long line of border externalisation strategies that have been implemented in Mauritania. In 2006, Spain and the EU adopted a range of military and surveillance measures off West Africa’s Atlantic coasts, opening a new period of migration control cooperation with West African states. Despite two decades of such efforts, the past year has seen both unprecedented sea arrivals in Spain and – more concerningly – unprecedented deaths on the Atlantic route.

For many scholars of migration and border policy, this persistence of deaths and unwanted arrivals occurs not despite the strategy of border externalisation, but because of it. Many have long illustrated how such policy approaches typically create more ‘irregular migration’, and thus more of the social condition of migrant illegality. Building upon these insights, my new book After Border Externalization: Migration, Race and Labour in Mauritania (Bloomsbury, 2024) examines how this process interacts with the social and historical landscapes of the contexts in which EU migration management increasingly operates. To this end, it analyses how externalisation intervenes within pre-existing histories of bordering and population management in Mauritania (chapters 3 and 4). It then takes an ethnographic turn, asking how the condition of migrant illegality interacts with the social relations that have emerged from this history (chapters 5, 6 and 7).

As such, the book is motivated by a desire to overcome the Eurocentrism that necessarily underpins EU border externalisation policies, but which can also seep into the scholarship, as critical migration and border studies scholars have suggested. To this end, I have drawn on ideas of Samir Amin, who coined the term ‘Eurocentrism’ and wrote a short book on the topic. In Amin’s view, the geographic imaginary of the Mediterranean was central to the Eurocentric ideological project; it acts as the source of a Eurocentric universalism which asserts that ‘the only possible future for the world is its progressive Europeanisation.’

Looking at this geographic imaginary from its margins in Mauritania unveils the contradictions of the historical juncture in which externalisation unfolds. On the one hand, externalisation is conditioned by the racial and territorial legacies of colonialism, in particular the division of the Senegal River Valley into the territories of Senegal and Mauritania, and a racialising colonial imaginary dictating who belongs on which side of the Senegal River. These developments were consistent with the ‘define and rule’ strategy of indirect colonial rule that Mahmood Mamdani has analysed, whose logic resonates in contemporary international development and migration management projects, as I show in chapter 4.

 At the same time, however, the form of this colonial legacy is shifting as externalisation unfolds. While Mauritania has periodically figured in the EU’s geographic imaginary of the Mediterranean – through the 5+5 dialogue and the Union for the Mediterranean – it has in recent years become more salient in its capacity as a Sahelian state. Drawing from interviews with officials in the permanent secretariat of the G5 Sahel in Nouakchott, my book argues that the Eurocentric universalising goals of the EU’s Mediterranean geographic imaginary – exemplified in norms such as democracy promotion, human rights and good governance – are giving way to a more security-driven imaginary of the Sahel. At the same time, this region has seen an unprecedented challenge to European dominance in recent years. Together, these facts yield epistemic openings that were not present at the time of Amin’s original writing of Eurocentrism. 

To examine these, the book’s ethnographic chapters foreground migrant agency, detailing from this perspective the social relations in which the condition of migrant illegality is infused in Mauritania. I start in the northern port city of Nouadhibou, detailing a dynamic interplay between Europe-bound migrants and an apparatus of externalisation in the city, before then illustrating how this interplay sits within the political economy of Nouadhibou. While European capital no longer dominates the scene in the city, the EU continues to play a crucial role in facilitating transnational capital flows, as its production of migrant illegality enables the labour exploitation of a precarious and transient workforce.

This Europe-bound transience is key in the context of Nouadhibou, but an exclusive focus on such Europe-bound trajectories also obscures the living legacies of colonialism. For this reason, I am also interested in the Senegal River Valley town of Rosso, which straddles the colonial border between Mauritania and Senegal. Turning my attention to migrants who weren’t on the move to Europe when I met them, I have contrasted their prior experiences of EU border violence with the relative lack of illegality in Rosso. In its absence, a violent history of racialised territorial belonging that I detailed earlier in the book resurfaces. Here, it takes the form of a rice industry that was erected against the backdrop of a spate of expulsions and dispossession in the late 1980s, which acts as the primary employer of migrant labour in the town today.

My final ethnographic chapter moves to the capital city of Nouakchott, where experiences of illegality and border violence are common. But the colonial legacy of racialised territorial belonging means that Afro-Mauritanian nationals can also get caught up in migration policing operations. The line between national and non-national is further blurred by the fact that such operations dovetail with an urban cleansing drive, and therefore often extend to everyone rendered ‘surplus’ and forced to survive on the urban margins. From this perspective, externalisation is the most visible element of a broader regime of spatially managing the racialised outcasts of contemporary capitalism.

It’s important to foreground the agency of those at the receiving end of this triad of illegalisation, racialisation and economic abandonment, and I conclude the book with a reflection on how those encountered in previous pages interpret their own agency. The response to this question opens a window into a non-Eurocentric universalism of the kind Samir Amin envisioned when he first wrote Eurocentrism.

Hassan Ould Moctar is a Lecturer in the Anthropology of Migration at SOAS University of London. Focusing on West Africa and the Sahara, his research examines how the contemporary illegalisation of migration interacts with the racial and territorial legacies of colonialism, uneven development processes, and conflict and displacement dynamics. His recent book, After Border Externalization: Migration, Race, and Labour in Mauritania (2024), is published by Bloomsbury and available via Open Access here or in print with a 35% discount (use the code ABE35 by 24th October) here.

Call to arms, but to whom? Conscription, race and the nation in South Korea

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A special series from the Migration Research Group of the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies at the University of Bristol.

By Minjae Shin.

Military service is mandatory in South Korea (hereafter Korea). Over the past ten years, one of the main concerns of the Republic of Korea Armed Forces (hereafter ‘Korean military’) is the integration of the country’s so-called Damunhwa (mixed heritage) soldiers into the military. In 2010, the Korean government announced a revision of the Military Service Act to expand the conscription base to all Korean nationals regardless of their ethnic background. It stated that ‘[Any Korean national] wishing to engage in mandatory military service or voluntary military service shall be protected against discrimination on the grounds of race, skin color, etc.’ Before then, the Act exempted men who were not a member of the Korean nation ‘by blood’ from bearing arms in service of the nation, for the simple reason that they were not ‘fully’ part of the Korean nation despite their legal status as citizens.

Due to the country’s unique security environment, in which a significant proportion of the population has at least some role in the military – approximately 1% if counting just the standing army but 6.5% if including the reserve force – every military issue quickly receives great attention in civil society. Public reaction to the concern was polarised. There were positive reactions welcoming the advent of a Korea that embraces different ethnicities, but there were also voices questioning the Act’s impact on unit cohesion, combat effectiveness and the loyalty of these soldiers. This was yet another occasion shedding light on the racialised aspect of Koreanness.

South Korean soldiers stand guard inside of the Demilitarised Zone, June 2024 (Image: Free Malaysia Today)

Korea is a highly militarised society. Under the South Korean constitution mandatory conscription service for men is required of all male citizens. Under this ‘duty to the nation and the state’, all able-bodied men between 19 and 35 are required to serve in one of the three branches of the military. Failure to fulfil this obligation is punishable by prison sentence. Before their military service, men are constantly asked by friends, parents and schools about their detailed plan for the service, such as when and where they will do it; life in their 20s is essentially planned around military service. During their service, men re-establish their relation to the state and nation, as well as their place in society. Completion of the service means not only that one is a ‘normal’ man but also a ‘Korean’ man, who has fulfilled his duty to the Korean nation. The image of an ideal citizen intertwined with the military service is wired into its management of conscripted manpower.

Before 2010, this was applied only to ethnic Korean men. This meant that men from mixed heritage backgrounds were considered neither a Korean nor a man in Korean society. Since the concept of race, ethnicity and nation were conflated throughout colonial history, the core of the Korean identity entails physical aspects. Speaking Korean language and understanding Korean culture and history is not enough. One has to ‘look’ Korean, with ‘Korean skin tone’. Being a Korean therefore has a strong racial undertone in Korean society. The entrenched belief is that it is these ‘ethnic citizens’ who bear the duty to defend the nation and the state.

This belief is closely related to an almost unanimous outrage towards ethnic Koreans who do not serve the military. This can be seen in cases where Koreans who migrated abroad came back with children who are of foreign nationality. These children are often referred to as Geom-meo-oe, which literally translates as ‘black-haired foreigner’. As these male children enter their early 20s, they are casually asked by friends when they will apply for the military, as well as their preferred branch. When they identify themselves as foreign nationals, people express their negative view towards them for not serving in the military, even when they are not legally required to do so. It is at this point that Koreanness as a racial concept reveals an interesting paradox. On the one hand, it doubts the capacity of mixed heritage Korean citizens to fulfil military duties; on the other hand, it demands ‘ethnic Koreans’ of foreign nationals to serve the Korean nation.

Korea’s birth rate has been in constant decline since the late 1990s. A shrinking demographic is damaging for all militaries, but the combination of the heavily militarised border with North Korea and maintaining a conscription-based force in a state of constant readiness means that such a demographic shift hurts the Korean military more than most. The government’s decision to expand its conscription pool to all Korean nationals regardless of their ethnic background was its answer to this issue. Many of the new conscripts are the children born of cross-border marriages between Korean men and women from nearby Asian countries, which saw a steep rise since the 1990s. The young honhyol (‘mixed blood’) men had often been subject to discrimination from their childhood. But since 2010, as they have entered their late teens and early 20s, they have been called to bear arms to serve the nation.

As of 2022, the number of mixed-heritage conscripts reached 5,000, making up 1% of all military enlistees. The number will surpass 10,000 by 2030, making up 5%. Although it is a small proportion at the moment, the growth rate is exponential. This is a close reflection of the country’s changing demographic composition, with continuously increasing numbers of foreign nationals entering Korea, including North Korean defectors and multicultural households. In the face of this demographic shift, the government is making changes, such as including and accommodating mixed-heritage soldiers through policies related to their religions and dietary needs. However, expanding the conscription base will lead to more complex issues lying ahead. The mobilisation of mixed-heritage men challenges the historic racialisation of Korean identity and will raise questions about what ‘being a Korean man’ means in the near future.

Recent developments in global geopolitics means that the relevance of these discussions is no longer limited to countries such as Korea. With the Russian invasion of Ukraine in February 2022, European countries are rushing to re-build their military capacity, which has caused a wave of conscription panic. Already, the discussion around a military conscription system has been brought to the table in the UK. However, European countries’ defence policies are formulated in the context of a vibrant political tradition of civic nationalism less focused on ethnic purity. For example, the UK military includes numerous ethnic minorities in its ranks.  Its cultural diversity and officials’ experiences have been already investigated by scholars. By contrast, the Korean military is based on ethnic nationalism and a highly racialised identity. In this context, the conscription of mixed-heritage personnel presents a new set of challenges as it is forced to redefine itself. Will the incorporation of mixed-heritage soldiers in the ranks bring the myth of an ethnically pure country closer to its end, or lead its proponents to dig their heels in deeper?

Minjae Shin works in a teaching support role in the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies at the University of Bristol. She was awarded her PhD from the University of Bristol in 2023 with a thesis on ‘Representing foreign brides: Koreanisation, ethnic nationalism, and masculinity in South Korea’. Her research interest is gendered migration in Asia; discourses and practices of nationalism in receiving countries such as racialisation and discrimination by institutional stakeholders.

Refugee women’s struggles for rights and stability: insights from an intersectional lens 

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A special series from the Migration Research Group of the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies at the University of Bristol.

By Maite Ibáñez Bollerhoff. 

As a researcher exploring the experiences of refugee women in small German towns, I have come to understand the critical importance of applying a postcolonial and intersectional lens to capture the complexity of these women’s lives, particularly in relation to accessing rights and entitlements. My research has underscored the need for a broader understanding of the multiple, intersecting factors that shape refugee women’s experiences, moving beyond a narrow focus on predetermined categories of identity. 

Ayla’s* story is a powerful illustration of this. As a young, recently divorced single mother, Ayla encountered significant obstacles due to her initial dependence on her husband and limited access to language classes, childcare and mental health support. Her struggle to navigate the complex legal systems in Germany, from immigration rights to divorce and family rights, was further compounded by language barriers and a learning disability, undiagnosed until recently: 

I had been going through post-partum depression when we separated. Everything happened so fast, I had to look for housing and learn the language to get a job as soon as possible. I had no money, all friends I had through my husband. Only later I found out that there would have been financial help for us, help with my daughter and so on […] It took me a long time to get my life together. [Ayla]

(Image by Ayush Kumar on Unsplash)

Ayla’s experience highlights common challenges faced by refugee women who come to Germany through family reunification but who are facing separation or divorce. Many of these women face barriers in accessing crucial support services and information about their rights and entitlements. Additionally, several women in my research reported feeling at a disadvantage in legal proceedings, particularly in cases involving divorce and child custody, where they felt that their husbands had more power due to their longer residence in Germany, better language skills and greater understanding of the legal system. 

In the case of Miran, a refugee woman who experienced domestic violence, these challenges were further exacerbated by a lack of support from authorities and social services. Miran described feeling disempowered and unsupported in her interactions with the court and social services: 

I don’t really trust authorities and I didn’t know where to go […] I only found out many years later that there is specific support for families like ours from charities. The youth welfare office and the council, and another organisation I visited […] everyone said we don’t help with this kind of thing. I wanted someone maybe to go to the youth council with me or to my children’s schools or the immigration office. The biggest stress for me was with the youth welfare office. […] I was always worried they would take my kids away, the youth welfare office. But I never felt they wanted to help me or us as a family. No. [Miran] 

Miran‘s story underscores how refugee women’s lack of knowledge about their rights and the legal system, combined with a lack of cultural sensitivity and support from authorities, can create significant barriers to accessing justice and support.  

For hijab-wearing women like Hiba, the challenges in accessing these entitlements are further compounded by experiences of prejudice based on their religious identity: 

I worried a lot before. It was hard to think about anything else, you know. I thought maybe for me, for Muslim women, it‘s more difficult to be accepted here, to get the right to remain […] When I walk into the job centre, for example, I see how they look at me, how they talk to me. They look down on me.

Hiba‘s story highlights how the intersection of gender, religion and refugee status can create additional barriers to accessing support. The way she felt seen and treated in society overall as a Muslim refugee woman, such as at the job centre, increased her anxiety about how this discrimination might affect her asylum claim. Her experience elucidates the heavy toll that a prolonged state of instability, closely tied to not receiving her rights and entitlements, has on refugee women’s mental health and well-being. Research has shown that women have poorer physical and mental health stemming from gender-specific challenges and traumas before, during and after flight (Cheung and Phillimore, 2017; Hollander et al., 2017; Keygnaert et al., 2014). The constant fear of return, dealing with complex bureaucratic systems, and often-times concern for their children’s wellbeing, all contribute to heightened levels of stress and anxiety (Vromans et al., 2021). 

The women’s experiences underscore the importance of considering a wide range of rights relevant to refugee women in Germany beyond citizenship and immigration policies, such as divorce rights, family law, reproductive rights and maternal care. While rights related to the public sphere such as language attainment and labour market integration are more commonly at the forefront of available migration studies (for example, Mihalcioiu, 2016; Verwiebe et al., 2019; Vogtenhuber et al., 2018), rights related to the private sphere were of high relevance to the women I interviewed. 

The stories of Ayla, Miran, Hiba and others illustrate how the interplay of various factors, such as gender, religion, family status and experiences of violence and discrimination, creates unique challenges for refugee women in accessing support. These diverse experiences underscore the limitations of existing research on refugee women’s lives, which, while increasingly recognising the significance of intersectionality, often focuses on a narrow set of predetermined identity categories, in particular gender and religion.

Embracing the broadness of the concept of intersectionality serves as a powerful tool to capture the complex reality of refugee women’s lives and the diverse range of factors that shape their access to rights and entitlements. By recognizing the multiple, intersecting barriers these women face, we may work towards developing more inclusive and responsive support systems that adequately address their unique needs and challenges. 

* Participants’ names have been changed for anonymity.

Maite Ibáñez Bollerhoff is an ESRC-funded Doctoral Researcher at the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies at the University of Bristol. Her research aims to better understand how refugee support organisations work with refugee women in small towns in Germany. She is also Head of Impact, Evaluation and Monitoring at Bristol Refugee Rights, a Bristol charity. 

The problem of promoting legal identities for all in anti-trafficking work

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A special series from the Migration Research Group of the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies at the University of Bristol.

By Natalie Brinham.

Recently, there has been an increased interest in how a lack of legal identities, or state-issued documents, is connected to the risks of trafficking and modern slavery. As someone who has worked in human rights organisations on the statelessness of Rohingyas and others, I have been approached multiple times over the past year by NGOs and researchers looking to provide analysis and recommendations to donors and policy makers relating to this nexus.

Having advocated for the issue of statelessness to be better incorporated into other human rights agendas, I welcomed such interventions. Yet, in approaching these conversations I also felt a nagging sense of trepidation. It has been difficult to locate the source of my concern. After all, it is true that if the stateless people I have worked with had travel documents and/or citizenship they would not suffer the same forms of exploitation. So, if the anti-trafficking sector promotes legal identities as part of their strategies, that is a good thing, isn’t it?

A Rohingya passport from 1955 kept by a Rohingya refugee family in India (photo: Natalie Brinham)

Being identified and documented by a state is most often associated with rights and freedoms – we all have a ‘right’ to a legal identity, so we are told. The push for ‘legal identities for all’ is a core component of the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals, which strive to ‘Leave No One Behind’ in delivering inclusive and just development globally. Those who lack a legal identity are sometimes stateless – meaning they are not recognised as citizens in any state. The rationale behind the global campaign is two-fold: legal identities will deliver both rights and development to people who are undocumented or unregistered by any state.

From an international development perspective, people without a legal identity are not accounted for within national and international development plans and are therefore left out as beneficiaries. From a rights perspective, people who have no proof of residence or citizenship are often, in practice, unable to access a whole range of basic rights and services including education and healthcare. They are often unable to work in the formal economy, access judicial procedures or travel using ‘legal’ routes. Within these paradigms, the logical way to ensure access to rights and services is to provide unregistered and undocumented people with a legal identity, freeing them from their state of invisibility and irregularity. The lack of a legal identity can compound the risks of being exploited in the workplace or while crossing internal checkpoints and international borders. As such, work from within the anti-trafficking sector explores this key nexus between trafficking and legal identities/statelessness.

The situation for Rohingyas is often used as an example of the worst consequences of being deprived of a legal identity and being trafficked. Stripped of citizenship in their home country, Myanmar, they have been contained in the conditions of apartheid and subjected to genocidal violence and deportations. Those who have left the country live across Asia and beyond in situations of protracted displacement, inter-generational statelessness and labour exploitation, struggling to access safety, security and basic services. Images abound in the media of Rohingya stranded at sea in the Bay of Bengal and the Andaman sea, prevented from landing by hostile state authorities, or beaten, raped, extorted and exploited by smugglers, state actors and members of ethnic armed groups. According to the ‘legal identities for all’ paradigm, trafficked and stateless Rohingya need states to provide registration and documents. From there state protections and rights can follow. 

But an important body of research reveals how anti-trafficking legislation and action plans can sometimes do more harm than good. For example, some approaches can criminalise people working in unregulated sectors of the economy, or they can shift the focus of initiatives from state policies and practices to criminal individuals and networks. Anti-trafficking discourses can be drawn on to legitimise hard borders and draconian immigration policies. What is perhaps given less attention is that the promotion of legal identities as a core component of international development policy can also do harm as well as good.

The ‘legal identities for all’ agenda has been accompanied by global growth in ID’ing technologies, which along with other border tech has consolidated the symbiotic relationships between state authorities and private tech companies that are largely unaccountable to anyone – both citizen and noncitizen. Development funding is increasingly premised and contingent on modernising ID systems. There is no evidence to suggest that these schemes reduce statelessness. Meanwhile, digitised and centralised ID systems have profoundly changed experiences of statelessness and other forms of noncitizenship. They can ‘lock in’ an irregular status. They can become a single access point for all services including health, education, banking, internet and mobile phones, and work licenses. As such, people without IDs become locked out the economic, social and political spheres.

With increasing requirements for documentation in all spheres, strategies for coping through informal economies are reduced. Further when used in conjunction with other border tech, ID systems can be misused against stateless or other groups as part of violent systems of surveillance, securitisation and apartheid. Digital ID systems, then, consolidate the power of states to both include and exclude. They can help states to move bordering practices from the physical infrastructure at border crossings to the everyday, less visible spaces. 

So, there is a source for my trepidation in these conversations about the nexus between legal identities and trafficking. Both anti-trafficking and legal identity discourses and agendas can be coopted to harden borders, illegalise economic activity and legitimise authoritarian state practices that exclude and segregate. But locating the source throws up many broader questions and dilemmas. With digitisation and centralisation of national and international ID and bordering schemes, states are not the only powerful actors governing through citizenship regimes. Instead, oligopolies – states in conjunction with tech companies and international financial institutions – control both movement and identification practices. How, then, in advocating for rights and social justice, do we move beyond supporting more individuals to access documents and anti-trafficking services, to holding these oligopolies of identity providers to account for exclusions and bureaucratic violence?

Natalie Brinham is a Leverhulme Early Career Fellow (2024-2027) at the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies at the University of Bristol where she is working on her research project ‘Countering citizenship stripping in times of war: IDs and autonomy’. Her new book, Genocide and Citizenship Cards: IDs, Statelessness and Rohingya Resistance (Routledge 2024), is available via open access here.

Natalie has written previously about statelessness on the MMB blog in her post ‘Looking for the “state” in statelessness research’. Other MMB posts on Rohingyas include ‘Myanmar’s discriminatory citizenship law: are Rohingyas the only victims? – Migration Mobilities Bristol’ by Ali Johar.

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‘Slaves’, migrants and museums: the struggle for places of African memory in Brazil

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A special series from the Migration Research Group of the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies at the University of Bristol.

By Julio D’Angelo Davies.

Brazil is built on slavery. It was the Americas’ largest importer of enslaved Africans, with Rio de Janeiro serving as the country’s main port of entry. Despite receiving nearly half of these five million enslaved people, Brazil’s former capital (1763-1960) did not have a single museum nor permanent exhibition on this key aspect of its transnational history until December 2021, when the Museum of History and Afro-Brazilian Culture (MUHCAB) was inaugurated in Rio’s Little Africa neighbourhood. The black presence that is a legacy of slavery has historically been neglected or erased in ideological storytelling about the nation (Lopes de Santos, 2023). Brazil’s widespread investment in museums and simultaneous negligence of places of Afro-Brazilian memory is indicative of how it still struggles to overcome centuries of racism and inequality. The federal government’s 2023 announcement of another African heritage museum near MUHCAB suggests that the city’s lack of memorialisation of the history of slavery is gradually being rectified.

Remnants of Valongo Wharf Heritage Site in Rio de Janeiro, January 2023 (image: author’s own)

Until the 1770s slave traders’ human cargo was off-loaded at Praia do Peixe docklands then sold at Rua Direita, the main street in colonial Rio de Janeiro. But in 1774, it was determined that the Peixe docks were not the ‘appropriate’ site to receive ‘Africans arriving full of diseases and wandering naked on Rua Direita’ (Ribeiro, 2020). With a view to ‘protecting Brazilians’ Cais do Valongo was established as an alternative port of entry for the enslaved Africans, receiving around 900,000 of them in total.

Trafficked people arriving in Valongo were transferred to a quarantine hospital built by slave traders known as Lazaretto. The survivors were ‘fattened’ before being sold in commercial houses near Valongo. Those who did not survive were taken to the Cemetery of New Blacks. It is estimated that here, between 1772 and 1830, some 20,000 to 30,000 corpses were disposed of without proper burial or funeral, thrown one on top of the other and eventually incinerated. After the closure of Valongo in 1831, Brazilian businessmen continued to openly import trafficked Africans until the 1850s in remote coastal places despite the international prohibition of the slave trade.

Commercial slavery houses near Valongo, January 2023 (image: author’s own)

Today, the Institute of Research and Memory New Blacks (Instituto de Pesquisa e Memória Pretos Novos, IPN) stands above the site of the cemetery. It is one of only two places memorialising slavery in Rio and was founded in 2005 after an accidental discovery. As explained on a plaque at the museum entrance, IPN director Merced Guimarães originally bought an old house on the plot to renovate as a home for her family. On the first day of rebuilding the foundations, however, a large quantity of human remains was discovered and it was eventually concluded that this was a burial site for enslaved Africans. Dislodged from their residence, Merced’s family moved to the warehouse where their small business operated. They camped out here for four years waiting for support from municipal and federal governments to fully excavate the site and create a memorial. Tired of waiting, they returned to their plot of land. With the support of activists, researchers and friends, Merced’s family worked to create a memorial to the enslaved. Since its opening, IPN has survived with little state support and investment.

The second site of memory also derives from an accidental discovery (Andrade Lima, 2020). In the preparations to host the 2016 Olympics, the downtown streets of Rio de Janeiro were dug up to build a tram system and in 2011 construction workers uncovered the remnants of Cais do Valongo. This was designated by UNESCO in 2017 as a World Heritage Site in recognition of it being the remains of the most significant landing point of human trafficking in the Americas.

The excavations of this site, led by Brazilian archaeologist Tania Andrade Lima, found many personal objects such as charms, ornaments, small children’s rings and sacred objects from Congo, Angola and Mozambique: ‘These urban slaves did not have many belongings and everything of theirs was perishable, made of straw, of cloth. We found some elements of personal use and some objects related to children,’ Andrade Lima said in an interview to O Globo in 2014. However, these important and powerful finds still wait for a home in a permanent museum where they can be displayed to the public.

The two sites that now memorialise the lives and deaths of enslaved people arriving at Valongo are a powerful testimony to civil society and Black struggles for recognition as well as to official neglect. The fact that at the same moment as Andrade Lima’s archaeological findings were in the public eye Rio’s mayor funded the USD 100 million Museum of Tomorrow, designed by Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava, suggests that this has been a matter of prioritisation rather than lack of funds (Freelon, 2017). The long wait for a museum to house Andrade Lima’s findings, the lack of investment in the IPN and the literal coverage of Valongo by landfill are testaments to the fact that Brazil’s history of slavery has been obscured by private and public actors.

Celebrating Brazil’s ethnic and racial diversity, São Paulo and Rio inaugurated immigration museums in 1993 and 2010, respectively. Both spaces were formerly quarantine hostels for European, Middle Eastern and Asian immigrants, inaugurated in 1883 in Rio and 1887 in São Paulo. But migration has been racialised as white in Brazil. Unlike ‘slaves’, migrants are typically imagined as European bearers of the culture at the centre of the country’s ‘melting pot’. In 2004 the Afro-Brazil Museum was founded in São Paulo thanks to the efforts of Emanoel Araújo, who explains: ‘this story could not be told from the official viewpoint, which insists on minimizing the African heritage as the matrix that forms a national identity, ignoring a saga of more than five centuries of history’ (Araújo, nd). Meanwhile, Salvador, the capital of Bahia, Brazil’s blackest state, only had its Museum of Afro-Brazilian National Culture inaugurated in 2009.

Future museum overlooking Valongo, January 2023 (image: author’s own)

In March 2023, Brazil’s federal government finally announced a USD 3 million project to convert the warehouse facing Valongo into a museum, expected to be inaugurated in November 2026. The building was constructed in 1871 by Brazilian black engineer and abolitionist André Rebouças, who forbade the use of an enslaved labour force in the construction 17 years before the official Abolition of Slavery (1888). Activists and civil society refused to name it the Slavery Museum to avoid further stigmatising and dehumanising of the victims. The long wait for a museum to house Andrade Lima’s archaeological findings, the lack of investment in the IPN and the literal coverage of Valongo by landfill all highlight the fact that Brazil’s history of slavery has been sidelined by private and public actors in the epicentre of the Transatlantic slave trade. Thanks to civil society, activists and academics, the memorialisation of African heritage is gaining increasing attention in the 21st century.

Julio D’Angelo Davies is an anthropologist focussing on migrations, diasporas, gender and processes of nation-formation and racialisation. In 2022 he completed his PhD in Anthropology at Universidade Federal Fluminense (Brazil). Based on eight months of ethnographic fieldwork, his thesis discusses the formation of Lebanese diasporas in Montreal (Canada). He worked as Research Associate at the University of Bristol (2022-2024) on the project Modern Marronage?: the Pursuit and Practice of Freedom in the Contemporary World led by Professor Julia O’Connell Davidson. 

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Moving as being: introducing the SPAIS Migration Group blog series

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A special series from the Migration Research Group of the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies at the University of Bristol.

By Samuel Okyere.

Welcome to the MMB special series by the SPAIS Migration Group, a collective of researchers in the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies (SPAIS) at the University of Bristol who are engaged in researching and teaching topics related to migration and mobilities. Many members of the group are themselves migrants with first-hand knowledge of the vagaries of border controls and other experiences associated with the migrant status. Since its establishment in October 2023 the group has worked hard to establish a community for migration researchers in SPAIS as part of its remit to develop migration research and teaching within our School, University and beyond. This has been achieved through seminars, peer-support for draft scholarly publications and grant applications, and mentorship for early career scholars among other efforts. This blog series showcases some of the remarkable migration research and scholarship by our members and in so doing expresses our group’s unique identity. 

(Image by Karen Lau on Unsplash)

The phenomena of migration and the movement of people have always been inherent to the human experience. Contrary to the narrative that portrays these as recent occurrences, for centuries many groups and individuals across the world have migrated temporarily or permanently across geographic, cultural and socioeconomic borders for purposes such as education, marriage, exploration, avoiding socio-political conflicts, responding to climatic events and humanitarian emergencies, and seeking better life opportunities. The difference is that the politics, practices and attitudes towards the phenomenon of continued global migration in this era have become extremely polarised as shown by the dramatic surge in far-right parties and groups in Europe on the back of anti-immigrant sentiments and the ongoing anti-migrant riots in parts of the UK at the time of writing this post. Tensions can arise from concerns about strain on public services and infrastructure. However, the polarisation and growing antagonism towards migrants as characterised by the ‘us’ and ‘them’ sentiment is majorly underpinned by exclusion, race and racism, nationalism, islamophobia and other kinds of religious intolerance. 

The SPAIS Migration Group’s MMB blog series examines these themes and other complexities surrounding the fundamental human right and need to move. The series is timely for several reasons. Firstly, it draws on findings from recent, extensive research conducted by the group’s members in various regions including Europe, Southeast and East Asia, South America and Sub-Saharan Africa to show the globally significant nature of the issues under discussion. The contributions collectively reveal that the portrayal of migration as a crisis and the resulting moral panic are deliberate tactics aimed at limiting migrants and their rights, rather than supporting them. The series brings into sharp relief some of the anti-migrant systems that have emerged as an outcome of the portrayal of migration as a crisis.

Notably, the post by Nicole Hoellerer and Katharine Charsley underlines how bi-national couples are increasingly being pressured into marriage by the UK’s restrictive spouse and partner immigration regulations. Hoellerer and Charsley demonstrate that although the British government claims to oppose ‘forced marriage’, the timing and choice of partner for migrants are not ‘free’ but instead largely influenced by migration policies designed to address the migrant ‘crises’ or control the number of immigrants. The same systemic challenges are created by the UK’s seasonal worker visa (SWV) as Lydia Medland’s blog shows. The SWV scheme, created to fill the horticultural labour market shortage after a lack of EU nationals coming to the UK to pick fruit following Brexit, ties workers to a single employer. As widely documented with other ‘tied’ work visas, the SWV scheme, which is also aimed at preventing migrants from settling in the UK, has similarly exposed migrant workers to severe labour exploitation, worker abuse and debt. 

Secondly, this blog series provides valuable insights into how attitudes to migrants and the associated notion of who belongs or not to the nation state and under what terms are underwritten by racism and ethnic discrimination. This is revealed in Minjae Shin’s post, which discusses how debates around military service in South Korea are closely intertwined with the notion of race, ethnicity and masculinity. Popular rhetoric casts Korean nationals with dual heritage as being ineligible for the country’s mandatory military service, a way of rejecting their equality with ethnically ‘pure’ Koreans and hence their right to equal citizenship. In Brazil, Julio D’Angelo Davies’ shows that notions of ‘race’ and ‘belonging’ are implicitly inscribed through the omission of the country’s African heritage from official nation-building narratives. Migration to Brazil and the founding of the state is presented as an activity that involved white Europeans despite the evidence of the country’s multi-racial make up. The racial politics of migration in Brazil is further exemplified by Maeli Farias’ blog on the Bolsonaro administration’s approach to Venezuelan migrants and asylum seekers in that country.

Meanwhile, Magda Mogilnicka’s assessment of attitudes towards racial minorities among Polish and Ukrainian migrants in the UK offers further lessons on the inextricable links between racial or ethnic discrimination, migration and belonging. Her blog shows that some Eastern Europeans hold crude racist and Islamophobic stereotypes. However, Mogilnicka cautions against rhetoric that casts East Europeans as racists, struggling to fit into a multicultural Britian. This is not just because racism and Islamophobia remain rife in Britain itself, but also because many East Europeans eventually embrace cultural diversity and make efforts to either live in diverse neighbourhoods or make friendships with those they perceive as racially or ethnically other. 

The blogs in this series also underline how migrants in the different regions and cultures where contributors conducted their research are seeking to navigate the systems of exclusion and fundamental human rights violations that have become a normalised part of their experience. Here, our contributors interdisciplinary research and case studies reveal the ways in which experiences of migration and attitudes towards migrants are strongly linked to factors such as racial and ethnic discrimination, homophobia, Islamophobia and other forms of discrimination that construct some migrant groups as a threat and systematically exclude them from access to welfare, rights and justice. Maite Ibáñez Bollerhoff’s blog on the experiences of Muslim refugee women in Germany shows how these barriers occur at the intersection of gender, religion and refugee status. This theme is also the focus of Natalie Brinham’s post on how Rohingya refugees seek to make life liveable in a context where they have been issued ID cards that make a mockery of the principles of ‘freedom’ and ‘protection’, which the cards are supposed to offer.  

 This blog series above all underlines the SPAIS Migration Group’s identity as:  

  1. a group of scholars committed to collaboratively expanding the current theoretical, methodological and empirical boundaries for studying and understanding the lived experiences of migrants; and
  2. a group of migration scholars committed to exposing the creation and value of borders as an affront to the right to move and the wider experience of being human. 

Samuel Okyere is Senior Lecturer in Sociology at the University of Bristol where he leads the Migration Research Group in the School of Sociology, Politics and International Studies (SPAIS). His research interests include child labour and child work, migration, trafficking, ‘modern slavery’ and contemporary abolitionism. He is currently Co-I on the five-year European Research Council funded project Modern Marronage: The Pursuit and Practice of Freedom in the Contemporary World.

Samuel has written previously on the MMB blog about ‘Migrant deaths and the impact on those left behind’.

Transnational borders: from containment to freedom

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Borderland Infrastructures – an MMB special series exploring the material and symbolic infrastructure of border regimes in the port cities of Calais and Dover.

By Miriam Ticktin.

Borders as infrastructure

As I looked out the car window in Calais at the enormous white mesh razor-wire lined fences, the surveillance towers and the starkness of the militarized landscape, I felt an eerie sense that I had been there before. I looked back at my photos from my trip to the border zone at Ceuta, between Morocco and Spain: the same mesh border fence structure, barbed wire and militarized landscape, and people and cars being funnelled towards guard booths. I had the same sense of foreboding, the same disorientation. The space felt at once uninhabited, and yet it seemed that eyes were everywhere. The local birds nesting in the Calais barbed wire were the main differentiating feature.

This visit to Calais with MMB last April made it very clear to me that national borders are transnational creations. Even though border walls purport to be the materialization of national sovereignty – deriving from and protecting an essential, inner national identity – they are created by transnational, border-crossing technologies, designs and networks. They are recognizable transnational types; indeed, there is very little that is nationally unique. Calais and Ceuta felt similar because they are constituted by the same designs and infrastructures, possibly even built by the same companies. Such border walls and zones could not exist without the transnational circulation of commodities and architectures.

Figure 1. Calais border zone, 2024 (photo: Miriam Ticktin)
Figure 2. Border crossing from Morocco into Ceuta, Spain, 2016 (photo: Miriam Ticktin)

To aid in this process, there are annual global Border Security Expo’s, which draw tech companies and government officials from around the world in the name of fighting transnational organized crime and terrorism. I attended one of these in 2018 in San Antonio, Texas, with the Multiple Mobilities Collective. Israeli companies lead the way, profiting from the fact that Gaza ‘is a great laboratory’ (Miller and Schivone 2015), creating what some have dubbed the laboratory of ‘the Palestine-Mexico border’ (Miller 2019) where technologies are tried out and data is shared.

Humanitarian infrastructures are also part of this transnational border complex; various types of migrant and refugee camps can be found alongside border walls to simultaneously rescue, contain and incarcerate people on the move. I saw these in Ceuta and on the Moroccan side of the border crossing. In Calais, the container camp that eventually replaced the so-called Jungle – photos of which were displayed at the Fort Vert bird blind, overlooking the now destroyed and remade area of the Jungle – was one such infrastructure (Figures 3 and 4). While the Jungle had complex beginnings, including a mix of organized state abandonment and autonomous organizing (Van Isacker 2020), it ended up being run by humanitarians, who replaced the informal housing and living spaces with shipping containers they could control and surveil (Ticktin 2016). Humanitarian structures such as refugee camps have their own architectures, meant to demonstrate temporariness while anchored in hard, material realities. They are at once ephemeral and carceral (Siddiqui 2024).

Figure 3. Official representation of the history of the ‘Jungle,’ Fort Vert, April 2024 (photo: Miriam Ticktin)
Figure 4. The ‘Jungle’ beside the replacement humanitarian container camp (photo: Léopold Lampert)

These various transnational technologies and designs circulate in the name of national closure. As they travel, they produce and reproduce a political imagination of what a border looks like, what it means to be a secure nation-state, and even what it means to rescue people without compromising borders. Such transnational technologies and infrastructures both produce and justify exclusion and carcerality, rendering racism legitimate.

Borders as people

The transnational nature of borders is also created, marked and made by the people who travel to counter them, to unmake them; that is, by the activists, organizers and academics (like myself!) who work to document, undo, undermine or subvert borders. In other words, many of the movements that challenge borders are also, unsurprisingly, transnational. They are predictably found at many border zones, part of the infrastructure even as they work to undo them. I want to focus on the people-part of the infrastructure (Simone 2004), and the making of the border by way of complexly layered forms of antagonism and cooperation.

No-borders activists, for instance, share knowledge about how to enact sea rescues; they track migrant boats to help when they land; they support people on the move in preparation for their journeys, from providing ziplock bags to keep cell phones dry, to giving informal legal advice. Some call this a version of the ‘underground railroad’, referring to the network of safehouses for those who were enslaved in the United States during the early to mid-19th century, to escape into free states and Canada. Yet while visiting Dover and Calais, it became clear that not only do the knowledge and strategies travel, there is a transnational circuit of people who embody this knowledge, and who circulate too. There were people who had cut their teeth on organizing around the Mediterranean, from Lesbos to Lampedusa, and by fighting border regimes like Frontex. Calais was another stop on this circuit, where people came to help with small boat crossings from Calais to Dover.

The same groups also regularly work with people on the move to occupy abandoned buildings and set up collective living spaces or squats. Informed by scholarship on the topic, they are artists, anarchists, academics and lawyers. I became keenly aware that I, too, am part of these circuits: I have traveled to many border zones, to research and act against them. We embody knowledge to challenge border regimes, attempting to enact unpartitioned visions of the world. Perhaps paradoxically, this layering of political movements and the movement of people working for and against borders helps to create the transnational border and render it recognizable across national contexts.

Borders for whom?

If national borders are created by transnational movement and movements, how about the people they are designed to catch, stop, protect or enable? Even as there is a commensurability between the infrastructures of borders and no-borders, perhaps counter-intuitively, it is harder to name those that we are there to either work with or against; they are the least recognizable as transnational ‘types.’ To be sure, there are social and political movements that have created migrant collective subjects. As I wrote in my first book (Ticktin 2011), the ‘sans papiers’ movement both created and was created by a different collective political subject, the sans papiers themselves, who worked against criminalization by changing their name. Yet, those who move across borders today are perhaps not as easily named or recognized. In part, this is because of the transnational nature of the border: these are not just national struggles, but transnational ones. People move for all kinds of reasons, in all kinds of ways.

‘People on the move’ is a name that migrants and no-borders activists have used to get away from legal categories like refugee or economic migrant, which are built on hierarchy and exclusion. And yet, there was no consensus when talking to activists in Calais about what term to use in French: each had a lack. While the term ‘sans papiers’ was still used, it was not ideal, because not all people on the move are without papers; some have temporary papers, some have the wrong papers. They suggested that some use the phrase, ‘personnes exilées’ (people in exile, or exiled people); and yet it is not clear that all people on the move feel to be in exile, not least because there is not always a consistent place from which to be exiled. They mentioned ‘personnes bloquées à la frontière’ or those stopped at the border, but some are stopped in national interiors, and some stop for other reasons. There was the concept of ‘personnes en transit’ – people in transit or transitory people – but the activists pointed out that this has been appropriated by the right, to suggest that people should NOT stay, that France and other places should be transit zones and not permanent residences.

New scholarship is starting to explore the different concepts used to name people on the move, each of which have their own political histories and ontologies: from ‘harraga’, or those who burn borders, in the Tunisian context (M’Charek 2020) to ‘touduke’, or those who steal across borders, from the Chinese context (Chen 2023).

Even as many of us try to create alternative political imaginations of the world to enable everyone to move, to stay and to flourish – politics is, after all, a battle over imagination (Dunne and Raby 2018; Ticktin 2022), where the imagination can help us maintain pre-existing realities or denaturalize the ‘real’ – the inability to ‘capture’, name or fully know those who move suggests that they will remain elusive, their desires and reasons opaque. While borders have an increasingly material, transnational presence, this unknowable Otherness continues to exist, and rather than trying to overcome it, we should respect it as a basic source of freedom.

Miriam Ticktin is Professor of Anthropology at the CUNY (City University of New York) Graduate Center and Director of the Center for Place, Culture and Politics (CPCP). She publishes widely on topics such as migration, borders, humanitarianism, and racial and gendered inequalities. She is the author of Casualties of Care: Immigration and the Politics of Humanitarianism in France and co-editor of In the Name of Humanity: The Government of Threat and Care. Her latest book, Against Innocence: Undoing and Remaking the World, is forthcoming with University of Chicago Press (2025).

Listen to Miriam’s Insights and Sounds interview with MMB Director Bridget Anderson on ‘Invasive Others: Plants? People? Pathogens?’.