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Who Belongs Here? The Global Battle Over Public Space

EMBER Culture Desk | April 25, 2026 | 7 min read

In a Paris mansion off the Champs-Elysees, a woman wearing a beret over her headscarf walks a runway while her country bans that same headscarf from public schools. In a Kashmir valley, a tourist guide answers his phone with rehearsed calm, convincing strangers that a meadow where 26 people died is safe to visit. In a Zambian wine bar, a Black man is told the expensive bottles are out of stock, then watches a white family be offered those same bottles with warmth. In a Russian town, a woman queues to submit a petition about internet access while security cameras film her from across the street.

These are not separate stories. They are the same story, playing out on different stages with different costumes. The question is always the same: who belongs here? Who gets to be seen, who gets to stay, who gets to participate in public life, and who makes that decision? In April 2026, that question is being answered with particular brutality, particular hope, and particular urgency across at least five continents.

Paris: The Runway in the Country That Bans the Scarf

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Paris held its first ever Modest Fashion Week this April. Nearly 30 designers presented collections at Hotel Le Marois, a mansion steps from the Champs-Elysees. The runway featured long floral dresses from Turkey, boxy streetwear from French Gen Z labels, Indonesian clean lines, and Australian bucket hats paired with autumnal warmth. A Turkish brand showcased burkinis. A French designer styled a model with a beret over a headscarf, the quintessential Muslim Parisian outfit.

The significance was not lost on anyone. France is home to between 5 and 7.5 million Muslims. French secularism, laicite, dictates that public institutions must be free of religion. The practical consequence: women who wear headscarves cannot work as teachers, civil servants, or in most public-sector roles. Burkinis are banned at most public swimming pools. The hijab is a constant subject of political debate, a culture war fought over fabric.

And yet here was Fatou Doucoure, founder of the French brand Soutoura, exhibiting her collection in the heart of Paris. She told the BBC she had struggled with her hijab in France but now felt it was not holding her back. Exhibiting in Paris made her feel that women who cover their hair could "take on any role in any society."

"It felt like something had changed in France. My hijab no longer felt like the centre of political discussion. I felt that on the streets, too, people had begun to see beyond it."

Young French attendee at Paris Modest Fashion Week, BBC, April 2026

Rukaiya Kamba, creative director of Nigerian brand Flaunt Archive, said the decision to present in Paris came from a "very intentional place." This was not a fashion show. It was a statement about visibility. The global modest fashion market is projected to exceed $400 billion by next year, according to research firm DinarStandard, and it is increasingly appealing beyond Muslim communities to other religious groups and secular shoppers. The clothes are the vehicle. The destination is the right to exist in public space without apology.

But a runway show inside a private mansion is not the same as walking into a government office wearing the same outfit. The gap between the catwalk and the classroom remains as wide as ever. France has not changed its laws. The laicite framework still excludes. What changed, perhaps, is that a generation of French Muslims decided to stop asking for permission and started building their own stage. The revolution is not in the legislation. It is in the refusal to wait for legislation.

Source: BBC News, "Muslim designers showcase floral dresses and boxy streetwear in Paris," April 24, 2026

Kashmir: The Meadow That Stays Closed

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A year ago, militants killed 26 people in Pahalgam, a town in Indian-administered Kashmir known for its pine forests and alpine meadows. It was one of the deadliest attacks on tourists in the region in decades. The assault targeted visitors in one of Kashmir's busiest tourism hubs, shattering a delicate balance that had allowed livelihoods to coexist with instability.

The numbers tell one story. Visitor numbers fell from nearly three million in 2024 to under 1.2 million in 2025. In Pahalgam specifically, about 259,000 visitors came between January and mid-April this year, down from more than 469,000 in the same period before the attack. Hotels that once ran at full capacity now sit with as much as 80 percent of rooms unoccupied. Mohammad Abubakar, 25, invested two million rupees to open a hotel just four months before the attack. After April, he earned almost nothing. He shut it down.

But the numbers do not capture what Nazakat Ali lives every day. The 30-year-old tourist guide answers his phone in the evening with practised calm. Yes, it is safe. Yes, he will be there. Yes, they should come. Each call carries an unspoken calculation: how much to reassure, how firmly to say it. "There is a lot of fear," he says. "We have to convince them that everything is fine."

The human toll extends beyond the attack itself. Nearly 3,000 young men were detained for questioning in the aftermath. Authorities demolished the homes of suspected militants. Baisaran meadow, where the killings took place, remains closed. A memorial stands about three miles from it. People approach slowly. Some leave flowers. Others linger only for a moment, reading the names, then stepping back as though unsure how long it is appropriate to stay.

Abdul Waheed Bhat, head of the pony riders' association, put it plainly: "We've seen difficult times before. But this attack is different. This has sent a very negative message."

The attack did not just kill people. It killed the idea that Pahalgam was a place apart from the conflict, a pocket of normalcy where tourism could thrive despite the broader instability. That idea was the town's economic lifeblood. Without it, guides wait at roadsides for work that may not come. Hotels sit empty. By evening, the town empties out, with few choosing to stay the night.

The question of who belongs in Pahalgam has shifted. For decades, it was a place that welcomed visitors. Now visitors must be convinced to come. The locals who depend on tourism are caught between a state that wants to project normalcy and a reality where the meadow is still closed and the memorial still fresh. They are selling the idea of belonging to people who are afraid to belong.

Source: BBC News, "The Kashmir town trying to win back tourists after a deadly attack," April 24, 2026

Zambia: Sixty Years After Liberation, Still Second-Class

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Zambia prides itself on being at the forefront of African nationalism. Kenneth Kaunda, its first president, was a central figure in the fight against colonial rule. Before independence in 1964, Black Zambians carried passes that restricted their movement, attended segregated schools and hospitals, and were excluded from skilled, high-paid mining jobs in the copper-rich country. Kaunda imposed "Zambianisation," replacing white executives with Black ones. His message was clear: Black Africans must no longer be subjugated.

In his first press conference after taking office, Kaunda said Zambia's task was "building a nation founded on respect for all people of all races, all colours and all religions."

Six decades later, the BBC spoke to Zambians who say that racism remains a problem. Not the overt kind. The signs are gone. The passes are gone. But the architecture of exclusion persists, rebuilt in subtler form.

"I find it very strange that people can live in an African country and be racist to black people."

Alexander Bwalya, Lusaka resident, BBC, April 2026

Bwalya recounted visiting a wine bar in Lusaka with friends. When they tried to order expensive bottles, waiters said they were out of stock. Then a white family arrived and was offered those same bottles with friendliness. When Bwalya complained, the white manager allegedly directed a racial slur at his friend and told them they were welcome to leave. He did not report it to police. He felt it would not be taken seriously.

Victoria Phiri Chitungu, a historian and director of the Livingstone Museum, offered an explanation with teeth. Kaunda's message that discrimination was not tolerated, she said, may have simply pushed the issue below the surface. "People started conforming to behave in ways that would not show racism. That doesn't mean that it's now absent."

The evidence is scattered but persistent. In January, a Zambia-based worker from the employment firm Recruitment Matters posted an opening for a sales and marketing manager with the words in capital letters: "THIS ROLE IS CURRENTLY NOT OPEN TO ZAMBIAN NATIONALS; WE ARE LOOKING FOR EXPATS OR FOREIGN RESIDENTS IN ZAMBIA." The advert went viral. The company apologised and deleted the post, saying the wording "did not meet our standards." But the damage was done. Omar Chanshi, 37, who works in marketing, told the BBC: "There are contracts and systems and a lot of opportunities that we just don't have access to as locals. Forget trying to show whether you are the best or most qualified person, you just don't have access."

Malama Muleba, a Lusaka-based property manager, says some landlords and property managers consider race when assessing tenants. The government denies racism is a problem. A 2019 UN human rights committee report found that, "like other post-colonial societies, Zambia had struggled with how to prevent and eliminate the racial and class inequalities left by the colonialists."

The pattern is familiar across post-colonial Africa: independence changed the law but did not fully dismantle the economic and social hierarchies that colonialism built. White and expatriate minorities, making up roughly 9 percent of the population, continue to hold disproportionate access to certain jobs, housing, and social spaces. The absence of public data on racial inequality makes the problem harder to quantify and easier to deny. Social media discussions about race are becoming more common, which some Zambians see as a sign of progress. But talking about a problem and solving it are different projects. Kaunda's nation "founded on respect" is still under construction.

Source: BBC News, "Zambia - a nation built on pan-African principles faces questions about racism," April 24, 2026

Russia: The Digital Iron Curtain

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Outside the presidential administration office in Moscow, several dozen people are queuing to submit petitions calling on Vladimir Putin to end the crackdown on the internet. Petitioning the president is legal. In an authoritarian state, it is also an act of defiance. Security officers film the petitioners from across the street.

"Aren't you scared?" "Very scared. I'm shaking."

Yulia, Russian petitioner, BBC, April 2026

Russia has been tightening control of its cyberspace with escalating intensity. Access to WhatsApp and Telegram has been heavily restricted. VPNs, the primary tool for circumventing restrictions, are being targeted by state regulators. In many parts of Russia, the only sites and services that load on mobile phones are those approved by the government. The Kremlin is promoting a state-backed messenger called MAX, which many Russians believe is designed for surveillance.

Putin has acknowledged the disruption, calling it related to "operational work to prevent terrorist attacks." Russian officials claim mobile internet blackouts disorient Ukrainian attack drones, although such attacks have continued even in areas where the internet has been switched off.

But the real impact is on daily life. Yulia, who owns a catering company, told the BBC her business website was sometimes inaccessible. "We couldn't generate revenue. We are losing money every time there is a blocking of the internet, a blocking of Telegram and WhatsApp. My business is entirely on the internet. Without internet access, in this form it will not exist."

Activist Yulia Grekova tried to organise a protest against internet restrictions in the town of Vladimir, 190km from Moscow. Authorities rejected every proposed venue. One official claimed all 11 proposed locations needed street cleaning on the requested date. City Hall offered an alternative, then withdrew it citing the danger of Ukrainian drone attack. Then police visited Grekova at her workplace, filming her as she signed an official warning from the prosecutor. "I felt like some kind of terrorist," she said.

Similar protest applications were rejected across dozens of Russian towns and cities. In the Moscow region, authorities cited coronavirus concerns. In Penza, a roller-skating masterclass supposedly made a rally impossible. The pretexts would be funny if the consequences were not so serious.

Columnist Andrei Kolesnikov of Novaya Gazeta describes the project as a digital Iron Curtain: "The idea is to divide Russia from the outside world because this world is poisonous to the brains of Russians. Russia was always blocked, primarily from the West, which was the source of bad, revolutionary, liberal ideas. It was always like this."

Yet the public anger is not primarily about freedom of speech. As Grekova explains: "It's less to do with freedom of speech and more about habit. People have got used to paying for things and ordering taxis with their mobiles. They sit in the bus messaging friends. There are very few people who don't use mobile internet for work, public services and to keep in touch with family. That's why there's such an angry reaction. Everyone's affected."

The Kremlin's miscalculation was this: you can restrict political speech and many Russians will tolerate it. But restrict their ability to order a taxi, pay a bill, or message their mother, and the state has picked a fight with the fabric of daily life. The internet is not a luxury in 2026 Russia. It is the infrastructure of existence. Cutting people off from it is not censorship. It is exile from public space itself.

Source: BBC News, "Kremlin's tightening grip on internet fuels Russian discontent," April 24, 2026

India: A Rumour, a Lynching, and Eight Years of Waiting

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One summer afternoon in 2018, two friends set out on a road trip into the Karbi Anglong region of Assam in northeastern India. Abhijeet Nath, a 30-year-old businessman, and Nilotpal Das, a 29-year-old musician, were driving from Guwahati. They were keen travellers who often explored places together. By evening, they had stopped in a village to ask for directions. A rumour spread that they were child abductors. A crowd of 150 to 200 people gathered. At least 50 participated directly in the attack using sticks and other weapons. The two men were beaten to death.

Nath's father learnt of the killing when he tried calling his son. A stranger answered the phone and told him Nath had been killed and the news would soon appear on television.

Nearly eight years later, a court in Assam convicted 20 people of murder and participation in an unlawful assembly. Twenty-five others were acquitted for lack of evidence "beyond reasonable doubt." The court said in its order: "This is not a simple case of murder. The involvement of the entire locality is established from the evidence on record."

The families are not satisfied. Das's father, Gopal Das, told reporters they would consult their lawyer on possible next steps and sought the strictest punishment for those convicted. Nath's family expressed similar concerns about the acquittals.

The case was part of a wave of mob violence across India in 2018, fuelled by rumours about child-abduction gangs spreading through WhatsApp messages and viral videos. Similar lynchings were reported in Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, Telangana, Maharashtra, and Tripura. The federal government said at the time there was no evidence linking the cases to online rumours, sparking outrage. The Supreme Court urged the government to consider an anti-lynching law. WhatsApp eventually imposed restrictions on message forwarding in India.

But the deeper question remains unanswered. What makes a rumour powerful enough to kill? The answer is not technology. WhatsApp was the vector, not the cause. The cause is a society where strangers are inherently suspect, where the social fabric is thin enough that a single forwarded message can transform two men asking for directions into child kidnappers deserving of death. The technology amplified the paranoia. The paranoia was already there.

Eight years for a verdict. Twenty convictions out of at least 50 attackers. Twenty-five acquittals. Three minors whose cases went to juvenile court. A father who learnt his son was dead from a stranger answering the phone. The legal system delivered something, but not enough to feel like justice. The gap between what the court can prove and what the community knows happened is the space where accountability goes to die. And in that space, the next rumour is already spreading.

Source: BBC News, "A rumour, a lynching in India and a long wait for justice," April 24, 2026

United Kingdom: 1,200 Amendments and the Right to Die

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Across the English Channel, a different kind of exclusion from public decision-making is playing out. The UK's Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill, which would legalise assisted dying for adults with less than six months to live who have clearly expressed a wish to die, will not become law. Time ran out on Friday after unelected lawmakers in the House of Lords tabled more than 1,200 amendments to the bill, creating a parliamentary quagmire that stalled its passage until the session expired.

The bill had already passed the House of Commons, the elected chamber, last June. More than 200 lawmakers signed a letter blaming the bill's failure on "deliberate delaying tactics pursued by a minority of peers opposed to its passage." Lord Charlie Falconer, who sponsored the legislation in the upper chamber, called it "pure obstructionism," accusing opponents of manipulating parliamentary processes by "putting down 1,200 amendments and then talking and talking and talking."

The opponents argue the bill was unsafe. Gordon Macdonald from the Care Not Killing campaign group said the Lords had exposed it as "skeleton legislation riddled with gaping holes." The Christian Medical Fellowship said it was "not possible to construct an assisted suicide service that is safe, equitable, and resistant to placing unacceptable pressure on the most vulnerable."

But the supporters are not giving up. Campaigner Rebecca Wilcox, whose mother has a terminal diagnosis, said: "We're incredibly angry with what's happened, but we're determined to get it through. This is not the end, we will not be stopped." Kim Leadbeater, the MP who introduced the bill in 2024, said supportive lawmakers would "go again" in the next parliamentary session.

The fight over assisted dying is, at its core, a fight over who has authority over the most fundamental question of public existence: the right to decide when your own life ends. The Commons, representing the public, said yes. The Lords, representing tradition and institutional caution, said not so fast. The 1,200 amendments were not about improving the bill. They were about exhausting the clock. It is a technique as old as legislatures themselves, and it raises a question that echoes across every story in this article: when the people who want to participate in a decision are systematically prevented from doing so by those who hold procedural power, is the system working as designed, or is it working to preserve itself?

Source: Al Jazeera, "UK assisted dying bill fails after delays but advocates vow to try again," April 24, 2026

United States: The State's Right to Kill, Expanded

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On the same day the UK debated whether people have the right to choose death, the United States expanded the state's right to inflict it. The Department of Justice released a 48-page memo directing federal prisons to expand execution methods to include firing squads, gas asphyxiation, and electrocution, in addition to lethal injection.

Acting Attorney General Todd Blanche argued that "the prior administration failed in its duty to protect the American people by refusing to pursue and carry out the ultimate punishment against the most dangerous criminals, including terrorists, child murderers, and cop killers."

The previous administration had placed a moratorium on most federal executions. Before leaving office, Joe Biden gave clemency to 37 of the 40 federal death row prisoners. Trump reversed that on his first day back in office, signing an executive order directing the death penalty to be pursued again "for all crimes of a severity demanding its use," including cases where an undocumented immigrant kills a law enforcement officer.

Democratic Senator Dick Durbin called the change "cruel, immoral, and discriminatory," warning that "expanding the federal death penalty will be a stain on our history."

Five US states already allow firing squads, according to the Death Penalty Information Center. In 2024, Alabama became the first state to kill a prisoner using nitrogen gas. Four other states have since adopted nitrogen gas for executions.

The memo defends lethal injection, calling pentobarbital "the gold standard of lethal injection drugs," but notes that broadening methods "will help ensure the Department is prepared to carry out lawful executions even if a specific drug is unavailable." The drug has been difficult to source in recent years, partly because pharmaceutical companies have refused to supply it for executions.

There is a grim symmetry here. The state asserts its absolute power over existence by reserving the right to end life. It does so in the name of justice, deterrence, and closure for victims' families. But the methods themselves, firing squads, gas chambers, electric chairs, carry the visual and moral weight of regimes that the United States has historically condemned. The expansion is not just procedural. It is symbolic. It signals a state that is not merely willing to execute but is willing to make execution visible, brutal, and unmistakable. The question of who belongs in public space has a dark mirror: who does the state remove from public space, permanently, and by what means?

Source: BBC News, "US to allow firing squads, gas, and electrocution for federal executions," April 24, 2026; Al Jazeera, April 24, 2026

The Thread That Connects

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These stories share a structure even when they share nothing else. In each case, someone is making a decision about who gets to participate in shared space, and someone else is resisting that decision. The mechanisms differ: legislation, violence, social custom, internet censorship, procedural obstruction, state violence. The effect is similar. People are told, in ways loud and quiet, that they do not belong where they are.

The Zambian man in the wine bar is told he does not belong at that table. The Kashmiri guide is told his town does not belong in the imagination of tourists. The Russian business owner is told she does not belong on the internet. The Indian travellers were told they did not belong in that village. The British terminally ill are told they do not belong in the decision about their own deaths. The American death row prisoners are told they do not belong among the living.

And in Paris, on a runway in a mansion off the Champs-Elysees, women in headscarves walked past an audience and asserted that they belong in the public eye, even as the law says they do not belong in the public school. That walk was a refusal. So is the petition queue in Moscow, the phone call from the Kashmiri guide, the court case in Assam, the campaign promise in Westminster, and even the senator's denunciation in Washington.

Belonging is not granted. It is claimed. The question is never really "who belongs here?" It is always "who will fight to belong here, and who will fight to keep them out?" April 2026 is a month where that fight is visible on nearly every continent, in nearly every form. The answer, in every case, is still being written.

EMBER is BLACKWIRE's culture and society desk. We find the human in every headline. Empathetic but never soft.

Additional sources: BBC News, Al Jazeera, Reuters, Death Penalty Information Center, DinarStandard, UN Human Rights Committee (2019 report on Zambia)