Hello Reader,
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Not every protest is a cry for freedom. Some are revolutions; others are tantrums of the entitled. But when women bleed out in delivery rooms, tortured corpses drift down rivers, and leaders flaunt Rolexes while citizens drown in floodwaters, outrage is warranted.
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From Lima to Manila, Gen Z has had enough—and no generation has ever been better equipped to fight back.

The Global Fight for Freedom

1. Peru: Earth's Most Reviled Government
2. Moroccan Stadiums Gleam as Mothers Die
3. Kenya Targets a Generation of "Terrorists"
4. Madagascar's Young Refuse to Live in Darkness
5. Filipino Ghosts Meet a Fearless Generation

Country names are followed by their 2025 freedom scores according to Freedom House. Not a ranking.

Protesters shot in the back while fleeing. Bodies floating in rivers, marked with signs of torture. Between December 2022 and February 2023, Peruvian security forces fired live ammunition into crowds of mostly Indigenous demonstrators demanding President Dina Boluarte's resignation, killing 49. Authorities branded them "terrorists" and "criminals," deployed military troops for domestic policing, and prosecuted zero officers. Boluarte claimed she lacked control over the military, even as she praised its actions.
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Peru's democracy has been rotting since its 90’s transition from dictatorship failed to dismantle authoritarian structures. The military retained autonomy. Parties fragmented into vehicles for personal enrichment. Since 2016, six presidents have cycled through office, each collapsing amid corruption scandals. Congress—where 67 of 130 members face criminal investigation—operates as a cartel, protecting its own through rigged election procedures.
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In early September, Congress delivered another indignity: a law forcing all Peruvians over 18 to join private pension funds, despite 70% working informal jobs without steady income. For Gen Z—watching Boluarte flaunt Rolexes while preaching austerity—the mandate felt like robbery. Meanwhile, extortion cases quintupled and homicides spiked. Gen Z Peruvians had enough—demonstrators hurled stones and petrol bombs at law enforcement, who responded with tear gas and rubber bullets. By week’s end, 19 lay injured.
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A familiar flag waved above the crowds—not of a nation, but of an idea: a skull-and-crossbones in a straw hat from Japan’s One Piece. First raised by Nepal’s youth, it’s now the global emblem of defiance, its outlaw grin reborn on real streets.
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Boluarte's approval has plunged to 2.5%. Congress: 3%. September's protests spread to six cities, temporarily shutting copper mines in the world's third-largest producer.
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One protester channeled Thomas Jefferson: "My generation is tired of being silenced when the government we elected should fear us."
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That’s damn right. Peru's youth recognize a failed state.

After the eighth mother died during childbirth at Agadir’s Hassan II Hospital in September, families gathered outside what they now call the “Death Hospital,” demanding answers for women who bled out in a facility lacking even basic equipment. When the Health Minister toured the crumbling wards, a citizen asked about the missing supplies. His response — “Go demonstrate in Rabat” — unleashed a nation’s wrath.
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By month’s end, thousands of young Moroccans flooded the streets in a dozen cities. Drawing inspiration from the Nepalese uprising that toppled a government, they rallied under the Gen Z 212 banner, organizing through TikTok and Discord. Some torched cars and ransacked shops. Their slogan captured the irony: “Stadiums are here, but where are the hospitals?” Morocco is building three gleaming new arenas for the 2030 World Cup while its health system collapses.
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Morocco calls itself a constitutional monarchy, but King Mohammed VI wields absolute power. Parliament exists only as democratic theater. Since the 2011 Arab Spring forced limited reforms, the monarchy has quietly reclaimed control. Prime Minister Aziz Akhannouch — a billionaire whose family fortune is tied to the palace — epitomizes the elite power excluding ordinary Moroccans from their own country’s wealth.
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Youth unemployment stands at 35.8 %, fueling the unrest. In Agadir, plainclothes police swarmed protesters, dragging some into vans. By Thursday, more than 400 people had been arrested and at least 23 civilians injured. In nearby Leqlia, security forces opened fire, killing three. Authorities claimed they had tried to seize weapons, but no witnesses corroborated the story. The government promised dialogue.
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Morocco’s gleaming stadiums rise over fresh graves. Gen Z wants more than dialogue.

When protests erupted in Matuu in late June, Veronicah Mbindyo closed her fuel shop early and went home. Days later, police showed up at her workplace. The 21-year-old—who hadn’t even joined the demonstration—was arrested, accused of arson, and weeks later re-charged with terrorism. “I was so confused,” she told reporters. “To me, a terrorist is someone covering their face, throwing grenades, shooting people. But…I guess I’m Al-Shabaab now.”
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Since June, President William Ruto’s government has used Kenya’s 2012 Prevention of Terrorism Act—a law meant to fight Al-Shabaab—to prosecute protesters under sweeping new powers. At least 75 people have been charged with terrorism, and nearly 1,500 others face serious accusations ranging from arson to murder. The law allows 90 days of detention without trial and imposes crippling bail conditions.
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Kenya was once hailed as a democratic model after its 2010 Constitution promised transparency and reform. But under Ruto, that promise has rotted. When bodies of missing protesters surfaced in rivers, some showing torture marks, police called them “accidental injuries.” After a popular blogger died in custody, officials claimed he “hit his head against a cell wall,” reigniting nationwide fury.
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A nation still scarred by real terrorist attacks now brands a generation’s legitimate grievances a terrorist threat. Kenya’s democracy—once a regional light—is criminalizing dissent, dimming freedom across a continent desperate for it.

Fanilo arrived at Antananarivo’s university carrying flowers and placards, singing with fellow medical students. Within minutes, security forces fired tear gas—then bullets. “We realized they wanted to kill us,” he later said. Five students fell on September 25^th, their bodies marked by AK-47 wounds—victims of a government choosing violence over answering for twelve-hour daily blackouts.
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Anger had been building for months as JIRAMA, the state utility drowning in debt equal to 8% of GDP, failed spectacularly while President Andry Rajoelina spent $152 million on a cable car through the capital. Rajoelina, who first seized power in a 2009 coup before winning disputed elections, now faces the generation he betrayed. A Facebook page called Gen Z Madagascar became the protest hub, gaining 100,000 followers in five days. Its logo reimagined the One Piece straw hat as Malagasy headwear.
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Once a French colony, Madagascar gained independence in 1960 but never built a state strong enough to escape elite capture. Presidents rise through coups or rigged elections; courts and ministries serve whichever faction rules. 75% of citizens live in poverty while politicians’ children study abroad on stolen wealth.
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When thousands marched on September 25^th despite a government ban, police opened fire. The UN reported 22 dead and over 100 injured as protests spread to six cities. On September 29, Rajoelina—attending the UN General Assembly as his country burned—dissolved the government. As of this week, demonstrations continue.
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Madagascar’s youth refuse to live in darkness.

Waist-deep in Manila’s murky floodwaters, Filipinos shouted what officials could no longer deny: billions had vanished. The government had spent some $9.5 billion on nearly 10,000 flood-control projects since 2022—yet swollen rivers still burst through slums and sweep away homes. In the 2025 monsoon season alone, at least 30 lives were lost.
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When two former engineers testified in the Senate that dozens of those works were never built and massive kickbacks were routinely demanded, Manila erupted. On September 21—the 53rd anniversary of Marcos Sr.’s declaration of martial law (3,240 killed, 34,000 tortured)—50,000 protesters filled Rizal Park. “If there’s a budget for ghost works, why is there no budget for health?” a young nurse shouted. Some waved the One Piece flag in solidarity, echoing protest movements across Asia.
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Marcos Jr. surprised many by backing their outrage: he launched an independent commission, vowed “no one will be spared,” and canceled new flood-control allocations in the 2026 budget.
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But the legacy of his father’s regime lingers. Political dynasties dominate Congress, public office is treated as interlocking family business, and institutions bend to pressure: courts, media, and procurement systems yield to power. Government bodies meant to enforce accountability are staffed by the same networks that benefit from impunity.
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Under Marcos Jr’s predecessor, Rodrigo Duterte, oppression was brutal and visible. Under Marcos, it quietly endures.
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The ghosts of Filipino history still haunt the living, but they no longer frighten the kids.

Freedom Fighter of the Week: Dr. Mahrang Baloch

It was dawn in late March. Dr. Mahrang Baloch had spent the night alongside hundreds at a peaceful sit-in protesting police violence. The day before, officers had opened fire on demonstrators mourning victims of the Jaffar Express hijacking, killing three. At dawn, Balochistan police swarmed. As tear gas canisters arced through dawn air, plainclothes officers grabbed the 32-year-old physician. For twelve hours, her family received no word of her whereabouts. When authorities finally confirmed her detention, they charged her with attacking a hospital and "inciting violence”, ensuring she could be treated as a terrorist.
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This week, after 6 months in “physical remand”, a Quetta anti-terrorism court finally granted Dr. Mahrang an upgrade, to “judicial remand”. The designation matters little—she remains imprisoned without trial, denied of medical care. But the shift exposed what terrifies Pakistan's military about this remarkable woman, who has transformed her grief into purpose—and a 2025 Nobel Peace Prize nomination.
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Violence around her worsens by the day. On September 30^th, a car bomb outside Quetta’s Frontier Corps HQ killed 10. Throughout 2025, the Baloch Liberation Army has hijacked trains, seized villages, and launched Operation Baam, killing 18 Pakistani soldiers. Pakistan’s military—under the brutal General Asim Munir—hit back with drone strikes on civilian areas, house-to-house raids, and mass detentions. In 2024, more than 320 died as desperate insurgents turned to suicide bombings targeting Chinese projects and Punjabi civilians.
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Dr. Mahrang charts a different path. Since her father’s torture and murder in 2011, she has anchored the Baloch Yakjehti Committee’s nonviolent resistance—organizing the 1,600-km “March Against Baloch Genocide” in 2023 and Balochistan’s largest-ever protests in 2024.
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Her advocacy gives voice to the missing and uncounted: In the past two decades in Balochistan alone, at least 2,700 enforced disappearances by Pakistan’s military have been documented, including her father. The regime labels her and the BYC as traitors or terrorists.
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Pakistan’s military regime aims to douse a spark of freedom—before it becomes an inferno.

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