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China is preparing a new cybercrime law that is less of a technical update, and more a codification of the tightening of the state’s grip on the one thing it fears most: uncontrolled connection. The draft legislation will deepen real-name enforcement, widen penalties for identity workarounds and circumvention tools, and expand the state’s ability to blacklist violators, effectively locking people out of the digital infrastructure that now governs everyday life, from payments to platforms. The promise of this new cyber-crime law is perceived public order. The risk is that control can become so absolute that it will begin to choke the productivity and information flow that China’s economy quietly relies on. The piece argues that the Great Firewall is only the visible edge of a much larger system. Beijing’s main concern is not simply what Chinese citizens can read from abroad, but what they can share with each other at home, and most importantly, whether or not they can organize collectively at speed. This logic of repression and organization first hardened after the Arab Spring and intensified under Xi Jinping. The state’s solution has been to fuse political identity with online identity: real-name rules tying accounts to national IDs, enforcement strong enough that anonymity is no longer a default condition but a controlled privilege. The draft law would pressure internet service providers to police “violations” like using someone else’s ID, creating multiple accounts, or using tools that bypass restrictions. The fines would be substantial, but the real punishment would be administrative exile: blacklisting from all technological functions. , In China this can function as a kind of civil death, cut off not only from speech but from participation in the economy. The most combustible issue is VPNs, as the state’s need for control collides with its need for competence. VPN use is already generally illegal, yet enforcement is inconsistent precisely because the Chinese economy runs through blocked infrastructure. Coders need GitHub; academics need Google Scholar; state media and officials need foreign sources; companie, sometimes even state-linked ones, often depend on tools and services that don’t cleanly exist inside the firewall. Formal “approved” channels exist, but they are narrow, bureaucratic, and often impractical at scale. In practice, China has thrived in the gray zones with informal workarounds, tolerated loopholes, and selective blindness that has allowed the system to function without conceding the principle of control. That is why the proposed crackdown is not just about censorship; it is about whether China is willing to sacrifice frictionless access to information in exchange for tighter discipline. If the law makes professionals wary of VPNs, or makes companies fear that “normal” workarounds could suddenly become prosecutable, productivity will drop in ways that don’t show up immediately as protest, but as stagnation, slower innovation, and deeper isolation.

Continuing Conflicts

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It is abundantly clear that Mexico’s cartels are no longer just trafficking networks, they are territorial powers, operating across nearly every state and carving up swathes of the country under their control. What began in the 1980s as a strategy to protect cocaine routes has hardened into something more durable, with the complete control of certain ports, highways, border corridors, and local economies, which has intensified over the past decade by the synthetic-drug boom and the staggering profitability of fentanyl. Now, as Washington escalates pressure and labels several groups “foreign-terrorist organizations,” Mexico’s security forces are facing the oldest dilemma in this war: the state is expected to reassert authority in a landscape where authority has competitors. The Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) built its modern power not only through violence but through infrastructure. Based in Jalisco, it pushed outward by securing strategic ports on both coasts, gateways for precursor chemicals and the supply chains that make synthetic drugs scalable. That access helped it expand with U.S. demand for meth, fentanyl, and heroin, and then pivot toward cocaine with the kind of reach that turns a cartel into a global wholesaler. With “El Mencho” dead, the threat is not simply retaliation; it is fragmentation. Successor fights aren’t a side effect, they’re a feature of cartel governance, because routes, ports, and protection rackets don’t inherit themselves. Sinaloa, older and far more mythologized and propagandized, is undergoing its own violent reorganization. Founded by figures now held in U.S. custody, it has long operated through a decentralized distribution model, supplying U.S. markets through networks that do not require one visible throne. Over decades it evolved with the drug economy, shifting from marijuana and heroin to cocaine and fentanyl, and building a machine that can survive arrests by shedding skins. But the article’s quiet warning is that decentralization doesn’t prevent internal war; it can invite it. As deputies battle for dominance, Sinaloa’s long-standing territorial assumptions collide with CJNG’s expansion into northern corridors that were once treated as inherited property. The Gulf Cartel illustrates how this ecosystem persists even when a brand weakens. Once rooted in northeastern Mexico, it now functions as a looser confederation of factions—still profitable, still violent, and deeply embedded in the commerce of the border. Its business model extends beyond drugs into weapons flows and migrant-smuggling, feeding off the world’s busiest frontier with the efficiency of an illicit logistics company. Meanwhile, groups once written off, like the Beltrán Leyva organization, are described as quietly rebuilding capacity, aligning with low-profile figures and re-emerging as serious trafficking forces in the shadows of the big two. The most unsettling detail is how normal this geography has become. These are not distant badlands and border towns; cartel presence overlaps with Mexico’s postcard economy, with the beach states and resort towns that are marketed as leisure and safety. When tourist hubs sit inside contested territory, it reveals the deeper truth: cartel control is not always visible as firefights. Mexico’s crisis is not that cartels “exist,” but that they can operate as governing actors, taxing, regulating, punishing, while the state is left trying to enforce sovereignty as if it were still uncontested.

Europe

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Serbia’s security apparatus has announced the arrest of two men accused of planning to kill President Aleksandar Vučić and destabilize the constitutional order, a claim that arrives in a country already thick with suspicion, protest, and exhausted public trust. According to the interior ministry, the suspects, both from Kraljevo, are believed to have spent the past two months attempting to procure weapons for attacks not only on the president, but also on his wife and children, as well as police personnel. They are being held for initial questioning before prosecutors, as authorities frame the case as a violent attempt to strike at the state itself. The timing is inseparable from Serbia’s political temperature. The arrests land after a year of student-led mobilization and road blockades that grew out of outrage over corruption and state negligence following the Novi Sad train station disaster. That movement has pressed on an old fracture in Serbian politics: whether the system is capable of accountability without upheaval, or whether accountability has become something citizens must demand in the streets because institutions cannot produce it from within. In that atmosphere, allegations of an assassination plot are never only a security story, they become a narrative weapon, reshaping the boundaries of what the government can justify. The ruling party’s response reflects this logic of narrative consolidation. A senior figure close to the president argues that a sustained campaign of hostile rhetoric has “dehumanized” Vučić and his family, creating the conditions for violence. This framing does two things at once: it personalizes the state around the leader, and it recasts political opposition as a moral hazard that inevitably leads to physical threat. In systems drifting toward personalist rule, the safety of the leader becomes synonymous with the safety of the country, an equation that expands the state’s license to surveil, prosecute, and intimidate under the banner of “defending institutions.” Yet the danger of such moments is that they thicken the fog around facts. Serbia’s political landscape has been living under competing accusations: authorities deny authoritarianism and excessive force; critics insist repression and coercion have become routine; the government blames media and opposition discourse for destabilization; opponents blame a centralized executive for hollowing out accountability. In that environment, an alleged plot can be simultaneously real and politically useful, real enough to alarm the public, useful enough to discipline dissent, and ambiguous enough that the state controls the story simply by controlling the investigative pipeline. This is how instability hardens into a cycle. Protest and outrage produce pressure; pressure produces securitization; securitization produces new justifications for limiting public space; and limited public space produces more outrage. Whether or not the alleged conspiracy proves substantial in court, its immediate function is already visible: it shifts attention from corruption and governance toward threat and survival, and it invites citizens to interpret protest not as civic demand but as proximity to chaos. Serbia is not only facing a security question; it is facing an institutional one. If the state can credibly investigate and prosecute violent plotting while maintaining transparent legal standards, it strengthens legitimacy. If the episode becomes a pretext to widen the category of “threat” to include opposition politics, journalists, and street mobilization, it accelerates the slide toward a security-state posture where dissent is treated as pre-criminal. In a country where the streets have been demanding accountability, the real test is whether power answers with reform, or with fear.

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Asia

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Southeast Asia’s cyberscam industry is now producing a second, quieter catastrophe, engulfing survivors who escape trafficking compounds only to end up sleeping on sidewalks in Cambodia and Myanmar, stranded without passports, money, or a way home. Aid workers describe it as an “international crisis” not because the scale is new, but because the world keeps treating the aftermath as someone else’s problem, rescuing victims in headline operations, then abandoning them in the administrative limbo between “freed” and “safe.” The article reveals the shaddowy ecosystem that has only strengthened and metastasized since the pandemic: vast scam “farms” across Cambodia, Myanmar, Laos, the Philippines, and Malaysia, pulling in jobseekers from dozens of countries with promises of legitimate work and then trapping them through cross-border trafficking, document confiscation, and coercion. Inside, victims are forced into online fraud, catfishing and extortion, under threats of torture, sexual violence, and death. This is not simply cybercrime; it is forced labor backed by physical terror, with a business model that treats people as both tools and hostages. Even when governments intervene, the rescue can become another holding pattern. In Myanmar, those “freed” are reportedly kept for weeks in car parks, military camps, or detention-like facilities while authorities process them. In Cambodia, many end up homeless in cities, traumatized, sick, and undocumented. Large-scale crackdowns have yielded thousands of rescues, but the humanitarian infrastructure to absorb the survivors has not followed. Smaller shelters are overwhelmed; larger aid institutions are described as absent; and funding cuts across the sector have left frontline groups trying to patch a crisis with donations and improvisation. The most brutal detail is how victimhood is disputed the moment people step outside the compounds. Because survivors were forced to participate in scams, they are often viewed with suspicion rather than protected as trafficking victims. Aid groups describe a “bias” that makes them less sympathetic beneficiaries, and in both Cambodia and Thailand, victims have been arrested. The effect is perverse: the very coercion that defines their exploitation becomes the reason they are denied help. In a system built on fear and paperwork, “rescued” can still mean criminalized. Bureaucracy have turned these “rescues” into a trap. Survivors rarely have valid visas or documents because they were smuggled across borders and had papers seized; yet some international organizations are constrained from providing accommodation precisely because hosting someone without proper status can violate local law. The result is a moral absurdity: institutions mandated to protect trafficking survivors can’t legally shelter them. The question raised is devastating in its simplicity, if “victim protection” agencies cannot offer emergency safety, what exactly is their function on the ground? One survivor, Felix from Ethiopia, describes 18-hour shifts at a computer under frequent violence and no medical care until chronic illness made him “a hindrance” and he was released, only to spend months waiting for repatriation, dependent on emergency support for food and treatment. Others escape through jungle routes, risking recapture; some pay ransom; many linger outside embassies, sleeping rough, hungry, and exposed. The most pressing consequence of the bureaucratic clusterfuck, is that abandonment of this incredibly vulnerable population only fuels recapture. Without safe housing, food, medical and psychological support, survivors can be drawn back to the scam compounds simply because they provide shelter, or fall into new forms of exploitation in transit or upon return. In that sense, inadequate post-rescue support is not a secondary problem; it is part of the trafficking pipeline. The industry doesn’t only profit from trapping people. It profits from how hard it is to leave, and how disastrously various governments bungle the response.

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Africa

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Senegal’s prime minister has moved to turn a familiar scapegoat into formalized policy. Ousmane Sonko has informed parliament that his government has introduced a bill that would double prison terms for consensual same-sex relations, raising the penalty to five to ten years, and criminalizing “any sexual act or act of a sexual nature” between people of the same sex as an “act against nature.” The bill arrives amid a surge of arrests, public outing campaigns, and a loud, social-media-driven wave of homophobia that has already made private life in Senegal almost impossible for members of the gay community. What makes the proposal especially chilling is how far it extends beyond punishment into social control. The draft reportedly includes three to seven years in prison for “advocacy” related to same-sex relations, a language broad enough to menace not only activists but journalists, health educators, lawyers, and any individual offering a public defense of basic human rights. It also claims to penalize false accusations “without proof,” a clause that reads like balance but is unlikely to protect anyone in a climate where rumor is political currency and police action is already being celebrated as moral cleansing. In practice, such provisions can become a second weapon: selective enforcement that punishes the vulnerable while leaving vigilante incitement untouched. At the same time the crackdown is being sold as an act of cultural sovereignty and conservative strength. As in many countries, LGBTQ rights are framed as a foreign import and a Western imposition, allowing officials to present repression as national self-defense. That framing is politically efficient: it converts blatant governing failures like economic strain, insecurity, and mass public frustration, into a moral crusade with an all too easy targets. It also invites a darker bargain: the state offers “values enforcement” as proof of legitimacy, while citizens are encouraged to participate through denunciation and public shaming. Senegalese media have increasingly blurred consensual same-sex relations with a separate child sex abuse scandals, and the bill bundles provisions on both same-sex relations and abuse of minors. Human rights groups warn this trajectory will not only intensify violence and blackmail but also undermine public health, especially for people living with HIV, who may avoid clinics and services when contact with the state carries the risk of arrest, exposure, or extortion. The government, in effect, would be trading health and safety for ideological theater, and dressing it up as virtue. Senegal has long been treated by Western countries as a relatively democratic and stable state in a contentious region. This bill tests that reputation by clarifying what kind of “order” the state intends to build: one where the criminal law is used to enforce a single moral line, and where “advocacy” itself becomes suspect. Even if the vote date is not yet set, the direction is already clear. When a government tightens punishment for private behavior and then criminalizes the defense of that behavior, it isn’t simply legislating morality, it is shrinking the public sphere, one wrongful prison sentece at a time. /

Middle East

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Authoritarian power in the Middle East is inching toward a new ambition: not merely crushing protests, but preventing them from forming at all. As AI-driven “conflict forecasting” matures, feeding on vast streams of data to flag where unrest might ignite, researchers and rights advocates warn that regimes could use these tools to identify activists, map networks, and intervene before dissent becomes visible. The nightmare scenario is an upgraded security state that doesn’t wait for crowds to gather; it arrests the possibility of a crowd in advance. In Tunisia in 2010, when Mohamed Bouazizi’s self-immolation cascaded into the revolution that helped trigger the Arab Spring. Ben Ali’s government couldn’t foresee the tipping point. But today’s autocracies, are building systems that try to detect “subtle signals” of instability, through models trained on patterns in past conflict and fed by real-time indicators that range from media reporting and event databases to economic stress markers, demographic data, and potentially even location tracking. The promise, in neutral hands, is preparedness, better allocation of humanitarian resources and earlier warnings for crises. In coercive hands, it becomes preemptive repression and the destruction of free will. Even researchers inside the forecasting field acknowledge the risk. One founder of a forecasting organization reported to DW that they deliberately do not publish protest predictions, precisely because protests can be a healthy democratic pressure valve, and because a “bad actor” could use those forecasts to crack down. He also warns against AI mysticism: current models work on probabilities and averages, not clairvoyance. Yet he concedes the direction of travel is clear, better data and improving prediction will increase the temptation and the potential for misuse. Rights advocates focus on a more immediate problem, that the infrastructure is already here. The tech director of Amnesty also warned that prediction tools inherit bias and errors from the data they are trained on and rely on a flawed assumption that complex human behavior can be reduced to simple indicators, an idea that has already failed in crime-prediction contexts. But even imperfect tools can be politically effective if the goal is intimidation rather than accuracy. A system doesn’t have to be right to be dangerous; it only has to make people believe they can be identified. Egypt’s maintains a heavily monitored digital sphere and camera-heavy new capital; Saudi Arabia’s use of facial recognition for crowd management and its plans for surveillance-heavy smart-city projects; and Bahrain and Iran’s long histories of tech-enabled repression all fit the same pattern: technology as regime continuity. The UAE is presented as the most advanced case, not because it is uniquely harsh, but because it is uniquely positioned. With deep resources, tight political control, and limited public oversight, it has developed “safe city” projects and predictive-policing systems that fuse facial recognition with behavioral analysis. It also benefits from close technological ties and imported tools, especially from China, a country already using AI-powered monitoring to suppress dissent domestically. The combination is potent: money, sensors, political opacity, and a state that does not have to justify its methods to voters. The most chilling argument is that preemption changes the psychology of protest. When people believe the state can see them assembling, before they assemble, they self-censor. That “chilling effect” is itself a form of control: an atmosphere where dissent dies quietly in private rather than loudly in public. In that world, the regime doesn’t need mass arrests; it needs only the credible threat of being watched and predicted. What emerges is a bleak future: governance by forecast, legitimacy replaced by anticipation, coercion upgraded into preventative administration. The Arab Spring showed how one local shock can ripple into a regional rupture. The next generation of security states is trying to ensure shocks never become ripples, by turning society into data and treating potential protest as a crime scene that hasn’t happened yet.

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Americas

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In the wake of El Mencho’s death, Mexico was hit twice, first by real retaliation on the ground, and then by a second, engineered wave of panic online. Roadblocks, arson attacks, and assaults on businesses did erupt after the kingpin fell. But the digital version was designed to look apocalyptic: airports supposedly seized by gunmen, aircraft burning on runways, churches and tourist districts engulfed in smoke. These claims were false, yet they spread at industrial speed, multiplying the sense of collapse and making the cartel’s reach feel limitless. This is not incidental misinformation; it is psychological warfare fitted to the smartphone. Criminal groups have learned that terror scales better when it travels as content. If a cartel can persuade a country that violence is everywhere, even where it isn’t, it doesn’t need to physically control every street to control behavior. People stay home, commerce freezes, authorities scramble, and the state appears weak. The point is not accuracy. The point is atmosphere: a climate in which the public cannot tell what is happening, only that something is happening, and that the cartel is the author. The post-kingpin moment is especially fertile for this tactic because the narrative is up for grabs. A state killing a top boss is supposed to signal capacity and deterrence. A cartel’s counter-message is that decapitation changes nothing, that it can still paralyze cities, embarrass the government, and punish the population on demand. Inflating the scale of chaos online turns retaliation into spectacle, and spectacle into a referendum on sovereignty. Victory on paper becomes fear in practice. This ecosystem now has new accelerants. The old propaganda playbook relied on recycled videos and miscaptioned footage from other places, but generative tools make fabrication faster, more varied, and more persuasive, new images, new edits, new “eyewitness” framing produced at low cost. Add the rise of narco influencers, accounts that glamorize organized crime, normalize its aesthetics, and function as voluntary amplifiers—and the cartel doesn’t need to directly post everything to dominate the feed. It can seed a rumor and let an audience build the wildfire. The damage is amplified by Mexico’s reporting constraints. When violence makes it dangerous for journalists to verify events on the ground, especially in contested areas, falsehood fills the vacuum with confidence and speed. The public then consumes a distorted map of reality where every rumor sounds plausible because the country has already lived through enough real brutality to make the fake feel believable. Disinformation thrives in environments where the truth is hard to physically reach. Officials say they are identifying accounts and attempting to rebut the flood, but rebuttal is always slower than fear. A correction cannot compete with an image of smoke over a city, even when the smoke is staged or misattributed. Meanwhile, ambiguity itself serves the cartel: if citizens cannot tell what is true, they assume the worst, and that assumption becomes another form of control. What this reveals is a shift in how cartels govern. They still traffic drugs and extort businesses, but increasingly they also manage perception, manufacturing crises that make the state look absent and the cartel look omnipresent. In that world, a cartel’s power is measured not only in weapons, but in attention: the ability to hijack the national nervous system, to flood the country’s screens with dread, and to turn a security success into a story of chaos.

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Despot of the Week


President Samia Suluhu Hassan

 

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