As citizen mobilisations and protest movements increase, the political and media discourse becomes more severe. “Terrorists”, “enemies of the nation”, “criminal organisations” or even “environmental fanatics” – countless monikers pop up to discredit and stigmatise defenders of rights.

Words thus serve as the basis for a process of criminalisation that can lead to prison. In Denmark, the names of certain climate activists now appear on the list of terrorist threats. In France, government officials have referred to certain peaceful protest actions in favour of the environment as “eco-terrorism”. Repression is not limited to environmental activists: in late 2023 in Russia, the Supreme Court labelled “the international LGBT movement” “extremist”. This term is broadly used around the globe to target and ultimately prosecute any person perceived as dissident: political figures, journalists, rights advocates, etc.

Michel Forst has been the United Nations Special Rapporteur on Environmental Defenders since 2022. He has observed a gradual restriction of the civic space in which words carry considerable weight. “The first step towards restricting activists is through public discourse, primarily by politicians, who use extremely violent terms such as ‘eco-terrorists’, ‘green Taliban’ and ‘green Khmer’ to stigmatise those who use unconventional methods. The mere fact that in France, an interior minister likened them to terrorists¹, when he is responsible for fighting terrorism, shows the gravity of these words.” The danger, says the Special Rapporteur, is that certain terminology becomes normalised, moulding public opinion until it becomes justifiable to use exceptional methods against these activists. They are depicted as domestic enemies through rhetoric that sets the stage for laws to be passed to institutionalise their criminalisation.

Indigenous Guatemalan activist Lucia Ixchíu stresses that the violent words used by the media and in the political sphere aim to fracture community organising through defamation and false accusations.

 To counter this violence, she calls for a reappropriation of the narrative by humanising the activists. “We are working on the narrative combat and on ensuring an image with some decency. Writing autobiographies can help show that these are not bloodthirsty militants but parents, teachers, etc.”

Rights defenders equated with troublemakers become prime targets for legal provisions put into place by governments. These measures, in the name of security, restrict dissenting voices.

“The criminalisation happens often under broad and vaguely worded state-security or counter-terror legislation, by contending that human rights defenders are supporting terrorism or posing a risk to state security by exposing human rights violations carried out by the state”, explains Mary Lawlor, United Nations Special Rapporteur on the situation of human rights defenders.

In Türkiye, Güçlü Sevimli, a lawyer and member of the Progressive Lawyers Association (Çağdaş Hukukçular Derneği, ÇHD) states that “the anti-terror law, used as a tool, is not applied by itself, but in conjunction with relevant articles of the Turkish Penal Code governing organised crime, such as Articles 314 and 220. When the State perceives a lawyer as a threat to the system and aims to silence or incapacitate them, the ‘terror laws’ are invoked to label them as members of illegal organisations.”

 In some countries, the criminalisation occurs via accusations of lese-majesty, or defamation of the ruler. In Thailand, “anyone who defames, insults or threatens the king, the queen, the heir or the regent can be punished with a prison sentence of three to fifteen years under Article 112 of the penal code”, explains Akanit Tadi from the organisation Freedom Bridge.

In Cambodia, Sun Ratha, an activist involved in the Mother Nature Cambodia movement, describes being convicted twice under Articles 437bis and 453 of the penal code, for “insulting the king” and “conspiracy”. “These accusations are vague and politically motivated. They are often used to silence dissidents and criminalise peaceful activism”, she observes. Sun Ratha is currently living in exile in Canada. If she returns to Cambodia, she could be imprisoned.

In Mexico, broad interpretations of legal provisions primarily impact Indigenous militants and environmentalists. José Luis Gutiérrez, from the organisation Asilegal, observes that the state invokes offences such as “rioting, obstructing public order, obstructing lines of communication or even terrorism for the purpose of silencing conflicts”.

In Burundi, the current president is following in the footsteps of his predecessor and maintaining the policy that has forced a great number of activists to live in exile, some for over 10 years. The government justifies the repression of activists and journalists through laws to maintain “national security and public order”, reports Anitha Gateretse, the national coordinator for Tournons La Page Burundi.

The Algerian government uses the same ploys. When the penal code was revised in June 2021, a provision was introduced that made it possible to prosecute for “terrorism or sabotage anyone who has called to change the system of governance through unconstitutional methods”, notes the collective for families of missing people (Collectif des Familles de Disparu.es en Algérie, CFDA). Fifteen years earlier, the Charter for Peace and National Reconciliation granted jurisdictional immunity to state officials. This legal text was adopted following the Algerian Civil War and the thousands of enforced disappearances attributed to security forces. One of its articles states that anyone who exploits the wounds of the national tragedy can be punished with three to five years in prison. The CFDA feels that this article “threatens not only the direct victims and their families, by discouraging them from filing complaints, even in cases of persistent rights violations, but also journalists, who are compelled to censor themselves”. It makes it nearly impossible to combat impunity, observes Nassera Dutour, president of the collective, who now must live in exile in France.

 Legislative instrumentalisation also targets people who take action in favour of LGBTQI+ issues. In Russia, the “LGBT propaganda law”, adopted in 2013, forbids any “public expression or the dissemination of information related to LGBT+ identities, relationships or rights in the media, education or culture”, reports Dilya Gafurova from the Sphere queer organisation. She adds that another widespread practice is using the law on “foreign agents” against human rights defenders, as it includes strict requirements that, if not met, can lead to criminal sanctions.

Other governments act without any legal argument to support their repression. In Guinea, the military dictatorship of 2021 was, like its predecessors, characterised by the criminalisation of civil society. Without solid legal evidence to support repression, the state cited baseless accusations including, for example, organised crime. Alseny Farinta Camara, from Tournons La Page Guinée, also attests to the absurdity of arrests: “It was criminals disguised as police officers or gendarmes who came to abduct the activists.”

As the climate crisis worsens, environmental advocates are manoeuvring through an increasingly hostile situation. UN Women identified 1,698 attacks on environmental activists between 2016 and 2019 in Mexico and Central America. In Cambodia, Sun Ratha was placed in detention in 2021 for environmental monitoring. “I was working with two other environmental defenders to gather evidence of illegal wastewater discharge into a river. For merely documenting environmental damage, which should never be considered a criminal offence, we were arrested”, she says.

 The work of Oscar Berglund, a researcher at the University of Bristol (United Kingdom), reveals that certain countries, such as Australia, Canada, and the United Kingdom, record particularly high arrest rates during protests for the climate and the environment. In contrast, in countries such as France, Peru, South Africa and Uganda, the arrest rates are lower but rates of police violence are higher.

Michel Forst notes the existence of a “European” paradox: certain western powers make commitments on the international stage to support environmental protection efforts and their defenders but take a remarkably different stance on their own soil. For example, the development agencies of numerous European countries allocate huge budgets to climate change and, notably, to protecting human rights defenders. This position contrasts sharply with the repression demonstrated by the authorities. In 2023 in Sainte-Soline, France, law enforcement used GM2L grenades – which are classified as weapons of war – against protesters.

The United Kingdom aspires to become a world leader in the fight against pollution and climate change. As co-chair of the Climate and Clean Air Coalition for 2025, the state has committed to financing this initiative by committing several billion pounds sterling. In parallel, the suppression of ecological demonstrations has toughened since the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Act came into effect in 2022. People who participate in protests now risk incurring sentences of up to ten years in prison if they are convicted of having intentionally or recklessly caused “public nuisance”. This is how, a few months after the law was enacted, five activists in the Just Stop Oil movement found themselves sentenced to several years in prison for participating in a videoconference meeting to prepare to disrupt traffic on a motorway. About ten other activists have since received prison sentences on the same grounds.

Many other examples exist. “The Italian authorities increasingly use ‘anti-mafia’ provisions, some of which had fallen into disuse”, observes Michel Forst. “In Sweden, the number of environmental defenders sentenced for participating in peaceful protests is constantly on the rise”, he says. “Actions that might have recently been labelled ‘disobedience’ are now increasingly considered ‘sabotage’ in courts. This term, inherited from the Second World War, has made a comeback and illustrates the way in which states draw on anything the law has available in order to combat activists.”

The power relationships inherited from the colonial past persist. Separatist movements and Indigenous struggles to defend lands and cultural rights are punished particularly harshly. Under the pretext of maintaining social and political order, some states turn to the justice system to suppress grievances.

Global Witness reported that between 2012 and 2023, 766 members of Indigenous communities were murdered, representing 36% of all killings of environmental defenders. In 2024, Indigenous Peoples Rights International condemned the increase in attacks against those opposed to the mining and energy projects imposed on their lands. The organisation pointed out that over half of the world’s transition minerals and a large percentage of energy potential are located within the Indigenous territories of the 35 countries it represents. These resources attract greed and violence, fuelling the criminalisation of the defenders who reject the exploitation of their lands without their consent.

 In Latin America, Indigenous leaders are imprisoned after opposing extraction projects imposed on their territory without prior consultation. José Luis Gutiérrez observes that in Mexico, these prosecutions are often based on unsubstantiated grounds, and fabricating accusations remains a widespread practice used to stifle dissent.

In relation to Guatemala, Lucia Ixchíu describes a much broader strategy of dismantling local solidarity. Certain members of the community end up joining extraction corporations – not by choice, but out of exhaustion. She explains that “by weakening those who oppose the extraction projects, the community becomes divided. This divide relies on rumours, the acquisition of wills, and impoverishment. It must be understood that those who end up collaborating with the extraction corporations did not willingly choose to do so but were driven to it following a process of violence, persecution and criminalisation. After years – sometimes four, five, even ten years – of fighting that has cost them the lives of their loved ones, some community leaders switch to the side of the corporations. It is a violent punishment that leads to surrender: ‘We killed your husband, now we’re going to give you a job’.”

 Repression is often fuelled by the intersecting interests of public authorities and private companies. Michel Forst criticises the forms of collusion between states and multinational corporations, which are jointly responsible for the destruction of ecosystems and the illegitimate seizing of lands belonging to Indigenous peoples. These alliances remain difficult to document, and those responsible often act with complete impunity.

The organisation Front Line Defenders points out that the repression of activists escalates when corporations are involved. “The multinationals often work alongside the state to suppress activists, with the goal of silencing them and preventing them from continuing their advocacy work”, it writes. In Guatemala, the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights observed in 2016 that criminal complaints were sometimes filed by companies and were later withdrawn if leaders in the Indigenous community accepted a given project or promoted its acceptance.

The overrepresentation of Indigenous individuals in prison reflects ongoing structural discrimination. This can be explained, says José Luis Gutiérrez, by limited access to justice and the frequent manipulation of the justice system. The language barrier and insecurity can obstruct access to a fair defence. In certain cases, the lawyers do not speak the language of the person they are defending. This reinforces the effects of prejudice and institutional racism, first in the courts but then also in prison, by prison authorities and other incarcerated individuals. Lucia Ixchíu highlights the extent of these obstacles in Guatemala: “Many communities or leaders of Indigenous communities do not speak Spanish as their mother tongue or first language, but all trials are nevertheless held in Spanish. The language barrier prevents people from even knowing why they have been detained.” This injustice is what pushed her to take action. “I needed to help, to provide tools to families so they could understand the situation their loved ones were in, and also to try to explain to the person who is detained the criminalisation process at work.”

 Repression enables the maintenance of the status quo that favours the appropriation of lands and the gradual extinction of collective rights. The authorities stifle any dissent by targeting rights defenders. This strategy, which is not uncommon, can also be seen in other territories: for example, Mary Lawlor cites the systematic crackdowns in Europe and the United States against those who support the Palestinian cause.

Repression takes on another dimension in occupied territories. “Any Palestinian who plays a role in politics, including motivational leaders and speakers, is targeted by the occupation”, explains Jenna Abu Hasna of the association Addameer. “Any form of resistance, even peaceful, can be charged with incitement to violence and result in a prison sentence of over 20 years. Attending a protest, as well as simply sharing content expressing solidarity with Palestinians on social media, can be seen as inciting violence and lead to arrest and detention. Expressing support against the ongoing genocide in Gaza is enough to be incarcerated.”

Repressing activism represents a key tool for political control in certain states. By criminalising dissenting voices, the authorities endeavour to disqualify any opposition and reinforce their grip on the public space by presenting themselves as the guarantor of order and stability.

In Algeria, it is possible to be incarcerated for merely carrying a sign during a protest that says “no to dictatorship”, says Nassera Dutour of the collective for families of missing people (Collectif des Familles de Disparu.es en Algérie, CFDA). A dissenting message, even if it is peaceful, can result in a penal response – one illustration among many of broader repression. As such, several civil society organisations have been targeted or dissolved by the Algerian authorities in recent years. The Rassemblement Actions Jeunesse, an organisation active in social mobilisations, was disbanded in 2021. The offices of SOS Culture Bab El-Oued, an association committed to helping young people in working-class neighbourhoods, were searched the same year. The association’s president, Nacer Meghnine, was sentenced to one year in prison. Officially, the proceedings related to public order. Unofficially, it is because the cultural movement and citizen engagement were troublesome.

 In Burundi, the crackdown on dissidence is systematic and violent. Tournons La Page Burundi indicates that between 2015 and 2023, 13,072 arbitrary arrests were recorded, 1,381 bodies were found and 1,225 cases of torture were reported, among other alarming figures.

In 2016, the Burundian government suspended the activities of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights. The office closed permanently in 2019. This rejection of any international surveillance is indicative of a regime that rejects checks and balances and harshly represses any opposition.

Repression affects everyone perceived as a threat to the status quo. Accordingly, some professions are particularly targeted: lawyers, for example. In Türkiye, around fifteen members of the Progressive Lawyers Association (Çağdaş Hukukçular Derneği, ÇHD) were imprisoned in several facilities across the country, notes Güçlü Sevimli. “Despite the absence of concrete evidence within the case files, the primary basis for prosecution in both trials was the testimony of anonymous witnesses. Ebru Timtik, one of the ÇHD lawyers […], passed away on 27 August 2020, while on a hunger strike protesting for a fair trial.”

 In Tunisia, the lawyer Sonia Dahmani, who specialises in defending human rights, was violently arrested at the bar association headquarters in Tunis on 11 May 2024 and incarcerated at the Manouba women’s prison for speaking out about racism and the inhumane treatment of migrants detained in the country on behalf of the European Union.

In the context of authoritarianism, controlling the press is also a key tool. It not only makes it possible to muzzle political alternatives, but it also reinforces the legitimacy of the ruling power. Access to social media - often the last place where it is possible to protest - is also subject to its own repressive framework. Merely expressing an opinion on social media can lead to criminal charges, due to the growing digitalisation of surveillance tools, enabling authorities to extend their control into the digital space. Akanit Tadi, from the organisation Freedom Bridge, warns of the risks in Thailand: “All you have to do is repost content, without even giving your opinion. Some people have been arrested for sharing publications from the BBC.” One man was convicted in 2015 to 25 years in prison for posting criticisms of the royal family.

In Tunisia, Sonia Dahmani’s sister Ramla Dahmani observes that Decree-law 54, which was the basis for Sonia’s arrest, “was introduced under the pretext of protecting social media and other communication platforms from defamation, incitement to hatred, and similar offences. In reality, it is a highly repressive and dangerously vague piece of legislation, widely used to justify arrests – for a Facebook post, a like, or simply sharing someone else’s status. Today, any word spoken against the president or the government can lead to prison.” Prison is playing an ever-greater role in Tunisia. “Lawyers, journalists, and civil society activists were the first to be targeted”, she explains. “Now, more and more ordinary people – like you and me – are ending up behind bars. A climate of constant fear has taken hold.”

 Beyond political movements and community mobilisation, certain communities are being locked up for simply existing. People who identify as LGBTQIA+ are among those for whom merely belonging to a certain community is sufficient grounds for arrest.

Jonathan Osei Owusu, Executive Director of the POS Foundation, reports that 21 LGBTQIA+ activists were arrested in Ghana while participating in a workshop. “They were accused of unlawful assembly. This was unfounded. The police said they were merely enforcing the law, but the arrest itself was illegal.” Several independent experts from the UN have called for their release.

Repression begins well before prison. The groundwork is laid slowly, creating an environment with the constant threat of the deprivation of liberty. “In Burundi, activists run the risk of arbitrary prosecutions, kidnappings or disappearances”, notes Anitha Gateretse, a member of Tournons La Page. In Guinea, Alseny Farinta Camara observes that “those who continue to speak out are forced into exile; others disappear.”

In Guatemala, Lucia Ixchíu touches upon what happened in San Rafael Las Flores between 2007 and 2008, when the Indigenous community in the eastern part of the country peacefully opposed a silver megamine. “When the members of the community realised that a mine was going to be established, they protested”, she says. “The Guatemalan state then created a ‘table for dialogue’, which actually served to identify the leaders. Next came the state of siege in 2011: constitutional rights were suspended, and the state declared the absolute militarisation of the territory. Then we literally saw – and it was a terrible thing – what could be considered state-led unrest. The police arrived in the militarised territory and took away all the leaders.”

The paths that lead rights defenders to prison differ, but once in detention, many suffer targeted, violent treatment. Repression continues, even behind bars, through torture, sexual violence, and pressure on loved ones. In Guatemala, Lucia Ixchíu evokes the brutality inflicted on the defenders from San Rafael Las Flores: “Some disappeared, were kidnapped or assassinated. Some were found dead from torture, a long time afterwards. Many others were tortured in prison.”

In Algeria, Walid Nekiche, an Algerian student involved in Hirak¹ claims to have been tortured and sexually abused in detention. After his release, his story was troublesome. Law enforcement went after his sister, who was put under pressure, according to information gathered by Nassera Dutour of the CFDA. Attacking loved ones is an attempt to break down support networks.

 Political prisoners often face forms of psychological abuse. Prolonged solitary confinement, separation from others in detention and placement in special districts are different methods used to weaken people mentally.

In Türkiye, Berfin A. was accused of showing propaganda videos to a number of students and charged with “terrorist propaganda”. In total, she spent over one year and nine months in prison, during which she was subjected to various forms of torture. She says: “In each prison, there are generally two types of wards in which prisoners are held: wards for political prisoners and wards for non-political (‘independent’) prisoners. In the case of independent prisoners, they are first forced to say that they have left the political organisation which they are accused of belonging to and that they regret their actions. The statement is then assessed by the management and supervisory boards, who decide whether it is satisfactory.”

In Thailand, Akanit Tadi notes that political prisoners are subjected to two specific forms of discrimination in detention: they are denied the right to vote, and their communication with the outside is strictly limited and monitored. According to first-person accounts, these particular conditions induce profound psychological distress and are part of a systematic strategy to mentally exhaust incarcerated people.

In Tunisia, Ramla Dahmani has become the spokesperson for her sister Sonia Dahmani, who is being held in a section of the prison reserved for political prisoners and prisoners of conscience. “It’s a high-security wing under constant surveillance. […] Five women are crammed into a 20-square-metre cell in a state of utter neglect. […] At the last hearing, I first saw Sonia from behind. I didn’t recognise her until someone told me it was my sister. By denying her the most basic of needs — washing, eating properly — the administration is trying to strip away her dignity, to break her down, body and spirit. These conditions are meant to destroy her. But they haven’t.” Ramla explains that political prisoners and prisoners of conscience are held in the same wing but are forbidden from speaking to one another. “They’re only allowed to talk to the women in their own cell — ordinary prisoners chosen by the prison director”, she says. “These cellmates are placed there to observe and report on everything the political prisoners say or do. If one of them reports something and the others don’t, the silent ones are punished. It’s a system built to keep them in fear — of each other. Sonia is watched even by the women she lives with. Each time she begins to form a genuine connection, that person is moved to a different cell. Everything is designed to prevent solidarity from taking root.”

 In Iran, Soheil Arabi – who was imprisoned for several years due to his activism – was first incarcerated in a high-security detention centre, where he was placed in solitary confinement and interrogated regularly. “I was beaten and cursed on the first day of interrogation”, he recounts.

“They were angry with me, both for criticising Islam and for posting calls and reposts about social issues online. Above all, they blamed me for criticising the prophet of Islam and imams. I was beaten so badly that I passed out. I woke up in my cell. The first days passed like this: only beatings, insults, threats. After a few days, the ‘real’ interrogation started. They printed out some of my social media posts and asked me to justify them and explain why I had posted them. My posts were criticising the situation in Iran in order to find solutions. But they wanted me to confess that I had received money from Israel and the USA. To achieve this, they beat me severely, threatened me, and inflicted other forms of torture. I felt that the interrogators wanted to make it look as if I would have overthrown the government if they had not arrested me, in order to get a bigger reward. I resisted no matter how hard it was”.

Transferring human rights defenders from one facility to another is a common practice. For authorities, this offers the advantages of distancing those they would like to prevent from taking action and increasing their sense of isolation.

In Burundi, Anitha Gateretse explains that the transfers of political prisoners are a demonstration of authority aimed at intensifying the psychological pressure put on them by the authorities. They isolate incarcerated people from their friends and relatives and make family visits significantly more complicated. It is a deliberate strategy to create distance, in the view of José Luis Gutiérrez, who sees it as an additional infringement on their rights.

This has further implications, as in numerous countries, families play crucial roles during incarceration: financial support, supplying food, taking care of laundry, and emotional support. By distancing the incarcerated individual from their loved ones, explains Lucia Ixchíu, the prison services are directly attacking their dignity: “All this contributes to a dehumanisation of the person, who is taken to a carceral facility that might be on the other side of the country, where they don’t know anyone, where they have no ties or contacts. Their family will likely not be able to visit them, as a single trip could represent an expenditure equivalent to the budget for an entire year.” The isolation, she says, is also a form of torture.

 Young people in Algeria were imprisoned thousands of kilometres from their homes as punishment, among other reasons, following a hunger strike. Nassera Dutour says this is common practice in Algeria. It directly impedes the right to a legal defence, since the lawyers can rarely travel so far, and it enables the authorities to control the narrative in relation to the trial, which occurs without local support.

Mary Lawlor, United Nations Special Rapporteur on the situation of human rights defenders, criticises the growing use of incarceration as an additional instrument of repression and punishment against those who speak out. She is disappointed that prisons “are increasingly being used to not just remove a person’s liberty but to further punish them through ill-treatment, denial of adequate medical care and denial of family visits. They are being used to strip the humanity of human rights defenders.”