Division of Social Sciences

С�� Boulder scholar tracks Hindu nationalism’s global disguise

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 11 Jun 2026 22:15:45 +0000

С�� Boulder scholar tracks Hindu nationalism’s global disguise Rachel Sauer Thu, 06/11/2026 - 16:15

Cody DeBos

Ethnic studies Professor Nishant Upadhyay delves into the gap between image and reality in Hinduism

Hinduism, like most religions, has a reputation.

According to Nishant Upadhyay, a University of Colorado Boulder associate professor of ethnic studies, it is tied to a deep and ancient reverence for the natural world and offers a peaceful, colorful alternative to the spiritual traditions many Westerners grew up with.

For Upadhyay (they/them), that reputation poses a problem.

Nishant Upadhyay, a С�� Boulder associate professor of ethnic studies, notes that Hinduism, like most religions, has a reputation.

“Hinduism has this reputation, especially in a place like Boulder, where it’s seen as this religion that’s environmentally friendly, animal friendly, cares about women and queer folks, cares about peace and non-violence,” they say.

“But it has always been deeply caste-ist and patriarchal,” Upadhyay adds.

That gap between image and reality is at the heart of Upadhyay’s new paper, published in the Amerasia Journal, which traces a pattern of right-wing Hindu diaspora organizations forging “solidarities” with Indigenous peoples across the U.S., Canada, Australia and New Zealand.

They argue these gestures are not acts of genuine allyship, but more calculated moves in service of Hindu nationalism, a political ideology with a far different agenda than the one being advertised.

“We have to be very careful when Hindu nationalists use this framework of indigeneity because this is deeply fraught and violent. We can’t come here and say Hindus are in solidarity when Hindus are actually oppressing indigenous, caste-oppressed and Muslim communities in India,” Upadhyay says.

Indians on Indian lands

Upadhyay, associate chair of Graduate Studies in С�� Boulder’s Department of Ethnic Studies, is also the author of Indians on Indian Lands: Intersections of Race, Caste, and Indigeneity. The book was recently awarded “Outstanding Contribution in Social Sciences” by the Association of Asian American Studies. Their recent work is a continuation of the book that closely examines the proliferation of the Hindu nationalist movement in the diaspora.

To understand Upadhyay’s argument, it helps to understand the landscape in which their work is taking place.

“I’m looking at more recent formations of the diaspora in the last 100 years to North America, which is a very different form of migration than indentured labor migrations of South Asians to the different colonies under the British empire,” Upadhyay says.

“My focus is more on folks who are willingly moving with caste, class and religious privileges, capital and mobility. A lot more ‘skilled’ workers have moved more willingly in the past several decades, mostly to North America, Western Europe and Australia,” they add.

Upadhyay argues that dominant-caste Hindu immigrants in the U.S. and elsewhere aren't simply racialized minorities navigating racism in white settler states. Rather, in the way these communities relate to the lands they now inhabit, Upadhyay likens them to settlers rather than allies of indigenous peoples.

“Because India was able to become independent in 1947, when we move here, we are racialized, but we don’t really understand the realities of violence that indigenous communities continue to face,” they say.

Hindu nationalism further complicates the picture.

“The Hindu nationalist ideology is about a century old. The project claims that India should only belong to Hindus, specifically dominant caste Hindus, and anyone who’s not a Hindu should not be part of it,” Upadhyay explains. “So the violence is targeted primarily at Muslim and Christian communities in India.”

“Saffronwashing is a way to talk about how Hindu nationalists normalize and make invisible the violences perpetuated against caste-oppressed, indigenous and religious-minority communities in India. They portray Hinduism as environmentally friendly, peace-loving, non-violent, yoga-loving, colorful festivals and spicy food,” explains С�� Boulder scholar Nishant Upadhyay.

Under Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi, now in his third term, that ideology has become deeply entrenched in Indian political and social life. Upadhyay says it has also traveled with the diaspora.

A familiar playbook

The attempts at allying with indigenous communities Upadhyay examines follow a similar script.

In 2016, during the Standing Rock protests of the Dakota Access Pipeline, Hindu American organizations issued statements claiming kinship with the Standing Rock Sioux.

“Hindu nationalist groups started coming out with these statements saying, ‘We are indigenous to India, and we were colonized by the British. You are indigenous, and you’ve been colonized by the Europeans and the American state. So, we understand your struggles, and we want to be in alliance with you,’” Upadhyay recounts.

The pattern repeated when unmarked graves of Indigenous children were discovered at former residential school sites in Canada, and again when Native Hawaiian protectors rallied against the construction of a massive telescope on the sacred summit of Mauna Kea. In Australia, Hindu organizations point to DNA studies suggesting genetic links between Indian and Aborigine populations as evidence of ancient kinship.

Each gesture, Upadhyay argues, is a form of what they and other scholars call “saffronwashing”—a term borrowed from the similar logics of greenwashing and pinkwashing.

“Caste is very important to think about and name. … This is a longer genealogy of violence that dominant caste Indians have imported with themselves when they’ve come here. So, it’s a conversation we need to be having much more proactively and keep fighting against,” says Nishant Upadhyay. (Photo: Wikimedia Commons)

“They project these cultural things about Hinduism but erase the violences that hide beneath those cultural practices.”

For Western audiences unfamiliar with caste, the danger in these solidarity gestures may be hard to see. That disguise is the problem.

Caste is among the oldest systems of structural oppression in human history. It predates European colonialism by thousands of years and extends well beyond the borders of India and Hinduism.

For Hindu nationalists in the diaspora, the goal, Upadhyay says, is to normalize and mainstream themselves. Within progressive spaces, interfaith coalitions and anti-racist organizing, Hindu nationalist messaging can be normalized, and any criticism of India’s treatment of its own minorities can be suppressed. In the last decade, there have been cases of diasporic Hindu nationalist groups going after scholars, writers and activists critical of the Hindu nationalist regime in India, caste violence, Islamophobia and the occupation of Kashmir.

Already, Upadhyay points out, Hindu nationalist influence has shaped K-12 textbook battles, hiring cultures in Silicon Valley and the political landscape at the highest levels of American government across both parties.

“This impacts all of us,” they say.

What real solidarity looks like

Upadhyay is careful to distinguish the solidarities they critique from others that they see as genuine and decolonial. Kashmiri, Tamil, Punjabi, Dalit and Tibetan diaspora communities, they argue, have modeled a fundamentally different approach rooted in an honest acknowledgment of their own position, histories and complicities.

“We left our homelands because our people are oppressed and now we are refugees or immigrants here, but we have also become settlers,” they say, describing the framework these communities embrace. “That’s a very different articulation and practice of solidarity.”

At its core, the question is whether a community treats its own suffering as unique and self-contained or accepts its connection to a broader web of struggle and liberation.

For Upadhyay, only one of those orientations can sustain real solidarity.

“We can learn from these decolonial frameworks where interlinking of oppression and liberation is at the forefront,” they say.

That work, Upadhyay says, begins at home. The task they set for themselves, and for others in dominant-caste diaspora communities, is to look inward first.

“We have to examine how caste, race and indigeneity have shaped our own privilege before presuming to stand beside those whose lands and lives remain on the line,” Upadhyay says. “We have to fight together because our liberation is interconnected.”

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Ethnic studies Professor Nishant Upadhyay delves into the gap between image and reality in Hinduism.

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Top photo: Flags of the Party flags of India's conservative Bharatiya Janta Party (BJP) and Shiv Sena. (Photo: Al Jazeera English/Wikimedia Commons)

What began in ancient Greece is headed for the White House lawn

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 11 Jun 2026 19:10:10 +0000

What began in ancient Greece is headed for the White House lawn Rachel Sauer Thu, 06/11/2026 - 13:10

Jared Bahir Browsh

UFC Freedom 250, the MMA event planned for the White House lawn June 14, represents a decades-long relationship between President Donald Trump and UFC

The White House has been a construction site since late October, when the East Wing was suddenly demolished to build a controversial ballroom. In the shadows of cranes, another temporary structure is being built on the South Lawn of the White House: a 5,000-seat outdoor stadium that will host UFC Freedom 250, a special mixed martial arts (MMA) event that will occur on June 14, President Trump’s 80th birthday, as part of the lead-up to the 250th birthday of the United States.

The unique competition has faced criticism—seen as desecrating the lawn of the President’s residence and what many people see as the people’s house. A deeper examination of the history of MMA and the Ultimate Fighting Championship (UFC) reveals why this event is not merely a sporting event, but representative of an ideological connection between the brutal combat sport and the current state of MAGA conservatism.

Jared Bahir Browsh is the Critical Sports Studies program director in the С�� Boulder Department of Ethnic Studies.

What is now considered MMA dates back to the ancient Olympics and an event called pankration, a combat sport that combined boxing and wrestling. Although it did not feature the mix of martial art disciplines we see today, it did function very similarly to modern MMA. Like many ancient Olympic sports, pankration was tied to military service, allowing soldiers who were the most prepared for battle. Although formal competitions banned eye-gouging and biting, training often included these since a similar fight on the battlefield would have no rules. The fight would continue until one competitor gave up, lost consciousness or died. Ancient China also had a similar sport, Lei Tai, which was formally competed on a stage, with challengers fighting until one competitor was declared champion.

Fighting competitions continued in the succeeding centuries throughout the world, including in colonial America, where the sport rough and tumble was often used to settle disputes in the rural backcountry, especially in the South. Also known as gouging, the brutal and disfiguring sport fell out of favor with the growing popularity of the Bowie knife and revolver in the 19th century, which led to more lethal methods of solving disputes on the frontier.

Other forms of fighting and martial arts continued to emerge in the 19th century, including the French sport of savate, similar to kickboxing, and Lancashire, or catch wrestling, a less-restrictive version of the sport that emerged from Britain and was included in several Olympic Games between 1904 and 1936.

The globalization of sport in the 20th century through cultural exchange events like the Olympics led to further competitions in forms of combat including jiu-jitsu from Brazil and judo from Japan. Judo was introduced as an Olympic sport at the 1964 Olympics in Tokyo, the first martial art from Asia in the Games.

In Brazil, Vale Tudo, a no-holds-barred martial art, grew in popularity throughout the 20th century after early matches pitted local forms of martial arts against fighting styles from other continents. The Gracie Challenge, which was an open invitation from the Gracie family—a Brazilian family considered the first family of jiu-jitsu—to prove their version of jiu-jitsu was superior, helped expand the popularity of Vale Tudo. This martial art, along with Japanese shoot wrestling, a hybrid sport that mixed wrestling and combat sports like kickboxing and emerged in the 1970s, provided the framework for what would become modern MMA.

Interest in martial arts grew through popular culture, including the movies of Bruce Lee, in the 1970s. Though boxing was still the dominant combat sport, curiosity grew regarding the effectiveness of each form of combat. Muhammad Ali issued a million-dollar open challenge to the president of Japanese Amateur Wrestling for a fighter to take him on. Antonio Inoki accepted the challenge and on June 26, 1976, Ali and Inoki fought in Tokyo; although it ended in a draw, many see the match as a precursor to the popularity of MMA.

Renzo Gracie (white trunks) kicks Eugenio Tadeu (black trunks) during the "Pentagon Combat" Vale Tudo event in 1997. (Photo: Marcelo Alonso/Wikimedia Commons)

UFC 1

The seeds of the MMA were further planted when businessman Art Davie, filmmaker John Milius and Rorion Gracie of the Gracie Challenge collaborated to organize an eight-competitor tournament originally named War of the Worlds. Later renamed the Ultimate Fighting Championship, what is now known as UFC 1 took place in Denver on November 12, 1993. Gracie won the first tournament, and the organizers soon planned a second Denver event—what is now known as UFC 2—four months after the first. In 1994, two more UFC events followed in North Carolina and Oklahoma, as the no-holds-barred style of fighting grew in popularity.

UFC 5 in 1995 featured the first singles match. Billed as a Superfight, it was meant to declare a champion, but the match ended in a draw after 36 minutes. The fight represented a move away from the tournament format and into a card of single matches similar to a boxing event. The UFC also earned a reputation for its extreme violence and the absurdity of some of the matches, one of which—between a mixed martial artist and a sumo wrestler—featured nine-inch height and a 400-pound weight difference.

Living up to its early tagline “there are no rules,” UFC promotion gained a reputation for being especially violent and was still known as “no-holds-barred fighting” in many states through the late 1990s. In 1996, Arizona Senator John McCain called the sport “human cockfighting” and sent letters to every state urging them to ban it. Thirty-six states did so, largely relegating the UFC’s events to the southeast United States and other countries. The president of the National Cable Television Association also warned cable companies that airing UFC fights could lead to scrutiny from the federal government, and a number of top cable providers blacked out the promotion on TV.

For several years in the late 1990s, the UFC languished as a regional niche sport until it was thrown a lifeline by Donald Trump. In September 2000, the New Jersey State Athletic Control Board (NJSACB) established a probationary period allowing MMA events to take place in the state so the board could create a unified set of rules to regulate the sport. In November, Trump Plaza hosted UFC 28 in Atlantic City, the first UFC event in New Jersey.

Atlantic City had become a hub for boxing after casino gambling was legalized in New Jersey in 1977 and regularly hosted boxing matches; however, most big prize fights still occurred in larger cities like New York or in Las Vegas. Looking to grow the profile of his casinos—and in turn Atlantic City—Trump began bringing major events to the beachside resort. In 1988, Trump outbid several Las Vegas casinos to bring Mike Tyson’s heavyweight title bouts to Atlantic City. Tyson took on Larry Holmes in January that year and Michael Spinks in June. Trump looked to sports to expand his profile even after pushing the United States Football League out of business in 1985 by convincing other owners to move to a fall schedule while he was suing the NFL.

In between the two Tyson title fights, Trump Plaza hosted Wrestlemania IV, forging a relationship between Trump and World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE), which is now a sister company to the UFC under TKO Holdings after a 2023 merger. Trump grew his partnership with WWE, hosting Wrestlemania V in 1989 and was later included in storylines for the professional wrestling promotion; he was inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame in 2013. Linda McMahon, the current U.S. secretary of education, previously served as president and CEO of WWE.

Fighters Clay Guida and Marcus Aurelio compete in UFC 74: Respect in Las Vegas in 2007. (Photo: Lee Brimelow/Wikimedia Commons)

After UFC 29 took place in Japan in December 2000, U.S. businessman Dana White worked with casino executives Frank and Lorenzo Fertitta to create Zuffa, LLC and buy the UFC for $2 million. At the time, White had been working as a promoter for fighters in Las Vegas and saw an opportunity to grow the combat sport. A month after the sale was finalized in January 2001, UFC 30 returned to Atlantic City with Trump Plaza hosting the first event under Zufa ownership, followed by UFC 31 five months later, forging a relationship between White and Trump.

At the same time, boxing was undergoing significant changes following passage of the Muhammad Ali Boxing Reform Act in 2000, which increased regulations that protected fighters from being exploited. However, MMA is not covered in the Act, and White and his partners saw an opportunity to control the entire sport—and its fighters. Unlike in boxing, the UFC signs fighters to exclusive contracts and they are considered independent contractors, excusing the company from providing fighters with employee benefits, while also barring them from negotiating or fighting for other promotions. Over time, UFC pushed out or bought competitors, allowing UFC to essentially monopolize MMA in the US.

A true turning point was the premiere of the reality show The Ultimate Fighter, which debuted after WWE Raw in January 2005, exactly a year after another reality show, The Apprentice, boosted the business of Donald Trump. As The Apprentice did for Trump, The Ultimate Fighter significantly boosted visibility for White and the UFC.

Misogyny and politics

As the UFC grew, it faced a number of controversies that both invited criticism while fortifying its mostly male, conservative fanbase. Women have largely been ignored, if not unwelcome, in combat sports, with women’s judo not debuting as an official Olympic sport until 1992; women’s boxing followed 20 years later. Dana White famously said in 2011 that women would never fight in the UFC, but two months later UFC parent company Zuffa bought competing MMA promotion Strikeforce, which did have a women’s division. Two years later, when Strikeforce was fully merged with UFC, the first women’s fight occurred, pitting Ronda Rousey against Liz Carmouche.

Even with the introduction of women’s divisions, the locker room culture in the UFC and many training gyms continues to be toxic and misogynistic, with male fighters regularly making sexist comments, including some directed at fellow fighters. There is also significantly less coverage of and support for women fighters, with only three fighting divisions for women compared to eight for men.

UFC’s controversies extend beyond sexism. Like Trump, Dana White has had a contentious relationship with much of the media. He pulled credentials from several MMA reporters after they broke the story that fighter Brock Lesnar was returning to the UFC before the official announcement. White also recently called media members and journalists “nobodies,” bristling at what he considers critical coverage of the UFC regarding its response to sexism in the sport and treatment of fighters.

President Donald Trump (seated) with UFC fighters in the Oval Office on Wednesday, May 6, 2026. (Photo: Molly Riley/White House)

White strengthened his relationship with Trump by endorsing him for president in 2016. At that time, more political content was included in UFC broadcasts, deepening the connection between UFC promotion and conservative media and leveraging that connection to increase Trump’s appeal with young men through the UFC and podcast environment known as the “manosphere.” Top podcaster Joe Rogan has been a commentator for the UFC since 1997, and its fighters often appear on podcasts and conservative media, with several also endorsing Trump.

White and Trump maintained their relationship through his first presidency and the legal issues that followed his loss to Joe Biden in 2020. The UFC was integral in helping Trump revitalize his public image after the January 6 riots and the legal controversies that followed him in between his presidential terms. Trump’s attendance at UFC events were among his first public appearances after the tumultuous end to his first term and were often celebrated on UFC broadcasts. This relationship continued through his 2024 campaign, during which Dana White introduced Trump as the 2024 Republican nominee for president at the Republican National Convention.

Fewer than two weeks after the 2024 election, Trump attended UFC 309 at Madison Square Garden, where he allegedly broached the topic of a White House UFC event to Dana White. Trump announced the event on July 3, 2025, and White officially confirmed it would take place.

Combat sports have historically been leveraged for political gain, so the relationship between UFC and Trump is not unusual, even if the upcoming White House event is a dramatic break from convention. Matches between rival ethnic or racial groups continue to be a huge draw in combat sports, a trend that dates back centuries and includes fights between Joe Louis and Nazi-backed Max Schmeling and later the Rumble in the Jungle and Thrilla in Manila, which dictators in Zaire and the Phillipines, respectively, leveraged to sportwash their authoritarian regimes.

White has leveraged his relationship with Trump both economically and politically as he looks to expand his empire. In 2025, with the backing of the Saudi Arabian Public Investment Fund’s subsidiary Sola, White launched Zuffa Boxing to bring the UFC exclusivity model to boxing. White is currently lobbying congress to pass the Muhammad Ali American Boxing Revival Act, which does guarantee minimum pay and health insurance for boxers, but would eliminate other protections against organizations acting as promoters, organizers and ranking entities—a move that could ultimately lead to similar exploitation and monopolistic practices that have been claimed by UFC fighters.

The Saudis’ involvement in sports, which includes WWE events, LIV Golf, and the 2034 World Cup, is seen as an effort by the Saudi monarchy to sportwash the country’s image. The Public Investment Fund is providing financing for Paramount’s bid to buy Warner Bros. Discovery, as Paramount aggressively pursues WBD under David Ellison’s ownership.

About a month before Paramount began its pursuit of WBD, and a few days after the Ellisons’ purchase of Paramount was finalized, UFC signed a lucrative media rights deal with Paramount for 7 years, $7.7 billion with UFC Freedom 250, preceded by the Friday night weigh-in at the Lincoln Memorial, streaming on Paramount+.

For the casual observer, a UFC fight on the White House lawn might seem random, if not ridiculous, but for those familiar with Trump’s relationships and his love of spectacles, it is clear why the event was organized. Rather than an isolated event, it is the culmination of relationships Trump has formed with supporters, including White, whom he has known for more than a quarter century.

Jared Bahir Browsh is an assistant teaching professor of critical sports studies in the С�� Boulder Department of Ethnic Studies.

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UFC Freedom 250, the MMA event planned for the White House lawn June 14, represents a decades-long relationship between President Donald Trump and UFC.

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Top image: Fighting cage being built on the White House lawn for UFC Freedom 250 on June 14. (Photo: G. Edward Johnson/Wikimedia Commons)

Rethinking marriage—and divorce—in Muslim Indonesia

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 08 Jun 2026 19:25:26 +0000

Rethinking marriage—and divorce—in Muslim Indonesia Rachel Sauer Mon, 06/08/2026 - 13:25

Bradley Worrell

С�� Boulder sociologist Rachel Rinaldo’s research uncovers how Indonesian women are re-shaping marriage and its end within Islamic law, with implications far beyond Southeast Asia

When Rachel Rinaldo, a University of Colorado Boulder sociology associate professor and the faculty director of the Center for Asian Studies, first began studying gender and social change in Indonesia nearly 25 years ago, she entered a field already shaped by deep-seated assumptions.

“There is a common idea in academic literature and media discussions that changes in the developing world are mainly due to ideas imported from the U.S. or Western Europe,” she explains. “That narrative underplays the more internal dynamics of social change.”

Rinaldo’s recently published research paper, “I Have a Right to a Better Imam,” challenges that Western-influence narrative as it relates to Indonesia, instead revealing a much more nuanced and local story.

Rachel Rinaldo, a С�� Boulder associate professor of sociology and faculty director of the Center for Asian Studies, first began studying gender and social change in Indonesia nearly 25 years ago.

Indonesia—the world’s largest Muslim-majority country—offers an especially rich case for understanding changing family dynamics, Rinaldo says. With a population that is roughly 90% Muslim and shaped by a mix of longstanding local traditions, economic transformation and evolving religious interpretations, she says it presents a unique environment in which the meaning of marriage—and the decision by women to end it—is being renegotiated.

“One of the things I argue in the article is that religions are always shaped by the societies where they are adopted. Christianity, for example, looks different in Brazil compared to Italy. The same is true for Islam—it looks different in Indonesia versus, say, Egypt,” she says. “In Southeast Asia, there has long been a social structure that gives somewhat more power and agency to women, particularly in marriage. Women have historically had more say, and it’s also been more common for women to work outside of the home.”

This longstanding pattern has influenced how Islamic norms are interpreted in Indonesia, producing a version of Islamic family law that—while not fully egalitarian—is more progressive compared to other Muslim-majority countries, Rinaldo says.

Today, Indonesia’s legal system includes Islamic family laws that apply to its Muslim citizens. These laws establish clear frameworks for marriage and divorce, while also reflecting tensions between traditional gender roles and growing expectations of partnership and mutual responsibility.

Rethinking the origins of change

Through her interviews with several Indonesian women, as well as observations in Islamic courts, Rinaldo says she has found little evidence that Western cultural models were the primary drivers of change. Instead, she says the women she interviewed described a gradual shift in expectations rooted in their own understanding of marriage, religion and personal autonomy.

Crucially, these changing expectations are tied to how women interpret Islamic law—not as a rigid system that confines them, but as a set of principles that can justify their desire for a more equitable partnership, Rinaldo says.

Perhaps the most surprising finding of Rinaldo’s research is the role Islamic courts play in Indonesia, many of which are overseen by female judges. Contrary to common assumptions that such institutions are uniformly conservative or patriarchal, Rinaldo says the courts today tend to be pragmatic.

“What struck me was that judges in Islamic courts were fairly sympathetic to women’s concerns. They emphasized that marriage should be a partnership, and that lack of support—financial or emotional—from husbands was a valid issue,” Rinaldo says. “The idea of a more companionate marriage was embedded in legal thinking … and how legal and religious frameworks were being interpreted locally.”

Economic change has played a critical role in enabling this cultural shift in Indonesia, says С�� Boulder researcher Rachel Rinaldo. As Indonesia’s economy has grown, more women have gained access to education and paid employment. (Photo: Lek Nikto/Unsplash)

Rather than attempting to keep marriages intact at all costs, Rinaldo says many judges see their responsibility as arbitrators of outstanding issues resulting from the dissolution of the marriage.

“Judges told me that by the time cases reach them, marriages are often already over, so their role is to facilitate resolution rather than reconciliation.”

Gender differences in divorce law

Despite certain progressive aspects of Indonesian family law, Rinaldo says the country’s legal framework still treats men and women differently when it comes to divorce.

Men can initiate divorce relatively easily, often without needing to provide a specific reason. Women, by contrast, must file a formal case and cite one of several legally recognized grounds for divorce. Rinaldo says these grounds include violence, abuse, financial neglect and even “disharmony”—a broadly defined category that essentially allows women to argue that the relationship is not working.

While this requirement might seem restrictive, Rinaldo says women have become increasingly adept at navigating the system. Many women understand the legal criteria and present their cases in ways that align with judicial expectations, she explains.

Some women even draw on religious arguments, pointing to their spouse’s bad behavior—such as drinking, gambling or neglecting prayer—as evidence that their husband is not living up to his obligations, Rinaldo says.

“Women sometimes use that strategically, knowing judges would respond negatively to behaviors such as drinking or gambling,” she says. “At the same time, religion is an important source of meaning for many women, so these issues were also genuine sources of conflict.”

Evolving expectations for marriage

Underlying these various legal strategies is how women have come to think about marriage itself, Rinaldo says. A recurring theme in Rinaldo’s interviews was dissatisfaction—not with marriage as an institution—but with how it was being lived in their own lives.

“Many women felt their husbands weren’t contributing enough,” she explains. She says the lack of support extended beyond finances, which were historically the husband’s responsibility. In one example, a woman described reaching her breaking point when her husband refused to help care for their children. “She was like, ‘These are our kids; we’re supposed to be doing this together,’” Rinaldo recounts.

Rinaldo notes the women she spoke with were not demanding perfectly equal relationships, but she says they did expect that the marriage involve shared responsibility. When that expectation was not met, she says, it often became a turning point for the relationship.

Economic change has played a critical role in enabling this cultural shift in Indonesia, Rinaldo says. As Indonesia’s economy has grown, more women have gained access to education and paid employment. She says this has expanded their options while also reducing the monetary risks associated with divorce.

In Indonesia, the term "imam" typically refers to a Muslim religious leader. However, in marriage, some Muslim women use it to describe their husbands. (Photo: women at mosque in Jakarta, Indonesia. Mohammed Alim/Pexels)

In some cases, women are the primary earners in their families, which can fundamentally reshape the power dynamics in a relationship. Meanwhile, the experience of divorce tends to differ depending upon Indonesian women’s socioeconomic status. Among lower-income women, divorce is often handled pragmatically, while for middle-class women the process is often more complicated because it often involves shared property and assets, Rinaldo says.

“They really need the assistance from the court to help unwind that kind of situation,” she explains.

From shame to relief and finding family support

Despite various challenges, Indonesian women who divorced their husbands told Rinaldo they ultimately do not regret their decision. While a few expressed feelings of shame—particularly in relation to family expectations—the most common feeling was one of solace.

“I would say the predominant feeling was one of relief,” Rinaldo says.

Regarding their specific motivations for seeking a divorce, Rinaldo says a number of the women told her they did so because they were concerned about exposing their children to unhealthy marital conflict or dysfunction. “They didn’t want that to be the model of marriage that their children were growing up with.”

One issue that many divorced women faced was difficulty obtaining child support that they were owed from their husbands. These payments are often not well-enforced by the Islamic courts. Nevertheless, even when they are entitled to financial support from their ex-husbands, Rinaldo says many women choose not to pursue it because they prefer to have nothing to do with their ex-spouses.

“I think this all reflects broader changes in society, where women today are more financially independent. They have strong support systems today, and they also face less social stigma around divorce than in the past,” she adds.

Faith, authority and the meaning of ‘imam’

One particularly revealing aspect of Rinaldo’s research involves the concept of the “imam.” In Indonesia, the term typically refers to a Muslim religious leader. However, in marriage, some Muslim women use it to describe their husbands.

“The idea is that the husband is . . . their own personal Islamic leader,” Rinaldo explains. This reflects a traditional expectation that wives should obey their husbands. Yet even women who embrace this idea are willing to leave marriages when their expectations are not met, she adds.

“People marrying at later ages and wanting a more meaningful marital relationship, more people remaining single or in non-marital partnerships and people having fewer children are changes happening around the globe.”

In one case, Rinaldo says a woman she interviewed sought guidance from religious authorities about whether to stay in her unhappy marriage or seek a divorce. As a result of the answers she received to her queries, the woman decided the answer was not to endure the marriage but to find “a better imam,” she says.

Rinaldo says that phrase captures the tension at the heart of these transformations: Women are not rejecting their religion but instead are reinterpreting it.

A broader global story about marriage and divorce

Although Rinaldo’s research focuses on Indonesia, she says she believes her work reflects broader global trends. Rising education levels, economic development and evolving gender roles are reshaping marriage and families in many societies, even as religious tradition continues to play a powerful role, she says.

“I think what happens in Indonesia can illuminate the kinds of things that we’re seeing across many countries in the global south, other developing countries and, even more broadly, some similar dynamics in the United States,” she says. “People marrying at later ages and wanting a more meaningful marital relationship, more people remaining single or in non-marital partnerships and people having fewer children are changes happening around the globe.”

In Indonesia, Rinaldo says, those changes are unfolding through the interplay of local culture, legal institutions and individual agency. She says the result is neither a rejection of tradition nor a simple embrace of modernity, but more so a negotiation—a process though which women are redefining marriage from within. And in doing so, Rinaldo says, they are quietly reshaping one of society’s most fundamental institutions.

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С�� Boulder sociologist Rachel Rinaldo’s research uncovers how Indonesian women are re-shaping marriage and its end within Islamic law, with implications far beyond Southeast Asia.

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Top photo: Josh Estey/Australian Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade

Meet the workers capitalism calls disposable

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 12 May 2026 17:37:29 +0000

Meet the workers capitalism calls disposable Rachel Sauer Tue, 05/12/2026 - 11:37

Cody DeBos

С�� Boulder researcher Shae Frydenlund raises questions about a system that profits when workers are left behind

Even before the sun rises over the wholesale food markets of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, the work is unending. Produce and poultry move fast, destined for the city’s restaurants and grocers, to be part of meals served in a few short hours.

During the summer months and around holidays, the workers who make this daily cycle happen are mostly stateless Rohingya refugees from Myanmar. They often work for weeks without taking a day off from the back-breaking labor. Doing so risks one being blackmailed.

When fall arrives and business slows, the same workers who were indispensable just weeks earlier are let go without warning. Sometimes the layoff lasts a day, other times for multiple weeks. Left with no other options, these Rohingya workers are put in an unthinkable predicament, unable to provide for their families or plan for life’s tomorrows.

Shae Frydenlund, an assistant teaching professor in С�� Boulder's Center for Asian Studies, asks in her research, "What does it mean to be left behind by capitalism?"

This is the world Shae Frydenlund moved into for nine months, living alongside Rohingya day laborers just north of the city. The stories she heard posit a foundational question about the politics driving both the local and global economy: What does it mean to be left behind by capitalism?

From the mountains to the market

Frydenlund, an assistant teaching professor in the University of Colorado Boulder Center for Asian Studies, arrived at her most recent research with a decade of expertise. After graduating from Colgate University in 2010, she spent a year as an IBM Thomas J. Watson Fellow, traveling between the Tibetan Plateau, the Andes and the Amazon to study global trade in high-value medicinal plants and animal products.

After a brief skiing detour in Vail, her passion for research brought her back to academia.

“My master’s thesis focused on labor relations, ethnicity and race in Nepal’s Everest industry,” she says. “My PhD dissertation was a study of how Rohingyas, ethnic minorities violently displaced from the Chittagong Hill Tract region of what is today northwest Myanmar, became invaluable to industrial manufacturing and meatpacking sectors in Colorado.”

Her most recent paper, published in New Political Economy, grew directly from this work.

“The paper we are talking about is based on a chapter of my dissertation, which theorizes the relationship between refugee labor and the accumulation of capital more broadly,” says Frydenlund.

A new way of thinking about surplus

The heart of Frydenlund’s research is a concept she calls “dialectical disposability.”

“To put it simply, the idea of ‘dialectical disposability’ is about recognizing the constant movement and change that shape experiences of work—including unemployment,” she says.

For many years, scholars have used the idea of “surplus population” to describe groups who are unemployed and largely shut out of the formal economy. This includes refugees, stateless people, and indigenous communities. Embedded in this term is an assumption that these are people capitalism has passed over and left behind.

Frydenlund pushes back on this, drawing on Marxian political economic theory and nine months of on-the-ground ethnographic research. She argues that reality is both more dynamic and more nefarious.

“Not only are unemployed people valuable to ‘the economy,’ I suggest that this value is created from the process of jerking people in and out of the so-called surplus population,” she says, adding, “People who are deemed economically useless are far from it.”

In other words, instability created by employers is the game. Indeed, those who need labor for market work in Kuala Lumpur and industrial jobs in the U.S. alike depend on this cycle of hiring and firing workers who are easy to exploit.

The constant threat of dismissal keeps workers compliant, says С�� Boulder researcher Shae Freydenlund. (Photo: Rohingya Creative Production/Pexels)

The constant threat of dismissal keeps workers compliant. After all, there is always someone willing to take your place.

This system also suppresses wages and keeps labor costs flexible enough to absorb the shocks of a volatile food market. However, it’s the workers who pay the price.

Levers of exploitation

Understanding how the system works requires a look at the structures that make it possible. Frydenlund is direct about what those levers are.

“Exploitation requires the production of difference. This is at the heart of theorizations of racial capitalism,” she says.

In Malaysia, that difference is manufactured through a combination of racial hierarchy, statelessness and immigration enforcement.

Rohingya workers—most of whom lack official documentation—are racially profiled, publicly framed as threats to the economy and denied the legal protections afforded to even low-wage Malaysian workers. This leaves them with little-to-no leverage.

“Immigration enforcement is vital for maintaining an apartheid labor system that separates workers based on citizenship status and nationality. Employers also offload the costs of immigration violations onto workers themselves, leveraging the risk of employer-paid fines as justification for paying lower wages,” Frydenlund says.

If this sounds familiar, it’s because the same mechanics are at work in the United States, where Frydenlund’s earlier research followed Rohingya refugees into meatpacking and industrial manufacturing jobs in cities like Denver and Greeley.

“I found that the refugee resettlement system acts as a labor broker, supplying firms with cheap, supposedly docile workers,” she says.

The theft of time

In her fieldwork, Frydenlund witnessed the human cost of this system up close. In households where unpredictable, weeks-long unemployment is the norm, families struggle to pay the bills and plan for the future. The question of when work might return hangs like a dark shadow over everything.

“I would describe the impacts of precarity as a form of psychological torture that makes people frantic. I think of the insecure and temporary employment that has become so common now, from platform work to Amazon warehouse work, as a system of organized crime that steals future time from people,” Frydenlund says.

The consequences are far reaching.

"We can’t fully understand exploitation, uneven development or climate change without detailed attention to places and people."

“Being chronically unable to plan for future purchases, rent, hospital bills, childcare, food, vacation (because we all deserve to rest and play), it’s a form of physical and psychological violence,” she says.

Repairing the system

Giving refugees the legal right to work is a common policy response to the type of labor exploitation Frydenlund studies. She understands the appeal but rejects this “fix” as insufficient.

Legalizing access to formal labor markets, she argues, leaves the underlying structure of racialized inequality untouched. Malaysian food markets, like American meatpacking centers, are embedded within systems of racial hierarchy and economic exploitation that aren’t fixed by issuing a work permit.

What Frydenlund observed in the field, however, offers some hope. In Kuala Lumpur’s markets and beyond, she documented communities building solidarity outside the formal economy. From coalition work to engagement with unions and everyday acts of mutual care, these communities are slowly unifying.

“This is solidarity in unpaid social reproduction work, and it’s magnificent,” she says.

It’s a reminder that the workers at the center of her research are more than data points in a global economic behemoth. They are people. Paying close attention to them, Frydenlund argues, is the only way to understand the abstract forces shaping all our lives.

“We can’t fully understand exploitation, uneven development or climate change without detailed attention to places and people,” she says.

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С�� Boulder researcher Shae Frydenlund raises questions about a system that profits when workers are left behind.

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Top image: Rohingya man U Kyaw Win Chay prepares netting (Photo: Myanmar Now/Wikimedia Commons)

When climate change threatens sacred sites

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 11 May 2026 22:05:02 +0000

When climate change threatens sacred sites Rachel Sauer Mon, 05/11/2026 - 16:05

Tiffany Plate

С�� Boulder PhD candidate Chilton Tippin assesses how a warming climate is affecting not just humans, but also our archaeological record

In southwestern Colorado, just north of Mesa Verde National Park, sits the scenic—and historic—Canyons of the Ancients National Monument, or CANM. The sprawling monument spans more than 175,000 acres of pinyon-juniper woodlands, salt-desert scrub, big sagebrush plantations and riparian zones.

CANM also happens to be home to critical pieces of Southwest history, including an estimated 30,000 habitation sites, field houses, kivas, shrines, artifact scatters, sacred springs and masonry towers that date as far back as the Paleo-Indian period (10,000–14,500 years ago).

С�� Boulder PhD candidate Chilton Tippin (left) spent months with farmers whose livelihoods depend on the Rio Conchos, a tributary of the Rio Grande in Chihuahua, Mexico. (Photo: Eduardo "Lalo" Talamantes)

But the monument’s location in the high desert makes the landscape, and these historical sites, especially vulnerable to the effects of climate change. In the summer of 2025, Chilton Tippin, a University of Colorado Boulder anthropology PhD candidate, helped map out exactly how warmer weather and heavy rainstorms could impact these culturally significant structures.

The resulting Climate Change Impact Assessment, which was done with Cooperative Institute for Research in Environmental Sciences (CIRES) colleagues Kira Clark-Wolf and Christy Miller Hesed, was published in January 2026. The project was funded through the Rapid Climate Assessment Program from С�� Boulder’s North Central Climate Adaptation Science Center.

The assessment laid out projections for CANM’s climate future—including many more days with temperatures above 90°F, more days of drought that could lead to increased wildfire risk and more intense and frequent extreme-rainfall events that can cause flooding and erosion.

“This is kind of the initial stepping stone that will hopefully catalyze discussions between the Bureau of Land Management and tribal partners to begin the long planning process for how they're going to adapt the landscape to absorb shocks from climate change,” says Tippin.

Projections and partnerships

To create the projections in the report, Tippin worked from information provided by archaeologists at CANM that pinpointed the exact location of known historical sites. He then used Climate Toolbox to produce climate projections from 20 different models. He compared those projections to literature covering similar projections to come up with general metrics such as how much daily temperatures might increase and how many days the area might go without rain (thus increasing wildfire potential).

At CANM, climate projections show that heat indices will register above 90°F an average of 35 days per year in the 2050s (up from 6 days in the 1990s). (Graphic: climatetoolbox.org)

“We found that most of the stone towers are embedded in pinyon-juniper habitats,” says Tippin. If the climate models and the literature are all saying that the pinyon-juniper forests will be more vulnerable to fire, he says, then they have a better idea of the threats those towers are likely to be facing over the next 50 to 100 years.

“Then CANM can make climate adaptation and forest management decisions so that they can fulfill their mission of protecting not just stone towers, but the kivas, and wiki-ups, and room blocks, too.”

Those decisions would not be made, however, without meaningful input from CANM’s 26 tribal partners whose ancestral presence is reflected in thousands of habitation sites across the landscape.

In cases like these, that knowledge is imperative to take into account. “These are places where their ancestors dwell,” says Tippin. “These heritage sites are part of this living cultural landscape.”

In fact, in the Pueblo worldview, these structures are also deeply spiritual places. “For many Pueblo people, the towers themselves, as well as the materials and rocks within them, are imbued with sentience,” says Tippin. “They're alive, and they themselves have spirit. And the natural course of things is for them to go through processes of decay and reintegration into the ecology.” As a result, a Pueblo person whom Tippin consulted suggested that adapting the habitats in which structures are embedded would be a more culturally appropriate approach than directly shoring up the structures themselves.

Exploring climate-caused conflict

Tippin was tapped to lead the CANM assessment not just for his social science research skills but also for his previous work with indigenous people in the Southwest—much of which he did for his dissertation (completed Spring 2026).

While Tippin’s PhD research is not directly focused on the climate change impacts of historical sites, it still very much explores its impacts on humans, especially in relation to water insecurity. His interest in water interactions stemmed from his childhood in El Paso, Texas, where he spent a lot of time playing in the Rio Grande. Tippin’s experiences with the river and other natural landscapes inspired a lifelong desire to examine, and tell stories, about human interactions with nature.

Chilton Tippin spent several days touring Canyons of the Ancients National Monument’s significant historical sites, including Moose Tower, which was built by Ancestral Puebloans in the late 1200s. In 2020, an extreme rainfall event caused the tower’s west wall (not pictured) to collapse. The storm’s timing and intensity are characteristic of convective rainfall, a type of extreme weather event increasingly linked to climate change in the Southwest. (Photo: Chilton Tippin)

Tippin spent his first few post-college years doing just that, working as a reporter in Wyoming after earning his undergraduate degree in journalism. “For the longest time, I've wanted to tell stories about people and how they interact with the environment, with a specific lens on environmental disputes and conflict,” he says.

So, for his doctoral research, Tippin returned to the Rio Grande and its watershed. The river now sees markedly less flow—thanks in part to a warming climate and diminishing snowpack in the Rocky Mountains—and he wanted to explore the ways those low flows are affecting people who rely on it in one way or another.

To do so Tippin spent a year at three field sites that are all hydrologically connected to the Rio Grande. He first spent several months in Taos, NM, where he teamed up with Puebloans working to protect their traditional uses of water.

Next was El Paso and Juárez, Mexico, where the Rio Grande has become completely militarized. He spent time with the people of the Ysleta Del Sur Pueblo who have a ceremonial relationship with the river, as well as first responders helping deliver water to migrants. “That piece of the dissertation looked at the juxtaposition of this river, which is the bringer of hope and life to the desert and a ceremonial site for the Tigua people,” Tippin says. “How is this same river also the site of widespread, racialized migrant death and violence?”

The final months he spent with farmers along the Rio Conchos in Chihuahua, Mexico, where the river sustains farmers’ agricultural output. In this final site, specifically, Tippin saw how drought and climate change are already causing civil unrest.

In 2020 a rebellion arose among farmers there who were protesting a 1944 treaty that requires Mexico to deliver a certain amount of water from the Rio Conchos to Texas.

“I was in Chihuahua amid that backdrop and came to understand how this megadrought is insinuating itself into people's day-to-day lives,” he says. It was amazing to see how these farmers could mobilize themselves to protect their agricultural water, he says.

Continuing the work

Tippin’s next steps will be to pursue his interest in the human dimensions of climate change through a postdoctoral appointment with the U.S. Geological Survey. He’ll work closely again with the North Central Climate Adaptation Science Center on applied climate-adaptation social science projects.

Part of this postdoctoral work will be to assess how past research projects have been executed in the field; another part is to help ensure agencies like the National Park Service, the Bureau of Land Management, and the Department of Fish and Wildlife have access to the latest climate science when they’re making decisions about land and water management.

In the meantime, he hopes that the climate assessment he performed at CANM can be used to help evaluate similar natural and historic sites.

“It's a niche area within the world of climate change adaptation research,” he says. “But it's just another indication of how climate change is this all-encompassing threat multiplier that affects a lot of things that people find to be valuable.”  

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С�� Boulder PhD candidate Chilton Tippin assesses how a warming climate is affecting not just humans, but also our archaeological record.

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Top image: Bureau of Land Management

Rethinking what fruit flies taught science to ignore

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 04 May 2026 16:52:38 +0000

Rethinking what fruit flies taught science to ignore Rachel Sauer Mon, 05/04/2026 - 10:52

Cody DeBos

С�� Boulder researcher Donna Goldstein seeks to understand radiation risk through a butterfly’s wings and, yes, the humble fruit fly

In the 1940s, geneticist Theodosius Dobzhansky flew over a cluster of tropical islands off the coast of Brazil and saw not nature but a laboratory. Trained in the famous “fly rooms” of Columbia University, he released irradiated fruit flies onto those islands and tracked what happened as they reproduced across generations.

What he and his colleagues discovered has shaped the way scientists and regulators view radiation’s genetic effects for nearly eight decades.

Whether that work should still be considered the gold standard is the question University of Colorado Boulder anthropologist Donna Goldstein and University of South Carolina anthropologist Magdalena Stawkowski are now asking.

Donna Goldstein, С�� Boulder professor and department chair of anthropology, partnered with colleague Magdalena Stawkowski to trace how the assumptions handed down through decades of fruit fly research have shaped understanding of radiation risk.

Unsettling settled science

Goldstein’s career has taken her from the shantytowns of Rio de Janeiro to politically charged pharmaceutical battlegrounds in Argentina. Much of her work stems from a long-standing drive to explore Cold War–era science around radiation and its effects on humans.

Her latest paper, “Of Epistemes and Insects: How Drosophila and Butterflies Shape Our Understanding of Radiation Risk,” co-authored with Magdalena Stawkowski, was published this spring in the Journal of the History of Biology.

“We are basically trying to read into what’s considered settled science and maybe do a little bit of unsettling,” Goldstein says.

“I’m on a charge to understand what we know about the nuclear age, and also to understand the science of that era and what we might have missed in terms of the kinds of studies we were doing around radiation risk and harm to humans.”

Drosophila all the way down

The fruit fly is the go-to organism in genetic research for practical reasons. It is small, breeds fast and shares some 75% of the genes that cause disease in humans.

By the time nuclear weapons became a reality, Drosophila was already the lens through which geneticists saw the world.

“It was Drosophila all the way down,” she says. “All of these scientists, whatever they wound up doing, including human genetics, wound up traveling through the Drosophila laboratories.”

Indeed, researchers trained in Columbia’s fly rooms fanned out across the world. Many sat on committees that wrote the first human radiation safety standards after nuclear bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki during World War II.

Goldstein and Stawkowski’s paper traces how the assumptions handed down through decades of fruit fly research traveled with those scientists.

Thanks to this shared foundation, geneticists have held on to a core assumption through the years. Conventional fruit fly research suggests that populations of organisms exposed to radiation eventually recover and return to equilibrium. It also claims genetic damage is not heritable over generations.

“When we’re saying that Drosophila resilience may have been a little bit exaggerated, we’re not just talking about what we know about Drosophila, but about the scientists who passed through those laboratories and absorbed what it was they were learning about Drosophila,” Goldstein says.

She and Stawkowski call this the “Drosophila bias.”

“That idea of resilience and of recovery and that damage should not be considered genetic really has maybe been a calming mechanism for all of us,” Goldstein says. “That’s what we want to hear.”

Research conducted on pale grass blue butterflies collected near the damaged Fukushima nuclear power plant in Japan showed genetic abnormalities in the first generation that were significantly higher than the control group. Subsequent generations not only bore those same abnormalities but experienced them at increasingly higher rates. (Photo: Milind Bhakare/Wikimedia Commons)

The butterfly effect

Goldstein and Stawkowski’s research challenges the assumption that fruit fly research on radiation safety and the risks it poses accurately carries over to humans.

In 2012, Japanese researchers published findings on butterflies collected near Fukushima’s damaged nuclear power plant. The first generation showed genetic abnormalities significantly higher than the control group. Subsequent generations not only bore those same abnormalities but experienced them at increasingly higher rates.

The mutations defy the logic held as gospel by Drosophila-trained scientists.

“The butterfly findings that are so recent really gave us pause to kind of look back and think about ‘when did this idea that there could be no genetic damage among insects evolve?’” Goldstein says.

The answer, her paper argues, goes back to the humble fruit fly.

“Maybe we’re kind of drowsy from the Drosophila bias,” Goldstein says.

Still, she’s careful not to overstate the claim, citing her background as an anthropologist and historian of science, not a radiobiologist.

“We can’t really say definitively that we know there is genetic damage because we’re not those kinds of scientists. But what we can say is that maybe the certainty we’ve been using as our groundwork and our foundation is possibly less certain than we think,” she adds.

Yet, following the Fukushima butterfly study, the United Nations Scientific Committee on the Effects of Atomic Radiation dismissed the findings as “not consistent with conventional understanding” of radiation biology.

A nice story to tell

The Drosophila bias masks a more complex dilemma. It may explain why we are willing to put our faith in dated science that, as new findings emerge, might not paint an accurate picture.

“Perhaps most of us believe in our hearts in a human exceptionalism, that, in fact, we’re even more resilient than the most resilient organism,” Goldstein says. “Yeah, it’s a nice story to tell.”

Goldstein argues the bias allows us to believe that humans are uniquely resilient, insulated from radiation’s worst effects by our very biology.

But is the story Drosophila tells true?

“We are basically trying to read into what’s considered settled science and maybe do a little bit of unsettling.”

Goldstein urges scientists to take another honest look at the data being published in recent years.

The stakes of finding the right conclusion are high. Nuclear energy is back on the global agenda, and much of the case for it rests in part on the consensus that low-dose radiation causes no heritable genetic damage. Goldstein doesn’t claim that consensus is wrong, but she thinks it does deserve more intense scrutiny.

“The pro-nuclear establishment really relies on the finding that there’s no genetic damage. I’m interested in seeing if that’s really true. We may have, through the Drosophila bias and through the exaggeration of our interest in resilience, exaggerated our calmness about this.”

Taking another look

Goldstein and Stawkowski mean for their paper to be provocative. As for any argument that goes against long-held precedent, there will surely be detractors. Yet, as Goldstein says, feedback is welcome.

“If people out there want to respond or say something about it, they should,” she says.

The butterflies near Fukushima tell a story spanning generations, offering a living record of what radiation did and continues to do. Goldstein says similar studies of other organisms are being carried out in Brazil, Ukraine and several other parts of the world.

Whether the scientific community is prepared to interpret the results on their own terms, rather than through the assumptions of a lab from the 1940s, may be one of the most consequential questions in radiation biology today.

Goldstein’s hope is that more researchers will challenge the allure of accepting supreme human resilience to radiation and examine the evidence against it at face value.

“We have to remember that not just one organism can tell us the full story.”

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С�� Boulder researcher Donna Goldstein seeks to understand radiation risk through a butterfly’s wings and, yes, the humble fruit fly.

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Top photo: Erik Karits/Pexels

Grad ponders the past and considers the future

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 22:54:29 +0000

Grad ponders the past and considers the future Rachel Sauer Thu, 04/30/2026 - 16:54

Rachel Sauer

Abigail Verneuille, who is earning a BA in anthropology along with a GIS certificate, is honored as the Spring 2026 College of Arts and Sciences outstanding graduate

In the summer of 2024, following her sophomore year as a University of Colorado Boulder anthropology major, Abigail Verneuille signed up for archaeological field school in the Velarde Valley of northern New Mexico.

The area is stunning with its boundless sky and mosaic of mesas, but summers there are intense—arid and scorchingly hot, plus dusty and buggy.

“We were sleeping on the floor for a month, and despite that and the heat, all the dirt, the bugs, everything, I just had the best time of my life,” she says. “I loved everything about it.”

Abigail Verneuille (third from left), the Spring 2026 College of Arts and Sciences outstanding graduate, with (left to right) Dean of Arts and Humanities John-Michael Rivera, Dean of Social Sciences Sarah Jackson, Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences Daryl Maeda, Dean of Natural Sciences Irene Blair and Interim Associate Dean for Student Success Jennifer Fitzgerald.

Before that summer, she had indistinct ideas about her path following college, but after it she knew that she wanted a career in archaeology and directed the rest of her undergraduate education toward that goal—earning a certificate in geographic information systems (GIS) and computational science and writing a thesis aiming to predict past streamflow heights of the Rio Grande River to identify years of agricultural instability.

In recognition of her innovative research, academic excellence and dedicated work, Verneuille has been named the Spring 2026 College of Arts and Sciences outstanding graduate.

“Verneuille’s perfect academic record tells only part of the story, as she has taken courses ranging from humanities to women and gender studies to biological anthropology to math to astronomy to geographic information systems to computational science, and she has received straight A’s in all of them!” wrote Scott Ortman, professor of anthropology, in recommending her. “She has also conducted archaeological field research in North Macedonia and participated in the anthropology department’s archaeology field school in northern New Mexico. Her honors thesis project emerged from that experience.

“What stands out about Abby’s thesis is not just its organization, clarity and technical sophistication, but the fact that the work is of such significance in its field.”

Hiking into the backcountry

Because the kind of archaeology she wants to do is outdoors and sometimes miles down a dirt road, it helps that Verneuille has always loved to be outside. Growing up in Tennessee, she spent a lot of time hiking and exploring—activities she continued when she moved to Boulder for college.

She majored in anthropology and minored in women and gender studies, which allowed her to study themes of religion and ritual that dovetailed with her archaeological research. She discovered her academic passion, though, near the tiny community of Estaca, New Mexico, where she and her research colleagues opened four two-meter-by-one-meter rectangles in which they found artifacts that helped describe the people who lived in that area before and after Spanish colonialism.

Another project on which she worked was documenting petroglyphs with the Mesa Prieta Petroglyph Project. “There would be days where we’d hike an hour and a half into the backcountry and spend eight hours recording petroglyphs, then hike an hour and a half back up this mesa, and that was just the most fun I’ve ever had in my life,” Verneuille says.

In talking with archaeologists from other universities, though, she realized at field school that she would need technical expertise to accompany her hands-in-the-dirt skills, so in Fall 2024 she began pursuing her GIS and computational science certificate. “For that, you’re required to take a semester of statistics in R Studio and then two semesters of coding in Python, and I’d never really thought of myself as a computer kind of person, but I got thrown straight into it,” she says.

“But once I got into the actual mapping classes, the spatial analytics, all the remote sensing, that’s when I thought, ‘Wow, this is amazing, I love this.’”

Abigail Verneuille working at an archaeological field site in northern New Mexico. (Photo: Abigail Verneuille)

Amazing work, amazing people

For her thesis, Verneuille sought to tackle a 100-year-old mystery in U.S. Southwest archaeology: When Pueblo ancestors migrated from the Four Corners region into the Rio Grande Valley in the 13th century, why did they initially settle away from the main courses of the Rio Grande and Rio Chama, where most of the water was, only to gravitate toward the rivers about 100 years later?

Verneuille combined river flow data from the Embudo gauge, the oldest river gauge in the United States, with weather-station data and tree-ring data reflecting precipitation and temperature from the headwaters of the Rio Grande to essentially “predict the past” and understand June flood risk from the present back to 1200 A.D.

Abigail Verneuille conducts land surveys in northern New Mexico for her archaeological research. (Photo: Abigail Verneuille)

Transitions visible in her model corresponded with the end of a phenomenon called the Medieval Climate Anomaly, an unusually warm and wet period worldwide.

“In a final stroke of brilliance, Verneuille not only showed that this reduction in June flood risk corresponds in time to the concentration of population along the main river channels, but she also considers how Pueblo ancestors would have interpreted this change in the environment by considering depictions of water serpent beings in rock art of the area,” Ortman wrote. “Her work shows that climate change can improve local environments for humans in counterintuitive ways, and that there is a connection between the practical and the spiritual with regard to human adaptation to the environment.”

She notes that while the physical work of archaeology was fascinating, she equally loved the community-building aspect of it, working with people who live in the area and whose ancestors were the Tewa-speaking people she was studying. In March, she and several colleagues gave a presentation to residents in the area on what their research had revealed about things like diet and socioeconomic differences of the people who lived in that area hundreds of years ago.

“They were gracious enough to welcome us into their home, so everyone sat around the dining room table and we had a little projector,” Verneuille says. “This is their livelihood, their community, so they had a lot of questions, and it was such a rewarding experience to see how the technical side of academic work has real-life impacts.”

It’s work that she hopes to continue doing after she graduates Saturday, and she has applied for a field technician position with cultural resource management firms. She also is aiming for graduate school in the next five years to continue her archaeology studies.

“It’s amazing work and the most amazing community of people,” she says, “and one that I’d love to continue being a part of.”

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Abigail Verneuille, who is earning a BA in anthropology along with a GIS certificate, is honored as the Spring 2026 College of Arts and Sciences outstanding graduate.

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Sramcbled wrods: the real reason you can still read jumbled text

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 22:19:38 +0000

Sramcbled wrods: the real reason you can still read jumbled text Rachel Sauer Thu, 04/30/2026 - 16:19

Karen Stollznow

"Typoglycemia" is often shared online as a quirky insight into how our brains work, but this viral claim is only part of the story

You’ve probably seen it on social media before: a paragraph of scrambled text that looks like nonsense at first glance, yet somehow you can read it with surprising ease.

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn’t mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteers be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

This effect, often playfully referred to as "typoglycemia," is frequently shared online as a quirky insight into how our brains work.

Karen Stollznow is a visiting scholar in the С�� Boulder Department of Linguistics.

But this viral claim is only part of the story. To understand why it works, we need to look at how the brain actually processes written language.

There is no magical ‘rule’

The claim that usually accompanies this snippet is that as long as the first and last letters of a word are in the right place, the order of the middle letters doesn’t matter.

At first glance, the claim seems plausible.

But while there is a kernel of truth here, the explanation is misleading.

Reading scrambled words has much less to do with a magical “rule” about first and last letters, and much more to do with how our brains use context, pattern recognition and prediction.

We don’t read letter by letter

When we read, we typically don’t painstakingly process each letter in sequence. Instead, skilled readers recognize words rapidly by drawing on multiple cues at once. Psycholinguistic research shows that we process words as patterns rather than as sequences of individual sounds.

These include familiar letter patterns, the overall shape of the word and, crucially, the context of the sentence. Our brains are constantly predicting what is likely to come next, then checking those predictions against the visual input.

This is why we often miss typos in our own writing. We don’t see what’s actually on the page, we see what we expect to be there.

The same principle helps us make sense of jumbled words. Even when letters are out of order, enough of the structure remains for the brain to make an educated guess.

Word shape and structure matter

The viral meme suggests that only the first and last letters matter.

But this oversimplifies what’s really going on. We are sensitive to how letters relate to each other within a word. Common spelling patterns and familiar combinations make words easier to recognize, even when slightly distorted.

This is also why certain visual disruptions make reading harder. Text in alternating caps, such as “AlTeRnAtInG CaPs”, is difficult to process because it disrupts the usual visual contour of words. The same goes for “ransom note” lettering made from mismatched fonts, which interferes with pattern recognition.

In other words, readability depends on preserving enough of a word’s internal structure, not just its outer letters.

Not all scrambled text is readable

If the meme were true, any sentence with intact first and last letters should be easy to read. But that’s not what we find.

Take this example:

Salhal I cmorape tehe to a srmmeus day

It follows the supposed “rules”, yet it is much harder to decipher. In fact, this is the opening of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

So why is the viral paragraph so much easier to read? Because it has been carefully (if unconsciously) engineered to be readable.

The hidden tricks behind the meme

Several factors make the famous example easier to process than it appears.

First, many of the words are short, which limits how many possible combinations the letters could form. Words like “you” and “can” are often left unchanged.

Second, function words such as “the”, “and” and “is” are usually intact. These small, common words provide the grammatical scaffolding of the sentence, making it easier to predict what comes next.

Third, when longer words are scrambled, the changes are often minimal. Adjacent letters are swapped (“wrod” for “word”), which is much easier to process than more extreme rearrangements.

Finally, the passage itself is highly predictable. Once you recognize the topic and rhythm, your brain fills in the gaps automatically, much as it does when listening to speech in a noisy environment.

The key to understanding this phenomenon is context. Words are not processed in isolation. Each word is interpreted in relation to the others around it, and within a broader framework of meaning.

This allows us to compensate for missing or distorted information.

But there are limits. As scrambling becomes more extreme, or as words become less predictable, comprehension quickly breaks down. Reading speed also slows noticeably, even when we can still make sense of the text.

Humans and machines

Interestingly, computers can now unscramble jumbled words with remarkable accuracy. By analyzing probabilities and patterns across large datasets, algorithms can determine the most likely original form of a word or sentence.

In this sense, machines and humans rely on similar principles. Not rigid rules about letter position, but flexible systems that weigh patterns and probabilities. This highlights why the “typoglycemia” claim is an oversimplification, rather than a scientific rule.

The idea persists because it captures a genuine insight in a catchy way. It reveals that reading is not a simple, letter-by-letter process, but a dynamic interaction between perception and expectation.

At the same time, it’s a reminder of how easily scientific ideas can be distorted as they spread online.

So yes, we can often read scrambled words. But not because the order of letters doesn’t matter. It’s because our brains are remarkably good at making sense of imperfect information. So good, in fact, that they can turn a mess into meaning.

Karen Stollznow is a visiting scholar in the С�� Boulder Department of Linguistics specializing in the political and social history of modern Latin America.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

"Typoglycemia" is often shared online as a quirky insight into how our brains work, but this viral claim is only part of the story.

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Wildfire’s toll on animals went largely unreported, researchers show

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 27 Apr 2026 18:10:13 +0000

Wildfire’s toll on animals went largely unreported, researchers show Rachel Sauer Mon, 04/27/2026 - 12:10

Clint Talbott

After the Marshall Fire, researchers at С�� Boulder and Western Washington University muse on why animals disappear from disaster stories and suggest a remedy

When the Marshall Fire swept through Boulder County on Dec. 30, 2021, it killed two people and destroyed 1,084 homes. Colorado’s governor called the relatively modest loss of human life a “New Year’s miracle.”

As University of Colorado Boulder sociologist Leslie Irvine later found, however, the wildfire also killed more than 1,000 companion animals who were trapped in homes that rapidly incinerated while their people were at work, traveling or stuck in evacuation traffic.

New research from Irvine and Cameron Whitley, a sociology professor at Western Washington University, quantifies the extent to which the loss of sentient animal life was overlooked by public officials and the news media.

In recently published research, С�� Boulder sociologist Leslie Irvine and colleague Cameron Whitely quantify the extent to which the loss of sentient animal life was overlooked by public officials and the news media following the Marshall Fire.

For many residents, the toll was devastating but largely invisible.

Out of 981 news stories published in the two months after the fire, only 16% mentioned animals at all. Fewer than 5% focused on animals in their coverage. Government officials mentioned animal loss in less than 1% of public statements.

“What surprised me most wasn’t just what showed up in the media,” Whitley says of the research, which was recently published in the journal Anthrozoös. “It was what didn’t—especially considering how many people think of their animals as family.”

For Irvine, now retired from С�� Boulder but still deeply engaged with the work, the Marshall Fire reopened questions she had hoped never to revisit.

Two decades earlier, after Hurricane Katrina, Irvine wrote Filling the Ark: Animal Welfare in Disasters, a groundbreaking book documenting how disaster-response systems failed people with pets—and how those failures increased human risk as well. After Katrina, Congress passed the PETS Act, requiring emergency plans to account for companion animals.

“I said I would never study disasters and animals again,” Irvine recalls. “It was too devastating.”

Then the Marshall Fire struck Boulder County “right in my backyard,” she says. Whitley, who grew up in nearby Lafayette and earned his BA from С�� Boulder, came to the project with both scholarly training and knowledge of personal loss.

“As people were grieving animals—pets, wildlife, livestock—they kept telling me the same thing,” Whitley says. “They weren’t seeing that grief reflected anywhere.”

Using systematic content analysis, Whitley and his co-authors coded every Marshall Fire news story published by local, state and national outlets in the fire’s immediate aftermath. They tracked when animals appeared, how they were framed, and—critically—when entire categories of loss vanished.

Domestic pets received the most attention, but usually as side notes to evacuation instructions or “feel‑good” reunion stories. Agricultural animals were typically counted collectively—horses evacuated, livestock lost—rarely described as individuals. Wildlife barely appeared at all.

“The default hierarchy is still very clear,” Irvine says. “Humans first. Then property. Animals come after—if at all.”

When the ‘hierarchy’ obscures the truth

“The only thing some families have left of their animals is a burned‑out food bowl. That alone should tell us something about what we’re failing to see,” says С�� Boulder researcher Leslie Irvine. (Photo: Patti Benninghoff-Lawson)

That hierarchy persists despite decades of research showing that people routinely risk their lives for animals during disasters. Some refuse to evacuate without them. Others re‑enter burn zones to try to rescue them—sometimes requiring rescue themselves.

In fact, one of the two human fatalities in the Marshall fire was Edna Turnbull, who died while trying to rescue her dogs. “Turnbull’s refusal to leave without making sure her companion animals were safe is not unique,” Whitley and Irvine write.

From an economic or safety standpoint alone, Irvine argues, ignoring animals is irrational. She contends: “If government officials took animals seriously in disasters, they would reduce risks to first responders, reduce chaos and improve outcomes for everyone.”

One consequence of invisibility is what Whitley calls unrecognized grief. He cites research showing that losing a companion animal can provoke grief comparable to losing a human family member. But when that loss is absent from public discourse, grieving people also feel isolated, he observes, adding:

“In the LA County fires we’re studying now, people talk about losing their home as something they could move past. Losing their animal, or being forced to give that animal up months later because of housing instability, that’s what they say they’ll never recover from.”

That secondary grief rarely appears in disaster coverage. Nor do the long‑term consequences that follow fires even after humans rebuild.

Irvine points to toxic exposure as an underreported crisis. Dogs in burn zones may now need booties and paw decontamination. Outdoor cats may carry contaminants inside. Veterinarians report increases in respiratory illness and unexplained deaths among animal patients months or years later.

Merlin, a cat injured during the Marshall Fire, has since recovered. (Photo: Shelby Davis/Soul Dog Rescue)

“These aren’t dramatic images,” Irvine says. “They don’t fit into breaking news. But they shape everyday life for years.”

“We tend to act as though a disaster ends once people rebuild their homes. But for people with animals, the disaster often continues for the rest of those animals’ lives—through toxic exposure, long‑term illness and ongoing grief.”

Why journalism struggles with animals

The researchers note the challenges facing journalists. Disaster coverage focuses on what can be confirmed quickly, counted easily and tied to economic loss.

“Homes and infrastructure are quantifiable,” Whitley says. “Animals aren’t, unless they’re agricultural, and even then, they’re usually listed as numbers, not lives.”

The media also gravitate toward redemptive narratives—pets reunited with families, miraculous survivals—rather than mass loss without resolution.

“There’s a kind of collective discomfort with stories that don’t offer closure,” Irvine says.

Whitley notes that journalists are reporting statements of public officials, whose focus is on humans and property. “Less than 1% of official government statements mentioned animals at all. That’s not just a media problem; that’s a policy failure.”

But when animals disappear from disaster coverage, so do the people who love them.

The study offers a suggestion on disaster reporting: prioritize sentient life—human and nonhuman alike—before property loss.

“This isn’t about placing animals above people,” Whitley says. “It’s about telling the whole story.”

As climate‑driven disasters become more frequent, these questions will arise more frequently, the researchers note.

“The Marshall Fire taught us that firestorms are no longer remote or rare,” Irvine says. “And it showed us something else—that we are still failing to see whole parts of our communities when disaster strikes.”

Whitley adds: “When we talk about disasters, we celebrate the minimal loss of human life—while thousands of animals die without acknowledgement. For the people who lost them, that silence matters.”

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After the Marshall Fire, researchers at С�� Boulder and Western Washington University muse on why animals disappear from disaster stories and suggest a remedy.

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How local journalists help Brazil’s favelas endure

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 09 Apr 2026 20:12:09 +0000

How local journalists help Brazil’s favelas endure Rachel Sauer Thu, 04/09/2026 - 14:12

Cody DeBos

С�� Boulder sociologist Molly Todd finds that community newspapers were vital for people living in Brazil’s favelas during the COVID-19 pandemic

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit Rio de Janeiro in early 2020, residents of the favelas Maré and Rocinha faced a crisis of communication. Public health messages in Brazil were contradictory—including the government’s denial of COVID-19. Like so many under-resourced and overlooked communities, the roughly 210,000 residents of these favelas received information laden with jargon, misinformation and directives that did not align with their daily realities.

Fortunately, inside the favelas, local newspapers like Maré de Notícias and Fala Roça were picking up the slack. They offered readers humor and solidarity while providing their communities with a shared sense of direction that helped them survive the pandemic.

For Molly Todd, an assistant teaching professor in the University of Colorado Boulder’s Department of Sociology and the International Affairs Program, this grassroots journalism stood out.

Molly Todd, a С�� Boulder assistant teaching professor of sociology, and her research colleagues found that community newspapers were an important source of information in Brazil's favela neighborhoods during the COVID-19 pandemic.

“We really wanted to understand what it was they were doing in the face of a global pandemic that made them such important pillars of their communities,” she says.

Todd and an interdisciplinary team of co-authors recently published a study in the Journal of Urban Affairs examining how these two community-run newspapers helped guide residents through the pandemic and endure it with dignity. The project, which included scholars from Brazil and the U.S., offers a new lens on crisis response and who gets to tell the ensuing stories.

City within a city

Brazil’s favelas are often misrepresented in the media. They tend to be depicted as chaotic and dangerous places that tourists to sunny Rio de Janeiro should avoid. While favelas do struggle with crime and drug trafficking, they’re also rich with social networks, political activism and neighborhood pride.

Speaking of the teams behind Maré de Notícias and Fala Roça, Todd says, “These are journalists who are rooted in the places they report on. They’re talking about things that are very much on the minds of folks living next door in these communities.”

Residents of Maré and Rocinha, which are densely populated urban areas often excluded from formal infrastructure, have long relied on information from community sources. When COVID-19 arrived, this network became even more critical.

“In many cases, favelas are characterized by both hyper surveillance and neglect. The state is failing to meet the basic needs of its residents while disproportionately policing them—even though they’re Brazilian citizens who should have the full rights that other citizens have,” Todd says.

During the pandemic, state-led responses were lacking. Official communication was slow and often misleading. Moreover, widely shared health advice was rarely tailored to the unique realities of favela life.

That’s where the community newspapers stepped in.

“They were very clear about the fact that they wanted to be sources of credible information, sources of timely information and sources of information that were contextualized for the community,” Todd says.

Stay safe, stay sane

Todd and her team of researchers collaborated to analyze how Maré de Notícias and Fala Roça responded to the pandemic. One team member, Vanessa Guerra, was interested in a central theme early on: resilience.

Fala Roça is one of the community newspapers that served as a vital source of information during the COVID-19 pandemic for people living in Rio De Janeiro's favela neighborhoods. (Photo: Fala Roça)

“We often talk about resilience as if it’s just ‘bouncing back,’ but that misses a lot of the bigger story behind-the-scenes of how people survive,” Todd says. She adds that discussions of resilience need to include a critique of the systemic oppression that produces the need to be resilient in the first place.

Informationally, the favela newspapers filled gaps left by the state. They ran myth-busting columns, answered readers’ questions and provided updates on local infection rates. They provided regular COVID updates and used WhatsApp to circulate infographics, FAQs and emergency contacts.

But information was just the start. The papers also nurtured archives of community culture and memorials for those who didn’t survive. One article collected portraits of neighbors lost to the virus. Another ran a photo series of the newly empty public spaces in Maré paired with poetic reflections from the community.

“They were doing this work of archiving sort of how a community comes through a moment like this together,” Todd says.

Who gets to speak?

Mainstream coverage of Brazil’s favelas often skews toward the negative, focusing on issues like violence and poverty. During the pandemic, that narrative sharpened to portray the neighborhoods as volatile, ungovernable zones where health guidance was ignored.

The favela newspapers told a different story—one of hope, community and organizing for a future. That was something Todd and her fellow researchers wanted to capture and preserve.

Todd has continued to explore questions of representation, voice and power in other projects related to Maré. At С�� Boulder, she organized an interactive visual and textual library exhibit called Maré from the Inside. Hosted in Norlin Library from September 2025 to February 2026, the exhibit was intended to “[c]enter and display the intellectual and artistic production of the mostly Black and indigenous residents of Complexo da Maré. . . . The project leverages art’s pedagogical potential with the hope to contribute to a more nuanced public understanding of favelas.”

“There’s so much history of academics just extracting from communities, writing about them and then leaving. It’s not really been a reciprocal process,” says С�� Boulder scholar Molly Todd, emphasizing the importance of collaborating with local communities on projects that benefit their interests. (Photo: Wolf Schram/Unsplash)

Reflecting on the work her team put in, Todd asks, “How can we produce a memory of a place marked by so many erasures? Can this memory help us imagine a different future? How do we encounter unfamiliar places in ethical ways and relate across our differences?”

Visitors were able to walk through a favela story on their own terms, feeling immersed in the ways neighbors cared for each other and allowed creativity to thrive even in an incredibly dark time. They also took in workshops, panels and tours hosted by artists in residence surrounding the exhibit’s opening.

Artists participating in the exhibit included Henrique Gomes da Silva, Andreza Jorge, Paulo Vitor Lino, Wallace Lino, Dayana Sabany, Francisco Valdean and Antonello Veneri. Exhibit organizers included Nicholas Barnes, Andreza Jorge, Henrique Gomes da Silva, Desirée Poets and Molly Todd.

What we can learn from favela newsrooms

Though Todd’s study and the Maré from the Inside exhibit focus on Brazil, she believes the lessons within apply far beyond the borders of Latin America.

“If we want people to feel safe and informed in a crisis, we need to think about trust,” she says.

Top-down communication often fails to resonate with marginalized communities, breeding distrust and false narratives. Local journalism led by people with lived experience can be the link that builds enduring relationships in their communities.

As for her involvement, Todd reiterates the importance of collaborating with local communities on projects that benefit their interests.

“There’s so much history of academics just extracting from communities, writing about them and then leaving. It’s not really been a reciprocal process,” she says.

“To be fair, our project still wasn’t reciprocal in the sense that we have our names on the article and the journalists don’t. In my eyes, I would like to see even more collective kinds of scholarship in the future.”

Looking ahead, Todd hopes this work starts deeper conversations about collaborative knowledge production and whose voices shape our collective memory. In a world facing climate disasters and political upheaval, she sees an urgent need for models that put local knowledge and lived experiences front and center.

“If we’re going to build more just societies,” she says, “we need to pay attention to … people telling stories about their own communities and find ways to amplify their voices.”

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С�� Boulder sociologist Molly Todd finds that community newspapers were vital for people living in Brazil’s favelas during the COVID-19 pandemic.

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Top photo courtesy Maré de Notícias

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