Green European Journal

The 7 May elections in the UK have added further proof to the pile of evidence that suggests Westminster’s two-party system is a thing of the past. Where Labour and the Conservatives languished, the Greens and Reform saw their vote shares soar. But the elections also point to another, less discussed shift: the growing support for independence among the Union’s smaller members.

Edinburgh is a city of tenements. Where urban England is generally built from winding rows of terraced houses, each with their own front door, we Scots are more often stacked in blocks of low-rise flats. The streets of our metropolitan centres are lined by four-to-five-storey façades with symmetrical rows of living-room and kitchen windows.

Wandering through those streets in recent weeks – in central Edinburgh or Glasgow – a particular flash of colour would repeatedly catch the eye: a lurid green, standing out against the soft sandstone shades which characterise these buildings. And looking closely, you would have seen words written across them in bold black ink: “Vote Green”.

At the previous Scottish Parliament election, in 2021, the Scottish Green Party (which is independent from but friendly with the one Zack Polanski leads in England and Wales) got 8.1 per cent of the vote and eight seats – a record result. On 7 May this year, the Greens got 14 per cent, and 15 of the 129 members of the Scottish Parliament (MSPs). They won only two fewer MSPs than Labour and the far-right Reform, which came second equal, and finished ahead of both the Conservatives and Liberal Democrats.

As well as winning a record number of seats, mostly through the proportional “list” system, the Scottish Greens won their first ever constituencies. They got the most votes in Edinburgh Central, where they unseated a prominent minister of the Scottish National Party (SNP), and in Glasgow Southside, which was previously represented by former first minister Nicola Sturgeon (she decided not to run this time).

A block of flats in Glasgow’s Waverley Street, with Vote Green posters in multiple windows. May 2026. Credit: ©John Smith

Scotland wants out

This exceptional result for the Greens was matched by another extraordinary success. The SNP – a centre-left party which supports independence and a return to the EU, and, before Brexit, sat alongside the Green group in the European Parliament as part of the European Free Alliance – won 58 seats, and so a fifth consecutive term in government.

The SNP’s critics point out that turnout was down, enthusiasm has waned, and the party looks tired and out of ideas as it limps towards its third decade in power. These things are all true: the SNP’s constituency vote fell from nearly 1.3 million in 2021 to less than 900,000 this time. But it’s also true that it has achieved an astonishing run of victories since 2007, despite broad opposition from the press and the British establishment. These results are all the more impressive since, in the middle of a cost-of-living crisis, this isn’t exactly an era when incumbency has been an electoral advantage. The SNP is, surely, the most successful centre-left party in Europe this century.

The relationship between the Greens and the SNP is generally as convivial as two groups of competing politicians can be. For much of the SNP’s time in power, it has been a minority government, often relying on Green votes to pass budgets. The Green complaint about the SNP isn’t usually that it is taking the country in the wrong direction, but that it is ambling in the right direction far too slowly, and is too often nudged off course by powerful vested interests. Scottish voters get two ballot papers – one for their local constituency MSP, and one for a proportional regional list. Greens don’t run in many constituencies, and their voters usually lend support to the SNP on that ballot.

Perhaps most significantly, both parties support Scottish independence and a return to the EU. Together, at this election, they won the biggest pro-independence majority in Scotland’s history, and so a clear mandate for a referendum. Should such a vote take place, most recent polls suggest a narrow victory for Yes, with the overwhelming majority of younger voters supporting independence. As it has been for a decade now, this generational divide is remarkable. One recent poll by the agency Survation (which predicted the recent election most accurately) showed that around two-thirds of Scots under 35 support independence, with only 20 per cent saying they would vote No, and the rest undecided. The majority persisted through the 45-55 age bracket, where Yes support was at 55 per cent, compared to 33 per cent opposing independence. However, only 40 per cent of those aged between 55 and 65 supported independence, and two-thirds of Scots over 65 wanted to stay in the Union.

Most worryingly for supporters of the Union, there is now strong evidence that this split is about generation rather than age. In other words, as younger voters have got older, they have continued to support independence. Millennial support for independence hasn’t dropped off as we’ve become parents and got mortgages – it’s embedded.

Securing such a referendum legally, however, requires the consent of the UK government, which it has so far refused to give since Scotland’s last independence vote in 2014. In Britain’s ancient and uncodified constitution, Westminster ultimately has absolute authority to legislate as it pleases, and no prime minister wants to be the one to have lost Scotland.

The whispers of separation

Still, as John Swinney – the re-elected first minister – argues for a new referendum, he will have some new, powerful allies. Wales held an election to its parliament – the Senedd – on the same day as Scotland. The result there was even more extraordinary: Labour had won every major election in the country for more than a century. But it was thrashed by the SNP’s sister party, Plaid Cymru, which came first with 43 of 96 seats. The far-right Reform, which had hopes of coming first, got second place with 34 seats, while Labour was reduced to nine. The Greens, who had never had a member of the Senedd before, managed to break through and win two – a remarkable achievement given that many progressive voters scrambled to back Plaid Cymru at the last minute, for fear of Reform coming first.

As in Scotland, both Plaid Cymru and the Welsh Greens support Welsh independence. Likewise, in Northern Ireland, Sinn Féin, which supports Northern Ireland leaving the UK to unite with the rest of Ireland, is now the largest party. First minister Michelle O’Neill has been quick to align with the Scottish and Welsh independence movements. While the Good Friday Agreement peace deal – which ended the civil war known euphemistically as “The Troubles” in 1998 – requires that parties from each side of Northern Ireland’s old constitutional and cultural divide share political power, O’Neill’s election in 2024 marked the first time ever that the resultant government has been led by a first minister who supports leaving the UK and joining Ireland.

Though there isn’t yet majority support for either Welsh independence or Irish unity, polls show rapid growth in favour of separating from the UK over the decade since the Brexit referendum. Majorities of young people in both places are consistently in favour, and a desire to leave the UK is now the standard position on the Left in both Northern Ireland and Wales.

Notably, support for independence is not limited to the three smaller countries in the Union. The Green Party of England and Wales has long supported the constitutional aspirations of its northern sister party, and been in favour of Welsh independence since 2020 (I am told that the Welsh Greens becoming their own party is now a matter of “when, not if”). When I interviewed English Green leader Zack Polanski about independence last year, he was an enthusiastic supporter.

The astonishing rise of the English Greens under Polanski has been well documented, and the 7 May English local elections were another profound milestone for the party. The Greens came second to Reform in the national vote share, winning hundreds of new local councillors and securing their first two elected mayors.

What  has  been less discussed is that this result means England now has a large and powerful party which supports the break-up of the UK. The very fact that this isn’t headline news is, in itself, remarkable. Over the last few months, Labour, Reform, and the UK’s famously right-wing press have attacked Greens on almost every plausible subject. The party’s positions on drugs, sex work, Palestine, and peace have been twisted into moral panics smeared across endless front pages of oligarch-owned newspapers. Yet there’s barely been a word about the fact that the Greens back the Break-up of Britain – presumably because these opponents know that most voters in England are, at most, ambivalent about the subject.

Resisting Reform

Just as significant for the UK’s future is the rise of Reform. While the far-right party finished in second place in Scotland (with Labour) and Wales, it came first in England. Like many of its counterparts across Europe, Reform doesn’t exactly have a coherent programme. But one thing which is clear is that it is a loud proponent of what I would call Anglo-British nationalism: the party has openly flirted with the idea of shutting the Welsh parliament, and has proposed reducing the size and power of the Scottish parliament, imposing more direct rule from Westminster. In England, Reform is aligned with the racist movements which have been tying English flags to lampposts across the country as part of a wider anti-immigration backlash. A fandom for Britain’s colonialist past, the party is obsessed with the old imperial institutions of the British state.

For many in Scotland, the desire for independence is bound up with the fear of being governed by that sort of right-wing, Anglo-British nationalism. Shortly after his re-election as first minister, John Swinney sought to tap into that concern, saying that Scotland must achieve independence before Reform leader Nigel Farage likely becomes British prime minister at the next UK general election.

In Scotland, many people feel that the country is trapped. Supporters of independence feel stuck in a Union they want to leave, and which they can see is careering towards a far-right government Scotland is very unlikely to have voted for (every single local authority area in the country opposed Brexit in 2016, and Reform didn’t win a single constituency in this Scottish parliament election, implying they may fail to win any MSPs at the next UK general election). For these people, there is a lingering, as-yet unanswered question: what is the mechanism for Scotland to leave the UK, should most Scots want to do so? Under the Good Friday Agreement, UK government ministers are required to hold a referendum on Irish unity if they have reason to believe it would pass. Scotland, however, has no such exit route.

On the other hand, for opponents of independence, there is a parallel frustration at being trapped in what they see as an endless, pointless conversation about our constitutional future.

A broken system

It’s not clear what the escape route from this trap might be. But one thing is obvious: this is only one part of a much larger constitutional crisis in the UK. The rise of both the Greens and Reform renders the first-past-the-post electoral system used at Westminster obsolete. The system, whereby the candidate with the most votes in each constituency wins the election regardless of whether this produces nationally proportional results, can’t possibly express voters’ views sensibly. Worse still for the Scots and Welsh, over the last two hundred years,  first-past-the-post has disproportionately delivered Conservative governments for which we haven’t voted.

 At the same time, the monarchy – long the ideological guardrail for the Westminster system – has been bruised both by the death of Elizabeth II and by the revelations about her son Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor’s relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. The default pro-Americanism of British foreign policy has been profoundly damaged by Trump; and millions have turned against it because of British complicity in Israel’s genocide of Gaza. 

While faith in representative structures has corroded across the Western world, polls consistently put Britain towards the very bottom of international rankings for trust in our politics. This isn’t surprising: Britain doesn’t have a “normal” political set-up. Where almost every other European country had a revolution or independence moment at some point, after which people gathered and wrote a constitution, Britain has a medieval system with multiple democratic features retrofitted. We have one of the most centralised systems of state power in the Western world, with almost all major decisions made at the core (particularly in England). Despite its theoretical sovereignty, our parliament has remarkably little capacity to hold that core to account. And, with the House of Lords’ entrenching cronyism, the inadequacy of the first-past-the-post system, the power of millionaire- and corporate-funded cliques, and tight control of our traditional parties through the whipping system, voters have surprisingly little influence over who sits in our parliament and what our government does, leaving a flood of corporate cash to shape the policies of our state.

In the past, British voters were willing to accept a relatively less democratic state than our European neighbours, because its imperialism delivered us all (to differing degrees) the wealth which came from the plunder of empire. Now, with the empire gone, the British state staggers from crisis to crisis, and voters feel little sense that we even have control over the direction of the staggering. Inequality is rampant, the economy is – for all but the hyper-rich – stagnant. The centres of towns across the UK are rotting.

Ultimately, it is this dysfunctionality of the Westminster system which drives the desire to leave the UK, and that problem isn’t about to be resolved. There may not be any obvious mechanism for Scotland to get its referendum, but the pressure to allow one isn’t going anywhere. And with the real risk of a Faragist government on the horizon, the demands will become increasingly desperate.

Walk through those streets in Edinburgh and Glasgow, and look up at those flats. The majority of people who live in them don’t want to live under Westminster rule, and are eager to return to the EU. How will that desire express itself over the next five years? The answer to that question could have profound implications for British – and European – politics.

Cuarenta años después de la catástrofe nuclear de Chernóbil, Bulgaria sigue profundamente marcada por el suceso. Al ser el único país del bloque socialista que no tomó ninguna medida de protección, lo pagó muy caro. La lluvia radiactiva sacó a la luz el cinismo del régimen comunista y marcó profundamente el despertar ecológico y democrático del país.

A la 01:23 del 26 de abril de 1986, el reactor n.º 4 de la central nuclear de Chernóbil, entonces en la URSS, sufrió una avería catastrófica antes de explotar y hacer volar por los aires parte de las instalaciones, dejando el emplazamiento destrozado. El núcleo del reactor quedó al descubierto y liberó grandes cantidades de sustancias radiactivas a la atmósfera. En los meses siguientes, más de 200 000 personas fueron evacuadas de las zonas circundantes.

Impulsada por los vientos, la nube radiactiva contaminó vastas regiones de Europa, con lluvias radiactivas especialmente importantes en Ucrania, Bielorrusia y Rusia. Las emisiones, formadas por nubes de cesio-137 y otros isótopos, continuaron hasta el 5 de mayo. Si bien es cierto que su concentración iba disminuyendo con la distancia, afectaron a territorios muy extensos. La nube llegó a los Balcanes el 1 de mayo.

En aquella época, Dimitar Vatsov era un estudiante de secundaria de 15 años en Sofía. “Justo después de las lluvias radiactivas, el Komsomol [las juventudes del Partido Comunista Soviético] envió a mi clase a trabajar al campo”, recuerda. “Cada mañana, un autobús venía a recogernos para recolectar espinacas y cebollino”. 

Las autoridades búlgaras no informaron públicamente sobre la catástrofe hasta el 7 de mayo. Las declaraciones oficiales posteriores afirmaban que la contaminación ambiental era mínima y no requería ninguna medida especial. Cuatro compañeros de clase de Vatsov murieron de cáncer en los años siguientes.

Esta experiencia lo marcó profundamente. El ahora filósofo y profesor de la Nueva Universidad Búlgara de Sofía puso en marcha el pasado otoño un seminario dedicado exclusivamente a las consecuencias de la catástrofe de Chernóbil en Bulgaria, que reunió a historiadores, periodistas y físicos nucleares.

El ahora filósofo y profesor de la Nueva Universidad Búlgara de Sofía organizó el pasado otoño un seminario que reunió a historiadores, periodistas y físicos nucleares dedicado exclusivamente a las consecuencias de la catástrofe de Chernóbil en Bulgaria.

“Bulgaria fue el único país del bloque socialista que no tomó ninguna medida tras la catástrofe”, explica. Aunque el país solo ocupa el octavo puesto entre los más expuestos a la radiación según un informe de la ONU, registró la tasa más alta de cáncer de tiroides infantil fuera de la antigua URSS. “Como filósofo, esta singularidad me llevó a reflexionar sobre la verdad, la ética del discurso político y, en un sentido más amplio, el cinismo del régimen comunista de la época”.

El bloqueo informativo búlgaro

Tras el accidente de Chernóbil, en los países del bloque del Este se filtró la información con rigurosidad con el fin de minimizar los riesgos de contaminación y preservar al mismo tiempo el prestigio de la URSS. Por ejemplo, en Checoslovaquia, la palabra katastrofa se evitó cuidadosamente en las primeras fases, mientras que el término havárie (”accidente”) se utilizaba sin calificativos.

Los informes oficiales destacaban la pericia y el heroísmo soviéticos, el rápido control del incidente y la supuesta exageración de los hechos por parte de los “medios imperialistas occidentales”. Sin embargo, Bulgaria fue el país donde se produjo la censura más estricta y donde no se emprendió ninguna acción significativa.

“Ceaușescu (uno de los dictadores más autoritarios de la época) advirtió a los rumanos del riesgo de contaminación el 2 de mayo. En Yugoslavia, se pidió a las mujeres embarazadas y a los niños que permanecieran en interiores y se recomendaron precauciones básicas, como lavar los alimentos frescos. En Bulgaria, el bloqueo informativo fue total”, cuenta Vatsov.

“No nos decían nada, simplemente teníamos que obedecer. No fue hasta años más tarde cuando comprendí la verdadera magnitud de la catástrofe” – Petko Kovachev

El físico nuclear Georgi Kaschiev, que entonces trabajaba en la central de Kozloduy, en el noroeste de Bulgaria, recuerda muy bien aquellos días: “La única información que recibimos fue que se había producido un incendio en Chernóbil y que había sido extinguido”. Sin embargo, gracias a una gran antena instalada en su edificio, Kaschiev captaba la televisión yugoslava.

“Las noticias procedentes de Suecia y Finlandia permitieron comprender rápidamente que el incidente era mucho más grave de lo que se reconocía oficialmente. Los medios occidentales difundían imágenes de satélites estadounidenses que mostraban el reactor destruido, mapas que trazaban la nube radiactiva y reportajes que indicaban que Yugoslavia había enviado aviones para evacuar a los nacionales que estudiaban en Kiev”.

A finales de abril, Kaschiev y sus colegas comprendieron que la nube se dirigía hacia Bulgaria. Entre el 1 y el 2 de mayo, los niveles de radiación alcanzaron hasta diez veces los niveles naturales, especialmente tras las lluvias. Ante el mutismo de las autoridades, la información se difundió en privado: los ingenieros pidieron a sus familiares que tomaran precauciones básicas, unas advertencias que a menudo fueron recibidas con incredulidad. Varios análisis de muestras de alimentos posteriores, en particular de leche procedente de granjas búlgaras, confirmaron una contaminación extrema.

Los documentos de archivo a los que se pueden acceder actualmente muestran que el Gobierno búlgaro seguía de cerca la evolución de la catástrofe y el alcance de la contaminación en Europa y en Bulgaria. Para ello, analizaron la prensa extranjera, los informes de inteligencia y las mediciones diarias de radiación en todo el territorio. Según Vatsov, el Politburó del Partido Comunista Búlgaro temía que revelar la verdadera magnitud de la contaminación sembrara el pánico y provocara disturbios políticos, como había ocurrido en Polonia: “Aparte de eso, tan solo puedo calificar esta actitud como una forma de flaqueza moral por parte de las élites gobernantes, que demostraron un profundo desprecio hacia el resto de la población.”

Petko Kovachev, activista medioambiental que entonces cumplía el servicio militar obligatorio, recuerda que el ejército reaccionó rápidamente: “De la noche a la mañana, dejamos de consumir productos frescos y solo comíamos conservas en el comedor. Se cancelaron las actividades al aire libre y se nos ordenó medir los niveles de radiación alrededor de la base con contadores Geiger”.

Sin embargo, las medidas no vinieron acompañadas de ninguna explicación. “No nos decían nada, simplemente teníamos que obedecer. No fue hasta años más tarde cuando comprendí la verdadera magnitud de la catástrofe”.

El cinismo de la nomenklatura

La gestión de las repercusiones de Chernóbil en Bulgaria puso de manifiesto flagrantes desigualdades en el acceso a la información y a la protección sanitaria. En la cúspide se encontraba la nomenklatura: altos cargos del partido, policía política, directivos administrativos y oficiales militares. Durante la crisis, disfrutaron de un acceso privilegiado a comidas y provisiones distribuidas a través del hotel estatal Rila, situado en el centro de Sofía. El Politburó recibía agua mineral procedente de manantiales profundos y alimentos importados (cordero australiano, verduras de Egipto e Israel) para evitar cualquier contaminación.

Según Vatsov, la élite de esta nomenklatura —unas 300 personas— nunca estuvo en peligro, ya que se tomaron medidas especiales para garantizar su seguridad y bienestar: “El ejército adoptó medidas menos estrictas, pero suficientes para reducir la exposición. Al resto de la población, en cambio, permaneció en la ignorancia absoluta”.

Un símbolo de este cinismo fue la decisión de mantener el desfile del 1 de mayo de 1986, en el que numerosos niños desfilaron por Sofía a pesar del riesgo de lluvia radiactiva. Por suerte, la manifestación comenzó a las 11:00, mientras que la nube radiactiva no llegó al territorio búlgaro hasta la tarde, como muy pronto hacia las 14:00.

También se organizaron numerosos eventos deportivos de propaganda en todo el país, así como trabajos forzados supervisados por brigadas juveniles, compuestas principalmente por jóvenes de entre 15 y 25 años. Estos “voluntarios” estaban obligados a realizar tareas físicamente exigentes, como trabajos agrícolas o de construcción al menos dos veces al año. Se estima que unos 365 000 jóvenes se vieron expuestos de esta manera.

El 10 de mayo, tras una reunión en el Ministerio de Energía en Sofía, Kaschiev visitó a su cuñada. Los niños jugaban fuera, delante del edificio, mientras los adultos charlaban tranquilamente. Cuando les instó a que no les dejasen salir ni jugar en el arenero, desoyeron su advertencia. “Me acusaron de querer sembrar el pánico”, cuenta. “Alguien incluso insinuó que seguramente era un agente occidental y amenazó con denunciarme a las autoridades.”

A pesar de unas medidas a menudo insuficientes, se mantuvieron los desfiles del 1 de mayo en todos los países del bloque del Este. Incluso en Polonia, las celebraciones tuvieron lugar según lo previsto, mientras el Gobierno negaba públicamente cualquier riesgo sanitario. Mientras tanto, las autoridades polacas distribuían yodo y limitaban la venta de leche.

La rápida distribución de yodo, que comenzó la tarde del 29 de abril, se cita a menudo como una respuesta ejemplar ante una emergencia radiactiva: en tres días, 18,5 millones de personas (adultos y niños) recibieron una pastilla de yodo.

Científicos y activismo medioambiental

Justo después de la caída del régimen, Kovachev conoció más a fondo la catástrofe de Chernóbil y sus consecuencias gracias a una exposición organizada por físicos de la Universidad de Sofía. Ya en la época del comunismo, algunos de ellos formaban parte de redes ecologistas informales que más tarde se convertirían en Ecoglasnost, organización a la que Kovachev se unió cuando era estudiante.

Fundada en la primavera de 1989, unos meses antes de la caída del comunismo, Ecoglasnost era un movimiento cívico centrado en la protección del medioambiente, nacido del clima de liberalización política inspirado por la glasnost soviética. En otoño, Ecoglasnost organizó peticiones y manifestaciones públicas, entre ellas la concentración del 3 de noviembre en Sofía, considerada una de las primeras movilizaciones cívicas abiertamente contra el régimen comunista.

El movimiento amplió rápidamente sus reivindicaciones a las libertades civiles y las reformas democráticas. En diciembre de 1989, Ecoglasnost se convirtió en la primera organización política no comunista reconocida oficialmente en Bulgaria y desempeñó posteriormente un papel esencial en la estructuración de la oposición democrática al unirse a la Unión de Fuerzas Democráticas (un partido político que unía varias organizaciones opuestas al Gobierno comunista). También inició las primeras inspecciones de la central de Kozloduy.

El compromiso de la comunidad científica con las luchas medioambientales contribuyó al debilitamiento del régimen en sus últimos años. Ya se había manifestado en Ruse, en el norte del país, donde la contaminación atmosférica procedente de una fábrica química situada al otro lado de la frontera rumana desencadenó amplias protestas en 1987. De este movimiento surgió el Consejo Público para la Protección del Medioambiente de Ruse, la primera organización informal tolerada bajo el comunismo, que desempeñó un papel decisivo en las primeras movilizaciones nacionales y en la transición democrática.

En esa misma época, el descubrimiento de materiales radiactivos en forma de “partículas calientes” en Bulgaria (una prueba de la magnitud de la catástrofe de Chernóbil) incitó a varios físicos a seguir de cerca la crisis y a estudiar sus consecuencias. La exposición de la Universidad de Sofía que visitó Kovachev en diciembre de 1989 fue fruto de ese trabajo.

En otros países del bloque socialista, como Hungría o Checoslovaquia, surgieron algunos movimientos similares que combinaban el compromiso científico con la toma de conciencia ecológica y democrática.

Las preocupaciones medioambientales se convirtieron en el motor que expresaba las reivindicaciones de responsabilidad y transparencia. Este fenómeno alimentó las redes reformistas que posteriormente contribuyeron a configurar la transición de Hungría hacia la democracia

Mientras los niveles de radiación aumentaban a finales de abril y principios de mayo de 1986, los científicos y profesionales sanitarios húngaros documentaron la contaminación e intercambiaron información de manera informal, mientras que la comunicación oficial seguía siendo limitada y con ánimos tranquilizadores.

La creciente brecha entre el conocimiento de los expertos y el discurso público creó una disonancia moral en estos profesionales, divididos entre su integridad científica y su lealtad al Estado. En este contexto, las preocupaciones medioambientales se convirtieron en el motor que expresaba las reivindicaciones de responsabilidad y transparencia. Este fenómeno alimentó las redes reformistas que posteriormente contribuyeron a configurar la transición de Hungría hacia la democracia.

En la antigua Checoslovaquia, la catástrofe de Chernóbil también contribuyó a galvanizar los movimientos ecologistas, que posteriormente se convirtieron en actores clave de la Revolución de Terciopelo de 1989. Aunque el régimen era uno de los más represivos del bloque del Este, toleraba más el activismo medioambiental que la disidencia política abierta, pues consideraba que las preocupaciones relacionadas con la contaminación atmosférica e hídrica o la degradación del paisaje eran relativamente inofensivas y difíciles de censurar.

Los disidentes de Chernóbil

Según Vatsov, en Bulgaria no había disidentes antes del accidente de Chernóbil. “Saber que habían sido engañados por las autoridades y expuestos a graves riesgos para la salud marcó el compromiso político de toda una generación, especialmente dentro de la comunidad científica.”

Kaschiev es un ejemplo emblemático. La catástrofe de Chernóbil determinó tanto su compromiso político como su trayectoria profesional. Su indignación ante las deficiencias morales y políticas del régimen le llevó a especializarse en seguridad nuclear. A finales de la década de 1980, pasó de la física de reactores a la evaluación de riesgos, primero como empleado dentro de la central, y luego como profesor universitario e inspector nuclear. En 1997, fue nombrado director del laboratorio nacional de regulación nuclear de Bulgaria.

En otros países socialistas, la catástrofe de Chernóbil también se convirtió en un catalizador de la oposición al régimen. En Polonia, dio lugar a un poderoso movimiento antinuclear. Los temores relacionados con la catástrofe se transformaron rápidamente en oposición al proyecto de la central nuclear de Żarnowiec, y desencadenaron protestas a nivel nacional en las que participaron grupos ecologistas, activistas locales y disidentes como Lech Wałęsa, futuro primer presidente del país elegido democráticamente.

En un referéndum organizado en 1990, coincidiendo con las elecciones locales, más del 86 % de los votantes rechazó el proyecto de Żarnowiec, lo que provocó su abandono definitivo. Como señala el politólogo Kacper Szulecki, estas movilizaciones reflejaron y aceleraron profundas transformaciones sociales y generacionales, al tiempo que socavaron aún más la legitimidad de Moscú en Polonia.

Si bien dejó una huella duradera en la sociedad búlgara, la catástrofe no dio lugar a un movimiento antinuclear amplio. La central de Kozloduy, modernizada y aún en funcionamiento, es considerada en gran medida una fuente de orgullo nacional y una garantía de independencia energética. La catastrófica gestión de Chernóbil puso sobre todo de manifiesto la indecencia y el cinismo del régimen comunista, así como la irracionalidad de su ideología.

La catastrófica gestión de Chernóbil puso sobre todo de manifiesto la indecencia y el cinismo del régimen comunista, así como la irracionalidad de su ideología

En diciembre de 1991, tras la caída del régimen, el Tribunal Supremo de Sofía condenó al exministro de Sanidad Lyubomir Shindarov y al ex viceprimer ministro Grigor Stoichkov por negligencia criminal, por haber engañado deliberadamente a la población. Tras un largo proceso de apelación, sus penas se redujeron a dos y tres años de prisión, respectivamente. Siguen siendo los únicos altos cargos del régimen búlgaro que realmente fueron procesados y condenados por la gestión de la catástrofe de Chernóbil.

El físico nuclear Atanas Krastanov, joven investigador en la década de 1980 y testigo de la mala gestión de la catástrofe por parte de las autoridades, considera que la energía nuclear en sí misma no es el problema.

Subraya que “el accidente de Chernóbil fue ante todo el resultado de un error humano” y precisa “que en un principio no se trató de una explosión nuclear, sino de una explosión térmica debida a una acumulación de presión”. En la actualidad, Krastanov trabaja como experto en el Centro de Prevención de Catástrofes, Accidentes y Crisis del Ayuntamiento de Sofía. Recientemente participó en la realización de un documental sobre el tema, cuyo estreno está previsto para otoño. 

Este artículo se ha realizado dentro de una Thematic Network de PULSE, una iniciativa europea que apoya las colaboraciones periodísticas transnacionales. En su elaboración han colaborado Andrea Braschayko, Martin Vrba y Daniel Harper.

Translated by Raquel Alonso | Voxeurop

Oltre a provocare gravi problemi sanitari, la catastrofe di Černobyl’ contribuì alla nascita di movimenti ambientalisti e alla delegittimazione dei regimi nei paesi socialisti. Quarant’anni dopo l’incidente, la Bulgaria resta il paese più segnato dal disastro, l’unico del blocco socialista a non adottare alcuna misura di protezione, Sofia pagò un prezzo altissimo che mise a nudo il cinismo del regime comunista.

All’1:23 del 26 aprile 1986, il nocciolo del reattore numero quattro della centrale nucleare di Černobyl’ – nei pressi del confine tra le repubbliche sovietiche di Ucraina e Bielorussia – si fuse ed esplose, distruggendo parte dell’impianto. Enormi quantità di sostanze radioattive furono liberate nell’atmosfera, e oltre 200mila persone dovettero essere evacuate dalle aree circostanti. Trasportata dal vento, la nube radioattiva contaminò vaste zone d’Europa, con le ricadute più pesanti in Ucraina, Bielorussia e Russia. Nelle popolazioni esposte si registrarono aumenti di malattie tiroidee e tumori; altri effetti sanitari a lungo termine restano difficili da quantificare.

Il silenzio delle autorità bulgare

“Mi sono interessato alle conseguenze dell’incidente di Černobyl’ in Bulgaria per una questione personale. All’inizio di maggio 1986 avevo quindici anni ed ero studente di liceo a Sofia. Subito dopo le piogge radioattive, la mia classe venne mandata a lavorare nei campi. Ogni mattina un autobus ci portava a raccogliere spinaci ed erba cipollina. Quattro miei compagni sono poi morti di cancro”, racconta Dimitar Vatsov. 

Vatsov insegna alla New Bulgarian University di Sofia, e sostiene che “la Bulgaria fu l’unico paese del blocco socialista a non adottare misure dopo il disastro. Per questo, sebbene un rapporto Onu la classifichi all’ottavo posto tra gli stati più colpiti dalle radiazioni, la Bulgaria registra il più alto tasso di tumori alla tiroide tra i bambini al di fuori dell’ex Urss”.

La nube radioattiva raggiunse i Balcani già il 1° maggio, ma fino al 7 maggio le autorità bulgare non fecero alcun annuncio. Nelle successive comunicazioni ufficiali si sostenne che la contaminazione ambientale era minima e non richiedeva misure speciali.

“Per fare un confronto, Ceaușescu avvertì i romeni del rischio di contaminazione già il 2 maggio. Lo stesso accadde in Jugoslavia, dove alle donne incinte e ai bambini fu chiesto di restare in casa e furono raccomandate precauzioni di base, come lavare il cibo fresco. In Bulgaria, invece, si verificò un blackout informativo totale”, commenta Vatsov.

Nel 1986 il fisico nucleare Georgi Kascev lavorava alla centrale di Kozloduj, nel nord-ovest della Bulgaria, tuttora l’unico impianto nucleare del paese. Ricorda bene quel giorno: “L’unico comunicato che ricevemmo diceva che c’era stato un incendio a Černobyl’, ma era stato spento”. Grazie a un’antenna installata al nono piano del suo palazzo, però, Kascev riceveva la televisione jugoslava: “Le notizie suggerivano che l’incidente era molto più grave. Si vedevano immagini del reattore distrutto e mappe della nube radioattiva, e si diceva che la Jugoslavia aveva inviato aerei per evacuare i propri studenti da Kiev”. Mentre il silenzio ufficiale continuava, in privato gli ingegneri invitavano i parenti a prendere precauzioni di base, spesso senza essere creduti.

I documenti d’archivio oggi accessibili mostrano che il governo bulgaro monitorava in realtà con attenzione l’evoluzione del disastro e la contaminazione in corso in Europa e nel paese. “L’unica spiegazione plausibile [del silenzio] è che le autorità bulgare temevano che rivelare la reale portata della contaminazione avrebbe causato panico e possibili disordini politici. Oltre a questo, posso solo parlare di una forma di debolezza morale delle élite al potere, che mostrarono disprezzo per il resto della popolazione”, spiega Vatsov.

Nel 1986 l’attivista ambientale Petko Kascev stava svolgendo il servizio militare obbligatorio. Ricorda che l’esercito reagì con rapidità: “All’improvviso smettemmo di mangiare cibo fresco, in mensa ci servivano solo scatolette. Le attività all’aperto furono cancellate e ci ordinarono di misurare i livelli di radiazione attorno alla base, ma non ci spiegarono mai cosa stesse succedendo”.

Liliana Prodanova era invece una scienziata che lavorava presso l’Istituto di fisica dello stato solido: “Mio marito era prorettore dell’Università tecnica di Sofia. Anch’io ero fisica, quindi capivamo molto bene le implicazioni della contaminazione. Prendemmo precauzioni in silenzio, come lavare il cibo. Rimuovemmo anche il terreno contaminato attorno alla nostra casa di campagna. Quell’anno non piantammo nulla”.

Gli scienziati e l’attivismo ambientale

Secondo Dimitar Vatsov, “prima dell’incidente di Černobyl’ non c’erano veri dissidenti in Bulgaria. Ma la consapevolezza di essere stati ingannati dalle autorità e di essere stati esposti a gravi rischi sanitari ha plasmato l’impegno politico di un’intera generazione, soprattutto all’interno della comunità scientifica”.

In particolare, nel 1989 nacque Ecoglasnost, un movimento civico per la tutela dell’ambiente in Bulgaria. Organizzò petizioni e manifestazioni, tra cui un raduno a Sofia che è considerato una delle prime mobilitazioni civiche aperte contro il regime comunista. Il movimento ampliò presto le proprie richieste alle libertà civili e alle riforme democratiche e giocò poi un ruolo nella transizione.

Il coinvolgimento della comunità scientifica nelle lotte ambientali fu uno dei tratti distintivi degli ultimi anni del regime bulgaro. Si era già manifestato nella città di Ruse, dove l’inquinamento provocato da un impianto chimico aveva scatenato proteste diffuse e aveva portato alla nascita di un comitato per la protezione dell’ambiente, la prima organizzazione informale tollerata sotto il comunismo. Anche in altri Paesi del blocco sovietico, come l’Ungheria, l’impegno degli scienziati contro l’inquinamento e le devastazioni della natura contribuì a rendere la critica ambientale una forma legittima – seppur attentamente delimitata – di partecipazione pubblica nel tardo socialismo.

Reazioni in Polonia, Ungheria e Cecoslovacchia

In Polonia la catastrofe di Černobyl’ fece da catalizzatore per la mobilitazione politica e contribuì alla nascita di un movimento antinucleare di massa, in particolare contro il progetto della centrale di Żarnowiec, che avrebbe dovuto diventare nel 1990 il primo impianto nucleare del paese. A partire dal 1986 gruppi ecologisti locali e nazionali organizzarono manifestazioni, campagne di informazione, blocchi stradali e persino scioperi della fame, coinvolgendo ampi settori della società e figure pubbliche di primo piano come Lech Wałęsa, leader di Solidarność. Le autorità si trovarono costrette a indire un referendum, in cui oltre l’86 per cento dei votanti si espresse contro il progetto della nuova centrale, che nel 1990 fu effettivamente interrotto.

Come rileva lo studioso Kacper Szulecki nel libro The Chernobyl Effect (“L’effetto Černobyl’”), le lotte ambientaliste degli anni Ottanta riflettevano trasformazioni generazionali e culturali più profonde. La gestione sovietica dell’incidente di Černobyl’ delegittimò in modo definitivo il già fragile controllo di Mosca sulla Polonia, galvanizzando l’opposizione.

In Ungheria Černobyl’ invece non diede origine a un movimento antinucleare di massa, né mise in discussione il programma nucleare del paese. Mentre la comunicazione ufficiale riguardo all’incidente nucleare restava limitata e rassicurante, scienziati e professionisti della sanità iniziarono a registrare gli effetti della contaminazione e a scambiarsi informazioni in modo informale.

Questo scarto tra la consapevolezza degli esperti e le comunicazioni delle autorità accelerò l’erosione della legittimità del regime. Le tematiche ambientali divennero un canale per sollevare temi più ampi di responsabilità e trasparenza, e così entro la fine degli anni Ottanta emersero reti e iniziative ambientaliste che avrebbero poi intersecato la transizione alla democrazia.

Anche in Cecoslovacchia la catastrofe di Černobyl’ influenzò i movimenti ecologisti locali, che sarebbero diventati attori importanti nella rivoluzione del 1989. Poiché quei movimenti erano in larga parte concentrati su temi come l’impatto sanitario dell’inquinamento industriale, la contaminazione dell’acqua o i danni al paesaggio causati dall’attività mineraria, il regime li considerava relativamente innocui rispetto ad altri dissidenti. Dopo Černobyl’, però, quelle che prima erano preoccupazioni ecologiche locali si trasformarono in sfiducia sistemica.

Il cinismo della nomenklatura

La gestione delle conseguenze di Černobyl’ in Bulgaria mise in luce disuguaglianze profonde nell’accesso alle informazioni e alla protezione sanitaria. Secondo Dimitar Vatsov, “la fascia più alta della nomenklatura non fu mai in pericolo, perché furono adottate misure speciali. Il cibo veniva importato dall’estero e testato, e i suoi membri venivano riforniti con acqua minerale da falde profonde. L’esercito applicò misure meno rigorose, ma comunque tali da ridurre l’esposizione. Il resto della popolazione fu tenuto nella totale ignoranza”.

Un simbolo di questo cinismo fu la decisione di mantenere le tradizionali parate del 1° maggio anche nel 1986. A Sofia molti bambini marciarono sotto una pioggia radioattiva e in tutto il paese si svolsero numerosi eventi sportivi di propaganda, tra cui le cosiddette “maratone della salute”. Le brigate giovanili, composte da ragazzi tra i 15 e i 25 anni, erano obbligate a svolgere lavori fisici in campagna o nei cantieri almeno due volte l’anno: si stima che circa 365mila giovani siano stati esposti alle radiazioni in questo modo.

Anche in Polonia le autorità decisero di mantenere le celebrazioni del 1° maggio. Giornali e media di Stato invitarono i cittadini a partecipare, insistendo sull’assenza di pericoli per la salute pubblica. D’altronde, il primo riferimento ufficiale all’incidente di Černobyl’ era comparso solo tra il 29 e il 30 aprile, limitandosi ad affermare: “C’è stato un incidente nella centrale nucleare in Ucraina. Le vittime sono state assistite. Tutto è sotto controllo”. Allo stesso tempo, però, il governo polacco distribuì in silenzio milioni di dosi di iodio protettivo e limitò la vendita del latte, segno che i rischi di contaminazione erano ben noti.

Dieci anni dopo, un’indagine medica rivelò che circa il 22 per cento dei giovani polacchi soffriva di disturbi alla tiroide, con una percentuale vicina al 40 per cento nelle regioni nord-orientali.

Anche in Ungheria le autorità si mossero con cautela, privilegiando la tutela della calma pubblica e l’osservanza delle celebrazioni del 1° maggio. Non furono emessi comunicati pubblici, i media ufficiali ridimensionarono la portata dell’incidente, e le celebrazioni si svolsero come previsto. Dietro le quinte gli scienziati registravano valori di radioattività elevati e rilevavano l’arrivo di piogge radioattive, ma le misure protettive rimasero limitate e disomogenee. La Cecoslovacchia seguì inizialmente lo stesso schema.

Il nucleare in Bulgaria dopo il 1989

La gestione catastrofica di Černobyl’ mise a nudo l’indecenza del regime comunista. Nel dicembre 1991, dopo che il regime era caduto, la Corte suprema di Sofia condannò l’ex ministro della Sanità Ljubomir Scindarov e l’ex vice primo ministro Grigor Stoičkov per negligenza criminale, per aver ingannato l’opinione pubblica. Furono gli unici alti funzionari del regime a essere processati e condannati a pene detentive.

Benché l’incidente di Černobyl’ abbia avuto un serio impatto sulla società bulgara, non produsse un movimento anti nucleare su larga scala. La centrale di Kozloduj, ristrutturata e ancora operativa, è oggi percepita come una fonte di orgoglio nazionale. L’attivista ambientale Petko Kovačev, vicino all’Ong Za Zemiata e alle reti antinucleari, sostiene che il sostegno popolare al nucleare in Bulgaria è trainato dalle preoccupazioni per l’indipendenza energetica e per il basso costo dell’elettricità, più che da valutazioni scientifiche o etiche.

In questo contesto, sta procedendo il progetto per costruire una nuova centrale nucleare a Belene, approvato anche da un referendum nazionale. In aggiunta, sono previsti due nuovi reattori a Kozloduj. Entrata in funzione nel 1970, la centrale oggi opera solo con i due reattori più recenti; i più vecchi sono stati abbandonati sotto la pressione dell’Unione europea, che ne fece una condizione per l’adesione della Bulgaria. 

Un tempo descritta come la centrale più pericolosa del mondo, Kozloduj oggi rispetta tutti i requisiti di sicurezza fissati dall’Aiea, anche se gli attivisti denunciano una mancanza di trasparenza sulla governance e sugli incidenti che coinvolgono l’impianto.

Questo articolo fa parte del progetto collaborativo PULSE ed è stato pubblicato nell’ambito dei Thematic Networks. Hanno contribuito al progetto Andrea Braschayko, Martin Vrba e Daniel Harper.

Built on the assumption that price is the best measure of value, modern economics has never adequately grasped non-transactional exchange – care relationships and reproductive work above all. Declining birth rates and ageing societies are now laying bare the limits of a framework that feminist thinkers have long critiqued. An interview with economist Emma Holten.

This article is part of the Green European Journal’s upcoming print edition on demographic futures, out in early June. Subscribe now and get it delivered straight to your door.

Green European Journal: The history of modern political theory is marked by a major omission – of bodies, their needs, and the necessity of caring for them. How did this omission come about?  

Emma Holten: Enlightenment thinking was very much about liberating the individual – from hierarchy, from the ties of religion and superstition, from the bounds of class. Thinkers like Thomas Hobbes, for example, were very progressive in their belief that the individual has value in and of itself. That conviction became the building block of modern political theory, and it has been hugely important for feminism, too. However, it overlooked that individuals are connected not only in oppressive systems but also in positive relationships. Human beings exist only in the context of other human beings. But that interdependence disappeared.  

This omission was most striking in the context of birth and family relationships. The whole story of what it takes to give birth and raise an individual completely disappeared, and we started making political theory about well-educated adults, as if they sprang up like mushrooms. 

How did this original sin become so entrenched in modern economics? 

Economics, too, had a noble ambition: to provide a clear description of the political system and to be able to quantify it. In the 1870s, this ambition culminated in the marginalist revolution, which was probably the most influential shift in the history of economics. Marginalism is based on the idea that you can use market prices to establish value. According to this theory, the market-clearing price is the perfect balance between supply and demand, between how much one wants to be paid for a product or service and how much someone else is willing to pay for it.  

Many of us grow up thinking that economics is like physics or chemistry […] We don’t question it because it would feel like questioning gravity.

The obvious corollary is that if something doesn’t have a price, it doesn’t have value. Economics loses the ability to speak about things that don’t have a price, such as time spent with friends or in the home. The only way to measure the value of time spent at home caring for others or being cared for by others is to calculate how much you would make if you used that time in the market instead.  

However, I don’t think price is a good measure of value in the market either. I spend a lot of time talking to nurses, caregivers for elderly people, and social workers, and when I tell them that economics measures their value by their salary, they are either shocked or start laughing. When you receive care, you don’t necessarily know what the value of that interaction is going to be; it only becomes visible in the long term. And if this interaction happens in the public sector, then the market is all the more unable to grasp its value. Economic methods find it much easier to understand the value of a car than the value of care, both paid and unpaid.  

 Why is this way of thinking about value so difficult to dispel?  

Many of us grow up thinking that economics is like physics or chemistry. That it has always been the same, and we’ve always looked at value the same way. And this is a huge part of economics’ power. We don’t question it, because it would feel like questioning gravity. American economist Paul Samuelson famously said that he didn’t care who held political office as long as he got to write economics textbooks. Economics conditions the way we think about politics.  

The rise of Thatcherism, of neoliberalism – the idea that the market comes before the state, and that the state’s responsibility is to take care of the market, not the people – has reinforced this influence. We let economists decide how much we should work, how much time parents should be able to spend with their children, what the optimal way to provide childcare is, or how to take care of nature. But these are fundamentally political questions. Their depoliticisation has exacerbated the dynamic whereby things that economics can value tend to be overvalued, while those it cannot value become completely valueless. 

Dominant theories may be unable to account for the value of care in the economy, yet they assume a steady and abundant supply of care to sustain the economic system. How do you make sense of this paradox?  

This is probably the central paradox in how modern economics deals with care. It has the idea that people are rational agents, act in their own self-interest, and are oriented towards the market. And so the provision of care, which largely falls outside the market, remains a blind spot. Economic theories tend to assume an endless supply of care, without a clear theory of how it is sustained.  

Based on their own reasoning, women would never have children because it is completely irrational from a market perspective. Yet when birth rates decline, suddenly shock ensues. I sometimes wonder whether economists are angrier at women when they have children or when they don’t. If they do have children and need to work part-time, that’s expensive and doesn’t create enough value. But if they don’t have children, that suddenly becomes a huge issue for the economy.  

When you study economics, the first thing you learn is the production function. How does a product come to be? In that function, there’s a variable called “L”. That’s labour power. But there is no acknowledgement of where it comes from; it’s just there. And I think that tells you everything you need to know about the poverty of the theories. 

 I sometimes wonder whether economists are angrier at women when they have children or when they don’t. 

Feminist thinkers have challenged the approach that treats care as entirely outside the economic equation, but they haven’t always agreed on how best to make the case for it.  

Feminist theorists, particularly Italian feminists like Silvia Federici, have been instrumental in showing that the undervaluing of care is a central part of capitalism. This applies to paid and unpaid care, to the public and the private sector alike.  

The big question was: to price or not to price? Should we speak the devil’s language? Some feminist economists, especially in the early days of the field, argued that we should price unpaid care so we can include it in GDP and measure it. This was based on the reasoning that we can’t change the system, and so we need to use its language and its rules in our favour.  

We’ve seen a similar logic at play in the environmental movement, where putting a price on a tree or a marsh seems to be the best way to protect it. But pricing ignores the relationships; it isolates and splits things up. And when you talk about nature, you cannot isolate and split. The same goes for care. The value of a mother, just like that of a tree, is not visible at the time of the exchange; it is long-term, and it is reciprocal: mother and child are changing one another. You cannot say that one is giving something to another, as if it were a simple transaction.  

 The home, in particular, has been a subject of controversy within feminist thought. Is it a prison or a shelter, a site of oppression and exploitation or one of liberation? 

It is both. Historically, the home has been a site of extreme violence against women, and we can understand why so much of feminist thought was focused on getting women out of the home and getting them to make their own money. The dominant type of feminism, middle-class feminism, places a strong emphasis on achieving workplace equality between women and men. You can see this in EU strategies for gender equality, for example. That’s what takes up all the space. But many women, especially lower-class or migrant women who face exploitation, are actually fighting to get into the home, to have enough money to see their own children, to have time to rest. This is the double vision we need when we deal with care. The fight goes both ways. And for many people, home is also a place of liberation. 

Meanwhile, we haven’t made a big enough effort to get men into the home. Sometimes, we have fallen into the trap of idealising men’s lives and framing them as free, equating paid work with freedom. But paid labour isn’t necessarily freedom. There are many men who are exploited or work in terrible conditions. Where’s the policy to liberate them?  

Could the resurgence of “traditional” gender roles – as promoted in the “manosphere” and the “tradwife” online movements – be partly understood as a reaction to these failures rather than simply a backlash against women’s emancipation?  

When it comes to care, many of the distinctions between right-wing and left-wing positions tend to collapse. Sometimes I see overlaps in places I didn’t expect. “Tradwives” and other socially conservative people often ask for the same things that progressive people ask for: more community, more time with children, less market dominance in our lives, more focus on love and social relationships, and a reaction against individualism. When I hear a conservative woman say that life is more than work, that what matters are the people we love, I find myself nodding. Then she might add that the man’s role is to dominate, and that’s where she loses me.  

But we should not underestimate the potential to speak about these issues across differences. When I speak to nurses in hospitals, they suddenly realise they find common ground on this, even with people they usually disagree with politically. The devaluation of care is the core of both right- and left-wing anger right now.  

 Does the devaluation of care help explain Europe’s consistently low birth rates over the last few decades?  

If I were to speak to a politician who cares about economic growth and wants women to have more children, I’d tell them to start by offering better childcare and longer parental leave. I was brought up in the 1990s and 2000s, thinking that we had gender equality, and women would live lives that were completely like men’s. Many of us were more educated than most men and made more money than many men. But when they had children, many in my generation were shocked to find out how much gender still mattered.  

But I don’t think it’s just a matter of affordability. Birth rates are declining worldwide, regardless of the cost of living situation. This can be a good thing from a feminist perspective, especially if very young women are waiting longer to have children. But it also has to do with the types of societies we have created, where having children can be quite lonely and make it very difficult to spend time on anything else, including work and hobbies.  

Do pro-birth policies focusing narrowly on economic incentives miss the point?  

Economic theory and policymaking lack a theory of culture, but economics and culture go hand in hand. What we value economically tends to spill over into what we value culturally, and vice versa. The decision to have or not to have children is influenced by both cultural change and economic considerations. Yet when economists speak about demographics, they are at the limit of their theoretical capabilities because culture is simply not something they’re used to dealing with. In their market theory, there is no place for family choices. In a way, you could say that economics is supremely feminist in that rational market agents have no body and no gender. For many economists, I’m a consumer in the same way that a man is, at least until I become pregnant.  

You could say that economics is supremely feminist in that rational market agents have no body and no gender

There are, of course, exceptions. Alice Evans, for example, has done a lot of empirical work, interviewing women around the world about their choices to have or not have children. She found that cultural factors, such as social media use, can have a major impact on reproductive choices because they give access to different types of women’s lives and different female cultures, showing that options other than having a family also exist. She calls this phenomenon “cultural leapfrogging”.

The Left seems more reluctant to talk about demographic crisis or decline. Is there a way of reframing the issue in a more progressive way rather than surrendering it to right-wing narratives and cultural panic?  

Demographic decline is an umbrella term for many things, some of them good and others concerning. We should be extremely concrete in how we talk about decline and what we are worried about. My biggest worry is that, if the state retreats, the ever-expanding group of elderly people will have to be cared for by their daughters, as is already the case all over Europe.  

But there’s also an opportunity to think creatively about how we adapt to the new demographic situation. We cannot leave these big decisions to the market – the state needs to play a big role, too. All over Europe, we’re already seeing major recruitment issues in hospitals because pay is so low. From a green perspective, more jobs in care can be good news because it is a very sustainable type of work, and one that is extremely useful to society.  

Maybe the best way is to understand what we are going through as a care crisis, not a demographic one. It’s a new situation, and we need to adapt.  

Pro-birth policies tend to focus on heterosexual couples or, at best, the nuclear family model with two parents raising children. Is it time we question this norm?  

The family organisation of two parents raising children is actually quite unique in human history. It is the configuration that takes the least time away from the market because it is very steady and small; it requires little organising.  

If you ask any feminist economist what her main policy goal is, she will probably choose a shorter working day, which means more time in the home. Of course, there can be downsides, and we see it in countries where family care has a bigger cultural role: women tend to make less money and be less independent, which in turn creates a patriarchal family structure. However, there’s also the upside that families are more connected and have closer relationships, so we need to strike the right balance.  

This isn’t just about raising children. In Scandinavia and other parts of northern Europe, we tend to just hide elderly people away. When someone cannot work anymore or is no longer self-sufficient, we don’t really want to see them; we don’t want them in the home. When I speak with Muslim feminists who have migrated to Europe, they tell me they find this to be extremely inhumane; they have a much more integrated relationship with elderly people in day-to-day life. 

In the new demographic reality, opening up the home means not only more care for those who need it, but also more help with raising children – and this doesn’t mean the state shouldn’t play its role in providing care. But we have closed off the home too much, and I think we see it in the crisis of loneliness that many adults are facing.  

 

Quarante ans après l’explosion de la centrale nucléaire de Tchernobyl, la politique de dissimulation menée par l’URSS et ses “satellites” – notamment la Bulgarie – montre comment le secret a alimenté la méfiance tout en mobilisant scientifiques et militants. Leur action a contribué à faire naître des mouvements écologistes qui ont soutenu l’opposition démocratique dans l’ensemble du bloc communiste de l’époque.

À 1 h 23 du matin, le 26 avril 1986, le réacteur n° 4 de la centrale nucléaire de Tchernobyl, alors en URSS, connaît une défaillance catastrophique avant d’exploser, soufflant une partie des installations et laissant le site éventré. Le cœur du réacteur, laissé à nu, libère de grandes quantités de substances radioactives dans l’atmosphère. Dans les mois qui suivent, plus de 200 000 personnes sont évacuées des zones environnantes.

Porté par les vents, le nuage radioactif contamine de vastes régions d’Europe, avec des retombées particulièrement importantes en Ukraine, en Biélorussie et en Russie. Les émissions se poursuivent jusqu’au 5 mai, formant des nuages de césium-137 et d’autres isotopes, dont la concentration diminue avec la distance mais affecte néanmoins de très larges territoires. Le nuage atteint les Balkans le 1er mai.

À l’époque, Dimitar Vatsov était un lycéen de 15 ans à Sofia. “Juste après les pluies radioactives, le Komsomol [l’organisation de jeunesse du Parti communiste soviétique] a envoyé ma classe travailler aux champs”, se souvient-il. “Chaque matin, un bus venait nous chercher pour récolter des épinards et de la ciboulette.”

Jusqu’au 7 mai, les autorités bulgares ne firent aucune annonce publique concernant la catastrophe. Selon les déclarations officielles ultérieures, la contamination environnementale était minime et ne nécessitait aucune mesure particulière. Pourtant, quatre camarades de classe de Vatsov décédèrent d’un cancer dans les années qui suivirent.

Cette expérience l’a profondément marqué. Aujourd’hui philosophe et professeur à la Nouvelle université bulgare de Sofia, il a lancé à l’automne dernier un séminaire entièrement consacré aux conséquences de la catastrophe de Tchernobyl en Bulgarie, réunissant historiens, journalistes et physiciens nucléaires.

“La Bulgarie a été le seul pays du bloc socialiste à ne prendre aucune mesure après la catastrophe”, explique-t-il. Bien que le pays ne se classe qu’au huitième rang des pays les plus exposés aux radiations selon un rapport de l’ONU, il a enregistré le taux le plus élevé de cancers de la thyroïde chez les enfants en dehors de l’ex-URSS. “En tant que philosophe, cette singularité m’a conduit à réfléchir à la vérité, à l’éthique du discours politique et, plus largement, au cynisme du régime communiste de l’époque.”

Le black-out bulgare

Après l’accident de Tchernobyl, l’information a été étroitement filtrée dans les pays du bloc de l’Est afin de minimiser les risques de contamination tout en préservant le prestige de l’URSS. En Tchécoslovaquie, le mot katastrofa a été soigneusement évité dans les premières phases, auquel on a préféré le terme havárie (“accident”), utilisé sans qualificatif. Les rapports officiels mettaient en avant l’expertise et l’héroïsme soviétiques, la maîtrise rapide de l’incident et l’exagération supposée des faits par les “médias impérialistes occidentaux”. Toutefois, la Bulgarie s’est distinguée comme le pays où la censure était la plus stricte et où aucune action significative n’a été entreprise.

“Ceaușescu – l’un des dictateurs les plus autoritaires de l’époque – a averti les Roumains dès le 2 mai du risque de contamination. En Yougoslavie, on demanda aux femmes enceintes et aux enfants de rester à l’intérieur et l’on recommanda des précautions de base, comme laver les aliments frais. En Bulgarie, ce fut un black-out total”, raconte Vatsov.

On ne nous disait rien, on devait simplement obéir. Ce n’est que des années plus tard que j’ai compris l’ampleur réelle de la catastrophe – Petko Kovatchev

Le physicien nucléaire Gueorgui Kaschiev, alors employé à la centrale de Kozlodouy, dans le nord-ouest de la Bulgarie, se souvient très bien de ces journées : “La seule information que nous ayons reçue était qu’il y avait eu un incendie à Tchernobyl et qu’il avait été éteint”. 

Grâce à une grande antenne installée sur son immeuble, Kaschiev captait cependant la télévision yougoslave. “Des informations venues de Suède et de Finlande ont rapidement permis de comprendre que l’incident était bien plus grave que ce qui était reconnu officiellement. Les médias occidentaux diffusaient des images satellites américaines montrant le réacteur détruit, des cartes retraçant le nuage radioactif et des reportages indiquant que la Yougoslavie avait envoyé des avions pour évacuer ses ressortissants qui étudiaient à Kiev.”

Fin avril, Kaschiev et ses collègues comprirent que le nuage se dirigeait vers la Bulgarie. Entre le 1er et le 2 mai, les niveaux de radiation atteignirent jusqu’à dix fois le niveau naturel, en particulier après les pluies. Face au silence persistant des autorités, l’information se diffusa de manière informelle : des ingénieurs avertirent leurs proches de prendre des précautions élémentaires, souvent accueillies avec incrédulité. Des analyses ultérieures d’échantillons alimentaires, notamment du lait provenant de fermes des environs, confirmèrent une contamination extrême.

Des documents d’archives accessibles aujourd’hui montrent que le gouvernement bulgare suivait de près l’évolution de la catastrophe et l’étendue de la contamination en Europe et en Bulgarie, et analysait la presse étrangère, les rapports de renseignement et les mesures quotidiennes de radiation sur l’ensemble du territoire. Pour Vatsov, le Politburo du Parti communiste bulgare craignait qu’une révélation de l’ampleur réelle de la contamination ne provoque la panique et des troubles politiques, comme cela s’était produit en Pologne : “Au-delà de cette première explication, je ne peux que qualifier cette attitude de défaillance morale de la part des élites dirigeantes, qui ont fait preuve d’un profond mépris à l’égard du reste de la population”.

Petko Kovatchev, militant écologiste effectuant alors son service militaire obligatoire, se souvient que l’armée réagit rapidement : “Du jour au lendemain, nous avons cessé de consommer des produits frais et mangions uniquement des conserves au réfectoire. Les activités extérieures furent annulées et nous reçûmes l’ordre de mesurer les niveaux de radiation autour de la base avec des compteurs Geiger”.

Ces mesures ne s’accompagnèrent toutefois d’aucune explication. “On ne nous disait rien, on devait simplement obéir. Ce n’est que des années plus tard que j’ai compris l’ampleur réelle de la catastrophe.”

Le cynisme de la nomenklatura

La gestion des conséquences de Tchernobyl en Bulgarie révéla des inégalités flagrantes dans l’accès à l’information et à la protection sanitaire. Au sommet se trouvait la nomenklatura – hauts responsables du parti, police politique, cadres administratifs et officiers militaires. Durant la crise, ils bénéficièrent d’un accès privilégié à des repas et des provisions distribués via l’hôtel d’État Rila, au centre de Sofia. Le Politburo recevait de l’eau minérale provenant de sources profondes et des aliments importés – agneau australien, légumes d’Égypte et d’Israël – afin d’éviter toute contamination.

Selon Vatsov, l’élite de cette nomenklatura – environ 300 personnes – ne fut jamais en danger, des mesures spéciales ayant été prises pour assurer leur sécurité et leur bien-être : “L’armée appliquait des mesures moins strictes, mais suffisantes pour réduire l’exposition. Le reste de la population, lui, fut maintenu dans une ignorance totale.”

La décision de maintenir le défilé du 1er mai 1986 – au cours duquel de nombreux enfants ont paradé dans les rues de Sofia malgré la menace de pluies radioactives – symbolise ce cynisme. Par chance, la manifestation a débuté à 11 heures, alors que le nuage radioactif n’a atteint le territoire bulgare que dans l’après-midi, au plus tôt vers 14 heures.

De nombreux événements sportifs de propagande ont également été organisés dans tout le pays, ainsi que des travaux forcés encadrés par des brigades de jeunesse, composées principalement de jeunes âgés de 15 à 25 ans. Ces “volontaires” étaient tenus, au moins deux fois par an, d’effectuer des tâches physiquement éprouvantes telles que des travaux agricoles ou de construction. On estime qu’environ 365 000 jeunes ont été exposés de cette manière.

Le 10 mai, après une réunion au ministère de l’Énergie à Sofia, Kaschiev rend visite à sa belle-sœur. Des enfants jouent dehors devant l’immeuble, tandis que les adultes discutent tranquillement. Lorsqu’il les exhorte à garder les enfants à l’intérieur et à ne pas les laisser jouer dans le bac à sable, son avertissement est rejeté. “On m’a accusé de vouloir semer la panique”, raconte-t-il. “Quelqu’un a même insinué que j’étais sans doute un agent occidental et a menacé de me dénoncer aux autorités.”

Dans tous les pays du bloc de l’Est, malgré des mesures souvent insuffisantes, les défilés du 1er mai furent maintenus. En Pologne également, les célébrations eurent lieu comme prévu, tandis que le gouvernement niait publiquement tout risque sanitaire. Dans le même temps, les autorités polonaises distribuaient de l’iode et limitaient la vente de lait. La distribution rapide d’iode, commencée le 29 avril dans l’après-midi, est souvent citée comme une réponse exemplaire à une urgence radioactive : en trois jours, 18,5 millions de personnes –  adultes et enfants – reçurent un comprimé d’iode.

Scientifiques et activisme environnemental

Juste après la chute du régime, Kovatchev apprit davantage sur la catastrophe de Tchernobyl et ses conséquences grâce à une exposition organisée par des physiciens de l’université de Sofia. Sous le communisme déjà, certains d’entre eux faisaient partie de réseaux écologistes informels qui deviendraient plus tard Ecoglasnost, organisation que Kovatchev rejoignit comme étudiant.

Fondée au printemps 1989, quelques mois avant la chute du communisme, Ecoglasnost était un mouvement civique axé sur la protection de l’environnement, né du climat de libéralisation politique inspiré par la glasnost soviétique. À l’automne, Ecoglasnost organisait des pétitions et des manifestations publiques, dont le rassemblement du 3 novembre à Sofia, considéré comme l’une des premières mobilisations civiques ouvertes contre le régime communiste. Le mouvement a rapidement élargi ses revendications aux libertés civiles et aux réformes démocratiques.

En décembre 1989, il est devenu la première organisation politique non communiste officiellement reconnue en Bulgarie. Il a ensuite joué un rôle clé dans la structuration de l’opposition démocratique en rejoignant l’Union des forces démocratiques. Il a également initié les premières inspections de la centrale de Kozlodouy.

L’engagement de la communauté scientifique dans les luttes environnementales contribua à l’affaiblissement du régime dans ses dernières années. Cette implication s’était déjà manifestée en 1987 à Roussé, dans le nord du pays. À l’époque, la pollution atmosphérique provenant d’une usine chimique située de l’autre côté de la frontière roumaine avait déclenché de vastes protestations. De ce mouvement naquit le Conseil public pour la protection de l’environnement de Roussé, première organisation informelle tolérée sous le communisme, qui joua un rôle décisif dans les premières mobilisations nationales et la transition démocratique.

À la même période, la découverte de matières radioactives sous forme de “particules chaudes” en Bulgarie – preuve de l’ampleur de la catastrophe de Tchernobyl – incita plusieurs physiciens à surveiller étroitement la crise et à en étudier les conséquences. L’exposition de l’Université de Sofia visitée par Kovatchev en décembre 1989 était le fruit de ce travail.

Des mouvements similaires émergent dans d’autres pays du bloc socialiste, comme la Hongrie et la Tchécoslovaquie, mêlant engagement scientifique et prise de conscience écologique et démocratique.

Les préoccupations environnementales sont devenues un élément moteur, exprimant des exigences de responsabilité et de transparence. Ce phénomène a nourri les réseaux réformistes qui ont ensuite contribué à façonner la transition négociée de la Hongrie vers la démocratie.

Alors que les niveaux de radiation augmentaient à la fin du mois d’avril et au début du mois de mai 1986, des scientifiques et des professionnels de santé hongrois documentaient la contamination et échangaient des informations de manière informelle, tandis que la communication officielle demeurait limitée et rassurante. L’écart croissant entre le savoir des experts et le discours public a créé une dissonance morale chez ces professionnels, tiraillés entre leur intégrité scientifique et leur loyauté envers l’État. Dans ce contexte, les préoccupations environnementales sont devenues un élément moteur, exprimant des exigences de responsabilité et de transparence. Ce phénomène a nourri les réseaux réformistes qui ont ensuite contribué à façonner la transition négociée de la Hongrie vers la démocratie.

Dans l’ancienne Tchécoslovaquie, la catastrophe de Tchernobyl a également contribué à galvaniser les mouvements écologistes, qui sont devenus par la suite des acteurs clés de la Révolution de velours en 1989. Bien que le régime fût l’un des plus répressifs du bloc de l’Est, il tolérait davantage l’activisme environnemental que la dissidence politique ouverte, considérant les préoccupations liées à la pollution, à la contamination de l’eau ou à la dégradation des paysages comme relativement inoffensives et difficiles à censurer.

La seconde vague de contamination

Faute de mesures prises par les autorités bulgares, vaches, moutons et chèvres continuèrent à paître sur des pâturages contaminés et à consommer des fourrages radioactifs jusqu’au printemps 1987. Les produits laitiers issus de cette chaîne alimentaire restèrent en circulation, entraînant une “seconde vague” de contamination estimée à près de 30 % de l’exposition totale. Cette situation – unique dans l’histoire de Tchernobyl – explique en partie les taux exceptionnellement élevés de cancers de la thyroïde chez les très jeunes enfants en Bulgarie.

La physicienne retraitée Liliana Prodanova, à l’époque chercheuse à l’Institut de physique de l’état solide, n’a appris la gravité de la situation qu’à la mi-mai. “Mon mari était vice-recteur de l’Université technique de Sofia. Moi-même, je me spécialisais dans la recherche sur le silicium, nous comprenions donc parfaitement les implications de cette contamination. Nous avons pris des précautions discrètes, comme laver systématiquement les aliments. Nous avons aussi retiré la terre contaminée autour de notre maison de campagne. Cette année-là, nous n’avons rien planté.”

Elle se souvient que des amis leur demandaient souvent de mesurer la radioactivité des yaourts destinés aux enfants, à l’aide des instruments de l’institut. “Nous le faisions discrètement, sans demander d’autorisation officielle.”

La nomenklatura, en revanche, était parfaitement consciente des risques. Elle testait les produits laitiers qu’elle consommait et importait le reste de l’étranger. À la périphérie de Sofia, les pâturages autour du palais royale de Vrana – alors occupé par des responsables du parti – furent fauchés en mai pour éviter la contamination. Le foin fut ensuite redistribué à des coopératives d’élevage fournissant la capitale, qui produisirent ensuite des produits laitiers contaminés.

Les physiciens de la centrale de Kozlodouy utilisèrent un des laboratoires pour développer leurs propres instruments de mesure, se souvient Kaschiev. Ils conçurent notamment un dispositif permettant d’évaluer l’exposition de la thyroïde aux radiations. “Ceux qui n’avaient pris aucune précaution début mai, en particulier les personnes parties en vacances à ce moment-là, ont été exposés à des niveaux de contamination jusqu’à 10 000 fois supérieurs aux nôtres. Début mai, j’ai fait des réserves de fromage et de lait en poudre. Cela nous a probablement protégé de la seconde vague”, explique-t-il.

Les dissidents de Tchernobyl

Il n’existait pas de dissidents en Bulgarie avant l’accident de Tchernobyl, assure Vatsov. “La prise de conscience d’avoir été trompé par les autorités et exposé à de graves risques sanitaires a façonné l’engagement politique de toute une génération, en particulier au sein de la communauté scientifique.”

Kaschiev, dont l’engagement politique et le parcours professionnel a été déterminé par la catastrophe, est un exemple emblématique. Sa colère face aux défaillances morales et politiques du régime l’a conduit à se spécialiser dans la sûreté nucléaire. À partir de la fin des années 1980, il est passé de la physique des réacteurs à l’évaluation des risques, d’abord comme employé à l’intérieur de la centrale, puis comme enseignant universitaire et inspecteur nucléaire. En 1997, il a été nommé directeur du laboratoire national de régulation nucléaire de Bulgarie.

Dans d’autres pays socialistes, la catastrophe de Tchernobyl devint également un catalyseur de l’opposition au régime. En Pologne, elle donna naissance à un puissant mouvement antinucléaire. Les craintes liées à la catastrophe se transformèrent rapidement en opposition au projet de centrale nucléaire de Żarnowiec, déclenchant des protestations nationales impliquant groupes écologistes, militants locaux et dissidents tels que Lech Wałęsa, futur premier président démocratiquement élu du pays.

Lors d’un référendum organisé en 1990 en même temps que les élections locales, plus de 86 % des votants rejetèrent le projet de Żarnowiec, entraînant son abandon définitif. Comme le souligne le politologue Kacper Szulecki, ces mobilisations ont à la fois reflété et accéléré de profondes transformations sociales et générationnelles, tout en sapant davantage la légitimité de Moscou en Pologne.

Si la catastrophe a laissé une empreinte durable dans la société bulgare, elle n’a pas débouché sur un vaste mouvement antinucléaire. La centrale de Kozlodouy, modernisée et toujours en activité, est largement perçue comme une source de fierté nationale et une garantie d’indépendance énergétique. La gestion catastrophique de Tchernobyl a surtout mis en lumière l’indécence et le cynisme du régime communiste, ainsi que l’irrationalité de son idéologie.

En décembre 1991, après la chute du régime, la Cour suprême de Sofia condamne l’ancien ministre de la Santé Lyubomir Shindarov et l’ancien vice-Premier ministre Grigor Stoichkov, accusés d’avoir délibérément trompé la population, pour négligence criminelle. Après un long processus d’appel, leurs peines sont réduites respectivement à deux et trois ans de prison. Ils restent les seuls hauts responsables du régime bulgare à avoir été réellement poursuivis et condamnés pour la gestion de la catastrophe de Tchernobyl.

Pour le physicien nucléaire Atanas Krastanov, jeune chercheur dans les années 1980 et témoin de la mauvaise gestion de la catastrophe par les autorités, l’énergie nucléaire en tant que telle n’est pas le problème. “L’accident de Tchernobyl fut avant tout le résultat d’une erreur humaine” estime Krastanov, précisant “qu’il ne s’agissait pas à l’origine d’une explosion nucléaire, mais d’une explosion thermique due à une accumulation de pression”. Aujourd’hui, Krastanov travaille comme expert au Centre de prévention des catastrophes, accidents et crises de la mairie de Sofia. Il a récemment participé à l’écriture d’un film documentaire sur le sujet, dont la sortie est prévue à l’automne 2026.

Quel avenir pour le nucléaire ?

Le militant écologiste Petko Kovatchev, proche de l’ONG Za Zemiata et de réseaux antinucléaires, conteste cette lecture : “L’argument de l’erreur humaine n’est pas valable”, affirme-t-il, car “la plupart des accidents industriels et nucléaires ont pour origine une erreur humaine. Cela ne signifie pas que le nucléaire soit sûr”. Il ajoute que le soutien populaire à l’énergie nucléaire en Bulgarie repose principalement sur des préoccupations liées à l’indépendance énergétique et au faible coût de l’électricité, plutôt que sur des considérations scientifiques ou éthiques.

Dans ce contexte, la construction d’une nouvelle centrale nucléaire à Béléné, dans le nord de la Bulgarie, pourrait encore voir le jour. Malgré une forte opposition des organisations environnementales et des populations locales, un référendum national organisé en 2013 a approuvé le projet. Abandonné puis relancé à plusieurs reprises – principalement pour des raisons géopolitiques, le projet initial impliquant un réacteur russe de troisième génération – il pourrait désormais être confié à la société française Framatome et à l’américain General Electric.

Le projet de vente à l’Ukraine des réacteurs déjà construits sur le site de Béléné, dans le but de remplacer la centrale de Zaporijjia actuellement sous contrôle russe, a finalement été abandonné. Le dernier gouvernement a même envisagé de faire de ce projet de centrale une source d’électricité pour de futurs data centers.

La gestion catastrophique de Tchernobyl a surtout mis en lumière l’indécence et le cynisme du régime communiste, ainsi que l’irrationalité de son idéologie.

Par ailleurs, deux nouveaux réacteurs sont prévus sur le site de Kozlodouy, construits par des entreprises canadiennes. Mise en service en 1970, la centrale n’exploite aujourd’hui que ses deux réacteurs les plus récents, datant de 1988 et 1993. Les plus anciens ont été arrêtés dans les années 2000 sous la pression de l’Union européenne, qui avait conditionné l’adhésion de la Bulgarie à leur fermeture.

Autrefois décrite comme l’une des centrales nucléaires les plus dangereuses au monde, Kozlodouy répond aujourd’hui à l’ensemble des exigences de sûreté de l’Agence internationale de l’énergie atomique (AIEA). Le site accueille également une installation de stockage de déchets nucléaires, dont la mise en service est prévue pour 2027. Les militants écologistes dénoncent toutefois régulièrement le manque de transparence entourant les décisions industrielles, les incidents et les accidents affectant la centrale.

Gueorgui Kaschiev se montre très critique à l’égard de la gouvernance nucléaire en Bulgarie. Pour lui, le projet de Béléné relève de la “catastrophe financière” et constitue un véhicule à des détournements de fonds publics. À Kozlodouy, il pointe une dégradation des conditions : hausse des coûts des pièces de rechange et de la maintenance, baisse de la production d’énergie en dessous des recommandations internationales, et défaillances techniques telles que des fuites dans le générateur de vapeur du réacteur n° 6. “La culture de la sûreté se détériore clairement”, avertit-il.

Cet article a été réalisé dans le cadre du projet PULSE, une initiative européenne qui soutient les collaborations journalistiques transnationales. Andrea Braschayko, Martin Vrba, and Daniel Harper y ont contribué.

As the harmful effects of social media platforms have become undeniable, the exciting promise of a globalised public square has given way to growing anxieties over uncontrolled digital addiction. Children, with their hyperactive cerebral reward system, are especially vulnerable to algorithms designed to grab users’ attention at any cost. A number of countries, both within and outside Europe, are weighing whether to ban minors from social media. However, some argue that such restrictions will not solve the problem.

This article is part of the Green European Journal’s upcoming print edition on demographic futures, out in early June. Subscribe now and get it delivered straight to your door.

Social media has shaped generations in ways both exciting and unsettling. For Guilherme Alexandre Jorge (24 years old, member of Volt Europa in Portugal) and Anna Mazzei (23 years old, member of the Italian Young Greens), it began as a gateway to knowledge and connection. Jorge joined Twitter at 15: “I started following people, then exploring what different topics meant, and I started becoming more aware of issues both globally and locally.” Mazzei, who began using social media at 14, followed pages run by younger creators rather than traditional media, finding them more engaging. “Once I got into activism,” she recalls, “it was also a way to see who shared my views and to follow green activists in Italy and abroad. It helped me to feel part of something”.  

More than a decade ago, social media was largely celebrated as a portal to a globalised world: fast access to news, digital encounters with loved ones abroad, and communities bound by shared interests. In 2010, Facebook’s founder, Mark Zuckerberg, was named Time’s Person of the Year, emblematic of the promise of this new digital era. Those years now feel distant, and social media has gone from being seen as a revolutionary communication tool to being treated by courts and regulators as a system that maximises attention through aggressive algorithms at the expense of users’ mental health. In 2026, Zuckerberg is more likely to make headlines for legal cases and fines imposed on his company, Meta. 

Over 90 per cent of Europeans see an urgent need to protect children online.

According to the 2025 Eurobarometer, over 90 per cent of Europeans see an urgent need to protect children online, citing its negative impact on mental health (93 per cent), cyberbullying (92 per cent), and the importance of restricting access to age-inappropriate content (92 per cent). In response to citizens’ concerns, governments have begun taking action. In December 2025, Australia became the first country globally to enforce a law banning access to social media for users under 16, requiring platforms to implement age detection systems. In Europe, France has passed legislation restricting access for minors under 15 unless parental consent is provided, while Spain is currently advancing a law to ban access for those under 16, with mandatory platform-based age verification. Other countries, including Portugal, Germany, Norway, and Italy, rely primarily on parental consent models for regulating minors’ access.  

The European Parliament, too, overwhelmingly backs restricting children’s access to social media. At the end of 2025, it passed a non-binding resolution stating that minors shouldn’t access social media before the age of 16, although parents could give consent from age 13. While the document has no legal force, it places political pressure on the European Commission, which now holds the power to turn these recommendations into actual EU legislation. 

Digital drug 

These developments respond to growing concerns among experts, teachers, and families about excessive smartphone use and the risks social media poses to young people, particularly in terms of mental health, exposure to harmful content, and cyberbullying. While there is broad, across-the-board agreement that social media presents a genuine and pressing challenge, there is far less consensus on how best to address it. Some advocate strict measures like age-based bans, whereas others favour solutions centred on education, digital literacy, and platform accountability, reflecting broader tensions between protection and autonomy and differing views on who should bear responsibility. Consequently, the measures banning social media use for minors have sparked scepticism and debate over whether such restrictions address the root of the problem or merely act as a partial and potentially ineffective fix, raising broader questions about enforcement, privacy, and the role of platforms themselves.  

Right before it proposed the law to restrict access in November 2025, the Government of Spain presented the most comprehensive research worldwide on the impact of technology on childhood and adolescence. The study “Childhood, Adolescence, and Digital Wellbeing”, published by Red.es, UNICEF Spain, the University of Santiago de Compostela, and the General Council of Colleges of Computer Engineering, gathers the voices of nearly 100,000 children and adolescents in Spain. According to the research, 41 per cent of children have their own smartphone at age 10, and 76 per cent by age 12. Nearly 20 per cent of boys and girls aged 10 to 20 say they spend more than five hours a day on social media on weekends, and intensive use is associated with higher anxiety, lower quality of life, and greater exposure to harassment, cyberbullying, or digital control in romantic relationships.  

Further evidence suggests that by delaying the introduction of smartphones to children until they are 13 or 14 – rather than at 10.8 years, which is the average age in Spain – problems such as video game addiction, exposure to sexting and pornography, and contact with strangers are reduced by half.  

“The scientific evidence we have shows that the increasingly early introduction of smartphones, and social media in particular, into the lives of minors is not harmless. It takes away more than it gives,” summarises Antonio Rial, co‑leader of the national study, senior lecturer in social psychology at the Universidad de Santiago de Compostela, and a leading expert on adolescent behaviour, digital media, and non‑substance addictions.  

The adolescent brain, with a hyperactive reward system and still-immature executive control, is highly vulnerable to social media mechanisms designed to capture users’ attention at all costs. Anna Lembke, one of the first researchers to document this effect, wrote in her 2021 book Dopamine Nation: “The smartphone is the modern-day hypodermic needle, delivering digital dopamine 24/7 for a wired generation.” 

In other words, parents have good reasons to worry. María Gijón, author of Tú puedes dejar tu móvil si sabes cómo (“You Can Quit Your Phone if You Know How”, 2026) and mother of a 12-year-old, directs the Madrid branch of Adolescencia Libre de Móviles (“Smartphone-Free Adolescence”). The movement began in 2023 with a conversation among concerned mothers in a park in Barcelona’s Poblenou district, and has since grown into a nationwide initiative. Its goal is to bring families together around delaying smartphone use for children. “The idea is that if we all agree to give them later, it becomes easier to resist the social pressure we used to feel to hand over a smartphone at age 12,” Gijón explains. The association, unsurprisingly, supports the Spanish government’s proposed measures to limit minors’ access to social media. 

Gijón believes that minors and adolescents don’t use their phones for activities like learning how to play the piano or studying three languages. “Those cases are a needle in a haystack,” she explains: “What we are talking about here is public health, and in public health we have to focus on the majority.” Rial and Gijón both emphasise that banning social media use for minors under 16 will particularly protect economically vulnerable families, whose children tend to use digital devices more excessively than others. While digital addiction is a global problem that does not differ by socioeconomic status, race, or gender, not every child has the opportunity to attend a good school where they can be guided in the proper use of technology. “The lower the socioeconomic level, the greater the misinformation and, likely, the greater the harm. This makes preventive action through legislation even more necessary,” says Rial.  

The expert´s position is clear: social media should be illegal for minors, just as alcohol and tobacco are. “For once and for all, policymakers have sided with minors, who need to be protected. They have sided with families, who need support and guidance. And they have called out the tech industry, making it clear that the greatest share of responsibility lies with them, not with the children or their families,” he says.  

Disease and cure 

As governments move to regulate platforms, the tech industry has responded shrewdly, flooding public discourse with content that highlights the benefits of social media and presents digital education as the primary solution to mitigate its shortcomings. But there have also been experts who, despite criticising the way these platforms operate, oppose measures that restrict minors’ access, arguing that the cure may be worse than the disease. 

Those who believe minors should retain access argue that social media provides adolescents with information, connection, and role models they might not encounter in their family or school environments. For many marginalised groups, these social platforms have served as a vital space for self-expression and finding community. “If we pursue bans without exploring alternatives, we end up depriving them of participation in public life, as well as a wide range of opportunities for connection and learning,” says Marta G. Franco, a journalist, social media expert, and author of Las redes son nuestras (“Social Media Is Ours”), who describes herself as “citizen of the internet since 1999”. 

Alexandra Geese, a Green member of the European Parliament who works on digital issues, agrees: “We shouldn’t punish kids instead of the platforms. A ban should address specific social media platforms that don’t comply with the rules for the protection of minors.” At the same time, she says, “We should support initiatives to build a better internet. They could offer safe spaces for kids and should not be affected by a ban.” 

Franco points out that despite growing calls to restrict social media, government officials continue to rely on these platforms for real-time information. She notes, for instance, that following a major train accident in January, the Spanish Minister of Transport shared live updates on rail services via Twitter, underscoring the state’s dependence on social media as an instant communication tool. 

Moreover, critics warn that bans would undermine efforts to enhance youth engagement in politics. Mazzei points to a paradox: if 16-year-olds are allowed to vote, as is the case in a growing number of European countries, does it make sense to restrict their access to information on social media until then? 

Franco also cautions against drawing sweeping conclusions from studies. While youth anxiety and depression increased around the same time social media became widespread, between 2010 and 2015, other factors – such as the global economic crisis – may have contributed to that outcome. Franco adds that in the United States, where many of these studies originate, screenings began to be conducted among adolescents around the same time, potentially creating the impression of a surge in mental health issues. “Just because two things happen at the same time does not necessarily mean one causes the other. It is even worth asking whether the reverse could be true: that psychological problems may lead to increased social media use,” she notes. 

If 16-year-olds are allowed to vote, as is the case in a growing number of European countries, does it make sense to restrict their access to information on social media until then? 

Rial disagrees: “Levels of anxiety, somatisation, and depression triple, and the risk of suicide quadruples among adolescents who clearly show a pattern of maladaptive social media use. Could it be that a young person with emotional deficiencies, or an existing mental health problem, is more likely to develop maladaptive social media use? Of course. The relationship is bidirectional, but that does not exclude the existence of the first direction.”  

Like Rial, Franco is critical of digital spaces created by private companies and designed to extract maximum profit from our data, and in her work, she advocates for alternative environments that foster healthier interactions. However, she thinks banning access altogether means throwing out the baby with the bathwater. 

Asking the right question 

Nicoletta Prutean, Senior Governance Analyst at the Centre for Future Generations (CFG) and an expert in brain science and psychology, works on shaping policies to safeguard mental health in the era of technological acceleration. She believes that age-based restrictions are a political response to an ill-posed question. “The question ‘does social media harm mental health?’ sounds to me very much like asking ‘does food harm physical health?’ Food can be good, but also bad.” In her view, the right approach is to ask which features in the design of social media are harmful. “The answers would be the recommender system features, the interface features, the infinite scrolling, the autoplay, the variable rewards that exploit our attention capacity and our reward sensitivity,” she notes. Disregarding the fact that the problems of social media are at the design level risks leaving us vulnerable to new technologies – such as generative AI – that may replicate those features. “If we keep focusing just on social media as a whole and not on the mechanisms, we will miss other technologies where these mechanisms are even stronger.”  

Current EU legislation specifically addresses the features of digital platforms that are known to disrupt mental health. “The Digital Service Act (DSA) looks at the right objects, it acknowledges that the design of the systems has a very important role to play and has a financial penalty,” Prutean explains. In February, The European Commission disclosed preliminary DSA findings about TikTok, concluding that its addictive features – such as infinite scroll, autoplay, and highly personalised recommendations – may violate the law by failing to mitigate risks to users’ wellbeing. If confirmed, TikTok could face fines of up to 6 per cent of its global annual turnover, the DSA’s maximum for serious violations. 

Disregarding the fact that the problems of social media are at the design level risks leaving us vulnerable to new technologies – such as generative AI – that may replicate those features. 

Geese also calls for targeting specific platform practices. “Rather than discussing a general social media ban, we should single out problematic practices like algorithms privileging borderline content, targeting, and addictive features. On the basis of the Digital Services Act, the European Commission could already enforce better rules for social media.” 

However, Prutean argues, both the measures restricting minors’ access to social media and the DSA overlook the broader spectrum of mental wellbeing. The former reduces it to the absence of pain: “Being healthy mentally also means being empowered, for example. We shouldn’t hope for future generations just to not be depressed or anxious; we should hope for more.” In the case of the DSA, she notes that harm often occurs long before a clinical pathology emerges. “This is not clearly explicit [in the legislation]. Broadening the definition of mental harm and providing scientific evidence and benchmarks would make these laws more enforceable. The reference to mental health is there, but the threshold for what constitutes harm is just not very clear, making enforcement difficult.”  

For Franco, “It’s somewhat paradoxical that we are constantly hearing calls to create new laws, while at the same time Spain is one of the countries [along with Germany and France] supporting the deregulation of data protection laws through the Digital Omnibus, which is currently being debated in the European Commission.” She notes that Spain is also behind in transposing the DSA, which mandates the establishment of a national authority for its implementation. 

Holding platforms accountable 

A central challenge of measures restricting minors’ access is the age verification system. Australia’s world‑first ban has struggled in practice: the law does not mandate specific technology, leaving platforms to choose their methods. While millions of underage accounts have been closed, many minors remain active because verification tools are imperfect and platforms allow multiple workarounds. In contrast, Spain (and more broadly, the EU) is developing a privacy‑preserving protocol by which users would hold a cryptographic credential – similar to a digital ID – that proves their age without revealing personal details. Stored in a digital wallet, the credential is presented securely to platforms, which learn only that the user meets the age requirement, not their full identity. 

While Gijón stresses the need to accompany restrictions with an effective age verification system that ensures compliance from platforms (including through penalties severe enough to deter rule-breaking) and prevents minors from easily circumventing the measures, Franco is wary of the risk of online activities being tracked to users’ legal identity. She warns: “No matter how much we are told that it will be handled in a way that doesn’t involve sharing our identity with the platform, any data we leave behind is extremely risky and can potentially be captured in some way.” Geese has similar concerns: “It is vital that no additional data – and in particular, no biometric data – is used. Biometric data can be used for sexualised images or for political surveillance many years later.” 

The people interviewed for this article offered different solutions for the social media problem, but they all agreed on two points: that the way social media is currently designed does not exclusively affect minors, and that major tech companies should be held accountable. Jorge notes that while limiting minors’ screen addiction would bring clear benefits, the issue cannot be framed as affecting children alone, and that is why intervention needs to focus on the algorithms that drive compulsive engagement. “I’m 24 now and I am still glued to my phone,” he says. Mazzei, meanwhile, highlights the importance of enabling young people to participate in a digital society, even as she warns against an “unmanaged algorithm”. She does not take a firm position on the debate, but cautions against outright bans, suggesting that “banning” may be the wrong approach: “Maybe restricting or moderating access is better.” 

Rial, meanwhile, situates the debate within a wider democratic concern, asking: “If we look at the problem deeper, this is a question about the quality of democracy. Studies in the US show that 80 per cent of hate speech is driven by just 20 per cent of users or accounts. What happens with that?” 

The digital space, once celebrated as a democratic public forum, today resembles more a shopping mall than a town square. The alternative, Franco argues, lies in fostering different digital environments: “This means greater public collaboration with companies and citizens to build digital spaces based on open-source software and other guiding principles.”  

While such collaboration is attempted, “the mental, physical, and social health of children and adolescents continues to decline,” Gijón worries. “Technology is advancing far faster than legislation, and the only way to protect minors – who lack the capacity to self-regulate in the face of addictive designs or tools – is to delay their age of access.”  

Energetická transformace k obnovitelným zdrojům nabírá v celé Evropě na tempu. V ekologickém hnutí přitom vznikají spory mezi zastánci rychlého budování rozsáhlé obnovitelné infrastruktury a stoupenci participace místních komunit.

Až donedávna panoval v energetické politice západního světa opatrný konsensus: udržovat stávající model založený na fosilních palivech a zároveň vlažně podporovat dekarbonizaci. Tento konsensus se nyní bortí a energetickou politiku v rostoucí míře určuje otevřený konflikt.

Političtí aktéři hájící zájmy fosilního průmyslu se čím dál nepokrytěji staví proti energetické transformaci, což se projevuje zejména rostoucím odporem vůči projektům rozvoje obnovitelných zdrojů. V Evropské unii se zvlášť na krajní pravici prosazuje rétorika proti obnovitelným zdrojům, která vykresluje větrnou a solární energetiku jako ekonomicky nevýhodnou, diktovanou shora a odtrženou od „reálných“ potřeb běžných lidí.

Rychlý rozmach obnovitelných zdrojů však nenaráží jen na zájmy fosilního průmyslu. Vyvolává také spory mezi aktéry, kteří v zásadě zelenou transformaci podporují.

Na lokální a regionální úrovni se řada ekologických organizací postavila proti konkrétním projektům, jež jsou součástí přechodu k obnovitelné energetice. Například v jižní Francii podnikly spolky jako France Nature Environnment a Liga za ochranu ptactva (LPO) právní kroky proti parkům větrných elektráren, které v chráněných lokalitách ohrožovaly vzácné ptačí druhy. V jižním Španělsku zahájila skupina Ecologistas en Acción kampaň proti projektu rozsáhlé solární elektrárny s odůvodněním, že by znehodnotil půdu a narušil místní flóru.

Tyto debaty nejsou jen typickými příklady sporů o ekologickou spravedlnost či odporu místních obyvatel k výstavbě v jejich okolí (tzv. NIMBY efekt — z anglického Not In My Backyard, tedy Ne na mém dvorku), přestože se s nimi v mnoha ohledech prolínají. Jde spíše o ukázku konfliktů uvnitř zeleného hnutí — o střety mezi navzájem soupeřícími ekologickými prioritami.

Aktéři uvedených sporů se sice shodnou na potřebě dekarbonizace a ochrany přírody, ale rozcházejí se v tom, jaké typy obnovitelných zdrojů by se měly využívat, kde by se elektrárny měly stavět a kdo o tom má rozhodovat. Jelikož jsou spory daného typu čím dál častější a mají zásadní politické důsledky, zasluhují si zevrubnější analýzu, o niž se tu chci pokusit.

Soupeření mezi prioritami

Termín „green-on-green conflicts“, tedy konflikty uvnitř zeleného hnutí, zavedl v roce 2004 britský geograf Charles Warren. Inspiroval se přitom vojenským výrazem „blue-on-blue“, který označuje střelbu do vlastních řad. Warren už tehdy upozornil, že podobné střety předznamenávají budoucí debaty v rámci ekologického hnutí: „Společnost se přiklonila k zelené politice, ale jakou podobu by zelená politika měla vlastně mít?“

Spory mezi ekologickými aktivisty se často točí kolem umístění energetické infrastruktury, ochrany ohrožených druhů či procesů plánování, v principu se však jedná o konflikty politické. Nutí nás totiž klást si otázky, kdo v rámci zelené transformace definuje veřejný zájem a co lze ještě považovat za přijatelné vedlejší škody.

Spory uvnitř zeleného hnutí nejsou ničím novým. Odrážejí dlouhodobé napětí mezi různými proudy, které hlavní důraz kladou na odlišné aspekty ekologické krize. Nejčastěji proti sobě v posledních desetiletích stanuly dva tábory. Na jedné straně to jsou ti, kteří usilují o zmírnění klimatické změny a upřednostňují rychlou, systémovou transformaci ve spolupráci s vládami a průmyslem, což zahrnuje i výstavbu rozsáhlé infrastruktury.

Proti nim se postavili ti, kteří hájí zájmy místních komunit a regionů a akcentují ochranu biodiverzity, půdy a přírodních zdrojů. Popsanou dělicí linii bychom neměli přeceňovat, faktem ale zůstává, že v řadě sporů uvnitř zeleného hnutí stojí proti sobě právě uvedené dvě skupiny, což odráží také dlouhodobý střet mezi odlišnými politickými kulturami uvnitř hnutí.

Ačkoli do odporu proti projektům v oblasti obnovitelné energie často vstupují i jiné příčiny, konflikty mezi ekologickými aktéry si zasluhují zvláštní pozornost. V zemích EU vedla zrychlující se energetická transformace v posledním desetiletí k čím dál častějším a viditelnějším střetům daného typu.

Každý ze sporů je sice zasazen do specifických místních souvislostí, které nelze vždy snadno zobecnit, přesto se do nich často promítají podobné vzorce. Zatímco evropská fosilní energetika se obvykle opírá o těžbu v odlehlých oblastech a o infrastrukturu soustředěnou do nemnoha lokalit, zelená transformace spočívá na početnějších a územně rozptýlených zdrojích výroby energie. Tím se produkce energie dostává do mnohem těsnějšího kontaktu s obydlenou krajinou a místními komunitami.

Při prosazování projektů energetické transformace se obvykle argumentuje naléhavou potřebou dekarbonizace, křehkou energetickou bezpečností či nutností dosáhnout energetické nezávislosti. Odpor proti projektům obnovitelné energetiky naopak postrádá jednotný scénář. Bývá spíše situační, promítají se do něj specifika daných projektů a jejich konkrétní dopady na místní přírodu a krajinu. Navzdory různorodosti odporu lze říci, že jednotlivé sektory energetiky zpravidla vyvolávají specifické typy protestů podle konkrétního dopadu na životní prostředí.

Ohniska sporů

Zřejmě nejčastější a rovněž nejdiskutovanější příčinou sporů uvnitř zeleného hnutí je výstavba větrných elektráren, které v Evropské unii vyrábějí asi čtyřicet procent obnovitelné energie. Jedním z důvodů je jejich nepřehlédnutelnost. Vnitrozemské větrné parky proměňují ráz krajiny a výrazně zasahují do životního prostředí, čímž vyvolávají tradiční formy odporu proti velkým infrastrukturním stavbám.

Dobře je to vidět na příkladu Galicie v severozápadním Španělsku. V regionu, který byl kdysi největším španělským producentem větrné energie, nyní naráží rozšiřování pevninských větrných elektráren na tvrdý odpor. Ekologické organizace vystupují proti desítkám nových projektů a podávají stovky žalob s argumentem, že rychlá výstavba ničí krajinu i chráněné oblasti.

Řada projektů tak byla dočasně pozastavena, což vyvolalo bouřlivou celospolečenskou debatu. Kampaň přitom neodmítla větrnou energii jako takovou: odpůrci naopak zdůrazňují, že větrná energie je „pro ochranu planety před dopady současné klimatické krize zásadní“. Svou kritiku však směřují proti „spekulativnímu a predátorskému modelu“ rozsáhlých projektů větrných elektráren, které jsou prosazovány shora v zájmu velkých energetických korporací.

Takovýto přístup podle nich může způsobit „nezvratné ekologické, kulturní, společenské a ekonomické škody“. Podobné spory kolem větrných parků se objevily také v dalších částech Evropy, například v Německu, Švédsku nebo na Kypru.

Podobné diskuse vyvolávají i solární projekty, které zajišťují asi čtvrtinu evropské energie z obnovitelných zdrojů. Například plány na projekt Dama Solar v rumunské župě Arad, který se měl stát největším fotovoltaickým parkem v Evropě, napadlo u soudu místní ochranářské sdružení. Jeho zástupci tvrdí, že umístění projektu do chráněného území Natura 2000 ohrožuje tamní vzácné druhy.

Konflikt postavil ochranáře do přímého střetu s developery a státními úřady, kteří projekt hájí jako nezbytný pro dosažení klimatických cílů a posílení energetické bezpečnosti země. Celý spor, který byl později po mimosoudní dohodě pozastaven, odráží širší vzorec, s nímž se můžeme setkat třebas i v některých částech Francie, Španělska a Polska.

Vedle větrné a solární energetiky jsou tu ovšem i další základní pilíře transformace, které sice nepřitahují tolik pozornosti, ale jsou právě tak klíčové. Posilování přenosových sítí nebo výroba baterií rovněž vyvolává na různých místech v Evropě spory uvnitř zeleného tábora. Vůbec nejsilnější odpor se však zvedá proti těžbě některých kritických surovin; vlna protestů proti těžařským projektům se objevila v zemích jako Srbsko nebo Švédsko.

V severním Portugalsku vyvolaly vlnu odporu plány na těžbu lithia nedaleko obce Covas do Barroso. Ačkoli úřady projekt prezentovaly jako strategický příspěvek k evropské energetické transformaci, místní obyvatelé a ekologické organizace okamžitě zareagovali demonstracemi a přípravou právních kroků.

Protestující mluvili o tom, že jejich krajina má být „obětována“ a že zdejší životní prostředí utrpí jen proto, aby dekarbonizace pokročila někde jinde. Vadilo jim také, že rozhodnutí přišlo shora bez ohledu na jejich názor. Jedna z organizací, která se na protestech podílela, Unidos em Defesa de Covas do Barroso, shrnula kritiku argumentem, že „energetická transformace, která obětuje životní prostředí a je komunitám vnucena shora, místo aby vznikala ve spolupráci s nimi, přehlíží zkušenosti místních lidí s jejich vlastní krajinou a vytváří nebezpečný nedemokratický precedent“.

Od klimatu ke krajině

Stále častější konflikty uvnitř zeleného hnutí svědčí o hlubších rozporech v pojetí ekologického aktivismu. Patrná je zejména rostoucí nespokojenost s tím, že se výhradním středobodem ekologických kampaní stává samo klima. Některé proudy radikálního ekologického hnutí dnes vnímají „klima“ jako příliš abstraktní a technokratické téma, které je navíc úzce svázáno s politikou establishmentu.

Jejich skepse často pramení z frustrace z mainstreamové klimatické politiky, kterou mnozí považují za příliš pomalou a neefektivní. Takováto kritika zaznívá už dlouho, širší odezvy se jí však začalo dostávat až po neúspěchu klimatických protestů v roce 2019. Většina účastníků akcí tehdy nabyla dojmu, že ani masová mobilizace veřejnosti nevedla k prosazení smysluplné politické změny.

Zatím nelze hovořit o tom, že by v Evropě obrat od soustředění na klima ke komplexnějšímu vnímání ekologické krize nastával v širším měřítku, některé případy však naznačují, že se takováto dynamika začíná postupně prosazovat. Jasným příkladem je francouzská radikální organizace Povstání země (Les Soulèvements de la Terre), která sdružuje aktivisty různých názorových proudů včetně těch, kteří jsou rozčarováni vývojem dosavadních klimatických protestů. Francouzská organizace prohlašuje, že klimatická politika zůstává odtržená od žité reality, a namísto toho vybízí k lokálním zápasům, které „vracejí ekologické hnutí zpátky na zem“.

Uvedený obrat je zčásti odrazem lokálního ekologického aktivismu. Odpor proti projektům energetické transformace často navazuje na dlouhodobé tradice hnutí proti jaderným elektrárnám, budování přehrad, těžbě či průmyslovému zemědělství. Takováto hnutí obvykle chápou ekologický konflikt jako obranu krajiny a každodenního života proti vzdáleným centrům politické a ekonomické moci.

Historicky se takovéto iniciativy vyvíjely v určitém odstupu od agendy klimatické transformace. S tím, jak se nyní přechod k zelené energii zrychluje, napětí mezi různými tradicemi ekologického hnutí vystupuje na povrch a v některých případech přerůstá v otevřený konflikt.

Svou roli hraje také rostoucí vliv antikapitalistických postojů v ekologickém aktivismu. Pro mnohé skupiny totiž není hlavním tématem sama dekarbonizace, ale spíše její prosazování prostřednictvím tržních mechanismů. Z tohoto pohledu se zelený průmysl nejeví jako rozchod s minulostí, ale spíš jako stará známá logika exploatace zdrojů a kumulace kapitálu v novém kabátě.

To pak znemožňuje přistoupit na to, jak si energetickou transformaci představují vlády či korporace, a to i v situacích, kdy panuje široká shoda na nutnosti skoncovat s fosilními palivy. Popsané posuny nám pomáhají pochopit, proč se určité proudy zeleného aktivismu přiklánějí stále více k lokálním konfliktům a jak spolu s tím vzrůstá i nedůvěra vůči klimatické politice. Objasňuje se tím také vznik nových spojenectví mezi radikálními ekologickými aktivisty, ochranářskými organizacemi a obyvateli venkovských či příměstských oblastí.

Spory o pojetí zelené politiky míří do vyšších pater

Vnitřní konflikty zeleného hnutí se neprojevují jen lokálními protesty, ale stále častěji pronikají i do vysoké politiky. Ačkoli obě roviny nemusí být vždy přímo provázané, často zrcadlí stejné základní napětí.

To jen potvrzuje, že nejednotnost hnutí zdaleka není jen záležitostí lokálních sporů. U některých ekologicky zaměřených stran to pak vede k odmítání dekarbonizačních projektů, které by vyžadovaly jakékoli kompromisy.

Ačkoli se rétorika politických stran nemusí vždy přesně krýt s argumenty v lokálních sporech „zelených proti zeleným“, často s nimi sdílí podobnou vnitřní logiku. Příklady z nedávné doby najdeme po celé Evropě. Ve švýcarském kantonu Valais se například postavila Strana zelených proti vybudování fotovoltaických elektráren v alpských oblastech. V Portugalsku se zase levicový Bloco de Esquerda zapojil do kampaní proti těžbě lithia, v níž varuje před ničivými dopady na tamní krajinu.

Další, taktéž výmluvný příklad najdeme ve Španělsku, kde se podobný střet odehrál na parlamentní půdě. Poté, co zemi v roce 2025 postihl rozsáhlý výpadek elektrické energie, navrhla vláda opatření k posílení stability distribuční sítě a navýšení podpory obnovitelných zdrojů.

Vládní návrh byl však nakonec zamítnut, a to i s přispěním levicové strany Podemos, která se k zelené politice jinak hlásí. Její poslanci argumentovali tím, že reformy nijak neposilují veřejné vlastnictví ani demokratickou kontrolu, a naopak obsahují hrozbu, že upevní pozici stávajících energetických hráčů.

Uvedené obavy nebyly neopodstatněné. Bezprostředním důsledkem však byla patová situace: vládní návrh byl smeten ze stolu a žádná alternativní opatření se nepřijala. Odmítání obnovitelných energetických projektů s odůvodněním, že přinášejí prospěch především energetickým gigantům, se stalo trvalou součástí rétoriky Podemos.

Všechny uvedené případy mají jeden společný rys: aktéři, kteří nenesou přímou odpovědnost za dodávky energií a politiku v oblasti průmyslu, snáze odmítají kompromisy spojené s energetickou transformací. Naproti tomu ti, kteří jsou u moci, jsou strukturálně nuceni na ústupky přistupovat.

Nevyhnutelné napětí

Evropské spory uvnitř zeleného hnutí nabývají na intenzitě v kontextu zcela specifické politické situace. Odehrávají se v kontextu celosvětové vlny odporu proti ekologické politice, což se v Evropské unii projevuje rostoucí snahou vytlačit ekologický aktivismus na okraj. Evropská unie se přitom paradoxně snaží urychlit budování energetické a průmyslové infrastruktury založené na obnovitelných zdrojích, a to navzdory mnohým rozporům ve svém vlastním zeleném programu. Popsaná dynamika pak vyvolává stále naléhavější otázky ohledně směřování evropské ekologické politiky.

Popsaný vývoj lze interpretovat jako upevňování jakéhosi evropského energetického státního zájmu (raison d’état). Členské státy a instituce Evropské unie se stále častěji zaštiťují klimatickými cíli a energetickou bezpečností a velké energetické a průmyslové projekty označují za strategickou prioritu, kterou je nutno realizovat rychle a bez zbytečných průtahů.

Takovýto trend potvrzují i nedávné politické změny, jako je zrychlení schvalovacích procesů či upřednostňování strategických projektů. V unijním politickém diskursu se už energetická transformace nezdůvodňuje ani tak ochranou lidí a životního prostředí, jako spíše nutností zachovat konkurenceschopnost prostřednictvím ambiciózních, velkokapacitních projektů.

Bude-li takovýto vývoj pokračovat cestou oslabování ekologických pojistek, pravidel územního plánování a veřejné kontroly, lze očekávat, že i vnitřní střety v zeleném hnutí naberou na síle a prohloubí se polarizace. Některé spory pak mohou přerůst institucionální rámec a nabývat ostře konfrontačních podob.

Fragmentace zeleného hnutí znamená velké politické riziko — zejména v době, kdy ekologičtí aktéři potřebují utvářet široké a stabilní koalice, aby dokázali čelit sílícímu odporu vůči klimatické politice. Má-li zelený tábor prosadit podstatné změny, musí najít společnou řeč napříč celým spektrem zastánců zelené transformace, aby se rozdílné priority dařilo překonat jednáním, spíše než aby vedly k rozkolům.

Nicméně soudržnost nelze vynucovat. Mnohé požadavky, které ve vnitřních konfliktech zeleného hnutí zaznívají, jsou zcela legitimní. Projekty energetické transformace často prosazují hráči, jejichž prioritou je korporátní zisk, nikoli ekologické či sociální zájmy — a škody, které působí, jsou zcela reálné.

Mnozí z těch, kdož se odvolávají na naléhavost situace, se často jen pokoušejí odsunout požadavky na participaci, inkluzi či spravedlnost na vedlejší kolej. Z tohoto pohledu jsou debaty uvnitř zeleného hnutí nezbytné. Nutí totiž centra moci ke konfrontaci s konkrétními místy, kde zelená transformace získává svou hmatatelnou podobu, a podtrhují zásadní argument: energetická transformace si nemůže nárokovat legitimitu, pokud při své realizaci ničí ekosystémy, biotopy a místní komunity.

Na hlubší úrovni popsané rozpory odrážejí ústřední dilema klimatické krize. Dekarbonizace musí proběhnout rychle a ve velkém měřítku, jenže aktéři, kteří by ji dokázali provést sociálně spravedlivě a s citlivostí ke krajině, momentálně nemají v rukou politickou moc.

Vzhledem k naléhavosti a rozsahu celého úkolu si lze jen stěží představit, že by energetická transformace mohla proběhnout hladce a bez třenic, a to i za těch nejpříznivějších politických okolností. Ačkoli tedy zůstává hlavním úkolem budování rozsáhlých akceschopných koalic k odvrácení klimatické katastrofy, vnitřní konflikty v zeleném hnutí budou pravděpodobně přetrvávat.

Takovéto spory nejsou chybou v procesu zelené transformace, nýbrž jen symptomem toho, jak hluboko do různých vrstev ekologické a politické reality celý proces zasahuje. Z toho důvodu je bezkonfliktní transformace nejen nerealistická, ale dost možná i nežádoucí. Skutečnou otázkou tedy není, jak střetům mezi zastánci zelené politiky zabránit, ale zda je lze zvládat tak, aby se zelené hnutí mohlo stát silou, která energetickou transformaci usměrní, namísto toho, aby ji paralyzovalo.

Viktor Orbán’s Fidesz was defeated by a grassroots movement that faced down systematic intimidation in an extraordinary act of popular mobilisation. The attempt to restart democracy in Hungary stands a better chance of success than at any time since 1989. Will Péter Magyar take the country in the right direction?  

The events in Budapest on the night of Viktor Orbán’s election defeat on 12 April were pivotal and unforgettable. Hundreds of thousands of people flooded the streets in a carnival-style fiesta. This level of popular enthusiasm was seen neither in October 1989, when the new republic was proclaimed, nor in May 1990, when the first democratically elected government was formed. “It was like winning the World Cup,” witnesses said. 

Younger generations, who have spent all their adult lives under Orbán’s rule, campaigned hardest for change and feel that they are the main winners. Generation Z’s overwhelming support for Péter Magyar’s Tisza party spread to older age groups, too, and was a game-changer across the country. 

According to political scientists Andrea Szabó and Zoltán Gábor Szűcs-Zágoni, what happened on 12 April 2026 was “not just a critical election, a landslide or a change of government. It can truly be described as an electoral revolution: a bloodless constitutional political shift marking the beginning of a new era driven by the collective power of society.” 

What made this “electoral revolution” possible? What consequences is Viktor Orbán’s downfall likely to have in Hungary, Europe and beyond? And how easy will it be to restore democracy to a country in which the division of powers has effectively collapsed? 

Changing course 

The Hungarian constitutional system is modelled on Germany’s Kanzlerdemokratie and gives the prime minister a particularly strong position vis-à-vis the other parts of government. However, after 2010, Orbán effectively turned Hungary into an “absolute republic”, a term coined by political scientists Gábor Török and Péter Farkas Zárug to describe a system combining electoral democracy with the unrestrained use of state resources and a personality cult surrounding the leader.1

János Széky wrote in Élet és Irodalom that Magyar’s victory in fact ends Viktor Orbán’s 28-year reign, which began during his first term in office between 1998 and 2002. But the significance of the 12 April vote pertains to an even larger period of recent Hungarian history. These elections also mark nearly four decades since the transformation from a one-party system to a Western-type liberal democracy in 1989. 

A former frontrunner of westernisation in the east-central European context, Hungary began to lose ground in the 2000s. The overwhelming vote for change can be interpreted as a call for another push towards the West after the previous attempt in 1989–90, which started promisingly but ultimately failed. 

The 12 April election also marks the end of decades of fruitless and detrimental political rivalry between a triumphant radical right and an increasingly frustrated and powerless Left. The “cold civil war” that Orbán has been waging since 2004 with his left-wing counterpart, the former prime minister Ferenc Gyurcsány, has finally ended in mutual destruction. Gyurcsány’s Democratic Coalition received just one per cent of the popular vote and will not be represented in parliament. Orbán is also leaving parliament after 36 continuous years as an MP. 

For the first time since 1920, there will be no left-wing or liberal parties in the Hungarian parliament. The political landscape now comprises three different shades of right: EU-compatible, moderate conservatism (Tisza); anti-EU radical illiberalism (Fidesz); and neofascism (Mi Hazánk, or “Our Motherland”). 

The absence of left-liberal opposition in the Hungarian parliament sends a grim message to the rest of Europe. If left-wing political parties cannot connect with voters, those voters will have to look elsewhere for political representation. Almost two-thirds of the 3.4 million Hungarians who voted for Tisza came from liberal, left-wing or green backgrounds. There are several new MPs in the 141-strong Tisza group with left-wing and/or liberal leanings. Despite its conservative profile, represented by Magyar himself, Tisza is a surprisingly diverse party, where leaders and rank-and-file activists from different backgrounds coexist. 

Political scientist Balázs Jarábik has argued that the elections demonstrated Hungary’s ongoing democratic potential. But if Péter Magyar truly intends to effect change, he must address the long-standing illiberal tendency to grant the government almost unlimited power. Will Magyar make wise use of the complex network of legal instruments that could easily transform a democratically elected prime minister into a plebiscitarian leader and potential autocrat? And can he resist the temptation to use his supermajority to consolidate his personal power? 

These are the real questions awaiting answers. Viktor Orbán’s authoritarian path was not an anomaly or a bug in the system, but the extreme consequence of a constitutional mindset anchored in the idea of a dominant party and “stable” governance. 

A defeat for Putin 

Following the vote, Fidesz pundits began arguing that Orbán’s swift acceptance of the results showed that the system was far less authoritarian than his opponents claimed. However, this is contradicted by the evidence. For almost two years, Fidesz had employed a variety of tactics, legal and illegal, to suppress the dissent voiced by Tisza. Since 2024, the Hungarian government had exploited the powers of the security agencies and received covert support from Russia and, to a lesser extent, the United States to destroy the only genuine contender and secure Orbán’s fifth consecutive term in office. 

Orbán’s ultimate decision not to crack down on the opposition was motivated not by respect for the democratic will of the Hungarian people but because of an unprecedented display of force from Europe. It is tempting here to draw a parallel with the changes of 1989. However, in 1989, the peaceful transformation of communist Hungary into a multi-party democracy was supported by all the major powers and took place at the end of the East–West ideological divide. During this election campaign, by contrast, both Putin’s Russia and Trump’s United States openly backed Fidesz. 

Since late February, Orbán had been plagued by damaging press leaks. These originated from an entity of which Hungary was still a part, but which Orbán had started to label as his “main enemy”: the European Union. Several European security agencies cooperating on the Hungarian file had intercepted phone conversations between Orbán’s foreign minister, Péter Szijjártó, and his Russian counterpart, Sergei Lavrov, as well as between Orbán and the Russian president, Vladimir Putin. They revealed a pattern of strategic cooperation and moral collusion that made Orbán’s presence in Brussels undesirable. 

The exposure of the public misconduct of senior Hungarian officials went far beyond the well-known issue of systemic corruption. The failed geopolitical ventures of the Orbán system were exposed, including the attempted armed rescue of former Bosnian–Serb leader Milorad Dodik in 2025, which was thwarted by decisive American intervention, and the scandal surrounding the planned Hungarian military mission to Chad. While rumours could be heard in diplomatic and military circles about Hungarian involvement in the African operations of the infamous Wagner Group, the truth appears to be more straightforward. The deployment of 200 military personnel to a high-risk combat zone of little strategic importance to Hungary may have been driven by the glory-seeking ambitions of Gáspár Orbán – the son of the outgoing prime minister and then-army captain – who wanted to save local Christians regardless of potential losses among his fellow soldiers. 

According to analysts in both the West and Russia, Orbán’s departure represents a significant strategic setback for Putin. Although Hungary is not a major military or economic power, it has played a crucial political role in advancing Russian interests. Moscow has lost its most valuable and long-cultivated “insider” within the European Union and NATO. As a legitimate European leader rather than a puppet, Orbán was the Kremlin’s most effective tool within the West. 

Moscow secures loyalty by offering cash, business opportunities, and political attention. Amplifying fears of migration, war, and the loss of national identity has helped to translate pro-Kremlin sentiments into local politics across the region. Now, with the collapse of the invincibility myth, other pillars of Russian influence in East-Central Europe may also be under threat. 

Moscow has lost its most valuable and long-cultivated “insider” within the European Union and NATO. […] Now, with the collapse of the invincibility myth, other pillars of Russian influence in East-Central Europe may also be under threat. 

Péter Magyar has said his government will seek pragmatic cooperation with Russia, particularly on energy, and an immediate “crusade” against Moscow is not in sight. Nevertheless, Hungary will cease to be a “spanner in the works” in the EU, enabling more coherent decision-making. Putin’s loss of his only real foothold in Europe is a significant setback for Russian foreign policy. 

The revolt of “deep Hungary” 

Much has been said and written about Péter Magyar, the mole within the system who has exposed its moral decay and corruption more than anyone else. Gábor Bruck, one of Hungary’s leading election campaign strategists, has said that in his many decades in the field, he has never witnessed a performance of such calibre. For around two years, Magyar travelled the length and breadth of the country – literally on foot for weeks at a time – visiting no fewer than 700 locations and reaching millions of citizens in person. Many Hungarians living outside Budapest had never had the opportunity to shake hands with or speak to a national politician. 

Counting on the support of Budapest – a long-standing stronghold of the anti-Fidesz liberal left – Magyar instead focused on the hidden, invisible Hungary of 2,500 villages and hundreds of small towns with populations of just a few thousand. The election results show that support for Tisza was spread across the whole country and not limited to the cities. Orbán’s electoral and cultural stronghold, “deep Hungary”, turned its back on him and embraced the vision of radical change promoted by Magyar. 

However, it would be reductive to focus solely on the top level of the Tisza Party. Magyar deserves historic credit for daring to issue an existential challenge to Orbán’s power within the unfair electoral system Orbán had established. Nevertheless, he had something that Orbán’s power machine lacked: a genuine grassroots movement with widespread support. In the years to come, Tisza will likely be studied as the model of a “popular front” democratic mobilisation, capable of uniting right, left and centre behind a common cause. 

The party’s structure was organised into three distinct yet loosely connected tiers. The first was Péter Magyar, a political animal with innate charisma, a huge capacity for work, and exceptional strategic instincts. András Körösényi, the doyen of Hungarian political scientists, pointed out that Magyar’s extraordinary success highlights not only the fragility of an autocratic system, but also an increasingly widespread and pronounced trend towards plebiscitary democracy. 

The second tier, which has so far been almost imperceptible, concerns the party as a formal political structure. With only a few dozen members, the party could easily be described as an electoral committee centred around its founder and natural leader. 

The third tier is perhaps the most intriguing. Since 2024, over two thousand “Tisza islands” have spontaneously formed in hundreds of Hungarian localities, including villages where there has probably been no political activity since 1945-46 or the turbulent days of the 1956 uprising. 

Although it is impossible to estimate the exact number, it is safe to say that hundreds of thousands of people have been actively involved in opposition politics over the past two years. This is in a country with barely eight million potential voters. The Tisza Islands have no legal status and are not formally affiliated with the small party headquarters. The members form a grassroots civic community of equals and have become a powerful example of informal, bottom-up democracy in a country that has lost its institutional democracy. After long complaining about the lack of civic commitment and interclass solidarity in Hungarian society, social scientists have finally found a topic of great interest: the emergence of a politically oriented social force outside the traditionally progressive capital city of Budapest. 

The best example of grassroots action came on election day, when Tisza mobilised 50,000 unpaid volunteers. Despite the personal risks, they dedicated themselves to political change – the first time this has happened in recent Hungarian history. Almost 5,000 civilians patrolled the polling stations most affected by Fidesz’s well-established vote-buying scheme. As the documentary film A szavazat ára (“The price of the vote”) revealed, this ranged from bussing voters to polling stations to handing out alcohol and drugs to addicts. Fidesz reportedly even threatened to take away people’s jobs or custody of their children. Vote-buying gained the ruling party more than 200,000 votes in 2022; its campaign strategists hoped it would secure up to twice that number in 2026. 

The presence of these volunteers, who were travelling around by car or motorcycle, managed to curb the phenomenon. In areas where “electoral tourism” had been most heavily monitored, observers prevented tens of thousands of people from voting fraudulently. 

Tisza is also leading a quiet gender revolution in a country where politics has always been heavily male-dominated. Women make up one-third of its parliamentary group, while only 17 of Fidesz’s 135 MPs during the previous parliamentary term were women. According to the party’s list, successful businesswoman Ágnes Forsthoffer will become president of the National Assembly, while the former diplomat and energy expert Anita Orbán has been designated foreign minister. 

The greater presence of women in the Tisza is not the result of compliance with “gender quotas”, but a sociological reality and cultural breakthrough. Female activism has played a decisive role in establishing and operating Tisza. These women are primarily middle-aged and active in the private sector. Dissatisfied with the state of the country, they have the time and practical experience of managing daily life to contribute to the community. 

Democratic culture 

All this said, the damage inflicted on representative democracy in Hungary between 2010 and 2026 will be long-lasting. Orbán’s System of National Cooperation found fertile ground due to the established pattern of patronage-based autocracy and the lack of functioning democratic models. 

The largely spontaneous social mobilisation that brought about the downfall of the Orbán regime is not enough to overcome the longstanding weakness of Hungary’s democratic culture. Magyar’s parliamentary supermajority enables him to dismantle the former power system brick by brick without putting the legal system under strain, as happened in Poland after the defeat of PiS in 2023. The question is whether he will be able to restrain his own almost unlimited power, or whether his charismatic leadership of the party will backfire when serious issues concerning democratic standards arise. 

Perhaps even more importantly, the new government will need to democratise the education system and political discourse. Mutual hate, grievances and scapegoating must be replaced by a new collaborative spirit. The hundreds of thousands of young people who voted for democracy and integration with the West should be given the opportunity to learn about democracy while attempting to implement it. 

The support received by the new elite on 12 April brings great historical responsibility. Magyar and his government will need to study the errors made during the 20-year experiment that began in 1989–90 in order to avoid repeating them. For example, the political reintegration of the former authoritarian elite should be preceded by a process of lustration; crimes should be prosecuted and publicly exposed. 

Above all, however, the new government must abandon the anti-democratic practices deeply rooted in the past century – from Miklós Horthy to Viktor Orbán and János Kádár – and establish a democratic state capable of addressing the numerous challenges of the current one. 

This article first appeared in Eurozine. It is republished here with permission.

1. Péter Zárug Farkas, Gábor Török: Orbán ​kora. Vázlat egy abszolút köztársaság felemelkedéséről, Budapest, L’Harmattan, 2026. ︎

Europe’s climate movement is often portrayed as the domain of younger generations. Yet from landmark legal victories to everyday practices of sustainability, a different picture is emerging: older Europeans are proving to be among the most committed and effective climate actors. As the continent continues to age, could this overlooked demographic reshape how climate action is understood and mobilised across Europe?

In April 2024, a group of Swiss women, most of them in their 70s and 80s, stood on the steps of the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg, surrounded by a wall of microphones and cameras from around the world. They had just heard the verdict in one of the most significant climate cases in European legal history. The KlimaSeniorinnen Schweiz had won.

The ruling found Switzerland in violation of the European Convention on Human Rights for failing to adequately protect its citizens from the effects of climate change. The judgment, formally known as Verein KlimaSeniorinnen Schweiz v. Switzerland, now sets binding legal precedent across all 46 Council of Europe member states. Switzerland has since pushed hard for the case to be closed, but the Committee of Ministers, which monitors its implementation, has refused the request twice.

The story of how about 3,000 Swiss women forced their country to one of the highest courts in Europe is striking in its own right. Yet it also points to something broader: a growing, largely invisible force within the climate movement that Europe’s ageing democracies might not be able to overlook for much longer.

Beyond the generational divide

The climate movement’s most visible faces – such as activists Greta Thunberg in Sweden or Féris Barkat in France – tend to be on the younger (if not much younger) side, and it has become common to identify Gen Z as its most fervent defender. But researchers who study the intersection of ageing and environmental engagement argue that the mainstream perception of generations within the climate movement may be flawed.

“There is a slight tendency for younger generations to have opinions that are more favourable towards climate policy,” said Jan Rosset, a sociologist at the University of Applied Sciences and Arts of Western Switzerland who has studied climate engagement across age groups in Switzerland alongside political scientist Jasmine Lorenzini. “But all generations are very favourable to climate policies. There is no real generational divide.”

That finding echoes the conclusions of a 2025 study published by Parlons Climat, a French research organisation, which found that older adults take climate change and environmental degradation just as seriously as the rest of the population. The myth of a disengaged older generation does not seem to hold up to scrutiny.

What differs across generations, Rosset and Lorenzini found, is not the level of concern but the form that engagement takes. Older adults are significantly more likely to buy local and seasonal produce for environmental reasons, to renounce air travel on ecological grounds, and to practice unglamorous household sustainability: buying second-hand, reducing electricity use, cooking from scratch. Younger people, on the other hand, might be more likely to adopt plant-based diets and participate in public protests. It should, however, be noted that the data is mixed.

Researchers who study the intersection of ageing and environmental engagement argue that the mainstream perception of generations within the climate movement may be flawed.

“On almost every indicator, it is people in mid-life, those between roughly 35 and 60, who engage the least,” Rosset says. “But that is not an ideological position. It’s a question of time and capacity; they have demanding jobs and family responsibilities. It is a life-cycle issue, not a generational one.”

Rosset and Lorenzini also found a consistent gender gap: across all age groups, but especially among older adults, women showed significantly more favourable attitudes toward climate action and higher levels of engagement than men.

“This gap was almost stronger than other socioeconomic factors, like income or education level,” Rosset said.

The case that set a precedent

When Greenpeace Switzerland began exploring the possibility of legal climate action in the mid-2010s, it ran into an obstacle: Swiss law does not allow class actions. Any case would need to be brought by individuals who could demonstrate they were personally and particularly affected. The research pointed to one group. Studies following the 2003 European heatwave – which killed an estimated 70,000 people across the continent, with the elderly among the hardest hit – had shown that older women died in disproportionate numbers. More recent research has confirmed this vulnerability: a 2024 study by Penn State researchers found that older women reach dangerous heat thresholds at lower temperature and humidity levels than older men and that middle-aged women are as heat-vulnerable as men over 65.

Heatwaves increase illnesses, causing heat stroke, heart and lung problems, diabetes complications, mental health issues, and trouble with daily activities. The vulnerability of older generations is not just physical: many live alone, have limited mobility, or cannot easily access emergency services. People in cities face “heat island” effects, where concrete and asphalt trap heat, while rural residents often have fewer cooling centres or medical resources. Climate change also worsens air quality, raising levels of ozone, fine particulate matter, and other pollutants, which worsen respiratory and heart conditions. These combined factors make ageing populations especially vulnerable to the health impacts of climate change.

One senior activist who committed herself to the Swiss climate fight is Elisabeth Stern, a cultural anthropologist and board member of KlimaSeniorinnen Schweiz. “It was clear that when I got retired, I would use my time in a climate group,” she said. “I tried a few that were not the right fit for me until I found the KlimaSeniorinnen, who I sort of met on the same eye level.”

Stern’s fellow activist, Anne Mahrer, KlimaSeniorinnen’s co-president, had spent years watching climate policy stall in parliament as a member of the Swiss National Council. When a colleague reminded her of the Urgenda case in the Netherlands, where a court had ordered the Dutch government in 2015 to cut emissions, the question became: could something similar be done in Switzerland? In August 2016, KlimaSeniorinnen Schweiz was formally established to achieve that goal.

The Swiss courts, however, were not moved. At every level, the association was told it lacked standing. One court noted that the women were concerned not only about Swiss emissions but wanted to reduce them worldwide. Another placed winter tourism in the same category of climate-affected interests as the health of women threatened by heatwaves. The most striking argument, Stern recounts, was that the women might not still be alive by the time global warming reached 1.5 degrees and therefore could not complain. “If you follow their reasoning, climate action in court would only be possible when it’s already too late,” Mahrer said.

The European Court of Human Rights took a different view. It declared the application a priority case, engaged seriously with reports by the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), and referred the case to its Grand Chamber of 17 judges. “Unlike politicians, who do not listen to scientists, the judges listened to the scientists, and they took into account the third-party interventions in support of the case,” Mahrer explained.

The court delivered its verdict on 9 April, 2024. It found Switzerland in violation of Article 8 of the European Convention on Human Rights – the right to respect for private and family life – which the court ruled encompasses a right to effective state protection against the severe effects of climate change on life, health, wellbeing, and quality of life. Switzerland was also found to have violated Article 6 – the right to a fair trial – for its domestic courts’ refusal to hear the case on its merits.

The ripple effects spread quickly and travelled farther than anyone had anticipated. The ruling is now cited in climate litigation across Europe. In South Korea, groups of young activists successfully pursued a similar case. In the Netherlands, residents of the island of Bonaire have taken legal action against the Dutch state, drawing on the KlimaSeniorinnen precedent. The International Court of Justice, prompted by the small island nation of Vanuatu, issued an advisory opinion in July 2025 stating that governments which fail to protect their populations from climate harm are acting unlawfully, reinforcing the Strasbourg ruling and opening new avenues for litigation worldwide.

Across Europe, a generation of older activists has been following a similar model. European Grandparents for Climate, active in Belgium and Norway, and Omas for Future in Germany and Austria, are building on the same instinct: that people who have watched the world change across six or seven decades have both a particular stake in the future and a special capacity to act.

European Grandparents for Climate participates in demonstrations, writes letters to ministers, and monitors parliamentary votes on climate at both the Belgian and European levels. In Germany, Omas for Future joins Fridays for Future strikes, runs climate workshops in schools, and has organised nationwide campaigns such as the “Klimabänder” initiative, in which thousands of handwritten climate messages were bicycled to Berlin ahead of the 2021 federal election.

Sustainability by habit

Beyond courts and campaigns, there is a quieter dimension to older adults’ climate engagement, rooted not in ideology but in force of habit and the practical knowledge of generations who lived before the age of mass consumption.

Serge Guérin, a French sociologist and author of Et si les vieux aussi sauvaient la planète? (“And what if the Elderly Also Saved the Planet?”), points to a kind of practical sustainability that older generations carry without naming it as such. They grew up returning glass bottles for a deposit, cooking whatever was in season, and mending rather than replacing. A startup working on bottle recycling, he recalls, found it far easier to explain the concept to older people because “When they were young, they used to return the milk bottle, the wine bottle, and get a few cents back. For them, it was totally normal,” he says.

Helene Blasquiet-Revol, a geographer whose research examines civic engagement among seniors in rural France, describes what she calls “ordinary” forms of climate engagement: practices so ingrained they are not even labelled as activism. For instance, she found that community gardens established by older residents in the Allier region gradually opened up to schools and youth workshops, transmitting practical knowledge in ways that were rarely planned or publicised.

There is a quieter dimension to older adults’ climate engagement, rooted not in ideology but in force of habit and the practical knowledge of generations who lived before the age of mass consumption.

Researchers are increasingly identifying the potential for a form of intergenerational knowledge transfer that is already happening informally, and which could be deliberately cultivated. Rosset, for instance, found that among older climate activists, there was no statistically significant relationship between having children or grandchildren and the propensity to get involved, meaning people were not fighting for their own descendants. “It is really universal,” Rosset said. “It is a solidarity expressed towards future generations, towards all of humanity. We did not expect that result at all.”

Renewal needs the old

Europe is ageing fast. According to projections from the European Commission’s Joint Research Centre, the share of older adults across EU member states is growing steadily and will continue to do so for decades, driven by declining fertility rates and rising life expectancy. This demographic shift also increases the need for climate-adapted healthcare, adequate urban planning, and social support systems for vulnerable seniors.

“There is a widespread idea that with generational renewal, the problem will be solved, that new generations will be more environmentally conscious,” Rosset said. “Our research shows this is not the case. And in addition, there will be more and more older people.”

Guérin also notes that designing urban environments, housing, and transport for ageing populations often produces outcomes that are better for both people and the planet. Accessible public transport means more people leave their cars behind. Shared housing models reduce per-capita energy consumption. Local services cut down the need for long-distance travel. And when older people are less isolated, they are in better health.

“When you reduce isolation, people use fewer resources, they are less at risk and share more,” Guérin said, adding that these shifts can lower both land use and carbon footprints. “When you take vulnerability into account, you very often improve things for everyone. And it’s really when people feel their capacity to act, especially at the local level, that things begin to move.”

Stern sees the perception gap playing out in real time in media coverage. “There are certain media and certain politicians who want us to believe that interest in the climate has vanished,” she says. “It is in their interest to tell people: ‘It has vanished anyway, so you don’t have to get involved, just enjoy life.’ But the truth is, when you ask people what concerns them a lot, the climate crisis comes up either first or second.”

The KlimaSeniorinnen continue to monitor Switzerland’s compliance with the Strasbourg judgment, sending observations to the Committee of Ministers, lobbying ambassadors, and speaking at universities across the country. For Stern, meaningful compliance means confronting Switzerland’s financial sector, which through continued investment in fossil fuels generates emissions many times greater than those in the country itself. A documentary about the association’s decade-long legal journey recently toured cinemas.

Whatever the future of the climate movement and its coverage, it is clear that the generational conflict narrative is not accurate. The evidence from researchers points to something more complicated and more hopeful: a Europe where different generations, engaged in different ways, with different tools and different knowledge, are already working on the same problem.

Evidence that Parkinson’s, the fastest-growing neurodegenerative disease globally, may be linked to pesticides used in agriculture has been accumulating for decades. Yet, after finally appearing to take experts’ concerns seriously, EU authorisation bodies have failed to take meaningful action. An excerpt from Dirk de Bekker’s book Het pesticidenparadijs (“Pesticide Paradise”).

“If you are the CEO of Bayer, tossing and turning in bed at night, how can you justify this to yourself… Suppose that Roundup is the cause of Parkinson’s, how are you able to sleep soundly?”

It is 29 March 2022. Sitting opposite me is Bas Bloem, professor of neurology and an internationally renowned expert on Parkinson’s disease. He has just explained to me, speaking rapidly and in precisely formulated sentences, which processes in the brain are disrupted when someone develops Parkinson’s disease. Although he speaks fluently and barely pauses for breath, something changes in him from the moment the words “pesticides” and “glyphosate” are uttered. His gaze becomes more intense, his voice louder, and his sentences a fraction slower.

We are at the Parkinson’s Center of Expertise at Radboud University Medical Center in Nijmegen, in the southeast of the Netherlands. Here, scientists are working on treatments for a disease that does not yet have a cure. Current therapies, procedures, and medication are aimed at slowing down and alleviating the symptoms. Tremors, stiff movements, and difficulty speaking – those are what the general public is familiar with, but describing Parkinson’s as “that shaking disease” is incorrect, says Bloem. “The disease is like an iceberg.” Most symptoms – including depression, dementia, bowel dysfunction, sleep disorders, balance problems, loss of smell, and pain – are often just as serious but are hidden beneath the surface.1

Most people with Parkinson’s experience many symptoms simultaneously. Often, new ones continue to develop and become increasingly severe. As a result, the disease is very disruptive – both physically and mentally – for patients and their loved ones.

Bloem is sounding the alarm. Parkinson’s is the fastest-growing neurodegenerative disease – not only in the Netherlands, where the number of cases has risen by 30 per cent over the last 10 years, but worldwide.2 There are now approximately 12 million people globally with Parkinson’s. According to recent estimates, this figure will more than double by 2050 to 25 million.3

This explosive increase can be partly explained by age: Parkinson’s is more common at advanced ages, and the global population of older people is growing. Furthermore, average life expectancy is rising worldwide. However, even after adjusting for ageing, researchers are seeing rapid growth. So there is more to it than that.4

As early as the 1980s, there were strong scientific indications that exposure to pesticides was an important risk factor for the development of Parkinson’s disease. Over the past 10 years, the evidence supporting this has grown significantly.

For this reason, Bloem views Parkinson’s as a disease not primarily caused by ageing per se but by “all sorts of rubbish” in our environment. By this, he means pesticides and other hazardous substances. As people live longer, there is more time for them to be exposed to these substances. Furthermore, the disease often develops over decades before it manifests itself. As people live longer on average, this also means that accumulated neurological damage has a greater chance of becoming apparent.

As early as the 1980s, there were strong scientific indications that exposure to pesticides was an important risk factor for the development of Parkinson’s disease.

Growing concerns

A disease that is growing explosively, the increasingly clear link to pesticides, the fact that there is still no prospect of a cure – all of this is cause for concern. But Bloem’s full-blown alarm comes from somewhere else: a conversation he had at the Dutch Board for the Authorisation of Plant Protection Products and Biocides (the College voor de toelating van gewasbeschermingsmiddelen en biociden, Ctgb) in late 2020.

At his request, the Dutch authorisation body agreed to personally meet with him in November 2020 to explain step by step how the approval procedure for pesticides works. The meeting was intended to allay his concerns, but the opposite happened: he was struck with terror. “It was only then that I fully realised that we actually know nothing when it comes to the risk of Parkinson’s.”

During the presentation, Bloem was told that existing approval tests for the neurotoxicity of pesticides only examine external characteristics in laboratory animals. For example, do the animals move more slowly or display apathetic behaviour after coming into contact with a pesticide? “That is completely inadequate,” according to the neurologist. “It takes years for Parkinson’s to develop; you don’t immediately see anything on the outside. You therefore need to look inside the relevant areas of the brain: does the substance damage the substantia nigra?”

The substantia nigra (Latin for “black substance”) is the area of the brain where dopamine is produced. This chemical plays a key role in essential functions such as movement, memory and well-being. In people with Parkinson’s, the substantia nigra deteriorates, slowly but surely. It is only when 60 to 70 per cent of the substantia nigra has already been affected that the outward symptoms of Parkinson’s become noticeable. But by that point, the disease has already been long in the making. “You also need to know if, say, 40 per cent of the substantia nigra is destroyed and you can’t yet see anything externally. Currently, this is simply not tested.”

Bloem and his fellow neurologists are increasingly seeing patients in their clinics who report having been exposed to pesticides. They are not alone: more and more general practitioners and physiotherapists working in agriculture-intensive regions are also voicing concerns about the rising number of Parkinson’s cases they are seeing in their practices.5

The cover of Dirk de Bekker’s book Het pesticidenparadijs (“Pesticide Paradise”).

“I recently had a woman with Parkinson’s at the outpatient clinic. She had just buried her husband, who also had Parkinson’s. In addition, six other people in her street had the disease. They live next to a field where small planes used to spray pesticides,” says Bloem.

Over the years that I have been publishing on pesticides, I have also regularly heard striking accounts from people with Parkinson’s who attribute their illness to pesticides. They mention having peeled bulbs for years, or working for the parks department with pesticide tanks on their backs and spray guns in their hands, or growing up on fruit farms where they played hide-and-seek in the orchards. I’ve also heard from people who have worked with pesticides for long periods of time in laboratories, in greenhouses, or on their own fields. Multiple members of a family are sometimes affected by the disease.

Puzzles and cocktails

The sheer frequency with which such personal anecdotes crop up is striking, although they prove nothing in themselves. But these stories do not stand alone.

A growing body of scientific studies shows that Parkinson’s disease occurs significantly more frequently among people living in areas of intensive cultivation. In France, for example, Parkinson’s is 8.5 per cent more common in the most intensive wine-growing regions compared to the national average.6 Consequently, the French government officially recognises Parkinson’s as an occupational disease among winegrowers.7 Studies in the United States and Canada, among other places, reveal the same pattern: in the examined regions, Parkinson’s disease is spread across the map like a patchwork quilt, and the areas with the most intensive farming practices – and the highest pesticide use – stand out most clearly in terms of the number of cases.8

It is virtually impossible to establish a definitive causal link in this type of “map-based study”. To do so would require a great deal of specific data: which substances were used, where and when? What is the residential history of the individuals who became sick in the area under investigation? What is their occupation? What did they eat? What is their genetic makeup? Are there other polluting activities in the area? The aim of such research is therefore not to establish or rule out an irrefutable causal link; it is about identifying a potential problem. In combination with other studies, the puzzle can then be pieced together more fully.

Although the scientific puzzle is not yet complete, the pieces that are already in place suggest that the explosive rise in Parkinson’s disease over the past decades can at least partly be attributed to exposure to pesticides. There is, for instance, a historical piece of the puzzle: the rapid post-war growth in Parkinson’s largely coincides with the period when pesticide use increased dramatically. In itself, this is not very convincing evidence, but together with the piece showing that the disease occurs more frequently in areas with intensive arable farming and high pesticide use, the picture changes. It becomes even clearer when you add the piece showing that farmers and gardeners in particular have a significantly increased risk of developing Parkinson’s.9

Therefore, contrary to what various agricultural organisations still regularly claim, the missing pieces of the puzzle do not so much lead to the question of whether a link exists, but rather to the question of exactly how strong that link is, and which specific substances are responsible. Scientists are also wondering whether there are substances that pose no risk individually, but can be dangerous in combination. This, in turn, raises other questions: what is the smartest way to investigate such “pesticide cocktails” without having to test an endless number of combinations? Are there genetic factors that increase the risk of harm following exposure to pesticides? Are there interactions between pesticides (or cocktails of pesticides) and other pollutants in the environment? And what is the situation with other neurodegenerative diseases, such as ALS and dementia, for which links to pesticides also exist?10

It has already been established that some specific pesticides, such as rotenone and paraquat, can damage the substantia nigra. This was not discovered during the official assessment of these pesticides but later in independent studies (and subsequently they were withdrawn from the European market). However, this type of research has not been carried out on the vast majority of substances, let alone for pesticide cocktails.

A recent large-scale study has found that trifluralin and tribufos, two pesticides frequently used in combination on cotton plantations in the United States, do not pose a proven risk for Parkinson’s when used individually. When used together, however, they prove to be highly damaging to dopamine-producing brain cells, suggesting that they can indeed cause Parkinson’s in combination.11 This highlights the importance of taking pesticide cocktails into account in the authorisation process, and placing this topic high on the research agendas of independent scientists in relation to both Parkinson’s and other conditions.

Lack of action

According to Bloem, the way the risk of Parkinson’s is handled in the authorisation procedure violates the precautionary principle. “Given all these clear links, should we say that we are only going to ban this rubbish once it has been irrefutably proven that they cause Parkinson’s? Or, with all the evidence that already exists, should we say that we are only going to re-authorise the substances once it has been proven that they are safe? In reality, what happens is the former, meaning the burden of proof has been reversed.”12

The way the risk of Parkinson’s is handled in the authorisation procedure violates the precautionary principle. 

Bloem is not calling for an immediate ban on all pesticides. He does, however, advocate for subjecting the substances that are already authorised to a special Parkinson’s test as soon as possible. And as far as he is concerned, this should become standard practice when new pesticides are assessed. To this end, a testing procedure must be developed that makes it possible to look inside the brains of laboratory animals following prolonged exposure. There, it must be determined whether the substantia nigra has been damaged – for example, by counting the number of dopamine-producing cells. In the near future, it should be possible to carry out this procedure without subjecting animals to testing, by isolating the relevant cells outside their bodies.

The weedkiller glyphosate seems to be the most appropriate substance to first undergo testing for a link to Parkinson’s disease. It is by far the most widely used pesticide, and everyone is exposed to it to a greater or lesser extent. Moreover, several studies suggest a link between glyphosate and the development of Parkinson’s. The evidence, though far from conclusive, gives neurologists more than enough reason to be on alert.13 In addition, an increasing number of studies are emerging that show that even low doses of glyphosate can lead to disruptions in the gut flora.14 Such disruptions in the microbiome might – indirectly – increase the risk of Parkinson’s due to the communication between the gut and the brain. Researchers suspect that these disruptions could lead to a change in the structure of alpha-synuclein, a protein essential for communication between nerve cells. In mice, it has been established that this altered protein can reach the brain, where it subsequently damages the substantia nigra.15

Notably, the Dutch pesticide authority, the Ctgb, supported Bloem’s call for the speedy development of a Parkinson’s test. The November 2020 presentation was a wake-up call not only for the neurologist, but also for the Ctgb itself. This was evident in the fact that a few months later, in March 2021, the Ctgb wrote a letter to the agency responsible for pesticide risk assessment in the EU – the European Food Safety Authority, or EFSA – asking it to facilitate research into the development of an adequate testing procedure for Parkinson’s.16

The EFSA could not ignore this appeal by the Ctgb. Not only is it one of the leading national authorisation bodies with which the EFSA cooperates, but also, in its appeal, the Ctgb explicitly referred to Bloem – internationally renowned and known to frequently pop up in the international press to voice his concerns. Bloem’s message and extensive media reach have made many people in the pesticide world – from regulatory authorities to pesticide manufacturers – quite nervous.17

The EFSA responded just two weeks later with a proposal to organise a working conference “to take stock of the situation from a scientific and multidisciplinary point of view”.18 But over a year later, as I learned during my conversation at that time with Bloem at the Parkinson’s Centre of Expertise, that conference was yet to happen. Bloem could not contain his frustration. “How on earth do you explain to future generations – with a disease that is skyrocketing and an environmental role that seems so obvious – that we are not taking more decisive action?”

Breakthrough and disappointment

Six months later, however, on 8 September 2022, Bloem was again in high spirits. The conference that the neurologist had been pushing for over the past two years had finally taken place.19 In the presence of the EFSA and an international panel of experts, he was able to share his concerns about the authorisation procedure and Parkinson’s disease. And this had yielded results. All 49 attendees – experts affiliated with the EFSA as well as external research institutes and national authorisation bodies – reached an agreement. This is a rare occurrence among such a large group of international, often independent-minded experts. “There was broad consensus that the currently existing procedures […] offer an inadequate assessment of the risk of developing Parkinson’s disease in case of human exposure,” the minutes of the meeting state. The EFSA emphasised the urgent need to develop a new testing method that can actually provide insights into the risk of Parkinson’s. “A real breakthrough,” said Bloem. This was the first time that the EFSA had unconditionally acknowledged that the system it uses to assess pesticides was flawed.

The EFSA decided it would issue a call for tenders for a 3.5-million-euro contract aimed at the development of the required test. Specialised scientists were invited to submit bids.

The EFSA personally approached two Dutch research organisations with the request that they respond to this call: the Radboud University Medical Center (Bas Bloem’s employer) and RIVM, the National Institute for Public Health and the Environment. “That’s how strongly they felt about our case,” explained neurotoxicologist Harm Heusinkveld, who attended the conference on behalf of the RIVM. For years, toxicologists at the RIVM had also been worried about pesticides and Parkinson’s – concerns that were finally being taken seriously by the EFSA with this research call. ‘‘Afterwards, we thought: guys, something is really going to happen now.’’20

This sense of urgency and enthusiasm felt by many researchers was heightened by the fact that the European re-evaluation of glyphosate was taking place at the same time. If the EFSA call for tenders were to be released quickly, there might still be an opportunity to use the weedkiller as the first case for the Parkinson’s test under development, perhaps even before the reassessment of the pesticide was completed.

Seven long months passed before the EFSA finally sent out the official Parkinson’s tender on 9 April 2023. But when he read the text, Bas Bloem immediately realised that something was wrong. “At the meeting, everyone was in complete agreement: we need to develop a good new testing method for pesticides and Parkinson’s. And then I read the call, in which the EFSA has made no money whatsoever available for such a new testing method. It was as if that conference had never taken place.” He lets out an audible sigh over the phone. His voice, so enthusiastic after the conference, is now filled with disbelief. Neurotoxicologist Harm Heusinkveld reacted with the same astonishment: “This is a huge mystery. I really haven’t the faintest idea how they arrived at this.”

The original intention was to develop a comprehensive Parkinson’s test in one go, based on the substantia nigra. But the promise made earlier by the EFSA to issue a research brief for this purpose was not fulfilled. The research brief set out in the call specifically concerned the development of a testing method focused on the mitochondria, the cell’s energy powerhouses. “But that test already exists, so you’d just be rehashing the same thing all over again. Besides, that test is far too limited,” commented Heusinkveld.

The Radboud University Medical Center and the RIVM were so taken aback by the research mandate that landed in their inboxes that they sent a joint letter on 17 July to EFSA Director Bernhard Url to express their disappointment. It is particularly noteworthy that a third party signed on to their objection: the Ctgb.

It is unusual for the Ctgb to hold a view that is at odds with an opinion of the EFSA. These two authorities, one working at the national level and the other at the European level, cooperate closely within the same legal framework. The letter, which came into my possession during an investigation into glyphosate for De Groene Amsterdammer, offers a rare glimpse behind the scenes.

“Specifically, we were disappointed as to what the call envisioned to achieve, considering […] the broad agreement that an ambitious and novel approach was required,” the three parties wrote. “We had the clear impression from the workshop that the EFSA had decided to move forward, but the recent call solely repeats steps that had already been taken earlier. […] The resulting testing strategy will not provide full insight in the potential of chemical substances to induce or progress [Parkinson’s disease].” In conclusion, the RIVM, the Radboud University Medical Center and the Ctgb stated that, “despite the explicit question and encouragement” from the EFSA, they would not be competing for funding for the proposed research.

A contested report

Four months later, in July 2023, the EFSA announced its recommendation to renew the authorisation for glyphosate for the maximum period of 15 years. Bloem was stunned, and he was not the only one. Scientists all over the world criticised the EFSA’s decision in a reaction that was unusually vocal for the scientific community.

Although during previous glyphosate authorisations the debate revolved primarily around the risk of cancer, this time concerns about Parkinson’s dominated. Ecotoxicologist Peter Leendertse succinctly summarised the essence of the many scientific comments on the re-authorisation: “If there are so many questions surrounding a substance, surely you cannot approve it for the maximum term? Extend it by two years if there is no other option, and in the meantime, ensure that you get clarity on the risk of Parkinson’s disease.”21

In an effort to calm tensions, the European Commission ultimately decided to reduce the maximum term from 15 to 10 years. As far as critics were concerned, this was little more than a token gesture. They pointed out that not only independent studies but also the EFSA’s own assessment report provided sufficient grounds for revoking the license altogether.

The glyphosate report runs to a total of 6,354 pages. What is striking is the large number of “data gaps” that are mentioned. The EFSA generally uses this term to indicate that knowledge is lacking and further research is required. Data gaps can thus influence the decision to grant authorisation and the potential duration of that authorisation.

The EFSA identified data gaps regarding the effects of glyphosate on gut flora, biodiversity and groundwater, amongst other things. However, none of these were considered “critical concerns”. That determination already made many scientists raise their eyebrows – but what the report says regarding Parkinson’s led to even greater surprise. There is no mention of a data gap anywhere in the passages on Parkinson’s disease, giving the impression that there is no lack of information on this topic whatsoever. On the contrary, the report’s conclusion is that current evidence “does not trigger a concern for parkinsonism”.22

Although the EFSA acknowledged that risks of Parkinson’s could not be ruled out under the current authorisation procedure, the agency chose to ignore this conclusion in its glyphosate report.

“Absurd”, said ecotoxicologist Peter Leendertse. “Of course there is a huge data gap when it comes to Parkinson’s. Surely the report should mention that no reliable testing procedure exists. The findings of that conference are now simply being swept under the carpet.”

In short, although the EFSA itself acknowledged at the September 2022 conference that risks of Parkinson’s could not be ruled out under the current authorisation procedure, the agency chose to completely ignore this conclusion in its glyphosate report published the following summer.

The minutes of the September 2022 conference (which I obtained shortly afterwards) proving that the EFSA knows (and acknowledges) that a good Parkinson’s test does not exist have never been officially released. This is highly unusual – a considerable amount of information from comparable EFSA conferences is publicly available, ranging from advance announcements, participant names and meeting transcripts to complete video recordings. It is as if the much-heralded meeting in the late summer of 2022, attended by 49 international experts, including six EFSA staff members, never took place; as if the unequivocal conclusion regarding Parkinson’s was never reached.

Three EFSA staff members who attended the conference were also directly involved in the reassessment of glyphosate. Therefore, the assessors had first-hand knowledge of the discussions held during the conference regarding Parkinson’s disease and the lack of a sufficient test. Nevertheless, they did not include any of this in the dossier when the neurotoxicity of glyphosate was re-examined.

What makes the course of events even more peculiar is that during the re-assessment of glyphosate, the EFSA worked closely with the Ctgb. Alongside the national pesticide authorities of Hungary, Sweden and France, the Dutch authority was one of the responsible parties to which the assessment work had been outsourced. In other words, the Ctgb itself played a leading role in the decision to extend the authorisation for glyphosate for the maximum period. This is difficult to reconcile with the critical letters it sent to the EFSA during the same period: the first, dated 9 March 2022, requesting that EFSA Director Bernhard Url make room for research into a testing procedure for Parkinson’s disease, and a joint letter with the RIVM and Bas Bloem on 17 July 2023 complaining that the EFSA had broken its promise to make funds available for a Parkinson’s test.

It is as if there were two completely different Ctgb bodies. Whilst one was sending critical letters to the EFSA regarding Parkinson’s, the other was assisting the EFSA with the re-authorisation of glyphosate without raising any critical objections to the fact that the substance has not been tested for a link to Parkinson’s – even though such testing might be more urgent for glyphosate than for any other European-authorised pesticide.

The missing test

In a formal response to my questions, the Ctgb stated that a “very extensive data package” was available during the re-evaluation of glyphosate, containing “many more studies than merely the required ones”, including epidemiological research. While there may not be an adequate test to rule out Parkinson’s, said the Ctgb, the assessors decided that there was no cause for concern after studying a great deal of other supplementary information. “That is something different from being able to establish this with scientific certainty,” the Ctgb concluded.

The EFSA in turn denies that the conclusion regarding Parkinson’s disease reached at the conference has ever been its official position. The meeting was “merely informative” and should only be seen as “preparatory exchanges” for subsequent future tenders, the agency informed me shortly after the publication of the glyphosate report. EFSA also stressed that the assessment of glyphosate was carried out entirely “in line with the current legal framework”.

When I published the outcomes of the conference in De Groene Amsterdammer in September 2023, I received an angry email from the EFSA. The September 2022 meeting had not been a real “conference” at all, the message said, but merely a “procurement meeting”. And the outcomes of that meeting, the EFSA communications department emphasised once again, in no way represented the official position of the EFSA. “It’s a pity,” the email concluded, “[that you] decided to provide an angle which does not factually represent reality”.  

This reaction did not surprise me. By making information from the meeting minutes and the Ctgb’s letter to the EFSA public through my publication, the European pesticide authority was left exposed. After all, these documents prove that what the EFSA publicly states about Parkinson’s disease does not correspond with its own behind-the-scenes views on the matter.

What the EFSA publicly states about Parkinson’s disease does not correspond with its own behind-the-scenes views on the matter

The fact that the EFSA has neither publicly disclosed the conference’s conclusions nor included them in its assessment of glyphosate is, I suspect, essentially a legal strategy. If, following the conference, the EFSA had officially acknowledged that there is a gaping hole in the authorisation system, this would have provided the necessary ammunition for parties seeking to obstruct pesticide use. Invoking the precautionary principle in court is much easier if the shortcomings of the authorisation procedure regarding Parkinson’s disease are officially documented by EFSA itself. In that case, EFSA would be admitting that the risk of Parkinson’s disease “cannot be determined with sufficient certainty”, one of the basic conditions for invoking the precautionary principle.23

Due to the lack of a Parkinson’s test, the risk of the disease cannot be completely ruled out in connection with any authorised pesticide. Officially acknowledging this on the record could throw the authorisation system – and with it the entire pesticide industry and the world of agriculture – into chaos. This would also happen if the EFSA were to officially acknowledge that the pesticide models it uses were not developed in a neutral manner.24

When Bloem and the Ctgb sat down together in November 2020, both the neurologist and the pesticide authority realised that the authorisation procedure was flawed with respect to Parkinson’s. Three to five years: that would be the time needed to develop an adequate testing protocol, thought Bloem. “I think we need to do this together as soon as possible,” confirmed the then director of the Ctgb, Ingrid Becks-Vermeer, emphasising the need for a Parkinson’s test when I questioned her in 2022. She envisioned a development process lasting “a number of years”.25

More than five years have passed since Bloem’s meeting with the Ctgb, and the EFSA conference took place three and a half years ago. The authorisation system still does not include a Parkinson’s test. Legally speaking, the EFSA may be able to defend this situation. The question, however, is how long they can keep up their defence in a society increasingly confronted with Parkinson’s disease.

This article is a lightly edited translation from Het pesticidenparadijs (“Pesticide Paradise”), an investigative book by Dirk de Bekker on the hidden world of pesticides, published by De Arbeiderspers in the Netherlands in January 2026.

1. Over the past few years, I have interviewed Bas Bloem on several occasions. Parts of these interviews have previously appeared in publications such as the podcast Red de Lente and the Dutch periodical De Groene Amsterdammer. See for example: De Bekker, D., et al. (24 January 2023). “Parkinson en pesticiden” [Parkinson’s and pesticides]. Red de Lente, season 2, episode 3. De Bekker, D. (25 September 2023). “De gezondheidsrisico’s van glyfosaat” [The health risks of glyphosate]. De Groene Amsterdammer. In this text, I draw on all the conversations held. Where necessary, I mention the date on which these conversations took place in the main text. ︎
2. Van der Gaag, B.L., Hepp, D.H., Hoff, J.I., Van Hilten, J.J., Darweesh, S.K.L., Bloem, B.R., and Van den Berg, W.D.J. (8 September 2023). “Risicofactoren voor de ziekte van Parkinson” [Risk factors for Parkinson’s disease]. Nederlands Tijdschrift voor Geneeskunde, 167. ︎
3. Su, D., Cui, Y., He, C., Yin, P., Bai, R., Zhu, J., Lam, J.S.T., Zhang, J., Yan, R., Zheng, X., Wu, J., Zhao, D., Wang, A., Zhou, M., and Feng, T. (2025). “Projections for prevalence of Parkinson’s disease and its driving factors in 195 countries and territories to 2050. Modelling study of Global Burden of Disease Study 2021.” BMJ, 388e080952. ︎
4. See for example: Bloem, B.R., Hoff, J., Sherer, T., Okun, M.S., Dorsey, R. (2021). “De parkinsonpandemie: Een recept voor actie” [The Parkinson’s pandemic: a call to action]. Poiesz Publishers. ︎
5. Opten, N., Wildenborg, F., Bolwerk, P. (2023). ‘Hoe het gifspook door de Betuwe waart. “Aan hun manier van lopen kun je zien dat ze het ook hebben.”’ [‘How the poison spectre haunts the Betuwe: “You can tell by the way they walk that they have it too.”’]. De Gelderlander. 3 November. 
   Folkerts, N. (23 July 2025). “Bestrijdingsmiddelen zorgen voor onrust in Drentse dorpen: ‘Op één dag zag ik vijf patiënten met parkinson’” [“Pesticides cause unrest in Drenthe villages: ‘In one day I saw five patients with Parkinson’s.’’]. Trouw. ︎
6. Kab, S., Spinosi, J., Chaperon, L., Dugravot, A., Singh-Manoux, A., Moisan, F., and Elbaz, A. (2017). “Agricultural activities and the incidence of Parkinson’s Disease in the general French population”. European Journal of Epidemiology, 32(3), pp. 203-216. ︎
7. Within the EU, in addition to France, Italy – and more recently Germany – also recognise Parkinson’s as an occupational disease. ︎
8. Barbeau, A., Roy, M., Bernier, G., Campanella, G., and Paris, S. (1987). “Ecogenetics of Parkinson’s Disease. Prevalence and environmental aspects in rural areas”. Canadian Journal of Neurological Sciences/Journal Canadien des Sciences Neurologiques, 14(1), pp. 36-41.
   Hugh-Jones, M.E., Peele, R.H., and Wilson, V.L. (2020). “Parkinson’s Disease in Louisiana, 1999-2012. Based on hospital primary discharge diagnoses, incidence, and risk in relation to local agricultural crops, pesticides, and aquifer recharge”. International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health, 17(5), 1584.
   Li, S., Ritz, B., Gong, Y., Cockburn, M., Folle, A.D., Del Rosario, I., Yu, Y., Zhang, K., Castro, E., Keener, A.M., Bronstein, J., and Paul, K.C. (2023). “Proximity to residential and workplace pesticides application and the risk of progression of Parkinson’s diseases in Central California”. The Science of the Total Environment, 864, 160851.
   After Het pesticidenparadijs was published,a Dutch study appeared showing regional clustering of Parkinson’s in the Netherlands, but no clear overlap with intensive arable farming areas was found. Although pesticide use and exposure were not taken into account, the authors suggested that the Dutch regional disparities “are not readily explained by known environmental indicators, warranting further investigation”. See: Simões, M., Peters, S., Huss, A., Darweesh, S. K., Bloem, B. R., & Vermeulen, R. (2026). “Incidence and spatial variation of Parkinson’s disease in the Netherlands (2017–2022): a population-based study”. The Lancet Regional Health – Europe, 62, 101565. ︎
9. Elbaz, A., Clavel, J., Rathouz, P.J., Moisan, F., Galanaud, J., Delemotte, B., Alpérovitch, A., and Tzourio, C. (2009). “Professional exposure to pesticides and Parkinson Disease”. Annals of Neurology, 66(4), pp. 494-504. ︎
10. See for example: Meerman, J.J., Wolterink, G., Hessel, E.V., De Jong, E., and Heusinkveld, H.J. (2022). “Neurodegeneration in a regulatory context: The need for speed”. Current Opinion in Toxicology, 33, 100383. ︎
11. Paul, K.C., Krolewski, R.C., Moreno, E.L., Blank, J., Holton, K.M., Ahfeldt, T., Furlong, M., Yu, Y., Cockburn, M., Thompson, L.K., Kreymerman, A., Ricci-Blair, E.M., Li, Y.J., Patel, H.B., Lee, R.T., Bronstein, J., Rubin, L.L., Khurana, V., and Ritz, B. (2023). “A pesticide and ipsc dopaminergic neuron screen identifies and classifies Parkinson-relevant pesticides”. Nature Communications, 14(2803). ︎
12. For more background information on this ruling, see: Darweesh, S.K.L., Vermeulen, R.C.H., and Bloem, B.R. (2024). “Paraquat and Parkinson’s Disease. Has the burden of proof shifted?”. International Journal of Epidemiology, 53(5). ︎
13. See for example: Bloem, B.R., and Boonstra, T.A. (2023). “The inadequacy of current pesticide regulations for protecting brain health. The case of glyphosate and Parkinson’s Disease”. The Lancet Planetary Health, 7(12), pp. e948-e949. ︎
14. Lehman, P.C., Cady, N., Ghimire, S., Shahi, S.K., Shrode, R.L., Lehmler, H., and Mangalam, A.K. (2023). “Low-dose glyphosate exposure alters gut microbiota composition and modulates gut homeostasis”. Environmental Toxicology and Pharmacology, 100, 104149.
    Matsuzaki, R., Gunnigle, E., Geissen, V., Clarke, G., Nagpal, J., and Cryan, J.F. (2023). “Pesticide exposure and the microbiota-gut-brain axis”. The ISME Journal, 17(8), pp. 1153-1166.
    Puigbò, P., Leino, L.I., Rainio, M.J., Saikkonen, K., Saloniemi, I., and Helander, M. (2022). “Does glyphosate affect the human microbiota?”. Life, 12(5). ︎
15. Singh, Y., Trautwein, C., Romani, J., Salker, M.S., Neckel, P.H., Fraccaroli, I., Abeditashi, M., Woerner, N., Admard, J., Dhariwal, A., Dueholm, M.K.D., Schäfer, K., Lang, F., Otzen, D.E., Lashuel, H.A., Riess, O., and Casadei, N. (2023). “Overexpression of human alpha-Synuclein leads to dysregulated microbiome/metabolites with ageing in a rat model of Parkinson disease”. Molecular Neurodegeneration, 18(1).
    Silva, B.A., Breydo, L., Fink, A.L., and Uversky, V.N. (2012). “Agrochemicals, a-Synuclein, and Parkinson’s Disease”. Molecular Neurobiology, 47(2), pp. 598-612.
    Uversky, V.N., Li, J., Bower, K., and Fink, A.L. (2002). “Synergistic effects of pesticides and metals on the fibrillation of a-Synuclein. Implications for Parkinson’s Disease”. NeuroToxicology, 23(4-5), pp. 527-536. ︎
16. De Leeuw, J.F. (9 March 2021). Subject: possible relation between the use of specific pesticides and the development of Parkinson’s Disease. Ctgb, reference number 202103090024. ︎
17. See for example: Brzeziński, B. (2025). “Parkinson’s is a man-made disease”. Politico. 14 April. Bloem, B., Boonstra, T. (11 October 2023). “Glyphosate: ‘En tant que médecins spécialistes des maladies neurodégénératives, nous avons trois conseils à donner au ministre de l’agriculture Marc Fesneau’” [“Glyphosate: ‘As doctors specialising in neurodegenerative diseases, we have three pieces of advice for the Minister for Agriculture, Marc Fesneau’”]. Le Monde. ︎
18. Url, B. (n.d.). Subject/Re.: Possible relation between the use of specific pesticides and the development of Parkinson’s Disease. EFSA, Ref. ic2021-24570142. Although the letter is undated, the upload date provided by the Ctgb (23 March 2021) suggests that it was probably received two weeks later (and in any case no later than that). ︎
19. The following reconstruction is partly a reworking of my earlier research article in De Groene Amsterdammer, which was published on 25 September 2023. ︎
20. Quote from: De Bekker, D. (25 September 2023). “The health risks of glyphosate”. De Groene Amsterdammer. ︎
21. Ibid. ︎
22. Álvarez, F., et al. (2023). “Peer review of the pesticide risk assessment of the active substance glyphosate”. EFSA Journal, 21(7), paragraph 9. EFSA. (July 2023). Peer Review Report on Glyphosate, Part 3 of 6, p. 163. ︎
23. Commission Communication on the precautionary principle (2 February 2000), Document 52000dC0001, p. 3. ︎
24. Elsewhere in the book, I write about the pesticide models that are currently in use to calculate the distribution of pesticides through the environment. I conclude that these models, which form the basis of the authorisation system, were developed in close cooperation with the pesticide industry. ︎
25. Quoted from: De Bekker, D., et al. (5 June 2022). “The director of the Ctgb responds”. Red de Lente, season 1, episode 8. ︎

Recent polls and elections in the UK, New York City and Germany tell a story of polarisation: disappointed with the centrist consensus, voters are looking for alternatives to politics as usual. A focus on affordability could channel this discontent towards progressive options. 

For years now, the radical right has appeared to be the sole beneficiary of a strong anti-institutional, anti-political sentiment. For voters who felt betrayed by the status quo and ignored by the political class, the far right seemed to offer a visible avenue for protest. Or, in many circumstances, a lit match to take to the political consensus.  

However, the winds may be changing. Under the leadership of Zack Polanski, the Green Party of England and Wales has surged in popularity to more than double its 2024 election vote share. The Greens are mounting a formidable assault on the country’s political consensus on an unashamedly left-wing platform. At the time of writing, the party is polling at 16 per cent, a dead heat with Labour and one point below the Conservatives. Its campaign touts it as the strategic choice for those wanting to keep the far-right Reform UK out of power in the upcoming May local elections. Until recently, the UK was thought of as a two-party system.  

The 2025 German federal election also told a story of growing polarisation. The centre-right CDU/CSU (and, to a lesser extent, the outgoing coalition of Social Democrats, Greens, and Liberals) expected to lose voters to the far-right AfD, which recorded its best result to date with a 21 per cent vote share. What was surprising was the late surge of Die Linke (“The Left”), reportedly as a result of a viral TikTok campaign featuring its co-leader, Heidi Reichinnek. From polling at just 3 per cent one month before the election, the party more than doubled its 2021 result, winning 9 per cent of the vote. Since the election, Die Linke has continued to gain in popularity, and at the time of writing, is polling just 2 per cent below the Social Democrats. 

In the US, the New York City mayoral election provided another blueprint for the shift towards a more “fringe” left politics: Zohran Mamdani’s win over the Democratic old guard demonstrated the potent electoral appeal of a “services for all” platform. 

The insurgent left is finally a player in the polarisation game. Regardless of whether one laments the deterioration of legacy parties and institutional politics, that must be a better outcome than the far right holding an unchallenged monopoly on protest politics.  

Economic justice first 

Something powerful and, crucially, replicable that these campaigns have in common is a focus on left economic populism. They refuse to centre “culture war” issues and instead have adopted an unrelenting focus on affordability, trying to awaken class consciousness. They have each outlined a clear narrative of deprivation where the victim/hero is embodied by the working people, characterising large corporations and the mega-wealthy as the enemy. They propose “radical” economic reforms to expand the welfare state and transfer wealth, including rent reductions, a higher minimum wage, free public transportation, and heavier taxes on the wealthy.  

This platform proves effective for a few simple reasons. First, affordability remains on average the number one thing on European voters’ minds. Second, people (at least in Western European democracies) more or less agree on what’s to blame: elite collusion and government mismanagement. This story is easier to tell from the left than from the right.  

According to research carried out by Mandate, the organisation I work for, in August 2025,1 left-wing economic populism has the potential to be a consensus platform.  

Figure 1.

The cost of living “crisis” has hardly followed the temporality of a typical short-term shock. It’s been around for a while. The cost of living overtook health as the public’s number one concern in Europe in the wake of the pandemic sometime in 2021. This was first picked up by the Winter 2021 Eurobarometer survey, where it was one of the top two concerns for 41 per cent of respondents. The “crisis” had already been listed as the top concern for the EU overall since the spring of that year.  

In 2025, the inability to afford basic necessities remained the most pressing concern for both men and women (though slightly more so for women), and across all age groups except those aged 75 or older 2. This was hardly a surprising result. We’d seen the cost of living top the most important issue tables in every country we surveyed for years; it did again in our most recent cross-country survey in March 2026. Nor were we surprised by voters’ growing pessimism about their country’s trajectory. The 2025 survey showed that half of all voters thought their country was moving in the wrong direction. In some cases, this number had increased substantially since we last asked this question three months earlier (by as much as 8 per cent in France).  

The hardship was palpable, and the resentment directed. When we asked respondents what was “most to blame for high inflation in recent years”, a majority in six out of eight countries pointed the finger at the political class and their mismanagement of the economy 3. 

Figure 2. What the numbers tell 

When Europeans are asked to define a successful economy, their vision is strikingly left-wing. Far from the early 21st-century neoliberal consensus, their priorities suggest that the hallmarks of a flourishing society are in communal stability and the strength of the state.  

A significant 34 per cent of voters define success as an economy that can fund quality public services for all, while 33 per cent prioritise secure employment. These features of the European post-war social democratic movement are consistently prioritised over neoliberal totems; only 16 per cent of voters view global leadership in technology as an economic priority, and 14 per cent believe rewarding entrepreneurship is a top-tier goal.  

The data also suggests that the public does not instinctively view low migration as a good economic indicator, with only 18 per cent ranking it as a feature of a successful economy. This indicates that the far right isn’t as successful at linking high migration to high inflation. 

Figure 3.

Another clear finding from the survey concerns attitudes towards progressive taxation. Higher taxes on the wealthy are often resisted by free market logic, which states that, if faced with a wealth tax, billionaires will take their business elsewhere. Most Europeans don’t buy this theory. When asked which statement comes closest to their views, the majority of the public believes that higher taxes on the wealthy will give them exactly what they want – better-funded public services – rather than triggering capital flight.  

Figure 4.

We also evaluated the diverse narrative frameworks Western governments currently use to address the cost of living and housing crisis. Messaging ranged from far-right, anti-immigrant framing to technocratic and centrist positions (“We just need to build more homes!”), right capitalist small-state arguments, through to overtly left-populist framings.  

The overall winner, with a net approval of over 50 per cent in all countries, was the left economic populist message. This message frames the cost of living as a conflict between “working people” and “billionaires”. Its policy imperatives to cut grocery prices and bring down rents speak directly to real, material changes for working people and the instant transfer of wealth from property owners and large megacorporations to the working class. These policies mirror the Mamdani playbook, and are popular even when not delivered by the dimpled man himself. 

There’s room on the board for the Left to define a political enemy on their own terms. And there’s a clear candidate for the role: the uber-wealthy.  

A more traditional market-liberal message about investing in businesses and reducing barriers to trade is also highly competitive. While voters want systemic change, they are not necessarily “anti-business”. On the other end of the spectrum, centrist triangulation touting legacy politicians as the “grown-ups” in the room delivering systemic change receives far less universal support. As does linking green energy to long-term economic growth targets. Voters want to see real change in the price of their everyday lives, and they want to see it yesterday.  

Interestingly, not every statement that punches up towards “elites” cleans the board. In fact, explicitly populist messaging bookends the spectrum of best and worst performers. While the left-populist proposition that explicitly offers billionaires as the enemy of the working class is favoured by consensus, a similar statement message framed in far-right populist terms – where the “elite” conspiracy is to prioritise immigrants over native-born people – is the least universally popular message in all surveyed countries (except Romania, by 1 percentage point).  

When talking about the cost of living, immigrants aren’t an effective scapegoat. While voters care about immigration deeply – it’s their second most important issue on average (see Figure 1) – they aren’t forming a knee-jerk association between high immigration and the cost of living despite elite messaging. This remains true even when messaging frames immigration as aligned with elite interests. Voters simply aren’t buying that there’s a link between immigration and inflation. There’s room on the board for the Left to define a political enemy on their own terms. And there’s a clear candidate for the role: the uber-wealthy.  

The opening for an insurgent Left  Figure 5.

The data further suggests that the economy is unclaimed territory in the current party landscape. We asked voters to pick, from a list of issues, what they think the main “progressive” party and far right party in their country “cares about” the most. The coordination and message discipline of the far right, and the disorganisation of the institutional left, are laid bare in the results. While the far right has a clear and dominant issue profile – they care about immigration above all, but are also the party of security and crime reduction – progressives are floundering. The most chosen response is either that the respondent doesn’t know what the progressive party in their country stands for, or that they stand for “none” of the salient issues. “Social security” and the “cost of living”, once the bread and butter of the social-democratic movement, come in a weak third and fourth. 

Figure 6.

According to respondents, high inflation is primarily a consequence of political incapacity, where leaders want to help but are unable to, and political indifference, where they possess the means to act but choose not to. In each country, we see that politicians suffer from a perception of indifference rather than impotence on the cost of living.  

A belief that parties are trying but failing to make things more affordable is tricky to overcome, but not terminal: they can blame technical limitations or pass the buck to the private sector. But indifference is a death sentence. When voters believe you have the ability to help them but are choosing not to, frustration turns to anger, and, as we have seen in the recent waves of anti-incumbency, they take their vote elsewhere.  

In this climate, credibility on the cost of living would have to come from outside the system. And the ultimate outsiders – the far right – are also stumbling in this important issue space. There is a huge hole in the issue space begging to be filled, and a clear mandate from voters as to what they want to see fill the gap.   

Facing the far right 

The era of radical-right dominance over anti-establishment sentiment may be reaching a structural limit. Cost of living remains a persistent priority for the European electorate. And, while legacy parties are paralysed by a perception of institutional indifference and the far right remains laser-focused on immigration, a significant opening has emerged for an insurgent left.  

Voters are clear on the type of economy they desire. They want quality public services and secure employment prioritised. They’re seeking bold messaging framing redistribution as a necessary transfer of wealth to fund the social contract. They’re rejecting centrist rhetoric that serves as a veil for inaction, and aren’t willing to lay the blame at the feet of migrants.  

There is a rare opportunity here to (re)define and (re)own an issue that actually matters to voters. Left economic populism does appear to be a consensus platform, allowing challenger left and green parties to grow their base. Here may be an opportunity to challenge the far right’s grip on voter frustration, and channel anti-institutional sentiment leftwards.  

1. In the following countries: France, Germany, Italy, Poland, Romania, Spain, Sweden, UK.  ︎
2. Where concerns were divided between the cost of living, immigration, and healthcare. ︎
3. The exceptions are Germany and Sweden, who still laid a lot of the blame on the Ukraine war. ︎

The Russian state nuclear enterprise Rosatom has become the most active exporter of nuclear technology in the world over the past decade. Wherever the corporation operates, it presents atomic energy development as indispensable for climate action and national sovereignty. Yet beyond building reactors, Rosatom establishes an integrated model of political and societal influence, often entrenching censorship and eschewing democratic oversight.

When Russia’s state nuclear corporation Rosatom signs an agreement to build a nuclear power plant, it exports far more than turbines, containment domes, and fuel assemblies. Alongside engineering contracts and state-backed loans comes a broader ecosystem: educational programmes, public diplomacy platforms, youth initiatives, science centres, cultural partnerships, and communication strategies designed to shape how nuclear energy is perceived.

Over the past decade, Rosatom has become the most active exporter of nuclear technology in the world. Its reactors are under construction across Europe, Asia, Africa, and the Middle East. But its expansion cannot be understood purely in terms of energy capacity or industrial success. Rosatom has evolved into a vertically integrated actor that offers governments a full package: construction, financing, fuel supply, operational management, training, and long-term service agreements. Embedded within that package is something less visible but equally strategic: soft power influence.

In many host countries, nuclear cooperation is accompanied by programmes aimed at cultivating “public acceptance,” shaping youth perspectives, and aligning local institutions with Rosatom’s long-term presence. In political environments where civic space is limited or fragile, this model can intersect with authoritarian governance structures, narrowing public debate and marginalising dissent. Rosatom presents its activities as supporting development, sovereignty, and clean energy. Critics argue that its approach often produces long-term dependencies – technical, financial, and political – while reshaping the civic landscape around major infrastructure decisions.

Weak independent oversight

Rosatom actively promotes itself as a global leader in corporate social responsibility. It highlights awards for sustainability and transparency and emphasises adherence to international anti-corruption standards. Its official narrative presents nuclear energy as a driver of national modernisation and energy independence.

Yet a closer look at where Rosatom operates reveals a pattern. Many of its flagship international projects are located in countries governed by authoritarian or semi-authoritarian regimes, or in states with severely constrained civic space. These political environments are not incidental. They are often conducive to large-scale infrastructure agreements that require limited public debate, minimal parliamentary oversight, and restricted independent review.

In Hungary, the Paks II nuclear project has been framed as essential for energy security. Early public protests were dispersed, and critics have long argued that the project advanced without meaningful public consultation. Despite tensions between Russia and the European Union following the invasion of Ukraine, Paks II has continued under sanctions exemptions, illustrating how deeply embedded nuclear agreements can complicate broader geopolitical positioning.

In Turkey, the Akkuyu Nuclear Power Plant is being built under a build-own-operate model, granting Rosatom long-term operational control. Workers protesting conditions at the site have faced police intervention, while environmental activists opposing the project have been arrested. Public access to detailed safety and financial information remains limited.

Many of Rosatom’s flagship international projects are located in countries governed by authoritarian or semi-authoritarian regimes, or in states with severely constrained civic space.

In Kazakhstan, public hearings on proposed nuclear expansion have reportedly restricted critics’ participation. In Bangladesh, the Rooppur Nuclear Power Plant has been accompanied by allegations of corruption and concerns raised by civil society groups about emergency preparedness infrastructure. Rosatom has rejected corruption allegations and, in some cases, threatened legal action in response to claims.

The most extreme case is Ukraine. During Russia’s occupation of the Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant, employees were detained, interrogated, and reportedly subjected to coercion and abuse. While this situation is not directly comparable to commercial nuclear projects abroad, it underscores how nuclear infrastructure can become entangled with state power in coercive contexts.

Across these cases, one pattern recurs: nuclear projects often advance in environments where independent oversight is weak and dissent carries political risk.

Manufacturing Public Acceptance

Rosatom’s strategy does not rely solely on executive agreements. It systematically invests in shaping public narratives around nuclear energy. In multiple countries, memoranda of understanding include commitments to “form a positive public attitude” toward nuclear power. Around project sites, Rosatom supports networks of aligned NGOs, expert councils, grant initiatives, and public forums that present themselves as platforms for dialogue and consensus.

The messaging surrounding these projects often follows strikingly similar patterns across different regions. In Hungary, the Paks II project has been promoted as “key to Hungary’s energy future” and essential for “energy security”. In Turkey, the Akkuyu plant has been framed as a step toward “technological sovereignty” and “new energy for a powerful Turkey”. In Bangladesh, the Rooppur project is regularly justified through the language of “energy independence” and the claim that development “cannot happen without nuclear energy”. Similar narratives appear in Kazakhstan, where nuclear expansion has been promoted as a “path to stability”, and in Egypt, where the El Dabaa project is framed as a matter of “national pride” and a source of “clean electricity”. In Rwanda, nuclear cooperation has been described as a way of “leapfrogging to modernity,” while in several African states cooperation agreements are presented as tools for national development.

Large-scale events such as Atomexpo, World Atomic Week, and regional nuclear forums position Rosatom as a convener of global legitimacy. These gatherings feature government officials, regulators, and industry-aligned experts discussing nuclear energy as indispensable for climate action and national sovereignty. Independent environmental organisations and critical voices are often marginal or absent, while company-aligned NGOs and expert councils that operate under the language of dialogue, sustainability, and climate action are fully supported. Initiatives such as “Mission Impact” are presented as inclusive platforms bringing together youth, experts, and industry leaders to shape a sustainable future.

This narrative framing is consistent: nuclear energy is presented as clean, modern, and essential; alternatives such as decentralised renewables, energy efficiency, or demand reduction are rarely foregrounded. Over time, repetition across multiple forums and countries can create the impression of an emerging global consensus.

Rosatom’s Information Centres on Nuclear Energy (ICNE) represent another layer of this strategy. By 2026, 27 such centres operate across Russia and partner countries including Bangladesh, Turkey, Uzbekistan, Belarus, Kazakhstan, Vietnam, and Egypt. These centres function as high-tech educational spaces offering interactive exhibits, science competitions, youth festivals, and virtual plant tours.

Officially, they are designed to promote science education. In practice, they embed nuclear energy within local narratives of modernisation and progress. By linking atomic technology to national pride and technological sovereignty, they help transform complex industrial agreements into symbols of national achievement.

Exporting governance practices

Critics argue that Rosatom exports more than nuclear hardware. It also exports governance practices. Large-scale nuclear projects require centralised decision-making, restricted information flows, and strong executive coordination. In democratic systems with robust oversight, such projects can face lengthy public scrutiny. In more centralised systems, they can move forward with fewer obstacles.

Where civic space is limited, opposition to nuclear projects can be framed as anti-national or anti-development. In Bolivia, legal frameworks have restricted the operating space of NGOs critical of extractive and infrastructure projects. In Egypt, public protest around major state projects is effectively banned. In Myanmar, nuclear cooperation agreements have been signed under military rule, including memoranda referencing the promotion of a positive public attitude. Rosatom has signed cooperation agreements with nearly 20 African countries, the majority of which have repressive governmental systems.

The interplay between nuclear expansion and constrained civic environments raises questions about whether the technology’s governance requirements reinforce existing authoritarian tendencies. While Rosatom does not create these political systems, its projects often align comfortably within them.

Building a generation of atomic advocates

Youth engagement is perhaps the most forward-looking component of Rosatom’s soft power strategy. The corporation funds scholarships and educational programmes that bring students from partner countries to Russia to study nuclear engineering and related disciplines. Participants receive technical training, internships, and access to professional networks that frequently lead into Rosatom-linked projects at home.

Within Russia, the Rosatom Corporate Academy and youth science competitions cultivate early identification with the nuclear sector. International youth forums such as the International Youth Nuclear Forum in Obninsk and the BRICS Youth Energy Summit reinforce this professional pathway.

Rosatom has also extended its presence into global youth policy spaces. Representatives associated with Rosatom-supported initiatives have organised and participated in side events at the United Nations Economic and Social Council Youth Forum and during UNFCCC climate conferences. In these arenas, nuclear energy is framed as central to sustainable development and decarbonisation.

Such engagement is presented as empowering young leaders. Yet it also embeds nuclear advocacy within influential international platforms where youth participation carries moral authority. Over time, this may help normalise a particular model of energy transition – one in which centralised, state-backed nuclear infrastructure plays a dominant role.

Rosatom’s global expansion is not simply an industrial story. It is a political and societal one. By combining reactor construction, state-backed financing, fuel supply, long-term operational control, narrative management, and youth engagement, Rosatom has built an integrated model of influence. In many partner countries, this model operates within political environments where public scrutiny is limited and dissent carries risk.

Rosatom’s global expansion is not simply an industrial story. It is a political and societal one.

Nuclear energy projects, by their nature, create decades-long commitments. When those commitments are bundled with soft power instruments – public information centres, aligned civil society platforms, elite training pipelines, and international forums – the result is not merely energy infrastructure, but institutional alignment.

As nuclear energy regains prominence in global climate discussions, the governance dimension of these projects deserves equal attention. The question is not only whether nuclear power can reduce emissions, but how decisions are made, who shapes public understanding, and what forms of political dependency accompany the technology.

In the case of Rosatom, reactors are only part of the story. The rest is built through influence carefully constructed, globally networked, and designed to last as long as the plants themselves or even longer.

This article originally appeared on the website of the Heinrich Böll Stiftung as part of a dossier marking 40 years after the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. It is republished here with permission.

The temporary closure of the Strait of Hormuz, triggered by the US-Israeli war on Iran, has once again exposed Europe’s dangerous dependence on imported fossil fuels. As geopolitical shockwaves ripple through transport, industry, and household budgets, Spain is better positioned to face this challenge. A decade of sustained investment in renewables has made it a blueprint for coordinated European action towards energy independence.  

The war in Iran and the temporary closure of the Strait of Hormuz – through which one-fifth of the world’s oil and LNG flowed – have once again placed energy at the heart of the global political economy over the past month. The recent ceasefire agreement offers some relief, but it does not eliminate the current geostrategic risks. 

As with Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, geopolitical instability has quickly spilt over into international oil and gas markets, driving up fossil fuel prices. This surge in fossil fuel prices has been feeding through the economy via multiple channels. It raises transportation and industrial costs, while also pushing up electricity prices, as gas continues to act as the marginal price-setting technology in many countries. The result is rising energy inflation that – if the conflict persists after the recent ceasefire – will spread throughout the entire price structure of economies. 

 The EU has been reminded of this vulnerability in stark terms. In just the first month of the conflict, its fossil fuel import bill rose by more than 7 billion euros.

Exposed EU 

The European Union is particularly exposed. Highly dependent on imports – it sources more than 90 per cent of its natural gas and nearly all of its oil from abroad – the EU has been reminded of this vulnerability in stark terms. In just the first month of the conflict, its fossil fuel import bill rose by more than 7 billion euros. Yet the impact has not been uniform. Differences in energy mixes, domestic generation capacity, and levels of electrification are producing markedly divergent outcomes across countries. 

In economies such as Italy, Germany, and the Netherlands, where natural gas remains central to both electricity generation and final consumption, higher gas prices translate directly into elevated energy costs and stronger inflationary pressures. 

By contrast, countries with more diversified and electrified energy systems are proving more resilient. Among the eurozone’s largest economies, Spain stands out. Its rapid expansion of renewable energy is reducing its exposure to fossil fuel volatility. 

The Spanish exception 

Over the past decade, Spain has invested heavily in wind power and, above all, solar photovoltaics, significantly increasing their share in the electricity mix. This accelerated energy transition (Figure 1) means that, by 2025, 56 per cent of Spain’s electricity generation came from renewable sources – 22 percentage points more than in 2019. 

Figure 1. Spanish energy mix (electricity produced, 2019-2025).  
Source: Red Eléctrica (2025) 

At a time of turbulence in fossil fuel markets, countries most reliant on gas for electricity generation are also the most vulnerable to price spikes. Indeed, the sharp rise in gas prices across Europe has driven up the cost of electricity produced from gas by over 50 per cent since the outbreak of the conflict. Spain, however, has largely broken this link between gas and electricity prices. The expansion of renewable energies has reduced the impact of costly fossil-fuel power generation on electricity prices by 75 per cent since 2019. 

The payoff is clear. Throughout 2025, Spain’s electricity prices have been 33 per cent lower than in Germany, the UK, and the Netherlands, and 50 per cent lower than in Italy. While Spain is not immune to geopolitical shocks, its energy system has proven significantly more resilient since the onset of the war in Iran. In March, wholesale electricity prices averaged 52 euros per MWh – roughly half the level seen in Germany and the UK, and just one-third of Italy’s (Figure 2). Among Europe’s major economies, only France, with its nuclear-based system, has posted similar figures. 

Figure 2. European wholesale electricity, €/MWh (average for the past seven days)  
Source: Market data 

Beyond resilience, the energy transition is also creating new industrial opportunities. Electricity prices for Spanish industry are now 20 per cent below the EU average, whereas during the previous expansion (2014–2019) they were 25 per cent above it. This reversal positions renewables as a powerful driver of reindustrialisation, capital attraction, and international competitiveness. 

These gains could be amplified further if the European Union reformed its marginal pricing system, preventing the most expensive technology from systematically setting prices for all others. Such a reform would accelerate the decline in energy costs. A precedent already exists: during the 2022 energy crisis, Spain implemented the so-called “Iberian exception,” which reduced wholesale electricity prices in the Iberian market to levels up to three times lower than elsewhere in Europe. As economist Natalia Fabra has argued, this should now be seen not as a national advantage, but as a blueprint for coordinated European action. Spain is pointing the way, but others can follow. 

 Spain, […] reduced the impact of costly fossil-fuel power generation on electricity prices by 75 per cent since 2019. Throughout 2025, electricity prices have been 33 per cent lower than in Germany, the UK, and the Netherlands, and 50 per cent lower than in Italy.

A new era 

That said, Spain’s energy transition is not without its shortcomings. Not everything shines under the sun. Investment in grid infrastructure – essential for integrating high shares of renewables – has lagged behind. Between 2019 and 2024, Spain recorded the lowest grid spending in Europe, allocating just 0.30 euros to grids for every euro invested in renewables, compared to a European average of 0.70 euros. Addressing this gap will be critical if Spain is to sustain its progress without jeopardising supply security. 

More broadly, a new era in the geopolitics of energy is clearly emerging. The succession of crises – Ukraine in 2022, Iran in 2026 – has exposed the structural fragility of fossil fuel-dependent economies. Far from ensuring energy security, oil and gas leave importing countries vulnerable to price volatility, supply disruptions, and unpredictable risks. 

Renewable energy, by contrast, offers a strategic advantage. It acts as a buffer against external shocks while strengthening economic sovereignty. In this new paradigm, energy security is no longer defined by reliable access to imported fuels, but by the ability to generate clean electricity domestically. As the Ember think tank has shown, scaling up renewables, electric vehicles, and heat pumps could reduce fossil fuel imports by up to 70 per cent. Decreasing exposure to the instability of distant fossil fuel supply chains is therefore essential – not only for energy policy, but for broader monetary, macroeconomic, and social stability.