More Than A Magazine, A Movement
A cultural region of 20 countries and territories extending from South America to Central America, including Mexico and most Caribbean islands. Most have a history of Spanish or Portuguese colonialism and a large presence of Spanish, Portuguese or French languages.
As Republicans create ever higher barriers to abortion that push abortion seekers later into pregnancy, U.S.-based activists are learning from Latin American feminists who have developed protocols to make second-trimester medication abortion easier and safer.
There is no shortage of cases of torture in the headlines. Across today’s crises—from Ukraine to Sudan, Myanmar to Gaza—the allegations are graphic and devastating. But once a legal case closes or the news cycle moves on, another story begins: What happens to those who survive torture?
As U.N. special rapporteur on torture, I have met survivors around the world who carry its effects long after the physical wounds have healed. Survivors spoke to me about stigma, economic struggles, permanent disabilities, fractured relationships and the exhausting fight to be believed, gain access to care and secure justice. Too often, torture is treated as an event that ends when the abuse stops. That is far from survivors’ realities.
That is why survivors themselves helped create the first global Charter of Rights for Victims and Survivors of Torture and other cruelty—a framework demanding access to specialized healthcare, long-term psychological support, legal recognition, financial stability and meaningful involvement in shaping the laws and systems that affect their lives.
While the idea of the U.S. as a bastion of moral superiority has always been a myth—evident, for example, in efforts to shield Jim Crow laws from scrutiny in the founding of the United Nations—the overturning of Roe v. Wade is one of the latest reminders of this fallacy, particularly as it pertains to global health and women’s rights. It is also a cautionary tale for the rest of the world about the fragility of reproductive rights.
As states across the U.S. have banned abortion post-Dobbs, advocates and experts here have been forced to look outside of our borders for assistance, recognizing that other nations have recently mobilized to legalize abortion and have much to teach us, particularly those that have done so by enshrining abortion as a human right.
Around the world, escalating armed conflict, political repression and humanitarian collapse are reshaping daily life for women and girls—often with devastating consequences. From drone warfare in Sudan, to internet blackouts in Iran, to attacks on healthcare infrastructure in Lebanon and Gaza, women are navigating intensifying threats while also sustaining families, communities and survival networks under extraordinary strain. At the same time, women-led organizations and feminist movements confronting these crises increasingly face funding cuts, political repression and shrinking civic space even as demand for their work grows.
Globally, over 676 million women and girls live within 50 kilometers of armed conflict, representing about 17 percent of the female population. This staggering figure—a 74 percent increase since 2010—is tracked and analyzed by the Georgetown Institute for Women, Peace and Security in partnership with PRIO.
But we also know: Feminist movements around the world hold answers to some of the world’s most urgent crises. Ms. Global is taking note of feminists worldwide—and the gendered realities shaping conflict, displacement, political repression and survival.
I want to be obsolete. I want to walk into a classroom full of students excited to learn feminist histories and begin by marveling at how far we’ve come—how unthinkable it now feels that a president once demeaned women, faced dozens of credible accusations of sexual violence, and still rose to the highest office in the country. I want that version of this story to feel distant, resolved, finished.
Instead, I walk into my gender, women and sexuality studies classes scanning for signs of hostility—wondering who might be recording, who might be there to report me, who might see my teaching not as scholarship but as something to punish.
Teaching about marginalized communities, especially through a feminist, anti-racist lens, now carries real risk: of being surveilled, doxxed, harassed or silenced. Books are banned, curricula are targeted, and the very act of naming systems of power is treated as a threat.
And yet, I keep teaching. I keep showing students that what they are experiencing is not individual failure but the result of structural forces—and that those forces can be challenged. I tell them their voices matter, their rage is justified, and their histories deserve to be known.
I would rather be obsolete. But as long as these attacks persist, our work is far from done.
Centuries before the American Revolution, Spanish-speaking women crossed oceans and deserts to build communities whose legacies still shape the United States.
As anti-Latino sentiment coincides with the 250th anniversary of the United States, we must remember that long before the American Revolution, Spanish-speaking women inhabited territory that would become the United States.
Like their English Protestant counterparts in New England, Spanish-speaking women were founding mothers of our nation. Their legacies live on through their descendants and the many other Latinas who immigrated to the U.S. over the past 250 years. Faced with the widespread detention of Spanish-speaking women, it is crucial to remember that it has long been their country too.
(This essay is part of the FEMINIST 250: Founding Feminists series, marking the 250th anniversary of America by reclaiming the revolution through the women and gender-expansive people whose ideas, labor and resistance shaped U.S. democracy.)
Thirteen minutes is how long it lasted, and global superstar Bad Bunny—full name Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio—more than delivered. Set against pulsating Afro-Latin rhythms and brimming with the energetic dancing bodies of Black, Brown and other multicolored peoples, the 2026 Super Bowl halftime show transformed this historic moment of the first all-Spanish musical spectacle into a cultural reset. Now counted among the most watched halftime performances—with close to 130 million views—the Super Bowl was rightfully renamed the “Benito Bowl.”
Bad Bunny’s performance came just one week after he made history as the first artist recording exclusively in Spanish to win the Grammy’s top honor for Album of the Year. It arrived, too, amid escalating violence tied to ICE enforcement and the policing and deportation of Brown and Black communities. At a moment when the U.S. president is railing against diversity, equity and inclusion—and circulating virulently racist content targeting his predecessor and the nation’s first Black president and first lady during Black History Month—the cultural resonance of this halftime show feels all the more potent.
Bad Bunny’s dynamic performance is an affirmation of the same communities currently terrorized by state-sanctioned violence. At rallies and marches, people play Bad Bunny. In moments of grief and passion, people play Bad Bunny. His refusal to be silenced, to be forgotten, is an inspiration of hope and resilience for social movements. His music is music of the revolution, which was spectacularly televised in the middle of a widely watched football game.
Like a 19th-century sugar cane plantation brought to life, Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime show staged a visually rich jíbaro vision of Puerto Rico—the foundational cultural figure representing the island’s self-sufficient, hardworking mountain farmers—in Santa Clara, Calif., a region long shaped by Spanish colonization and U.S. expansion, on land where Ohlone (specifically Tamien/Tamyen) people lived alongside coastal Miwuk, Patwin and Yokut communities.
The show’s imagery underscored layered histories of colonization and empire that resonated beyond the stadium.
A love letter to Puerto Rico, its diaspora and Latino people across the globe, the performance suggested that love was indeed stronger than hate, as millions danced to the sounds of freedom, whether they recognized it or not.
Across a range of conditions that disproportionately affect women, research into mifepristone’s potential has been slowed, defunded or blocked altogether. Nowhere is that clearer than in the treatment of endometriosis and other serious illnesses that leave millions of women in chronic pain.
Endometriosis—when endometrium cells grow outside the uterus—afflicts an estimated 10 percent of reproductive-age women. It can lead to chronic pelvic and back pain, heavy or abnormal bleeding, pain during sex or bowel movements, fatigue, bloating, digestive issues, infertility, anxiety and depression.
Mifepristone can help—it blocks the progesterone causing the cellular growth and decreases the size of existing endometrial lesions, thereby relieving painful symptoms. But antiabortion politics have obstructed the development of the medication for these uses in the U.S.
Researchers have also produced studies showing mifepristone is effective for treating ovarian and breast cancer, chronic inflammatory diseases, and several psychiatric disorders, including major depressive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and psychotic depression.
This is Part 2 of 3 in a new series, “The Moral Property of Women: How Antiabortion Politics Are Withholding Medical Care,” a serialized version of the Winter 2026 print feature article.
Belén didn’t know she was pregnant until she miscarried in a hospital. She’d gone to the emergency room suffering excruciating abdominal pain. Instead of receiving care, she awoke from surgery handcuffed to her hospital bed and accused of having an illegal abortion.
This is the true story behind Belén, a powerful new Argentine film directed by, written by and starring Dolores Fonzi. It is based on the ordeal of a young woman from northern Argentina, chronicled in Ana Correa’s nonfiction book What Happened to Belén: The Unjust Imprisonment That Sparked a Women’s Rights Movement, the prologue of which was written by Margaret Atwood.
Despite a lack of evidence, Belén was charged with aggravated homicide and sentenced to eight years in prison.
After two years, Belén was freed, thanks to the legal work of activist and lawyer Soledad Deza and the sustained support of women’s organizations and women’s rights activists and movements, such as “Ni Una Menos” (Not One Less). Her case became a rallying cry for reproductive rights, with thousands taking to the streets under the banner #LibertadParaBelen (“Freedom for Belén”), paving the way for Argentina’s historic legalization of abortion in 2020.