Frontline Rolls, a documentary photography project by Ukrainian photographer Serhii Melnychenko, began in February 2025, when Serhii started sending disposable film cameras to soldiers serving in different areas of the front line. He asked them to document their daily lives, routines, and work.

The project has since been published as a standalone photobook and adapted into an exhibition, with photographs, handwritten letters, and artifacts returned by the participants. In 2026, it won the PhMuseum 2026 Photography Grant Main Prize.

The Ukraine War Archive calls Russia’s war against Ukraine the most documented war in history. Frontline Rolls records it from the soldiers’ own perspective through their photographs, letters, and chosen objects.

How Frontline Rolls began

Serhii spent nearly all of 2024 working on Along the Dnipro. Since he did not have time to travel to soldiers’ positions but wanted to document their experiences, he began looking for alternative ways. He asked himself one question:

“Do I really have to be there in person to document this?” Serhii writes in the foreword to the book, the project’s print format.

The answer was for the soldiers themselves to document their lives for a period of time. Serhii reached out to Fotovramci, which agreed to provide him with disposable film cameras free of charge.

The photographs that came back document the soldiers’ daily lives and the spaces in which they served.

Project participants also shared their stories in the book:

“I joined because I have to protect my family from the orcs. Before the full‐scale invasion I was an artist–designer, worked in advertising. Now a tank commander and reconnaissance pilot on a Mavic. In my free time I decorate shell‐casings and send them to volunteers for help,” says Oleksii, a soldier and participant in the project who goes by the call sign “Lapa.”

“For almost 3½ years I have remained in my soul a civilian. This system is very alien to me. In it I suffer a lot, in particular due to the huge restrictions on freedom. But I am here so that my country remains free. And for my values and convictions I have already paid a considerable price. If I had the option to choose another path—I would still choose this one,” says Oleksii “Photographer,” a soldier and project participant.

“I don’t have a callsign, because everyone knows me as Holikov. In the military since November 2023. From the very start of the full‑scale invasion I volunteered, but with each trip to the front I felt that I was doing not enough and decided to join the ranks of the 109th Separate Brigade of Territorial Defence,” says Viktor Holikov.

“In the army I... feel calmer. I have finally found a certain peace of mind during the full‐scale invasion, despite the difficulties. Partly I still feel that I’m doing not enough, but now it doesn’t haunt me like it used to,” says Kseniia, a servicewoman who goes by the call sign “Jane.”

“The army for me is, first of all, what is called brotherhood. It is hard to describe—you can only understand it by being inside,” says Danylo “Doc.”

The artifacts tell their own stories

Participants returned handwritten letters and personal objects with the exposed film. Serhii describes the resulting collection as a record of “personal experiences, struggles, and memories.”

“I collected artifacts that will remain part of our nation’s history after victory, reminding us of these challenging times,” Serhii says in the book.

Frontline Rolls travels beyond Ukraine

In 2026, Serhii also received the PhEST International Award in Italy, ex aequo with photographer Victorine Alisse.

The photographs were also presented in Copenhagen as part of The War They Live, an exhibition curated by The Kyiv Independent photo editor Irynka Hromotska together with Serhii. The project was also shown at the Athens Photo Festival in 2026. According to Serhii, the exhibition is also scheduled to open at Fotografiska Stockholm in October 2026.

“I sincerely hope that when the war ends, every participant in this project will be alive. Because each of them has become much more to me than just a contributor—they’ve become true friends,” Serhii concludes the foreword to the book.

Ukraine plans to temporarily rebury Yevhen Konovalets, a leading Ukrainian nationalist between World Wars I and II, at its National Military Memorial Cemetery, President’s Office head Kyrylo Budanov wrote in a Telegram post.

His remains will later be transferred to the planned Ukrainian National Pantheon, Budanov said.

The National Pantheon is intended to honor political leaders, soldiers, and cultural figures who built or defended Ukraine. Responding to a citizen's petition, Zelenskyy described the memorial as a way to unite Ukrainians around defending their sovereignty and territorial integrity. Budanov cast Konovalets’ planned reburial as linking the current war against Russia with earlier struggles against foreign rule.

Budanov portrayed Konovalets as a threat to Ukraine’s enemies because he organized military and political resistance to Russian and Soviet rule. He said attempts had been made for decades to erase or distort Konovalets’ name and that returning his remains had long been considered “untimely.”

“The enemies of a free Ukraine feared the colonel during his lifetime—they still do,” Budanov wrote.

Konovalets’ remains were exhumed at Crooswijk Cemetery in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, on 11 August. They returned to Ukraine two days later, deputy head of the President’s Office Iryna Vereshchuk said.

A memorial service was held in Kyiv on 15 August. Officials have not announced when Konovalets will be temporarily reburied or when his remains will be transferred to the Pantheon.

Who was Yevhen Konovalets?

Born near Lviv in 1891, Konovalets commanded the Sich Riflemen, which defended the Ukrainian People’s Republic after the Russian Empire collapsed. The republic was proclaimed in 1917 and declared independence in 1918 before Bolshevik forces defeated it three years later.

Konovalets continued the struggle for independence from exile. He helped establish the Ukrainian Military Organization, an underground group preparing armed resistance to Polish and Soviet rule.

In 1929, Konovalets brought the organization together with other nationalist groups to found the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN) in Vienna and became its first leader.

He prepared the OUN for armed struggle and sought European support for Ukrainian independence.

On 23 May 1938, Soviet secret police operative Pavel Sudoplatov killed Konovalets in Rotterdam with a bomb concealed in a box of chocolates. Two years after his death, the OUN split into rival factions.

What is the National Pantheon?

Ukraine plans the National Pantheon as a permanent burial and memorial site for major figures in its history, including those buried abroad.

Parliament approved President Volodymyr Zelenskyy’s bill on 1 July. The government selected part of the Kyiv-Pechersk Lavra, a historic Orthodox monastery in the capital, as its site.

The Pantheon plan has raised concern in Poland over whether it could honor members of the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA).

The UPA fought for Ukrainian independence during and after World War II. Poland holds it responsible for killing up to 100,000 ethnic Poles in Volhynia and Eastern Galicia between 1943 and 1945. Poland's parliament has declared the killings a genocide.

Konovalets was assassinated in 1938, before World War II, the OUN’s split, and the UPA’s formation. The Volhynia killings and the OUN factions’ wartime collaboration with Nazi Germany, therefore, postdated his leadership.

Even so, Ukraine’s broader effort to honor nationalist leaders has drawn criticism over the wartime records of Konovalets’ successors. Its May 2026 state reburial of Andrii Melnyk, who succeeded Konovalets as OUN leader, drew objections from Israel’s Foreign Ministry and Yad Vashem over Melnyk’s collaboration with Nazi Germany.

While much of the media industry focused on the churn of headlines, we became increasingly interested in the undercurrents beneath them: the hidden systems, infrastructures and ideologies shaping events across borders and over time.

Again and again, our reporting led us back to the same realization: for a long time, the struggle over information was understood primarily as a question of censorship or access. Who controls information? Who gets to publish? Who gets silenced?

Those questions still matter. But they no longer fully describe the world we live in.

Today, the struggle over information is about who builds the systems through which reality is organized, distributed and trusted. From state propaganda to algorithmic feeds, from platform monopolies to AI-generated noise, the battle is not over facts. It is over the infrastructures that determine which narratives spread, which voices are amplified and which communities remain connected.

Over the past year, these questions led to a collaboration between Coda and The Continent, the pan-African newspaper founded in Johannesburg by Simon Allison and Sipho Kings. Although our reporting emerges from very different histories and geographies, we found ourselves arriving at remarkably similar conclusions about power, fragmentation and the future of journalism in an age of informational instability.

This two-chapter essay is the beginning of that collaboration, and marks the start of a new project called The Atlas. Pilot edition is available here — please feel free to share with friends, family and colleagues, preferably in its entirety.

In Chapter One, I return to the world of my Soviet childhood: propaganda, samizdat and the search for trustworthy signals through noise.

In Chapter Two, The Continent co-founder Simon Allison presents the Parable of Sinn Sisamouth: the story of how some of the greatest songs ever written were nearly lost, and then found, and then lost again. 

Taken together, these essays ask what journalism becomes in a world where information is no longer organized primarily to inform, but to capture attention, manufacture reaction and shape perception at planetary scale.

The Atlas grows out of that question.

Chapter One: Through the Static

Whenever I am asked why I decided to become a journalist, an image from my childhood pops into my head. It’s dusk. I am 10, sitting in the kitchen with my mom. She is glued to a shortwave radio. Outside, the Soviet Union is on the cusp of collapse. Georgia, where we are, is on the brink of civil war. We didn’t use the term back then, but fake news was all we got through official channels. Real news — coming from the West — felt like a lifeline. I was in awe of the crackling radio that held my mother’s full attention. I wanted to become that voice.

Years later, I got my dream job at the BBC and spent much of my adult life moving between wars, uprisings and authoritarian states. Again and again, I found myself in places where truth was contested terrain: Baghdad, Damascus, Donetsk, Sana’a. But over time I realized something fundamental had changed. Modern authoritarianism no longer relied primarily on suppressing information. It had discovered something more effective.

Information could simply be drowned out by static.

That realization became stark for me in eastern Ukraine in the summer of 2014. I arrived in a field of bright yellow sunflowers where the bodies from Flight MH17 still lay scattered across the ground. A Russian missile had blown the passenger plane out of the sky, killing all 298 people on board. Yet almost immediately, the Kremlin flooded the information space with competing explanations. It was a Ukrainian fighter jet. A failed assassination attempt on Putin. The plane had been filled with corpses before takeoff. Each theory contradicted the next, but that hardly mattered. The point was not to persuade, it was to exhaust. It was to create so much noise that truth itself began to feel unstable.

Over the following years, I watched versions of the same logic spread far beyond Russia. Social platforms transformed public conversation into a permanent stream of outrage, performance and distraction, collapsing vastly different kinds of information into the same endless feed. War footage, propaganda, conspiracy theories, journalism and gossip all began competing inside systems designed not to inform people but to capture and hold attention.

Noise became the new censorship.

And increasingly, I found myself thinking about the world of my childhood again. Not because history was repeating itself neatly, but because the emotional landscape felt strangely familiar: confusion, exhaustion, distrust, the constant sense that reality itself was becoming slippery. Back then, people searched desperately for clear signals through the static of Soviet propaganda. Today, we are drowning in a different kind of static, but the instinct, the search for clarity feels remarkably similar.

In the Soviet Union, people developed ways of navigating that confusion. Among my strongest memories from that time is the sound of my parents’ typewriter late at night. Friends would pass around copies of banned Soviet literature and my parents would sit at the kitchen table all night, retyping them page by page so they could be shared again. It was my first encounter with samizdat, although I didn’t know the word then.

Looking back now, what strikes me is that samizdat was never simply about forbidden texts. It was about building trusted alternative systems of circulation when official systems had lost credibility.

At Coda, we have spent years building journalism against the logic of noise. We slowed stories down. We followed themes instead of headlines. We built a reporting system designed to connect events across borders and over time, helping readers see patterns instead of fragments. But as our globally distributed newsroom adapted to an increasingly fractured information landscape, it became clear that journalism alone was not enough. Distribution shapes understanding as much as reporting does.

Around the same time, in Johannesburg, Simon Allison, Sipho Kings and their team were building something that challenged many of the assumptions dominating digital media. The Continent, their pan-African newspaper, spreads largely through direct sharing networks: passed from reader to reader rather than pushed by algorithms.

Different histories had brought us to remarkably similar questions. What does journalism look like when trust is collapsing, attention is fragmented and the systems that carry information have themselves become instruments of power?

Out of that convergence came The Atlas: a new publication that brings together Coda’s methodology of following systems across borders and over time with The Continent’s radically distributed model for reaching readers beyond algorithmic feeds.

The Atlas is built on a shared conviction: as fragmentation, distrust and informational overload spread across the world, some of the clearest ways through will come from places that have already spent decades navigating propaganda, instability and contested reality. Places once treated as peripheral are becoming essential to understanding the defining question of this age: how can meaning survive systems designed to overwhelm it.

Chapter Two: The second silencing of Sinn Sisamouth

Imagine if your favourite song disappeared, forever. 

Almost every album I have ever loved was recommended to me by my friend An-Rui. A few months ago, he sent me a track by the undisputed King of Khmer Music, the Golden Voice, the Cambodian Elvis himself – Sinn Sisamouth.

I had never heard of him.

I didn’t respond at first, so he nudged me. That night, after the kids were asleep, I put on my headphones, sat in the garden and immediately lost myself in Cambodia’s psychedelic rock scene of the 1960s and ‘70s. I don’t know enough about music to explain exactly what I fell in love with, but within weeks I was, according to Spotify, among the top one percent of Sinn Sisamouth listeners worldwide.

An-Rui had added a note to his recommendation. “the songs are happy but since i know what his fate was and i don’t understand the words, it sounds incredibly sad to me”.

The story goes something like this: A small-town boy with an extraordinary voice moves to the big city, and conquers all before him. He writes hundreds of songs, bridging Khmer musical traditions with new western influences: jazz, rock & roll, bossa nova, blues, the Beatles, and, of course, Elvis Presley. He toured the country. He toured the world. He made music with an actual King, Norodom Sihanouk, and became Cambodia’s most beloved rockstar.

Then, in 1975, the Khmer Rouge seized power. In the course of committing a genocide, the communist regime disappeared Sinn Sisamouth, and banned his music. He has never been seen, or heard from, again.

But his music never died. It lived on brittle records, hidden for generations under floorboards. It lived on scratchy cassettes, passed hand to hand among the diaspora.

It was only decades later that his music was digitised and remastered, and made available on streaming platforms to the likes of me.

When I listen to Sinn Sisamouth, I can’t help but think about how easily we could have lost his masterpieces entirely. And I wonder what else might have been lost that we have not been able to recover.

And then it happened again.

There’s a particular track that I like to play in my car, where I can turn the bass up as high as it goes. I was driving one afternoon and looked for it on Spotify. It was gone, even though the rest of the album was there. 

I looked again on my laptop at home. Nothing. Gone from Spotify. Gone from Apple Music. Gone from YouTube. Like it had never been there in the first place. I started to wonder if I had gone crazy, and maybe imagined the song entirely. And then I started to panic: What if I never heard it again?

Eventually, I found a bootleg YouTube version, using a different transliteration of the Khmer title – Kanlang Pnheu Pran, instead of Konlong Phner Bran. Before I tracked that down, I had to wade through dozens of AI-generated Sinn Sisamouth ‘cover versions’, all uploaded to YouTube within the last few months. If I had never heard it before, I would never have been able to tell which was the original.

It’s not unusual for songs to disappear from the Internet, especially when the music is from non-English-speaking countries. I’ve had similar experiences with the music of Sharhabil Ahmed, the Sudanese jazz legend, and Ethiopia’s Tilahun “The Voice” Gessesse.

In fact, it’s not unusual for other kinds of information to disappear from the internet; to be edited after the fact; or to be simply lost among all the digital noise. Digital information is incredibly precarious, and becoming more so by the day. AI slop is taking over social media platforms. Algorithms determine what information we can and can’t see, shaping our cultural and political preferences. And powerful interests are becoming increasingly bold when it comes to brazenly manipulating information in their favour – or, of even greater concern, restricting the flow of information across borders.

Amazon changes the contents of books on people’s Kindles without telling anyone. News websites quietly alter critical stories, post-publication, to remove evidence of wrongdoing (my favourite example: the Financial Express published a story critical of India’s richest family; only to replace it with a glorified press release a few days later. They neglected to amend the URL, however, which contains the original headline). Governments shut down internet access on a whim, or legislate which apps and websites are available to specific populations.

For journalism, this is an existential threat. Our job is not just to hold power to account – it is also to write the first draft of history. But if we can’t preserve that first draft, or distribute it effectively, then what, exactly, is the point?

The Continent and Coda Story are working together to try something different. We want to publish news about the world, produced and verified by humans, that cannot be edited after the fact; and to distribute it in a way that dramatically decreases our reliance on unaccountable algorithms or search engine optimisation. The Atlas — pilot edition available here — is our answer to the precarity of information online. It’s a work in progress.

Stay tuned: if we’re going to succeed, we’ll need your help. And if we do succeed, the secret of our success will be those very same transnational networks that kept the music of Sinn Sisamouth alive. Communities of like-minded people, of friends and families will always find a way to stay connected, no matter how vast the distances between them, or how great the obstacles. So what does a global newspaper look like if we design it with exactly these communities in mind?

As soon as I found that bootleg on YouTube, I ripped an MP3 copy and sent it to An-Rui on Signal. “KEEP THIS SAFE,” I told him. I don’t know what happened to the song on Spotify, or if it is ever coming back. But I can’t take the risk of never hearing that bassline again. And here it is, in case you want to hear it too.

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On May 3, an unusual procession moved through Washington DC. Several hundred people walked beneath the monuments of the American capital carrying portraits of Red Army soldiers. Children waved Soviet flags. A live orchestra played wartime songs at the World War II memorial. The Russian embassy had filed the permit; the DC Metropolitan Police provided an escort. Russian state media celebrated the event as proof that, with the return of Donald Trump, historical truth too had returned to America.

One organizer told Russian state television: “We love, respect Russia, honor the memory of our heroes.”

Similar marches took place in Paris, Amsterdam and Busan. In Berlin, authorities announced that Soviet flags, Russian symbols and military songs would once again be banned near Soviet war memorials during May 8 and 9 commemorations.

But in Moscow, Victory Day itself appeared haunted by fear.

For decades, May 9 has been Russia’s most sacred annual political ritual, binding victory, patriotism and state power into a single language. But this year, Kremlin spokesman Dmitry Peskov was reduced to announcing that the Immortal Regiment march in Moscow would continue only “in electronic format.”

The run up to this year’s Victory Day became the most anxious Moscow has experienced in recent memory. The Kremlin canceled the traditional procession in the Russian capital, moving it online. Military equipment was removed from the parade. Mobile internet access across Moscow was intermittently shut down in the days leading up to May 9. Spectator numbers in St. Petersburg were reportedly slashed from thousands to just a few hundred. The Victory Parade in Kaliningrad was canceled entirely. Russian media outlets published extraordinary reports about Vladimir Putin retreating deeper into protected bunkers amid fears of Ukrainian drone strikes and assassination attempts.

Russia’s Foreign Ministry even warned foreign governments to evacuate diplomats from Kyiv before May 9, threatening massive retaliation if Ukraine targeted the celebrations with drones.

And then came another extraordinary twist. Volodymyr Zelensky publicly “allowed” the parade to proceed. In a deliberately tongue-in-cheek decree issued after negotiations around a temporary ceasefire, the Ukrainian president formally excluded Red Square from Ukraine’s operational strike plans for the duration of the celebrations, even listing the exact geographic coordinates of the square itself.

Watching it all unfold, I kept wondering whether empires collapse more easily than the systems of feeling they create. The Soviet Union fell apart more than 30 years ago, but the architecture built around victory, sacrifice and historical grievance survived it, stretching across borders, diasporas and rival political projects. What began as Soviet myth-making about liberation has evolved into a transnational political language through which governments, activists, diasporas and rival ideological movements compete over legitimacy, victimhood and belonging.

Over the years, at Coda, in our Rewriting History current, we have tracked how the remembrance of World War II became central to Putin’s machinery of legitimacy and repression. Soon after he came to power, Russian public culture became saturated with stories of the Great Patriotic War. Watching Russian state television often felt as if the war had ended yesterday. New films, schoolbooks, drama series, speeches, parades and television specials turned victory into the emotional foundation of Putin’s Russia. Scholars of Russian memory politics have described how, under Putin, collective memory of the war became a tool for claiming legitimacy, discrediting opposition and presenting the Russian state as the eternal defender against fascism.

 It resonated because it tapped into genuine emotion passed on for generations. It was never just propaganda. It rested on something real: the scale of Soviet loss and the private grief carried by millions of families.

The Immortal Regiment began in 2012 in the Siberian city of Tomsk as a local act of remembrance. Ordinary people walked through the streets carrying photographs of relatives who died in the war. By 2015, Putin was leading the Moscow procession himself, while state-backed organizations coordinated chapters in dozens of countries. But in Putin’s Russia, where victory had already become the central organizing myth of the state, the boundary between private mourning and political mythology dissolved.

The speed of that transformation still feels important to me. It says something about the way modern political systems absorb private emotion and fold it back into the language of the state.

The Kremlin framed these Victory Day rituals as a defense against what it called Western attempts to “rewrite history” by minimizing the Soviet role in defeating fascism or equating Stalinism with Nazism. Ukraine and many Eastern Europeans came to see the marches instead as vehicles for imperial nostalgia and wartime propaganda. 

But the argument, it seems, is no longer only about what happened in the past. It is about who gets to turn memory and grief into political legitimacy in the present.

This year Germany found itself in the extraordinary position of having to ban Soviet flags and military songs near Soviet memorials, effectively regulating the symbolic language of antifascism itself. Historian Timothy Snyder once warned that “if fascists take over the mantle of antifascism, the memory of the Holocaust will itself be altered.” That is precisely the moral and historical dilemma Berlin has now forced into the open. What happens when the symbols of genuine antifascist sacrifice become inseparable from the imagery of an ongoing war? When the flags carried by the soldiers who liberated Auschwitz are also flown at embassy-organized rallies while Russian bombs fall on Kharkiv? 

At Coda, we explored some of these tensions years ago, in our documentary “What To Do With Stalin,” which examined the strange afterlife of Stalin’s image across the former Soviet world. While filming in Georgia, we encountered arguments that now feel strikingly familiar: whether remembering Stalin represented patriotism or denial, historical pride or historical amnesia.

Even then, it was obvious these battles were never really about the past.

Putin himself acknowledged as much during this year’s Victory Day speech, describing the war in Ukraine as a “just” continuation of the struggle against fascism and accusing the West of fueling confrontation with Russia “to this day.” Hours later, he suggested the war might finally be over. “I think that the matter is coming to an end,” he told reporters.

Victory Day 2026 may ultimately be remembered not for the military parade itself, but for revealing how unstable that memory system has become. Moscow performed triumph while fearing attack. Berlin restricted Soviet symbols in the name of democratic security. Washington hosted embassy-linked Soviet commemorations beneath American monuments.

I was ten years old when the Soviet Union collapsed. For those of us who grew up inside it, the end of the empire felt at once chaotic and exhilarating. Borders opened, old certainties disappeared and ideology lost its grip almost overnight. I still feel fortunate that, as a child, I witnessed an empire built on terror and repression collapse into history.

In the decades that followed, we watched Russia slowly turn the symbols and emotional reflexes of the Soviet system into instruments of political power once again. Victory Day became one of the most potent of these instruments: a ritual that fused together grief, patriotism, historical trauma and state legitimacy into a single, powerful sentiment.

Russia’s ambassador to Washington, Alexander Darchiev, praised what he described as the Trump administration’s dramatically changed attitude toward Victory Day commemorations. The holiday, he said, now played “an unequivocally positive role” in Russia-US relations. He pointed specifically to the marches held in the center of Washington, DC.

But the more I think about this year’s Victory Day, the less it feels like a story about Russia alone. When the Soviet Union collapsed, many of us assumed its emotional architecture would disappear with it. Instead, parts of it were patiently cultivated and repurposed for a new era by the men in charge of Putin’s Russia.  

The emotional logic that once underpinned the Soviet system no longer belongs only to Russia and the shattered geography of its former empire. Grievances, historical trauma and rituals of belonging now shape political life all around the world. Digital networks and algorithmic systems did not create these emotional impulses, but they amplified them at a scale the Soviet state could only dream of. Perhaps that is the true afterlife of an empire: not the survival of its borders or ideology, but of the emotional systems it builds to organize fear, belonging and historical destiny.

Additional research by Masho Lomashvili and Irina Matchavariani

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When the United States and Israel started blitzing Iran last weekend, eyes turned to the Chagos Islands in the Indian Ocean. The British-administered archipelago is home to a strategically vital US air base on the island of Diego Garcia. Would US President Donald Trump be using it in his “Operation Epic Fury”?

It's fair to say Trump probably didn't give a damn about Misley Mandarin’s opinion. But the self-styled “interim first minister” of Chagos, who recently upped sticks from Britain in a “super, super secret” mission to take up residence on the long-deserted Peros Banhos atoll, gave Washington his official “blessing” anyway.

I spoke via WhatsApp to the 47-year-old Chagossian in his base camp: basically a few tents, with a solar generator and a Starlink satellite connection enabling him to beam reels to his 10,000 Facebook followers. He quit his job as a bus driver in London to come here, determined to halt Britain’s plan to hand over what he considers to be his land to Mauritius after a long-running decolonization battle.

“We’re British citizens here. We’re not moving,” he said.

Mandarin wants the land of his forebears to remain under the rule of Britain, the former colonial ruler that booted out about 1,500 native Chagossians, including his own father, to make room for the U.S. military base in the late 1960s. The removal consigned Chagossians to a miserable fate in newly independent Mauritius.

Now on home turf, Mandarin, his 72-year-old dad, and two other Chagossians have dodged immediate deportation: they’ve obtained an injunction from a British court allowing them to stay until a hearing on March 13. Since their arrival, two more Chagossians have joined them. “We can do self-determination right now. We don't want to cut any links with Britain. We're not looking for independence,” Mandarin says.

“The next generation will decide on independence.”

Marriage of convenience

Life on Île du Coin, the largest island on Peros Banhos, is simple. The daily routine revolves around catching fish and finding a supply of fresh water. The new residents collect overnight rainfall in tarpaulin sheets to drink. Bathing involves a dip in the sea to wash off dirt, followed by a splash of precious rainwater to rinse. 

Mandarin appears to be relishing the experience. Soon after his arrival, the former army cook, who has bags of swagger, posted a video of himself cooking up “naan fromaaz”, or cheese naan, in a skillet on a makeshift stove. “Pa bizin madam isi mwa!” he jokes. I don't need a wife here!

The Chagossians arrived on the island on 16 February, accompanied by former army officer Adam Holloway, a former Conservative MP who recently defected to the radical right Reform UK party.

Reform, which is surging in the polls, is leading opposition to a bilateral treaty that would see Britain cede sovereignty of Chagos to Mauritius, while paying an average of £101-million ($135-million) per year to maintain a lease on Diego Garcia over the coming century. Negotiations began after the International Court of Justice ruled in 2019 that Britain should transfer sovereignty of Chagos to Mauritius “as rapidly as possible.”

The sleek yacht that brought the group on the five-day journey from Sri Lanka and travels back and forth with supplies was paid for by British-Thai businessman Christopher Harborne, a mega-donor to Reform. Its name is No Excuse – as in, “no excuse for us not to stay on Chagos,” says Mandarin.

Reform UK and the Chagossians make for curious bedfellows. On the one hand, there's a political party that has floated plans to create a Trump-inspired, ICE-style agency to carry out mass deportations in Britain. 

On the other, there’s Mandarin’s dad, finally back home after being brutally evicted from his atoll at the age of 14. “I will not go back to England. I want to die here,” said Michel Mandarin, as he set foot on his cherished Chagossian soil.

The unlikely pairing has had cause for joint celebration. Two days after they arrived, Trump withdrew his approval for the UK-Mauritius transfer treaty, which was supposed to provide legal certainty for the base in a hypothetical world governed by the rules-based international order. 

It turned out the president was annoyed at British Prime Minister Keir Starmer’s refusal to sanction the use of Diego Garcia for the Iran offensive. “DO NOT GIVE AWAY DIEGO GARCIA!” he told the British prime minister. The treaty was paused. Then war broke out and a beleaguered Starmer agreed to “defensive” strikes from Diego Garcia.

On Île du Coin, war seems like a distant prospect, even if it is potentially less than 200km (about 125 miles) away in Diego Garcia. As Tuesday drew to a close, there had so far been neither sight nor sound of the US’s deadly B-52, B-1, and B-2 bombers in the slightly overcast skies.

Kicking the can

Mandarin left Mauritius at age 22. He joined the British army in a bid to improve his lot and later became a bus driver in south London. He says he always felt like a second-class citizen in Mauritius, with “no opportunity to progress”.

Rights groups have charted how evictees from Chagos struggled to cope in Mauritius, many of them ending up trapped in an urban nightmare of poverty, mental illness, and addiction — with little sympathy from their hosts. Many Chagossians left for Britain after securing citizenship rights.

Now the fate of their homeland is being decided by a treaty negotiated over their heads. Last year, a UN committee on racial discrimination warned that the treaty could perpetuate “long-standing violations” of Chagossian rights.

The treaty says Mauritius is “free” to resettle islanders on any of the Chagos islands — except Diego Garcia. But there is no binding obligation for it to do so and the exclusion of Diego Garcia rankles. The deal also includes a £40-million trust fund to be managed by Mauritius, which has been criticised as a ruse by Britain to avoid paying proper compensation. 

“People talk about decolonisation, but if Britain did the wrongs, Britain should have to repair the wrongs — not kick the can to Mauritius,” says Mandarin. “Or they will get away with it.”

One of the reels he has filmed on Île du Coin features an industrial oven that was used by colonial officials to burn the islanders’ dogs before they were evicted. Officials threatened the islanders with the same fate if they refused to leave. Britain must pay compensation, he says.

'Belongers'

Mandarin’s joint odyssey with Reform UK has provoked mixed feelings among the Chagossian diaspora in Britain, Seychelles, and Mauritius. 

“He’s put us back in the centre of the story, but will we be overshadowed by Reform’s agenda?” asked one Chagossian in the English town of Crawley – home to a 3,500-strong Chagossian community — who is also opposed to the deal.

As the treaty was being negotiated, Chagossians’ concerns were largely swept under the carpet as a complicating factor in a pragmatic decolonization drive.

The hard right has capitalized on the deal’s major flaw, positioning itself as the main champion of Chagossians, just as their ancestral land finds itself embroiled in a conflict that could upend the global order.

One video recently posted by Reform leader Nigel Farage saw him express outrage after being “denied access” to Île du Coin for the delivery of “humanitarian” supplies to Mandarin and his men, racking up a cool 4.7 million views on X. 

Asked whether he is being used by Reform and its supporters, Mandarin is sanguine. He says he also contacted the left-wing Green Party for support, but it never replied. “Only Reform responded. At the end of the day, it’s politics. You have to make your own judgements for the sake of your people,” he says. 

He views the upcoming hearing as a potential “turning point in our fight”. The injunction barring their removal was granted on the basis that their location was too far from the base to pose a security threat. “If the court says they can’t remove us, then maybe more people will come,” he says. “This is our people. This is our time. We’re not visitors — we’re belongers.”

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The post The Belongers: What the Chagos Islands tells us about the new world order appeared first on Coda Story.

Polish President Andrzej Duda has signed legislation designating July 11 as the National Day of Remembrance for Poles who were victims of Volyn massacres, the Polish outlet RMF24 reported on July 2.

The law passed both houses of Poland's parliament with reportedly near-unanimous support. Lawmakers said victims of the massacres deserve a permanent place in the nation's collective memory.

The law states that from 1939 to 1946, members of the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists (OUN), the Ukrainian Insurgent Army (UPA), and other nationalist groups carried out mass killings of Polish civilians in the Volyn region, now part of modern-day Ukraine.

The Volyn massacres remain a deeply sensitive and divisive issue in Polish-Ukrainian relations. In April, a team of Polish and Ukrainian researchers resumed the first exhumation in western Ukraine since 2017 — a symbolic breakthrough following years of tension. The moratorium had been imposed by Ukraine after a wave of vandalism targeting Ukrainian memorials in Poland.

The excavation began at the destroyed village of Puzhnyky in Ternopil Oblast, where UPA fighters are believed to have killed between 50 and 120 Poles in February 1945.

In recent months, the Polish and Ukrainian governments have made efforts to resolve the issue of the Volyn exhumations, with Poland's Prime Minister Donald Tusk announcing a "breakthrough" in January.

Last year Polish officials, including Deputy Prime Minister Wladyslaw Kosiniak-Kamysz and former Deputy Foreign Minister Pawel Jablonski, warned that Ukraine's progress toward EU accession could be blocked unless Kyiv fully addresses the legacy of the Volyn massacre and allows further exhumations of Polish victims.

Poland's Institute of National Remembrance estimates that approximately 100,000 Poles were killed during the Volyn massacres. Ukrainian historians argue that thousands of Ukrainians were also killed in retaliatory actions and insist that the conflict be viewed as mutual ethnic violence rather than genocide.

In 2016, the Polish Parliament officially recognized the events as genocide. Ukrainian and many Western scholars, however, classify them as ethnic cleansing, and debate continues over both the terminology and historical responsibility.

Despite close cooperation in defense and diplomacy since Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine, the legacy of Volyn remains a potential stumbling block in Ukraine's integration with Europe.

July 11 will now be commemorated annually in Poland.

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As Ukraine continues its path toward European integration while defending itself against Russian aggression, the strength of its democratic institutions remains paramount. Among these institutions, the Constitutional Court plays a unique role in protecting citizens’ rights and maintaining the rule of law. Yet today, this crucial judicial body still lacks

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