When COVID Authoritarianism Met Border Authoritarianism (opinion)
When the World Closed Its Doors: The COVID-19 Tragedy and the Future of Borders, by Edward Alden and Laurie Trautman, Oxford University Press, 344 pages, $29.99
In late 2021, Charlotte Bellis, an unmarried journalist from New Zealand, found herself pregnant while working in Qatar, a country where that status carries the risk of jail time or deportation. A doctor advised her to get married or get out of the country. But New Zealand, which at that point still was taking drastic measures to limit the spread of COVID-19, allowed its citizens to come home only if they secured lottery-allocated spots in a government-run quarantine program. Bellis applied but was unsuccessful. Desperate, she turned to the Taliban.
The Islamic fundamentalist group said yes. Bellis made her way to Afghanistan, where she had worked and where her boyfriend was based. "When the Taliban offers you—a pregnant, unmarried woman—safe haven, you know your situation is messed up," she wrote in The New Zealand Herald in January 2022.
Bellis continued to ask the New Zealand government for permission to return home, concerned about the risks of giving birth in Afghanistan, but it kept turning her down. Only after New Zealand's largest newspaper publicized her story did the government change course.
When the World Closed Its Doors, by Council on Foreign Relations Senior Fellow Edward Alden and Border Policy Research Institute Director Laurie Trautman, is filled with stories like this, which remind readers of the absurd measures governments took to prevent the spread of COVID-19 across borders. These policies were ostensibly directed outward, targeting foreigners. But as is often the case with border controls, they inflicted damage internally too, infringing on citizens' rights and going hand in hand with domestic restrictions.
Travel restrictions, which all of the 194 World Health Organization (WHO) member states deployed against COVID-19, may seem like a sensible pandemic response. It is easy to forget that the WHO had long viewed such measures as ineffective and counterproductive. Beyond doing little to stop contagion, travel restrictions can stop critical personnel and equipment from crossing borders. They also can foster secrecy. After South African scientists discovered the new, fast-spreading omicron COVID-19 variant in November 2021, many countries responded by imposing travel bans on South Africa and its neighbors. A government might conclude that transparency is not worth the economic damage of canceled flights and vacations.
Countries responded to COVID-19 with travel restrictions because they were popular and relatively easy to enforce, Alden and Trautman argue. But many such rules were not evenly or ethically enforced. Governments drew the line between "essential" and "nonessential" reasons to cross borders in ways that were as arbitrary and dehumanizing as the lines they drew between "essential" and "nonessential" workers. Many, acting quickly in the early days of the pandemic, implemented heavy-handed restrictions with little thought about exceptions.
The enforcement came down in uniquely painful ways on specific communities. Consider the predicament of Point Roberts, Washington. In the 19th century, the United Kingdom and the United States agreed to draw the boundary between their territories along the 49th parallel, unaware that it crossed a small peninsula. A community of 1,200 people eventually grew on a patch of the U.S. that was physically disconnected from the rest of the country. Before COVID, residents of Point Roberts relied on Canadian medical care, tourism, and grocery stores. That all changed in March 2020.
Strict crossing and quarantine requirements upended just about every aspect of life in Point Roberts. Canada announced that it would not exempt cross-border students from a 14-day quarantine period, so one family sent their child to live with Canadian friends during the school year. A Point Roberts resident who crossed the border to care for her elderly mother and disabled sister could no longer make the trip because it was deemed nonessential and subject to a 14-day quarantine period. The community lost 80 percent of its economic activity and saw little federal relief. Residents were all but barred from making the 40-minute drive to the nearest American town; it fell to Bellingham, Washington, to fund an emergency ferry to the U.S. mainland that cost $3,500 per day.
Several countries imposed border controls so strict that thousands of their citizens were barred from coming home. At one point, it was a crime, punishable by up to five years in jail, for Australians to reenter their own country. Amid backlash, the Australian government announced that 4,000 citizens and residents per week could return. A year into the pandemic, about 40,000 Australian citizens were still stranded abroad. New Zealand's restrictions were perhaps the tightest in the world after North Korea's, as Bellis learned. "Prime Minister [Jacinda] Ardern became 'a global liberal icon' for doing what liberals had long denounced when the same measures were used by conservative governments—closing borders to keep out an external threat," write Alden and Trautman.
For the first time, the authors argue, governments took the tools they had wielded against asylum seekers and other vulnerable migrants and began to use them against their own citizens and the citizens of friendly nations. The quarantine quota system used in Australia and New Zealand pit citizens against each other for limited tickets home; America's green-card caps create similar scarcity among temporary visa holders hoping to adjust to permanent status and residents hoping to reunite with family members. Pandemic-era travelers could be turned away or let into a country based on factors as arbitrary as a border guard's discretion; asylum seekers face similarly uneven applications of the law when judges decide their cases. Celebrities were allowed to flout rules that kept couples and family members apart.
The European Union initially tested tougher border controls in response to a migrant crisis, not a public health threat. But its actions during the former set precedents for how it would deal with the latter. When more than 1 million migrants from the Middle East and Africa sought protection in Europe in 2015, E.U. members implemented restrictions within the Schengen free travel area. Sweden and Denmark turned passport controls on one another despite a six-decade legacy of free mobility. France kept some of the measures from this period in place for years, later justifying them on pandemic-related grounds. While the European Commission did not oppose outward-facing travel restrictions as E.U. members responded to COVID-19, it urged them not to impose travel bans against one another. The call fell on deaf ears.
In the U.S., meanwhile, the Trump administration used the pandemic to reinforce its border-tightening agenda. Top immigration adviser Stephen Miller had pushed the president to block asylum seekers by using the executive branch's powers under Title 42 of the U.S. Code, which includes a public health provision authorizing "suspension of entries and imports from designated places to prevent spread of communicable diseases." Miller's efforts were finally successful when COVID-19 hit and the administration invoked that provision to expel migrants millions of times, often exposing them to dangers such as rape, kidnapping, and assault across the border in Mexico. The Title 42 order was not lifted by the Biden administration until May 2023.
Those who lived through the pandemic are understandably reluctant to look back on the damage wrought by government responses. Most are ill-equipped to consider how harmful border restrictions were, given that their worst effects were felt by small subsets of populations. That reality, combined with laws that made it easy for governments to close borders for long periods, has encouraged policymakers to view travel restrictions as a valuable response to future crises.
Alden and Trautman suggest three kinds of reform to safeguard people's rights: better international cooperation, checks on emergency powers, and improved risk management. Unfortunately, international conversations about how to reduce harm to border crossers during public health crises have stalled. Few courts have adequately scrutinized the scope of emergency powers. And governments have yet to reconsider the frequently faulty utilitarian logic they applied to questions of who should be allowed to enter a country and who should not.
Tough border restrictions were a failure, Alden and Trautman conclude. Real solutions require far more thought and nuance than simply turning the state's power on people unlucky enough to be caught on the wrong side of a border.
The post When COVID Authoritarianism Met Border Authoritarianism appeared first on Reason.com.
Hashtags

Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles

Engadget
an hour ago
- Engadget
YouTube now allows more harmful misinformation on its platform
YouTube is following in the potentially dangerous steps of Meta and X (formerly Twitter) by relaxing its content moderation policies. New internal training materials viewed by The New York Times instruct moderators to leave videos live if up to half its content violates YouTube's policies, an increase from a quarter of it. The platform introduced the new policy in mid-December, a month after President Trump was re-elected. The new guidelines reflect what YouTube deems as "public interest." These areas include discussing or debating elections, movements, race, gender, immigration and more. "Recognizing that the definition of 'public interest' is always evolving, we update our guidance for these exceptions to reflect the new types of discussion we see on the platform today," Nicole Bell, a YouTube spokesperson, told The New York Times . "Our goal remains the same: to protect free expression on YouTube while mitigating egregious harm." The platform has reportedly removed 22 percent more videos due to hateful and abusive content than last year. It's not clear how many videos were reported or would have been removed under the previous guidelines. YouTube reportedly told moderators to now value keeping content up if it's a debate between freedom of expression and risk. For example, they were shown a video called "RFK Jr. Delivers SLEDGEHAMMER Blows to Gene-Altering JABS" which falsely stated that Covid vaccines can change people's genes. However, YouTube told the moderators that public interest "outweighs the harm risk" and the video should stay up. It has since been removed, though the reason why is unclear. Other videos allowed to remain online included one with a slur aimed at a transgender person and one in which a commentator discussed a graphic demise for former South Korean president Yoon Suk Yeol. Engadget has reached out to YouTube for comment.
Yahoo
2 hours ago
- Yahoo
NIH employees publish ‘Bethesda Declaration' in dissent of Trump administration policies
In October 2020, two months before Covid-19 vaccines would become available in the US, Stanford health policy professor Dr. Jay Bhattacharya and two colleagues published an open letter calling for a contrarian approach to managing the risks of the pandemic: protecting the most vulnerable while allowing others largely to resume normal life, aiming to obtain herd immunity through infection with the virus. They called it the Great Barrington Declaration, for the Massachusetts town where they signed it. Backlash to it was swift, with the director-general of the World Health Organization calling the idea of allowing a dangerous new virus to sweep through unprotected populations 'unethical.' Bhattacharya later testified before Congress that it – and he – immediately became targets of suppression and censorship by those leading scientific agencies. Now, Bhattacharya is the one in charge, and staffers at the agency he leads, the US National Institutes of Health, published their own letter of dissent, taking issue with what they see as the politicization of research and destruction of scientific progress under the Trump administration. They called it the Bethesda Declaration, for the location of the NIH. 'We hope you will welcome this dissent, which we modeled after your Great Barrington Declaration,' the staffers wrote. The letter was signed by more than 300 employees across the biomedical research agency, according to the non-profit organization Stand Up for Science, which also posted it; while many employees signed anonymously because of fears of retaliation, nearly 100 - from graduate students to division chiefs - signed by name. It comes the day before Bhattacharya is due to testify before Congress once more, in a budget hearing to be held Tuesday by the Senate appropriations committee. It's just the latest sign of strife from inside the NIH, where some staff last month staged a walkout of a townhall with Bhattacharya to protest working conditions and an inability to discuss them with the director. 'If we don't speak up, we allow continued harm to research participants and public health in America and across the globe,' said Dr. Jenna Norton, a program officer at the National Institute of Diabetes and Digestive and Kidney Diseases and a lead organizer of the Declaration, in a news release from Stand Up for Science. She emphasized she was speaking in a personal capacity, not on behalf of the NIH. The letter, which the staffers said they also sent to US Department of Health and Human Services Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and members of Congress who oversee the NIH, urged Bhattacharya to 'restore grants delayed or terminated for political reasons so that life-saving science can continue,' citing work in areas including health disparities, Covid-19, health impacts of climate change and others. They cited findings by two scientists that said about 2,100 NIH grants for about $9.5 billion have been terminated since the second Trump administration began. The NIH budget had been about $48 billion annually, and the Trump administration has proposed cutting it next year by about 40%. The research terminations 'throw away years of hard work and millions of dollars,' the NIH staffers wrote. 'Ending a $5 million research study when it is 80% complete does not save $1 million, it wastes $4 million.' They also urged Bhattacharya to reverse a policy that aims to implement a new, and lower, flat 15% rate for paying for indirect costs of research at universities, which supports shared lab space, buildings, instruments and other infrastructure, as well as the firing of essential NIH staff. Those who wrote the Bethesda Declaration were joined Monday by outside supporters, in a second letter posted by Stand Up for Science and signed by members of the public, including more than a dozen Nobel Prize-winning scientists. 'We urge NIH and Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) leadership to work with NIH staff to return the NIH to its mission and to abandon the strategy of using NIH as a tool for achieving political goals unrelated to that mission,' they wrote. The letter called for the grant-making process to be conducted by scientifically trained NIH staff, guided by rigorous peer review, not by 'anonymous individuals outside of NIH.' It also challenged assertions put forward by Kennedy, who often compares today's health outcomes with those around the time his uncle John F. Kennedy was president, in the early 1960s. 'Since 1960, the death rate due to heart disease has been cut in half, going from 560 deaths per 100,000 people to approximately 230 deaths per 100,000 today,' they wrote. 'From 1960 to the present day, the five-year survival rate for childhood leukemia has increased nearly 10-fold, to over 90% for some forms. In 1960, the rate of measles infection was approximately 250 cases per 100,000 people compared with a near zero rate now (at least until recently).' They acknowledged there's still much work to do, including addressing obesity, diabetes and opioid dependency, 'but,' they wrote, 'glamorizing a mythical past while ignoring important progress made through biomedical research does not enhance the health of the American people.' Support from the NIH, they argued, made the US 'the internationally recognized hub for biomedical research and training,' leading to major advances in improving human health. 'I've never heard anybody say, 'I'm just so frustrated that the government is spending so much money on cancer research, or trying to address Alzheimer's,' ' said Dr. Jeremy Berg, who organized the letter of outside support and previously served as director of the National Institute of General Medical Sciences at the NIH. 'Health concerns are a universal human concern,' Berg told CNN. 'The NIH system is not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but has been unbelievably productive in terms of generating progress on specific diseases.'


Atlantic
2 hours ago
- Atlantic
‘We're Just Becoming a Weapon of the State'
Since winning President Donald Trump's nomination to serve as the director of the National Institutes of Health, Jay Bhattacharya—a health economist and prominent COVID contrarian who advocated for reopening society in the early months of the pandemic—has pledged himself to a culture of dissent. 'Dissent is the very essence of science,' Bhattacharya said at his confirmation hearing in March. 'I'll foster a culture where NIH leadership will actively encourage different perspectives and create an environment where scientists, including early-career scientists and scientists that disagree with me, can express disagreement, respectfully.' Two months into his tenure at the agency, hundreds of NIH officials are taking Bhattacharya at his word. More than 300 officials, from across all of the NIH's 27 institutes and centers, have signed and sent a letter to Bhattacharya that condemns the changes that have thrown the agency into chaos in recent months—and calls on their director to reverse some of the most damaging shifts. Since January, the agency has been forced by Trump officials to fire thousands of its workers and rescind or withhold funding from thousands of research projects. Tomorrow, Bhattacharya is set to appear before a Senate appropriations subcommittee to discuss a proposed $18 billion slash to the NIH budget—about 40 percent of the agency's current allocation. The letter, titled the Bethesda Declaration (a reference to the NIH's location in Bethesda, Maryland), is modeled after the Great Barrington Declaration, an open letter published by Bhattacharya and two of his colleagues in October 2020 that criticized 'the prevailing COVID-19 policies' and argued that it was safe—even beneficial—for most people to resume life as normal. The approach that the Great Barrington Declaration laid out was, at the time, widely denounced by public-health experts, including the World Health Organization and then–NIH director Francis Collins, as dangerous and scientifically unsound. The allusion in the NIH letter, officials told me, isn't meant glibly: 'We hoped he might see himself in us as we were putting those concerns forward,' Jenna Norton, a program director at the National Institute of Diabetes and Digestive and Kidney Diseases, and one of the letter's organizers, told me. None of the NIH officials I spoke with for this story could recall another time in their agency's history when staff have spoken out so publicly against a director. But none of them could recall, either, ever seeing the NIH so aggressively jolted away from its core mission. 'It was time enough for us to speak out,' Sarah Kobrin, a branch chief at the National Cancer Institute, who has signed her name to the letter, told me. To preserve American research, government scientists—typically focused on scrutinizing and funding the projects most likely to advance the public's health—are now instead trying to persuade their agency's director to help them win a political fight with the White House. Bhattacharya, the NIH, and the Department of Health and Human Services did not respond immediately to a request for comment. The agency spends most of its nearly $48 billion budget powering science: It is the world's single-largest public funder of biomedical research. But since January, the NIH has canceled thousands of grants —originally awarded on the basis of merit—for political reasons: supporting DEI programming, having ties to universities that the administration has accused of anti-Semitism, sending resources to research initiatives in other countries, advancing scientific fields that Trump officials have deemed wasteful. Prior to 2025, grant cancellations were virtually unheard-of. But one official at the agency, who asked to remain anonymous out of fear of professional repercussions, told me that staff there now spend nearly as much time terminating grants as awarding them. And the few prominent projects that the agency has since been directed to fund appear either to be geared toward confirming the administration's biases on specific health conditions, or to benefit NIH leaders. 'We're just becoming a weapon of the state,' another official, who signed their name anonymously to the letter, told me. 'They're using grants as a lever to punish institutions and academia, and to censor and stifle science.' NIH officials have tried to voice their concerns in other ways. At internal meetings, leaders of the agency's institutes and centers have questioned major grant-making policy shifts. Some prominent officials have resigned. Current and former NIH staffers have been holding weekly vigils in Bethesda, commemorating, in the words of the organizers, ' the lives and knowledge lost through NIH cuts.' (Attendees are encouraged to wear black.) But these efforts have done little to slow the torrent of changes at the agency. Ian Morgan, a postdoctoral fellow at the NIH and one of the letter's signers, told me that the NIH fellows union, which he is part of, has sent Bhattacharya repeated requests to engage in discussion since his first week at the NIH. 'All of those have been ignored,' Morgan said. By formalizing their objections and signing their names to them, officials told me, they hope that Bhattacharya will finally feel compelled to respond. (To add to the public pressure, Jeremy Berg, who led the NIH's National Institute of General Medical Sciences until 2011, is also organizing a public letter of support for the Bethesda Declaration, in partnership with Stand Up for Science, which has organized rallies in support of research.) Scientists elsewhere at HHS, which oversees the NIH, have become unusually public in defying political leadership, too. Last month, after Health Secretary Robert F. Kennedy Jr.—in a bizarre departure from precedent—announced on social media that he was sidestepping his own agency, the CDC, and purging COVID shots from the childhood-immunization schedule, CDC officials chose to retain the vaccines in their recommendations, under the condition of shared decision making with a health-care provider. Many signers of the Bethesda letter are hopeful that Bhattacharya, 'as a scientist, has some of the same values as us,' Benjamin Feldman, a staff scientist at the National Institute of Child Health and Human Development, told me. Perhaps, with his academic credentials and commitment to evidence, he'll be willing to aid in the pushback against the administration's overall attacks on science, and defend the agency's ability to power research. But other officials I spoke with weren't so optimistic. Many at the NIH now feel they work in a 'culture of fear,' Norton said. Since January, NIH officials have told me that they have been screamed at and bullied by HHS personnel pushing for policy changes; some of the NIH leaders who have been most outspoken against leadership have also been forcibly reassigned to irrelevant positions. At one point, Norton said, after she fought for a program focused on researcher diversity, some members of NIH leadership came to her office and cautioned her that they didn't want to see her on the next list of mass firings. (In conversations with me, all of the named officials I spoke with emphasized that they were speaking in their personal capacity, and not for the NIH.) Bhattacharya, who took over only two months ago, hasn't been the Trump appointee driving most of the decisions affecting the NIH—and therefore might not have the power to reverse or overrule them. HHS officials have pressured agency leadership to defy court orders, as I've reported; mass cullings of grants have been overseen by DOGE. And as much as Bhattacharya might welcome dissent, he so far seems unmoved by it. In early May, Berg emailed Bhattacharya to express alarm over the NIH's severe slowdown in grant making, and to remind him of his responsibilities as director to responsibly shepherd the funds Congress had appropriated to the agency. The next morning, according to the exchange shared with me by Berg, Bhattacharya replied saying that, 'contrary to the assertion you make in the letter,' his job was to ensure that the NIH's money would be spent on projects that advance American health, rather than 'on ideological boondoggles and on dangerous research.' And at a recent NIH town hall, Bhattacharya dismissed one staffer's concerns that the Trump administration was purging the identifying variable of gender from scientific research. (Years of evidence back its use.) He echoed, instead, the Trump talking point that 'sex is a very cleanly defined variable,' and argued that gender shouldn't be included as 'a routine question in order to make an ideological point.' The officials I spoke with had few clear plans for what to do if their letter goes unheeded by leadership. Inside the agency, most see few levers left to pull. At the town hall, Bhattacharya also endorsed the highly contentious notion that human research started the pandemic—and noted that NIH-funded science, specifically, might have been to blame. When dozens of staffers stood and left the auditorium in protest, prompting applause that interrupted Bhattacharya, he simply smiled