Vladimir Putin has just made Sviatlana Tsikhanouskaya’s job feel even more urgent.

Over the weekend, the Russian president declared that he was preparing to position tactical nuclear weapons in neighboring Belarus by July 1, a move seemingly designed to shake the West’s commitment to Ukraine.

Ms. Tsikhanouskaya, the exiled leader of Belarus’ pro-democracy movement, has spent much of the past week in Washington, meeting with members of Congress, top Biden administration officials, and members of the Belarusian diaspora.

The goal: to publicize what she calls the “oppressions” of Belarusian strongman Alexander Lukashenko and his “cronies,” and by extension his patron in Moscow, President Putin. The Russian leader’s announcement Saturday of preparations for short-range nuclear weaponry in Belarus – which also borders on Ukraine – underscores the high-stakes nature of the war, including for Ukraine’s neighbors.

“For the Belarusian people, ... Russia stands for war and poverty, and Europe stands for peace and stability and prosperity,” Ms. Tsikhanouskaya said in a Monitor interview Saturday at a Washington hotel. “We have already chosen our direction.”

The White House said it would “monitor the implications” of Mr. Putin’s announcement, but sees no sign of imminent risk. Mr. Putin has threatened the use of short-range nuclear weapons in Ukraine before, and seems to do so when the war in Ukraine is going badly.

To Ms. Tsikhanouskaya, the nuclear move is just more evidence that Russia is an “occupying force, violating national security and putting Belarus on the collision course with its neighbors and the international community,” as she said on Twitter.

Tactical, or short-range, nuclear weapons should not be confused with strategic, long-range nuclear weapons, whose use would have catastrophic results. But even a mention of smaller, “battlefield” nuclear weapons incites fear, and Mr. Putin knows that.

Mr. Putin has long been thought to have plans to annex Belarus outright, and his latest nuclear gambit only reinforces that idea. Russia used neighboring Belarus as a staging area for its invasion of Ukraine 13 months ago. Mr. Lukashenko, in power almost three decades, has done nearly all he can to help his patron and recently said he’d commit troops to fight in Ukraine if Belarus is attacked. But such a move could be explosive: An independent research group, Belarus Change Tracker, finds only 7% of the Belarusian population supports joining the war on Russia’s side.

Belarusian citizens, Ms. Tsikhanouskaya says, are trying to help Ukraine any way they can – sabotaging shipments from Russia traversing Belarus into Ukraine early in the war, transmitting information on Russian military positions into Ukraine, and sometimes joining the war themselves and fighting “shoulder to shoulder with Ukrainians.” She puts the number of Belarusian volunteers in Ukraine at about 1,000, and also recounts a recent report of a drone attack by Belarusian partisans that severely damaged a Russian surveillance aircraft.

Linda Feldmann/The Christian Science Monitor

A Belarusian family takes part in a rally at the White House, March 25, 2023, marking Belarus Freedom Day, which commemorates the declaration of independence by the Belarusian Democratic Republic in 1918.

A mom-turned-opposition candidate

Ms. Tsikhanouskaya came to her improbable role as the face of Belarusian dissent via her husband. In May 2020, Sergei Tsikhanousky – a popular video blogger and opposition presidential candidate – was arrested, as were the other anti-Lukashenko candidates. Ms. Tsikhanouskaya, then a 37-year-old stay-at-home mom with two young children, one of them disabled, stepped forward to run in her husband’s place.

In the August 2020 election, Mr. Lukashenko claimed he won 80% of the vote, sparking mass unrest. Ms. Tsikhanouskaya was forced into exile in neighboring Lithuania with her children. Her husband remains in a Belarusian prison, where he is serving an 18-year sentence. Ms. Tsikhanouskaya was tried in absentia and, earlier this month, sentenced to 15 years.

Today, she juggles her role as a mother and daughter with her advocacy for a democratic Belarus, traveling to Western capitals and international forums; meeting with world leaders and policymakers, think tanks and supporters; and always making time for the Belarusian diaspora.

When asked what she’s hoping to get out of her current Washington visit, Ms. Tsikhanouskaya said, “I want to attract more attention of ordinary Americans, you know, for them not to forget about Belarus and/or feel fatigue over the situation in our country. It’s the moral obligation of every free person to support those who are defending our common values.”

In exile, she presides over a team of advisers, called the United Transitional Cabinet, which the Lukashenko regime has branded an “extremist group.”

In July 2021, in her first interview with the Monitor, Ms. Tsikhanouskaya spoke cautiously of her abilities, saying, “I always considered myself a so-called weak woman, because I had a husband who took care of the whole family.”

Now she speaks as an experienced advocate. “We already have some deliverables” from this visit to Washington, she says, referring to a new package of economic sanctions announced March 24 on Belarusian government officials, state-owned enterprises, and Mr. Lukashenko’s aircraft.

In a meeting at the State Department last week, Deputy Secretary of State Wendy Sherman announced a strategic dialogue with the Belarusian democratic movement and civil society, to begin later this year.

Ms. Tsikhanouskaya also met with congressional members of the Free Belarus Caucus, participated in a conference with House Speaker Emerita Nancy Pelosi, flew to Boston for an appearance at Harvard University, and will testify Tuesday before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.

“I try to provide them a normal childhood”

But her family is never far from thought. Her 12-year-old son, who was born with near-deafness, and 7-year-old daughter both attend school in Vilnius.

“I try to provide them a normal childhood,” Ms. Tsikhanouskaya says. “But of course they know where their daddy is. They know his history.”

Jacob Turcotte/Staff

She shows her children old videos of their dad, to give them a “virtual presence” of him in their lives. And they write letters to their father, which he receives. He also receives letters from his mother. But that’s it. The government, she says, cracked down on a public letter-writing campaign to political prisoners that began with the 2020 unrest.

Ms. Tsikhanouskaya says she can communicate with her husband via his lawyer, and the news is rarely good.

“First of all, political prisoners in Belarus are in much, much worse conditions than ordinary criminals,” she says. “They’re constantly tortured, physically and morally.”

He’s kept in isolation, his cell is cold, his clothing is thin, and the food is “extremely poor,” she says. “The light is always on. They’re knocking on the doors and not giving people opportunities to sleep.”

Ms. Tsikhanouskaya reveals that her parents, retirees in their 60s, still live in Belarus and don’t want to leave the country. Are they able to live a normal life?

“Nobody in Belarus can live a normal life,” she sighs. “I understand that my parents, there is additional pressure on them. They live in constant waiting for something [that] might happen. Every day, I’m checking – are you OK? Are you OK?”

Last Saturday, March 25, was an unofficial holiday known as Belarus Freedom Day, commemorating the declaration of independence by the Belarusian Democratic Republic in 1918. Despite a light rain in Washington, a crowd of Belarusians, some now American citizens, came out to a rally for Belarus in front of the White House, and to hear Ms. Tsikhanouskaya speak. A few Ukrainians, carrying yellow-and-blue umbrellas, joined in solidarity.

A man named Dmitri, who declined to give his last name, says he came to the United States from Minsk, the Belarusian capital, nine years ago. He joined the rally, he says, “because your culture and national identity, that’s something that stays with you even if you live in another country.”

And what about the rain? “You will find,” he said, “that Belarusians are very sturdy.”

Nathan Howard/AP

Supporters dance after former President Donald Trump spoke at a campaign rally at Waco Regional Airport Saturday, March 25, 2023, in Waco, Texas.

Most Democrats and some Republicans see the Jan. 6, 2021, Capitol riot as a singularly disqualifying event for Donald Trump’s third candidacy for the White House. In response, Mr. Trump seems to be deliberately leaning into one of the most infamous days in American history, following his playbook of turning a weakness into a strength by accusing the government and the media of unfairly persecuting him and his followers. 

At his first 2024 campaign rally, in Waco, Texas, on Saturday, a jumbo screen featured video footage of that day. Mr. Trump held his hand on his heart as speakers played “Justice for All,” a chart-topping remix of the national anthem that was recorded by supporters currently imprisoned for their role in the insurrection. 

But as the 2024 presidential campaign gets underway, it’s clear that the legacy of that day hangs over the Republican primary in complicated – and not always positive – ways. Even among some of Mr. Trump’s biggest fans. 

As prosecutors continue to convict those who participated in the Capitol riot, with more arrests anticipated, many Trump supporters say they’re reluctant to protest in person now – as evidenced by how few, so far, have responded to his recent call to turn out in opposition to an anticipated indictment in New York. 

And while many on the right express frustration with the Department of Justice, Democrats, and the media, there’s also a discernible vein of resentment directed at Mr. Trump himself.

Some former and even current Trump supporters note that the former president didn’t do much to help those arrested or convicted of crimes following the riot. While many say they will probably still vote for Mr. Trump in 2024, it’s clear the aftermath of Jan. 6 has left a bitter taste – and soured at least some of them on the man himself.

“Trump asked people to protest after the 2020 election, then abandoned them. ... Trump abandoned some of his most faithful followers,” says Rick McCargar, a Trump voter from Portsmouth, Virginia, who went to Washington to protest Mr. Trump’s loss after the 2020 election, but before Jan. 6. “I look at this [pending indictment] and say, ‘He didn’t do anything to help those people.’ So would I stand out in the rain, sleet, or snow for him now? No.”

Independent analysts confirm that this could be a challenge for Mr. Trump.

“The last time Donald Trump called supporters to protest his election loss on Jan. 6, more than 1,000 people faced criminal charges,” says GOP pollster Whit Ayres. “That might give some people pause before they answer Trump’s call to protest this time. You could end up losing your job, your freedom, your family.”

Evan Vucci/AP

As footage from the Jan. 6, 2021, insurrection at the U.S. Capitol is displayed in the background, former President Donald Trump stands while a song, "Justice for All," is played during a campaign rally at Waco Regional Airport, March 25, 2023, in Waco, Texas. The song features a choir of men imprisoned for their role in the Capitol riot singing the national anthem, and a recording of Mr. Trump reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

A sense of abandonment

In his speech Saturday, Mr. Trump also focused on a more immediate legal threat that has consumed him and his team over the past few weeks. Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg has convened a grand jury to consider an indictment for hush money payments to porn actress Stormy Daniels that were paid ahead of the 2016 election allegedly at Mr. Trump’s behest. 

And the looming indictment has seemingly given Mr. Trump a bump in the polls: A recent Monmouth poll shows the former president expanding his lead over presumed opponent Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis. 

“Our opponents have done everything they can to crush our spirit and break our will,” Mr. Trump said to a crowd holding campaign-issued “Witch Hunt” signs. “But they’ve failed. They’ve only made us stronger.”

Mr. Trump took to social media last week to call for protests. New York police erected steel barricades around a Manhattan courthouse. Reporters set up cameras. Republican lawmakers such as House Speaker Kevin McCarthy spoke out, discouraging protests and urging “calmness.”

The only New York City protest that materialized last week had more reporters than Trump supporters.  

In the days since, his social media posts have escalated. He re-posted a photo of himself holding a baseball bat next to an image of Mr. Bragg, and overnight Thursday he questioned how Mr. Bragg could bring a case against him when it is “known that potential death & destruction in such a false charge could be catastrophic for our Country.” It continued over the weekend: “We must stop them cold!” he wrote.

Yet so far, even some of Mr. Trump’s most adamant supporters have declined to organize. Ali Alexander, one of the “Stop the Steal” rally organizers, tweeted that while protests must “remain part of the human tradition forever,” Trump supporters should not protest in Manhattan. Conspiracy theorist Alex Jones said he has “an issue” with Mr. Trump’s requests for protests because he is trying to “use” his supporters, who could find themselves in a predicament similar to Jan. 6. Conservative talk radio host Jesse Kelly urged his followers not to protest, because the last time Mr. Trump called on his supporters to do so, “he left them all to rot in jail without so much as a penny from him in legal fees.”

It could be that more pro-Trump demonstrations are coming, and supporters will be out in the streets when – or if – there’s news of an arrest. But it also seems to be the case that Jan. 6 has had a chilling effect on supporters’ willingness to heed Mr. Trump’s calls for physical demonstrations.

“There is a small number of people who want to protest with flag waves, stuff like that,” says Suzzanne Monk, a Trump supporter who was at the Capitol on Jan. 6 but says she never went inside. As chair of the Patriot Action PAC, Ms. Monk has been active in protesting the conditions of the Washington jail where Jan. 6 defendants have been held. 

“Most of us, the large majority of Trump supporters, have a concern about being at a physical protest after the Jan. 6 situation,” says Ms. Monk. “Things can be volatile.” 

Amanda Perobelli/Reuters

District Attorney Alvin Bragg leaves the Manhattan District Attorney's Office, days after a message was posted on the Truth Social account of former President Donald Trump stating that he expected to be arrested, and called on his supporters to protest, in New York, March 22, 2023.

Indeed, the repercussions from Jan. 6, which continue, have in many cases been severe.

According to a database maintained by NPR, more than 1,000 people have been charged by the federal government or the District of Columbia, and 58% of those sentenced thus far have received prison time. Earlier this month, four defendants who marched with the far-right group the Oath Keepers were convicted of conspiring to obstruct an official proceeding. Last week, one woman was sentenced to three years in prison after storming the Capitol and leading rioters to the office of then-Speaker Nancy Pelosi. 

Mr. Trump has promised “full pardons with an apology” to many of the Jan. 6 defendants if elected. Still, some Trump supporters say they resent that the former president hasn’t done more to help those arrested or convicted of crimes. Loyalty, they say, goes both ways. 

Could an indictment help Trump?

Mike Bordes, a Republican state representative from Laconia, New Hampshire, says he disagrees with the media’s labeling of Jan. 6 as an “insurrection.” Still, the events of that day definitely “went too far,” he says, and it played a small role – among other things – in Mr. Bordes’ decision not to vote for Mr. Trump again in 2024.

“He left them out to dry,” says Mr. Bordes of the Jan. 6 defendants. “We need law and order in this country, and Jan. 6 was bad decisions all around. ... We got mad when Black Lives Matter burned down buildings, so why is it OK for Republicans to do the same? It’s hypocrisy.” 

In many far-right social media channels, recurring memes and complaints echo Mr. Bordes’ observation. One meme especially prevalent on Gab and Truth Social shows a photo of a man in jail in a red "Make America Great Again" hat, as Mr. Trump peers through the bars and says with a smirk, “If you ever get out, be sure to vote for me in 2024. Seeya!” 

Of course, many users reply to Mr. Trump’s posts with messages of support. But some frustration can also be discerned.

“What have you done to help the J6 prisoners?” writes one user named Dottie. “Absolutely nothing.”

It’s difficult to know the true identity of these users – some could be bots or supporters of rival candidates. But the fact that these conversations are happening in these spaces is notable. 

Still, a New York indictment could help Mr. Trump electorally.

“This [case] allows him to be consistent with everything he said from the minute he ran for president: The system is rigged,” says GOP strategist Douglas Heye, adding that the Trump campaign has raised $1.5 million just over the past few days. 

In lieu of physical protests, supporters tell the Monitor they are calling Mr. Bragg’s office to complain about the case. Several “Trump 2024” Facebook groups repeatedly post the phone number of the Manhattan district attorney, with suggested messages for callers. 

And come election season, voters will protest for Mr. Trump “at the ballot box,” says Marie March, a Virginia state delegate who was inspired to run for office after attending Mr. Trump’s Stop the Steal rally in Washington on Jan. 6.

“I’m going to be honest: A lot of people were saying, ‘Well, Trump is just so loud,’ and they were giving him” a hard time, says Ms. March. “Now they are all back on the bandwagon. They are all fired up again.”

Or, says strategist Mr. Heye, in a Republican primary election against other, less legally entangled candidates, an indictment (and Mr. Trump’s response to it) could do the opposite. 

“In the long term, months from now, it’s hard to see how [a New York indictment] can be positive at all. When Ron DeSantis talks about being drama-free, this is what he’s talking about,” says Mr. Heye, speaking of the Florida Republican governor who has all but declared his candidacy for the White House. “This is something that will come up should they be in a debate state together.” 

Mr. McCargar, who protested President Trump’s loss, says the Florida governor is his preferred candidate for this reason, along with others. But if Mr. Trump becomes the Republican nominee for the general election, he adds, he’ll still vote for him.

Bernd von Jutrczenka/dpa/AP/File

Mathias Döpfner, CEO of Axel Springer, speaks at the opening of an online award ceremony, March 18, 2021. Mr. Döpfner wrote in an internal memo that “Artificial intelligence has the potential to make independent journalism better than it ever was – or simply replace it.”

European media giant Axel Springer – owner of newspapers Bild and Die Welt in Germany, Politico in the United States, and various other publications – splashily announced in February that it was preparing to lay off staff, go digital only, and reemphasize creation of original and investigative content. Perhaps most significantly, it said it was doing so in anticipation of an information future dominated by tools such as artificial intelligence chatbot ChatGPT.

“Artificial intelligence,” wrote Axel Springer CEO Mathias Döpfner in an internal memo, “has the potential to make independent journalism better than it ever was – or simply replace it.”

Axel Springer is just one of many news outlets – and their consumers – who are reorienting themselves to a media landscape where AI plays an increasingly large role. With the popularity of Silicon Valley company and Microsoft partner OpenAI’s increasingly sophisticated AI tools, and Google and Meta engineers hot on their heels, it is becoming quick and easy to generate AI-produced text with a minimum of prompting, leading some publications to experiment with using them to supplement articles, or even create full ones.

Yet the very nature of chatbots like ChatGPT – which don’t actually understand what they’re writing about, but only predict what belongs in a sentence based on previous information it has “learned” – seems to conflict with the fundamental purpose of journalism: to provide citizens with accurate information about world events. What role can, and should, AI play in the media landscape if it is unable to discern the difference between what is true and what is not? With society’s trust in what journalists put out already at an all-time low, the answer to such questions may be critical for determining whether AI enhances journalism, or diminishes it.

“AI is not for thinking, but for making lazy, rapid, intuitive decisions about the world, and for optimizing our understanding of the world not for truth, but for information that confirms our views and attitudes,” says Tomas Chamorro, author of “I, Human: AI, Automation, and the Quest to Reclaim What Makes Us Unique” and a professor of business psychology at University College London. “Journalists still have a potentially really important role to educate people. They can use tools like ChatGPT to really discover or identify biases that exist in how people think, and then take this intermediate role as a filter between these tools and millions of users so that people become aware of these threats. Journalists can step in and say, ‘Hey what’s up? I’m using it as well, and here are some things it does that are inaccurate are contributing to misinformation.’”

Michael Dwyer/AP

The OpenAI logo is seen on a mobile phone in front of a computer screen which displays output from ChatGPT, March 21, 2023, in Boston.

“It’s not actually knowledge generation”

ChatGPT, like other AI-driven chatbots that have followed it, is deceptively simple to use. Type in a question or make a request for a specific sort of prose, and the application quickly produces neatly written text in response, trying as best it can to fulfill the user’s directive. Trained on databases of text, ChatGPT can produce everything from college essays to lists of birthday party ideas to poems about scanning groceries in a self-checkout line.

Since its introduction in November 2022, ChatGPT has attracted more than 100 million users. Its next-gen iteration, released earlier this month, passed the bar exam and can solve logistical challenges, and Google released its own version, dubbed Bard, last week.

But ChatGPT does not craft its prose from knowledge of the world, firsthand or otherwise. Rather, it writes sentences predictively, based on what it has been taught.

“The kind of tone of a lot of these generative AI tools is very authoritative,” says Jenna Burrell, director of research at New York City-based independent research institute Data & Society. “It will give you answers that sound very confident, but it’s in fact statistical prediction. It’s not actually knowledge generation. They look at words, and then predict a likely word that goes next.”

That is important when it comes time to apply AI to journalism, whose purpose, the American Press Institute writes, is “to provide citizens with the information they need to make the best possible decisions about their lives, their communities, their societies, and their governments.” To distill such information requires understanding of what is true about the world and being able to compare and contrast the statements and deeds of people against facts.

Though wholly AI-generated articles may look like they do that, it’s an illusion, says Dr. Burrell. As humans, “if you talk to something and it responds in a human-like way, you assume all these other things about that entity – motivation and intent and reasoning. But it’s not intelligent.”

Practice has borne that out. CNET quietly began using AI to produce articles in November, but had to issue corrections in January to an article referencing compound interest due to errors in basic math. A recent Guardian investigation found a gender bias in artificial intelligence tools, apparently due to the AIs’ adoption of the implicit prejudices of their human teachers.

“We’ve seen lots of examples of where it gets facts wrong,” says Nic Newman, digital strategist and researcher at the Reuters Institute. “That’s obviously extremely worrying. If the basis of journalism is accuracy, and trust is critical, then we need to be very careful about how we use it, how we check the information that we know, and also how we communicate that to audiences. So the whole question of transparency and labeling is also going to be really critical over the next few years.”

Siccing AI on the “tedious tasks”

The introduction of AI into journalism, experts say, may not really be about AI replacing journalists, but rather whether and how journalists learn to use AI as a tool in their vocation.

Mr. Newman sees it being used in three different layers. One is how to create content more cheaply and efficiently, which has been going on for some time. It can also help identify story ideas or gather news. Finally, it can be used to help package and distribute content more efficiently by personalization and other means.

And, as news outlets begin training AI on increasingly specific and vetted content, the levels of trust in what it spits out – whether it’s timelines, backgrounders, or summaries of stories – should grow, says Mr. Newman.

“In the future, you’re going to have solutions that are tailored to a particular publisher, or it may be trained on its own databases, which is reliable content already,” says Mr. Newman. “We’re going to see the general improvement of some things that have been around for ages … to the point we have confidence in being able to use them.”

Media outlets have already been automating certain functions using technology in recent years; AI could be the next logical step in those tasks.

The Associated Press – the venerable American news agency founded in 1846 – began automatically generating corporate earnings stories nearly a decade ago. It now automates game previews and recaps of some sports, and uses AI to help manage flows of information, transcribe audio, translate text, and create shot lists, according to Lauren Easton, AP’s vice president of corporate communications. In a sign of what’s to come, AP has partnered with local newsrooms to share its expertise in reducing a newsroom’s “tedious tasks.”

An opportunity for journalists?

But regardless what task an AI performs, everything it produces needs fact-checking – which requires preexisting knowledge about a topic, says Dr. Burrell.

Ultimately, she says, journalistic practices will only be undermined to the extent that we over-trust these tools. “As long as journalism maintains those commitments around truth – around shining light on issues, on speaking truth to power and the practices of fact-checking and investigative reporting – as long as those those standards are intact, I’m not too worried about any of these tools disrupting that.”

The dawn of AI may even provide a potentially tremendous opportunity for human writers by highlighting their value, says Dr. Chamorro, the business psychologist.

“The commoditization of information is a little bit like fast food. Fast food is cheaper and efficient, but it’s not very nutritious and over time, that has increased the number of healthy and high-end alternatives such as Michelin star chefs,” he says. “If journalists actually start to cater to people’s thirst and need for truth, then you offer something that has value. There’s still a market and an audience for reliable sources.”

Already a widow for four years, Chou Ly fled by foot from Cambodia through a rainforest loaded with landmines, along with her parents, sister, brother, and her 5-year-old son. She was 22.  The family took hours, beginning at 2 a.m., to cross into Thailand. It was December 1979, the final year of the genocidal dictatorship of Pol Pot, whose Communist Khmer Rouge army killed an estimated 21% of Cambodians, including her husband, Nong Sira. “They executed him,” she says. “That was the first person lost in our family.”

A year after her husband’s execution, the election of President Jimmy Carter altered the trajectory of Ms. Ly’s life forever. 

When he signed the Refugee Act of 1980, Mr. Carter raised the annual ceiling for refugees from 17,400 to 50,000 and opened the process for review and adjustment to meet emergencies. This created the Federal Refugee Resettlement Program, which provides housing as well as support to help refugees achieve economic self-sufficiency. 

As Mr. Carter was signing the legislation, three Christian families were camping on 260 acres in northeast Georgia. They’d been sent nearly 200 miles away from home to start a new community and were determining their mission. When, on transistor radios, they heard about Mr. Carter’s efforts, they made it their mission to welcome refugees. 

“We were just living in tents at that point, just about a hundred yards back here with cows all around us,” says Don Mosley, one of the campers. “We were beginning to hear more and more news about refugees. And we said, ‘Well, President Carter … he’s doing all this for these refugees.’”

Jessica Gratigny/Special to The Christian Science Monitor

Don Mosley relaxes in the library at Jubilee Partners in Comer, Georgia. A longtime friend of President Carter, Mr. Mosley is a founder of Jubilee Partners and co-founder of Habitat for Humanity.

A mission to help refugees 

Mr. Mosley, a founder of the ecumenical Christian community that came to be known as Jubilee Partners, is also co-founder of Habitat for Humanity. He and his wife, Carolyn, have been friends with Mr. Carter and his wife, Rosalynn, for more than four decades, having first crossed paths in the 1960s, when they were all battling for equitable funding of Sumter County, Georgia, public schools. That campaign gave Mr. Carter his political start.

Once it focused on hosting refugees, Jubilee Partners began the work enabled by President Carter’s legislation. The first wave of refugees arrived at Jubilee Partners in 1980, primarily Cubans who had been expelled by Fidel Castro in the Mariel boatlift.

Ms. Ly was one of the first refugees to arrive at Jubilee Partners; her adopted home has gone on to host 3,672 refugees from 37 countries since 1980, according to Rachel Bjork, director of Jubilee Partner’s hospitality program. As refugee co-host, Ms. Ly spent 24 years providing an estimated 2,000 refugees the life and language skills needed to adjust to life in the United States. She now works as a food coordinator for the community.

Jessica Gratigny/Special to The Christian Science Monitor

Chou Ly points herself out in a photo from 1981. In 1979, Ms. Ly and her family fled by foot from Cambodia through a rainforest loaded with landmines, to cross into Thailand to escape the genocidal dictatorship of Pol Pot. She was one of the first refugees to arrive at Jubilee Partners.

Ms. Ly is in her 60s now, with a deep smile, two adult children, two grandchildren, and an American husband whom she married on Thanksgiving Day 1982, under a cedar tree in the common area of the community, wearing a wedding dress she made herself. 

“I see that Jubilee gave so much to these refugees,” Ms. Ly says. “A safe place to stay and recuperate from all suffering and trauma that they went through. And so I felt like, ‘Yeah? Why I cannot do that too?’ I was in that situation before. And so it’s my time to give back to the people who come after me.” 

The entire Jubilee community was built by its residents: the meeting and worship spaces, library, and 17 homes for refugees as well as folks who choose to live and work there (referred to as partners). Currently, partners and their families earn $20 a week for their work with refugees and are provided with room, board, and access to transportation. Upon joining, partners agree not to access or use personal funds while living at Jubilee so that everyone is living at the same economic level. 

Mr. Carter’s connection

None of this work would have been possible without Mr. Carter’s personal and legislative legacy. In early 1987, Mr. Carter, then on the board of Habitat for Humanity, asked for a board meeting at Jubilee Partners. It would be his first visit. 

Jessica Gratigny/Special to The Christian Science Monitor

The entire Jubilee community was built by its residents: the meeting and worship spaces, library, and 17 homes, some of which are pictured here, for refugees as well as folks who choose to live and work there.

“We didn’t have a place that I thought would be appropriate for what I expected was 20 or 30 leaders from around the world,” Mr. Mosley says. “And so we built this [library] building very quickly, as fast as we could.” He figured 30 people would show up. Sixty people did. 

With no furniture in the new space, everyone either stood or, like the Carters, sat on the floor. At one point during the meeting, the building began to tremble. “As I was standing there, I realized, ‘Oh my goodness, this building’s about to collapse,’” Mr. Mosley recalls. 

He told the group it was time for a 15-minute coffee break. Once guests were out of the building, Mr. Mosley says he put on his nail belt and “rushed around downstairs putting diagonal braces” under the building. 

A community of compassion

In the early years of Jubilee, Mr. Mosley says, a cluster of homes for refugee families and partners was built just outside the city of Comer because of concern about backlash from city officials. But an incident early on reassured them they’d be welcome. 

A group of Cuban refugees was stopped by two police officers in Comer because they were riding their bikes, without lights, at night in the middle of the road. The men were frightened, Mr. Mosley says, and one took a swing at the police officer. He missed. An incident that could have escalated into violence did not. 

The men were returned to Jubilee calmly and the next day the police officers, one of whom was also the mayor, visited. “Welcome to Comer,” they told the men, handing them a huge box of fruit as a gift. 

Jessica Gratigny/Special to The Christian Science Monitor

The community gathers for lunch at Jubilee Partners in Comer, Georgia. The organization has hosted 3,672 refugees from 37 countries since 1980, according to Rachel Bjork, director of Jubilee's hospitality program.

Jubilee continues to enjoy good relations with Comer, a city of 1,500 that sits northeast of Athens. An estimated 10% of the population is comprised of former refugees. 

The local public school has benefited from the children of refugee families, says Amanda Sailors, principal of the 400-student Comer Elementary School. “Our kids are a little family,” she says. “It’s an amazing culture; community and school are an open and welcoming place.” 

Jubilee Partners steps in when necessary, supporting students and their parents by communicating with administrators and tutoring children after school. “We’re working together to help get kids what they need,” Dr. Sailors says. 

Deeply impacted by Jubilee’s mission, former members continue to serve the community. “More than anyone, they’ve informed my idea of what living in an intentional Christian community with a charism [spiritual gift or power] of hospitality can look like in Georgia,” says former Jubilee board member Anton Flores-Maisonet. 

In 2006, he co-founded Casa Alterna, a nonprofit that provides hospitality and assistance to asylum seekers and refugees. During the pandemic alone, the nonprofit provided overnight accommodations to nearly 500 people from more than 50 countries.

Jessica Gratigny/Special to The Christian Science Monitor

Chou Ly holds a gold necklace, one of the few keepsakes she has retained from her childhood in Cambodia. Gifted to her by her mother when she was 16 years old, Ms. Ly says the necklace features the Chinese character for happiness.

“What I love about Jubilee is their ongoing witness to radical hospitality that is filled with integrity,” Mr. Flores-Maisonet says. “This is their life together.”

One of the few keepsakes Ms. Ly retains from her youth is a gold necklace her mother had given her before her first marriage. She says the Chinese character for happiness – or jubilation – is inscribed on the pendant. She’d hidden it during her escape from Cambodia. 

Having survived a genocide, Ms. Ly says she is grateful to President Carter and the Refugee Act he signed that enabled her to resettle. Ms. Ly says she had never heard of Jubilee Partners until she was sent there, and appreciates the opportunity to stay and care for other refugees. “I feel sure that God [has] brought me here,” she says, “and God [wants] to use me.”

The fans of the two teams arrived at the stadium hours before kickoff, crowding its grassy banks and perching in trees behind the corner flags. The final of the Masaza Cup is one of the biggest soccer matches in Uganda and they had come in their thousands to celebrate the occasion.

Supporters beat traditional drums and blew plastic vuvuzelas (horns). Hawkers sold merchandise branded with the names of local clans. One group of friends arrived in bark cloth, a material used in burials, because, they said, “we are going to put [our opponent] in bark cloth after defeating him”. 

Like soccer tournaments all over the world, the Masaza Cup is tracked by talent scouts and backed by corporate sponsors. But the amateur competition carries a special resonance for players and fans because of who organizes it – the Buganda Kingdom.

Before the British imposed colonial rule, Buganda was the state here, in what is now the central region of Uganda. Today it survives only as a cultural institution, with no power  to collect taxes or make laws. And yet it commands fierce loyalty from its 7 million people, who make up around a sixth of Uganda’s 45 million citizens. For many of them, the kingdom conjures a deeper sense of belonging than the modern state. 

Badru Katumba/Special to The Christian Science Monitor

Ronald Busuulwa, standing on the touchline, pretends to film with a replica television camera that he fashioned from wood and mirrors, during the Masaza Cup final soccer match in Kampala on March 4, 2023.

Those passions were evident on March 4 at the Muteesa II stadium in Kampala, the Ugandan capital, as fans of Buddu and Busiro arrived in team jerseys declaring their side to be “kuntikko” (“on top”).  

“We don’t watch other football,” explained Doreen Nalubega, a businesswoman who had traveled from out of town to attend the game. “We are supporting our culture, Buganda culture.”

“I watch the Masaza Cup because it’s part of me,” said Ronald Busuulwa, a decorator, who had traveled two hours to reach the game. As the players ran onto the field, he stood on the touchline, pretending to film with a replica television camera that he had fashioned from wood and mirrors. 

A tangled history

Ugandans love soccer, but they are more likely to follow English clubs than their own national league. A glance at the local table offers one clue as to why. The current leaders are the Kampala Capital City Authority, a government agency notorious for arresting street vendors and demolishing roadside stalls. The army, the police, and the tax authority all have teams.

The Masaza Cup, by contrast, is contested by the 18 masaza, or counties, of historical Buganda. Their names – Buddu and Busiro, Ssingo and Bulemeezi – bring to life a geography obscured by modern district boundaries.

“That sense of attachment makes it more popular,” said Bruce Turyamubona, a sports journalist at Radio Simba, a private station which broadcasts in Luganda, the language of the kingdom. “You go deep into those … villages and you find there are thousands of people lining up to go and watch the game.”

Badru Katumba/Special to The Christian Science Monitor

Some action during the Masaza Cup final soccer match. The tournament stirs passions among Ugandans loyal to the historical Buganda Kingdom, which organizes the annual tournament.

Ugandans’ complex loyalties emerge from a complex past. In the late 19th century, British imperialists subjugated Buganda, the most powerful kingdom on the northern shores of Nalubaale, also known as Lake Victoria. Then they violently annexed dozens of other peoples into a new state, sometimes with the help of collaborators from Buganda. They called this country “Uganda,” even though it stretched far beyond the lands of Buganda itself.

The British meddled in Indigenous kingdoms and ruled through compliant chiefs. But after independence the Buganda Kingdom was drawn into a power struggle with nationalist politicians. In 1966 the army stormed the king’s palace and the following year kingdoms were abolished altogether.

Then, in 1993, Buganda made a comeback. President Yoweri Museveni, who had fought his way to power from a base in Buganda, tried to shore up his support by reinstating four historic kingdoms. There was a catch: The kingdoms were to be “cultural institutions”, barred from involvement in politics.

Today, the country is still led by Mr. Museveni, who is 78 and has been president for nearly four decades. His government rules with an iron first, but it has little popular legitimacy. 

The Buganda kingdom, by contrast, is popular but has little formal authority. The two have sometimes clashed, most significantly in  2009, when Ugandan security forces blocked Baganda leaders from visiting a disputed part of the kingdom’s territory, killing more than 40 people in ensuing protests. 

That crisis showed the dangers for Buganda in pursuing political power, says Apollo Makubuya, a lawyer, historian, and adviser to the Kabaka, or king. “The kingdom then chose to take the path of mobilizing more on a social and economic foundation,” he explains. 

Today the kingdom’s most visible face is as a cultural power broker. It owns 536 square miles of land, including much of Kampala. It runs radio and television stations, manages businesses, trains coffee farmers and organizes blood donation drives. Tens of thousands of participants flock to an annual fun run on the Kabaka’s birthday. 

Badru Katumba/Special to The Christian Science Monitor

Player escorts wait in line outside the dressing room before kick off of the Masaza Cup final football match between Buddu and Busiro at Muteesa II stadium on March 04, 2023, in Kampala, Uganda.

And, since 2004, it has organized the Masaza Cup, whose final this year was played in a stadium named for the present Kabaka’s father. The tournament is an important showcase of young sporting talent, says Henry Ssekabembe, the kingdom’s sports minister. 

And also, he adds it “unif[ies] the king’s subjects.” 

More than a game

The day before the final, Buddu – the defending champions, trained on a patch of grass in the shadows of central Kampala’s high-rise office buildings. Players juggled balls and skipped between cones with quiet purpose. The Masaza Cup excludes footballers from the top Ugandan leagues, and many of the Buddu players were hoping to be spotted by a big national club – still the best route to making a career in the game. 

The next day, excited crowds thronged the streets. Young men sped past on motorcycles garlanded with leaves. Women sold snacks, soda, and traditional drinks in painted gourds. Many people who could not afford a ticket had gathered outside the stadium, hoping to catch a glimpse of their king, although he did not appear.

Out on the pitch both sides started nervously. Busiro scored first, a few minutes before half time, before Buddu’s young winger Denis Kalanzi equalized with a looping header. The fans danced deliriously, tooting their vuvuzelas to the sky.

Badru Katumba/Special to The Christian Science Monitor

Simon Peter Mugerwa (center), Busiro team coach, and his players run onto the pitch at the final whistle to celebrate their victory in the Masaza Cup final soccer match between Buddu and Busiro in Kampala on March 4, 2023.

The match seemed to be heading for extra time until Masuudi Kafumbe slotted the ball into the net for Busiro with one of the last kicks of the game. “I’m very, very, very happy,” he said, after the players had danced with the trophy on the pitch.

Perhaps Busiro had received a bit of divine assistance, since the Catholic archbishop of Kampala had prayed for them the day before. Perhaps they had a helping hand from Indigenous gods, after some of their fans burned offerings during the match. Or perhaps it was simply their smart tactics, as their coach explained.

For Buddu, the result was heartbreak. And yet the match had been about much more than the final score.

“People have been disappointed by the government,” said one of the Buddu players, who asked for anonymity when discussing politics. “So they seek consolation from the kingdom. They see the kingdom as putting in place all the things that bind people together.”

Reuters

Iran's Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei speaks to a crowd in Mashhad, Iran, March 21.

Although they are archrivals around the Middle East, Iran and Israel have experienced something in common over recent months. Both have faced mass protests in favor of equality before the law for all citizens, free of religious-based rule. For each, the results of this domestic struggle could influence the future of their external conflicts.

On Monday, protesters in Israel finally won the day after the government delayed legislation that would have eroded judicial independence as a political favor to ultra-Orthodox Jews in the ruling coalition. For now, Israel’s largely secular, democratic rule will continue in a country with a mix of ethnicities, faiths, and nonbelievers.

In Iran, the struggle for equality against the existing sectarian rule under a single Islamic cleric – supreme leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei – has evolved from one that is less confrontational and more inspirational.

The mass protests that began in Iran last September after the death of a woman in police custody over her improper head covering were largely suppressed by January – except in one of Iran’s poorest provinces, Sistan-Baluchistan. In the capital Zahedan, protests have continued every Friday following the sermons of Iran’s leading Sunni cleric, Mowlavi Abdolhamid Esmailzehi, imam of the Grand Makki Mosque. His sermons, largely a call for secular rule based on honesty and listening, have gained a wide following among Iran’s majority Shiites.

“One religion cannot rule the country,” he said in his March 17 sermon, for example. He has called for an internationally monitored referendum in Iran to determine the type of government based on equal rights.

“Reform is not possible without criticism. Where there is no criticism, there is tyranny. Autocracy and dictatorship is the biggest danger to humankind,” he said in another sermon.

“This great nation is made up of various colors, like a rainbow. The religious view could not implement equality among these colors. Today, our country has faced a deadlock in terms of international and domestic policies; all these deadlocks are fruits of this religious point of view,” he said.

When, according to news reports, the supreme leader ordered that Mr. Abdolhamid “should not be arrested … but should be disgraced,” the preacher responded, “God gives honor and dignity, not anyone else.”

The government’s suppression of the nationwide protests was particularly harsh in Sistan-Baluchistan, site of the single deadliest day during the protests. On Sept. 30, dozens of people were killed. Mr. Abdolhamid does not incite the people to protest but rather appeals to their ideals. “Honesty and truth save the people,” he says. As one protester in Zahedan put it, “During the first days of the protests, people were driven by anger and outrage. Today it’s a mix of anger and ideals.”

To a remarkable degree, the protests and the sermons of Mr. Abdolhamid have already united Iranians across ethnic and religious divides. That feeling of equality is not yet represented in Iran’s autocratic, sectarian rule. But its existence is a sign of what Iran can become.