On becoming a decolonial scholar

I have observed some early, tentative steps of young academics to become world-class decolonial scholars in global health. This is a rich and rewarding area of endeavour that has real potential to launch a career without the baggage of narrow disciplinary boundaries, rigid methodological commitments, or premature demands for epistemic closure. When approached carefully, decolonial scholarship allows emerging researchers to engage critically with power, history, and knowledge while retaining considerable flexibility in analytic approach. What follows is offered as practical guidance for those who wish to navigate this space with confidence and coherence.

Decolonising global health has become a central ethical orientation for contemporary scholarship in the field. For early-career researchers, the challenge is not whether to adopt a decolonial stance, but how to do so convincingly within existing academic norms. You do not want a piece buried in the Malawi Medical Journal when global recognition can be found in The Lancet, PLOS, or BMJ. This brief guide offers practical advice on positioning oneself as a decolonising scholar, drawing on common techniques that are widely recognised as markers of both epistemic and moral alignment.

A successful decolonial paper begins with the scholar rather than the question. Reflexive positioning statements have become an essential opening move, allowing authors to locate themselves within global hierarchies of power, privilege, and complicity. Personal proximity to marginalisation is an asset. These declarations are most effective when they are candid yet indeterminate, signalling awareness without constraining interpretation. Once positionality has been established, subsequent analytic choices are more readily received as ethically grounded rather than methodologically contingent.

Research problems should then be framed in historical or structural terms rather than as empirical hypotheses. Questions that invite falsification risk reintroducing evaluative standards associated with dominant epistemic traditions linked to globalised practice. By contrast, concepts such as colonial residue, epistemic silencing, or inherited injustice resist closure and encourage moral elaboration. Where findings introduce ambiguity or contradiction, this can be interpreted not as analytic weakness but as evidence of the complexity produced by colonial histories themselves.

Within this framing, epistemic injustice can be treated as an outcome rather than a proposition requiring demonstration. The presence of asymmetry—between disciplines, regions, or forms of expertise—may be taken as sufficient indication of harm. Distinguishing between the unjust exclusion of valid insight and the justified rejection of erroneous claims is rarely necessary and may inadvertently reinscribe colonial distinctions between knowledge and belief. Moral recognition, once granted, does much of the epistemic work.

Lived experience occupies a privileged place in this literature and should be elevated accordingly. Personal and communal narratives can be used generously as data, though care should be taken to avoid subjecting them to processes such as validation, triangulation, or comparative assessment. Such techniques imply the possibility of error, which sits uneasily with commitments to epistemic plurality. Where accounts conflict, the tension may be presented as evidence of multiple ways of knowing rather than as a problem requiring resolution.

Ontological language offers particular flexibility. Early declaration of commitment to multiple ontologies allows scholars to accommodate divergent claims without adjudication. Later, when universal commitments are invoked—such as equity, justice, or health for all—these can be treated as ethical aspirations rather than propositions dependent on a shared reality. The absence of an explicit bridge between ontological plurality and universal goals rarely attracts critical scrutiny.

Power should be rendered visible throughout the paper, though preferably without becoming too specific. Abstractions such as “Western science”, “biomedicine”, or “the Global North” serve as effective explanatory devices while minimising the risk of implicating proximate institutions, funding structures, or professional incentives. Authorship practices, by contrast, provide a concrete and manageable site for decolonial intervention, often with greater symbolic return than methodological reform.

Papers should conclude with a call for transformation that exceeds immediate implementation. Appeals to reimagining, unsettling, or dismantling signal seriousness of intent, while the absence of operational detail preserves the moral horizon of the work. Evaluation frameworks, metrics, and timelines may be deferred as future tasks, once the appropriate epistemic shift has been achieved.

Finally, dissemination matters. Publishing in high-impact international journals ensures that critiques of epistemic dominance reach those best positioned to recognise them. Should access be restricted by paywalls, a brief acknowledgement of the irony is sufficient to demonstrate reflexive awareness.

In this way, decolonising global health can be practised as a scholarly orientation that aligns ethical seriousness with professional viability. The goal is not to resolve uncertainty or to determine what works, but to occupy the correct stance toward history and power. When that stance is convincingly performed, the work will speak for itself.

A Crime Boss is not a force for good

When US forces kidnapped Nicolás Maduro in Caracas last week they acted illegally. They broke multiple international laws. The President of the United States publicly declared that he cannot be held to account. He is not constrained by the law, he said, he is (un)constrained by his personal (im)morality.

There is no doubt that Maduro was a brutal and repressive dictator, and a majority of the people of Venezuela wanted democratic change. They had voted for it in 2024. Did Donald Trump and the United States act morally in removing this man from power?

Consider three scenarios:

Scenario 1: An honest passerby sees a thug beating an elderly person. She tackles the thug and saves the victim.

Scenario 2: A Mafia Boss sees the same assault. He notices the thug’s expensive gold bracelet, tackles him, steals the bracelet, and the elderly person is saved.

Scenario 3: An honest passerby witnesses the assault but is too frightened to intervene. She calls a known Mafia Boss for help. He tackles the thug, steals the bracelet, and the elderly person is saved.

Only Scenario 1 deserves praise. The passerby acts from virtuous motives and achieves a good outcome. But what of the Mafia Boss?

In Scenario 2, he performs a superficially right action (stopping an assault) but for entirely immoral purpose (theft). The victim benefits, but this is incidental to the Mafia Boss’s criminal purpose. Most moral traditions recognise this distinction. We praise people for their character and intentions, not merely for producing beneficial side effects. A surgeon who saves a patient primarily to steal their jewellery hasn’t acted virtuously, even though the patient survives.

The Mafia Boss might deserve some credit for not making things worse—he could have ignored the victim or joined the assault. But “not being as bad as possible” isn’t praiseworthy. At most, we might say: “How fortunate his greed led him to intervene”—but this concerns lucky consequences, not moral worth.

Scenario 3 adds complexity. The passerby achieves a good outcome she couldn’t manage alone, but she’s complicit in the theft by knowingly involving a criminal. This is the classic “dirty hands” dilemma: when achieving good outcomes requires morally tainted means.

Now apply this to Venezuela.

We are in Scenario 2 (possibly Scenario 3) territory. Trump’s own words reveal his motives with startling clarity. “We’re going to be using oil, and we’re going to be taking oil”, he told the New York Times. “We will rebuild it in a very profitable way”. He repeatedly emphasised making money for the United States, settling old scores over nationalisation (“they took the oil from us years ago”), and has already begun negotiating with American oil executives.

The pattern of decisions confirms this. Rather than recognising María Corina Machado—the Nobel Peace Prize-winning opposition leader whose party won Venezuela’s 2024 election—Trump works with Maduro’s former vice president, a regime loyalist. Why? Because “she’s essentially willing to do what we think is necessary to make Venezuela great again,” Trump said, meaning granting American companies renewed access to Venezuela’s oil industry. There’s no timeline for elections, no commitment to Venezuelan self-governance. “Only time will tell”, Trump said when asked how long US control would last. “I would say much longer” than a year.

The stated justifications—drugs, migration, terrorism—don’t withstand scrutiny. Venezuela accounts for minimal drug trafficking to the US. The intervention followed months of pressure focused squarely on oil: sanctions, blockades, and seizing tankers.

This is Scenario 2. An authoritarian leader is removed—arguably beneficial for many Venezuelans—but primarily to facilitate resource extraction. The relief for Venezuelans is incidental to the core objective.

The Mafia Boss deserves no praise for saving the elderly person whilst stealing their bracelet. He should be prosecuted for the crime he committed. Donald Trump should be prosecuted for his crimes—Congress has the power.

 

The crimes of the leader

When is an entire nation guilty of the crimes of its leader?

In the aftermath of World War II, there was considerable discussion about the collective responsibility of the German people for the horrific actions of the Nazis. By the mid-1950s, it was almost impossible to find a German who had ever been pro-Nazi—everyone was against it from the start. Whether it was from shame, fear of association, or cognitive dissonance, they would have you believe there was only ever a handful of Nazis and their supporters in Germany.

The truth hardly needs defending. The great majority of Germans knew what the Nazi Party stood for. The last free election held in pre-war Germany was in November 1932, when the Nazi Party won 33% of the vote. The March 1933 election, when the Nazi Party won 43% of the vote, was held after the Reichstag fire and in the presence of significant political intimidation. Before the last free election, the German people knew Hitler. He was openly anti-Semitic, anti-communist, and anti-democratic. In the 1920s, he compared Jews to germs, stating that diseases cannot be controlled unless you destroy their causes. By 1925, he had argued for the special entitlement of Germans for Lebensraum and the conquest of Slavic lands in Eastern Europe. He attempted a coup and established a paramilitary force.

Almost immediately after he won the March election in 1933, he established the first concentration camp (Dachau) for any social and political undesirables. He was also openly anti-Roma and Sinti, and anti-Catholic.

The tendency towards everything that followed historically was there for all to see. What responsibility did the German people have in 1933 to resist? What about ‘34, ‘35, ‘36, ‘37, … ‘45? In 1945, actual membership of the Nazi party was at its highest, about 10% of the population. When were the German people collectively responsible for their government’s actions?

In many ways, the question is unfair. How can a Bavarian farmer bear the same responsibility as a concentration camp commandant? Those who joined the party, served in the Einsatzgruppen, or otherwise actively participated in Nazi crimes must bear a more direct criminal and moral responsibility. What of the civil servants? What of those who made sure the infamous trains ran on time, delivering millions to their deaths? What is the moral calculus associated with the flow of benefits—direct and indirect—from the persecution of others, such as cheap farm labour from concentration camps, a new home, more job availability, etc.?

The night of 9 November 1938 was Kristallnacht—a pogrom against Jews throughout Germany and Austria. Over 1,400 synagogues were burned, thousands of Jewish businesses were destroyed, Jewish homes were ransacked, and dozens were killed in the streets. The violence was public, visible, and undeniable. Evidence suggests that many Germans—perhaps most—disapproved of the brutality and destruction. But this disapproval remained private and passive. There were no mass protests, no general strikes, no widespread efforts to shelter Jewish neighbours. The gap between private discomfort and public acquiescence reveals something crucial about collective responsibility: moral squeamishness without moral courage is functionally equivalent to complicity. After Kristallnacht, no German could claim ignorance of the regime’s violent intentions. The persecution was no longer bureaucratic or hidden—it happened in city centres with flames visible for miles. If it hadn’t before, Kristallnacht was the moment when passive opposition became morally insufficient, when continued participation in or acceptance of the Nazi system—even by those who privately disapproved—became a choice that enabled everything that followed.

What does resistance look like? Rolling and continuous general strikes, protests, refusal to deliver to, repair, or assist the state apparatus. It is painful; it will result in loss of liberty, loss of property, and, probably, loss of life. Resistance starts with the most, not those with the least. It will fracture families and friendships.

Where Americans have resisted the Trump administration, they have used polite institutional resistance—lawsuits, protests, opinion pieces, and letters to the editor—all of which assume the system can contain someone who fundamentally doesn’t operate within its rules. It’s the equivalent of Germans relying on Weimar constitutional mechanisms to check Hitler after 1933. The Supreme Court has essentially unleashed a criminal President, because by definition, he cannot commit a crime, and he is only enjoined after he has turned a criminal act into a de facto reality. You cannot un-ring the illegal bells he rings.

That’s an outrageous parallel, you say. Donald Trump is no Hitler. And I agree. Donald Trump is a greedy, narcissistic kleptocrat. And in the name of the American people, he has committed international crimes. He has supported genocide. He has ordered the extra-judicial killing of scores of people. He has threatened allies with invasion. He has had people imprisoned without due process. He has had people tortured. He has destroyed the multilateral system. He has put troops on the streets of US cities. He has attempted (it remains to be seen if he succeeds) to subvert the electoral system. He has compelled universities and multi-billion-dollar corporations to bend to his will. He and his family have stolen and extorted billions.

But whether Trump is Hitler is not the question. The question is: when do the American people bear collective responsibility for their leader’s actions? Like the German people in 1933, they knew their leader when they elected him in 2024—and unlike Hitler, they gave him a majority of the votes (not just the Electoral College). When they voted for him, they knew he did not follow the law. They knew he used violence to take what he wanted. They knew he was racist. They knew he pursued his personal interests above any greater good. They knew he was driven by vanity.

Where the German people opposed passively, the American people have resisted institutionally, at a time when institutions do not constrain power. Both groups chose mechanisms of resistance that enabled the regimes they oppose. Both nations bear collective responsibility for their leaders’ actions.

Postscript. Democracies offer their citizens a get-out-of-jail-free card. We elect a new leader, and we are absolved. We held the previous regime accountable and cast them out. Our sins are forgiven. I have always found it a slightly uncomfortable moral maneuver, but I do understand it.

In 2020, Americans could claim they had corrected their mistake. They voted Trump out. Democracy worked. They could also seek comfort in the fact that he failed to win the popular vote. Yes, he won the Electoral College vote, and that is a flaw in our system, but as a people, we rejected him. Then they voted him back in—with full knowledge of what he had done, who he was, and what he would do. The absolution was a lie. The accountability was performance. And the collective responsibility deepens.

globe on a table against the wall of blue

Country X has no right to exist!

Feel free to insert any country’s name in the title according to your personal preferences or animosities. My initial instinct was to go for click-bait and title the article, “Israel has no right to exist”. This would be sure to inflame the passions of all the Israelis who condemn as antisemites anyone who asserts Israel’s lack of a right to exist. Then I thought about using “Taiwan”, “The United States of America”—too long—“China”, “Russia”, “France”…. It really doesn’t matter. Countries do not have a “right” to exist.

Countries either do exist or they don’t. Taiwan exists. Israel exists. Palestine lacks the functional sovereignty—control over borders, defence, foreign policy—that defines statehood. Should its people have the right to functional sovereignty? Absolutely.

My father once observed that there is nothing he found more frightening than a sudden proliferation of national flags. I heard the comedienne Sarah Silverman make the same observation. Flags connote nationalism, and nationalism distinguishes itself by being in opposition to a defined “other”—the quintessential thing that distinguishes us from you. It entitles us to have things and deny them to you, and take things from you without regard to your interests.

Nationalists do not look at other countries as having rights. They look at other countries as a wolf eyes a flock of sheep—an opportunity. Of course if the other country is a bear, they may need to be more circumspect, but even a bear can make a great rug.

Nationalism rest on mythic history to instrumentalise the population towards the leader’s ends, not the people’s interests. Now imagine a world in which, as the US seeks in its National Security Strategy 2025, all countries revive their mythic histories. No country will choose the history of the time when they were weakest, a vassal state or worse, completely absorbed. They will pick historical points of grandeur. Mongolia will claim vast swathes of Russia, China, and Central Asia—and rightly so! Turkey will recall it historical right to the Balkans, North Africa, and the Middle East. Who amongst us would not acknowledge Italy’s historical claim on England, France, Spain, Greece, Tunisia, Egypt, Lebanon, and Israel. Neither China nor Russia have need for further over-reach on their territorial claims, but they could. Russia tells the tale of a sovereign need for a Pan-Slavic State that gobbles up Eastern Europe and the Balkans. Egypt should certainly need to have it’s Pharaonic claim to the Levant recognised. Spain will eye its Western hemisphere territories with delight and return to discussions of the Holy Roman Empire. Morocco can start planning it’s revitalisation of Andalusia. Denmark will talk of the glory days when Schleswig-Holstein was not enough—when the North Sea Empire under Cnut the Great included England, Norway, and parts of Sweden. Sweden will promote a modern Baltic State reclaiming its rightful territories in Poland, Estonia, Latvia, and parts of Germany. Will France want to revisit the Louisiana Purchase? I think it should. Ecuador, Bolivia or probably Peru can sound the drums for a revitalised Incan empire. Once Burma has dealt with its pesky insurgency it can turn its eye to former glory: Thailand, Laos, and parts of Cambodia. Indonesia’s Majapahit claim to Malaysia, Singapore, southern Thailand, and the Philippines is entirely justified.

I would like to remind you all that when my ancestors stepped out of Africa, wherever their descendants placed their feet is mine to claim. And maybe this should be a new Pan-African myth of global capture.

Each of these claims rooted in a novelist’s fantasy of historical pride permits leaders to instrumentalise the young as warriors and breeders. And the foolish among us will swell our chests with the false pride of false histories.

For this story shall the good man teach his son;
And a national day shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
Our claim shall be remembered.

If you walk past a United Nations building you will see flags of every nation fluttering. The message is not of history but future shared endeavour.

The sole purpose of a country is to advance the welfare of the people circumscribed by its borders—citizens and non-citizens. When leaders start to instrumentalise the population—treat them asmeans to the leader’s personal ends and ambition—they fail.

Countries come and go. The people are constant: tilling, toiling, and typing. If they choose to come together in unity within a geographic area, that is their right. They may expand that boundary with the consent of those around, and contract it on a similar basis. It cannot be a whimsical destabilising thing that would instrumentalise the lives of others. It needs thoughtful deliberation that takes into account the rights and duties of all. The purpose is welfare—full stop. Not glory. Not destiny. Not at the expense of others.


With apologies to William Shakespeare for butchering the lines from Henry V, Act IV, Scene 3