reshaping

Tehran, Iran – Every morning at 6am, Sara reaches for her phone – not to check messages, but to see when the day’s blackout will begin.

The 44-year-old digital marketer in Tehran has memorised the weekly electricity schedule yet still checks her phone each morning for last-minute changes as she plans her life around the two-hour power cuts.

“Without electricity, there is no air conditioner to make the heat tolerable,” Sara says, describing how Iran’s convergent crises – water scarcity, power shortages and record-breaking temperatures – have fundamentally altered her daily routine.

The water service cuts are unannounced. They last hours at a time and truly unnerve Sara, so she scrambles to fill buckets whenever she can before the taps run dry.

Crisis

For millions of Iranians, this summer has brought survival challenges in light of record-breaking heat, according to data from Iran’s Meteorological Organization.

The country is simultaneously grappling with its fifth consecutive year of drought, chronic energy deficits and unprecedented heat, a perfect storm that is exposing the fragility of basic services.

The Meteorological Organization said rainfall is down 40 percent during the current water year, the 12-month rainfall-tracking period, which starts in autumn.

As of July 28, Iran had received only 137mm (5.4 inches) of precipitation compared with the long-term average of 228.2mm (9 inches).

The electricity shortage is rooted in both infrastructure limitations and fuel supply challenges that have caused production capacity to fall behind rapidly rising demand.

An October report from parliament’s Research Center showed 85 percent of Iran’s electricity comes from fossil fuels, 13 percent from hydropower and the remainder from renewables and nuclear power.

While Iran possesses vast gas and oil reserves, decades of sanctions and underinvestment in transmission networks and power plants mean the system can’t keep up with consumption.

Adding to these capacity constraints, fuel supply disruptions have forced some power stations to resort sometimes to using mazut (heavy fuel oil) instead of natural gas, but authorities try to restrict it due to air pollution concerns.

Summer droughts compound the crisis by reducing hydroelectric generation precisely when air conditioning demand peaks, leaving millions of Iranians planning their lives around predictable blackouts and unpredictable water outages.

Survival

Twenty-six-year-old Fatemeh moved to Tehran from Andisheh, a town 15km (9 miles) west of the capital, a year ago to pursue her education.

She rented her first apartment, an exciting milestone that became a daily exercise in crisis management.

Fatemeh’s first unannounced water cut saw her in a sweltering apartment with temperatures soaring to 40 degrees Celsius (104 degrees Fahrenheit).

“The first thing I did was to stop moving altogether so my body temperature wouldn’t rise,” she recalls.

With only two bottles of drinking water and a block of ice available, she carefully rationed her supplies although she used precious ice to cool her feet.

Showering and using the bathroom became challenges, she says, describing how she ordered expensive bottled water online and used two bottles just to shower.

Now, after months of unpredictable outages, Fatemeh has a survival routine: storing water in multiple containers, pouring it into her evaporative cooler when cuts occur and tossing blocks of ice into vents during extreme heat.

When both the water and electricity go, she says it “feels like having a fever” and she soaks towels in her stored water to press them against her body for relief.

The balcony offers no escape. The air outside remains hotter than indoors, even at night.

Ripple effect

The infrastructure crisis extends beyond household inconveniences and is threatening livelihoods across the economy as offices and retail shops are forced to close for hours or for the day.

The repeated shutdowns and the economic pinch they cause could lead to layoffs, affecting families who depend on these jobs.

Small businesses face particular challenges.

Pastry shop owners have shared videos of themselves throwing spoiled cakes away after refrigerators fail.

Remote work, promoted as a solution, becomes impossible when homes lack both electricity and internet connectivity.

Shahram, a 38-year-old software company manager, says he has to send his employees home sometimes.

“Power cuts usually occur between 12 and 5pm,” he says. “That coincides with peak work hours, … [so] if  the power cuts happen at 2, 3 or 4pm, I usually send everyone home because there’s no point. By the time power comes back, it is the end of their working day.”

Experts attribute the energy crisis to insufficient investment, failure to adopt new technologies – both of which are influenced by international sanctions – and unsustainable consumption.

Mohammad Arshadi, a water governance researcher and member of the Strategic Council of the Tadbir-E-Abe Iran think tank, agrees, saying Iran’s water crisis requires fundamental changes in consumption patterns.

While natural scarcity has been amplified by climate change, he says the main reason behind the current problem is how water is being used in Iran.

Expansion of water-intensive farming, large industries and urban sprawl have “fuelled the runaway growth of water demand”, he says.

Uncertainty

Back in her apartment, Sara continues checking her phone each morning, adjusting her schedule like millions of Iranians who have learned to navigate this new reality.

For Fatemeh, the psychological adjustment proves as challenging as the practical adaptations. Each morning brings new uncertainty about whether water will flow from her taps or electricity will power her laptop.

In a country where citizens once took infrastructure for granted, a generation is learning to live with scarcity.

As Iran approaches another winter with unresolved water and energy deficits, the experiences of Sara, Fatemeh, Shahram and millions like them suggest that the country’s infrastructure crisis has moved beyond temporary inconvenience to become a defining feature of modern Iranian life.

This story was published in collaboration with @Egab. 

Dhaka, Bangladesh — On July 16, 2024, as security forces launched a brutal crackdown on student protesters campaigning against then-Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina’s increasingly authoritarian government, Bangladeshi rapper Muhammad Shezan released a song.

Titled Kotha Ko (speak up in Bangla), the song asked: “The country says it’s free, then where’s your roar?”

It was the day that Abu Sayed, a protester, was killed, becoming the face of the campaign to depose Hasina after 15 years in power. Sayed’s death fuelled the public anger that led to intensified protests. And Shezan’s Kotha Ko, along with a song by another rapper, Hannan Hossain Shimul, became anthems for that movement, culminating in Hasina fleeing Bangladesh for India in August.

Fast forward a year, and Shezan recently released another hit rap track. In Huddai Hutashe, he raps about how “thieves” are being garlanded with flowers – a reference, he said, to unqualified individuals seizing important positions in post-Hasina Bangladesh.

As the country marks the anniversary of the uprising against Hasina, protest tools that played a key role in galvanising support against the former leader have become part of mainstream Bangladeshi politics.

Rap, social media memes and graffiti are now also a part of the arsenal of young Bangladeshis looking to hold their new rulers accountable, just as they once helped uproot Hasina.

‘Do less drama, dear’

As mob violence surged in Bangladesh last autumn in the aftermath of Hasina’s ouster, a Facebook meme went viral.

It showed the familiar red and green seal of the Bangladesh government. But instead of the golden map of the nation inside the red circle, it depicted stick-wielding men beating a fallen victim.

The text around the emblem had been tweaked – in Bangla, it no longer read “People’s Republic of Bangladesh Government,” but “Mob’s Republic of Bangladesh Government”.

The satire was biting and pointed, revealing an uncomfortable side of post-Hasina Bangladesh. “It was out of this frustration that I created the illustration, as a critique on the ‘rule of mobs’ and the government’s apparent inaction,” said Imran Hossain, a journalist and activist who created the meme. “Many people shared it on social media, and some even used it as their profile picture as a quiet form of protest.”

After the student-led revolution, the newly appointed interim government under Nobel laureate Muhammad Yunus embarked on a sweeping reform agenda – covering the constitution, elections, judiciary and police.

But mob violence emerged as a challenge that the government struggled to contain. This period saw mobs attacking Sufi shrines and Hindu minorities, storming women’s football pitches, and even killing alleged drug dealers – many of these incidents filmed, shared and fiercely debated online.

“After the July uprising, some groups in Bangladesh – many of whom had been oppressed under the previous regime – suddenly found themselves with a lot of power. But instead of using that newfound power responsibly, some began taking the law into their own hands,” Hossain said.

As with rap songs, such memes had also played a vital role in capturing the public mood during the anti-Hasina protests.

After security officials killed hundreds of protesters on July 18 and 19, Sheikh Hasina was seen crying over damage to a metro station allegedly caused by demonstrators. That moment fuelled a wave of memes.

One viral meme said “Natok Kom Koro Prio” (Do less drama, dear), and was viral throughout the latter half of July. It mocked Hasina’s sentimental display – whether over the damaged metro station or her claim to “understand the pain of losing loved ones” after law enforcement agencies had killed hundreds.

Until then, ridiculing Sheikh Hasina had been a “difficult” act, said Punny Kabir, a prominent social media activist known for her witty political memes over the years, and a PhD student at the University of Cologne.

While newspaper cartoonists previously used to lampoon political leaders, that stopped during Hasina’s rule since 2009, which was marked by arrests of critics and forced disappearances, she said.

“To face off an authoritarian regime, it’s [ridiculing] an important and powerful tool to overcome fear and surveillance,” Kabir said. “We made it possible, and it broke the fear.”

‘If you resist, you are Bangladesh’

As fear of Sheikh Hasina faded from social media, more people found their voice – a reflection that soon spread onto the streets. Thousands of walls were covered with paintings, graffiti, and slogans of courage such as “Killer Hasina”, “Stop Genocide” and “Time’s Up Hasina”.

“These artworks played a big role in the protests,” said political analyst and researcher Altaf Parvez. “Slogans like ‘If you are scared, you’re finished; but if you resist, you are Bangladesh’ – one slogan can make all the difference, and that’s exactly what happened.

“People were searching for something courageous. When someone created something that defied fear – creative slogans, graffiti, cartoons – these became sources of inspiration, spreading like wildfire. People found their voice through them,” he added.

That voice did not go silent with Hasina’s departure.

Today, memes targeting various political parties, not just the government, are widespread.

One of Imran’s works uses a Simpsons cartoon to illustrate how sycophants used to eulogise Hasina’s family for its role in Bangladesh’s 1971 liberation war when she was in power. Now, the cartoon points out, loyalists of the opposition Bangladesh Nationalist Party (BNP)’s leader Khaleda Zia and her son Tarique Rahman are trying to flatter their family for their contribution to the country’s independence movement. Hasina’s father, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, led the freedom struggle, while Zia’s husband Ziaur Rahman was a senior army officer who announced the country’s independence on March 27, 1971.

Another meme from a popular Gen-Z Facebook page called WittiGenZ recently highlighted allegations of sexual misconduct by a leader of the National Citizen Party (NCP) – a party formed by Bangladesh’s students.

What comes next for political art in Bangladesh?

Political analysts in Bangladesh believe the tools that contributed to toppling Sheikh Hasina will continue to be relevant in the country’s future.

“Memes and photo cards in Bangladesh essentially do what X does in the West. They provide the most effective short-form political commentary to maximise virality,” said US-based Bangladeshi geopolitical columnist Shafquat Rabbee.

Bangladesh’s central bank unveiled new banknote designs inspired by the graffiti created by students during last July’s monsoon uprising, a nod to the art form’s widespread popularity as a means of political communication.

And rap, Rabbee said, found a natural entry in Bangladeshi politics in 2024. In Bangladesh’s context, back in July 2024, political street fighting became a dominant and fitting instrument of protest against Hasina’s repressive forces, he said.

The artists behind the songs say they never expected their work to echo across Bangladesh.

“I wrote these lyrics myself,” Shezan said, about Kotha Ko. “I didn’t think about how people would respond – we simply acted out of a sense of responsibility to what was happening.”

As with Shezan’s song, fellow rapper Hannan’s Awaaz Utha also went viral online, especially on Facebook, the same day – July 18 – that it was released. “You hit one, 10 more will come back,” a line said. As Hasina found it, they did.

The rappers themselves also joined the protests. Hannan was arrested a week after his song’s release and was only freed after Hasina resigned and fled to India.

But now, said Shezan, rap was there to stay in Bangladesh’s public life, from advertising jingles to lifestyle. “Many people are consciously or subconsciously embracing hip-hop culture,” he said.

“The future of rap is bright.”

In April 2025, a familiar tension resurfaced on the global trade stage. The United States, through its 2025 National Trade Estimate (NTE) report, criticized Indonesia’s national QR payment system, QRIS (Quick Response Code Indonesian Standard), and its domestic payment network GPN for allegedly restricting access to foreign firms like Visa and Mastercard. This came at a politically sensitive moment: just as the U.S. announced a 32% reciprocal tariff on Indonesian goods—a move temporarily suspended by the Trump administration for 90 days starting April 9, 2025 (Office of the United States Trade Representative, 2025).

At the center of this trade dispute is a quiet yet transformative success story: Indonesia’s regulator-led push to unify, simplify, and democratize digital payments. While the U.S. frames QRIS as protectionist, many in the Global South see it differently. They see it as sovereignty in code form—a model where innovation doesn’t only emerge from Silicon Valley, but from sovereign policy designed with inclusion, affordability, and national interoperability at its core.

QRIS, launched in 2019 by Bank Indonesia, now boasts over 50 million users and 32 million merchants—92% of whom are MSMEs. Its impact is visible not only in transaction volumes but in the radical reshaping of Indonesia’s informal economy. Through a single interoperable QR standard, QRIS reduced barriers for small vendors, brought millions into the financial system, and enabled digital literacy at scale (Bank Indonesia, 2025; QRIS Interactive, 2025). Features like QRIS TUNTAS and QRIS Antarnegara extend its utility to ATM-like services and cross-border payments with neighboring ASEAN countries (“Riset Sukses QRIS Indonesia”, 2025).

Today, QRIS is accepted not only across Indonesia but also in partner countries including Malaysia, Thailand, Singapore, the Philippines, Vietnam, Laos, Brunei Darussalam, Japan, and South Korea. These regional agreements strengthen QRIS as a payment bridge across Asia, facilitating tourism, trade, and local currency settlements.

In contrast to the U.S. critique, QRIS represents a strategic choice to design for dignity rather than dependence. The lesson here is not anti-global—it is about asserting a model of digital governance where financial infrastructure, when governed wisely, can serve local resilience while remaining open to fair, mutually beneficial cooperation.

In fact, the Indonesian government has consistently expressed openness to global firms—including Visa and Mastercard—being part of the QRIS ecosystem. This reflects a collaborative model that embraces interoperability and innovation, as long as it aligns with the public interest and meets the nation’s inclusive development goals. The QRIS story shows that sovereignty and openness can coexist, and that digital payment systems can be built on principles of both equity and cooperation.

For the Global South, Indonesia’s QRIS success offers five strategic lessons:

1. Lead with Policy, Not Platforms: Innovation doesn’t have to be outsourced. Sovereign institutions can shape markets when they prioritize public interest over private monopolies.
2. Standardize Early to Scale Fast: Mandating one interoperable code simplified adoption, removed friction, and prevented early-stage fragmentation.
3. Subsidize the Small: By waiving merchant fees for low-value transactions, QRIS made itself indispensable to micro-enterprises.
4. Adaptation Is Innovation: QRIS kept evolving, integrating ATM functions, enabling cross-border payments, and responding to real-world behaviors.
5. Sovereignty Is Not Isolation: Building domestic rails doesn’t mean closing doors. It means entering global trade with stronger footing.
6. Data Inclusion Enables Policy Precision: By digitizing informal transactions, QRIS generates more accurate data flows across sectors. This improves transparency, tracks real-time economic activity—especially in the informal sector—and strengthens the foundation for evidence-based policymaking.

This trajectory stands in marked contrast to two other Global South giants: India and China.

In India, the Unified Payments Interface (UPI), launched by the National Payments Corporation of India (NPCI), created a real-time payment system that integrates bank accounts across providers. Its success stems from similar government-led standardization, free or minimal transaction fees, and integration into flagship digital initiatives. UPI has become central to India’s financial inclusion drive, particularly among underbanked rural populations (IJFMR, 2025; NPCI, 2025).

Meanwhile in China, QR payment adoption exploded via a different route: commercial super-apps. Alipay and WeChat Pay dominated over 93% of the market by 2019, offering frictionless experiences integrated into social media and e-commerce platforms. However, their dominance led to walled gardens, until government intervention in 2017 required all non-bank QR transactions to be cleared through a centralized clearinghouse known as Wanglian (REI Journal, 2025; Toucanus Blog, 2025).

This comparison reveals not just different models, but different philosophies:

• Indonesia and India: regulator-first, interoperability by design, competition fostered between diverse providers.
• China: market-first, innovation by dominance, regulation applied retroactively to rein in systemic risk.

As financial digitalization accelerates worldwide, the choice is no longer between Silicon Valley or state control. The new frontier lies in hybrid governance models rooted in public interest, where local needs shape global partnerships. QRIS is not perfect, but it proves a crucial point: the Global South can chart its own fintech path—inclusive, interoperable, and sovereign—while still welcoming collaboration.

The key is to ensure that such collaborations are not extractive, but mutual. Interoperability with foreign systems can and should be pursued, as long as it doesn’t compromise local resilience or digital sovereignty. Rather than rejecting international cooperation, Indonesia’s QRIS shows how it can be done on equal terms—answering local priorities first.

For many nations in the Global South, digital public infrastructure like QRIS offers not just a financial tool, but a social mission. It is directly aligned with ESG and SDG narratives—advancing financial inclusion, reducing poverty, and promoting economic equity at the last mile. As such, future cooperation—whether with international firms or multilateral agencies—must serve this broader vision: technology as a lever for dignity, not dependency.

And sometimes, that path starts with a simple square of black-and-white code.