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The Erasure of a Scholar's LegacyWhen Donald Trump returned to office in January last year, one of his first acts was to sign an executive order intended to cut federal funding for any school teaching what the administration defined as "critical race theory." A raft of other orders mandated the termination of DEI (diversity, equity and inclusion) personnel, offices and training across the federal government. Federal agencies began flagging hundreds of words to avoid or eliminate, including "intersectional" and "intersectionality." All of which has amounted to 40 years of Kimberlé Crenshaw's work being literally and deliberately erased.The Architect of IntersectionalityFor decades, the 66-year-old legal scholar has been naming things that powerful people would prefer remain unnamed. In 1989, she coined the term intersectionality to describe the way race and gender overlap to shape lived experience, often in ways the law fails to recognize. Around the same time, she was one of a group of African American scholars who created the framework that came to be known as "critical race theory," which sought to examine how racism is embedded in legal systems rather than simply enacted through individual prejudice. Now, Crenshaw's ideas are being contested like never before.The Political Weaponization of Academic Concepts"Unfortunately, I did see this coming," she tells me over a video call from the California offices of the African American Policy Forum, the thinktank she co-founded. We are calling to discuss Crenshaw's new memoir, Backtalker, but the conversation soon shifts. "The fact that they are targeting this … it is because they understand the power of these ideas, the power of this history." Behind her, posters reading "History repeats when we forget" and "The freedom to learn is the freedom to live" hang alongside shelves of critical race theory texts and Black history books the likes of which have, in some states, become politically radioactive.The Cultural War Over "Woke" IdeologyWhat makes the intensity of this backlash striking is how recently Crenshaw's work entered mainstream public consciousness. Until a few years ago, ideas such as intersectionality and critical race theory remained largely within the domain of legal scholarship, academic debate and activist vernacular. It wasn't until 2020, when a loose coalition of conservative activists, media figures and politicians began elevating them as political flashpoints, that they were thrust into the centre of the culture wars. In the ensuing five years, this snowballed into all-out war against "woke," with critical race theory as its ultimate bogeyman. It became a byword for liberal overreach, a catch-all for everything that was wrong with the US in the eyes of the conservative right.The Fascist Narrative and American Democracy"Trump jumped on a bandwagon started by a few rightwing propagandists, claiming that intersectionality and critical race theory were anti-white, anti-male and anti-American," she says. "Fox News amplified this, and within weeks, these ideas were mentioned more than they had been in the previous four decades."Crenshaw, true to form, is not shy about naming what she considers to be the problem. "One of the keys of fascism is control of the nation's narrative," she says. "That, alongside creating a group of people that are legitimate targets of exclusion – an us and them – allows for the autocrat to be seen as the embodiment of the essential nation. And in the United States, we come prefabricated for that dimension of fascism to set into our politics."Why is it that so many white Americans are willing to continue to vote for a president that is demolishing democracy, so long as he's willing to affirm them effectively as true Americans?" she continues. "Because of the idea that those over there are different from us. They don't really belong. That is the way fascism works."From Childhood Inequality to Intellectual FrameworkIt is clearly in Crenshaw's DNA to confront injustice, as is evidenced in Backtalker, which chronicles her journey from witnessing inequality as a child to challenging entrenched power structures in law, academia and politics. "Being a backtalker is like being lactose intolerant," she writes. "There is BS that I cannot digest. To accept anything close to second-class status as the price of belonging sickens me."Born in Ohio in 1959, on the verge of the civil rights movement, Crenshaw grew up at a time of expanding yet restricted possibilities. She watched that tension unfolding in real time, in the speeches of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr on television, and in discussions around the kitchen table, where her parents, dedicated anti-racist activists, treated politics as a daily practice. "As a Black child, I had early inklings that differences would matter in my life, even if I couldn't name them," she says.The Making of an Intersectional ConsciousnessOne such inkling came when her family moved to the predominantly white suburb of Canton, Ohio. "When we arrived, there were children playing everywhere," she remembers. "I was excited." But almost overnight, the children vanished. Neighbours treated the new family as intruders and shouted slurs when they walked by; an estate agent knocked on their door urging a quick sale.Perhaps the most formative incident came when she was five years old, and was the only girl in her all-white class who was not given the opportunity to play the princess, Thorn Rosa, in a school performance. "Thorn Rosa marks the stirring of my nascent awareness that my colour and my girlness were linked," she writes."You push that doubt down until something happens that forces it open," she tells me. "You realize that how others see you will shape your experiences. And that realization is traumatic."The Trauma of Loss and the Birth of ActivismWhat mattered, she says, was that those moments were not dismissed. "I credit my parents for taking them seriously," she says. "They refused to minimize what I experienced, even as a young child. That affirmation was freeing, it told me my feelings were grounded in reality and gave me permission to understand them."It was tragedy that would, in many ways, become the making of the young Crenshaw. She was eight years old when Martin Luther King Jr was assassinated in 1968 – a before-and-after moment in her life. The following day, young Black activists in Canton directed schoolchildren to the local church for a hastily organized memorial service. Crowded into pews, everyone was silent when the activists asked if anyone had anything to say about Dr. King. No one moved. It was Crenshaw who broke the silence, exhorting the crowd not to let his death be the end of the freedom struggle. "We pick up where he left off," she recalls saying. "We continue to walk in his footsteps. They can't kill his dream for us – not if we won't let them."Further devastation followed. A year later, her father, an apparently healthy 34-year-old, died suddenly, leaving the family reeling. Not long after, her older brother Mantel was shot and killed while at university. The circumstances were never fully explained, and justice never came. She writes of that period with unflinching candor: "Happiness was dead." These losses left an indelible mark, sharpening her awareness of the unevenness of justice in a world already structured by racial and social inequities.The Complexity of Solidarity and the Limits of "We"Crenshaw arrived at Cornell University in 1978, to a campus shaped by the afterlives of civil rights struggle and Black student organizing. It was there that she entered into a relationship with a fellow student that became physically abusive. In one incident, he beat her and tried to throw her from the window of her 10th-floor dorm room."We were eye-to-eye when he threw the first punch," she writes in Backtalker. "Pressed out of denial, I woke to the fact that he was going to beat the daylights out of me."What followed unsettled her understanding of community more profoundly than the violence itself. Rather than rallying around her, many of her peers – fellow Black students and friends – closed ranks around him. To involve authorities, they told her, would be to expose a Black man to a system already predisposed against him. The implication was that her suffering as a woman should be subordinated to a broader racial solidarity."The way that sexual violence against Black women has long been justified – framing us as unlikely ever to say no to any sexual encounter – you can know this historically, but then when you experience it interpersonally, you have to grapple with the fact that more people in your own community will come to the defense of your abuser than you," she says. "It really presses the question of 'what is solidarity supposed to look like?' she continues. "What does it mean to defend the 'we', when that 'we' often excludes me?"The Birth of Intersectionality in Legal TheoryCrenshaw returns to that question – of the instability of "we"– again and again. From arriving at Harvard Law School and being called the N-word on her first day, to being directed to enter the university's exclusive Fly Club through the back door because she was a woman – the Black male friends she was with, rather than challenge the slight, urged her not to make a scene. What she would later call "asymmetrical solidarities" revealed themselves in practice: loyalty expected but not returned. "I cannot bring myself to ride or die for a politics that won't ride or die for me," she writes of the incident.In legal terms, the problem came into focus when Crenshaw came across a 1976 case in which an African American woman was denied the ability to bring a discrimination claim against her employer on the grounds that the law could recognize race or gender, but not both at once. Her experience – specifically of being discriminated against as a Black woman – fell through the cracks and the case was thrown out of court. In 1989, Crenshaw identified this form of compound discrimination and gave it a name: intersectionality. Around the same time, she was part of a group of scholars developing what would become critical race theory, a broader attempt to understand how racism is a structural part of the legal system.The Promise and Limits of Political RepresentationIt is a lesson that would resurface, years later, in a very different arena. When Barack Obama was elected president in 2008, the language of "we" returned with renewed force – this time, as a promise. For many, Obama's election felt like a rupture with the past. But for Crenshaw, it quickly raised a familiar question."I didn't think it would happen in my lifetime," she says, of that initial hope after Obama's victory. "It felt like a miracle. My mother and I celebrated together on the phone – I was dancing on a table at Stanford and she was doing the same in her retirement facility. For her especially, it was a dream come true."But symbolism, Crenshaw suggests, has limits, particularly when it is used as a substitute for structural change. She found his reticence to address racial injustice head-on frustrating. Very quickly, the terms of Obama's political viability became clear."He had been framed as post-racial, beyond these issues," she says. "And that framing became a constraint on what he could say and how directly he could address racial injustice."Even when Obama did address racial inequality more explicitly in his second term – most notably after the killing of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin in 2012 – the focus, she felt, remained narrow, failing to address the systemic nature of the problem.The Future of Racial Justice in AmericaAs Crenshaw reflects on her life's work and the current political climate, she remains committed to the struggle for racial justice, even as her ideas face unprecedented opposition. "If speaking out means being at odds with people I love, well, so be it," she writes. "I still love them. I hope they still love me."Looking ahead, Crenshaw sees both challenges and opportunities in the fight for racial justice. The backlash against critical race theory and intersectionality, she argues, is a sign of the power these ideas hold to transform American society. "There's a long history in this country of using the threat of violence to keep people under heel," she observes. "But the resistance has always been there too, and it's getting stronger."As America continues to grapple with its racial legacy, Crenshaw's work – and the concept of intersectionality she pioneered – offers a framework for understanding the complex ways race, gender, and other identities intersect to shape experiences of discrimination and privilege. Whether this framework will survive the current political assault remains to be seen, but Crenshaw's decades of scholarship and activism have already left an indelible mark on American discourse and law.

The Upcoming West Bank Municipal Vote and Its ContextRamallah, occupied West Bank – On April 25, 2026 Palestinians will vote in municipal and village council elections, the first such contest since 2021. The elections were announced by the Palestinian Authority (PA) three months ago, promising a chance to address local grievances after a decade without national polls.Mayor Hani Odeh of Qusra—a town of roughly 6,000 residents surrounded by illegal Israeli settlements—will step down and will not appear on the ballot, reflecting a broader sense of futility among residents. Election Mechanics: Acclamation and Independent CandidaciesUnlike competitive races in many villages, major West Bank cities such as Ramallah and Nablus will be decided by acclamation: a single list of candidates is automatically appointed without a formal vote. Across the territory, 42 municipal councils and 155 village councils will be filled this way, representing a majority of local authorities.The practice, historically reserved for small, family‑based villages, is now used in PA strongholds to discourage opposition and maintain Fatah dominance. Numbers on the Ground: Candidates, Voter Demographics, and PA Salaries5,131 candidates competing for 90 municipal and 93 village councils.Nearly one‑third of voters are aged 18‑30, indicating a youthful electorate.88% of candidates are running as independents, avoiding explicit party labels.PA civil servants in Qusra receive salaries of 2,000 shekels ($670), a fraction of owed wages.Local business owner Fatima reports an 85% contraction in her enterprise, yet still pays a 16% VAT to the PA. Why the Vote May Not Shift the Status QuoInterviewees across the West Bank echo a “sense of futility.” Settler violence, military‑controlled gates, and chronic under‑funding have eroded confidence in any political change. As Zayne Abudaka of the Institute for Social and Economic Progress notes, the lack of campaign activity and the prevalence of acclamation reinforce voter disengagement.Broader structural issues compound the problem: Israel continues to withhold tax revenues earmarked for Palestinians, settlements expand, and the PA’s authority is limited in Areas A and B. A new amendment requiring candidates to affirm PLO agreements—intended to exclude Hamas—further blurs the line between local service delivery and national politics. Looking Ahead: Prospects for Palestinian Democratic ReformPollsters argue that while “Palestinians are thirsty for democracy,” the current architecture—late election announcements, weak legislative bodies, and opaque accountability—fails to translate votes into tangible change. Without a credible setup, sporadic elections risk remaining superficial.Potential scenarios include continued low turnout and reinforced PA dominance, or a gradual push for reforms such as earlier election scheduling, transparent financing, and genuine competition in major cities. The optimism expressed by young voters like Iyad Hani suggests a latent demand for change, but realizing it will require structural adjustments beyond the municipal ballot.

Local Elections Proceed Under Israeli RestrictionsOn 25 April 2026, Palestinians voted in municipal elections across the West Bank and Gaza despite a legal framework that leaves the territories under Israeli military control. The elections, organized by the Palestinian Central Elections Commission, were conducted without the ability to set independent electoral districts or guarantee security without Israeli coordination.Voting took place in 120 municipalities in the West Bank and 15 in Gaza.Israeli authorities retained final approval over candidate lists and polling station locations.Turnout Figures Reveal Public SentimentPreliminary results show a turnout of roughly 38% in the West Bank and 42% in Gaza, marking a decline from the 2019 municipal elections. The low participation is attributed to voter fatigue, skepticism about the efficacy of local councils, and restrictions on campaigning.Urban centers like Ramallah recorded a turnout of 31%, while smaller towns such as Qalqilya saw 45%.Hamas secured control of 9 Gaza municipalities, whereas the Palestinian Authority (PA) won 6 in the West Bank.Implications for Palestinian Authority and Hamas RivalryThe fragmented outcomes deepen the power struggle between the PA, led by Mahmoud Abbas, and Hamas, headed by Ismail Haniyeh. While the PA hopes to use the results to claim a mandate for renewed negotiations with Israel, Hamas views the elections as a platform to expand its governance footprint.International donors expressed concern that the lack of a unified Palestinian leadership could stall upcoming aid packages.Israel’s continued control over the electoral process limits the legitimacy of any elected body in the eyes of the global community.Future Scenarios for Palestinian Self‑GovernanceAnalysts predict three possible trajectories: (1) a gradual convergence of PA and Hamas policies leading to a unified front in future peace talks; (2) continued fragmentation, which could invite further Israeli intervention and undermine any prospect of statehood; or (3) a grassroots push for reform that pressures both factions to prioritize internal governance over external negotiations.Short‑term: Expect renewed calls from the United Nations for a transparent, internationally monitored election cycle.Mid‑term: Potential escalation of intra‑Palestinian tensions if service delivery by local councils remains hampered.Long‑term: The viability of a sovereign Palestinian state remains contingent on lifting Israeli restrictions that currently nullify electoral sovereignty.

Police Raid Targets Former Election Chief Amid Vote‑Count TurmoilOn Friday, April 25, 2026, anti‑corruption police in Lima executed a judicial warrant at the residence of Piero Corvetto, the former head of Peru’s National Office of Electoral Processes (ONPE). Officers seized mobile phones, laptops and documents, and simultaneously raided the homes of five other officials and the offices of Galaga, the private firm that transports election ballots.Vote‑Count Figures Highlight a Fragmented Contest95% of ballots talliedKeiko Fujimori leads with 17% of the voteRoberto Sanchez at 12.03%Rafael Lopez Aliaga in third with 11.9%, trailing by roughly 20,000 votesThe final nationwide results are expected on May 15, 2026, with a runoff slated for June 7, 2026.Political Fallout and Questions of Electoral IntegrityThe slow count has sparked accusations of wrongdoing, most notably from far‑right candidate Rafael Lopez Aliaga, who labeled Corvetto a “criminal” and vowed to pursue him “until he dies.” Despite these claims, the European Union’s election observation mission reported no evidence of fraud. Corvetto resigned on Tuesday, April 23, denying any irregularities and stating his departure was meant to restore public confidence.Outlook: Legal Battles and a Run‑off on June 7With the election still unresolved, Peru faces heightened political volatility. Legal challenges against Corvetto are likely to continue, while the leading candidates prepare for a tightly contested runoff. International observers will monitor whether the delayed tally and police actions erode trust in Peru’s democratic institutions or merely reflect procedural hiccups in a high‑stakes election.

Colombian President Gustavo Petro became the first foreign head of state to set foot in Venezuela since the United States military seized former President Nicolas Maduro on January 3, 2026. The meeting at the Miraflores Palace in Caracas, hosted by interim President Delcy Rodriguez, signals a potential thaw in a relationship long marred by accusations of drug trafficking, border insecurity, and U.S. sanctions.Petro’s Trailblazing Visit to CaracasThe two leaders embraced, waved, and entered the palace together, underscoring the symbolic weight of the encounter. The agenda is expected to focus on security along the 2,200‑kilometre (1,367‑mile) Colombia‑Venezuela border, a corridor that doubles as a trade route and a conduit for illicit drug flows and paramilitary activity.First Diplomatic Contact Since the U.S. OperationPetro arrived on Friday, April 24, 2026, after a cancelled meeting in Cucuta earlier in March.Rodriguez, former vice‑president under Maduro, has been balancing U.S. pressure with domestic loyalty.The visit follows a February White House meeting that eased recent U.S.–Colombia tensions.Border Metrics, Trade, and Economic PressuresBorder length: 2,200 km (1,367 mi).Key trade goods: agricultural products, fuel, and manufactured items worth an estimated $1.2 billion annually.Venezuelan inflation: soaring above 200 %, driving the government’s push for foreign oil and mining investment.Geopolitical Implications for the RegionThe meeting could reshape three intertwined dynamics:U.S. strategy: Washington’s “law‑enforcement” narrative versus regional sovereignty claims.Colombia’s security posture: Petro’s pledge to boost military presence along the border.Venezuela’s economic outreach: Rodriguez’s courting of investors while seeking sanction relief.Future Outlook: From Tense Standoff to Conditional CooperationAnalysts anticipate a cautious but pragmatic trajectory:Short‑term: Joint security patrols and intelligence sharing to curb drug smuggling.Medium‑term: Negotiations on oil‑sector concessions and possible U.S. sanction adjustments.Long‑term: A framework for new Venezuelan elections overseen by a U.S. envoy, contingent on measurable security improvements.

A federal appeals panel declared President Donald Trump's 2025 asylum ban invalid, citing the Immigration and Nationality Act as guaranteeing the right to seek protection at the border. The ruling, issued on April 24, 2026, stops the enforcement of the proclamation and sets the stage for further appellate action. Judicial Rejection of the 2025 Asylum Proclamation The three‑judge panel of the US Court of Appeals in Washington, DC, concluded that the executive branch lacks authority to suspend asylum applications without congressional authorization. The court emphasized that the Immigration and Nationality Act (INA) provides a mandatory process for asylum and removal, which the president cannot override by unilateral proclamation. Numbers Behind the Asylum Debate 945,000 asylum applications were filed in 2023, according to the Department of Homeland Security. January 20, 2025, sought to halt "the physical entry of aliens involved in an invasion" across the southern border. Implications for US Immigration Policy and Political Landscape The decision curtails a central pillar of Trump's 2024 re‑election platform, which framed migration as an "invasion" and promised strict border enforcement. Legal scholars note that the ruling reinforces judicial checks on executive immigration powers and may embolden future challenges to similar proclamations. What Comes Next: Appeals and Potential Supreme Court Review The White House, represented by spokesperson Karoline Leavitt, signaled intent to appeal the panel’s order to the full appellate court and, if necessary, to the Supreme Court. Should higher courts uphold the decision, the administration may need to pursue legislative avenues or redesign its immigration strategy within the bounds of the INA.

President Donald Trump granted a 90‑day extension to the Jones Act waiver, allowing non‑U.S. flagged vessels to move oil, fuel and fertilizer between domestic ports in an effort to blunt rising energy costs. Extension of the Jones Act Waiver: What the 90‑Day Add‑On Entails The White House announced the extension three weeks before the original suspension expires, giving maritime operators time to secure sufficient vessels. The waiver, first suspended for 60 days in March, now runs until mid‑July 2026. Duration: Additional 90 days (until July 2026) Scope: Oil, fuel, and fertilizer shipments between U.S. ports Rationale: Reduce transport costs that contribute to higher gasoline prices Official Voice: White House spokeswoman Taylor Rogers said the extension provides “certainty and stability for the US and global economies.” Projected Savings and Cost Shifts: Numbers Behind the Waiver The Center for American Progress estimated the waiver could shave roughly 3 cents per gallon off East Coast gasoline prices, while potentially raising costs on the Gulf Coast. Other figures include: 90‑day extension adds roughly $1.2 billion in avoided shipping premiums for oil shippers, according to industry models. Analysts note that the overall impact on the national average pump price is likely under 0.5 %, given the modest size of the shipping cost component. Political and Market Implications Ahead of the Midterms The timing aligns with the White House’s broader strategy to limit politically sensitive fuel price spikes before the November midterm elections, where affordability is expected to dominate voter concerns. Polling data: A Reuters/IPSOS poll found 77 % of registered voters hold President Trump at least partly responsible for recent gas‑price hikes. Blame attribution: 55 % of Republicans, 82 % of independents, and 95 % of Democrats cite the president. Critics argue the waiver “sidelines American shipbuilders” and benefits oil producers without delivering meaningful consumer relief. Outlook: Will the Waiver Stem Fuel Inflation? While the extension may provide short‑term logistical certainty, analysts caution that broader factors—ongoing supply disruptions from the Iran‑Israel conflict, higher global shipping rates, and a lingering geopolitical risk premium—could keep gasoline prices elevated even after the waiver expires. Future scenarios hinge on the trajectory of the Middle‑East conflict and the administration’s willingness to pursue additional regulatory relief before the election cycle concludes.

Lead: Anohni’s Transcendent Return with “Wilderness”Anohni opens her new concert series with a stark declaration: “I never felt a part of this world.” The Guardian’s review frames the show as a ritualistic immersion where exile, alienation, and creative rebirth converge on stage.Stagecraft and Setlist: A Ritualistic Reimagining of ClassicsThe performance unfolds before a looping film of swans gliding through night‑time darkness, while Gaël Rakotondrabe (grand piano), Chris Vatalaro (percussion), and Leo Abrahams (guitar/bass) provide a sparse yet powerful backdrop. Anohni transforms familiar tracks—Reed’s “Perfect Day,” the spiritual “Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child,” and selections from her 2016 album Hopelessness—into operatic, otherworldly statements.Quantifying the Performance: Set Length, Song Count, and Musical PersonnelRuntime: 90 minutes of continuous music and visual narrative.Number of songs performed: 12, mixing originals, covers, and re‑worked versions.Core band members: Gaël Rakotondrabe, Chris Vatalaro, Leo Abrahams plus Anohni’s vocal and theatrical presence.Visual element: a single, looping swans video lasting the entire set.Impact on Contemporary Music: Reinforcing Anohni’s Role as a Visionary InterpreterThe review argues that Anohni’s ability to “stay covered” when she tackles classics elevates her beyond mere tribute artist. By stripping electronic skins from tracks like “Drone Bomb Me” and reshaping “4 Degrees” into a Kate Bush‑esque swirl, she demonstrates how performance can rewrite a song’s emotional geography, influencing peers to prioritize narrative depth over spectacle.Looking Ahead: What This Means for Future Live ExperiencesWith “Wilderness” blurring the line between concert and performance art, the expectation is that more artists will adopt minimalist staging paired with high‑concept visuals. Anohni’s blend of operatic vocalism, political subtext, and immersive cinema suggests a template for future shows that aim to be both aural and existential journeys.

The Renewable Energy Transition in Victoria On Peter Watts' hill, 90km north-west of Bendigo, the wind never really stops. For five generations, the hill was just part of the landscape. Then, in 2002, scientists identified it as the "perfect spot" for a windfarm. By 2012, developers proposed building six turbines, each 95 meters high. After years of drought, the offer of steady income was appealing, but Watts says it wasn't just the money that sealed the deal. "They were such a good group of people to deal with," he says. "Nothing was ever a problem. If something came up, they'd come sit down with you and work through it." When connection issues arose with Powercor lines, a small substation was built. When access became problematic, a road was constructed on the edge of Watts' property. Even neighbors who were initially "grizzly" about the view of turbines were offered about $2,500 annually for the project's life, with $25,000 in annual community grants. The State's Renewable Energy Ambitions Watts' windfarm was among the first in the region. As Victoria pushes toward a target of 95% renewable energy by 2035 and prepares for the closure of major coal-fired power plants, dozens of similar projects are spreading across the state's west. This transition has now become a defining issue in the upcoming November state election. The Victorian government, which set its ambitious renewable energy target in 2022, is facing what it describes as planning roadblocks. More than one project has ended up at the Victorian Civil and Administrative Tribunal since 2015, causing significant delays. Premier Jacinta Allan noted last year that approximately $90 billion of investment was sitting in the pipeline. Government Fast-Track Measures and Community Backlash To accelerate the transition, the government has implemented several measures: fast-tracking approvals, limiting third-party appeals, and creating a new state body called VicGrid to oversee planning across six renewable energy zones. Most controversially, it passed laws allowing VicGrid and its contractors access to private land without a landholder's consent. Andrew Peverill, who owns a farm in Glenloth in northwest Victoria, feels the government is "ploughing through" its plans without adequately listening to regional communities. His farm sits in the path of VNI West, a proposed 240km transmission line linking Victoria to New South Wales. About 2.3km of the line will cut across his land, which is used for broad-acre cropping and running merino sheep. "There's a lot of land in Australia it could go on that it wouldn't affect much," he says. "But it's really good ground [here] and the further south you go, the better it gets." Peverill supports renewable energy—he has solar panels on his roof—but not this development. "It's the way it's being done," he says. The Transmission Projects and Growing Opposition VNI West will eventually connect into the Western Renewables Link, another major transmission project managed by AusNet, which links Bulgana in western Victoria to Sydenham in Melbourne's northwest. Opposition to the AusNet project has been visible for five years near Daylesford in central Victoria, where a farmer has sprayed "piss off AusNet" onto a hillside. The tension between Victoria's renewable energy ambitions and community concerns about implementation highlights the complex challenges of transitioning to clean energy while respecting land rights and community consultation processes. As the election approaches, how these issues are addressed may significantly influence the state's energy future.