Financiarización, turistificación y transformación del espacio residencial

La turistificación se ha descrito como “un proceso en el que el espacio se produce con fines turísticos, lo que implica un cambio en la naturaleza y el uso de barrios enteros”. Este proceso puede transformar los espacios residenciales en infraestructuras diseñadas principalmente para el turismo, modificando el carácter y la función de los barrios y afectando a “los servicios que una población más permanente necesita para su vida cotidiana”.

Estos procesos están estrechamente relacionados con la financiarización de la vivienda, un proceso que Hohmann señala que está en auge en la economía política mundial. La financiarización representa un cambio desde la concepción de la vivienda como hogar y como base de la comunidad hacia su consideración como un medio para generar y acumular riqueza financiera.

Esta transformación puede debilitar el papel que desempeña la propiedad residencial en la sostenibilidad de las familias y las comunidades. Ciudades como Barcelona, Atenas y Venecia han recibido una considerable atención académica en este contexto.

También pueden observarse dinámicas similares en Santiago de Compostela, Galicia, donde el crecimiento del turismo ha contribuido a la transformación de barrios residenciales en zonas cada vez más orientadas hacia los visitantes. Esto ha ido acompañado de una proliferación de tiendas de recuerdos y de un declive de los servicios y actividades cotidianos para los residentes.

Estas cuestiones no se limitan a las zonas urbanas. Las comunidades rurales también se ven cada vez más afectadas por la interacción de los procesos de turistificación y financiarización, con consecuencias que van más allá de la asequibilidad de la vivienda y afectan a la sostenibilidad cultural y lingüística de las comunidades.

Turistificación y comunidades lingüísticas

La financiarización y la consiguiente turistificación de regiones que históricamente han sido centros de lenguas minorizadas plantean preocupaciones en relación con el patrimonio lingüístico. Cuando la vivienda se orienta cada vez más hacia el alojamiento vacacional o la inversión, las personas que desean vivir y trabajar permanentemente en estas comunidades encuentran mayores dificultades para acceder a una vivienda asequible. Esto puede afectar a la capacidad de las comunidades para mantener sus prácticas lingüísticas y culturales.

Un ejemplo puede encontrarse en las regiones de Gaeltacht de Irlanda, donde el irlandés es la principal lengua de la comunidad. En estas zonas, la proliferación de viviendas vacacionales y la financiarización de la vivienda están limitando la disponibilidad de propiedades residenciales. Cuando los miembros de las comunidades de habla irlandesa no pueden acceder a una vivienda, también puede verse afectada su capacidad para mantener el irlandés como lengua comunitaria viva.

Preocupaciones similares surgen en algunas partes del Reino Unido, particularmente en Gales, donde la compra de segundas residencias y la conversión de viviendas residenciales en alojamientos turísticos de corta duración han contribuido a aumentar la presión sobre las comunidades locales, que tienen dificultades para acceder a una vivienda adecuada y asequible.

Reconsiderar la propiedad a través de su función social

Estos ejemplos demuestran la necesidad de reconsiderar la relación entre los derechos de propiedad y los derechos a la vivienda. En su excelente libro, Hohmann analiza en profundidad la relación entre la vivienda y los derechos de propiedad y proporciona una sólida base para examinar la propiedad desde la perspectiva de su función social. Su análisis también conecta con argumentos más amplios presentes en este debate, en particular los planteados por el Relator Especial de las Naciones Unidas Koldo Casla.

Según Hohmann, la función social de la propiedad concibe la propiedad no como un derecho en sí mismo, sino como una función social que existe para cumplir objetivos sociales, como el derecho a la vivienda. Esto cuestiona la concepción de la propiedad como un derecho absoluto que está “internamente libre de restricciones” (internally unfettered), y sostiene, en cambio, que la propiedad está “inherentemente limitada” (inherently limited). A la luz de la aportación de Hohmann, podemos considerar hasta qué punto los usos financieros y turísticos de la propiedad residencial pueden encontrar un límite en la sostenibilidad y viabilidad de la vida social, cultural y económica de las comunidades.

Financialisation, Touristification and the Transformation of Residential Space

Touristification has been described “as a process in which space is produced for tourist purposes, involving a shift in the nature and use of entire neighbourhoods.” This can transform residential spaces into infrastructures designed primarily for tourism, changing the character and function of neighbourhoods, and impacting “the services that a more permanent population need for their everyday lives.”

These developments are closely connected to the financialisation of housing, a process that Hohmann notes is increasing in the global political economy. Financialisation represents a shift from understanding housing as a home and a basis for community, towards treating it as a means of generating and storing financial wealth. This transformation can weaken the role that residential property plays in sustaining families and communities. Cities such as Barcelona, Athens, and Venice have received considerable academic attention in this context.

Similar dynamics can also be observed in Santiago de Compostela, Galicia, where the growth of tourism has contributed to the transformation of residential neighbourhoods into areas increasingly oriented towards visitors. This has been accompanied by an overabundance of souvenir shops and a decline in everyday life for permanent residents.

These issues are not confined to urban areas. Rural communities are also increasingly affected by the overlapping processes of touristification and financialisation, with implications that extend beyond housing affordability to the cultural and linguistic sustainability of communities.

Touristification and Linguistic Communities

The financialisation and ensuing touristification of regions which have historically been centres of minoritised languages raise concerns regarding linguistic heritage. Where housing becomes increasingly oriented towards holiday accommodation or investment, people who wish to live and work in these communities permanently face greater difficulty accessing affordable housing. This can affect the capacity of communities to sustain their linguistic and cultural practices.

An example can be seen in the Gaeltacht regions of Ireland, where the Irish language is the main community language. In these areas, the prevalence of holiday homes and the financialisation of housing is limiting the availability of residential properties. When members of Irish-speaking communities are unable to access housing, the capacity of those communities to sustain Irish as a living community language may be affected.

Similar concerns arise in parts of the UK, particularly in Wales, where the purchases of second homes and the conversion of residential homes into short-term tourism accommodation have contributed to pressures on the local community as they struggle to access affordable, adequate housing.

Reconsidering Property Through Its Social Function

These examples demonstrate the need to reconsider the relationship between property rights and housing rights. In her excellent book, Hohmann interrogates the relationship between housing and property rights and provides a strong basis for examining property through the lens of its social function. Her analysis also resonates with broader arguments in this debate, particularly those advanced by the UN Special Rapporteur Koldo Casla.

According to Hohmann, the social function of property conceives of property not as itself a right, but as a social function that exists to fulfil social aims, such as the right to housing. This challenges the understanding of property as an absolute right which is “internally unfettered”, but instead argues that property is “inherently limited.” In light of Hohmann’s contribution, we can consider the extent to which financial and touristic uses of residential property may find a limit in the sustainability and viability of the social, cultural, and economic life of communities.

International human rights standards make clear that an NHRI’s effectiveness depends substantially on its institutional design. The Paris Principles require NHRIs to have a broad human rights mandate, adequate investigative powers, pluralistic composition, transparent appointment arrangements, sufficient resources, and guarantees of independence. These safeguards are intended to prevent executive capture and ensure that an NHRI can investigate abuses, even when allegations involve the government itself. Compliance also determines whether an NHRI receives “A Status” accreditation from the Global Alliance of National Human Rights Institutions (GANHRI), enabling independent participation before the UN Human Rights Council and treaty-monitoring bodies. Bangladesh has yet to obtain this status because of longstanding concerns regarding the NHRC’s independence and effectiveness.

Bangladesh’s National Human Rights Commission Act 2009 established the country’s first NHRI, but its effectiveness has long been questioned because of its limited investigative powers and perceived executive influence. Seeking to address these shortcomings, the Interim Government enacted the National Human Rights Commission Ordinance 2025 following consultations with more than 600 stakeholders, including human rights defenders, victims, legal academics, judges, civil society organizations, and the United Nations Development Programme (UNDP). The Ordinance expanded the Commission’s authority to investigate allegations against security forces, strengthened safeguards against arbitrary removal of commissioners, introduced a more pluralistic appointment process, and designated the NHRC as Bangladesh’s National Preventive Mechanism following ratification of the Optional Protocol to the Convention against Torture (OPCAT).

That momentum was interrupted when Parliament repealed the Ordinance in April 2026, temporarily restoring the 2009 Act before publishing the National Human Rights Commission Bill, 2026, on 7 June 2026. A coalition of thirteen international organisations led by Human Rights Watch, together with Transparency International Bangladesh (TIB), contends that the Bill retreats from several safeguards introduced by the 2025 Ordinance and falls short of the Paris Principles. Their concerns centre on an appointment process that could strengthen executive influence, weaker safeguards for pluralistic representation, and investigative powers that may constrain the Commission’s independence in scrutinising law enforcement and security agencies. If these concerns are borne out in the final legislation, Bangladesh’s prospects of achieving GANHRI “A Status” may remain uncertain.

The debate, however, is larger than one Bill. It concerns whether constitutional rights can be meaningfully protected without an institution capable of investigating the State independently. As Bangladesh seeks to reinforce its international human rights commitments and democratic institutions, the ultimate measure of the NHRC will be whether it enjoys the independence, authority, and public confidence necessary to hold power accountable. The effectiveness of the 2026 framework will therefore be measured not merely by the powers formally granted to the Commission, but by whether those powers are accompanied by the institutional safeguards necessary to ensure genuine independence in practice.

In its decision, the Supreme Court rejected respondents’ contention that a generalised ban is unconstitutional as applied to transgender girls—such as B.P.J.—who have never undergone endogenous puberty and whose development was shaped by puberty blockers or cross‑sex hormones. The Court explained, “the State is not constitutionally required to grant individualised exemptions to specific athletes or subclasses.” Granting exemptions, the Court noted, would cause “enormous practical and administrability problems,” requiring  judges without medical expertise to evaluate hormone effects against biological norms. The Court set aside B.P.J.’s proffered scientific evidence showing that trans-females on puberty blockers retain no competitive athletic advantage over biological females. The Court evaluated the challenge under intermediate scrutiny, a form of heightened scrutiny used by US courts for sex-based discrimination under the Equal Protection Clause. To withstand intermediate scrutiny, the sex-based classification “must serve important governmental objectives” and “be substantially related to achievement of those objectives”. The Court concluded that the state’s sex-based classification satisfied this standard by advancing safety, fairness, and equal opportunity for female athletes, reasoning that permitting biological males to compete disadvantages women by reducing their athletic success, roster spots, or medals.

In her dissent, Justice Sotomayor took issue with the Court leaving unresolved whether transgender girls like B.P.J. are similarly situated to cisgender girls, and whether a blanket classification is the right fit for promoting state interests in safety and fairness. Sotomayor argued that, amidst scientific uncertainty, the majority gave West Virginia conclusive deference by misapplying precedents, citing extra-record evidence, and ignoring critical context because it was legally inconvenient. It is worth noting that this decision stems from President Donald Trump’s February 2025 executive order on Title IX , which prompted sports organisations such as the IOC, the USOPC, and the NCAA to restrict transgender participation. Besides potential political influences, the decision highlights the critical flaw of intermediate scrutiny: its failure to balance competing interests.  The Court evaluated only whether the law was substantially related to achieving fair, safe, and equal opportunities for female athletes. Under this standard, courts do not determine whether a law curtails equality more than necessary, nor do they weigh public benefits against the costs inflicted on transgender athletes, including the loss of community, peer relationships, discipline, and belonging that come with team sports.

It is interesting to consider how this case might have been decided under the principle of proportionality adopted by the European Courts, such as the CJEU and the ECHR. Under proportionality, courts assess the suitability of a measure for achieving its objective, select the least restrictive option regarding the rights at stake, and balance those rights to avoid an unjustified sacrifice. In recent decisions – Deldits and Shipova – the CJEU protected gender identity as an expression of the fundamental rights to private life and personal integrity, applying proportionality to evaluate whether a rule imposed an excessive burden on the individual. Applying the proportionality test, while the laws banning transgender athletes from female sports are suitable to achieve legitimate goals—promoting equal athletic opportunities, safety and competitive fairness—it remains critical to assess whether these laws constitute the least restrictive means and whether a proportionate balance exists between social benefits and individual harm. The laws likely fail the least restrictive means test, since less harmful options, such as case-by-case assessments by schools using individualised approaches, would suffice. Transgender students could join teams matching their gender identity if schools determine participation would not compromise fairness or safety. Assessments should consider the student’s age, the sport (contact versus non-contact), competition level, gender-affirming healthcare history, and specific sex characteristics. Even if the laws had satisfied necessity, categorical exclusions fail proportionality in the narrow sense because a blanket ban imposes an excessive burden relative to the legislative objective. The pursuit of competitive fairness, safety, and equal athletic opportunities (including college scholarships) is essential for biological females. However, a proportionate balance cannot support a total ban across middle-school through college levels, regardless of physical characteristics, sport type, or competitive level.  In the U.S., sport holds immense social value, promoting physical and mental health by lowering anxiety and depression while enhancing social interaction through team competitions.

A more stringent standard of review, such as proportionality, might have led the Court to a less restrictive ruling, rather than upholding a generalised ban that entirely erases transgender athletes’ ability to participate in sport and fully express their gender identity.

The primary statute intended to combat caste-based violence, the Scheduled Castes and the Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989, punishes offences of atrocities committed by non-members of the SC/ST community. However, the Act lacks specific provisions prescribing aggravated measures or independent prosecutorial mechanisms for atrocities by police. The Status of Policing in India Report (SPIR) 2025 noted that the majority of police torture victims are from these marginalised communities. The SPIR also found that caste and religious affiliation often play a decisive role in shaping police perceptions and influencing their actions. The statutory vacuum provides victims with no remedy but to resort to general codes.

While Article 15 of the Indian Constitution prohibits discrimination, public law remedies under writ jurisdiction are inherently limited and can merely mandate departmental inquiries, quashing of arbitrary arrest or illegal detention orders, or financial compensation. For criminal prosecution under the general statute, the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, the victims have to encounter the formidable barrier of Section 218 of the procedural statute, the Bharatiya Nagarik Suraksha Sanhita, which mandates prior sanction from the concerned State or Central Government for prosecuting a public servant. It has been reported that investigations into the acts of public servants have historically been heavily delayed due to pending requests for prosecution sanctions. Therefore, such provisions result in granting de facto immunity to offending officers.

The CERD has also noted excessive use of force, extra-judicial killings, and sexual violence committed against ethnic groups during law enforcement operations under the Armed Forces Special Powers Act (AFSPA), 1958. A similar mechanism of institutionalized impunity exists under Section 6 of the AFSPA, which acts as a procedural bottleneck by mandating sanction from the Central Government to prosecute the armed forces for acts done under the Act. The Supreme Court in the case of Extra Judicial Execution Victim Families Association v. Union of India (2016) ordered investigations into the allegations of fake encounters of the ethno-religious community of Manipur committed by the armed forces. However, almost a decade after the judgment, the court-appointed commission has found six encounters to be unlawful, but their prosecutions have been stalled for want of sanction.

The procedural shield in the AFSPA has historically exacerbated gendered and ethnic violence, enabling systemic sexual abuse against ethnic women in disturbed areas. In 2004, women of Manipur, mainly the Meitei community, protested naked against incidents of sexual violence by the armed forces, holding banners reading “Indian Army Rape Us”. Incidents of sexual violence against women from the State’s ethnic communities have continued to surface during subsequent episodes of unrest, underscoring how little the underlying accountability structure has changed in the two decades since the protest.

These instances reveal that caste-based discrimination, ethnic cleansing through extra-judicial killings, and sexual violence on marginalised women by state actors are not isolated operational errors; they are structural outcomes of a legal architecture that prioritizes state immunity over victim justice. Therefore, the provision of prosecution sanction should be waived for the offences of extra-judicial killings and sexual violence by law enforcement officials. These are offences heinous enough that the ordinary justification for protecting public servants from vexatious prosecution simply does not hold.

Consequently, the government should adopt CERD’s core recommendations, crucially, establishing Police Complaints Authorities in all states and union territories, and conducting prompt and impartial investigations into allegations of human rights abuses against ethnic and tribal communities. India’s blanket rejection of the findings as “unsubstantiated allegations” falls flat when contrasted with the internal records, including domestic reports and judgments. Thus, rather than adopting a stance of denial, India must engage with these findings constructively by closing procedural loopholes and building a victim-centric legal framework.

In Hassan Khan, the survivor reported a sexual assault at gunpoint that resulted in pregnancy. The survivor delayed reporting the crime for seven months, leading the majority bench to hold that her silence “speaks volumes against her conduct” [para 5]. Overturning the lower courts’ rape convictions under Section 376 of the Pakistan Penal Code (PPC), the Supreme Court altered the conviction to Section 496-B PPC (Fornication).

The Protection of Women Act 2006 introduced Section 496-B PPC to separate rape from consensual sex outside of marriage (fornication), ensuring that a failed rape charge does not trigger an automatic prosecution for consensual sex. By treating an unproven rape claim as implicit mutual consent, the majority opinion revives the harmful spirit of the 1979 Zina Ordinance, where reporting rape meant risking prosecution if force was not proven. As Justice Salahuddin Panhwar noted in his dissent, failing to meet the high evidentiary threshold for rape should not lead to an automatic assumption of consent, which effectively penalizes the survivor for seeking legal recourse.

Furthermore, the majority’s reliance on a seven-month delay and the absence of physical marks of resistance reflects an outdated standard of proof oblivious to modern neurobiology. Trauma psychology demonstrates that survivors of severe violence frequently experience tonic immobility—a physiological state of paralysis—or delays in reporting caused by fear, social stigma, and threats, factors particularly evident in Pakistani society. Expecting a victim facing an armed perpetrator to raise an immediate outcry in a forest misapprehends how the human brain responds to trauma.

By substituting the conviction under Section 376 PPC with Fornication under Section 496-B PPC, the court inferred mutual consent from delayed reporting and lack of resistance. Although procedural constraints prevented the formal conviction of the complainant, the majority’s reasoning re-characterized her experience of sexual violence into an act of mutual guilt. This reliance on inferences to presume consent—while overlooking the scientific and contextual realities of trauma—reflects a failure of judicial due diligence that undermines fundamental principles of non-discrimination and gender justice.

Procedurally, courts often invoke Section 238 of the Code of Criminal Procedure (CrPC) to convict an accused of a minor offense when the major offense is not fully proven. However, Rape (Section 376 PPC) and Fornication (Section 496-B PPC) are not major and minor variants of a single spectrum. Rape is a crime of non-consent, whereas Fornication strictly requires wilful, mutual consent as an active legal ingredient. These offenses cannot be used interchangeably when the high evidentiary burden of rape is not met, as doing so violates fundamental principles of criminal justice.

Such a practice directly conflicts with Pakistan’s binding commitments under the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW). Under CEDAW General Recommendation No. 35, States bear a duty of care to exercise due diligence to prevent, investigate, and punish gender-based violence. When judicial proceedings rely on gender stereotypes regarding how a victim “should” react to trauma, they violate the prohibition against gender-based discrimination. This is particularly crucial in Pakistan, where such an approach reinforces a high barrier to justice in a system where the formal conviction rate for sexual assault remains abysmally low at 0.5%. It signals that navigating State apparatus carries the risk of legal penalization.

Statutory amendments alone cannot guarantee human rights if the judiciary creates mechanisms that bypass legislative intent. The State’s responsibility to protect all its citizens requires ensuring that judicial interpretation aligns with constitutional guarantees of non-discrimination (Article 25 of the Constitution of Pakistan). This mandates a judiciary that acts with procedural rigor, integrates science-backed arguments, and delivers verdicts contextually aware of the social realities confronting women.

Domestic Framework and International Commitments

India, being a signatory to ILO Conventions Nos. 29 and 105, is obligated to prohibit forced labour. This serves as the grundnorm for Article 23 of the Constitution, which prohibits all those practices that subjugate the vulnerable elements of society by prohibiting forced labour. Furthermore, the Bonded Labour System (Abolition) Act 1976 (“the 1976 Act”), supplemented by the NHRC 2021 Advisory and the updated version of the Standard Operating Procedure for Identification and Rescue of Bonded Labourers and Prosecuting of Offenders (2026),  provides for economic support to the freed bonded labourers. The Apex Court has also emphasised the need for economic as well as social rehabilitation for marginalised workers (Bandhua Mukti Morcha v Union of India 1984).

Legislative Vacuum and Implementation Challenges

Despite the existence of a comprehensive legislative framework, implementation remains weak. The District-Level vigilance committees, statutorily mandated under the 1976 Act, remain non-functional. Surveys for identification remain sporadic due to budgetary limitations, and inter-state coordination for migrant workers is non-existent. Even when the labourers are “rescued”, they receive minimal monetary aid – limited interim assistance of Rs. 20,000 and inadequate long-term support. Despite explicit warnings in the NHRC Advisory 2.0 (2021), bureaucratic delays in issuing release certificates and linking full compensation to trial outcomes deprive survivors of timely rehabilitation, further pushing them back into the cycle of debt and bondage.

These domestic gaps are particularly concerning, considering India’s international commitments. Article 8 of the ICCPR and Article 6 of the ICESCR, both ratified by India, prohibit forced labour; however, the misclassification of bonded labourers as voluntary workers, as noted in the recent NHRC hearing, prevents the invocation of the legislative provisions.

Way Forward: Strengthening Implementation and Accountability

Firstly, the district authorities, in coordination with the Central and State Governments, should institutionalise regular vigilance over high-risk industries through an audit supported by a public reporting mechanism to ensure accountability and transparency. Secondly, the development of inter-state coordination mechanisms would help track migrant workers and ensure rehabilitation without any constraints, thereby smoothing the entire process. Thirdly, rehabilitation schemes need to shift from economic reimbursement to skill development to stop the ongoing cycle of worker exploitation in the name of circumstances.

Fourthly, NHRC needs to focus on developing capacity-building programmes for police administration and labour officials to address the misclassification of bonded labourers and improve rescue operations. Finally, as India serves as a member of the UN Human Rights Commission (2026-2028), domestic reforms must prioritise the effective eradication of bonded labour. Significant progress in fulfilling international commitments under Article 8 of the ICCPR, Article 6 of the ICESCR and the ILO Conventions will enhance India’s international credibility and affirm its commitment towards the global prohibition of forced labour as a fundamental human right.

The doctrinal path to Harish Rana

Indian courts have long guarded against conflating a right to die with dignity with a general right to die. In Gian Kaur v State of Punjab, a Constitution Bench upheld Sections 306 and 309 of the Indian Penal Code, holding that Article 21 does not encompass a general right to die, while leaving open a narrower question, that of a dignified death for the terminally ill. Parliament later softened this position through Section 115 of the Mental Healthcare Act 2017, decriminalising attempted suicide. Additionally, Justice KS Puttaswamy v Union of India located bodily autonomy within Article 21, clearing a path for a narrower right: not to hasten death, but to refuse futile treatment and die without needless suffering.

Indian courts have long been wary of equating the right to die with dignity with a broad right to die. In Gian Kaur v State of Punjab, a Constitution Bench upheld Sections 306 and 309 of the Indian Penal Code, holding that Article 21 does not include a general right to die, leaving open a narrower question, that of a dignified death for the terminally ill. Later, Parliament softened this stance through Section 115 of the Mental Healthcare Act 2017, decriminalizing attempted suicide, and Justice KS Puttaswamy v Union of India placed bodily autonomy within Article 21, leading to a narrower right: not to hasten death, but to refuse futile treatment and die without unnecessary suffering.

In Aruna Ramchandra Shanbaug v Union of India, the Court permitted passive euthanasia in principle but required High Court approval case by case. The 241st Report of the Law Commission of India then recommended legislation, which Parliament never enacted. A Constitution Bench went further in Common Cause v Union of India, holding that the right to die with dignity is intrinsic to Article 21, validating living wills and prescribing a two tier medical board procedure, later simplified in 2023. The right remained theoretical, presupposing a competent patient or an executed living will.

In Harish Rana, Rana suffered a traumatic brain injury after falling from the fourth floor of his accommodation in 2013 and developed quadriplegia and was in a permanent vegetative state sustained through a PEG tube for over a decade. His parents sought a medical board to consider passive euthanasia, but in 2024 the Delhi High Court rejected the plea, reasoning that withdrawal would amount to starvation since Rana was not on mechanical ventilation. Medical boards later found his condition irreversible and withdrawal in his best interests, leaving the Supreme Court to decide: is artificial food and water always basic care, or can it become futile treatment that may lawfully be withdrawn?

A landmark shift, still incomplete

The Supreme Court reversed the High Court, holding that CANH requires clinical judgment and ongoing management of complications, and is therefore medical treatment rather than basic nursing care, falling within the Common Cause framework, a distinction previously echoed by the English House of Lords in Airedale NHS Trust v Bland. It also clarified the best interests test: the inquiry cannot be confined to whether treatment can biologically prolong life, but must weigh prognosis, the burdens and benefits of treatment, and the patient’s dignity as a whole. Crucially, withdrawal does not mean withdrawal of care, and the Court directed Rana’s admission to palliative care at AIIMS under a supervised plan.

This tracks the World Health Organization’s view that palliative care is core to the right to health under Article 12 of the ICESCR. In India, that promise remains largely unmet: nearly 7-8 million people require palliative care, but less than 4% can access it, and coverage stays concentrated in states such as Kerala while much of central and eastern India has almost none. A right to a dignified death, without accessible palliative care, risks becoming a right in name only.

Harish Rana transforms this right from principle into an operational one, yet the architecture remains incomplete. India still has no dedicated statute governing end-of-life decisions, and withdrawal rests on judicial safeguards rather than legislation. Implementation remains uneven, with several states yet to constitute the required medical boards. Thus, the Court has urged the Parliament to legislate, echoing decades-old recommendations.

Health rights are understood as requiring the state to preserve life, but Harish Rana shows the harder dimension: dignity sometimes requires recognising when treatment should end. Ensuring withdrawal is accompanied by palliative care rather than abandonment, the Court has placed dignity at the centre of end-of-life medicine, an obligation that, once medicine can no longer cure, becomes one of ensuring life’s final stage is governed by care and dignity.

From Consultation to Participation

International standards already contain elements of this participatory approach. Rule 50 of the European Prison Rules provides that prisoners should be allowed to discuss general conditions of imprisonment and are encouraged to communicate with prison authorities. The Nelson Mandela Rules draw an equally important boundary: prisoners must not be employed in a disciplinary capacity, although properly functioning systems of prisoner self-government are not prohibited. This distinction is important: participation should give detainees a voice in matters affecting their lives, without placing them in positions of authority over other detainees or transferring to them functions that remain the responsibility of the State. Together, these principles point towards participation without delegation of the State’s coercive authority.

Consultation asks people what they think. Participation gives them a defined opportunity to influence what happens next. The difference is not semantic. A consultation may end when information has been collected; meaningful participation requires feedback, a record of how views were considered, and an explanation when they were not followed. It does not give participants a veto, but it does create institutional accountability for listening.

Participation Across the Detention Cycle

The most immediate application concerns daily conditions of detention. People living in an institution know how formal rules operate in practice: when water is actually available, who can reach healthcare, how food is distributed, where intimidation occurs, and which complaint channels are trusted. Representative prisoner councils, confidential surveys, and issue-specific working groups can reveal problems that administrative data or short visits may miss. They can also help test practical solutions before scarce resources are committed.

Participation is equally important for rehabilitation and social reintegration. Reintegration programmes are often designed around the services available within the prison or criminal justice system, rather than starting from the practical obstacles people are likely to encounter after release.  Current and former prisoners can identify gaps in access to identity documents, housing, work, health care, family support and continuity of treatment. Their contribution can help shift reintegration from a standard package delivered before release to a pathway that reflects the realities encountered afterwards. The United Nations guidance on preventing recidivism and supporting social reintegration already emphasises the importance of community-based support; people who have navigated release should be recognised as part of the expertise needed to design it.

The same logic applies to alternatives to detention. A measure may appear proportionate on paper while being impossible to comply with in practice. Reporting obligations, travel restrictions, curfews or electronic monitoring may conflict with precarious work, care responsibilities, disability, or distance from public services. The Tokyo Rules require non-custodial measures to respect the rights of the person concerned and encourage community participation. Involving people who have experienced such measures can help determine whether an alternative genuinely reduces deprivation or merely relocates it outside prison walls.

Participation in Preventive Monitoring

The case for participation is especially strong under the Optional Protocol to the Convention against Torture (OPCAT). The OPCAT gives preventive bodies unrestricted access to information and the opportunity to conduct private interviews with persons deprived of their liberty. These interviews are indispensable. But they usually position detainees as sources from whom monitors obtain information, rather than as partners who can also improve the questions asked, the risks prioritised and the recommendations followed up.

National Preventive Mechanisms could involve people with lived experience at several stages without compromising their independence. Former detainees and representative organisations could advise on thematic priorities, review the accessibility of interview methods and complaint procedures, and identify issues that outsiders may overlook. After visits, safe and confidential forms of engagement could help assess whether recommendations have changed daily reality. In selected contexts, people with lived experience could also contribute as trained external experts. Practice in mental-health monitoring already shows the value of including monitors with lived experience, who may recognise hidden barriers and make it easier for detainees to discuss sensitive concerns.

This would not transform detainees into inspectors of the institutions holding them. Nor should participation replace private interviews, independent professional judgment, or confidential monitoring. Its purpose is to complement them by ensuring that preventive methodologies are informed not only by legal and professional expertise, but also by knowledge generated through detention itself.

Making Participation Safe and Meaningful

Participation in closed institutions carries obvious risks. Prisoners may be selected by the administration because they are considered cooperative, while women, foreign nationals, persons with disabilities, LGBTQI+ people and those in high-security or segregated regimes remain unheard. Participants may face pressure from staff or other prisoners, and consultation fatigue may deepen mistrust when nothing changes. A visible role can also expose individuals to retaliation.

For these reasons, participation must be voluntary, informed, accessible and representative. It should use multiple channels rather than rely on a single prisoner representative. Furthermore, confidential options and safeguards against reprisals are essential. Participants should know the purpose and limits of the process, receive feedback on its outcomes, and be able to withdraw. Former detainees who contribute sustained expertise should be remunerated on the same basis as other experts. Above all, institutions should be able to show what changed as a result of participation.

The boundary with informal prison governance must also remain clear. Participation concerns voice, knowledge and influence; it must not entail control over discipline, access to rights, allocation of essential services, or the use of force. The State remains fully responsible for prison management and for protecting everyone in its custody.

Conclusion

Prevention depends on seeing risks before they become violations. People who live through detention often see those risks first, yet preventive systems tend to involve them only after experts have decided what to examine. Moving from testimony to participation would not solve every failure of detention policy, and it would not remove the need for independent oversight, adequate resources or State accountability. It would, however, improve the quality of each.

“Nothing about detention without detainees” should therefore be understood not as a slogan of institutional self-government, but as a principle of better prevention: those most affected by detention should have safe and meaningful ways to shape the policies, programmes and monitoring methods intended to protect their dignity.

The five principles are as follows. First, human rights are not top-down projects but forged in political claims and struggles emerging from below. Secondly, human rights must be guided by a commitment to substantive equality and questions of distribution. Thirdly, human rights must be decolonial and reparatory. As the author puts it: “Unredressed injustices echo through the generations” and demand “an adequate reckoning of these accounts.” (p 230) Fourthly, human rights push back against visions of the world which see everything as a commodity; instead, it insists upon a place for public goods. Fifthly, human rights must respect planetary boundaries and ecological limits. Hohmann rightly observes that this principle requires “an element of humility” (p 247).

The conclusion’s five principles resonate with my experience of social rights, especially the right to adequate housing. As Chief Human Rights Commissioner in Aotearoa New Zealand, I led a national human rights inquiry into what my colleagues and I called “the right to a decent home”. We worked closely with the National Iwi Chairs Forum, the lead organisation representing the Indigenous peoples of Aotearoa (Māori), as well as civil society organisations. The inquiry’s various reports rest upon Framework Guidelines on the right to a decent home in Aotearoa, which include a chapter on colonisation. The Framework Guidelines devote a section to the values that are embodied in human rights. These values endeavour to reflect the world views of both Māori and non-Māori. In her book, Hohmann gives careful attention to Indigenous peoples and housing. Her concluding principles chime with the Framework Guidelines.

After stepping down as Chief Commissioner, and inspired by Māori, I’ve tried to re-imagine human rights for our challenging times. Hohmann’s five principles help to point the way forward. Agreed, we need to engage with social movements emerging from below. We must take more seriously economic inequality and public goods (the ‘commons’). We need to grasp pluralistic (not only liberal) values. Indeed, our planetary limits are existential.

However, more collective thought is needed. Contrary to the liberal myth, human rights are not apolitical, so do we need to remove narrowly understood human rights from the limited, liberal world view and relocate re-imagined human rights in another political paradigm, such as participatory, democratic socialism?

And what to do about the corporate leviathans that threaten our planet and widen economic inequalities? For literally thousands of years, humanity has tried to devise arrangements for the democratisation of state public power, such as the separation of powers, an independent judiciary, free and fair elections, freedom of the press, other human rights, and so on. We’ve not solved the problem of undemocratic state power, but we have made some progress. What about the democratisation of corporate public power? The UN Guiding Principles on Business and Human Rights are a step in the right direction, but few commentators would argue that the Guiding Principles democratise corporate public power. Should the global human rights movement confront the immense challenge of democratically unaccountable corporate public power? Hohmann compellingly suggests it should.

This book makes a terrific contribution to the struggle for “a just housing future”. But it goes further than that. It helps us think about the future of human rights.