Sociology

When leaving isn't a choice, staying becomes one

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 24 Aug 2026 20:55:11 +0000

When leaving isn't a choice, staying becomes one Rachel Sauer Mon, 08/24/2026 - 14:55

Cody DeBos

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researchers ask who decides to stay behind when climate disaster strikes

“I don’t know when I floated to the river bank—but I survived. Remember, to live here, you have to be brave as crocodiles in water and tigers on land. But the peace of living here will not be found anywhere else.”

That’s how a grandmother in coastal Bangladesh once described surviving a flood to her 17-year-old granddaughter.

This type of survival knowledge, passed on from generation to generation, is one thread in a much larger tapestry of climate-driven migration. Lori Hunter, a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder professor of sociology and director of the Institute of Behavioral Science (IBS), has been working to better understand the phenomenon and how to support the people it affects.

Lori Hunter is a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder professor of sociology and director of the Institute of Behavioral Science.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, women are most commonly the ones who stay behind when disaster strikes. Hunter says this partially comes down to socialization and the process of “learning” gender and what’s expected of us.

“Some of what we learn through this process relates to migration—what is seen as ‘acceptable’ in terms of men and women relocating,” she says.

Of course, the full picture is more nuanced.

Connecting the pieces

Hunter’s interest in people, places, and their connection to the environment goes back more than 30 years to her days in the Pacific Northwest.

“I lived in Seattle for many years, and my original curiosity was fueled by seeing the region’s demographic change as related to high levels of in-migration back in the 1980s,” she says.

Environmental amenities were clearly a draw to the area, leading to a boom in population growth that has significantly altered the region and its natural resources.

Yet, as Hunter puts it, “migration researchers just weren’t integrating broader environmental context into their investigations of human movement.”

That initial spark eventually led to a more focused interest in gender and specifically how it relates to human migration driven by climate change.

After co-authoring a paper on the subject that was published in 2011, Hunter was asked to create a white paper that would be included in World Bank’s Groundswell report.

“At the time there was virtually no research on the three-way intersection of displacement, climate change, and gender. We pulled together scholarship on 1) disasters and gender, 2) disasters and migration, 3) gender and risk perceptions and other related sub-topics to inform a discussion of potential connections,” she says.

More than a decade later, Hunter’s work has evolved into an examination of not only who leaves when climate disaster upends normal life, but equally those who choose not to or are forced to stay.

Forgetting about those who stay

The gap in both relocation by gender and the study of non-migration itself is at the heart of Hunter’s newest work with lead author Bishawjit Mallick, a IBS Marie Skłodowska-Curie Global Fellow. Published in Humanities & Social Sciences Communications, the paper details a framework called Intergenerational Gendered Environmental Non-Migration, or IGEN.

Hunter explains that human populations change through three processes. Birth, death, and migration all have a part to play.

“Demographers have long studied migration as an outcome (just like births and deaths). Who moves? Why do they move? What are the implications of those moves?” Hunter says.

“Although some women aspire to leave, many lack the agency to make such mobility decisions,” says �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researcher Lori Hunter. (Photo: Albert Gonzalez Farran/United Nations)

But despite all the research, there is a blind spot.

“The question of who doesn’t move just hasn’t been on the table. Perhaps because most people don’t move so it’s more interesting to consider who does,” she adds.

Yet, in locations facing repeated natural disasters, understanding who stays (and why) is anything but academic. Hunter’s IGEN framework suggests one reason for those decisions is the influence of gender roles that have been reinforced across generations.

“Living under a patriarchal social structure, in some cultural settings, women are often expected to move in with their in-laws after marriage. This can promote a situation where men become the primary decisionmaker, diminishing women’s agency,” Hunter explains.

“If women are more likely to remain at home as a result of cultural expectations but also have less access to income or other resources as a consequence of patriarchy, they become increasingly vulnerable to the impacts of disasters,” she continues.

As these factors compound, women living in high-risk areas may be pressed into staying somewhere they don’t really want to be regardless of their preference.

“Although some women aspire to leave, many lack the agency to make such mobility decisions,” Hunter says.

In her view, this is exactly why the research gap needs closing.

“The gap really does matter, and the example of climate-related disasters demonstrates why,” Hunter says. “It’s important to understand who is staying in risky areas—and why—in order to provide appropriate support within local communities and reduce vulnerabilities.”

Inherited ground

Of course, “staying” isn’t a decision defined by gender alone. Inheritance also plays a significant role in keeping someone rooted in place, despite logic and scientific evidence pointing them elsewhere.

“Some people choose to stay in a risky locale (voluntary non-migration), even if they understand the risk,” Hunter says.

During an earlier project’s fieldwork, one forty-three-year-old fisherman said “Our ancestors built this house for us. We want to stay here. It’s a very important part of our life. This village is our identity.”

This can help explain why, after devastating floods and cyclones, many families choose to rebuild on the exact same plot of land that was washed away.

Not everyone gets the choice, though.

“On the other hand, some stay in a risky locale because they’re unable to move (involuntary), such as perhaps lacking the funds to resettle elsewhere,” Hunter says.

This is often the case when changing environmental patterns have already lowered the value of a family’s home, or when affordability has put land elsewhere out of reach.

I think it’s important to consider the reasons why someone might be staying. We have a tendency to blame individuals if they remain in risky locales without considering why they remain."

Quoted from the paper, a seventy-one-year-old housewife from Bangladesh told the research team, “So many people are moving from here by buying land in other places, but we don’t have the ability to buy land.”

A 43-year-old housewife echoed the sentiment, saying, “If I had money, I would have bought land far away.”

For many in these communities, the reason for non-migration falls somewhere in the middle. The choice is often shaped as much by a lack of resources and agency as by attachment to a home.

Rethinking the motive

Hunter hopes that more research into non-migration amid the many challenges posed by environmental harm and gender norms will help reframe the conversation.

“I think it’s important to consider the reasons why someone might be staying. We have a tendency to blame individuals if they remain in risky locales without considering why they remain,” she says.

In the same vein, Hunter says much migration isn’t due to choice.

“Most people want to stay where they are. If climate-related pressures are combined with other economic and/or socio-cultural challenges, people might be forced to make a move they’d rather not,” she says.

Shifting the focus from blame to understanding is something for everyone to consider. Hunter also hopes this mindset is embraced by those with the power to enact change at the highest levels.

“I would love it if policymakers recognized that many people do not want to migrate but are forced to do so if climate pressures make their current lives untenable,” she says. “Supporting individuals and families to stay in their origin communities could reduce the tide of migration.”

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�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researchers ask who decides to stay behind when climate disaster strikes.

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Why remembering the Big Thompson Flood of 1976 matters today

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 29 Jul 2026 15:44:28 +0000

Why remembering the Big Thompson Flood of 1976 matters today Rachel Sauer Wed, 07/29/2026 - 09:44

A cabin lodged on a private bridge just below Drake, Colorado, following the Big Thompson Flood in 1976. (Photo: W.R. Hansen/U.S. Geological Survey)

Bradley Worrell

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder Natural Hazards Center Director Lori Peek says there are still lessons to be learned from the devastating flash flood, 50 years later

Fifty years ago this week, a beautiful summer evening in Colorado ended in catastrophe.

On the night of July 31, 1976, a powerful thunderstorm stalled over the Big Thompson Canyon west of Loveland, unleashing a torrential rainfall in a matter of hours. The resulting flash flood killed 144 people and became the single deadliest disaster in the state’s history.

For Lori Peek, professor of sociology and director of the Natural Hazards Center at the �鶹��Ѱ��, the flood’s most important legacy may be the lessons that emerged from it—and the realization that those lessons still require attention today.

Lori Peek is a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder professor of sociology and director of the Natural Hazards Center.

“Anniversary events like this one are so important because they serve as moments for communities to come together and reflect upon what was lost, what we’ve learned and what we still need to do to become more resilient in the future,” she says.

A perfect storm of human, environmental and built factors

While the Big Thompson Flood is often remembered for its meteorological extremes, Peek says that disasters are never caused by nature alone.

“One of the things we say in this field of study is that there are natural hazards, but there’s no such thing as a natural disaster,” she says. “Every disaster has a human component.

“There are, of course, natural hazards—floods, fires and tornadoes—but what turns them into disasters is the collision between vulnerable built environments, vulnerable human systems and the natural environment. That’s what creates a disaster.”

In the case of the historic Colorado flood, Peek says several factors converged to maximize the damage. These included:

Storm stalled: Rather than moving through an area as storms tend to do, the storm that evening stalled over the canyon, dumping more than 12 inches of water in just over four hours. “It was almost like pouring water into a bowl,” Peek says.
Rapid water rise: The floodwaters rose with astonishing speed, leaving many people trapped in cabins, automobiles or low-lying areas before they understood the danger.
Geography: The canyon’s steep walls funneled water into a narrow corridor, placing people in homes, hotels, campgrounds and vehicles along the river in harm’s way. “The topography played a major role,” Peek acknowledges.
Nightfall: The storm struck after dark, when many people were sleeping. Also, of those who were awake, some could not see or sense the danger.
Cars: Many victims were in cars—either trying to flee the storm or parked near the river. “The people with the highest risk of dying were those who remained in their vehicles,” Peek says.
Timing: The storm struck during the final holiday weekend of the summer, when the canyon was crowded with campers and visiting tourists, as well as a mix of full-time and part-time residents. In total, it is estimated that about 2,500 people were in the canyon at the time.

“There’s also the human dimension—whether people understood the risk, knew what to do, could physically take action and could get to safety,” Peek says. “That complicated mix is what led to so many deaths.”

A cabin lodged on a private bridge just below Drake, Colorado, following the Big Thompson Flood in 1976. (Photo: W.R. Hansen/U.S. Geological Survey)

She adds that research conducted soon after the flood found that survival often depended upon a simple but critical decision: getting out and moving uphill.

“What the research on who survived and why—and who died and why—showed was that the key to survival was getting out … and literally climbing to safety,” she says.

She says that finding is one of the flood’s most enduring lessons.

A (new) sign of the times in 1977

Today, anyone who travels through Colorado canyons is likely familiar with the bright yellow signs depicting a person climbing uphill.

Peek says those signs endure because they communicate something essential: Survival depends upon taking immediate action.

Today, anyone who travels through Colorado canyons is likely familiar with the bright yellow signs depicting a person climbing uphill. (Photo: Brad Turner/KUNC)

“If you’re going to communicate risk effectively, the message has to be actionable,” she explains. “That’s why, even 50 years later, the signage remains so powerful. It tells people exactly what to do in the face of an imminent threat to life safety.”

Peek notes those climb-to-safety signs were the result of an August 1977 working paper by �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researcher Eve C. Grunfest, who interviewed dozens of flood survivors, first responders, emergency management professionals and others to learn what worked and what needed to be improved following the Big Thompson Flood. Grunfest studied under Gilbert F. White, a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder professor of geography who Peek says is widely considered the father of floodplain management and who founded the Natural Hazards Center in 1976.

The Natural Hazards Center was not established because of the Big Thompson Flood, as White was already in the process of founding the organization in 1975. However, Peek says the flood demonstrated why such an academic research center, dedicated to translating and sharing findings, was needed.

“The Natural Hazards Center was established because, at the time, a lot of research wasn’t making it into the hands of practitioners and policymakers,” says Peek, who was a graduate research assistant at the center from 1999 to 2005. She returned to �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder in 2017 to serve as the center’s director. “The Natural Hazards Center was established to nurture the hazards and disaster research community and share information with those concerned with reducing disaster risk. That’s the work that federal agencies like the National Science Foundation support us to do, because the evidence shows that actions we take before disaster can save lives and prevent unnecessary harm and suffering.”

Comparing the floods of 1976 and 2013

In many ways, Colorado today is better prepared for flooding than it was in 1976, Peek says.

At the time of the 1976 disaster, emergency managers lacked many of the tools that are the norm today. Then, there were no cellphone alerts, no modern emergency notification systems, no social media networks and few of the sophisticated weather forecasting capabilities available today.

Peek says that weather forecasting has become more precise, at-risk communities have installed warning sirens and emergency communication systems can distribute alerts through many channels and in many different languages to serve diverse groups.

In the Big Thompson Canyon, some vulnerable structures destroyed in the 1976 flood were never rebuilt in the same locations.

“Portions of the built environment have been moved out of the highest-risk floodways and floodplains,” Peek says. “Some of the streamside motels, cabins and other structures that were destroyed in the flood were not rebuilt in those same vulnerable locations.”

When the Big Thompson River flooded again in 2013, Peek says it demonstrated both the value of those improvements and the continuing reality of flooding danger. While the 2013 flood caused massive damage and resulted in at least eight deaths, Peek says she believes losses would have been even worse without decades of investment in warning systems and flood mitigation.

Why some lessons go unlearned

Despite the progress made since 1976, recent disasters show that communities do not always implement best-practice safety measures. Peek points to the 2025 Camp Mystic tragedy in Texas, where children were swept away in a flash flood.

“They didn’t have an emergency action plan. They didn’t have sirens. They didn’t have timely cell phone alerts. They hadn’t moved structures in the floodplain out of harm’s way,” Peek notes.

Why do these failures persist?

Peek offers several reasons. While disasters can create “policy windows” for lawmakers and regulators to act, those windows close more quickly today due to short public attention spans, and consensus is harder to build in today’s age of political polarization, she notes. Additionally, even when guidance exists, people may not know where to begin or may be overwhelmed, she adds.

Still, Peek sees some reasons for optimism. New guidance documents from the Association of State Floodplain Managers provide step-by-step instructions for camps and RV parks to create emergency action plans and offer model ordinance language for lawmakers.

“That’s a good example of how progress happens,” she says. “Such guidance can help spur action.”

A state that has changed—and largely forgotten the storm

Meanwhile, back in Colorado, Peek says one of the bigger challenges in commemorating the anniversary of the Big Thompson Flood is that most Colorado residents—and nearly all of its visitors—have no memory of it.

“Fifty years is a long time,” she notes. “Most visitors would have no reason to know anything about the Big Thompson Flood unless they are particularly interested in disaster history.”

The Big Thompson Flood remains the deadliest disaster in Colorado’s history. By learning what happened, how lives could have been saved then and how lives can still be saved today, we have an opportunity to build a more resilient state.”

Even among residents, Colorado today is a relatively young state demographically. Many people weren’t alive when the flood occurred, and many didn’t attend school here. As a result, public awareness of flood risk remains low, Peek says.

“People are often surprised to learn that Boulder is one of the state’s communities most at risk to flash flooding,” she says.

At the same time, Colorado itself has changed dramatically since 1976. The state’s population has swelled from 2.6 million then to more than 6 million today. More people are hiking, camping and driving through canyons than ever, oblivious to the dangers that flash floods pose. And while technology has improved, many of those areas are still without reliable cell service, Peek notes. She adds that floods can strike with little warning.

Could a disaster like the 1976 Big Thompson Flood could happen today?

Peek’s answer is an unequivocal yes. That’s why physical signage, emergency planning measures, public education and land-use planning all remain essential—especially in a warming climate, she says.

“Risk isn’t static,” she says. “As we experience more extreme rainfall events, places that once weren’t considered high risk, or weren’t mapped as flood hazards, may now be vulnerable.”

Peek says it’s also why remembering anniversaries like the 1976 Big Thompson Flood still matters today.

“It’s so important to know our history,” she says. “The Big Thompson Flood remains the deadliest disaster in Colorado’s history. By learning what happened, how lives could have been saved then and how lives can still be saved today, we have an opportunity to build a more resilient state.”

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�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder Natural Hazards Center Director Lori Peek says there are still lessons to be learned from the devastating flash flood, 50 years later.

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Top photo: Damage caused by the 1976 Big Thompson Flood (Photo: Maurice L. Albertson/Maurice L. Albertson Papers at Colorado State University)

Rethinking marriage—and divorce—in Muslim Indonesia

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 08 Jun 2026 19:25:26 +0000

Rethinking marriage—and divorce—in Muslim Indonesia Rachel Sauer Mon, 06/08/2026 - 13:25

Bradley Worrell

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder sociologist Rachel Rinaldo’s research uncovers how Indonesian women are re-shaping marriage and its end within Islamic law, with implications far beyond Southeast Asia

When Rachel Rinaldo, a �鶹��Ѱ�� sociology associate professor and the faculty director of the Center for Asian Studies, first began studying gender and social change in Indonesia nearly 25 years ago, she entered a field already shaped by deep-seated assumptions.

“There is a common idea in academic literature and media discussions that changes in the developing world are mainly due to ideas imported from the U.S. or Western Europe,” she explains. “That narrative underplays the more internal dynamics of social change.”

Rinaldo’s recently published research paper, “I Have a Right to a Better Imam,” challenges that Western-influence narrative as it relates to Indonesia, instead revealing a much more nuanced and local story.

Rachel Rinaldo, a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder associate professor of sociology and faculty director of the Center for Asian Studies, first began studying gender and social change in Indonesia nearly 25 years ago.

Indonesia—the world’s largest Muslim-majority country—offers an especially rich case for understanding changing family dynamics, Rinaldo says. With a population that is roughly 90% Muslim and shaped by a mix of longstanding local traditions, economic transformation and evolving religious interpretations, she says it presents a unique environment in which the meaning of marriage—and the decision by women to end it—is being renegotiated.

“One of the things I argue in the article is that religions are always shaped by the societies where they are adopted. Christianity, for example, looks different in Brazil compared to Italy. The same is true for Islam—it looks different in Indonesia versus, say, Egypt,” she says. “In Southeast Asia, there has long been a social structure that gives somewhat more power and agency to women, particularly in marriage. Women have historically had more say, and it’s also been more common for women to work outside of the home.”

This longstanding pattern has influenced how Islamic norms are interpreted in Indonesia, producing a version of Islamic family law that—while not fully egalitarian—is more progressive compared to other Muslim-majority countries, Rinaldo says.

Today, Indonesia’s legal system includes Islamic family laws that apply to its Muslim citizens. These laws establish clear frameworks for marriage and divorce, while also reflecting tensions between traditional gender roles and growing expectations of partnership and mutual responsibility.

Rethinking the origins of change

Through her interviews with several Indonesian women, as well as observations in Islamic courts, Rinaldo says she has found little evidence that Western cultural models were the primary drivers of change. Instead, she says the women she interviewed described a gradual shift in expectations rooted in their own understanding of marriage, religion and personal autonomy.

Crucially, these changing expectations are tied to how women interpret Islamic law—not as a rigid system that confines them, but as a set of principles that can justify their desire for a more equitable partnership, Rinaldo says.

Perhaps the most surprising finding of Rinaldo’s research is the role Islamic courts play in Indonesia, many of which are overseen by female judges. Contrary to common assumptions that such institutions are uniformly conservative or patriarchal, Rinaldo says the courts today tend to be pragmatic.

“What struck me was that judges in Islamic courts were fairly sympathetic to women’s concerns. They emphasized that marriage should be a partnership, and that lack of support—financial or emotional—from husbands was a valid issue,” Rinaldo says. “The idea of a more companionate marriage was embedded in legal thinking … and how legal and religious frameworks were being interpreted locally.”

Economic change has played a critical role in enabling this cultural shift in Indonesia, says �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researcher Rachel Rinaldo. As Indonesia’s economy has grown, more women have gained access to education and paid employment. (Photo: Lek Nikto/Unsplash)

Rather than attempting to keep marriages intact at all costs, Rinaldo says many judges see their responsibility as arbitrators of outstanding issues resulting from the dissolution of the marriage.

“Judges told me that by the time cases reach them, marriages are often already over, so their role is to facilitate resolution rather than reconciliation.”

Gender differences in divorce law

Despite certain progressive aspects of Indonesian family law, Rinaldo says the country’s legal framework still treats men and women differently when it comes to divorce.

Men can initiate divorce relatively easily, often without needing to provide a specific reason. Women, by contrast, must file a formal case and cite one of several legally recognized grounds for divorce. Rinaldo says these grounds include violence, abuse, financial neglect and even “disharmony”—a broadly defined category that essentially allows women to argue that the relationship is not working.

While this requirement might seem restrictive, Rinaldo says women have become increasingly adept at navigating the system. Many women understand the legal criteria and present their cases in ways that align with judicial expectations, she explains.

Some women even draw on religious arguments, pointing to their spouse’s bad behavior—such as drinking, gambling or neglecting prayer—as evidence that their husband is not living up to his obligations, Rinaldo says.

“Women sometimes use that strategically, knowing judges would respond negatively to behaviors such as drinking or gambling,” she says. “At the same time, religion is an important source of meaning for many women, so these issues were also genuine sources of conflict.”

Evolving expectations for marriage

Underlying these various legal strategies is how women have come to think about marriage itself, Rinaldo says. A recurring theme in Rinaldo’s interviews was dissatisfaction—not with marriage as an institution—but with how it was being lived in their own lives.

“Many women felt their husbands weren’t contributing enough,” she explains. She says the lack of support extended beyond finances, which were historically the husband’s responsibility. In one example, a woman described reaching her breaking point when her husband refused to help care for their children. “She was like, ‘These are our kids; we’re supposed to be doing this together,’” Rinaldo recounts.

Rinaldo notes the women she spoke with were not demanding perfectly equal relationships, but she says they did expect that the marriage involve shared responsibility. When that expectation was not met, she says, it often became a turning point for the relationship.

Economic change has played a critical role in enabling this cultural shift in Indonesia, Rinaldo says. As Indonesia’s economy has grown, more women have gained access to education and paid employment. She says this has expanded their options while also reducing the monetary risks associated with divorce.

In Indonesia, the term "imam" typically refers to a Muslim religious leader. However, in marriage, some Muslim women use it to describe their husbands. (Photo: women at mosque in Jakarta, Indonesia. Mohammed Alim/Pexels)

In some cases, women are the primary earners in their families, which can fundamentally reshape the power dynamics in a relationship. Meanwhile, the experience of divorce tends to differ depending upon Indonesian women’s socioeconomic status. Among lower-income women, divorce is often handled pragmatically, while for middle-class women the process is often more complicated because it often involves shared property and assets, Rinaldo says.

“They really need the assistance from the court to help unwind that kind of situation,” she explains.

From shame to relief and finding family support

Despite various challenges, Indonesian women who divorced their husbands told Rinaldo they ultimately do not regret their decision. While a few expressed feelings of shame—particularly in relation to family expectations—the most common feeling was one of solace.

“I would say the predominant feeling was one of relief,” Rinaldo says.

Regarding their specific motivations for seeking a divorce, Rinaldo says a number of the women told her they did so because they were concerned about exposing their children to unhealthy marital conflict or dysfunction. “They didn’t want that to be the model of marriage that their children were growing up with.”

One issue that many divorced women faced was difficulty obtaining child support that they were owed from their husbands. These payments are often not well-enforced by the Islamic courts. Nevertheless, even when they are entitled to financial support from their ex-husbands, Rinaldo says many women choose not to pursue it because they prefer to have nothing to do with their ex-spouses.

“I think this all reflects broader changes in society, where women today are more financially independent. They have strong support systems today, and they also face less social stigma around divorce than in the past,” she adds.

Faith, authority and the meaning of ‘imam’

One particularly revealing aspect of Rinaldo’s research involves the concept of the “imam.” In Indonesia, the term typically refers to a Muslim religious leader. However, in marriage, some Muslim women use it to describe their husbands.

“The idea is that the husband is . . . their own personal Islamic leader,” Rinaldo explains. This reflects a traditional expectation that wives should obey their husbands. Yet even women who embrace this idea are willing to leave marriages when their expectations are not met, she adds.

“People marrying at later ages and wanting a more meaningful marital relationship, more people remaining single or in non-marital partnerships and people having fewer children are changes happening around the globe.”

In one case, Rinaldo says a woman she interviewed sought guidance from religious authorities about whether to stay in her unhappy marriage or seek a divorce. As a result of the answers she received to her queries, the woman decided the answer was not to endure the marriage but to find “a better imam,” she says.

Rinaldo says that phrase captures the tension at the heart of these transformations: Women are not rejecting their religion but instead are reinterpreting it.

A broader global story about marriage and divorce

Although Rinaldo’s research focuses on Indonesia, she says she believes her work reflects broader global trends. Rising education levels, economic development and evolving gender roles are reshaping marriage and families in many societies, even as religious tradition continues to play a powerful role, she says.

“I think what happens in Indonesia can illuminate the kinds of things that we’re seeing across many countries in the global south, other developing countries and, even more broadly, some similar dynamics in the United States,” she says. “People marrying at later ages and wanting a more meaningful marital relationship, more people remaining single or in non-marital partnerships and people having fewer children are changes happening around the globe.”

In Indonesia, Rinaldo says, those changes are unfolding through the interplay of local culture, legal institutions and individual agency. She says the result is neither a rejection of tradition nor a simple embrace of modernity, but more so a negotiation—a process though which women are redefining marriage from within. And in doing so, Rinaldo says, they are quietly reshaping one of society’s most fundamental institutions.

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�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder sociologist Rachel Rinaldo’s research uncovers how Indonesian women are re-shaping marriage and its end within Islamic law, with implications far beyond Southeast Asia.

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Wildfire’s toll on animals went largely unreported, researchers show

Rachel Sauer — Mon, 27 Apr 2026 18:10:13 +0000

Wildfire’s toll on animals went largely unreported, researchers show Rachel Sauer Mon, 04/27/2026 - 12:10

Clint Talbott

After the Marshall Fire, researchers at �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder and Western Washington University muse on why animals disappear from disaster stories and suggest a remedy

When the Marshall Fire swept through Boulder County on Dec. 30, 2021, it killed two people and destroyed 1,084 homes. Colorado’s governor called the relatively modest loss of human life a “New Year’s miracle.”

As �鶹��Ѱ�� sociologist Leslie Irvine later found, however, the wildfire also killed more than 1,000 companion animals who were trapped in homes that rapidly incinerated while their people were at work, traveling or stuck in evacuation traffic.

New research from Irvine and Cameron Whitley, a sociology professor at Western Washington University, quantifies the extent to which the loss of sentient animal life was overlooked by public officials and the news media.

In recently published research, �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder sociologist Leslie Irvine and colleague Cameron Whitely quantify the extent to which the loss of sentient animal life was overlooked by public officials and the news media following the Marshall Fire.

For many residents, the toll was devastating but largely invisible.

Out of 981 news stories published in the two months after the fire, only 16% mentioned animals at all. Fewer than 5% focused on animals in their coverage. Government officials mentioned animal loss in less than 1% of public statements.

“What surprised me most wasn’t just what showed up in the media,” Whitley says of the research, which was recently published in the journal Anthrozoös. “It was what didn’t—especially considering how many people think of their animals as family.”

For Irvine, now retired from �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder but still deeply engaged with the work, the Marshall Fire reopened questions she had hoped never to revisit.

Two decades earlier, after Hurricane Katrina, Irvine wrote Filling the Ark: Animal Welfare in Disasters, a groundbreaking book documenting how disaster-response systems failed people with pets—and how those failures increased human risk as well. After Katrina, Congress passed the PETS Act, requiring emergency plans to account for companion animals.

“I said I would never study disasters and animals again,” Irvine recalls. “It was too devastating.”

Then the Marshall Fire struck Boulder County “right in my backyard,” she says. Whitley, who grew up in nearby Lafayette and earned his BA from �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder, came to the project with both scholarly training and knowledge of personal loss.

“As people were grieving animals—pets, wildlife, livestock—they kept telling me the same thing,” Whitley says. “They weren’t seeing that grief reflected anywhere.”

Using systematic content analysis, Whitley and his co-authors coded every Marshall Fire news story published by local, state and national outlets in the fire’s immediate aftermath. They tracked when animals appeared, how they were framed, and—critically—when entire categories of loss vanished.

Domestic pets received the most attention, but usually as side notes to evacuation instructions or “feel‑good” reunion stories. Agricultural animals were typically counted collectively—horses evacuated, livestock lost—rarely described as individuals. Wildlife barely appeared at all.

“The default hierarchy is still very clear,” Irvine says. “Humans first. Then property. Animals come after—if at all.”

When the ‘hierarchy’ obscures the truth

“The only thing some families have left of their animals is a burned‑out food bowl. That alone should tell us something about what we’re failing to see,” says �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researcher Leslie Irvine. (Photo: Patti Benninghoff-Lawson)

That hierarchy persists despite decades of research showing that people routinely risk their lives for animals during disasters. Some refuse to evacuate without them. Others re‑enter burn zones to try to rescue them—sometimes requiring rescue themselves.

In fact, one of the two human fatalities in the Marshall fire was Edna Turnbull, who died while trying to rescue her dogs. “Turnbull’s refusal to leave without making sure her companion animals were safe is not unique,” Whitley and Irvine write.

From an economic or safety standpoint alone, Irvine argues, ignoring animals is irrational. She contends: “If government officials took animals seriously in disasters, they would reduce risks to first responders, reduce chaos and improve outcomes for everyone.”

One consequence of invisibility is what Whitley calls unrecognized grief. He cites research showing that losing a companion animal can provoke grief comparable to losing a human family member. But when that loss is absent from public discourse, grieving people also feel isolated, he observes, adding:

“In the LA County fires we’re studying now, people talk about losing their home as something they could move past. Losing their animal, or being forced to give that animal up months later because of housing instability, that’s what they say they’ll never recover from.”

That secondary grief rarely appears in disaster coverage. Nor do the long‑term consequences that follow fires even after humans rebuild.

Irvine points to toxic exposure as an underreported crisis. Dogs in burn zones may now need booties and paw decontamination. Outdoor cats may carry contaminants inside. Veterinarians report increases in respiratory illness and unexplained deaths among animal patients months or years later.

Merlin, a cat injured during the Marshall Fire, has since recovered. (Photo: Shelby Davis/Soul Dog Rescue)

“These aren’t dramatic images,” Irvine says. “They don’t fit into breaking news. But they shape everyday life for years.”

“We tend to act as though a disaster ends once people rebuild their homes. But for people with animals, the disaster often continues for the rest of those animals’ lives—through toxic exposure, long‑term illness and ongoing grief.”

Why journalism struggles with animals

The researchers note the challenges facing journalists. Disaster coverage focuses on what can be confirmed quickly, counted easily and tied to economic loss.

“Homes and infrastructure are quantifiable,” Whitley says. “Animals aren’t, unless they’re agricultural, and even then, they’re usually listed as numbers, not lives.”

The media also gravitate toward redemptive narratives—pets reunited with families, miraculous survivals—rather than mass loss without resolution.

“There’s a kind of collective discomfort with stories that don’t offer closure,” Irvine says.

Whitley notes that journalists are reporting statements of public officials, whose focus is on humans and property. “Less than 1% of official government statements mentioned animals at all. That’s not just a media problem; that’s a policy failure.”

But when animals disappear from disaster coverage, so do the people who love them.

The study offers a suggestion on disaster reporting: prioritize sentient life—human and nonhuman alike—before property loss.

“This isn’t about placing animals above people,” Whitley says. “It’s about telling the whole story.”

As climate‑driven disasters become more frequent, these questions will arise more frequently, the researchers note.

“The Marshall Fire taught us that firestorms are no longer remote or rare,” Irvine says. “And it showed us something else—that we are still failing to see whole parts of our communities when disaster strikes.”

Whitley adds: “When we talk about disasters, we celebrate the minimal loss of human life—while thousands of animals die without acknowledgement. For the people who lost them, that silence matters.”

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After the Marshall Fire, researchers at �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder and Western Washington University muse on why animals disappear from disaster stories and suggest a remedy.

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How local journalists help Brazil’s favelas endure

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 09 Apr 2026 20:12:09 +0000

How local journalists help Brazil’s favelas endure Rachel Sauer Thu, 04/09/2026 - 14:12

Fala Roça is one of the community newspapers that served as a vital source of information during the COVID-19 pandemic for people living in Rio De Janeiro's favela neighborhoods. (Photo: Fala Roça)

Cody DeBos

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder sociologist Molly Todd finds that community newspapers were vital for people living in Brazil’s favelas during the COVID-19 pandemic

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit Rio de Janeiro in early 2020, residents of the favelas Maré and Rocinha faced a crisis of communication. Public health messages in Brazil were contradictory—including the government’s denial of COVID-19. Like so many under-resourced and overlooked communities, the roughly 210,000 residents of these favelas received information laden with jargon, misinformation and directives that did not align with their daily realities.

Fortunately, inside the favelas, local newspapers like Maré de Notícias and Fala Roça were picking up the slack. They offered readers humor and solidarity while providing their communities with a shared sense of direction that helped them survive the pandemic.

For Molly Todd, an assistant teaching professor in the �鶹��Ѱ��’s Department of Sociology and the International Affairs Program, this grassroots journalism stood out.

Molly Todd, a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder assistant teaching professor of sociology, and her research colleagues found that community newspapers were an important source of information in Brazil's favela neighborhoods during the COVID-19 pandemic.

“We really wanted to understand what it was they were doing in the face of a global pandemic that made them such important pillars of their communities,” she says.

Todd and an interdisciplinary team of co-authors recently published a study in the Journal of Urban Affairs examining how these two community-run newspapers helped guide residents through the pandemic and endure it with dignity. The project, which included scholars from Brazil and the U.S., offers a new lens on crisis response and who gets to tell the ensuing stories.

City within a city

Brazil’s favelas are often misrepresented in the media. They tend to be depicted as chaotic and dangerous places that tourists to sunny Rio de Janeiro should avoid. While favelas do struggle with crime and drug trafficking, they’re also rich with social networks, political activism and neighborhood pride.

Speaking of the teams behind Maré de Notícias and Fala Roça, Todd says, “These are journalists who are rooted in the places they report on. They’re talking about things that are very much on the minds of folks living next door in these communities.”

Residents of Maré and Rocinha, which are densely populated urban areas often excluded from formal infrastructure, have long relied on information from community sources. When COVID-19 arrived, this network became even more critical.

“In many cases, favelas are characterized by both hyper surveillance and neglect. The state is failing to meet the basic needs of its residents while disproportionately policing them—even though they’re Brazilian citizens who should have the full rights that other citizens have,” Todd says.

During the pandemic, state-led responses were lacking. Official communication was slow and often misleading. Moreover, widely shared health advice was rarely tailored to the unique realities of favela life.

That’s where the community newspapers stepped in.

“They were very clear about the fact that they wanted to be sources of credible information, sources of timely information and sources of information that were contextualized for the community,” Todd says.

Stay safe, stay sane

Todd and her team of researchers collaborated to analyze how Maré de Notícias and Fala Roça responded to the pandemic. One team member, Vanessa Guerra, was interested in a central theme early on: resilience.

“We often talk about resilience as if it’s just ‘bouncing back,’ but that misses a lot of the bigger story behind-the-scenes of how people survive,” Todd says. She adds that discussions of resilience need to include a critique of the systemic oppression that produces the need to be resilient in the first place.

Informationally, the favela newspapers filled gaps left by the state. They ran myth-busting columns, answered readers’ questions and provided updates on local infection rates. They provided regular COVID updates and used WhatsApp to circulate infographics, FAQs and emergency contacts.

But information was just the start. The papers also nurtured archives of community culture and memorials for those who didn’t survive. One article collected portraits of neighbors lost to the virus. Another ran a photo series of the newly empty public spaces in Maré paired with poetic reflections from the community.

“They were doing this work of archiving sort of how a community comes through a moment like this together,” Todd says.

Who gets to speak?

Mainstream coverage of Brazil’s favelas often skews toward the negative, focusing on issues like violence and poverty. During the pandemic, that narrative sharpened to portray the neighborhoods as volatile, ungovernable zones where health guidance was ignored.

The favela newspapers told a different story—one of hope, community and organizing for a future. That was something Todd and her fellow researchers wanted to capture and preserve.

Todd has continued to explore questions of representation, voice and power in other projects related to Maré. At �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder, she organized an interactive visual and textual library exhibit called Maré from the Inside. Hosted in Norlin Library from September 2025 to February 2026, the exhibit was intended to “[c]enter and display the intellectual and artistic production of the mostly Black and indigenous residents of Complexo da Maré. . . . The project leverages art’s pedagogical potential with the hope to contribute to a more nuanced public understanding of favelas.”

“There’s so much history of academics just extracting from communities, writing about them and then leaving. It’s not really been a reciprocal process,” says �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder scholar Molly Todd, emphasizing the importance of collaborating with local communities on projects that benefit their interests. (Photo: Wolf Schram/Unsplash)

Reflecting on the work her team put in, Todd asks, “How can we produce a memory of a place marked by so many erasures? Can this memory help us imagine a different future? How do we encounter unfamiliar places in ethical ways and relate across our differences?”

Visitors were able to walk through a favela story on their own terms, feeling immersed in the ways neighbors cared for each other and allowed creativity to thrive even in an incredibly dark time. They also took in workshops, panels and tours hosted by artists in residence surrounding the exhibit’s opening.

Artists participating in the exhibit included Henrique Gomes da Silva, Andreza Jorge, Paulo Vitor Lino, Wallace Lino, Dayana Sabany, Francisco Valdean and Antonello Veneri. Exhibit organizers included Nicholas Barnes, Andreza Jorge, Henrique Gomes da Silva, Desirée Poets and Molly Todd.

What we can learn from favela newsrooms

Though Todd’s study and the Maré from the Inside exhibit focus on Brazil, she believes the lessons within apply far beyond the borders of Latin America.

“If we want people to feel safe and informed in a crisis, we need to think about trust,” she says.

Top-down communication often fails to resonate with marginalized communities, breeding distrust and false narratives. Local journalism led by people with lived experience can be the link that builds enduring relationships in their communities.

As for her involvement, Todd reiterates the importance of collaborating with local communities on projects that benefit their interests.

“There’s so much history of academics just extracting from communities, writing about them and then leaving. It’s not really been a reciprocal process,” she says.

“To be fair, our project still wasn’t reciprocal in the sense that we have our names on the article and the journalists don’t. In my eyes, I would like to see even more collective kinds of scholarship in the future.”

Looking ahead, Todd hopes this work starts deeper conversations about collaborative knowledge production and whose voices shape our collective memory. In a world facing climate disasters and political upheaval, she sees an urgent need for models that put local knowledge and lived experiences front and center.

“If we’re going to build more just societies,” she says, “we need to pay attention to … people telling stories about their own communities and find ways to amplify their voices.”

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�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder sociologist Molly Todd finds that community newspapers were vital for people living in Brazil’s favelas during the COVID-19 pandemic.

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Top photo courtesy Maré de Notícias

Film addresses the dark side of aging

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 27 Jan 2026 22:39:05 +0000

Film addresses the dark side of aging Rachel Sauer Tue, 01/27/2026 - 15:39

Megan Clancy

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder sociologist Laura Patterson makes screenwriting debut with short horror film “Silent Generation”

Laura Patterson of the �鶹��Ѱ�� Department of Sociology does a lot in her field, teaching courses in research methods and environmental sociology. She also teaches about the sociology of horror in courses such as Gender, Race, and Chainsaws and co-hosts the podcast “Collective Nightmares,” which examines the sociological implications of horror films.

Now she’s added screenwriter to her resume. After years of development, writing and filming, Patterson recently completed an eight-festival circuit, including the Denver Film Festival in late 2025, showing her new film, “Silent Generation.”

Laura Patterson, a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder assistant teaching professor of sociology, screened her short horror film "Silent Generation" at the recent Denver Film Festival.

“I think one of the things that horror can do well is make us look at the stuff that we don’t want to look at,” says Patterson.

“Silent Generation” is an eight-minute horror film that explores the dark side of aging and isolation. It follows an octogenarian as he goes about his day alone at home, watching TV and doing the laundry—a perfectly mundane task that turns bloody. And the inspiration for the film’s gruesome moment is rooted in a true story.

“It happened to my grandma, but she wasn’t living alone. My grandpa was there and my grandma was downstairs doing laundry,” Patterson recalls. “She calls to my grandpa and says, ‘Eddie, bring down the scissors.’ And so he brought the scissors down and she had got her hand stuck in the wringer washing machine, and it tore the top of her finger off. And she wanted him to just cut it off—which he wasn’t going to do. He took her to the emergency room, and they fixed things.”

But this incident got Patterson thinking about what would have happened if nobody else had been there. Thus, the idea for “Silent Generation” took hold.

“It stood out to me as a really important moment in life. The time when you notice that the people who were your caregivers now need care. And just the thin thread connecting older people to the rest of society, and how needed that connection is, because when that gets cut off there’s real danger just in the house where people are living,” says Patterson. “And you realize things that used to be normal become a threat.”

The idea stayed with Patterson for years, but she struggled to piece together how to make it into a movie.

“Since it is so short, writing the screenplay was not a big undertaking, because I kind of had the vision. But then to actually figure out how to make it, I just tried to take off like one piece at a time.”

One of the most difficult parts of creating the film, Patterson says, was actually finding the machine that would be centered in the climactic scene. The search took over a year. She eventually found the dated appliance in the 1,500-washing-machine collection of retired CSU professor, Lee Maxwell, who had curated the warehouse full of machines to represent the story of women’s liberation.

Laura Patterson's eight-minute horror film "Silent Generation" explores the dark side of aging and isolation.

Sitting with discomfort

To produce the film, Patterson connected with director Francisco Solorzano, producer Kenny Shults and cinematographer Kesten Migdal.

“They knew how to take this idea and put it onscreen. And they were amazing. Frank knew how to shoot the things and what sort of emotional tone I wanted. They knew how to actually evoke it on screen,” says Patterson. “Frank was really able to bring out the loneliness of the whole script. He was great at thinking about the timing and the way it was shot. Just to let you as an audience member really sit in that was very much something that I think he pulled out or leaned into very well.”

When it came to casting, Patterson turned to Leo Smith, the father of her podcast co-host, who readily agreed to be the film’s sole actor. Smith was making his film debut at 90 years old.

“He’d never acted before in a film, but he was excited about doing this project and kind of commenting on mortality. And this was just his house, and his laundry. We brought in the ringer washing machine, but otherwise, he just did what he does.”

Patterson sees her film as making an important comment on the peril that comes in the solitary life of a stoic generation.

“I wanted to make a film that would have a positive social impact,” she says. “The line on the poster for the film says, ‘When was the last time you called?’ I’ve gotten a lot of feedback from audiences. First you see people cringing when they’re watching the film. And then it’s kind of nice, because it seems to be accomplishing what we wanted it to accomplish. Afterward, they’re like, ‘I need to call my, you know,’ fill in the blank.

“We can all think of people—especially of that generation—that that sort of resonates with,” Patterson adds. “So, there's been a lot of audience discussion around that, and around this sort of generational divide between then and now.”

Patterson aimed to make audiences sit with the discomfort.

“It's like, no, this isn’t pleasant,” says Patterson. “But it’s even worse if you don’t look, because then this person’s sitting alone having to navigate this.”

As for whether she has another film in the works, Patterson says she’s unsure.

“I think the pieces came together so well for this to happen. And I had wanted to do it for so long, in part to inform the other things I do. I think it makes sense to have some idea what it’s like to be on the other side of the camera and just understand what that process feels like. I have a lot of film students who come into my class. Now I can have a little bit of a connection point with them, having gone through this experience.”

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�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder sociologist Laura Patterson makes screenwriting debut with short horror film “Silent Generation."

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Scholar highlights the Venezuela-Cuba connection

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 15 Jan 2026 23:37:58 +0000

Scholar highlights the Venezuela-Cuba connection Rachel Sauer Thu, 01/15/2026 - 16:37

Bradley Worrell

The two countries have developed deep ties over the past two decades, but it’s unclear what impact recent U.S. actions against Venezuela will have on Havana’s government, �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder Latin America researcher Jen Triplett says

The United States military raid that snatched Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro and his wife from the presidential palace on Jan. 3 likely rattled the Cuban government in Havana as much as it did the Venezuelan regime in Caracas.

That’s because the two Latin American governments have become deeply intertwined during the past 25 years, says Jen Triplett, a �鶹��Ѱ�� political and cultural sociologist whose research is heavily focused on Cuba in the 10-year period following the Jan. 1, 1959, revolution led by Fidel Castro. She also has studied Venezuelan history from 1999 to 2013, when former President Hugo Chavez ran the country as a socialist.

“I study how leaders leveraged ideological projects to bolster their consolidation of political, military and economic power. Usually, we think of consolidation in terms of politics, economy and military, but ideology—especially when a transitionary government is motivated by it—is another important factor,” Triplett explains.

Jen Triplett, a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder assistant professor of sociology, notes that the governments of Venezuela and Cuba have become deeply intertwined over the past 25 years.

While many people in the U.S. tend to think about Cuba in connection with the Cold War and its relationship with the Soviet Union, Triplett says Cuban politics in the 1960s and 1970s was equally focused on what was happening in Latin America. Its relationship with Venezuela during those years was largely fraught, she adds.

The Castro-Chavez partnership years

“Cuba didn’t have much to do with Venezuela until Hugo Chavez came to power in 1998,” she says. “Once it became apparent that Chavez had socialist ambitions—nationalizing the oil industry and redistributing wealth—that caught Castro’s eye.”

By the early 2000s, the two men had forged a bond that was both personal and political. That alliance was pragmatic as well as ideological, Triplett says.

Venezuela, rich in oil, could provide Cuba with the energy resources it needs. In return, Cuba could provide Venezuela with something of value it had: human capital.

“Chavez wanted to focus on giving impoverished Venezuelans what they’d been missing—basic needs and resources—by investing in public education and health infrastructure,” Triplett says. “Cuban doctors allowed him to establish the Barrio Adentro program, bringing health care into urban slums for people who historically lacked access to primary care.”

For Chavez, the relationship was a way to deliver on promises for social justice, while for Castro it was a means to sustain Cuba’s economy and extend its influence in the region, she says. For a time, the two leaders envisioned their relationship could help inspire a wave of socialist-leaning leaders in Latin America that could reshape hemispheric relations and challenge U.S. dominance in the region, she adds.

Maduro’s struggle and Cuba’s deepening role

After Chavez died in March 2013, he was succeeded by his vice president and chosen successor, Maduro. Officially, the Venezuelan-Cuban alliance continued, but the dynamics of the relationship changed, as Maduro lacked Chavez’s charisma and legitimacy, Triplett says.

“Chavez had multiple sources of authority—traditional, rational-legal and charismatic,” she explains. “Maduro is a poor imitation. From day one, people recognized this.”

Lower oil prices and economic mismanagement exacerbated problems, Triplett says. As Venezuela’s economy spiraled downward, reports surfaced that Cuban military and intelligence personnel were actively supporting Maduro—a claim underscored by the recent U.S. raid to capture Maduro, which killed more than 30 Cuban operatives.

“It’s not surprising,” Triplett says. “Cuba’s meager resources include people power. Loyal Cuban military personnel would support efforts to create similar governments elsewhere.”

In 2002, Chavez survived a coup attempt by his own generals. Given Maduro’s precarious position, it’s perhaps not surprising he believed he could trust Cuban military personnel over his own military, Triplett says.

“Maduro’s paranoia likely intensified because he never commanded the same authority as Chavez,” she adds.

For Hugo Chavez, the relationship with Cuba was a way to deliver on promises for social justice, while for Fidel Castro it was a means to sustain Cuba’s economy and extend its influence in the region, says �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder scholar Jen Triplett. (Photo: Hugo Chavez, Fidel Castro and Nelson Mandela on a billboard in Cuba; Wikimedia Commons)

What comes next for Venezuela?

U.S. intervention in Venezuela—with attacks on reported drug boats departing Venezuela and the capture and extradition of Maduro to the United States—raises questions about the durability of the Cuban-Venezuelan alliance, Triplett says. Still, the removal of Maduro does not necessarily constitute regime change, she adds.

“Replacing him with his vice president, who is steeped in Chavismo, isn’t a real shift,” she says. “Cuba, meanwhile, is on high alert, wondering if they are next. If Venezuela’s new president were to play ball with the U.S., Cuba could lose petrodollars and a valuable lifeline. Whether that happens, I can’t say, but it could be an easy concession by Venezuela.”

Predicting what the future holds for Venezuela and Cuba is hazy at best, Triplett says.

“Both countries share high discontent and outward migration. People are exhausted—too tired to overthrow their governments,” she says. “Cuba’s opposition is even less organized than Venezuela’s. The key difference is foreign intervention. Without it, Maduro would still be in power.”

Prior to Chavez, Venezuela did have a functioning democracy, so Triplett says it’s possible to envision that under the right conditions it could return.

“Neither Venezuelans nor Cubans are monolithic, but Venezuelans largely want democracy—and they remember having it. That’s something that’s been largely absent from U.S. conversations,” she adds, noting America has a long history of military involvement in the affairs of Latin American countries.

Triplett is a member of the Venezuelan studies section of Latin American Studies Association, which recently issued a statement chastising the Maduro government for not honoring the results of the country’s 2024 presidential elections and for cracking down on political dissent. That statement also condemned the U.S. government’s capture of Maduro in a military operation as a violation of international law because it does not appear to be designed to restore democracy to the country but instead seems to be part of efforts to control the country’s resources.

Humanitarian crisis deepens in Cuba

Meanwhile, the conditions in Cuba are disheartening, says Triplett, who has visited the country regularly since 2012, most recently spending four weeks there last summer.

“This last trip was palpably different—an unprecedented struggle for daily survival,” she says. “Blackouts are routine. Outside of Havana, electricity is rarer than outages. Running water is unreliable, forcing residents to pay privately for water trucks, and mosquito-borne illnesses have surged. Meanwhile, Cuba has lost about quarter of its population in four years, mostly working-age people, creating a demographic crisis.”

Triplett soberingly describes Cuba’s near-term outlook as enduring a “polycrisis” that includes economic collapse, political dissent and unmet basic needs, largely because the government has not invested in its infrastructure since the Soviet Union’s collapse.

“People are disillusioned with the government,” she says. “Some had hoped the passing of the Castro brothers would change things, but it hasn’t. Endogenous regime change seems unlikely—too few people, too exhausted and too much repression. Fixing the situation would require massive resources and political will that the government lacks.”

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Top image: iStock

Supporting survivors of sexual assault through community

Rachel Sauer — Thu, 03 Jul 2025 00:31:29 +0000

Supporting survivors of sexual assault through community Rachel Sauer Wed, 07/02/2025 - 18:31

“We know the majority of survivors never seek support from the police or formal support from a non-profit or university resources. They instead disclose to a close connection,” says �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researcher Tara Streng-Schroeter.

Cody DeBos

�鶹��Ѱ��PhD graduate Tara Streng-Schroeter's research offers a new way to support survivors of sexual violence

The first time Tara Kay Streng-Schroeter stepped into a sorority house to deliver her sexual assault support training, she hoped it would help students feel more prepared to support one another.

She didn’t anticipate the crowd of women lining up afterward to ask questions and offer thanks.

“At one chapter, many women came up to me and thanked me for being there, told me how important they think this training is,” she recalls. “Some said it was better than any training they’ve received from school or as an RA (resident advisor).”

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder scholar Tara Streng-Schroeter, who earned a PhD in sociology in May, designed a peer-based intervention program designed to help students respond supportively when someone they care about discloses they have experienced sexual violence.

That moment reaffirmed Streng-Schroeter’s belief in what she’d spent years building: a peer-based intervention program designed to help students respond supportively when someone they care about discloses they have experienced sexual violence.

Her program, called Building Support for Survivors (BSS), offers a promising new approach to how college campuses can support students who experience sexual violence.

“We know the majority of survivors never seek support from the police or formal support from a non-profit or university resources. They instead disclose to a close connection,” Streng-Schroeter says.

Yet most students haven’t been trained to handle such a sensitive moment. Even well-intentioned responses can backfire, leading to shame, self-blame or isolation for survivors.

That’s the gap Streng-Schroeter, who in May earned her PhD in sociology from the �鶹��Ѱ��, hopes to close.

Taking innovative research to the front lines

Streng-Schroeter has spent more than a decade working both professionally and academically in the field of sexual-violence response. She has coordinated sexual-assault response teams, trained volunteer victim advocates and witnessed firsthand the long-term effects of both harm and healing.

After talking with hundreds of survivors, she was acutely aware of the opportunity that existed to help college students support their peers who have experienced sexual violence.

Building Support for Survivors, a 90-minute training intervention that she designed to be implemented with peer groups of college students and has piloted with sorority chapters, combines education about the prevalence of sexual violence with hands-on learning around how to listen, what to say and what not to say.

As part of Building Support for Survivors, Streng-Schroeter also provides customized flyers listing local confidential and non-confidential support options.

“Even though there are so many victims within campus communities, students don’t necessarily know the right thing to say to someone who’s experienced this kind of violence unless they have received training,” she says. “And it’s those individuals that don’t have the training but need it that we’re trying to help.”

Over the course of her study, Streng-Schroeter partnered with sorority chapters at nine universities across the country, delivering her training in person at four of them.

A wake-up call

One of the most striking findings of Streng-Schroeter’s research was just how many students have been affected by sexual violence. More than half of the sorority women who completed her surveys reported experiencing sexual violence in their lives.

That number is significantly higher than national averages had previously suggested.

“It could have happened in the week or the month or the semester leading up to when they took a survey,” Streng-Schroeter says, “but it also could have happened when they were a child, or when they were in high school.”

She notes that sorority members, as well as queer students, are disproportionately affected by sexual violence on college campuses. However, many studies only ask about incidents within a narrow time frame, obscuring the full picture.

“Knowing more about what the actual affected population looks like was very important to me,” Streng-Schroeter says.

The data from her study underscores the urgency of making peer support more effective. Fortunately, there are many promising signs that her intervention works.

Rethinking support for survivors

After completing Streng-Schroeter’s BSS training, students showed meaningfully improved responses in how they thought about and responded to sexual-assault disclosures.

Participants who received the training reported lower levels of rape-myth acceptance—the false or harmful beliefs about what “counts” as sexual violence or who is to blame.

“The program also increased how often participants in chapters that received the training actually provided positive responses to their friends’ disclosure of sexual victimization,” Streng-Schroeter says. “And the data also appears to show that the training reduced negative responses and reduced how often participants anticipate that they will use negative responses when faced with a disclosure of sexual violence in the future.”

Streng-Schroeter believes that her community-first training model is an essential part of why it’s so effective.

Unlike large, anonymous lectures, her program is delivered in already-formed social networks. She theorizes that within peer groups where trust already exists and that experience disproportionately high levels of sexual violence, individuals may be more likely to disclose being the victim of sexual violence to one another.

"Even though there are so many victims within campus communities, students don’t necessarily know the right thing to say to someone who’s experienced this kind of violence unless they have received training."

“The social community aspect is a really important aspect of why we saw promising results with this,” Streng-Schroeter says. “Deploying the exact same training in an orientation for new students … it wouldn’t have the same effect because those friendship networks aren’t there yet.”

In other words, the best way to support survivors may be to start with the people they already lean on by giving them the tools to respond appropriately.

Healing together

With her dissertation completed and defended, Streng-Schroeter now hopes to expand the BSS program. She believes the model could scale to more chapters—and other student communities where close peer-bonds exist—with more funding.

She says, “One goal is to secure funding so I can provide this training across a whole network of a sorority, every chapter. That could impact thousands of people’s lives.”

She’s also eager to adapt the training for queer student organizations, college athletic teams and other student clubs.

Streng-Schroeter knows institutional and cultural reform takes time. But helping students become better friends, listeners and supporters can happen right now.

“People just voluntarily sharing that they felt this training was impactful really meant a lot. It made me think, ‘Okay, something good is happening here,’” Streng-Schroeter says.

As her training and research show, the most important support doesn’t always come from an office or through official channels. Often, healing begins when one person is ready to talk and another is prepared to hear them.

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�鶹��Ѱ��PhD graduate Tara Streng-Schroeter's research offers a new way to support survivors of sexual violence.

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Students are shaping (and leading) CU’s climate response

Rachel Sauer — Tue, 27 May 2025 18:12:47 +0000

Students are shaping (and leading) CU’s climate response Rachel Sauer Tue, 05/27/2025 - 12:12

The graduate students and faculty who co-designed and now teach an undergraduate course on climate-action planning include (left to right) Brigid Mark, Nadav Orian Peer, Jonah Shaw, Sean Benjamin, Mariah Bowman and Sara Fleming.

Cody DeBos

Fueled by a passion for climate justice and a commitment to student involvement in the university’s future, interdisciplinary graduate student team designs and teaches undergrad course on climate action planning

As the �鶹��Ѱ�� continues to advance its Climate Action Plan (CAP), an interdisciplinary group of graduate students has championed a new way to involve students in shaping a more sustainable future.

Initially, the �鶹��Ѱ��steering committee creating the CAP did not involve students. In response to the exclusion of student voices, a group of graduate students began work to give students a seat at the table and engage the undergraduate community in CU’s climate-planning work. First, the group launched a petition calling for student participation in the drafting of the CAP. Then the group helped pass a resolution through student government to grant student seats on the committee implementing the CAP in the future.

“Students have always been key drivers of sustainability and climate action on campuses across the U.S., including at �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder,” the team says. “As young people, our futures are jeopardized by the climate crisis, so we have a collective stake in rapidly reducing our greenhouse gas emissions.”

But the group didn’t stop there. Fueled by a shared passion for climate mitigation and the belief that students should help shape the university’s future, the group of five graduate students from four different departments spent hundreds of hours co-designing and now teaching an undergraduate course on climate-action planning.

The course gives undergrads hands-on experience with CU’s campus emissions data, collaboration opportunities with university stakeholders and a chance to develop sustainability strategies that could be implemented campuswide.

Their efforts recently earned the group �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder’s 2025 Campus Sustainability Award for Student Leadership. The group also won a $5,000 scholarship from the women-led nonprofit Zonta Foothills Foundation, in recognition for their groundbreaking work in climate education and advocacy. The �鶹��Ѱ��School of Engineering, following advocacy from generous faculty members David Paradis and Carol Cogswell, was also gracious enough to provide funding for their work.

A more engaging climate classroom

The group of graduate instructors brings an interdisciplinary approach and myriad perspectives to the classroom.

The teaching team includes Mariah Bowman (law), Sara Fleming (geography), Sean Benjamin (mechanical engineering), Brigid Mark (sociology) and Jonah Shaw (atmospheric and oceanic sciences). Each has worked to tackle climate-related issues through the lens of their expertise, from Indigenous environmental justice to climate-change modeling.

The team’s diverse makeup is reflected in the design of their course and has fueled their success. But the road to this point hasn’t been easy.

“This is a labor of love,” the team says. “We are doing this because we care. Funding and the time required have been challenges.”

Before the course launched, each graduate instructor spent many unpaid hours creating the syllabus, listing the course and building campus partnerships to access emissions data. During the semester, they spend many hours a week on teaching responsibilities that come in addition to their regular duties.

Financial support from the School of Engineering and the Zonta Foothills award has helped, but long term, the team hopes to see the course institutionalized and funded.

The team says, “Institutionalizing the course so that it runs each year and guaranteeing funding for instructors and teaching assistants would ensure the longevity and sustainability of this course. It would ensure continued involvement of students in the Climate Action Plan, and a more robust, actionable plan.”

An interdisciplinary group of graduate students (holding plaques) who worked work to give students a seat at the table and engage the undergraduate community in CU’s climate-planning work received �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder’s 2025 Campus Sustainability Award for Student Leadership.

Hands-on climate action

From the start, the group has viewed student involvement as essential, not symbolic.

At the start of the semester, students gain foundational knowledge on topics like climate justice, global carbon budgets and emissions accounting. From there, they split into teams to tackle different emissions categories on campus: commuting, waste, business travel and student/parent flights.

“Students work in four teams, each focused on a different category of campus emissions. They’re developing strategies to reduce emissions for their category, adding depth and student perspective to the high-level strategy suggestions in the CAP,” the instructors say.

Guest speakers, including administrators and national experts, round out the curriculum. Students have heard from Stanford University’s sustainability team and �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder faculty like Professor Karen Bailey (environmental studies) and Professor Nadav Orian Peer (law). They also meet with stakeholders across campus to refine their proposals.

The team believes this approach is the best way to facilitate opportunities to create actionable, equity-centered climate strategies grounded in real data.

“Involving students in climate initiatives enables them to apply knowledge about climate change to their own institution, experience they will carry to become leaders in climate action in their future workplaces and communities,” says Mark.

The results are already visible on campus.

One student team is working with CU’s transportation specialist to revise the campus commuting survey. Another is working on a survey for better tracking of student and parent air travel. Others are collaborating with dining services and facilities to reduce waste and consulting with faculty to provide more accurate emissions calculations of flights taken by faculty and staff.

“Students often learn about the gravity of climate change without learning about solutions, which can be quite depressing,” says Mark.

An interdisciplinary team of graduate students teaches the climate-action planning course for undergraduate students.

“Involving students in climate-action planning and implementation can combat feelings of hopelessness and enable participation in creating real change.”

Impact on both sides

This student-led course has already sparked engagement on both sides of the classroom. One undergraduate took the initiative to launch a campus club to raise awareness about the CAP. Others hope to join implementation committees or pursue careers in sustainability.

“To me, this demonstrates that students are hungry for interdisciplinary courses that enable them to apply their skills and creativity to issues on campus and engage with solutions to the climate crisis,” Fleming says.

For Bowman, the most rewarding part of the experience is the students themselves. “They are passionate, knowledgeable, interested, hardworking and fun to be around! It has been deeply meaningful to get to train them on something I care so much about, and have them care about it in return,” she says.

And for Fleming, designing and teaching the course has also given her much. She adds, “Team teaching is so much fun, and I’ve learned so much from each of my teammates on both content and pedagogical skills.”

As for the future, the graduate instructors each plan to continue fighting for climate action in their respective fields, using their knowledge and experience to make a difference on campus, in state government and in the community.

They also hope �鶹��Ѱ��continues what they started so future students can participate in a course that gives them a voice in the climate conversation through data, creativity and real-world collaboration.

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Rebuilding lives after the headlines fade

Rachel Sauer — Wed, 08 Jan 2025 20:03:03 +0000

Rebuilding lives after the headlines fade Rachel Sauer Wed, 01/08/2025 - 13:03

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researcher Lori Peek (center) with participants in the Gulf Coast-based youth empowerment program called SHOREline, which she co-created and that was designed to make fundamental changes in the lives of youth and their communities, including reducing inequality before and after natural disasters.

Cody DeBos

�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researcher Lori Peek emphasizes that the impact of natural disasters can be multiplicative

Six-year-old Samantha’s new ballet slippers, ready for her first dance class, sat untouched as Hurricane Katrina tore through New Orleans in 2005. Five years later, another disaster—the Deepwater Horizon oil spill—compounded her family’s challenges.

“Losing everything and having to start over, that has happened to me so many times, it just feels like I lost my childhood,” she reflected when talking with Lori Peek, �鶹��Ѱ�� Department of Sociology professor.

Stories like Samantha’s illuminate a deeper truth: The harm caused by disasters doesn’t fade when the news cycle moves on. Hers is one of many stories Peek has heard while conducting research for more than a decade in the Gulf Coast region.

Peek, who also serves as director of �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder’s Natural Hazards Center, has dedicated her career to understanding how disasters shape the lives of children and families.

Out of the spotlight, families across the country are fighting against systemic challenges, emotional tolls and inadequate support to get their lives back on track. Peek’s research focuses not just on immediate devastation, but also on the long road to recovery that so many disaster survivors must travel.

The compounding effects of disaster

Most natural hazards leave visible scars when they sweep across a landscape—flooded homes, shattered schools and shuttered businesses. Peek’s ethnographic approach reveals the experiences of people and the hidden struggles they face while navigating the aftermath of major disasters.

Her long-term, collaborative research along the Gulf Coast, recently highlighted in a Journal of Child and Family Studies article titled “Adverse Effects of the Deepwater Horizon Oil Spill Amid Cumulative Disasters: A Qualitative Analysis of the Experiences of Children and Families,” underscores how compounded disasters can upend entire communities for decades.

“One disaster can obviously wreak havoc on a young person’s life,” Peek explains. “But now we are living in an age of extremes, where families and communities may be affected by multiple disasters in a relatively short period.

“The impact of these events isn’t additive—it’s multiplicative.”

Peek’s longitudinal study of Gulf Coast children illustrated this phenomenon. After Hurricane Katrina, countless families were just beginning to rebuild their lives when the Deepwater Horizon spill once again devastated local economies and ecosystems.

Children like Samantha, Peek notes, are particularly vulnerable in such contexts. They absorb not only the immediate chaos of a disaster but also the long-term stress of financial insecurity, familial upheaval, displacement and disrupted support systems.

Peek and her co-authors use the term “toxic stress” to describe this chronic strain. Its effects can lead to serious health and developmental challenges that persist for years—or a lifetime.

Lori Peek, a �鶹��Ѱ��Boulder professor of sociology and director of the Natural Hazards Center, conducts fieldwork with a child after Hurricane Katrina; the child was later affected by the BP Deepwater Horizon oil spill as well.

Samantha’s story isn’t isolated. Rather, it’s one of many narratives underscoring the profound sense of loss that lingers long after the immediate crisis concludes.

Peek believes these stories must be heard and addressed if communities and families are to build resilience against future disasters.

“Until relatively recently, the recovery phase of disaster was the most understudied,” she says. “That started to change after Katrina. But now we are in a new era, where disasters are becoming more severe and intense, and communities are being hit more often.”

This not only makes studying disasters more complicated, but it also can lead to recovery resources being averted just when they are needed most, she adds.

The role of support systems

Peek’s research emphasizes that recovering from a disaster cannot be an individual journey. Robust support systems are necessary.

“For children to recover from disasters, they need support from their family members, peers, teachers and broader community. Strong institutions—such as stable housing, quality health care and safe schools—are equally crucial,” she says.

Yet many children lack these foundational supports even before disaster strikes, Peek notes. When a catastrophe does occur, it magnifies pre-existing inequalities, and vulnerable families often find themselves in even more precarious situations.

On the bright side, Peek says, “disasters can be catalysts for change. But only if recovery funding is targeted toward the people and places that need it most.”

A call to action

Peek’s findings highlight the imperative to ensure that recovery efforts reduce inequalities both before and after disasters occur. She co-created a Gulf Coast-based youth empowerment program called SHOREline that was designed to make such fundamental changes in the lives of youth and their communities.

By bringing together policymakers, educators and community leaders, Peek aims to create frameworks that protect communities before the next disaster strikes.

She also emphasizes the importance of not just studying disaster recovery but acting before communities are devastated by the next hurricane, flood or wildfire. To achieve this, Peek advocates for policies that prioritize equity and resilience, emphasizing the need for long-term planning and cross-sector collaboration.

"One disaster can obviously wreak havoc on a young person’s life. But now we are living in an age of extremes, where families and communities may be affected by multiple disasters in a relatively short period."

“Recovery frameworks are still designed as if a single disaster is affecting a place, and as if recovery is occurring in a neat, stepwise fashion. That’s simply not the reality.”

Through her work, Peek hopes to reshape how communities and policymakers approach disaster recovery. As Samantha’s story reminds us, disasters leave marks that linger far beyond the headlines. The disruption of her childhood dreams reveals a profound need for systems that protect society’s most vulnerable.

With the right support, Peek notes, children like Samantha can regain their footing and even thrive in the aftermath of disaster.

Peek’s vision for the future—one where no child’s dreams are washed away by hurricanes or tarnished by oil spills— enters on resilient communities safeguarded by robust support systems and programs that address systemic issues rooted in poverty and racial inequality.

“If we can use the small windows for change opened by disasters to make progress in reducing—rather than exacerbating—inequality and suffering, that would be a real win for current and future generations.”

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�鶹��Ѱ��Boulder researcher Lori Peek emphasizes that the impact of natural disasters can be multiplicative.

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Top image: Lori Peek with participants in the SHOREline program

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