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Opinion
The US G20 Presidency Could Take Trump's Pro-Billionaire Agenda Global
There’s a real risk that the US presidency could advance an economic agenda that prioritizes the interests of the wealthy while sidelining efforts to tackle inequality, strengthen fair taxation, and resolve deepening debt crises worldwide.
Apr 12, 2026
In just a year, the wealth of the 10 richest US billionaires increased by $698 billion dollars, while low-wage workers struggled as the Trump administration pushed an inequality-fueling agenda. Now, concerns are growing that the same policy choices—those driving a massive transfer of wealth to the richest—could be projected onto the global stage.
The United States recently assumed the presidency of the G20—a major platform for heads of state and governments to address global economic issues. The presidency is a role that carries significant influence over global economic priorities. There’s a real risk that the US presidency could advance an economic agenda that prioritizes the interests of the wealthy while sidelining efforts to tackle inequality, strengthen fair taxation, and resolve deepening debt crises worldwide.
Instead of focusing the G20 on poverty alleviation, reducing inequality, or dealing with a pending global economic crisis, the US government focus will center on removing regulatory burdens, unlocking energy supply chains, and pioneering new technologies and innovation. This marks a sharp departure from the 2025 theme of “Solidarity, Equality, and Sustainability” and signals a shift toward exporting the Trump administration’s domestic agenda to the global stage.
This all comes at a time when inequality is rising across most countries, and many low- and middle-income nations face mounting debt and stagnant growth.
As the US government so blatantly prioritizes wealthy interests, it is a critical moment for civil society to step forward—organizing and advancing an agenda that breaks decisively from the G20’s all-too-often emphasis on preserving the status quo.
US officials are pitching a “back to the basics” approach—which in reality is a sidelining of issues such as inequality, poverty, labor, climate, and gender. It is also widely anticipated that the Trump administration will restrict avenues for civil society participation.
Current plans suggest a focus on the leaders’ summit and financial track; a reduction in working groups; and formal engagement limited to business stakeholders, excluding civil society organizations, women’s groups, labor unions, and youth representatives. Even acknowledging that past G20 efforts on sustainable development have been uneven, this “back to the basics” approach risks abandoning critical priorities altogether.
Recent G20 presidencies led by Brazil and South Africa demonstrated a different trajectory, placing inequality and debt at the center of global discussions. South Africa’s 2025 presidency elevated the urgency of inequality by commissioning the first-ever G20 report on the issue. Led by professor Joseph Stiglitz, the report described a global “inequality emergency” and proposed the creation of an International Panel on Inequality to guide coordinated action.
Against this backdrop, the Trump administration’s domestic policies, including the 2025 One Big Beautiful Bill Act (OBBBA), represent one of the largest upward transfers of wealth in decades, making it unlikely that current US leadership will champion similar efforts internationally.
Progress on global tax cooperation is also under threat. Brazil’s 2024 presidency achieved a breakthrough agreement to cooperate on taxing high-net-worth individuals. While extreme wealth concentration has increased in recent years, research shows billionaires pay effective tax rates close to 0.3% of their wealth—well below what average workers contribute.
Yet in 2025, the Trump administration has already taken actions that undermine these efforts, including withdrawing from United Nations tax negotiations, pressuring other advanced economies to shield US corporations from global tax agreements, and opposing measures such as digital services and carbon taxes.
Climate action presents another area of concern. G20 countries are responsible for approximately 80% of global greenhouse gas emissions, yet many continue to fall short of their commitments. The US administration’s withdrawal from the Paris Agreement and rollback of domestic climate policies reflect a broader retreat from climate leadership.
The Trump administration’s emphasis on expanding energy supply chains raises the possibility that fossil fuel development could be prioritized over clean energy transitions, particularly if multilateral development banks are encouraged to increase investments in oil and gas projects.
Taken together, these signals suggest that the 2026 US G20 presidency could mark a significant retreat. Rather than building on recent efforts to address inequality, debt, and climate change, it may instead shift the forum toward a narrower agenda that prioritizes elite and corporate interests.
The direction ultimately taken will have far-reaching consequences, not only for the credibility of the G20 but for the future of global economic cooperation. As the US government so blatantly prioritizes wealthy interests, it is a critical moment for civil society to step forward—organizing and advancing an agenda that breaks decisively from the G20’s all-too-often emphasis on preserving the status quo.
Now is the time for people, institutions, and movements to unite and champion bold new forms of multilateral cooperation that serve billions, not billionaires.
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When Flotillas Fight for Life, Not Empire
Instead of instruments of war, flotillas have become symbols of peace—acts of humanitarian direct action, civil resistance, and cross-border solidarity.
Apr 12, 2026
Flotillas have historically been fleets of military vessels—tools of empire designed for swift offensive or defensive operations at sea. The images they evoke are ones of imperial power and looming violence. Just look at the massive US naval buildup that surrounded Iran as part of the recent US attacks.
But peace activists have also developed a new kind of flotilla.
Instead of instruments of war, flotillas have become symbols of peace—acts of humanitarian direct action, civil resistance, and cross-border solidarity. Take the flotillas that have tried to reach Gaza, like the Global Sumud Flotilla. Even though they have been illegally intercepted by the Israeli military, they have educated millions of people worldwide about Israel’s atrocities, activated entire cities to shut down, and offered a beacon of hope to the beleaguered people of Gaza.
As US policy continues to sanction and blockade Cuba—causing immense hardship for the Cuban people—I, along with many others, felt compelled to escalate our own tactics of solidarity by joining the recent flotilla to Cuba as part of the Nuestra América Convoy. Our boat carried 15 tons of aid, part of the more than 40 tons delivered by the convoy.
The US empire is indeed dying, and it is up to us to not just reimagine the better world we need and want, but to actually put that world into practice.
The United States is currently imposing some of the harshest sanctions on Cuba in recent history, compounding a 67-year blockade that has restricted access to medicine, fuel, and food. But in recent months, the US added another dimension: a naval blockade to severely limit fuel imports, leading to a humanitarian crisis.
In an ideal world, we wouldn’t need fossil fuels—we would already have made a just transition to renewable energy. And while Cuba is working at lightning speed to expand solar power, the current reality is stark: People still need fuel to cook, to transport food, to operate ambulances, to power hospitals, and to keep ventilators running.
The international community has responded to this escalation in US economic warfare with intensified solidarity. Hundreds of thousands of people around the world have been mobilizing to send aid and condemn the US blockade. In March, Progressive International, CODEPINK, and The People’s Forum launched the Nuestra América Convoy, bringing together over 600 people from 33 countries. We came with millions of dollars’ worth of aid—from urgently needed medical supplies to longer-term solutions like solar panels.
While many of my friends boarded planes to Havana, packing every inch of their luggage with medicine, hygiene products, vitamins, and art supplies, I traveled to Mexico to meet the flotilla crew. We spent four days at sea together—activists, journalists, organizers. Some had helped organize the Gaza Sumud Flotilla; others had taken part in mass protests in solidarity with Palestine.
Our goal was to deliver much-needed aid to the people of Cuba. But just as important was challenging the dominant narrative—that Cuba’s suffering is the result of its own government, rather than decades of cruel US policy.
Even though the boat was full of journalists documenting the trip, their cameras could not fully capture the sense of community among strangers united by a shared mission. I remember being nervous about the cold and the possibility of seasickness, but within minutes, people were offering ginger chews, acupressure bracelets, and rain gear.
Our departure was delayed due to weather, boat repairs, and the logistics of loading the aid. In the meantime, we stayed with supporters in Mexico who couldn’t join the voyage but found other ways to contribute. We shared a send-off dinner at an Egyptian restaurant whose owner had followed the Gaza flotillas. He told us how proud he was to see a flotilla to Cuba leaving from his small town.
On the boat, we shared cooking, dishwashing, and night watch shifts—standard practice in occupations, encampments, and direct actions where resources are limited but creativity and collaboration are abundant. At sea, a simple breakfast of rice, beans, eggs, guacamole, and toast tastes like a feast. We slept under galaxies of stars, woke to sunrises on the horizon, and at sunset made music with whatever we had—a guitar, a bucket drum, water bottles filled with dry beans.
Meanwhile, I stayed connected to those traveling by plane, watching group chats fill with photos of carefully packed bags and urgent questions: Who can fit more supplies? How many solar batteries can we carry on? The coordination was constant, collective, and inspiring.
The blockade severely limits what goods can reach Cuba. While US citizens can still travel there under certain categories, they face restrictions and often risk questioning upon return. But solidarity is not tourism. It is not about swooping in, taking photos, and leaving. It is about building relationships, listening, and committing to ongoing struggle from our home countries.
We had a beautiful reception from the Cuban people when we landed, and then had the opportunity to speak directly with community groups about current conditions.I learned how they overcome so much by placing value in community over the individual.
The US empire is indeed dying, and it is up to us to not just reimagine the better world we need and want, but to actually put that world into practice. Reflecting on my experience, I started thinking—if we can turn flotillas from a force of evil into vessels of hope and solidarity, then what else can we change? What if we built schools around the world instead of sending bombs? What if, like the Cubans, we funded healthcare over warfare and sent doctors to cure people instead of soldiers to kill them?
You don’t have to board a boat with humanitarian supplies to show solidarity. Flotillas are one tactic, but we need a variety and diversity of tactics right now, and always. You can move forward by showing solidarity to your neighbors at home, as well as to our neighbors 90 miles off our shores. Because what we build together, in community—whether through a peace flotilla or local mutual aid—is stronger than anything built through force.
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You Cannot Bomb Your Way to Peace—We’ve Tried
In Iran as in Laos, you cannot claim to negotiate in good faith while destroying civilian life. And you cannot escape the long shadow of toxins and explosives that outlive every justification offered in their name.
Apr 12, 2026
April brings back a memory I cannot shake: the 1973 Pii Mai, or Lao New Year, bombing in Laos. This year, that memory unfolds against the backdrop of the US’ war in Iran that is repeating history—killing civilians, destroying homes and infrastructure, and setting the stage for suffering that will last generations. The war in Iran has already claimed over 1,500 civilian lives, including 217 children.
Like the US war in Vietnam, this new war has regional ramifications. In Southeast Asia, the conflict did not stay within Vietnam—it spilled into Laos and Cambodia, devastating communities that had little say in the war itself. Today, the consequences of the war in Iran are already crossing borders. In places like Lebanon, families are being pushed from their homes as violence escalates and instability spreads, echoing the same kind of regional unraveling we saw decades ago.
Once again, we are confronted with the consequences of sidelining diplomacy and the rules-based order.
As a US Air Force veteran, I’ve witnessed firsthand the devastating human cost of bombing strikes, both at the moment and in the decades to come. From December 1966 to December 1968, I was assigned to the 56th Air Commando Wing at air bases in Thailand, where our primary mission was to interdict the flow of personnel and supplies along the “Ho Chi Minh Trail” through Laos. As a 26-year-old newly promoted captain, I was shocked to discover that nearly all of our missions involved flying over Laos, where we dropped over 2.5 million tons of ordnance over nine years—580,000 bombing runs in total.
A new year should bring hope, but when war arrives, it replaces hope with memory—and its shadow has a way of returning, year after year, long after the headlines fade.
Some of those strikes took place during Pii Mai 1973—just as we recently witnessed US bombing during Nowruz, the Persian New Year.
Today, as the United States wages war in Iran while diplomacy is said to continue, I recognize a familiar contradiction. We are told negotiations are ongoing. We are told peace and safety are the goal. Yet bombs continue to fall, and civilians continue to die.
I have seen where that leads.
Even as negotiations to end the conflict moved forward—including the talks that led to the Paris Peace Accords—the bombing did not stop. In April 1973, after those agreements were signed, US aircraft continued striking Laos, justified as leverage—pressure deemed necessary to secure peace.
On April 16, 1973, the last day of the Lao New Year, American B-52 bombers and F-111 fighters struck the village of Tha Vieng, near the Plain of Jars in Xieng Khouang province, after it was reportedly occupied by North Vietnamese forces. US officials described the operation as a response to a “major violation of the ceasefire.”
President Richard Nixon warned Hanoi to comply—or face consequences. Those repercussions included renewed bombing in the neutral country of Laos during what should have been its most festive and peaceful celebration.
That is not diplomacy but destruction wearing the mask of strategy.
I returned to Laos in 2023, decades after the war, and for the first time I was part of the solution. I didn’t see “targets” anymore—I saw what was left behind. I walked through villages where the war never truly ended, where farmers still dig into soil that can explode beneath their hands, and where families continue to lose children long after the last airstrike. Many of the bombs that were dropped failed to detonate on impact, leaving behind a deadly legacy of unexploded ordnance covering about one-third of the country.
In one remote village, I helped detonate two cluster munitions near a home under construction. That family can now live without fear, but countless others cannot. With roughly 10% of the contamination cleared, the war is not past—it is ongoing, just out of sight.
And then there are the poisons—the part of war that doesn’t explode, but seeps.
Toxic exposure and unexploded ordnance do not just end when the fighting stops—they create multigenerational harm for both civilians and those sent to fight. The US Department of Veterans Affairs now recognizes 19 cancers and other serious conditions as linked to Agent Orange exposure, along with more than 20 conditions tied to burn pits and other toxic exposures from the Gulf War and post-9/11 conflicts. As of 2024, 6.5 million veterans or their dependents were receiving $163.1 billion in disability benefits.
Those numbers are evidence that war reaches far beyond the battlefield. The true costs of war are delayed, dispersed, and often denied until they can no longer be ignored.
And still, we repeat the pattern.
We are told that bombing Iran strengthens our negotiating position. That it brings adversaries to the table. These are the same arguments made during Southeast Asia—arguments that left behind unexploded bombs in Laos and dioxins embedded in human bodies for generations.
If I have learned anything, it is this: You cannot bomb your way to peace. You cannot claim to negotiate in good faith while destroying civilian life. And you cannot escape the long shadow of toxins and explosives that outlive every justification offered in their name.
For me, Laos is not just a part of my history. It is a warning written into the Earth and into the bodies of those still living with what was done there.
I remember what Pii Mai was meant to be—joyful, cleansing, a turning of the page. We are now bombing through another New Year, just as we did in 1973. Today it is Nowruz. Different place, same justification, same consequences. A new year should bring hope, but when war arrives, it replaces hope with memory—and its shadow has a way of returning, year after year, long after the headlines fade.
The question is whether we are willing to listen—or, are we destined to relive it.
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Sinners: Real Monsters of Greed and Racism Still Stalk the Gulf South
The Riverplex Megapark planned for Louisiana's Ascension Parish threatens both the history and future of the community with the destruction of former slave cabins and the construction of a polluting ammonia plant.
Apr 12, 2026
I was pleased to see Sinners have a good night at the Oscars, picking up four trophies. It didn’t win Best Picture, but to my mind, it is the movie of the year. Sinners had far and away the greatest cultural impact, especially among Black people.
Sinners is the rare blockbuster film that explores Black history from the perspective of Black people, but I believe the reason the film has touched such a nerve is that it’s much more than a period piece. When I watched Sinners, I didn’t just see a movie about the past. I saw a mirror. The horror in the film isn’t history; the blood-sucking vampires of racism, white supremacy, and cultural erasure still haunt us today.
For me, Sinners hit literally close to home. Although it is set in Mississippi, it was filmed entirely in southeastern Louisiana, where my roots trace back to a small community called Donaldsonville. The film reminded me of my childhood when grandpa and I walked the avenue to shop. We’d walk from Smoke Bend, up the avenue, to a warehouse on the edge of town to get syrup in a yellow can—perfect for eating with fry bread. What’s funny about the movie is that Michael B. Jordan’s characters’ names were Smoke and Stack. And my grandpa told me that Smoke Bend got its name from the Indian campfires travelers saw when they came around the river bend. The scenes where Smoke and Stack go to Clarksdale to buy supplies were shot on Railroad Avenue in Donaldsonville, where I live and work. Folks from around here remember hearing the alarm and radio announcements from Ascension Parish Barn on Church street as they shopped along the Avenue.
The Jim Crow era depicted in Sinners has ended, but here in Ascension Parish, we are in a struggle to protect Black lives and preserve Black heritage. In the name of economic growth, the Parish government is planning to create a massive, 17,000-acre industrial complex—the so-called Riverplex Megapark—featuring a Hyundai plant and other pollution-producing factories. The complex will decimate the historic predominantly Black community of Modeste and part of Donaldsonville, displacing as many as 800 people.
We will not be able to protect our communities unless more should-be allies come to recognize that environmental justice is a major civil rights issue of our time.
In October, Modeste residents reported that heavy machinery had demolished some of the slave cabins on the site of the former Germania and Mulberry Plantations. The purpose of the destruction was to make way for the Hyundai facility, which could destroy both plantations as well as the neighboring Zeringue Plantation.
Those cabins hold the stories of their enslaved ancestors, the people whose labor built this land and whose spirit still breathes through it. Among the destroyed cabins was one of deep significance to me: My uncle, Cloveste, was born in one of them. Like the juke joint in Sinners, those cabins are a sacred space; they are bloodline, legacy, and love—and they were bulldozed to make room for corporate profit.
While erasing our past, this industrial complex also threatens our future. Located in the heart of “Cancer Alley,” Ascension Parish is one of the most polluted counties in the United States. Less than 3 miles from my house is the world’s largest ammonia plant, the single worst polluting factory in the country. I am a breast cancer survivor. All three of my children were born prematurely, and one of them has had respiratory problems his whole life. These kinds of sicknesses are commonplace around here. Yet plans for the complex include another ammonia plant that will spew out thousands of tons of pollution.
Down here, corporate executives don’t wear hoods or burn crosses, but their greed can kill us just the same.
We are all for development, but we want economic growth that strengthens our communities, not that erases and endangers them while creating generational wealth for others. Rural Roots Louisiana, the organization I founded, is leading an effort to block the “megapark,” and a judge recently ruled in our favor, ordering the front group behind the project to turn over relevant public records.
But we are up against forces with bottomless resources, which they are using to try to buy out and pay off people in the community. This presents people with hard choices, but as we see in Sinners, there is a cost to accommodating your oppressor. As Director Ryan Coogler said, his film explores “the deals people in oppressive situations must rationalize.”
In this struggle, as in all my work, I take heart in the example of our ancestors, who persevered in the face of even steeper odds. Their efforts and sacrifices ended American apartheid, and it is important to remember how far the country has come. Sinners itself, the fact that it got made, is a form of progress. It serves as a rebuke to those trying to erase Black history.
I also draw inspiration from activists and organizers throughout southeast Louisiana. A few years ago, in Plaquemines Parish—where most of Sinners was shot—community members blocked an oil terminal that would have destroyed a cemetery where their enslaved ancestors were buried. In St. James Parish, community groups have made headway in their lawsuit seeking a landmark moratorium on petrochemical facilities, while in St. John Parish, a historic Black community waged a heroic battle against a proposed grain elevator.
Still, we will not be able to protect our communities unless more should-be allies come to recognize that environmental justice is a major civil rights issue of our time. Put another way, environmental racism might not seem like the scariest vampire—it dresses in suits and wears nice shoes—but none have more blood on their teeth.
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