in a world obsessed with growth, progress, and shiny new tech, we rarely pause to consider the flip side: decay, decline, and death. not just the physical kind, but the slow erosion of societies, states, and entire ways of life. these aren’t just abstract ideas—they shape how power works, how borders are drawn, and who gets to thrive or gets left behind. this blog dives into the murky waters of necropolitics, a concept that’s less about grim reapers and more about how life and death get weaponized in the game of global dominance. buckle up—it’s gonna be a wild ride through some heavy ideas, but i’ll keep it real and grounded, no ivory tower nonsense here.
necropolitics, for those new to the term, isn’t just about who dies in a literal sense. it’s about how certain groups—think marginalized communities, indigenous peoples, or even entire nations—are pushed into conditions where survival becomes a daily gamble. it’s the dark underbelly of biopolitics, which sounds like something out of a sci-fi flick but really just means managing populations to maximize their “usefulness” to the state. while biopolitics is all about fostering life (think healthcare, urban planning, or education systems), necropolitics decides who’s expendable. it’s the political equivalent of saying, “sorry, you’re not part of the plan.” and yeah, it’s as brutal as it sounds.
let’s unpack this through a geographical lens, because space—land, borders, resources—is where necropolitics flexes its muscles. geography isn’t just about maps or knowing where timbuktu is (it’s in mali, by the way). it’s about how humans carve up the earth, claim it, and decide who gets to call it home. from colonial empires to modern nation-states, the control of space has always been a life-and-death matter. so, how does necropolitics play out in this arena, and why should we care? let’s explore.
the aesthetics of ruin: when decay becomes destiny
one way necropolitics sneaks into our world is through what i’ll call the aesthetics of ruin. picture an abandoned factory, its rusting skeleton overtaken by weeds, or a crumbling city that once buzzed with life. there’s a strange beauty in decay, right? it’s why we’re obsessed with post-apocalyptic shows like the last of us—ruins tell stories of what was and what might’ve been. but beyond the vibes, ruins are political. they’re evidence of societies that didn’t make the cut, places deemed unworthy of saving.
historically, thinkers have been fascinated by this. they saw ruins as proof that some civilizations—often those labeled “primitive” or “savage”—were destined to fade away. it’s not just about buildings falling apart; it’s about entire peoples being written off as relics of a bygone era. take the romantic obsession with ancient greek or roman ruins in the 19th century. european scholars gazed at those crumbling columns and saw themselves as heirs to a grand legacy, while dismissing other cultures as doomed to collapse. this wasn’t just navel-gazing—it justified colonial expansion. if a people were “dying out,” their land was up for grabs, no guilt required.
fast forward to today, and the aesthetics of ruin still shape how we think about power. urban decay in places like detroit gets framed as a failure of certain communities, ignoring how deindustrialization and policy neglect gutted those neighborhoods. meanwhile, gentrification swoops in, turning “blighted” areas into trendy lofts for the instagram crowd. it’s necropolitics at work: some lives are deemed surplus, pushed out to make room for others. the ruins—whether physical or social—become a canvas for justifying who gets to stay and who gets the boot.
this isn’t just a western thing. across the global south, megacities sprawl alongside slums where millions live on the edge of survival. these spaces aren’t accidents—they’re designed outcomes of policies that prioritize shiny skyscrapers over basic infrastructure for the poor. necropolitics thrives in these contrasts, deciding who gets clean water and who’s left to fend for themselves. it’s not always about outright killing; sometimes it’s about letting decay do the dirty work.
borders as battlegrounds: life, death, and the state
if ruins are the ghosts of necropolitics past, borders are its frontlines today. borders aren’t just lines on a map—they’re where life and death get negotiated in real time. think of the razor-wire fences along the u.s.-mexico border or the mediterranean sea, a graveyard for thousands of migrants. these aren’t random tragedies; they’re the result of deliberate choices about who gets to cross and who’s left to perish.
geopolitics has always been about controlling space, but necropolitics sharpens the focus: it’s about controlling life within that space. states don’t just defend their borders to keep out “invaders” (a term thrown around like confetti these days). they use borders to sort people into categories: citizen, refugee, illegal. each label comes with a different set of rights—or lack thereof. citizens get protections; refugees might get a camp if they’re lucky; the “illegal” often get nothing but a one-way ticket to danger.
this sorting process is where necropolitics gets its claws in. states decide who’s worthy of life—think visas, asylum grants, or access to healthcare—and who’s disposable. during the syrian refugee crisis, european nations bickered over quotas while thousands drowned in the mediterranean. it wasn’t just bureaucracy gone wrong; it was a calculated choice to let certain lives slip through the cracks. the sea became a border weapon, a natural ally in keeping “undesirables” out.
but let’s not kid ourselves—necropolitics isn’t just about far-off borders. it’s in our backyards too. during the covid-19 pandemic, governments made tough calls about who got ventilators and who didn’t. elderly folks in care homes were often deprioritized, their deaths framed as “inevitable.” that’s necropolitics in action: deciding whose life matters less when resources are tight. it’s not always a conspiracy—just a cold calculus of survival that leaves some groups on the chopping block.
borders also shape how we imagine the “other.” in colonial times, indigenous peoples were pushed to the margins—literally and figuratively—branded as obstacles to progress. their lands were seized because they didn’t “use” them the way europeans did (read: no fences, no factories). today, we see echoes of this in how migrants are demonized as threats to “our way of life.” the rhetoric hasn’t changed much; it’s just got a new hashtag. borders, then, aren’t just physical—they’re ideological, drawing lines between who’s human and who’s not.
why necropolitics matters now
so, why should you care about this grim stuff? because necropolitics isn’t some dusty theory—it’s the operating system of our world. every time a policy prioritizes one group over another, every time a border tightens or a neighborhood gets “redeveloped,” necropolitics is at play. it’s in the air we breathe, shaping who gets to live fully and who’s left scraping by.
climate change is the ultimate necropolitical challenge. rising seas and scorching heatwaves don’t hit everyone equally. wealthier nations can build floodwalls or crank up the ac; poorer ones are left to drown or bake. island nations like kiribati are literally disappearing, their people facing “climate refugee” status—a term that’s as bureaucratic as it is heartbreaking. who gets to relocate? who gets aid? these are necropolitical questions, deciding which populations are worth saving.
technology’s another player. ai and surveillance tech are sold as tools for progress, but they’re also necropolitical weapons. facial recognition systems disproportionately target marginalized groups, feeding data to police states or corporations happy to profit off fear. drones patrol borders, deciding who’s a threat from thousands of feet up. it’s not skynet-level dystopia (yet), but it’s a system that thrives on sorting lives into “safe” and “risky.”
what’s the way forward? first, we’ve gotta see necropolitics for what it is—not a conspiracy, but a logic embedded in how power works. calling it out is step one, whether it’s in urban planning, immigration policy, or climate talks. second, we need to rethink borders—not as walls, but as spaces of connection. that’s not kumbaya nonsense; it’s about recognizing that no one’s survival is guaranteed if we keep playing this zero-sum game. finally, let’s ditch the obsession with ruins as destiny. decay isn’t inevitable—it’s a choice, shaped by who we decide to prioritize.
necropolitics forces us to face uncomfortable truths about power, space, and survival. it’s not a feel-good topic, but ignoring it’s like ignoring a storm on the horizon. we can’t stop the rain, but we can decide who gets an umbrella. so, next time you hear about a border crisis or a “dying” neighborhood, ask yourself: who’s calling the shots, and who’s paying the price? that’s where the real story lies.
reference:
klinke, ian. life, earth, colony: friedrich ratzel’s necropolitical geography. ann arbor: university of michigan press, 2023.
