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Alphabet, Amazon, Meta, Microsoft, and Oracle have accumulated $1.65 trillion in debt from the data center buildout, up eightfold in four years.

This story was originally published by Inside Climate News and is reproduced here as part of the Climate Desk collaboration. Environmental groups and tribes are suing the Trump administration over a new rule eliminating the majority of habitat protections for imperiled wildlife protected by the Endangered Species Act.  Experts say the rule represents the most profound change to the law since it […]

China’s record trade surplus should boost the currency, but Beijing is trying to ensure the opposite.

Startup’s new Dana service allows developers to build and test physical intelligence using natural language.

Last week, in an update about efforts to save the Wilbur J. Cohen Federal Building—a.k.a. “the Sistine Chapel of the New Deal”—I mentioned in passing the Advisory Council on Historic Preservation, or ACHP. The ACHP administers an important regulation, known as Section 106, that enforces the 1966 National Historic Preservation Act. Back in February, the ACHP launched a comprehensive review of Section 106 with the avowed purpose of “streamlining” it, which is to say weakening it.That review process turns out to be further along than I realized (hat tip to Janay Kingsberry of The Atlantic for filling me in). Now the ACHP, which is under the firm control of President Donald Trump, has produced a draft notice of proposed rulemaking (text here and here) that would make it significantly easier for Trump “to fast-track projects that destroy, or cause irreversible damage to, our historic places, with virtually no public oversight,” according to Sara Bronin, who chaired the ACHP under President Joe Biden. The ACHP is expected to publish the notice of proposed rulemaking by the end of this week.Given Trump’s demolition of the East Wing, his plans to build a White House ballroom that dwarfs the executive mansion, his efforts to erect an Arc de Trump in the traffic circle leading to Arlington Cemetery and a National Garden of American Heroes in West Potomac Park; and, given further the Trump White House’s previous plans, now set aside, to demolish the Wilbur J. Cohen building and three other federal office buildings in Southwest Washington that it’s been trying to unload—these regulatory changes would be like handing a box of matches to an arsonist.The main thrust of the proposed revisions is to reduce opportunities for public input into preservation decisions and to reduce preservation’s scope. “We’ve never seen a proposal that would do this much damage to this much of the country’s history in one stroke,” said Greg Werkheiser, founding partner of Cultural Heritage Partners, which is currently litigating against Trump’s Kennedy Center alterations and his planned whitewashing of the Old (now Eisenhower) Executive Office building. Cultural Heritage Partners has set up an online war room to fight against the proposed Section 106 changes.But in a telephone conversation late Monday, Bronin warned me not to think solely of Trump’s Mad King Ludwig–like desire to reshape the nation’s capital according to his whims. (My analogy, not hers.) “I would encourage people not to get distracted by the types of projects that have been in the news,” Bronin said, “because these changes are geared toward a more systematic overhaul of the process” to “benefit some of the most destructive projects that are in the federal pipeline,” including lucrative mining and oil exploration on federal lands previously protected by the National Historic Preservation Act.*Bronin cited as an example an area of Arizona’s Tonto National Forest, known to the local Indigenous community as Chi’chil Biłdagoteel and to everyone else as Oak Flat. To these Native Americans, it’s a sacred site, and as such it’s listed as a Traditional Cultural Property in the National Register for Historic Places. In 2014, then-Senators John McCain and Jeff Flake, Republicans of Arizona, inserted into a defense bill a provision requiring transfer of Oak Flat to an Australian mining company called Resolution Copper. The mining would obliterate Chi’chil Biłdagoteel, and thus far Section 106 has been a useful tool to block this activity in court. But the proposed revisions to Section 106 require (on page 47) that to qualify for protection, a physical location must be “geographically compact,” which Oak Flat is not. It also states that “noncompact, unimproved natural features such as mountains, valleys, bodies of water, or landscapes, including ethnographic landscapes, do not qualify as property for the purposes of section 106.” If this change is adopted, Resolution Copper, which has already taken title to the land from the U.S. Forest Service, will likely soon dismantle Chi’chil Biłdagoteel. The “geographically compact” restriction has an urban application, as well, Bronin said. It could be used to remove existing protections under the National Historic Preservation Act for historically significant neighborhoods such as New York’s Greenwich Village and Washington’s Georgetown. “These two words,” Bronin said, “would greenlight a wave of destruction of our historic and culturally significant properties that we’ve never seen before.” The Cohen building would be affected because Section 106 determines how the General Services Administration assesses the fate of the murals and sculptures inside and outside the building as it prepares to sell the Cohen. Passage of Representative Dina Titus’s bill putting those protections, and more, into statutory language would help, but, as I noted last week, at the moment greater protection for the Cohen comes from GSA’s recent revelation that selling it would incur large expenses to separate its heating and electrical equipment from an adjacent structure, the Mary E. Switzer Memorial Federal Building, which is used by the Department of Health and Human Services.The proposed Section 106 revision is expected to be approved by the end of this week and published in the Federal Register soon thereafter. The public comment period will be limited to 30 days. After that, the ACHP will likely ignore public comment and finalize the regulation, because that’s now routine practice in the Trump administration. But posting a comment wouldn’t hurt—and you might also want to call your member of Congress about this latest scheme to sell cherished pieces of the United States to the highest bidder.* This article originally misidentified the National Historic Preservation Act.

In June, Daniel Sanchez Estrada, a defendant in the historic Prairieland case, was sentenced to 30 years in federal prison, drawing international headlines and outrage. The artist and father was convicted of two federal offenses for allegedly moving a box of zines and other literature from the home he shared with another defendant, his wife, Maricela Rueda, following a July 4, 2025, noise demonstration at the Prairieland ICE Detention Center in Alvarado, Texas. Rueda faces 70 years in federal prison. “My feeling is that I was only arrested because I’m married to Mari Rueda,” Sanchez Estrada said last December, in his first public statement. His wife, he added, had been criminalized for “showing support to migrants who are facing deportation under deplorable conditions.” Sanchez Estrada, a green card holder, could himself be deported when he is finally released. All this is the result of the Trump administration’s relentless anti-immigrant campaign, as well as its ongoing attempts to smother any dissent or efforts to defend those it targets. One year after Sanchez Estrada’s arrest, his sister, Ana Bell, posted a video statement about her brother and the trauma the government has put her family through in its prosecution of the Prairieland case. In the video, released earlier this month, Bell is surrounded by shelves of fantasy and science fiction books, including some familiar titles that frequently show up on banned book lists: The Handmaid’s Tale, 1984. With her children, Bell co-owns and runs a bookstore in Rockwall County, Texas. “I feel it is a war on free speech, rather than just my brother,” she told me when we spoke last week. In the government’s efforts to paint a temporarily connected group of people who opposed immigration detention as a “North Texas Antifa Cell,” it may not have said flat out that sharing a book is now a crime. It didn’t have to. Literature, in the Prairieland case, was turned into a vector of criminalization. In the hands of a prosecutor, the fact that a book or a zine can be passed from reader to reader became the accumulating elements of a criminal conspiracy. FBI Special Agent Joseph Clark Wiethorn’s lengthy sworn statement recounted discovering the box of literature that Sanchez Estrada allegedly took to an apartment in Denton, Texas. The government claimed that the box had been moved after a call between Rueda, then already in jail, and her husband. The agent characterized what he found inside as “anti-law enforcement, anti-government, anti-Trump sentiments.” One zine pictured was a guide to squatting (“The average life expectancy of a squat in San Francisco seems to be only three weeks”); another was a collection of essays about anarchist tactics in historical context (“What happened in Asheville on May Day was not a riot”). ICE posted additional photos of the zines to Instagram, claiming that the FBI had “found literal insurrectionist propaganda.” Crafting its own propaganda, ICE connected the zines, Sanchez Estrada’s arrest, and his immigration status. (You can read the zines yourself, available as part of a recent republished series in print, or free online.) Two other defendants, the couple Elizabeth and Ines Soto, also had zines used against them, particularly their at-home zine-making and their book club, which was named for Emma Goldman. Each was sentenced to 50 years. Until now, Ana told me, her family “kept quiet.” They didn’t want anything they said used against Sanchez Estrada. “But it is bigger than him,” she said. “I love my brother dearly and I want him to come home.… Out of all the defendants, I believe everybody should go home.”This interview has been edited and condensed. Melissa Gira Grant: What was it like in court? You were there for the sentencing, just a couple weeks ago? Ana Bell: I was there. It’s very nerve-wracking to be in that room, after a whole year, knowing what we know of my brother, and knowing that his life is pretty much in someone’s hands. From the beginning for us it was like, “This doesn’t make sense.” All of this is leaking into social media and feeding this narrative that he is a criminal, when all he did was move a box of his own belongings. Melissa: During your brother’s sentencing, the judge said, essentially, “We’re doing this to send a message to anybody else who shares this ‘ideology.’” What did it feel like in the moment for that to be said so directly? Ana: I was just like, “Oh my God, they’re not even trying to cover this up.” They feel in the right to do this. And I don’t understand it. I felt like hope had been taken from us. I felt like my brother was on trial simply out of support for this administration and the things that they are doing, because other than that, it makes no sense. I own a bookstore. We are a fiction store only. But my shelves are full of female and male characters that lead armies to battle, fighting oppression, fighting injustice, fighting their own types of fascism in their worlds. You have Katniss in The Hunger Games, you have even Harry Potter in his own world. You have all of these characters that are standing up against injustice and they’re in fiction books. If you were to say that reading these types of books makes you antifa; that’s your ideology because you love reading these? Then all of us in the bookish community will be in jail. They say that he went to the house to remove evidence. They specifically used the wording, he went to “her house.” And I would like to make the record clear here: He went to his house. He lived there. [A federal agent acknowledged, in a sworn affidavit, that Sanchez Estrada’s parents told investigators that he lived with Maricela Rueda and split his time between the couple’s house in Fort Worth and his parents’ home.] They make it sound suspicious. If you were going to tell me that the contents of the box, the zines, the stickers, the poetry, that’s the crime—then we have a bigger problem here, which is free speech. That’s what is being targeted here, not my brother. My brother is just a vessel. It’s like they have to have a body to put in jail. And unfortunately, that happens to be my brother. How is talking about corporations destroying our environment a big issue that someone will have to be in jail? How is a book of poetry expressing your own feelings on a political climate? It’s a crime that you should be in jail for 30 years. Look at all of those things, and then look inside of your home, at what things that you have in your own home that fit the same sentiment. Because a lot of people don’t understand that. This is way beyond my brother just being in jail. I’m a bookstore co-owner, my kids own the other part. All the time, new bills are being introduced in Texas about banning books, things that people don’t want you to be reading. There was a bill that would’ve made us, the people who own bookstores, criminals and charged like pedophiles for having smut in our stores. [The Texas House considered a bill in 2025 that would have held bookstores liable for “damages arising from the distribution, transmission, or display of harmful material to a minor.”] If you don’t like it, don’t read it. It is so easy. You don’t get to control what other people say or do. And it is not a crime to either read it or not read it. I feel it is a war on free speech rather than just my brother, but I feel that he’s right now the flag or the one thing that is representing the battle.Melissa: You mentioned you were out of the country when your brother was arrested, but your parents and your kids were here? Ana: When it happened, I was in Mexico. My parents, they live about three miles away from my house. [Law enforcement] raided their home. I called my kids, I called some friends, and I was telling them, this is what happened to my parents. I told my kids, “If somebody comes into the house, you let them take whatever they want to take, you step aside, you don’t talk to them, you don’t engage.” And I had friends ready so that as soon as something would happen in my house, my kids will send them a message, they will come and keep the kids safe. My youngest was 15 last year, and my oldest is 20. How is this happening? We haven’t done anything. They’re looking for anything and everything. They took my mom’s little notepad that had phone numbers from Mexico, with the little Disney princesses on the front. They took my sister’s phone. That’s the one thing that we would love to have back. That phone had my sister’s photos, things that we can’t get back because she passed away nine years ago. They took my dad’s tablet, where you log all your trips [for an 18-wheeler trucking company] and then you send that information automatically to the company you’re working with and then they pay you. So his income was gone when they took that tablet with them. I’m not saying the officers that came to the house came in with the purpose of getting my mom to faint, came in with the purpose of taking my dad’s income, came in with the purpose of taking my sister’s phone. That’s not at all what I’m saying. What I’m saying is their actions are following orders that had no legal basis whatsoever. They’re rummaging through my parents’ house, and we still didn’t know what my brother’s charges are or where he’s at. And so you have parents going through all of this trauma, and then there’s [the] aftermath. The loss of income, the health decaying for my mom, the nightmares that come. I cannot even open the door without letting them know I’m coming over, even though I have a key to the house, because it freaks my mom out every time that we rattle the doorknob on the house. It just makes no sense. It was terrifying because I was away from the country. I’ve been divorced for almost 14 years, so it’s just me and my kids, and having to be away to earn an income and then hear that all of this is happening. I came back, and within hours I was on my way to Fort Worth to the hearing. And then I get to hear this: My brother is not going to go home. He’s going to stay in there. Melissa: What happens next? Ana: At this point, we are being told that the timeline is about probably two years before we are heard on the Fifth Circuit for appeals, unless they move really fast. But what we are looking for is a pardon. So we just have to hope that whoever comes in power understands that carrying a box of your own magazines is not a violation of any kind of law, you’re actually protected under the First Amendment for freedom of speech. So it should be a no-brainer to be like, “We really messed up over here.” He’s totally entitled to read about raccoons and the environment. And he’s totally entitled to not feel that police brutality is OK. You know what I mean? Melissa: Looking through the zines, I just thought, This is all very familiar. If you’ve ever been in an independent bookstore, if you’ve ever been to a protest, none of this is unfamiliar. And it feels like the point, I guess, of looping your brother in was to say, “Well, this is the ideology of this group, and isn’t this scary?” Ana: Yes. And that was it. They kept saying they shared this ideology, they shared this type of mentality, this is what terrorism looks like. And I’m like, “This is just reading material.” They’re not telling us in any of the documents that they put in the court record, “We’re coming after your freedom of speech.” They’re saying he was holding a box of zines that are considered antifa. Well, what do you consider antifa? Well, [the zines] are talking about the government. They’re talking about police brutality. They’re talking about consent. They’re talking about the environment. Melissa: And that seems to be what it’s about with this administration—the enemy is criminal, dissent is criminal, an immigrant is criminal. The man in Houston who ICE killed last week, Lorenzo Salgado Araujo … Ana: To me, bringing that point of Lorenzo’s passing, which is super unfortunate, then you start reading articles from the right-wing media and they’re talking about, “He was illegal, he was a criminal,” all these things. Dehumanizing him. I didn’t know him. I don’t know who he is. But I’ve seen what happened to Renee Good before. I’ve seen what happened to Alex Pretti before. So for me, it is so important that people understand. Yes, you will see the videos. But when you are watching these videos, you need to look—actually pay attention to what is happening on the screen, not the narrative that is being painted for you. Because I realized pretty quick, when I read the original charges, the original Prairieland affidavit, it said that it was an ambush. Again, I am not a tactical person, I am not in law enforcement, but I’m pretty sure an ambush means they’re coming at you, not running from you. At no point are [law enforcement] running and hiding because they fear for their lives. I live with what I tell people is kind of like my own survivor’s guilt. And it is the fact that I get to be free while he doesn’t. Like just lying on my bed for five extra minutes, I feel guilty of it because he doesn’t get that. And it’s not anything that I did, it’s not anything that he did, but it is there. That feeling is there when we eat some food and we’re thinking, like, “Man, he’s barely getting the knockoff brand of noodles in his cell, and here we are at an Asian restaurant eating the great noodles,” that type of thing. All of that, it comes back, and it’s a constant reminder that he’s not with us and through no fault of his own. Melissa: When’s the last time you got to talk with your brother? Ana: This past week we had a phone conversation. One of our friends, in an email, told him I had posted the statement video, and he was so grateful. He just wanted to let me know that he appreciated that I had done that. It’s so hard that he’s in jail right now. It’s so hard that he lives in the conditions that he’s in. I’m telling you, he used to travel for two months a year and just be out in the wilderness, and right now, he gets one hour outside of his cell in the sun. One hour where they get taken to the yard. He likes to go where the trees are and look at the little squirrels and try to make friends with them. He says everybody tries to feed them something. That’s their entertainment when they’re there. But he tells you, “It rained today and I saw the rain and it felt amazing.” You’re literally depriving him from the things he loves the most, and for no reason.

On July 13, a conservative legal organization, the Legal Insurrection Foundation, filed a civil rights complaint against the University of Connecticut claiming that providing Black and Latino residential learning communities amounts to unconstitutional racial preferences. The filing is the latest front in the right’s ever-expanding campaign against diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives. What began as a challenge to affirmative action in college admissions has grown into a sweeping effort to dismantle diversity offices, race-conscious scholarships, employee affinity groups, and educational programs that acknowledge the continuing significance of race in American life. At every turn, it seems like the mere presence of a Black person or a woman or someone from any number of other identities in a position of authority is “illegal DEI.” It is no longer enough to prohibit universities from making admissions decisions on the basis of race. Now, even voluntary communities that students create for themselves are supposedly suspect.The fact that these voluntary affinity spaces are the only ones being targeted is telling. Universities are full of affinity spaces. It’s fairly typical for honors students to choose to live with other honors students. Some students join language houses to provide second-language immersion. Others enjoy a range of themed residential communities organized around academic interests, service, religion, or shared hobbies. Fraternities, athletic communities, and countless informal networks built around common experiences are accepted as ordinary features of campus life.The UConn programs at issue do not assign students to housing based on race, nor do they exclude anyone from participating in university life. They are voluntary residential learning communities that students opt into because they believe they would benefit from living among peers with shared experiences. But the complaint effectively argues that students cannot be trusted to make that determination for themselves. A group of honors students may decide that living together would foster their academic development. French speakers may conclude that a shared living arrangement would deepen their cultural and linguistic experience. But if Black or Latino students believe there is value in spaces that acknowledge their experiences as members of historically marginalized groups, their decision suddenly becomes so suspect that it is characterized as unlawful segregation requiring government intervention.That idea has a long history in the United States.Throughout our history, communities built by marginalized groups have been portrayed as divisive, illegitimate, or contrary to universal principles, and again and again, governments and powerful institutions have sought to dismantle those communities in the name of equality, progress, or neutrality. Whether they have been tribal governments, labor unions, Black business districts, or mutual aid societies, institutions that enable vulnerable people to support one another and exercise collective power have been seen as threats precisely because they lessen dependence on dominant institutions. Spaces for building solidarity outside of an ideologically dominant vision of white supremacy and patriarchy are particular targets, with cross-community solidarity efforts being particularly threatening. For example, the causes of Bacon’s Rebellion—a 1676 uprising of frontier settlers, indentured servants, and enslaved people against Virginia’s colonial government—were complex, but the uprising alarmed colonial authorities in part because it demonstrated the possibility of solidarity between poor whites, indentured servants, and enslaved Black laborers. In its aftermath, colonial governments increasingly hardened racial distinctions and distributed rights and privileges in ways that made such expressions of solidarity more difficult to foster, the better to prevent the formation of any durable interracial community. The point was not only to elevate whiteness but to make collective action among the oppressed less likely.Black Americans repeatedly built institutions of their own. After emancipation, Black people were excluded from many white institutions and denied equal protection of the law, and they were still the frequent targets of extrajudicial violence. They created churches, schools, businesses, newspapers, and mutual aid organizations that provided forms of security and independence unavailable elsewhere. Tulsa’s Greenwood district represented one of the most remarkable examples of this process. Known colloquially as “Black Wall Street,” this community was not just a prosperous Black neighborhood. It was a thriving ecosystem of businesses and civic institutions that gave Black Tulsans a degree of collective autonomy in a society organized around white supremacy.That autonomy itself was intolerable to many white Tulsans. In 1921, a white mob joined and deputized by local authorities descended on Greenwood, looting and burning homes and businesses, killing hundreds of residents, and leaving thousands homeless. The massacre that destroyed Black Wall Street was more than an attack on individual wealth. It was an effort to annihilate a thriving Black community and the institutions that sustained it. The physical destruction was compounded by decades of official neglect and historical erasure, ensuring that the loss of wealth, property, and communal infrastructure would reverberate across generations. By the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, these extrajudicial forms of repression increasingly became formalized through law. Jim Crow helped maintain a social order in which Black political and economic institutions could be constrained, surveilled, and periodically subjected to violence. Legal rules and extralegal terror worked together to preserve relationships of dependence and limit the development of collective power.There is no example that better demonstrates the relationship between violence, law, and the dismantling of solidarity than the federal government’s policy of Native American allotment. By the late nineteenth century, the United States had already spent decades violently displacing Indigenous peoples through warfare, forced removal, and coercive treaties. Native American nations posed a particular threat to white settler hegemony through their ancestral ties to the land, collective identity, and separate systems of governance, social obligation, and relationships to land that organized collective life. Federal policy sought not only to remove Indigenous people from their lands, but to transform the forms of community that made collective resistance to removal and settlement possible.The Dawes Act of 1887 represented a legal culmination of this project. Rather than openly presenting allotment as an effort to weaken Indigenous nations, its supporters framed it as a path toward equality and citizenship. They argued that tribal governments and communal landholding kept Indigenous people from becoming proper, independent Americans. The solution, they claimed, was to divide collectively held lands into individual parcels, transform Indigenous people into private property owners, and replace relationships of collective responsibility with direct relationships between individuals and the federal government.The language was similar to the “colorblind” talk we see today, selling freedom through individual ownership, equality through the elimination of group distinctions, and progress through assimilation. And, of course, the result was dispossession. Millions of acres of land were transferred out of Indigenous control, often through fraud, coercion, and exploitation. Beyond the dissolution of collective property, allotment weakened the institutions through which Indigenous communities governed themselves, cared for one another, and maintained collective identities. It transformed land stewardship from the foundation of a community into an asset that could be individually owned, bought, and sold.The importance of allotment is that it demonstrates a recurring pattern in American history. The destruction of marginalized communities often begins by portraying those communities as the obstacle to equality and their institutions as barriers to individual freedom, rather than responses to conditions of exclusion. The solution offered is not greater power for those communities but their dissolution, and the same logic appears in contemporary attacks on affinity spaces.The complaint against UConn relies on the idea that the university should treat students solely as individuals and that any institution organized around shared racial experience is inherently suspect, but that standard has never been applied evenly. American society is filled with communities built around shared identities and experiences, but the history of anti-solidarity politics reveals the distinction. Communities that allow marginalized people to reduce their dependence on systems that have historically excluded them are consistently targeted.The question raised by the UConn complaint is therefore much larger than whether a university may offer Black and Latino residential learning communities. It is whether equality requires people to stand alone—or whether people who have historically faced exclusion have the right to build the communities through which they can stand together.

Our reporting from inside the White House explains why Trump is restarting his disastrous assault on Iran. Plus, Marco Rubio publishes a Red Scare blacklist of people who have... opinions on Cuba.