Beijing is justifying its sweeping overhaul of Hong Kong’s electoral system – the biggest change to the territory’s political system since China regained sovereignty over the former British colony in 1997 – as necessary to put “patriots” firmly in charge.

The institutional revamping last week effectively excludes pro-democracy candidates and reverses decades of slow progress toward greater representation in Hong Kong. It follows Beijing’s imposition of a national security law last June that has seen scores of liberal politicians and activists arrested, part of a broader tightening of controls following mass protests for democracy in 2019 and 2020.

“One unpatriotic politician is too many,” said Zhang Xiaoming, deputy director of Beijing’s Hong Kong and Macau Affairs Office, at a press conference on Friday.

The changes approved Thursday by China’s rubber-stamp parliament, the National People’s Congress (NPC), will increase the ranks of pro-Beijing members on the committee that selects the territory’s chief executive, as well as on Hong Kong’s Legislative Council – reducing the proportion of directly elected seats.

Beijing created a new vetting body, the “candidate qualification review committee,” to screen out those considered insufficiently loyal.

“If you make nomination effectively impossible for anybody but a die-hard Beijing loyalist, it really doesn’t matter how many popularly elected seats there are,” notes Alvin Cheung, a Hong Kong barrister and university lecturer now at New York University.

But what does Beijing mean by “patriots”? For many in Hong Kong, the central government’s vision of loyalty contrasts with their own views of identity and allegiances – a clash that could have far-reaching consequences for the territory’s governance.

Thomas Peter/Retuters

Zhang Ziaoming and Deng Zhonghua, deputy directors of the Hong Kong and Macau Affairs Office of the State Council, attend a news conference in Beijing on the National People's Congress' approval of electoral reform in Hong Kong, March 12, 2021.

Loving patria ... and party

In China, patriotism – ai guo, or literally “love of country” – is often viewed against the backdrop of its modern history of foreign invasion and occupation, what Beijing calls the “century of humiliation,” says Peter Hays Gries, professor of Chinese politics at the University of Manchester.

“Patriotism,” he says, “has always been defined as anti-imperialist. And as such, it’s actually closer to what scholars call nationalism.”

Echoing such sentiment, NPC Standing Committee Vice Chairman Wang Chen, presenting Beijing’s new patriotism requirement, said foreign countries had “blatantly meddled” in Hong Kong affairs and “flagrantly emboldened ... anti-China, destabilizing forces in Hong Kong,” seriously jeopardizing China’s sovereignty.

Yet while China’s intention to have patriots running Hong Kong has been consistent since the 1980s, when Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping entered negotiations over the colony’s future with British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, Mr. Deng’s vision was considerably more pragmatic and flexible.

“Deng Xiaoping said clearly that patriots need not be active supporters of the Communist Party,” says Willy Lam, a China politics scholar at The Chinese University of Hong Kong. Indeed, in 1987 Mr. Deng said that “if some people in Hong Kong criticize the Chinese Communist Party and China, we will allow them to do so,” although he added that they would not be allowed to “convert Hong Kong into a base of opposition to the mainland.”

Today under Chinese leader Xi Jinping, in contrast, patriotism is more “orthodox and austere,” and requires support for the party, says Mr. Lam.

“When we talk about patriotism, we are not talking about the abstraction of loving a cultural or historical China, but rather loving the currently existing People’s Republic of China under the leadership of the Chinese Communist Party,” Song Ru’an, deputy commissioner of China’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Hong Kong, told reporters before the reforms were approved.

Distinct identity

But the party’s litmus test for patriotism lacks resonance in Hong Kong, which has its own unique local identity and nationalism distinct from that of mainland China. A 2019 poll of Hong Kong residents found that three-fourths identify as “Hong Konger” or “Hong Konger in China” – the highest percentage since 1997. Only a quarter expressed pride in being citizens of China, with that figure dropping to 10% among respondents aged 18 to 29.

“A Hong Kong nationalism” has emerged, focused in part on “what makes Hong Kong different from mainland China politically,” says Dr. Gries – namely its relative freedom and openness and experiment with democracy.

As Beijing has tightened its grip, it has pushed a growing minority toward supporting independence – increasing tensions between China’s nationalistic brand of patriotism and local nationalism in Hong Kong, says Steve Tsang, director of the SOAS China Institute at the University of London.

“When the Chinese government or Communist Party or their supporters talk about ‘patriotism,’ they don’t mean patriotism at all,” says Dr. Tsang. “They mean party-centric nationalism,” which revolves around the idea that only the leadership of the Communist Party can “make China great again.”

“There is no room in that party-centric nationalism to support anything like ‘Hong Kong nationalism,’” he says.

This clash is also reflected in the different emphasis that mainland Chinese and Hong Kongers place on the “one country, two systems” formula under which Beijing resumed sovereignty of Hong Kong in 1997, while agreeing to preserve Hong Kong’s autonomy for 50 years and expand representative governance. Beijing puts priority on “one country” and sees Hong Kong’s democratic activists as “separatists who want to humiliate China again by carving up its sovereignty,” says Dr. Gries. For their part, Hong Kongers, who seek to deepen democratic reforms, emphasize “two systems.”

“It’s this tragedy ... because both sides believe they are defending ‘one country, two systems’” from attack, he says.

Beijing has maintained Hong Kong’s capitalist economic system. But its moves to curtail the political freedoms of “one country, two systems” have left many Hong Kongers feeling betrayed, and viewing Chief Executive Carrie Lam’s government as “an arm of the Chinese Communist Party,” says Dr. Gries.

“The government is completely out of step with the majority of the public who still desire that relatively autonomous rule they were promised under this agreement between the U.K. and China,” he says.

Future leaders

Even before last week’s reforms, many analysts were concerned about the changing composition of Hong Kong leadership, as pressure grows for aspiring officials to attempt to please Beijing.

One example is Beijing’s recent imposition of a loyalty oath requirement for Hong Kong’s 180,000-strong civil service. “One of the greatest inheritances Hong Kong got from 150 years of British colonial rule was to have a world-class, impartial, professional civil service,” says Dr. Tsang. “The loyalty test means they will no longer be able to stay politically neutral.”

Doubts are also emerging about Hong Kong’s independent judiciary. Xia Baolong, director of the Hong Kong and Macau Affairs Office, said last month that Hong Kong’s bodies of power, including the legislative, executive, and judicial branches, must be “run by genuine patriots.”

Such statements are “very disturbing because the rule of law and independence of the judiciary are remaining cornerstones of Hong Kong’s success,” says Mr. Lam.

“Beijing only wants people who will respond to a command to jump with the question: How high?” says Mr. Cheung. “They want unquestioning loyalty to the party. That’s going to sit ill with a lot of people in Hong Kong, many of whom are descended from people who fled the PRC in prior decades.”

Indeed, China has signaled disappointment with the performance of Hong Kong’s traditional pro-Beijing establishment – defeated by a pro-democracy landslide in a November 2019 local election – and is moving to inject more mainlanders into the territory’s governing bodies, Mr. Lam says. These could include party members raised in the mainland and educated in the West who work as professionals in Hong Kong.

“When Beijing talks of ‘patriots,’ it is referring to politicians like Carrie Lam. Lam is the embodiment of a Beijing-style patriot; she stood firm in the face of pro-democracy protests and praises Beijing’s every move in Hong Kong. The Chinese government’s electoral reform is designed to plant more ‘Carrie Lams’ in Hong Kong,” says Diana Fu, associate professor of political science at the University of Toronto.

Yet it was Mrs. Lam’s response to massive street protests – considered tone-deaf by many Hong Kongers – that fueled the very opposition Beijing seeks to avoid. “With all these changes,” says Dr. Tsang, “it can only get worse.”

Alyssa Pointer/Atlanta Journal-Constitution/AP/File

A student waits at the entrance of Woodland Middle School in East Point, Georgia, on March 9, 2021. The school is in the Fulton County School system, which recorded a pandemic-related 3.8% enrollment drop for the 2020-21 school year. Nationwide, on average, K-12 public school enrollment dropped 2%, threatening funding reduction.

Since the pandemic began, scores of students have not shown up to class. Last fall, public K-12 enrollment dropped by 2% on average nationally compared with the year before.

Because student head counts factor into public school funding, the enrollment drop is viewed as a looming “crisis,” says Marguerite Roza, director of Edunomics Lab at Georgetown University.

If missing students never return, “the system is going to have to figure out how to adjust on lower dollars.”

Why does enrollment matter for school budgets? 

Public K-12 schools receive a combination of funds that differs by district. The federal government chips in the smallest share of overall revenue nationally – about 8% in fiscal year 2018.

State revenue makes up the biggest share (47%), followed closely by local revenue (45%), which is largely drawn from property taxes. But again, it varies: Before the pandemic, local dollars accounted for two-thirds of district funding in Illinois.

At the state level, “foundation formulas’’ are common. They generally guarantee districts a baseline amount, but adjust funds based on shares of certain students in the district, like low-income or special education. 

Typically, “as district wealth decreases, the state contribution increases,” and vice versa, says Anthony Rolle, dean of the Alan Shawn Feinstein College of Education and Professional Studies at Rhode Island University. 

State funding formulas often rely on prior-year district head counts, like enrollment or average daily attendance, for initial estimates.

Where did the missing students go?

Reasons vary. Reduced kindergarten enrollment drove nearly a third of the 2% nationwide drop. Some parents held back kids old enough to start kindergarten, but young enough to wait. Others turned to private, charter, or home schooling options as public schools maneuvered controversial reopenings and setbacks. And up to 3 million marginalized students may not have had any formal education since March 2020, one nonprofit estimates.

What if missing students don’t return?

To shield districts from losing money due to lower enrollment, several states are adjusting funding formulas in the short term. But if lower enrollment lasts, it could force districts to downsize.

Labor, the biggest district expense, is tough to cut when class size only shrinks slightly. 

Schools have additional fixed costs that would exist regardless of COVID-19 reductions, says R. Craig Wood, professor of educational administration at the University of Florida. Utilities, transportation, and bond obligations, for example, don’t disappear even as enrollment dips. 

“It’s very difficult for school districts to cut at the margins,” says Dr. Wood.

Several states are expanding stopgaps that anticipate higher enrollment. North Carolina, for instance, adopted a “hold harmless” provision in September to fund districts based on 2019-20 counts. Texas announced in March it would hold districts harmless for the rest of the school year if they kept or expanded in-person instruction. 

How badly COVID-19 has battered state economies could also impact how much funding districts receive, adds Dr. Rolle. State responses to declining enrollment will vary widely, says Dr. Wood, and reflect a “political tug of war.”

Wait, didn’t schools get federal relief money?

Congress approved $67.5 billion in pandemic relief for K-12 schools last year. The American Rescue Plan Act signed into law March 11 offers nearly double that amount at $126 billion.

The first round of relief last March was largely spent on remote learning. The second approved in December is flexible but likely to address learning loss – and is still en route to districts, says Dr. Roza.

The latest relief bill (on average $2,520 per student) aims to support school reopenings and help students catch up. A sliver goes to state education agencies, but the bill prohibits states from using the new federal funds “as an excuse to cut state education spending” in their next two fiscal budgets, reports the news site 74 Million. The education secretary, however, can waive that requirement.

Reopening has impacted district budget health, according to Dr. Roza’s research. Mostly remote districts generally have surpluses, which could pad budgets next year. But districts operating mostly in person are more likely overspending and counting on extra relief. Expenses like substitute teachers and nurses this school year made reopening costly.

The largest Arizona district, operating mostly in person, is bracing for a potential fiscal cliff in a couple years when its $110 million stimulus dries up. Since last spring, Mesa Public Schools has lost at least 4,200 students – a 7% enrollment decline. Though federal relief helped spare layoffs for now, and more money is likely on the way, the district must reduce expenses in line with its new size, says Assistant Superintendent Scott Thompson. 

Major budget cuts don’t make sense, he says, “at the same time that we need to do more for kids than we’ve ever needed to do before.”

It was Kishan Bodalia’s weekly DJing that thrust him into the United Kingdom’s national spotlight over the past month. The resident of Birmingham, Britain’s “second city,” has performed for hundreds of thousands across the world from his kitchen.

But he probably wouldn’t have received so much national attention were it not for his full-time job: Dr. Bodalia works at an intensive care hospital ward, on the front line of Britain’s pandemic. His DJing – dubbed #NHSessions in a play on the acronym for the U.K.’s National Health Service, and which he performs in hospital scrubs – was originally meant to be a way for him to find solace from the health crisis.

Emeka Okorocha is in a similar situation. The accident and emergency NHS doctor has been hugely popular on TikTok, where he posts videos of himself dancing in his hazmat suit, reading out “mean tweets” sent to health care workers, or speaking out after the death of George Floyd by telling his followers, “if you celebrate me in scrubs, don’t hate me in my hoodie.”

The rise of Dr. Bodalia and Dr. Okorocha, who have a combined following of more than 85,000 on Instagram alone, reveals a shift in who, and what, constitutes celebrity in the eyes of Britons during the pandemic. At a time when the U.K. records one of the world’s highest death tolls per capita from COVID-19, the country has been granting iconic status to those who serve communities, do public good, and raise awareness for social causes.

“Celebrity is cyclical and responds to what the overarching culture wants at any given time,” says Jorie Lagerway, associate professor in television studies at the University of Dublin. “The reason we have celebrities is to tell us what’s important in our culture at that particular moment in history.”

We can be heroes

The pandemic has seen Britons rallying to figures of accomplishment and grit in addition to those celebrities appreciated for their abilities to entertain – or sometimes simply celebrity for celebrity’s sake.

Some of these new national heroes have transcended age, color, and class, such as army veteran Capt. Sir Tom Moore, the centenarian who raised more than £39 million ($54 million) for the NHS making laps with his walker around his garden. And while Marcus Rashford is a young professional soccer player, he earned national recognition by challenging the U.K. government to provide free school meals for children in low-income households during the pandemic.

Henry Nicholls/Reuters

People walk past a mural by the street artist "Humor" dedicated to the late Capt. Sir Tom Moore, amid the pandemic in London, on Feb. 5, 2021.

It is people like them, and a host of ordinary health care workers with burgeoning reputations on social media, who have become Britain’s biggest celebrities in the pandemic. 

“In a crisis, we seek out slightly different types of celebrity,” says Greg Jenner, historian and author of “Dead Famous: An Unexpected History of Celebrity from Bronze Age to Silver Screen.” Britain in lockdown, he says, has resuscitated a centuries-old version of the “compassionate” celebrity: Think British nurses Florence Nightingale and Mary Seacole, venerated for their caregiving roles during the Crimean War in the 19th century. Grace Darling, the daughter of a lighthouse keeper, won the nation’s hearts in the 1800s for saving victims of a shipwreck off the Northumberland coast. And as far back as the 17th century, women who fought wars pretending to be men gained notoriety.

“Some of the earliest celebrities weren’t great intellectuals, or talented writers and actors, or with a skill set, but people thrust into the limelight pretty rapidly because of something they might have done or said during a moment of crisis,” says the historian.

Pandemic stardom currently hinges on doing good because the current moment calls for altruistic qualities. At a time of “huge rhetoric around community and pulling together,” says Ms. Lagerway, it “makes sense” that Captain Moore, a World War II soldier, became a focal point of hope. The centenarian became the oldest person to score a No. 1 hit single in the U.K. music charts, and wrote children’s books. Britons marked his death in February with a minute of silence and flags above Downing Street lowered to half-mast.

Similarly, Dabirul Choudhury, a Muslim centenarian, raised £420,000 ($580,000) doing laps while fasting for the month of Ramadan in lockdown, and Rajinder Singh, a 73-year-old Sikh, gained a social media following with his videos skipping rope and exercising in Britain’s isolation.

With his Caribbean heritage and lived experience of childhood hunger, Mr. Rashford’s appeal ramped up after Parliament’s rejection of school meal provisions. According to British pollster Ipsos Mori, the majority of Britons feel the soccer player has held the U.K. government to account better than both the opposition Labour Party and the media. His championing of poor people is a kind of 21st-century reincarnation of Charles Dickens, says Mr. Jenner, who calls the writer the voice for “Christian socialism” in Victorian Britain.

“As an authentic person requiring help with government handouts when he was younger and as a person of color, his voice really carries and his heroism really matters. People are listening to him. No one can stop his moral argument,” Mr. Jenner adds.

Health worker heroes

The NHS is celebrated across all political colors in the U.K. Decadeslong reverence for free universal health care has, perhaps, provided a foundation for the current “heroization of health care workers.” Ms. Lagerway, who is a U.S. national, says Britons’ celebration of their health care workers reminds her of New York in the aftermath of 9/11.

Dr. Okorocha says he is “recognized” as opposed to being “famous.”

“Everyone’s always known what doctors have done, but we didn’t sign up for such high risk work. We just had to face it; because of that, anything we did was highlighted or escalated,” he says. “Trying to keep people educated, entertained, and in good spirits meant it all just blew up online.”

That may be because social media stars do not fit into the classic trope of celebrity, says Mr. Jenner. “Influencers aren’t classic celebrities. The rules are a bit different,” he says, although “influencer and celebrity ... are fusing a little bit.”

Both Mr. Jenner and Ms. Lagerway say social media “influencers” have yet to fully cross over into the world of glitzy, magazine-cover celebrity. Though increased time online spent by consumers of social media in lockdown has led to video creators finding fame online.

“Whether we are seen in the public as a celebrity or [just as a social media influencer] is really another question,” says Dr. Bodalia.

What is certain is that both he and Dr. Okorocha have gone beyond the realms of social media branding, and potentially reaping the rewards of real-life celebrities.

Since first going viral last year, Dr. Okorocha has produced educational videos for the BBC and has a book lined up to be published. Dr. Bodalia says he now has the chance to fulfill his dream of playing music on stage at festivals this summer, to release his own music, and to “be heard around the world.”

“When the pandemic finishes ... I’ll still be DJing and making music. Just in front of as many people as I can.”

On a sunny, cold February afternoon, I make my way along narrow lanes and over a bridge to the shores of Dal Lake, one of the most picturesque in Kashmir, with 360-degree views of the Himalayas. The sun-dazzled waters attract photographers, filmmakers, and visitors from all over the world. Houseboats for tourists form rows on the banks of the lake.

Nestled far down the shoreline is a double-story wooden house, home to a library founded by Muhammad Latief Oata, who can hardly read or write.

As we open the compound’s tall gate, Mr. Oata’s wife Zainab greets me. Originally from Chennai, nearly 2,000 miles to the south, she welcomes me in halting Kashmiri: “Salam-u-alaikum, walew b asewtuhepyaraan (Hello, I was waiting especially for you).”

After climbing a stiff wooden stair, we reach the “Traveler’s Library,” its walls painted white and windows open on three sides. The front overlooks Dal Lake’s houseboats and other boats for everyday use. Next to an old green sofa is a woven wicker table. And on the right are Mr. Oata’s books.

With about 600 volumes, this library may not look like much. But for years, this room has been a place where Kashmir – a beautiful but long fought-over Muslim-majority region, tucked at the top of India – has touched the wider world. It’s been an oasis for visitors, and readers; but most of all, for one book-lover who can’t read.

“Ask as many questions as you can to get the information you require,” Mrs. Oata says, before her husband comes in. “He will not explain things on his own.” She laughs and leaves the room.

Life-changing swaps

As Mr. Oata, dressed in a warm shirt and vest, walks me through his library I scan the names on the shelves. “Only Time Will Tell” and “The Sins of the Father,” by English novelist Jeffrey Archer. Next to them is Paulo Coelho, from Brazil. There are books by Jane Austen, Dan Brown, and Majgull Axelsson, a Swedish journalist.

He speaks hesitantly, in a soft voice. But once he starts chatting about books, his voice overflows with enthusiasm.

Born in Kashmir, the eldest son of a plumber and a housewife, he left home at 16 in search of work to support his family. He moved across India, from one tourist destination to the next, selling Kashmiri arts and crafts. He still regrets not completing his formal education.

Now and then, he noticed tourists at his stall holding books. One day, a man handed one to Mr. Oata, who asked him to summarize its contents. From then on, he asked book browsers if they’d be willing to swap, and tell him what the story was about – “and they would do it happily.”

Over the years, he moved to India’s southeast, then west to Karnataka, selling jewelry, shawls, rugs, and hand-embroidered bags. Over time, he collected hundreds of books, mostly by international authors, and created his first small library.

But he yearned to come back to the Kashmir Valley. So after much deliberation, he packed his books and went home in 2007.

“I feel writers are always alive forever through their books, even after death, and for me that is such an interesting aspect,” Mr. Oata says, adding that his books are his “most precious possession.”

“Though I cannot read, I can remember most of the books: their theme, the name of the author, and the country that the author belonged to,” he says. “I have remembered it all by remembering the color of the book, its cover page, and symbols.”

Take the very first book he received: “The God of Small Things,” by Indian writer Arundhati Roy. Mr. Oata still vividly remembers the messy story of a family, tangled over decades. 

He picks up another. “This is about a brave man, who is at war with injustice,” he says. “The theme of this book reminded me of my birthplace, Kashmir, and so it is embedded in my memory.” The book is “Asking for Trouble: The Autobiography of a Banned Journalist” by Donald Woods, a South African persecuted by the country’s apartheid government.

The long wait

Back in Srinagar, Kashmir’s largest city, Mr. Oata started a travel agency and a handicrafts store. Space at home was tight, and his family griped about all the books in the way. One day his mother offered to sell them to a scrap dealer; Mr. Oata rushed home to stop her. 

He realized that if he wanted to keep them they needed a permanent home, so he put a library in his store and opened it to visitors. It was a success, and he became a popular stop in the area for tourists who would read, leave a gift, or exchange a book. One French tourist helped organize the books in alphabetical order.

But challenges also came. In 2014, the Kashmir valley flooded and inundated the shelves. “When I saw my library, I cried like a child,” Mr. Oata says. For months, the whole family dried and cleaned the books, then shifted the library to the second floor.

Then came Aug. 5, 2019. The Indian government scrapped the special status of Jammu and Kashmir and imposed direct rule from New Delhi. Authorities imposed a media blackout, cutting the region off from the rest of the world.

With no tourists, Mr. Oata had no visitors. As Kashmir endured months of curfews, shutdowns, and blackouts, he lived on savings – only to see COVID-19 restrictions imposed last spring.

To make ends meet, he began working as a wage laborer, when there was work; his wife did the same. They aspire to provide their children with education and opportunities. Their daughter is a first-year medical student, and their son is a senior in high school. 

With Mr. Oata working away from the library, his wife “takes care of it really well,” he says, a half smile on his face. “But whenever I get time I come here, touch, feel, and smell [the books], with this constant hope that things will become normal again, and my library will once again thrive with people.”

AP

Libyan Prime Minister-designate Abdul Hamid Dbeibah addresses parliament in Sirte March 9.

After a decade of violent fragmentation, the North African nation of Libya may have passed a threshold from despair to hope. A new transitional government of national unity was sworn in Monday. Its main purpose is to promote reconciliation and prepare for elections in December.

It is a fragile milestone to be sure. Opposing armies must be demobilized and disarmed. Rival foreign powers still continue to maintain a military presence two months after a United Nations-backed deadline to withdraw. The new prime minister, Abdul Hamid Dbeibah, stands accused of bribing his way into office.

But there are reasons for cautious optimism. The leaders of the two main factions, outgoing Prime Minister Fayez al-Sarraj of the Government of National Accord (GNA) in Tripoli and rebel commander Khalifa Hifter of the Libyan National Army (LNA) in Benghazi, have pledged to back the new government. Last week the national legislature voted overwhelmingly to approve Mr. Dbeibah’s proposed cabinet. A national opinion poll taken last month by Diwan found he has the support of 71% of Libyans.

That consensus underscores a broad desire for a return to peace and democratization 10 years after the overthrow of dictator Muammar Qaddafi. It also reflects a persistent effort by U.N. mediators to bring Libya’s diverse factions and civil society together to carve their own way forward. A year ago the country was locked in a violent siege between the GNA and LNA. One critical breakthrough came when five generals from each side, all of whom had been colleagues under the Qaddafi regime, united in calling for the departure of all foreign armies.

Parallel political and economic tracks involving a wide cross section of Libyan interest groups set the stage for a process to draft the country’s first unified budget since 2014 and select a new government. At a U.N.-sponsored congress in Switzerland last month, 75 chosen delegates gathered to elect a prime minister and three-person presidency. A public forum via television and Facebook enabled ordinary Libyans to question the 45 candidates directly. More than 1.7 million Libyans – nearly a third of the population – participated in what has since been called the “National Barbecue Session.” Candidates were forced to sign and commit orally to the agreed framework for the interim government. That framework calls for women to hold at least 30% of senior executive positions.

So far the new prime minister is following through. Women hold five portfolios in Mr. Dbeibah’s Cabinet, including the powerful Foreign Ministry. Among his first priorities is a national strategy to tackle the COVID-19 pandemic.

For a war-weary populace, however, what may matter more is the unprecedented opportunity to engage in the political process. “There was a transparent process. There was an election,” Guma El-Gamaty, a politician aligned with the GNA, told Al Jazeera TV. “We have seen a ballot box, which is very symbolic for Libyans who have only seen guns and missiles in the last few years.”

It is too soon to know if the process will stay on track. But Libyans are showing that the popular aspirations of the Arab Spring endure. They may in time forge a model out of prolonged periods of collapse for other troubled states to follow.