On the outskirts of a rapidly expanding capital in the Indian Ocean, a two-storey corrugated structure houses forty-seven construction workers from South Asia. The building was erected in 2009 as "temporary" accommodation. Fifteen years later, it remains. Each room, measuring approximately four by five metres, contains between six and nine men sleeping on metal bunks purchased in bulk. The heat is oppressive—corrugated walls amplify tropical temperatures. Two toilets serve each floor. The kitchen consists of an open-air shed with gas burners. Workers rise at 4:30 AM to reach construction sites by 6 AM. They return after dark, eat, and sleep. On Sundays, laundry hangs from lines strung between buildings while men gather outside to smoke, talk and send money home via mobile banking apps.

These workers—masons, welders, carpenters, electricians—send photographs home showing the shopping malls, luxury apartments and five-star hotels they are building. They do not photograph where they sleep. One worker, who requested anonymity, explained the calculation simply: "This is not living. But it is earning. Three years more, and my daughter can finish university."

To local authorities and the construction companies that arranged this accommodation, the setup represents a reasonable solution. Housing is provided at no cost to workers. Meals are subsidised. Transport to sites is arranged. Compared to informal settlements where some local workers live, or compared to the rural poverty these workers left behind, this represents—officials argue—an improvement. The compound meets basic regulatory requirements: walls, roofs, running water, electricity.

Yet measured against international labour standards, these conditions fail fundamental dignity tests. The International Labour Organization recommends minimum space allocations per worker, adequate sanitation ratios, privacy protections and freedom of movement. By these standards, the compound is severely non-compliant. Workers cannot easily leave in evenings due to location and limited public transport. The housing isolates them from local communities and services. The arrangement keeps workers available, controlled and invisible.

This scene is neither unique nor confined to one country. It replicates across dozens of Global South cities with minor variations. Similar compounds exist in Mauritius and the Maldives, across Gulf states, in Nairobi and Johannesburg, in São Paulo and Lima, in Dhaka and Jakarta. The pattern is consistent: developing countries using imported labour to meet growth demands without establishing comprehensive frameworks to protect that labour.

What has fundamentally shifted in recent decades is the direction of migration flows. The Global South is no longer merely a reservoir supplying workers to wealthy nations. It has become a major destination and employer. South-South migration now rivals and in some corridors exceeds South-North flows. The UN estimates that roughly 38% of international migrants move between developing countries—a proportion that has grown steadily since 2000. Millions of Indians work across the Gulf, Southeast Asia and East Africa. Bangladeshis labour in Mauritius, the Maldives and Malaysia. Zimbabweans harvest crops in South Africa. Nicaraguans work in Costa Rica. Haitians migrate to Brazil and Chile. This movement involves tens of millions of people and generates remittances exceeding $200 billion annually within the Global South alone.

The problem is that immigration frameworks have not adapted to this transformation. Laws governing migration in much of the Global South remain patchwork arrangements: colonial inheritances designed for small expatriate flows, hasty adaptations to industrial labour shortages, or frameworks shaped primarily by employer convenience rather than human rights commitments. Enforcement is weak, standards are low, and workers' rights are treated as secondary to economic imperatives. The result is a migration architecture that treats people as temporary production inputs—useful when needed, disposable when not.

The central argument of this essay is straightforward: the Global South cannot continue operating under migration rules shaped by Northern frameworks or employer convenience. It requires its own comprehensive immigration and labour mobility architecture grounded in human rights, development principles and regional solidarity. Without such frameworks, millions of workers will remain trapped in precarious, undignified and sometimes dangerous conditions. Host countries will miss opportunities to build ethical, sustainable migration systems that could serve as models rather than warnings. And the Global South will perpetuate the very exploitation patterns it experienced under colonialism, merely with different actors in different roles.

A fundamental disconnect exists between how many Global South governments perceive their treatment of migrant workers and how international observers assess these arrangements. From official perspectives, providing any accommodation represents generosity. Offering subsidised meals, arranging transport to work sites, processing permits—these constitute support that local informal workers rarely receive. Workers earn multiples of home-country wages. Families receive remittances that transform lives. The system, viewed from ministry offices and corporate headquarters, appears functional.

International human rights organisations see something starkly different. The ILO's 2021 report on labour migration in Asia documented widespread housing conditions that fall significantly short of the organization's own standards for worker accommodation. The International Organization for Migration's studies of South-South migration corridors consistently identify overcrowding, inadequate sanitation, isolation from local communities and living arrangements designed more for control than wellbeing. Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International and various regional NGOs have documented similar patterns across multiple continents.

Workers occupy spaces that would trigger immediate regulatory intervention in London, Sydney or Toronto, yet are considered acceptable—even normal—for foreign labour in developing countries. In some Gulf state labour camps, occupancy rates reach twelve to sixteen workers per room designed for four. In East African construction sites, workers sleep in shipping containers retrofitted with bunks. In Southeast Asian manufacturing zones, dormitories house hundreds with shared facilities that breed disease during outbreaks. These are not isolated incidents but systemic patterns documented across regions.

What elevates these situations from merely poor conditions to potential rights violations is the structural power imbalance embedded in immigration systems. Across much of the Global South, work permits tie employment to specific sponsors or employers—systems that echo the kafala arrangements in Gulf states but exist in various forms throughout developing countries. Workers cannot freely change jobs without losing legal status. Contracts specify financial penalties for early departure. In many cases, employers or recruitment agencies retain workers' passports and identity documents, officially for "safekeeping" but effectively preventing departure even when workers wish to leave.

The financial dimension compounds vulnerability. Many workers arrive deeply indebted. Recruitment fees charged to workers rather than employers can equal six months to two years of projected wages. A 2020 ILO study across Asian migration corridors found that workers commonly paid between $1,000 and $3,500 in recruitment fees, with some paying substantially more for destinations like the Gulf. These debts, often secured through informal loans at high interest rates, must be repaid regardless of actual conditions encountered upon arrival. A worker who borrowed heavily to reach employment abroad finds themselves locked into arrangements they cannot exit without financial ruin for themselves and their families.

These structural features—tied visas, document retention, recruitment debt, deportation threats—appear with troubling consistency across Global South migration corridors. They are also the precise indicators the ILO uses to identify forced labour risk under its convention frameworks. When workers cannot leave freely, when they carry debts to employers or recruiters, when identity documents are confiscated, when threats ensure compliance—these patterns constitute forced labour conditions under international definitions. Not every work-permit holder experiences all these factors, but their frequency suggests systemic rather than exceptional problems.

Research by the Walk Free Foundation estimates that roughly 50 million people globally live in situations of modern slavery, with significant concentrations in South-South migration corridors. Their 2023 Global Slavery Index notes that forced labour often hides in plain sight within legal work-permit systems, distinguished from legitimate employment primarily by the degree of coercion, restriction and exploitation present.

Yet when these issues are raised with government officials or industry representatives, responses often emphasise constraints rather than commitments. Governments point to limited budgets for labour inspection. Employers argue that workers signed contracts voluntarily and understood terms. Officials note that conditions, while imperfect, exceed what workers experienced at home. There is defensiveness, justification, comparison to worse scenarios—but rarely substantive reform. The framing treats dignity as a luxury that developing countries cannot yet afford, rather than as a fundamental right that no country, regardless of income level, should violate.

If housing reveals one dimension of inadequate protection, workplace safety illuminates another. Across construction sites, factories, agricultural operations and domestic work settings in much of the Global South, health and safety standards exist formally but remain weakly implemented in practice. The default approach is exposure rather than protection—workers are sent into hazardous conditions with minimal safeguards, limited training and virtually no enforcement of existing regulations.

On a high-rise construction site in a South Asian capital, workers ascend bamboo scaffolding without harnesses or helmets. The scaffolding itself, while traditional and skillfully erected, would violate safety codes in any developed country. Falls from height remain the leading cause of construction fatalities across the Global South, yet fall protection equipment remains rare on most sites. When a worker falls—and workers do fall, regularly—the typical response is removal of the injured, brief cessation of work, and resumption as though nothing occurred. Families receive modest compensation if employers acknowledge responsibility, which many contest.

In garment factories supplying major Western brands, workers operate machinery at high speeds in poorly ventilated spaces with emergency exits sometimes locked or blocked. The 2013 Rana Plaza collapse in Bangladesh, which killed over 1,100 workers, forced temporary attention to structural safety in that country's export garment sector. Yet broader workplace safety concerns—chemical exposure, repetitive strain injuries, inadequate breaks, extreme heat—persist across manufacturing sectors and regions. Workers handling industrial chemicals often lack protective gloves or respirators. Textile workers inhale cotton dust for years without respiratory protection, developing chronic lung conditions that emerge only after permanent damage occurs.

Agricultural workers spray pesticides wearing ordinary clothing rather than protective equipment. Exposure levels that would trigger immediate regulatory response in California or France are routine across plantation agriculture in the Global South. Domestic workers—disproportionately women—clean high windows standing on improvised ladders, handle harsh chemicals without gloves, and work extended hours without rest in isolation from any workplace safety oversight.

The contrast with standards demanded for Global South production destined for Northern markets is stark and revealing. Western brands sourcing apparel from Bangladesh, electronics from Vietnam, or agricultural products from Kenya impose detailed codes of conduct. Auditors conduct inspections. Certifications verify compliance with safety and environmental standards. Yet these protections are externally mandated, not internally generated or consistently enforced. Southern states enforce standards to satisfy foreign buyers and investors while tolerating far lower protection for domestic operations and migrant workers in sectors invisible to international scrutiny.

Consider the absurdity: a factory in India producing for European markets must meet EU safety standards, verified through regular audits. The same factory's domestic operation, or a similar factory serving local markets, operates under far lower standards with minimal inspection. Construction workers building five-star hotels for international chains work under conditions that would trigger immediate shutdown in the brand's home country. The message is unmistakable: safety matters when customers are foreign and powerful; it matters less when workers are poor and dispensable.

Understanding migration policy requires examining the economic architecture that shapes and sustains it. Much of the Global South's role in contemporary production involves manufacturing, processing or assembling goods destined for affluent consumer markets. The mathematics of global value chains are stark: textiles sewn in Bangladesh for three dollars retail for one hundred fifty in Manhattan boutiques; athletic shoes manufactured for eight dollars sell for two hundred in European sports stores; electronics assembled in China for forty dollars appear on American shelves at six hundred.

This structure has profound implications for labour conditions and immigration policy. Southern states compete for investment by offering what they control: low wages, minimal regulation and abundant labour supplies. Export processing zones, special economic areas and industrial parks proliferate with promises of streamlined permits, tax holidays and compliant workforces. According to the ILO, there are now over 5,400 such zones globally, most in developing countries, employing tens of millions of workers under frameworks explicitly designed to reduce labour costs and regulatory burdens.

Immigration rules facilitate this model systematically. Work permits are issued rapidly for sectors facing labour shortages, tied to specific employers to prevent worker mobility and bargaining power, and structured to ensure foreign workers remain temporary, cheap and controllable. There is no investment in long-term integration, skill development beyond immediate production needs, or community building. Workers are production inputs, not people—useful when demand rises, expendable when markets soften.

The logic extends throughout the system. Since workers are temporary and disposable, investing in decent accommodation seems wasteful to employers and governments alike. Dormitories cost less than proper housing. Tied visas prevent workers from seeking better conditions. Weak enforcement means violations go unpunished. Healthcare access can be limited since workers are young and will return home if seriously ill or injured. Social protection appears unnecessary since workers will not retire locally.

The entire architecture extracts maximum labour value at minimum cost, with human dignity treated as an externality rather than a core consideration. Work permits, visa categories and housing rules are structured around labour supply optimization, not human rights. Governments market themselves to investors using language that would be controversial if applied to any other policy domain: "flexible labour markets," "competitive wage structures," "streamlined regulations." The euphemisms barely disguise what is being offered: access to workers with minimal protections at minimal cost.

Yet this model contains inherent contradictions that undermine its supposed efficiency. High turnover, low morale and poor conditions generate precisely the productivity problems they claim to avoid. Research by the International Finance Corporation demonstrates that factories with better working conditions, including decent accommodation and safety standards, experience lower turnover, higher productivity and better quality outcomes. Workers who feel exploited do not innovate, take initiative or commit to excellence. They do the minimum necessary to avoid punishment, maximizing neither their potential nor their employer's productivity.

The underdevelopment of South-South migration governance manifests most visibly in the chaotic visa regimes operating within the Global South itself. Despite decades of pan-African rhetoric, Africans frequently need visas to move between African countries. The African Union's 2018 "Free Movement Protocol" aims to change this, yet implementation remains minimal—as of 2023, only four countries offered visa-free access to all Africans, and only about 25% of intra-African travel occurred without visa requirements, according to the Africa Visa Openness Index.

A Kenyan software engineer seeking work in Lagos faces bureaucratic obstacles, opaque processing times and unpredictable decisions. A Nigerian accountant hoping to practice in Johannesburg must navigate credential recognition processes that can take months or years, if they succeed at all. Professional qualifications earned at the University of Nairobi, the University of Lagos or the University of Dar es Salaam are routinely questioned or undervalued in other African countries despite comparable or sometimes superior training standards to institutions in former colonial powers whose credentials are accepted more readily.

Similar fragmentation characterizes Asian mobility. South Asian professionals seeking opportunities in Southeast Asia encounter visa systems designed more to restrict than facilitate. The ASEAN Mutual Recognition Arrangements, established for various professions since the late 1990s, have enabled some skilled mobility—architects, engineers, nurses, doctors—but implementation remains incomplete and uneven across member states. A skilled Indian worker seeking employment in Indonesia or Thailand faces bureaucratic complexity that contrasts sharply with the relative ease of capital, goods and technology crossing the same borders.

Latin America, despite Mercosur and other regional integration frameworks, exhibits similar patterns. Professional mobility exists in theory but encounters persistent obstacles in practice. Middle-class workers moving between Mercosur states confront bureaucratic friction, inconsistent implementation of mutual recognition agreements and frequent requirements to repeat credentialing processes.

The Gulf states, heavily dependent on South Asian labour, operate under systems that have attracted sustained international criticism. The kafala sponsorship system—where work permits tie workers to specific sponsors who control their ability to change employment or leave the country—has been subject to reforms in recent years. Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Kuwait and Bahrain have announced or implemented modifications allowing greater worker mobility. Yet implementation remains inconsistent, and many structural problems persist: workers still face document retention, recruitment debt and limited access to remedy when disputes arise.

These barriers contrast dramatically with the freedom with which goods, capital and data move across Southern borders. Trade agreements proliferate—the African Continental Free Trade Area launched in 2021 aims to create the world's largest free trade zone by country participation. Investment treaties are negotiated. Special economic zones multiply. Technology crosses borders instantly. Yet labour—the factor of production involving actual human beings—remains the most constrained.

Mauritius provides an instructive case study of these dynamics at manageable scale. This small island nation of roughly 1.3 million people has evolved from sugar monoculture to a diversified economy encompassing financial services, tourism, light manufacturing and, increasingly, construction and real estate development. With relatively high per capita income (upper-middle income by World Bank classification) and an aging citizen workforce, Mauritius has become significantly dependent on imported labour.

Estimates suggest that several tens of thousands of work-permit holders now operate across multiple sectors. The Mauritian government does not regularly publish comprehensive foreign worker statistics, but various reports suggest substantial numbers in construction (building the hotels, shopping centres and residential developments driving tourism and real estate sectors), textiles (the declining but still significant garment export industry), hospitality (hotels and restaurants), domestic work (private homes), security services, agriculture and care work.

These workers come primarily from India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Madagascar and various African countries—a pattern reflecting both geographical proximity and established recruitment networks. For Mauritian policymakers and employers, this represents pragmatic labour market management. Local workers, benefiting from improved education and rising income levels, increasingly reject certain jobs as incompatible with their aspirations. Construction labour, factory work, domestic service—these occupations struggle to attract citizens willing to work for wages employers consider viable. Sectors cannot function without imported labour. Work permits solve an immediate problem.

For migrant workers themselves, Mauritius represents opportunity but often at significant personal and financial cost. Many live in employer-provided dormitories or compounds—converted warehouses, purpose-built worker housing, or repurposed residential buildings now accommodating far more occupants than originally intended. A 2019 investigation by Mauritius' Ombudsperson for Children documented concerns about living conditions for some foreign workers, including overcrowding. While the report focused on child rights implications, it highlighted broader issues about worker accommodation standards.

Work itself often involves long hours under challenging conditions. Construction workers describe days that begin before dawn and extend beyond official contract hours, particularly when projects face deadlines. Language barriers complicate communication and access to services—many workers speak limited French or English, while most Mauritians use French or Creole. Fear pervades: fear of losing work permits, fear of deportation, fear of blacklisting that would end opportunities not just in Mauritius but potentially in other destinations.

Official Mauritian discourse emphasises that accommodation is provided, meals subsidised and wages exceed home-country levels. The government points to work permit frameworks established in law and insists on respect for international labour standards. Yet periodic reports from civil society organisations, occasional media investigations and complaints channeled through embassies of sending countries paint more troubling pictures. Workers describe overcrowded dormitories where privacy is impossible. Construction sites where safety equipment is minimal or absent. Domestic workers isolated in employer homes with unclear protections and no days off. Limited labour inspection capacity combined with even more limited willingness to penalise violations creates environments where problems persist.

Mauritius is neither uniquely exploitative nor exceptionally protective compared to regional peers. It represents a common pattern: middle-income Southern economies using imported labour to fill gaps created by development without establishing comprehensive rights-based frameworks to govern that labour. The result serves immediate economic needs but treats workers as temporary inputs rather than people deserving dignity, protection and pathways to stable status if they contribute over extended periods.

What would genuinely rights-based migration mean in Global South contexts? The frameworks exist internationally—ILO conventions on forced labour, discrimination, freedom of association and occupational safety; UN human rights treaties establishing basic protections; the Migrant Workers Convention (though ratified by few countries). The question is whether Southern states dismiss these as Northern impositions unsuited to their economic realities, or embrace them as universal minimums applicable regardless of development level.

The answer matters because it determines whether the Global South perpetuates exploitation or demonstrates that development and dignity can advance together. A rights-based approach to South-South migration would include several non-negotiable elements:

Safe working conditions aligned with ILO conventions. This means fall protection on construction sites, adequate ventilation in factories, protective equipment in agriculture, enforceable maximum working hours, mandatory rest periods and genuine consequences for violations. These represent minimum safeguards against preventable injury, illness and death, not luxuries contingent on prosperity. Wealthy countries did not wait until they were wealthy to ban child labour in mines or implement basic factory safety; they did so because conscience and worker organizing demanded it. The Global South can do likewise.

Adequate housing standards reflecting human dignity. Workers deserve private sleeping space or reasonable shared accommodation (not eight to twelve per room), sanitation proportional to occupancy (not two toilets for fifty people), cooking facilities, freedom of movement and reasonable proximity to services. Dormitories can meet these standards if properly designed, built and maintained. The principle is straightforward: accommodation inadequate for citizens is inadequate for migrants. If local building codes prohibit housing citizens in such conditions, the same prohibition should apply to foreign workers.

Contract transparency and recruitment integrity. Workers must receive contracts in languages they understand—or receive competent translation—clearly specifying wages, working hours, responsibilities, housing arrangements and conditions for contract modification or termination. Recruitment fees should be prohibited entirely or strictly capped and paid exclusively by employers, never charged to workers. Debt bondage should be explicitly criminalised with active prosecution. When workers arrive indebted, they arrive unfree. No legitimate labour system should depend on worker indebtedness.

Freedom of association and access to remedy. Workers need the ability to join unions, raise grievances collectively, and access complaints mechanisms without fear of retaliation or deportation. Immigration status cannot nullify labour rights. Workers must be able to report violations to authorities, seek legal remedy and cooperate with labour inspectors without risking visa cancellation. Independent ombudspersons or labour rights advocates accessible to migrant workers are essential. Diplomatic missions of sending countries should play active protective roles.

Access to healthcare and basic social protection. Work-related injuries require treatment without bankrupting workers. Employer-provided health insurance should cover serious illness and emergencies. Pregnant workers need maternity protections. Serious illness should not automatically trigger deportation before adequate treatment. Provisions for emergency repatriation, death benefits and insurance against catastrophic events must be mandatory employer obligations, not worker responsibilities.

One of the most consequential shifts in recent years operates largely beneath policy radar: the spread of digital connectivity and the worker awareness it enables. Even workers with minimal formal education now carry smartphones, access social media and communicate instantly across borders. Information about wages, conditions, legal rights and alternative opportunities circulates through WhatsApp groups, Facebook communities, TikTok videos and informal networks far faster than governments or employers can monitor or control.

Consider the mathematics: The World Bank estimates that roughly 60% of the Global South population now has mobile phone access, with smartphone penetration growing rapidly even in low-income countries. Social media usage follows: Facebook has over 2 billion users in Asia, Africa and Latin America combined. YouTube, TikTok and regional platforms provide information access that was inconceivable a generation ago. For migrant workers, this connectivity transforms lived experience.

A Bangladeshi construction worker in Mauritius can now, on his smartphone during Sunday rest time, compare his wages and housing conditions with other Bangladeshis working in Malaysia, Qatar or Singapore; Mauritian workers in similar sectors; international labour standards explained in Bengali on YouTube; legal rights information from Bangladesh embassy or NGO websites; and stories from returnees warning about specific employers or recruitment agencies.

This technological shift has profound implications for migration governance that most policymakers have not yet absorbed. Traditional exploitation depended heavily on workers not knowing their rights, alternatives or comparative conditions. Recruitment agencies could misrepresent destination conditions. Employers could claim that substandard arrangements were normal or legally required. Workers isolated by language, distance and lack of information had no basis for challenging these claims.

Digital connectivity destroys this informational advantage. Workers research destinations before departure. They communicate with compatriots already abroad. They share employer reputations in real-time. When violations occur, documentation spreads immediately—photographs of overcrowded housing, videos of unsafe worksites, wage slips showing illegal deductions.

Technology also enables new forms of worker organization even when traditional unions are restricted or inaccessible. WhatsApp groups connecting workers from the same country, region or employer facilitate collective wage information (discovering when some workers are paid more than others for identical work); safety alerts (warnings about dangerous sites or abusive supervisors); legal resource sharing (successful complaint procedures, helpful lawyers, protective embassy officials); and collective action coordination (work stoppages, mass complaints, coordinated media engagement).

During COVID-19 lockdowns, migrant workers across the Gulf, Southeast Asia and other regions used social media to document conditions, coordinate responses and mobilise international attention in ways impossible without digital tools. Videos of overcrowded dormitories during pandemic restrictions went viral, forcing government responses. These patterns will intensify.

The implications for policy are clear: governments that ignore worker rights and migration justice risk destabilisation through quiet labour flight (workers choosing alternative destinations); periodic explosions of discontent (strikes, protests, riots); international scandals (viral videos, NGO campaigns, diplomatic pressure); and long-term reputational damage (becoming known as exploitative destinations). Governments positioning themselves as fair, protective destinations will attract better workers, build more stable systems and demonstrate that development and dignity can advance together.

The comprehensive mobility compact outlined above requires years to negotiate and implement. But individual countries need not wait for regional frameworks before improving their own systems. Any country serious about rights-based migration could take concrete steps immediately:

Any Global South country implementing these reforms would improve worker conditions dramatically, attract better-quality workers seeking decent conditions, enhance international reputation, demonstrate leadership to regional peers, and generate domestic political capital by addressing visible social issues. The cost is manageable—primarily political will rather than financial resources. The benefits far exceed costs.

The Global South today occupies a contradictory position. It produces for the world yet accepts quality and safety standards defined elsewhere. It houses millions of migrant workers yet often treats them as disposable inputs. It exports its own youth to wealthy nations while simultaneously importing labour under conditions it would never tolerate for its diaspora abroad. It competes for investment by offering cheap, compliant workforces while wondering why sustained development remains elusive and inequality entrenched.

This model is neither inevitable nor economically rational. It persists through path dependency, short-term thinking and failure to recognise that human dignity and economic development are complements rather than trade-offs. The evidence is clear: countries and companies that protect workers, provide decent conditions and respect rights achieve better outcomes—higher productivity, lower turnover, greater innovation, more stable societies and stronger long-term growth.

The question facing the Global South is whether it will choose deliberately to build better systems, or continue defaulting to exploitation until crises force change. The architecture for rights-based migration exists. International frameworks provide guidance. Regional integration offers templates. Technology enables unprecedented transparency and accountability. What remains is political will—the recognition that how societies treat the most vulnerable workers reveals not weakness but character.

Without comprehensive Global South immigration laws, workplace rights frameworks and mobility compacts, workers will remain cheap in law, disposable in practice and permanently undervalued in global value chains. Host countries will miss opportunities to build ethical systems that attract talent and generate goodwill. Sending countries will continue exporting their most capable citizens to contexts where exploitation awaits. The Global South will perpetuate the very patterns it experienced under colonialism, merely with different actors playing familiar roles.

With rights-based frameworks, the possibilities shift fundamentally. Movement between Southern countries becomes safer, more predictable and mutually beneficial. Workers gain protections enabling full contribution rather than mere survival. States like Mauritius could evolve from cautionary tales into laboratories demonstrating that middle-income countries can honour commitments to human rights while pursuing development. Regional integration deepens as labour mobility supports rather than undermines shared prosperity.

The choice is ultimately about values as much as economics. Do Southern states view migrant workers as problems to manage, costs to minimise and potential threats to control? Or do they recognise them as people deserving respect, contributors bringing skills and effort, and potential partners in development? The legal frameworks, enforcement mechanisms and cultural attitudes emerging from this choice will shape not just migration outcomes but broader patterns of inequality, social cohesion and regional development for generations.

How the Global South chooses to regulate movement and work will determine whether its people remain anonymous cheap labour in value chains designed elsewhere, or become recognised, protected and valued talent within their own regions. The architecture for the latter exists. International standards provide foundation. Regional frameworks offer structure. Technology enables enforcement. What remains is the political courage to build systems worthy of the people they are meant to serve—and the moral clarity to recognise that dignity, rights and development are not obstacles to progress but its very foundation.

The Global South has exported labour, commodities and value for centuries. The time has come to build frameworks that ensure its greatest resource—its people—are finally treated not as expendable inputs but as valued contributors deserving the same protections, respect and opportunities that every society should guarantee to all who contribute to its prosperity.