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West Bank schools at breaking point: The education crisis no one is talking about

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West Bank schools at breaking point: The education crisis no one is talking about

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As conflict tightens its grip on the West Bank, classrooms are now becoming frontlines of a quieter crisis: the erosion of education. For students like 17-year-old Ahmad Haje, daily life is shaped by checkpoints, raids and fear, forcing younger generations to learn under constant violence, disruption and uncertainty.

"How can I focus on the laws of physics or the rules of language when the sound of gunfire fills the classroom?" says Ahmad Haje, a bright and ambitious 17-year-old student from Burqa, just outside the city of Nablus in the West Bank. "My daily life is a mix of anxiety and hope - anxiety about the unknown, and a desire for change."

Since the war in Gaza began, the West Bank has been increasingly overlooked by international media - despite it facing one of the largest displacement crises since 1979, leaving thousands of children out of school.

As the occupation grows more emboldened, international leverage over the region weakens, and the Knesset passes laws that tighten the stranglehold on the Palestinian economy, one of the most fundamental pillars of society is fast deteriorating: education.

Checkpoints and delays: the challenges of commute

"My story begins every morning with the journey to school," says Ahmad, over text messages. The only person in this article who isn't communicating in English, Ahmad inputs his thoughts in Arabic into Google Gemini before sending the translations on. "The commute is governed less by distance, more by the unpredictable realities on the ground," he says.

The so-called "flying checkpoints" appear arbitrarily, stalling traffic as the military verifies IDs and carries out randomised security checks.

"These are not just time delays," says Ahmad. "These are attempts to break our will and constant reminders that even the simplest details of our lives are controlled."

Schools regularly recruit teachers from neighbouring districts, meaning road blockages and diversions cause massive disruption to the school day. Fadi Masoud, the head teacher at Ahmad's school in Burqa has to deal with these incidents on a regular basis.

"Teachers come from the city centre and from villages far away," he says. "When they close the roads, the teachers are late - or sometimes, they simply go home. As a headteacher, my heart is in my mouth every day. I feel stressed all the time."

Settler aggression: a culture of impunity

Checkpoints are but one obstacle on the school commute. While the occupation forces impose blockades, intimidate and detain people at random, Israeli settlers arguably pose an equally - if not more - insidious threat to students, especially those living in isolated, rural regions.

There are They are frequently nearly 700,000 settlers living in 250,000 settlements across the West Bank.  armed with military-grade weapons by the Israeli government, a move spearheaded by security minister Itamar Ben-Gvir following the October 7 attacks.

Assaults against defenceless Palestinian communities are commonplace, from crop destruction to . In March, for instance, local media a settler raid at a boys' secondary school in the town of Hawara, south of Nablus, where they removed the Palestinian flag, installed an Israeli flag in its place and scrawled "death to Arabs" on the walls.

"It ranges from belligerent harassment, staring people down, acting tough, to driving around in ATVs trying to mow down school children," says Sam Stein, an American Jewish activist and reporter who has spent the past six years embedded in rural villages in the West Bank.

But despite the threats activists face, their presence continues to instil a greater sense of calm and security in the community.

"When the activists are here, kids will stop sleeping with their shoes on," says Sam. He adds that, unfortunately, settler attacks tend to increase when the activists are away, as they know the communities are more vulnerable without them. "I always get the most calls when I'm not around, though," he says. "It's massively disproportionate."

Arbitrary detentions: Palestinian students facing jail time

The practice is a colonial legacy dating back to the British rule of Palestine, which enables the Israeli authorities to detain individuals - almost exclusively Palestinian - indefinitely without the need to provide evidence.

Fadi has seen multiple of his students affected, detained for as little as throwing stones or bottles at armed forces as they enter their villages. Three of his students are currently in detention.

"They cannot come back to school until they finish their time in jail," he says. "It's not a good situation."

"It was a struggle readjusting to a life that had moved on without me," says Ahmad of his release. "My mind once focused on the movements of the guards now had to focus on textbooks."

UNRWA: a system under scrutiny

Getting to school is one thing. But getting to the end of the school day without disruption is rarely guaranteed.

Around 32,000 people - including 12,000 children - were forced out of refugee camps in Jenin, Tulkarm, Nur Shams and El Far'a, and civilian infrastructure was badly damaged during the operation. Ten schools run by the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA) were sealed off, leaving 4,000 children without access to education, or forced to resort to online learning or adapted educational programmes for the rest of the year.

"It was actually a very horrific incident," says Roland Friedrich, director of UNRWA affairs for the West Bank. "The heavily-armed security forces effectively raided the school. They forced the children out at gunpoint, and the teachers too."

For the rest of the school year, the pupils had to continue their learning online, finding places at new schools in September.

School closures are not always as sudden - but can be just as traumatic, happening incrementally and causing a huge psychological strain on the students and teachers.

His family's financial situation will make it hard to complete his studies without aid.

"It's a huge issue," says Roland. "Kalandia is the only training centre for young refugee males, aged between 15 and 17. It's exactly the age group we should be giving a future to. You don't want to have young men out on the streets, getting involved in violence."

The debilitating impact of funding cuts on West Bank schools

While UNRWA schools' highly trained staff and international funding allows for a certain level of resilience in terms of teaching quality - even if interruptions are frequent - for government schools like Ahmad's, securing a steady cashflow is an uphill struggle.

The war in Gaza has only exacerbated these strains on the Palestinian Authority (PA), the central body providing state education to around 630,000 pupils in the West Bank.

Israel has withheld around $150 million (£110 million) from the PA's custom tax revenues for the last five years, over controversial payments made to relatives of deceased terrorists, a policy the PA says it has since overturned. Work permit restrictions and a liquidity crisis in Israeli banks has further exacerbated the strains facing the PA.

"The children's mental state is not good at all," says Fadi. "I tell them, 'My dears, you must study!' But not all of them react in the same way. They just play video games or watch reels on Facebook." More than this, children feel apathetic about education because they see their teachers paid next to nothing and wonder what the point of further education is, Fadi adds.

Ahmad says the loss of learning has had profound psychological effects on him.

"Interruptions or slow connections not only disrupt research," he says, "but also isolate us from the global academic community, forcing us to put even more work in just to reach the same level."

Keeping the focus on studies amidst the political turmoil and constant threats of closure is a "major mental challenge," he adds.

Erasure and discrimination in the Palestinian curriculum

Just as the students and physical learning space of the school are direct targets of Israeli aggression, so too is the Palestinian curriculum, For decades it has been subject to Israeli edits and censorship.

"The curriculum includes a number of interesting topics about Palestinian culture," says Fadi. "But the Israeli government is forcing the Palestinian Ministry of Education to remove this view from their books, such as the Palestinian map or the keffiyeh."

In 2018, the Israeli government adopted Decision 3790, allocating a budget of NIS (Israeli New Shekel) (around £460m) to shrink socioeconomic disparity between Israeli and Palestinian residents in East Jerusalem. NIS 445 million (£93m in 2018) was invested in education, with a focus on promoting and implementing the Israeli curriculum across the region, both at municipal and private schools.

Today, nearly 90% of all students across the region follow the Israeli syllabus, a jump from 51% just a couple of years ago.

Countering concerns about the erosion of the Palestinian identity in school textbooks, the Israeli government claims that the PA curriculum - shared with UNRWA - incites violence. How, then, could a neutral education system, free from political influence, exist in a context like this?

The reality on the ground however was devastating, leading to hundreds of classroom hours lost. Private Christian schools in East Jerusalem, which rely heavily on these teachers from outside of the district, were especially impacted, losing a total of 171 of their teachers , equating to a loss of about 15 teachers per school and affecting more than 7,500 pupils . The ban prompted waves of strikes across East Jerusalem.

A call for international action

Whether it's the demolition of school buildings, the arbitrary detention of students or the direct violence from settlers against students and staff, the classroom in the West Bank is fraught with danger and sustained focus can be nearly impossible.

As the Israeli government gives illegal settlements the green light to expand and the assault on Palestinians' education continues, little action is being taken by world leaders.

"Right now, the international community is literally doing nothing," says Sam. "We've seen that there can be consequences where there's political will."

Students like Ahmad reflect a conviction and determination that is virtually uncrushable, however. And this hope reflects something greater than just wanting to learn; it reflects a determination to sustain the Palestinian identity and culture through education.

"I remain optimistic about my ability to achieve," he says. "Not because the way forward is easy, but because we have learnt how to carve our way through the rocks."

Images by Khadija Toufik, unless stated otherwise.

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West Bank schools at breaking point: The education crisis no one is talking about

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"How can I focus on the laws of physics or the rules of language when the sound of gunfire or raids fills the classroom?" As conflict tightens its grip on the West Bank, classrooms are becoming frontlines of a quieter crisis: the erosion of education.

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Leandra Van Zyl, a 27-year-old veterinarian from Namibia, has turned a lifelong fascination with wild animals into a thrilling career.

With her father behind the wheel of a jeep, she ventures into the African bush day and night, collecting blood, fecal, and tissue samples from jackals, hyenas, zebras, hippos, and lions. If an animal shows signs of illness, she dons a hazmat suit and proceeds with a surgical extraction. Sometimes, hunters or herders summon her after discovering an injured or dead animal.

"I love that I can help animals in need," says Van Zyl as she draws blood from an anesthetized antelope. "There is nothing as gratifying as seeing that I have made a positive difference in an animal's life, helped it recover or even saved its life."

When not in the bush collecting specimens, Van Zyl works at the Central Veterinary Laboratory in Windhoek, Namibia. She is one of a wave of vets on the frontlines of disease surveillance across Africa.

Scientifically known as in nature, these diseases can jump from animals to humans in a variety of ways, which includes vectors like ticks or mosquitoes, or transmission through food, contaminated water, and bodily fluids. Think rabies, Lyme disease and salmonella, but also Ebola, HIV and various strains of influenza.

Covid-19 is generally considered to have originated from a zoonotic spillover event, although the specific origin of its jump from animal to human is still uncertain.

Your own risk and susceptibility to diseases passed from animals to humans depends on where you live and the habitat that surrounds you.

Infectious diseases know no boundaries

Over the last few decades, experts have recorded an uptick of infectious diseases in parts of the world where they never existed before.

Outbreaks of African swine fever, for instance, a viral disease that affects pigs and has spread from Africa to Europe, have posed steep financial costs to the pork industry across the continent. While cases of malaria, dengue, and Rift Valley Fever -all mosquito-borne diseases once endemic to the tropics only-are now appearing in southern Europe, North America, and other areas.

Umberto Molini, an Italian veterinarian with the Istituto Zooprofilattico Sperimentale dell'Abruzzo e del Molise (IZS) -a zoonotic research institute in Teramo, Italy- says that a warming planet and globalization are drivers of infectious diseases. The latter implies deforestation, urbanization, commercial trade, tourism, and intensive farming. All these activities impact animal, human, and plant ecosystems.

"Global warming has changed where aerial animals live and it has fueled desertification. This means that wildlife is more frequently in contact with domestic animals especially when searching for water sources, and wild animals host more than 1,000 viruses that we don't even know," says Molini.

"Now, with globalization, transporting animals is much faster. Animals from Africa used to come to Europe in a container by boat, and now they arrive by cargo [plane] in just a few hours. All it takes is one infected animal."

"Antibiotics are fed to animals to increase production. People eat them and some go into the water systems. With this type of resistance, it is much harder to mitigate disease outbreaks," says Soushieta Jagadesh, a public health expert with The International Society of Infectious Diseases (ISID).

Stronger together for human, animal and plant health

This complex web of factors is what prompted the Teramo IZS to forge a partnership with Van Zyl's laboratory in Namibia 40 years ago. It was the first of many such partnerships across Africa for IZS Teramo.

At the heart of this approach is the understanding that international collaboration is essential to prevent, prepare and respond to disease outbreaks, a fact that became glaringly obvious during the COVID-19 pandemic.

"We have built a strong network of relationships across Africa," says Nicola D'Alterio, executive director of IZS Teramo. "These are not ad hoc relationships that end when a project is over."

The Italian institutes led by IZS Teramo strengthen the capacity of veterinary services across Africa through the exchange of innovation and expertise.

"Today, unlike 1,000 years ago, the plague does not take decades to reach the other side of the world," says D'Alterio. "Now it can happen in a matter of six hours. You must know what is going on around the world and what that means for you."

In a globalized economy, where food, animals and people move quickly from one part of the world to another, disease surveillance is in everyone's best interest.

Namibia, for instance, is the only African country that currently exports beef to Europe, the US, Russia and China.

Molini's first deployment to Namibia was centered around meat certification, testing to ensure livestock was free of pathogens. Strengthening the capacity of African scientists to do this work is one the goals of the Teramo institute.

Lauren M Coetzee, a Namibian doctorate candidate in molecular biology with IZS Teramo and a student of Molini's, studies the genetic makeup of domestic and wild animals.

"Our livestock comes into contact with wild animals often. This can give rise to new emerging diseases unknown to the outside world," she says. "My research focuses on the animal-human interface. I study the evolution of diseases in both domestic and wild animals that can spillover into the human population."

Engaging communities in preventing infectious diseases

Wild animals such as bats and monkeys are potential hosts to many diseases that can spillover into the human population, including HIV, Nipah Virus and Ebola. However, populations that coexist with wildlife have often relied on it as a source of animal protein.

Meat from wildlife species, known as bushmeat, has always been hunted for consumption or a cash commodity. Over the years, governments have tried to regulate it, but poaching persists across Africa.

Jagadesh, who has studied the links between disease outbreaks and conservation in West Africa, says bans on animal products rarely work. "When something is illegal it becomes more of a delicacy in urban markets because people want to show off their wealth," she says.

And outright bans-unless the species is endangered, like the pangolin-make it, "harder to track down animal origins because hunting and trade goes under the radar."

When a wildlife species is popular, like the grasscutter, a large rodent in Ghana, some people decide to breed it for profit. "In France they eat frogs because they are considered a delicacy. In Africa, one of our delicacies is the grasscutter," says Francis Michael Pobimensa, a former naval officer turned grasscutter breeder in Accra, Ghana.

"People call it king rat, but these are not rats. They are closer to porcupines than rats and are ferocious eaters." When this type of activity is regulated, and the animals are vaccinated and healthy, it can contribute to preventing disease outbreaks while catering to local food preferences.

Since banning rarely works, Jagadesh advocates instead for combining policy regulations with education of communities and hunters. Namibia is one country that has successfully engaged communities in the prevention of diseases.

A in the Northern Communal Areas region reached 2,800 farmers and focused on preventing and managing rabies as well as three diseases that can decimate herds .

The farmers were trained to recognize the clinical signs of these diseases and report anything suspicious to the closest veterinary offices for investigation. The program not only empowered communities, but also strengthened the early warning and response systems for disease control.

Policy regulations, explains Jagadesh, can be applied to hunting by setting limits on when, what and how much to hunt. And educating hunters is as important as educating communities.

In Namibia, says Van Zyl, " When professional hunters get their licenses, they are trained to identify things that don't look right in the animals they catch or find. If they see something suspicious, they call the veterinary services. If the animal is infected, they will condemn the carcass, and the meat will be destroyed."

In Ghana, "hunting is forbidden during the breeding season for bats because of the higher potential of animal to human disease transmission," says Jagadesh. Regulations also apply to open-air markets, she adds.

Food safety officers and veterinary services regularly inspect fresh and dried bushmeat before sale in trade hubs in Kumasi, Accra, and Techiman, where a lot of bushmeat is traded.

More funding needed to address global health security

Nations now have a clearer roadmap to boost global cooperation through research, diseases surveillance, technology transfer, and a skilled health workforce. What they don't have are the financial commitments and legal mechanisms to enforce this agreement.

The adoption of the agreement in Geneva was a key test of global political will, especially around the need for sustainable funding for pandemic preparedness and response.

Notably absent from the World Health Assembly this year: the United States. Since he started his second term, President Donald J Trump has pulled the US out of the World Health O rganisation, gutted foreign assistance and terminated most global health programs.

Yet the threat of future disease outbreaks looms. And in terms of the next pandemic, scientists agree it's not a question of "if", but "when".

Detecting diseases before they spread is the often invisible but vital work of researchers like Van Zyl, Molini and ERFAN members.

"Prevention is a victim of its own success," says D'Alterio. "When nothing happens, it means it's working. What we do in peacetime is critical, and we must never let our guard down. This isn't like being a heart surgeon on center stage. We work quietly, away from the spotlight."

Words by Beatrice M. Spadacini and Photographs by Stefano Schirato
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While Hollywood ignored stories of Black resistance, Cuban filmmakers celebrated Black power - Lacuna Magazine

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Hollywood has long produced cinematic films on slavery while misrepresenting black agency and perpetuating stereotypes. Philip Kaisary looks at Cuban cinema to understand how those affected are trying to correct the record.

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Using the metaphor of Frankenstein, this story unpicks the experience of being a first-generation immigrant, caught between Sri Lankan heritage and identity as a teenager in modern Britain.

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A Modern Frankenstein - on first-generation immigrant identity

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Ollie Hadgie tells the story of being a first-generation immigrant, caught between heritage and identity as a teenager in modern Britain.

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Untangling the roots of religious tensions in Gondar, Ethiopia

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Untangling the roots of religious tensions in Gondar, Ethiopia

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The city of Gondar in Ethiopia was rocked by religious violence after an attack on a funeral in April 2022. Ensuing riots between Christians and Muslims left 20 dead and many injured. Visiting the city in Ethiopia’s northwest, Jaclynn Ashly speaks with eyewitnesses, researchers and community leaders, to expose the roots of the interfaith violence and unravel a complex religious and cultural history.

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Untangling the roots of religious tensions in Gondar, Ethiopia - Lacuna Magazine

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In Gondar, Ethiopia, eyewitnesses, researchers and community leaders attempt to expose the roots of the interfaith violence that erupted in 2022, and unravel a complex religious and cultural history.

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“They’re eating the pets”: The deep history behind Trump’s racist, anti-Haitian lies

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“They’re eating the pets”: The deep history behind Trump’s racist, anti-Haitian lies

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Behind the false claims of Trump and Vance that Haitian immigrants are eating pets lies a long history of racist denigration. Philip Kaisary looks back to the Haitian Revolution to understand the longevity and power of anti-Haitian sentiment.

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Behind the false claims of Trump and Vance that Haitian immigrants are eating pets lies a long history of racist denigration. Philip Kaisary looks back to the Haitian Revolution to understand the longevity and power of anti-Haitian sentiment.

Lock up your Labrador, secure your Siamese. Vote Republican to ensure the safety of your furry best friend. When Trump falsely claimed in last month's televised presidential debate that immigrants in Springfield, Ohio have been eating the town's pets he gave credence and airtime to baseless and sensationalist rumors that he and other prominent Republicans had been peddling on social media in the days leading up to the debate.

According to the Trumpian post-truth universe, one of the great food taboos of Western society - the consumption of companion domestic animals for food - has been routinely happening in middle America and it is the Haitians who are at it.

In the days and weeks since the debate, despite a complete absence of evidentiary support and a series of fact-checks (by AFP, Reuters, BBC, ABC, Sky, and Full Fact among others) concluding the claims are false, Trump has repeatedly doubled down and the allegations of pet-eating have become a conduit to the vilification of Haitian migrants more broadly.

On Friday 13 September, for example, Trump claimed at a press conference held on a Los Angeles golf course that, "in Springfield, Ohio, 20,000 illegal migrant Haitians have descended upon a town of 58,000 people, destroying their way of life. They've destroyed the place." And on Wednesday 16 October, at a televised town hall event held in Miami, Trump upped the ante, claiming that Haitians are not only eating domestic pets but "other things too that they're not supposed to be," an utterance intended to spark speculation about cannibalism. But for the racist, anti-immigrant mob violence, bomb threats, and other forms of intimidation that Springfield's Haitian community has endured in the weeks since September 10 (not to mention the further degradation of American political discourse), Trump's latest outrageous comments could easily be regarded as comical, merely the latest inane remarks of a dishonorable politician. Indeed, the immediate response to the remarks on social media was to lampoon Trump and to poke fun at his preposterous claims.

But an examination of the long history of anti-Haitian sentiment behind Trump's remarks may prove a more effective form of critique than either ridicule or aghast liberal handwringing.

In North American and European history, politics, and culture, Haiti and Haitians have long been subjected to grotesque racist denigration. It is not an overstatement to say that Haiti generally only features in Western news pages or the popular imagination as a den of evil, violence, chaos, and savagery, or simply as a cesspool. In this sense, Trump's allegations are nothing new. In fact, we are obliged to trace their origins to the Haitian Revolution of 1791-1804, a world-historical event that has for long been, silenced, disavowed, and denigrated.

The Haitian Revolution broke out in the French colony of Saint-Domingue on the night of 14 August 1791, when in a stunning organizational feat, a band of one to two thousand rebel slaves launched synchronized attacks on designated plantations across the colony's northern plains. The insurgency rapidly gained momentum and life in the slave colony of Saint-Domingue, the so-called "pearl of the Antilles," would never be the same again. A revolutionary war of independence eventually ensued that resulted in the overthrow of slavery, white supremacy, and direct colonial rule. The events of 1791-1804 in Saint-Domingue consequently shocked the Western world, reshaped transatlantic debates about slavery, accelerated the abolitionist movement, precipitated rebellions in neighboring territories, and intensified both repression and anti-slavery sentiment on both sides of the Atlantic. However, from the beginning, Western culture has fixated on the alleged excessive violence of the revolution and the supposed savagery of the revolutionaries themselves.

Notoriously, in 1799, 'founding father' and third president of the United States Thomas Jefferson, referred to Haitians as "cannibals of the terrible republic". And throughout the nineteenth century, Haiti's revolutionary history was demeaned and exoticized as a barbarous, primitive affair, while Haiti was frequently cited in debates about the capabilities of Africans to live as free subjects. Consider, for example, the opinion of the Scottish historian and essayist, Thomas Carlyle, one of the most revered men of letters of the Victorian Age. In his 1849 pamphlet, Occasional Discourse on the N***** Question, Carlyle expressed his opinion, that Haiti was a "tropical dog kennel and pestiferous jungle". Now notorious, Carlyle's statement was very much par for the course for the time.

In the years since, the discourse surrounding Haiti has not changed nearly as much as one might think. Perhaps the most egregious example of anti-Haitian sentiment can be traced to 1982, when the groundless thesis that AIDS had originated in Haiti rapidly gained momentum after a speculative announcement by a physician with the US National Cancer Institute. And in the aftermath of the devastating earthquake that struck Haiti on 12 January 2010, the televangelist, Pat Robertson, claimed that the earthquake was in fact divine retribution for Haiti's "pact with the devil."

The international media, meanwhile, evoked earthquake stricken Haiti as a desperate land of criminality and barbarism - an evocation which had the effect of propagating long-standing views of Haitian people and culture as crude and "progress-resistant". Meanwhile, the continued absence of sympathetic portrayals of the Haitian Revolution in mainstream popular culture is an instance of the more widespread marginalization of Black historical achievement in Western culture.

However, Haiti's presence in public letters and debate has always been an ideological battleground and it has not all been one-way traffic. Beginning in the early twentieth century, this history of denigration began to be contested by a distinguished set of Black writers, artists, and intellectuals. The most renowned of these luminaries includes the Trinidadian polymath CLR James, the Martinican statesman and poet Aimé Césaire, and one of the most influential African American writers of the twentieth century, Langston Hughes. Strikingly, and this brings us back to Trump's groundless accusation that the Haitians are coming for your pets, the taboo of pet eating has figured in this contested history.

In the remarkable 1967 book-length poem, A Rainbow for the Christian West, by the Haitian négritude poet, René Depestre, the Haitian vodou gods descend upon the American South in the form of the Black militant poet-narrator who arrives to take his vengeance upon the "Christian West" and to expose its dark underbelly. One of the poem's most subversive comic-ironic moments occurs when the poem's narrator claims to be "a great eater" of beautiful pedigree dogs. The effect of this claim is the poetic avenging of the racial stereotyping of Haitians, the recollection of the historical use of slave hunting dogs, and the mocking of the pseudo-science of eugenics-based theories of racial hierarchy (and pedigree dog breeding).

A deep dive into the cultural history behind Trump's racist, anti-Haitian lies reveals the bigotry and ignorance at the heart of his project to "make America great again".

The supposedly glorious American past to which Trump seeks to turn back the clock is in fact a past in which systemic terror was waged against people of African descent.

And in baselessly accusing Haitians of pet-eating, Trump drew directly on the discourse generated by that history of racial violence.

Featured image by Gage Skidmore via Flickr.
Read more:

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"They're eating the pets": The deep history behind Trump's racist, anti-Haitian lies - Lacuna Magazine

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Behind the false claims of Trump and Vance that Haitian immigrants are eating pets lies a long history of racist denigration. Philip Kaisary looks back to the Haitian Revolution to understand why discourse surrounding Haiti has changed so little.

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Remembering Rawa-Ruska: Artistic sketches of the Second World War camp

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Remembering Rawa-Ruska: Artistic sketches of the Second World War camp

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Discovering her great grandfather’s sketches of the Second World War, Camille Aymond recounts his story of being held by the Nazis in the Rawa-Ruska German war camp in Ukraine.

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Discovering her great grandfather's sketches of the Second World War, Camille Aymond recounts his story of being held by the Nazis in the Rawa-Ruska German war camp in Ukraine.

This piece of creative non-fiction was originally written as a response to one of the themes of the Writing Human Rights module at the University of Warwick. The module confronts human rights themes and develops creative responses to them in writing. Students have free rein to choose the topic and style of their stories. They create journalism, short fictional stories, sci-fi, screenplays, comment pieces, podcast episodes and TED talks. We have worked with students to develop the best examples of their writing and publish them on Lacuna (find more here). Camille Aymond's story, a response to the War Crimes section of the module, is based on the experience of her great grandfather, Pierre, and the pictures he drew to document the Second World War. Learning about Pierre's real-life experiences in the Rawa-Ruska camp, Camille based her story around her great grandfather's sketches. She set the surrounding story in Pierre's hometown using fictional elements to introduce the discovery of the images and Pierre's story. Camille is a law graduate on the LLB who is going on to pursue a master's degree in human rights.

The house had never been so quiet. My father was slowly packing all his aunt's trinkets in brown boxes, letting the grief fill his eyes. Monique had died a week ago and my dad and I volunteered to travel to Mosnes, a small village in the Loire Valley, to take care of her house.

"Do you mind checking the attic?" my father asked, "I believe there are few unopened boxes, maybe you'll find some hidden treasures to cheer you up."

I smiled and nodded as I climbed upstairs and lowered the rusty ladder. Once in the attic, I took a look around.

Some mouldy boxes in the corner, spider webs lazily hanging from the wooden beams, a ray of sun from the skylight illuminating the dust.

I spotted a couple of metal boxes hidden under some postcards and a few books. Grabbing a few yellow pages filled with drawings, on the front page, in cursive handwriting, I read: "June 1940, the Departure."

Beneath the title was a drawing of a train alongside another sketch of a poster announcing to the French population that all men and boys over 18 years were mandated to join the fight. The train was seen leaving, a few clouds scribbled with a dark pencil. My eyes wandered and I noticed a small inscription at the bottom right of the page: "Pierre Aymond".

"What do you have here?"

I flinched, suddenly aware of the dust covering the floor of my great aunt's attic. My father was standing at the entrance.

"I'm not sure," I answered, "there are a bunch of old drawings marked around 1940."

He sat down next to me and silently took from my hands the picture of the train. He smiled and said: "Those drawings were made by my grandfather, Pierre, but I knew him as 'pépère'. He was a kind man, he used to let me sit in the back of the truck with my sister. He'd take us on drives along the dirt roads around the village so we could play, sometimes going faster and turning the truck so we would feel like we were flying."

He paused and took another look at it.

On the bottom right was another inscription: "Stalag XII A - Germany." Under it, a couple of soldiers in grey were holding a bowl. They were both in military uniforms. In the back, an endless line formed by other detainees, queuing for something. Barbed wires were forcing them to stay in a straight, disciplined line.

It was followed by a drawing of a man smoking a pipe alone. With the lack of colour and the shading of his cheeks, he seemed to be carrying the fatigue and fear of an entire lifetime, the kind of fear that not even tobacco could take away.

"You see," Dad said, "Pierre was called to war when it first started. During World War II, unlike World War I, the fights in the trenches were short. After Pétain capitulated , my grandfather was made a prisoner of war in Germany as you can see from the drawings. He was a recidivist - a dissident. That means that he disobeyed the Nazi officers' orders and tried to escape. The Nazis considered him to be undisciplined, unable to be moulded into a prisoner meeting their criteria for what they called 'rehabilitation'."

He fumbled around in the case to pull out a few more drawings. He handed me a sketch depicting what appeared to be wooden barracks. One of them had the door open and you could see hay on the floor. Next to this was a picture of two soldiers, their faces blurred by the same pencil used for the landscape.

In April 1942, the camp of Rawa-Ruska, formerly for soviet prisoners, was used for disobedient French soldiers. Pierre was sent to the camp, in western Ukraine near the border with Poland. After the Wannsee Conference , it was decided that any recidivist was to lose their prisoner of war status. The conditions at Rawa-Ruska were rough, and it earned the nickname "camp of the water drop" because there was one solitary tap to provide water for water the whole camp. About 2,000 French war prisoners were deported there, to "Vernichtungslager 325" (or "extermination camp 325").

I took another drawing showing a room divided in two by a path constructed from wooden planks. Some tools were left against the walls. A couple of shovels, a few buckets.

Pierre was drawing the tools and the tasks and the building he was forced to work in, putting concrete on top of the muddy, frozen floors.

Behind this, Pierre drew two prisoners playing cards on the floor. They were surrounded with one or two pots. They looked like they were used to cook the soup given to the detainees once a day. One of the men was smoking, sending out a grey cloud from the tip of the cigarette.

I compared it with the picture I had seen before, the one with the prisoners holding the bowl of what I guessed to be containing soup. Working in the kitchen, I imagined, must have been more comfortable than having to queue for food in the cold.

But the drawings, as clear and monotone as they may be, don't come close to describing the cruel reality.

Dad said: "The camp of Rawa-Ruska was composed of four barracks without any doors or windows. They hadn't managed to finish the construction of those, allowing in a cold so raw that it settled inside the bones of every detainee. Bear in mind that in winter, the temperature fell between -20°C and -30°C. I remember Pépère told me once that they had to stand outside for two hours in the middle of the night while the camp officers searched their barracks."

He paused, eyes travelling along a piece of paper. I grabbed a couple more, trying to display them on the floor in a vague timeline. I was trying to understand Pierre's story accurately, avidly going through the drawings, hoping to find a black scribbling or a footnote - any precious potential clue. On one of them, I read "coste 304 - Night of 13 to 14". I sighed. No year.

"It's probably around May or June 1940," said dad, reading my mind. "The drawing above it is a combat fight."

Dad traced his fingers on the left part of the picture where about seven or eight soldiers were carrying some type of rifle. They seemed to be running towards a lighthouse, leaving the barbed wires and the dry bushes behind.

Below there was another drawing. This time, the bushes and metal wires were forming a precarious wall in front of two soldiers. Both were looking through their rifles, aiming at the other side. Four bags were separating them and the soldier on the right had one attached to the belt of his gear. A plane was flying in the sky but neither of them seemed to notice it.

"It's like a jigsaw puzzle," my dad said before falling silent, searching for clues hidden in his memory.

"How did this ended-up here?" I asked.

"I think everyone in the family received a copy of it but the original pages were distributed to his children."

We kept looking. I pulled one page out and put it next to the pictures of the warfront. These two drawings were what we believed to be Pierre's memories of his last combat.

The first showed a soldier, crouched inside a small cave. Outside, a shovel and a rifle were laying side-by-side in the mud. His backpack was undone, close to the entrance. With his knees up and his hands around his ankles, he looked like a little boy hiding in a tree house. The ground was chaotic, a few leafless plants scattered around, mixed with the dirt and rocks.

This second picture also showed a soldier but this time, he was hiding behind a tree, his hands on his rifle. He was protecting himself from an explosion. It appeared that the impact was throwing out metal pieces in all directions.

"Shortly after that," dad said, "Pierre was captured and sent to a prison camp in France and then another in Germany. He tried to escape, so the Nazis sent him to Rawa-Ruska."

"So before he was sent to Rawa-Ruska, he escaped from a camp in France?" I asked.

"Not exactly. See, after France capitulated, he was sent to Germany to work in a camp with his fellow inmate and friend Louis. They decided to escape after their shifts, once everything went dark. They nailed pieces of rubber to the soles of their shoes. They walked for hours with just a few sugar cubes hidden in their pockets."

My father handed me a picture of a soldier in uniform. He was standing behind two little girls, wearing similar dresses and some high socks.

"The man in the photo is Pierre and those are his first two daughters, my aunts. On the left, you can see Micheline and next to her, this is Monique. She was the oldest. Pierre used to tell me that he would look at this picture, carried in his uniform's pocket, to give him strength whenever he was feeling blue. It gave him the courage to keep going, to come home."

We both smiled. My heart clenched in my chest as I looked at my great aunt, allowing just for a moment, the grief to overwhelm me.

"I miss Monique," I said.

"I do too," answered dad.

I grabbed a drawing of a field. Across it, there was an old ink stamp. It had faded with time but one word was still readable: "Kommandanture".

"Near Metz, there was a double frontier guarded by German soldiers," dad said. "Pierre was hiding in the bushes with Louis, waiting for dawn to cross the second line. They were tired and desperate to come home. Then they heard barking and the sound of combat boots. They were captured at five in the morning.

The German guards took them to the command post where they were searched. One of them found Pierre's drawings and took them to be examined by the Kommandanture because they thought he was a spy.

After this one, there's no stamp. Like on this one."

The drawing he showed me displayed the barracks neatly aligned. My father laid it down next to the page with the two soldiers in Stalag XII-A.

As we kept looking, I took a page with the words "Stalag 325" scribbled in the middle. The light had faded, and the attic was growing darker.

"We'll finish tomorrow. Let's go back downstairs," announced my father.

I sat on the couch while he opened a bottle of red wine.

"So after being arrested, Pierre was sent to Rawa-Ruska," I said, trying to piece everything together, "but after that..." I glanced inside the box and I couldn't see another drawing of a camp, just one of a hospital room. "What happened?"

I took a glass and waited for my dad to sit down across from me.

"A few months later, the camp was opened to organisations such as the International Red Cross Committee. They first allowed the 'rich' soldiers to receive packages of food. It wasn't much but it was luxurious in comparison to the small amount of gruesome food they received at the camp. They also allowed detainees to receive medical care. Pierre met a French doctor who explained to him that if Pierre were to get sick, they could send him back to France to get proper medical care. The doctor indicated to Pierre that the Red Cross and the medical personnel coming with it, would be back in two weeks."

My father repressed a smile and said: "Actually, there's a famous story in the family about how Pierre managed to come back to Mosnes. Did your grandfather ever tell you about it?"

I shook my head and waited for him to continue.

"After that doctor came to visit the camp, Pierre queued to access the only source of water on site. Every other day, he put his head underneath the camp's single tap and would let the freezing water fill his ears. The day before the return of the doctor, he worried that his ears weren't dripping enough to qualify for a return home. He queued one last time at the tap, making sure that he would get an aggressive infection. The head of the camp signed the doctor's request to transfer him to a hospital. He was diagnosed with double chronic catarrhal otitis. It was so severe that it impaired his hearing permanently. They returned to France by a train and Pépère always loved to describe the moment he first laid eyes on that train.

"It was clean and filled with beds and seats, unlike the one that brought him to Ukraine. He was sent to Rawa-Ruska in an animal compartment, closed and surrounded by 40 other soldiers. Imagine how he must have felt when he realized that this was a train designed for humans! What delightful comfort that implied.

"At the time, trains were given names to identify them. On the one that saved him and brought him back to France on the 21 st of June 1943, the painted letters spelled out: 'Roland'.

"Roland became the second name of my dad - your grandfather - and when I was born, it became my second name as well. This is the last drawing of his journal."

He handed me the piece of paper.

Pierre drew the inside of a hospital room from Saint-Joseph's Hospital, in Paris. About eight beds were aligned, facing eight other beds. Some of them were occupied by faceless patients, probably rescued from prisoner camps. Pierre accentuated the shadows of the beds on the floor, the sun was filling the room in a similar way to how it had penetrated the attic earlier.

"When he came back home, he met his third daughter, Claudine. And later Claude was born, your grandfather. Pierre put his drawings and memories away.

"It wasn't until much later, around 1985 or maybe 1986 that he picked them up again, compelled by the need to write a few notes, and add a few drawings so that his many pages and sketches would make sense. With these notes and pictures, he hoped his children and grandchildren and everyone after them could remember his journey."
What happened in the town of Rawa-Ruska, and other parts of western Ukraine and the former Soviet Union, is one of the least-known parts of the Holocaust. But in recent years, researchers from the organisation Read more: Yahad-In Unum have sought out eyewitness testimonies to unearth the history of the Second World War in Ukraine, Belarus, Russia, Poland, Lithuania, Latvia, Romania and Moldova. Their work has led to the installation of a monument in Rawa-Ruska, as well as in other towns, and an interactive map of testimonies , to remember thousands of Jewish people who were killed, many gunned down in mass shootings or transported to the German death camp in Belzec, Poland.
All sketches and photographs provided by Camille Aymond

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Remembering Rawa-Ruska: Artistic sketches of the Second World War camp

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Discovering her great grandfather's sketches of the Second World War, Camille Aymond recounts his story of being held by the Nazis in the Rawa-Ruska German war camp in Ukraine.

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While We Wait: The stories of seven refugees waiting to restart their lives

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While We Wait: The stories of seven refugees waiting to restart their lives

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The women in this series are refugees who have fled war and found themselves in Jordan, waiting for resettlement to Europe or North America. Coming from Yemen, Sudan and Somalia, each woman is forced to wait, without permission to work or study, to restart her life. Rayna Carruthers presents their images and stories.

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While We Wait: The stories of seven refugees waiting to restart their lives - Lacuna Magazine

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The women in this series are refugees who have fled war and found themselves waiting for resettlement. While they wait for resettlement, their lives continue as they care for themselves, their children, go to classes at local refugee centres, and try to maintain hope.

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Women in Afghanistan rise up in protest against war

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Women in Afghanistan rise up in protest against war

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After enduring decades of conflict, women in Afghanistan are developing networks between cities and rural communities to unite women across the country in protest. Can they defy cultural traditions and taboos to lead a protest movement for peace?

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Women in Afghanistan rise up in protest against war - Lacuna Magazine

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“We are ready to make any kind of sacrifice to save other women from the pain of war.” Women in Afghanistan are turning peace activists in a new protest movement.

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A refugee story: From Afghanistan to Italy to protect women’s rights

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A refugee story: From Afghanistan to Italy to protect women’s rights

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A refugee story: From Afghanistan to Italy to protect women’s rights - Lacuna Magazine

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Firoza Wahedi took an oath to protect women’s rights in Afghanistan. The Taliban takeover forced her to flee, but, starting a new life in Italy, she says no one will silence her voice.

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#FreeHer: Women don’t belong in cages - Lacuna Magazine

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The #FreeHer campaign by the National Union of Incarcerated Women and Girls is reimagining approaches to equality, community, and justice for incarcerated women and mothers.

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In northern Italy a campaign group of mums, Mamme No PFAs, is fighting against the “forever chemicals” that are poisoning their water supply and their children. Beatrice M Spadacini visits Veneto to speak with the Italian mothers who are documenting the devastating health effects of PFAS in an area three times bigger than the US community featured in the film Dark Waters. 

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PFAS ‘Forever Chemicals’ – and the Italian mothers fighting for health justice

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PFAS ‘Forever Chemicals’ – and the Italian mothers fighting for health justice

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In northern Italy a campaign group of mums, Mamme No PFAs , is fighting against the "forever chemicals" that are poisoning their water supply and their children. Beatrice M Spadacini visits Veneto to speak with the Italian mothers who are documenting the devastating health effects of PFAS in an area three times bigger than the US community featured in the film Dark Waters .

On the outskirts of Vicenza, a city in the Veneto region of northern Italy, sits the farm of Elisabetta Donadello. Before having children, she and her husband made a conscious decision to leave Milan and move closer to nature and to Donadello's family. "We were very intentional about creating a more human-centered lifestyle," says Donadello, who left a corporate job to become a full-time farmer.

"We gave up secure and well-paying jobs and moved to a rural area. The proximity to the land gives us something truly special.

"Nothing compares to the joy of putting my hands in the land, smelling the raw earth, and eating a raw tomato that I have grown. For our family, this is priceless."

But if the tomato is grown on contaminated land and irrigated with water containing toxic chemicals, it could be harmful to human health. Donadello did not know that the land her family farm is located on draws water from a compromised aquifer that contains PFAS (and polyfluoroalkyl substances). has shown these substances impact human health.

The term " forever chemicals " - because they are durable and extremely hard to decompose - is used to describe the PFAS (per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances) family of chemicals, including PFOS ( perfluorooctanesulfonic acid ) and PFOA (perfluorooctanoic acid). Forever chemicals are used in many products, from non-stick pans to water-resistant clothing, shoes, packaging, cleaning supplies, and even firefighting foam. They have been linked for over a to , infertility, decreased immunity, high cholesterol, kidney disease, and many other serious health problems.

A group of 30 international experts from 11 countries convened by the International Agency for Research on Cancer (IARC) in November 2023, concluded that PFOA is carcinogenic to humans and that PFOS is possibly carcinogenic to humans. A summary of the final evaluations was published on November 30 online in The Lancet Oncology

New study shows PFAS forever chemicals can be absorbed by crops

The possibility that crops grown organically, but irrigated with contaminated water, could also retain these substances is a new finding from a conducted on a portion of Donadello's farm by Professor Giancarlo Renell and Associate Professor Antonio Masi from the University of Padova.

"Our data shows that if there is one molecule of PFAS in a litre of water, then the leaves contain 25 times more chemicals, while the fruits-in this case the tomatoes-contain between 40 and 80 times more," says Masi.

This is a scary prospect for anyone living off the land or selling their produce in local markets. It may also explain why authorities have been reluctant to admit the extent of the damage.

Donadello first heard of PFAS in 2015 when she had already moved back to her family's farm and had her first child.

"It took me while to understand the dangers these chemicals pose to human health," she says.

Donadello is now a member of the Mamme No PFAS (Mothers Against PFAS) movement, a grassroots initiative of mothers living in the area that draws water from the contaminated aquifer, which serves about 300,000 people living between the cities of Vicenza and Verona.

Donadello's farm is located approximately 30 miles from a site where , a PFAS-producing company owned by Mitsubishi and Eni operated for decades, until it filed for bankruptcy in 2018. Fifteen top managers are now under investigation for illegally dumping toxic chemicals in the Agno River and surrounding water system.

The new findings from the University of Padova study provides yet more proof of how pervasive these chemicals are - and it is significant because it was conducted in a realistic setting instead of a lab or a hydroponic farm.

"The results demonstrate an accumulation of PFAS in the leaves and fruit of the plant, and the potential risk this poses to locally grown produce," says Masi, adding that this finding is relevant for other contaminated agricultural areas around the world.

PFAS travel far and wide, but not everyone is treated equally

Technically speaking, Donadello's farm is in the "orange zone," the second most at-risk area for PFAS contamination in the Veneto region, according to the official classification by local health authorities. Residents in the "red zone" can have their water and blood tested for PFAS levels as part of a monitoring campaign launched by the region in 2017. But once people know the PFAS levels in their blood, there is not much the region can do apart from putting carbon filters in the water system.

Donadello pleaded for years with local authorities to test PFAS contamination in her underground water, but because she lives in the designated "orange zone," she had no right to it. Her children were also not eligible to get their blood tested, despite living only a few miles aways from the high-risk area.

"We kept asking regional authorities to screen the blood of our children, but they always told us no," says Donadello. "I got my breakthrough in 2022, when a German TV crew came to do a story on PFAS contamination in Veneto." By agreeing to be in the documentary, Donadello and her family got tested. It transpired that both of her children have high PFAS concentrations in their blood.

By that point, Donadello and her husband had already decided to err on the side of caution and only water their farm with rainwater instead of water drawn from the well. "The authorities never said anything about the produce grown using that same water," says Donadello, as this could be an economic tragedy. "But, since we eat what we grow, we did not want to risk it."

A huge environmental disaster

Many people learned about the dangers of drinking water contaminated with PFAS forever chemicals through the 2019 film Dark Waters . The film, starring Mark Ruffalo and Anne Hathaway, is based on the true story of corporate defense lawyer Robert Bilott who takes on chemical giant DuPont in Parkersburg, West Virginia for illegally disposing PFAS waste in a landfill.

In 2017, Bilott won a $671 million settlement against DuPont through a class-action lawsuit a behalf of more than 3,500 plaintiffs. His fight paved the way for multiple settlements worth billions of dollars reached in 2023 against chemical giant 3M and PFAS manufacturers DuPont, Chemours and Cortev. Bilott has testified on behalf of the Italian moms, Mamme No PFAS , twice since the trial against Miteni SpA began in 2020.

The contaminated area in the Veneto region is three times the size of the Dark Waters affected area in Parkersburg, West Virginia, and it is impacting three times as many people. The contaminated aquifer in Veneto is the largest in Italy and the second largest in Europe.

Forging long-lasting friendships while fighting for justice

Italian moms across Veneto have been instrumental in documenting the devastating health effects of these chemicals on the lives of thousands of children and putting pressure on local authorities to hold Miteni SpA executives accountable. For six years, they have been on the frontlines of a herculean fight for health justice, demanding that regional public health authorities clean up their water system.

Michela Piccoli, a nurse from Lonigo and one of the co-founders of the Mamme No PFAS movement, lives in the "red zone" area. In February 2017, she agreed to have her then 15-year-old daughter Maria tested for PFAS in the blood.

"Imagine how I felt when I received a letter in the mailbox with the results of my daughter's blood tests. The level of PFAS in her blood was 11 times higher than the range considered normal. I was stunned and confused.

"The letter said not to worry, but I contacted other mom friends in the area, who had received equally alarming results, and we began to do our own research."

The Mamme No PFAS activists organize themselves via WhatsApp and Telegram. They contribute their time and resources through dedicated working groups and come from all walks of life. Interestingly, they have never formalized their movement by creating an association. It has grown organically and by word of mouth. Over the years they have realized that not having a single leader is one of their strengths.

Lives turned upside down. Zero tolerance for PFAS is the end goal

Cristina Guasti is one of three lawyers who represents the mothers in the civil case. She says the civil lawsuit seeks compensation for the lifestyle changes of the families impacted by PFAS forever chemicals contamination in the underground water system and for the psychological and emotional damages that the mothers have been subjected to over the years.

"When they found out that their children had PFAS circulating in the blood, everything changed. Their lives were turned upside down."

They have spent small fortunes buying bottled water for drinking, cooking and bathing, stopped irrigating their crops and hoped their children would follow their instruction to drink only bottled water when outside their homes.

"These moms bear the burden of knowing they passed this poison on to their children through pregnancy and continue to spend a huge amount of their personal time advocating for justice."

Guasti hopes that the civil case will be finalized by the end of this year (2024), but the Italian justice system is notoriously slow.

Meanwhile, regional authorities have yet to clean up the site where the Miteni SpA plant stands abandoned, leaking PFAS into the ground. This is the mothers' main ask, followed by the enforcement of responsible waste disposal by industry, independent research on newer PFAS substances, and an epidemiological study in Veneto on the effects of PFAS contamination on humans.

The University of Padova study also holds some promise because it shows that adding a charcoal-like substance known as on top of the soil can reduce the amount of chemicals that seep into crops. But, at the end of the day, what the mothers want is zero tolerance for PFAS in the environment, which is a demand echoed by other global activists.

Afterall, "water is at the core of everything," says Piccoli. "If you don't go to the root of the problem, eventually you will pay for it, and with a high interest rate."

All pictures by Stefano Schirato
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Beatrice M. Spadacini and Stefano Schirato

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PFAS 'Forever Chemicals' - and the Italian mothers fighting for health justice

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In northern Italy a campaign group of mums, Mamme No PFAs, is fighting against the "forever chemicals" that are poisoning their water supply and their children.

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“Women are being killed, we’re dead inside” Firoza Wahedi took an oath to protect women’s rights in Afghanistan. The Taliban takeover forced her to flee, but, starting a new life in Italy, she says no one will silence her voice.

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Firoza Wahedi took an oath to protect women’s rights in Afghanistan. The Taliban takeover forced her to flee, but, starting a new life in Italy, she says no one will silence her voice.

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Migration and asylum policy will be hotly debated during the UK and EU elections. But a team of researchers have found European citizens are less polarised on the subject than their politicians.

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We polled EU citizens on what they want asylum policy to look like – their answers may surprise you

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We polled EU citizens on what they want asylum policy to look like – their answers may surprise you

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At 15 years old, Mohammed Al Zaza suffered life-changing injuries when the Israeli army bombed his home in Gaza City. Now, 13 years later and from the other side of the world, he is once again watching bombs fall on Gaza and waiting for news from his family.  

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Surviving Israel’s bombs: A 13-year journey from Gaza

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Just a few years ago, Ecuador was a peaceful eco-tourism hotspot. Last year, it had the highest murder rate in Latin America. In this report from Guayaquil, Danny Wiser hears the stories of three Ecuadorians – a former prison worker, a firefighter and a retired teacher – and finds many of the country’s citizens want out.

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From Guayaquil to “Guaya Kill”? Examining Ecuador’s descent into drug violence

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From Guayaquil to “Guaya Kill”? Examining Ecuador’s descent into drug violence

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Just a few years ago, Ecuador was a peaceful eco-tourism hotspot. Last year, it had the highest murder rate in Latin America. In this report from Guayaquil, Danny Wiser hears the stories of three Ecuadorians - a former prison worker, a firefighter and a retired teacher - and finds many of the country's citizens want out.

"This is going to be a long war, it is an asymmetrical war... it is a war with people who speak like you, who look like you, who live more or less in your neighbourhood and who are much more difficult to identify," says TV and radio host Rodolfo Baquerizo Blum. "Therefore it is a very complicated war and with people who have no scruples about killing."

In the southern part of Guayaquil an 11-year-old boy, Joaquín, came back from a long day at school. In the September sunshine he went to buy himself and his elder sister, who has learning difficulties, two bottles of cola for $0.25. On his way to the shop Joaquín was gunned down with 37 bullets.

In the same part of the city in December an armed gang showed up at a house and shot dead four children between five months and seven years old; their intended target was the house next door.

Just two months before, across the Guayas River in Durán, some children went to look for their ball which had gone astray. They told their parents they noticed a bad smell. Next to the ball they discovered a woman whose body was wrapped in bed sheets, dismembered and decomposed - presumably tortured before being killed.

For much of the world, horror stories like these occur once in a blue moon. In Guayaquil, events like these have fast become part of the daily news cycle as in 2023 Ecuador was given the unwanted title of the Latin American country with the highest murder rate, overtaking Honduras and Venezuela along the way.

A councillor at the Municipality of Guayaquil, Alberto Cajamarca, tells me: "Right now we have normalised the killings, the beheadings in the prisons, the fact that there is a hitman on the corner of your street, the kidnappings, the bribes and the extortions."

With the majority of Ecuador's brutality concentrated in Guayaquil, the city endured yet another day of terror on 9 January as a series of horrifying incidents took place, including gunmen forcibly entering the TC Televisión studio taking journalists hostage during a live newscast, armed attacks in five of the city's hospitals, and the kidnapping of students at the University of Guayaquil.

Events both in Guayaquil and throughout the nation led President Daniel Noboa to call an 'internal armed conflict' against 22 narco-terrorist groups who have wreaked havoc across the whole country.

The gang network within Ecuador has expanded as a product of Ecuador's dollarised economy, as it was in the interest of foreign parties to pay Ecuadorian gangs for their services in cocaine paste and other drugs, as opposed to in dollars which would see organised crime groups faced with a crippling exchange rate.

This decision enabled a rapid expansion of the narcotics network internally within Ecuador, and the more the money they made, the more those groups were tied into violent activity.

Another key facet in Ecuador's rise in violence is a power vacuum that was created at the top of Ecuador's most powerful organised crime group, Los Choneros, after the assassination of its former leader Jorge Luis Zambrano in 2020.

As a result of this, numerous splinter groups like Los Lobos, Chone Killers and Los Tiguerones came about and have been wreaking havoc not only fighting the state, but fighting amongst each other.

Cevallos' Story

One factor behind Guayaquil's descent into chaos lies in the enabling and assistance of gang activity from the country's prison agency, SNAI (Servicio Nacional de Atención Integral a Privados de Libertad), widely accepted to be both an "inefficient" and "corrupt" organisation.

It is therefore no surprise that prison riots, as well as drugs and weapons smuggling have become commonplace at Guayaquil's 70-year-old Litoral Penitentiary.

A former SNAI employee, Elena Cevallos, who began work as an educational inspector at one of Guayaquil's four youth correctional facilities in 2022, described the prisons as "infected, rotten, damaged and corrupt".

"Even the police came there to have sexual and romantic relations with the adolescents. The truth is everything was allowed in that institution."

She recalls arriving to her shift and seeing that the police and her colleagues had got paralytically drunk with the young inmates but said that "obviously I could not report it for fear of my safety".

Cevallos acknowledged that in her centre the administrative staff gave mobile phones to the teenagers, who outside the prison had often been groomed by the gangs like Los Tiguerones to commit crimes, most commonly kidnappings, drug trafficking, extortion and even murder.

Prior to the events of 9 January, the Andean nation was clearly on the brink of becoming a narco-state, with violent crime and corruption infiltrating every level of society.

Just a few years ago Ecuador had one of the lowest crime rates in the region and was once an eco-tourism hotspot with visitors flying into Guayaquil to visit Isla de la Plata, dubbed 'the poor man's Galapagos'. Today the Ecuadorian metropolis is more often avoided at all costs by tourists, and colloquially known as 'Guaya Kill' amongst backpackers mapping their route across South America.

What was once a country of peace, attracting half a million Venezuelans, now has its own citizens wanting out.

"I would like to move, really, but my economic situation is not the best nor do I have a passport," the ex-SNAI employee says, "If in some moment I am given the opportunity to leave this country believe me, I would not think twice about it."

She continues: "Psychologically there is a tremendous effect in the surge of anxiety and depression that has increased in our society. Here in Ecuador, not only in Guayaquil, people no longer want to go out to the streets, people who have money want to sell their businesses and move to other countries due to the extreme lack of safety."

What caused Ecuador's descent into drug violence?

Some attribute the rise of gang power to the tenure of former President Rafael Correa who is currently in exile in Belgium.

Correa, who was fiercely opposed to foreign interference, removed the US navy base from the Western city of Manta which was serving as a control and deterrent against drug trafficking. Since then Guayaquil has become a major hub for trafficking cocaine in the region.

The crime figures under Correa's leadership were deceptively low, and many believe this is because Correa turned a blind-eye towards narco-related activity.

Correa granted legal status to gangs Latin Kings and Ñetas as part of a so-called 'pacification process' which many saw as a green flag given to foreign organised crime groups to operate freely in Ecuador.

Correa's soft-stance on the narco-gangs meant that

Ecuador seemed like fertile soil for Mexican cartels from Sinaloa and Jalisco to bring their business because they would go relatively unchecked. And Ecuador is geographically sandwiched between the two largest cocaine producing nations, Peru and Colombia. TV host Baquerizo Blum describes the border between Colombia and Ecuador as "more permeable than Gruyère cheese".

But many Correístas dispute the accusations that Ecuador's current problems have their roots in Correa's tenure as President, and instead pin the blame on the dismantling of the state by the subsequent administrations of Moreno, Lasso and are concerned by President Noboa's lack of experience.

Batista's Story

Like many residents of Ecuador's largest city Guayaquil, Jonathan Batista recalls joyous memories of years gone by, celebrating the annual carnival with loved ones and strangers alike.

With water balloons, flour and foam launched in the air to mark the festivities, carnival in Guayaquil was once a time of colour, dancing and parades.

Families and friends would often come together to have barbecues and cool down from the blistering heat in their inflatable pools that residents put out in the street for people to enjoy.

In recent years carnival has become a more low-key affair in Guayaquil, with restrictions forcing people to either go to the coast or mountains to celebrate or to stay at home, as gathering in big crowds is unwise given the current situation in the city.

Beginning his work in the adjacent town of Samborondón 18 years ago, before joining the Guayaquil Fire Department, Batista has seen his beloved city undergo a "drastic change".

The 35-year-old claims that his decision to join the voluntary fire service was something that came from his "blood" as his mother was a firefighter and so too was his maternal grandfather.

"Wanting to help without receiving anything in exchange was what they instilled in me," says Batista who follows a great and honourable family tradition.

Though Guayaquileños (or 'monos' as those from the coastal region of the country are colloquially known) never claim Guayaquil to be the most beautiful place in the world, nor even in Ecuador for that matter, the Andean metropolis is famed for the hospitality of its people.

Once upon a time, a stranger would immediately become a ñaño/ñaña (a popular slang word in Guayaquil, derived from the Quechua for brother/sister) by simply being sat on the same table in a market as they tuck into the city's varied cuisine.

Yet Batista's love of the city has been tested in recent years as his profession has seen him become a high-risk target for the gangs who have infiltrated and attacked every institution within the country.

Those who work with civilian protection services like the fire brigade, the Red Cross and the police have become military targets in the eyes of organised crime groups, such as Los Choneros and Los Lobos, that terrorise the city's streets.

One member of Batista's brigade was robbed five times last year alone. Like almost every Guayaquileño, the volunteer fire station commander has also been a victim of the city's increasing crime epidemic on a handful of occasions in the past few years.

Though he is brave enough to take on fires, Bastista is not immune from the perils of gang crime, and since 2019 he has been the victim of several attempted kidnappings.

The most recent incident last year saw 18 bullets fired into the tyres of his car where he was hiding close to his home.

Batista used his military training to navigate the kidnap attempt, protecting not only himself but his children and his mother who were inside his home nearby.

The father-of-three reclined his car seat, and managed the situation practically blind by carefully guiding himself with the live footage from the security video camera he installed into his rear view mirror. Instead of going directly back into his house after averting the danger, Batista drove on his flat tyres to the Citizen Police Unit to ensure that no gangsters would follow him directly into his house after the attack.

"What I thought about after this, once I got over the adrenaline, is what would have happened if I didn't cover myself?

"If I didn't react, if these gentlemen had kidnapped me, what would have happened to my children?

"You know that there can be consequences, you can get hurt and you can end up in the morgue," he continues, "every action has a reaction; if you don't react, you're a dead man."

Though seatbelts are rarely used as a safety measure in the Chevrolets that dominate Guayaquil's busy streets, in recent years most people have taken a leaf out of Batista's book, employing security systems in their vehicles to protect themselves, as drive-by shootings, car bombings and armed robberies have become commonplace.

Many armorize their car doors with extra material and have installed tinted windows so that the passengers and driver cannot be seen from the outside; nowadays it is accepted that lowering one's car window, even in the blistering Guayaquil heat for fresh air, can be a death sentence.

In the same way that many Ecuadoreans have to implement various precautionary measures in their everyday life, firefighters have also had to make adjustments to their work in light of the increasing risk of narcoterrorism.

Hiding their names and covering their faces for fear of retribution is considered a normal safeguarding action for firefighters these days, and given the recent trend of emergency service workers specifically being targeted by gangs, they are even forced to use unregulated equipment such as bulletproof vests as part of their uniform, weighing them down further whilst tasked with responding to a blaze in an already heavy suit.

In light of the regularity with which gang bombings occur in the city, the Guayaquil Fire Academy has been training 300 of its firefighters on how to respond to emergencies when explosives are involved.

Batista explained that dealing with explosions is not always plain sailing as often when they arrive at the scene of a car bombing, an armed gang will be waiting for them.

He said: "Nowadays when we arrive at the site of an explosion, the gunmen are there and order us to 'let it burn or we will kill you'."

Aside from having to respond to regular gang bombings - with Batista citing a particular night of simultaneous explosions in the Alborada neighbourhood as a "disaster" - the fire service also receives plenty of calls with invented emergencies to lure them in.

Batista recounts an incident in which the fire service received a fake emergency call from an armed gang. Upon arrival the young gangsters instructed the firefighters to exit their truck and film them inside. Due to their threats, the firefighters complied and recorded the gang members dancing inside the fire truck, taunting the audience.

This video later circulated on social media, leading to attacks on the firefighters who were portrayed as accomplices of the criminals.

Gang crime in Guayaquil reached new heights on 9 January. Batista was in a meeting with the fire department authority in the afternoon when news broke of the terrorist attack during the live broadcast.

From the fire department building between Guayaquil's main street 9 de Octubre and Avenida de Chile, gun shots could be heard being fired coming from the intersect between the aforementioned Avenida de Chile and Calle Escobedo.

Batista and his team began to guide people on the street, explaining where to go to avoid the gunfire. With streets closed, public transport at a standstill and no taxis available, Batista was stuck in traffic for 3.5 hours in a journey that would usually take 20 minutes from the city centre to his home in Mucho Lote.

As Guayaquil reached a sweltering 39°C, people risked heatstroke, sitting for hours in their crowded vehicles too afraid to lower their windows for fear of further terror attacks.

The pandemonium unfolding on the roads saw cars crashing into people's wing mirrors as they desperately struggled to reach safety.

Comparing the chaos of Guayaquil that day to that of Gotham City, Batista explained that as a calm-natured individual for him the hardest aspect of the day was the communication issues that were unfolding as he attempted to contact his family.

Guayaquileños were panicking as they tried to reach their loved ones for a life signal but they couldn't because the telephone lines had collapsed and so too had the internet due to too many people simultaneously accessing the network.

ZAPOTE'S STORY

Walking around Guayaquil, one will often find young children roaming the streets selling sweets. Though one's heart will break seeing kids as young as four approaching asking for money, it is a well-known trap set up by the narco-groups to rob or assault those willing to take out their wallet to spare some change.

The infiltration of youngsters into the gangs' activities is a relatively recent phenomena according to a retired deputy headteacher of a state school in the northern part of Guayaquil.

Having taught in the school for 40 years, Carmen Zapote says that in recent times children aged 11 are regularly being caught with drugs by sniffer dogs that the police have brought to the school, finding narcotics hidden in their underwear.

"When I started at the school there were no drugs at all. The most you could find would be a boy who went to the bathroom to smoke cannabis. Then came an era in which we were inundated.

"A group of 7th grade students contaminated the entire school - we are talking about children who just finished primary school!"

The eruption of drugs and violence in the school, led the Spanish literature teacher to retire early. With inspections of rucksacks every morning in her former school, teaching hours were lost to this long and arduous process.

That said, Zapote recognises it is a necessary security measure as they once found a boy with a pistol in his bag. The 68-year-old's biggest concern is extortions.

Having been a victim of this herself, forced to change her phone number as a consequence, she is pained to see businesses providing a salary to the "savages", due to their regular threats of bombings or killings.

"The money they steal, through murder and through extortion, is money that is drenched with blood.

"They squander that money which belonged to the children and families who have nothing to eat in a place where work is scarce, and when there is work it is low paid." She exclaims:

"There are people in Guayaquil who live on just $1 [a day]!"

Most businesses and services remain closed; even if they are losing money from being shut, when open they run an arguably higher risk of losing more money through extortion.

As a state of emergency has been declared across the country, with a nightly curfew enacted for the nation's armed forces to carry out its operations as part of President Noboa's iron-fist approach to rooting out narco-terrorism, people are terrified to leave their homes even during the day.

Zapote says: "Before, one would go out and eat quietly sitting down, you can't do that anymore. All those things have been lost from our Ecuador. The ease of being able to go outside has gone because you don't know if the person next to you is a criminal or if a bullet will hit you."

Like most Guayaquileños, Zapote dreams of being able to go back out to the market to eat her beloved encebollado (a fish and cassava stew) for breakfast without being 'on high-alert'.

She says: "Now there is a psychosis, there is a fear, a suspicion. You can't have your door open; it must be locked. There are often shootings. Children can't be outside."

Zapote and people from her generation are distraught seeing how crime has taken over what was once a stable nation.

On 9 January, together with her 88-year-old mother, she watched the live broadcast on TC Televisión as armed men waged yet another act of terror. Just like every time she watches the news, Zapote's "anguished" mother had tears rolling down her face.

"She saw how her beautiful land, country and city is being destroyed. She sees how children are dying."

Zapote adds: "We just long for our country to return to previous times when everything was peaceful."

Main image by VV Nincic via Flickr.
Read More:

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From Guayaquil to "Guaya Kill"? Examining Ecuador's descent into drug violence

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Ecuador, once a peaceful eco-tourism hotspot, last year had the highest murder rate in Latin America. In this report from Guayaquil, Danny Wiser hears the stories of three Ecuadorians - a former prison worker, a firefighter and a retired teacher - and finds many of the country's citizens want out.

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The surf season in Morocco lasts from October to March. This year, Nour Ghantous spent those months on the south coast, travelling through three of Morocco’s most up-and-coming surf towns: Imsouane, Tamraght, and Taghazout, where tourists are drawn from around the globe. But beneath this wave of popularity lies a quieter, more troubling undertow – the gradual erosion of Amazigh heritage.

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Between the Surf and the System: Morocco’s tourism boom brings a quiet erasure of Amazigh heritage  

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Between the Surf and the System: Morocco’s tourism boom brings a quiet erasure of Amazigh heritage  

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The surf season in Morocco lasts from October to March. This year, Nour Ghantous spent those months on the south coast, travelling through three of Morocco's most up-and-coming surf towns: Imsouane, Tamraght, and Taghazout, where tourists are drawn from around the globe. But beneath this wave of popularity lies a quieter, more troubling undertow - the gradual erosion of Amazigh heritage.

Besides a promise of cheap tagine, consistently cheery weather and clean waves, I came to Morocco because I hoped I could practise my Arabic and become accustomed to a culture not dissimilar to my own Lebanese.

I quickly realised how naive that sentiment had been. To start, Moroccan "Arabic" is much more than just Arabic; it's "Darija," an amalgamation of Arabic, which was brought to the country via Arab crusaders after the fall of the Roman Empire, and Tamazight, an entirely different vernacular that belongs to the Amazigh - formerly known as Berber - indigenous people of Morocco, who long predated the Arabs. Tamazight is a language so distinct that it even has its own alphabet.

Nevertheless, I noticed the two languages twist effortlessly together between locals while my broken Lebanese dialect and I resigned to sitting in southern Morocco's third group: the expats.

Much like Darija, Amazighs and Arabs initially seem one and the same in Morocco. It is most often the tourists and digital nomads that stand out, with their vegan diets and tendency to party during Ramadan.

I only realised that there might be some cultural differences between Amazigh and Arabic Moroccans when I stopped considering myself a tourist and moved from my hostel in Taghazout to a residential apartment in the much less touristic Tamraght.

It had been a sweltering night, and having woken before sunrise, I was in no particular mood for conversation. My Amazigh taxi driver didn't seem to notice as we started the five-minute uphill drive to the new apartment.

"Did you hear about the government's destruction of Imsouane?" He offered into the silence. "Yes, I was there. It's such a shame," I responded.

"No, it is not!" He boomed back. "Those people had it coming - they had no permission to build where they built. They were making money practically for free!" His sudden defensiveness snapped me upright.

The houses destroyed by government bulldozers in Imsouane were both Amazigh and Arab. But instead of unifying the communities, the adversity seemed to have driven a wedge between them.

"It's really very simple," he said, calmer now. "The Arabs know no bounds when it comes to money. They'll screw you for all your worth," he explained.

Until that moment, I had noticed locals were using the words "Amazigh" and "Arab" interchangeably. But a sense of mutual blame between the communities for Morocco's socio-economic problems was starting to show.

Confused, I asked what he meant, but we had already reached the new place. Pulling up to the top of the hill, he grabbed my bag from his boot, smiled, and said, "One hundred dirhams," a number I knew to be at least double the ride's worth.

During my time in Tamraght, I noticed many more micro-aggressions between those who identified as Arab and those who identified as Amazigh, and typically when somebody criticised Morocco's government or monarchy. It seemed always to be either the Arabs' or Amazigh's fault and never the fault of the institution.

Morocco is called in Arabic, meaning sunset. After just one night spent on the West-facing coast, it isn't difficult to understand why the country is called as such. Most evenings are a splendour: late in the day, around half-seven, the sun and its purples, pinks and pale yellows slip behind the ocean. But the real show starts afterwards; once the sun entirely disappears, the sky erupts in brilliant reds and oranges like I've never seen elsewhere.

The natural spectacle provides a poignant backdrop to one of Islam's five daily prayers, also entitled Al Maghreb. It marks the end of the day and takes on added significance during Ramadan as families gather to break their fast in harmony. With such a divine backdrop as Morocco's sunset, there is a genuine sense of community as families and friends gather to share food during the darkening hours.

This year, the sacred hour was overshadowed by tragedy in Imsouane and other small coastal towns in Morocco's South. A month before Ramadan, government officials, backed by bulldozers and militia, descended on these communities with barely a day's notice, intending to demolish large sections to pave the way for a luxury resort development by a government-supported facility.

The community in Imsouane is as small as it is close-knit; with a population of less than 10,000, one can easily walk the length of it in under 15 minutes. The town had its origins as a fishing village, but after the discovery of a wave that offered one of the longest rides on the continent, it soon became a popular spot for surfers.

Once old fishing stalls, the motley shacks that protruded over the stunning bay were repurposed into surfboard rental shops and cafes and became a must-see for visitors. While this brought Imsouane to the map, the appeal of the town's newly burgeoning economy also spelt the town's doom under the guise of development.

In addition to Imsouane's burgeoning economy thanks to the graft of its locals, The Moroccan government is gearing up to entice football fans to nearby villages when it hosts part of the 2030 World Cup in the southern city of Agadir. Part of this plan is to build luxury "Tourist Units" along coastal towns that show promise, regardless of any heritage that existed before.

The move reflects the broader narrative faced by Morocco's Amazigh, who have seen their lands systematically taken under laws that prioritise dispossession and state control. These policies have not only led to the loss of communal lands but have also threatened the cultural and social fabric of indigenous communities across Morocco, making obvious the disconnect between the country's international commitments to indigenous rights and their implementation.

I met Azeroual Siham on the first day of the demolitions. The government warned residents and businesses along Imsouane's bay and coast to take their valuables and leave just 24 hours before.

Siham was leading a group of locals and expats protesting the destruction. She is a political activist and member of " Moroccan Douars ," an organisation aiding in developing Douars - indigenous Moroccan communities that typically consist of a group of huts encircling an open space.

That day, business owners stood atop their stores with pickaxes, tearing down their own livelihoods to salvage some wood, and truckloads of people and building materials fled out of the city as bulldozers and army personnel flooded in. I saw many more of Imsouane's residents fleeing than protesting.

"I wanted to fight alongside these people, but they scattered," Siham tells me. "And the rest of Morocco is not willing to wake up and speak up. We are facing a giant octopus. We tried raising awareness, and we tried legal action, but we needed the masses to step in."

Why is there a lack of motivation to fight back? I ask her.

"Because [the victims] forgot who they are, they forgot that Amazigh means 'the free people of the free land'. Because of persecution; Because [the government] hammered in their brain that they have no rights, the country can take whatever since [the Amazigh] have no papers."

But why don't the Amazigh have papers? Doesn't the Moroccan government provide these?

"According to the government, Amazigh people do not have the right to ownership, mostly." Siham says.

The Dahir law of August 12, 1913, initiated the process of formal land registration, a move that - according to UNOCHA - often disenfranchised the Amazigh by imposing French legal concepts of land ownership, which were alien to the traditional Amazigh communal land tenure systems.

Another law came a decade later - the February 18, 1924 decree, specifically regulating collective lands. This law fundamentally alters traditional Amazigh communal ownership by introducing state oversight and control over these territories.

In 2019, legal reforms were introduced to modernise the governance of communal lands. These reforms focused on the administrative supervision of tribal Soulaliyate communities and the management of their assets, further increasing state control and restricting the traditional rights and autonomy of Amazigh communities over their lands.

On the day I met Siham, some of the stalls bulldozed were technically illegal, but the government was aware of their existence beforehand. And it was the economic successes brought by those same surf shops and rentals that had attracted the developers to the site looking for a slice of the pie.

The ancient troglodyte houses were stone buildings carved into the cliffs overlooking Imsouane's beach, a landmark of Imsouane's essence. The rumour that day was that these so-called illegal buildings existed long before the Moroccan law requiring planning permission had come about.

Siham says the troglodyte houses were built by indigenous Amazigh people before the need for planning permission, but there are reasons these dwellings are difficult to date.

"[Records] might say the 1970s," she says, "but when it comes to indigenous people, [Amazigh] history is deeply hidden, with no records and no proof that it was there hundreds of years ago. Our history was mostly written by Arabs or Europeans. Historians are [still] trying to rewrite history and correct all the lies we've been told about the history of this country."

In conversations with locals, both Amazigh and Arab, some defended Morocco's government and king very strongly. Remembering my taxi driver in Tamraght, I asked Siham why she thought this was. Are Morocco's education system and society influenced by propaganda?

"Yes". She said. "[It's because of] education and brainwashing."

"[Some] Moroccans have so many double standards. They are ready to defend Palestine but leave the Atlas earthquake survivors to die in the cold . They are ready to fight the government for some dogs they have never met but will abandon their people, who fight for their homes and their lives.

"Our country is falling apart," she adds, "yet Moroccans [dare] to say: 'Our government is a criminal zionist because of Palestine', but they can't say they are criminals because they sucked Morocco out of its resources and are selling every part of it. By the time we wake up [to these atrocities], our country will be gone."

Morocco has not adopted the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples , which obliges governments to protect indigenous peoples' rights and, importantly, consult with them on projects that may affect them. The Government has also not ratified The International Labour Organisation's (ILO) Convention 169, which obliges governments to ensure involvement in decision-making, protection of land ownership, cultural preservation, access to education and employment and protection from discrimination for indigenous people. Demolitions are ongoing, and Siham tells me the next to come are at the caves of Aglou.

As the sun sets on Imsouane and on the heritage of many of Morocco's small towns, casting brilliant reds and oranges across the sky, the resilience of young people emerges stark against the encroaching darkness.

Their lingering light is a testament to the enduring spirit and solidarity of a town united in adversity. The future of Morocco's heritage, particularly that of the Amazigh, hangs in a delicate balance, asking how progress and preservation might coexist.

Featured image by Natalia Łączyńska via Unsplash
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Between the Surf and the System: Morocco's tourism boom brings a quiet erasure of Amazigh heritage

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Nour Ghantous travelled through three of Morocco's most up-and-coming surf towns where tourists are drawn from around the globe. But beneath this wave of popularity lies a quieter, more troubling undertow - the gradual erosion of Amazigh heritage.

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In Somaliland, conflict and climate change are causing scores to flee home as “internally displaced peoples” (IDPs).

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Somaliland IDPs: “We only have safety from war; we’re not safe from malnutrition or starvation”

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Somaliland IDPs: “We only have safety from war; we’re not safe from malnutrition or starvation”

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Somaliland IDPs: “We only have safety from war; we’re not safe from malnutrition or starvation” - Lacuna Magazine

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In Somaliland, conflict and climate change are causing scores to flee home as “internally displaced peoples” (IDPs). But in a self-proclaimed independent country unrecognised by foreign powers, the distinction between “IDP” and “refugee” becomes less clear. The Sheikh Omar settlement, outside the capital Hargeisa, is one of many housing a growing number of IDPs fleeing to urban centres and facing unique challenges.

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Los 43 de Ayotzinapa: Parents fight for truth 10 years after their children disappeared

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Los 43 de Ayotzinapa: Parents fight for truth 10 years after their children disappeared

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Los 43 de Ayotzinapa: Parents’ 10-year fight for truth

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Ten years have passed since 43 students from Ayotzinapa, Mexico – Los 43 - were detained and disappeared in one of the country’s most infamous human rights cases. On the tenth anniversary, as Mexico’s first female president is about to take office, Paula Gonzalez Gavilanes revisits the case while parents continue their protest.

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As Lebanon’s economy collapses, Syrian refugees are making easy scapegoats

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As Lebanon’s economy collapses, Syrian refugees are making easy scapegoats

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Lebanon's anti-corruption protests which began as unifying, secular and a combined call for political change are now in danger of descending into sectarianism.

In Tripoli, Nazir Shah watches as Lebanon's northernmost city crumbles around him. Gripped by crisis since October, a serious economic downturn, compounded by COVID-19, is hitting Lebanon's most vulnerable citizens hard. As the NGO he works for, SEED, delivers bread baskets to the poorest, Nazir is well aware of this.

"A food basket used to be 50 Lebanese pounds" he says. "Now it's more like 120."

The Lebanese pound has lost 75% of its value since October, decimating wages and savings, and causing a huge rise in the price of basic necessities. Food prices have risen by up to 67%, and with unemployment surging, huge numbers of people are in urgent need of aid. In a latest blow to the stricken economy, Nabih Berri, Speaker of the Parliament of Lebanon, said that the country will not receive any money from the International Monetary Fund (IMF) unless it carries out domestic economic reforms.

Last October, anti-corruption protests from across Lebanon's sectarian divides forced Prime Minister Saad Hariri to resign. But as the currency continues to collapse, with all the problems this creates, protestors have returned to the streets in recent months. In major cities such as Beirut and Tripoli, banks have been smashed and set on fire, and clashes between protestors and security forces have ensued. Yet protests that were originally popular and unifying are now in danger of dissolving into sectarianism.

Syria Street runs through Tripoli, dividing the Sunni Muslim neighbourhood of Bab al-Tabbaneh from the Alawite Muslim residents of Jabal Mohsen. Buildings on each side of the road are pockmarked with bullet holes, their torn facades bearing the scars of years of fighting between the two neighbourhoods.
Read more: A century of war and peace in Lebanon
After the last suicide bombings in 2015, and a major deployment of the Lebanese military, the two communities have experienced an uneasy peace. Yet, as resources get ever scarcer, Omar Assaf fears that this could change.

Omar runs Shift, a social innovation hub that works with the two communities, and he worries that the conflict could reignite. "I'm afraid," he says, "this has happened before."

While October's protests served to unite Lebanon's various factions, the current economic and health crisis is causing serious rifts - and the finger of blame is being pointed at Syrian refugees.

"According to UNCHR, one in three people in Tripoli is a Syrian," says Omar, over the phone. "The Syrian refugees took most of the Lebanese jobs... they were cheaper, and they could offer prices better than the Lebanese." To Omar, this is a key cause of the current crisis.

"The city gets poorer and poorer," he says. "Now, 50% of the city is under the poverty line."

Yet refugees are among the poorest in society. More than 1.5 million Syrians, displaced by the conflict, live crammed in camps with nowhere to go. Not only does COVID-19 threaten a health crisis that would quickly overwhelm what little medical infrastructure is available to refugees in Lebanon, the economic crisis threatens them with starvation.

Despite this, Lebanon's political class is jumping on the opportunity to shift blame for the crisis from themselves onto Syrians. Muhammed Abdullah of the Access Centre for Human Rights (ACHR), a Beirut-based NGO working with Syrian refugees, said: "Many politicians provoked the Lebanese community by mentioning the aid received by refugees, while a large percentage of Lebanese suffer from very hard living conditions."

Politicians such as Gebran Bassil, Minister of Foreign Affairs until January, regularly employ anti-refugee rhetoric, both in public and online, to ramp up domestic support. In this current crisis, such rhetoric is having very real, damaging effects.

From April to May, as Lebanon began to emerge from COVID-19 lockdowns, ACHR recorded numerous incidents of abuse against Syrians. One case reports that a refugee, unable to pay rent, was banned "from entering the village which he had been living in for eight years. The landlord did not allow him to take his belongings from the house". In several cases, the organisation reports that refugees have been arbitrarily arrested and beaten by police.
Listen: "My name is Kotaiba. I am from Syria"
In Baalbek district, near the Syrian border, they allege that a refugee was "heading to his place of residence" when he was "banned from entering the town and beaten by the municipal police. He then returned to the checkpoint with his brother to inquire about the incident, but were insulted and beaten again by the police." In another incident, it is alleged that "Lebanese army intelligence and the municipal police carried out a raid on a Syrian refugee camp in Qob Elias, during which three refugees were severely beaten and mistreated." Such incidents, says a spokesperson for the organisation, are the result of "an increase in discriminatory and racist practices in some areas.

As Lebanon emerges from its coronavirus lockdown, protestors are returning to the streets. But amid financial and health crisis, bitter tribalism threatens to undermine any progressive political change. In Tripoli, one refugee describes this period as the "scariest moment" she has experienced in the three years since she left Syria. "Like everybody else here, we have no work, we are struggling to eat," she said. "People treat us as if this is our fault, but it's not."

She adds: "It's not everyone at the moment, it's a minority - but the minority is getting louder."

Main photo by Dominic Chavez for the World Bank.
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Beatrice M. Spadacini and Stefano Schirato

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As Lebanon's economy collapses, Syrian refugees are making easy scapegoats

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Lebanon's anti-corruption protests which began as unifying, secular, and a combined call for political change are now in danger of descending into sectarianism.

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How ethical is your Rainforest Alliance tea?

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How ethical is your Rainforest Alliance tea?

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When we buy Rainforest Alliance tea what impact are we really having? Dr Marie Pillon travels to Tanzania to speak with tea pickers for one of the world's largest multinational companies, Unilever, who earn less than the living wage. She discovers that while some lives are transformed by the certification, many workers are still not paid a living wage and struggling for clean water.

Dr Pillon carried out extensive research in Tanzania for her PhD in law, focussed on business and international human rights law. She conducted over 150 interviews and used a sample of them in writing this story to convey her findings.

What difference does choosing a certified product make to people on the other side of the world? Every time I see the green frog of the Rainforest Alliance, I wonder, with a balance of hope and cynicism: does it really have an impact? So, I'm travelling to central Tanzania to visit Unilever's certified tea plantation, which supplies the firm's leading tea brand Lipton, to find out what effect a famous label like the Rainforest Alliance can have.

On the 10-hour coach journey from Dar es Salaam, on the Tanzanian coast, to Mufindi, at the heart of the country, I feel the temperature drop as we climb 6,700 feet above sea level. The fact that Mufindi is 10°C cooler makes the region ideal for cultivating tea - and, as I arrive in Mafinga, the largest town in Mufindi, the importance of the tea industry becomes obvious. The factory of Chai Bora, one of the most famous Tanzanian tea brands, sits right in the centre of town, and tea plantations extend all around us. An hour's drive through woods and cultivated fields brings my translator Zaina and me to our final destination: Unilever's plantation.

The firm's estates span thousands of hectares and the opportunity to work for tea companies has been pulling people to Mufindi for decades. As a result, around 6,000 employees work here in Unilever's plantations and factory in the high season. The multinational achieved Rainforest Alliance certification for its tea operations in Mufindi in 2012.

To accommodate workers and their families, 2,000 homes have been built onsite, and many of the villages in the area are populated by tea workers and their relatives. So when I walk around local communities it's easy to find workers, and people are happy to talk when I explain I'm interested in hearing about their life in and outside of work.

We meet Odita* in her house, with her grandmother watching us from the corner of a bright and sparsely furnished room. Odita has been working in Unilever's tea estates for three years. She spends nine months of each year in the plantations, picking tea leaves with her bare hands and throwing them into the hefty basket on her back. The leaves will later be checked for quality (insufficient quality means no pay) and weighed.

As Odita is paid per kilo, she picks as much as she can every day, leaving her hands, back, and chest in pain. Once her 10-hour work day (including a break for lunch) in the plantations is over, she goes to tend to her farm. Although she works six days a week, farming on the side is necessary to survive and support her family.

Odita recalls having to buy her own boots, apron, and basket as the company no longer provides protective equipment for free to seasonal workers (but this is disputed by Unilever below). At the end of our conversation, she looks weary and admits that, because of the difficult working conditions and poor pay, she would like to leave tea work if she could find another source of income. As we say our goodbyes, I wonder if Odita's story is reflected in the Rainforest Alliance logo on the boxes of tea she has picked, and whether the certification is adequately fulfilling its mission.

It is true that Unilever pays its workers higher than the minimum wage set by the Tanzanian government and has been engaging with workers' representatives on this issue. The firm also provides its workers with benefits such as free medical care, education and housing, which the company says should count towards living wage calculations. But it is not enough, as tea workers like Odita struggle to make ends meet. The Rainforest Alliance only encourages firms to pay a living wage ( estimated to be around £100-a-month for a single adult with no children, almost twice Odita's pay), but this encouragement does not seem to be pressing enough to move the businesses to take action. Unilever says the cash earnings can be less than the living wage because the living wage includes not just cash earnings but benefits (such as free medical care, education and housing).

An important problem with Rainforest Alliance certification is that even the highest tier of requirements does not require firms to necessarily pay their workers a living wage. Because the Rainforest Alliance operates a 'pick and choose' system, as long as firms fulfil at least 50% of these highest requirements, they will achieve or retain certification.

We meet Titusi* in the nearby town of Kibao. Resting in the shade on the side of the main road, he explains that he is a permanent employee on the tea plantations and he lives onsite in one of the houses provided by the company. Titusi acknowledges that housing is offered to workers for free and that drinking water is available onsite (which is a considerable advantage in the region), but he says living conditions are poor. He and his family live and sleep all in one room, with only a curtain separating the kitchen and bedroom spaces. There is no running water (although this is the norm in the Mufindi region), or electricity. Such conditions are standard across Unilever's estates, except for a few houses near the factory with access to electricity. Another exception are management houses, as I discover a few days later. As we drive past the management homes I notice the size of the houses and the finely kept private gardens, in contrast to the small houses for workers. Because many workers, like Titusi, are unhappy with the living conditions onsite, some (such as Odita) have decided to find accommodation in the neighbouring villages instead.

Leaving Titusi's home, we go on to meet Faraya* in her house, sitting atop a hill, overlooking neighbouring aluminium roofs. Faraya is a permanent plantation worker who has been working for Unilever for over five years. She enthusiastically invites us into her darkly lit home and offers us a cup of local tea.

As we sip the hot drink, Faraya explains that, when she needed surgery a few years ago, Unilever sent her to the private hospital onsite and allowed her to recover there for a few weeks, all for free. She stresses what a great benefit to workers (and their families) this is: free health care onsite, delivered at health centres located in each estate and its central hospital equipped with an operating theatre and a maternity ward.

In the context of Mufindi's crowded public hospitals and general poor access to medication, free healthcare is a precious social benefit offered to workers. This suggests that the Rainforest Alliance - which requires that firms provide free healthcare to workers - is doing something right. This benefit can genuinely make a difference (sometimes between life or death) to the lives of employees. And that's especially true for workers in regions with limited access to health services.

Before heading back to Mafinga, I walk back through Titusi's town of Kibao, on the edge of Unilever's tea estates where I notice piles of opaque plastic containers. After asking members of the community, I learn that they are water bottles, here to be sold to villagers. Trying to understand why this is necessary, I am told that access to water is one of the biggest problems in Mufindi. In Kibao, only two wells are available for a population of 5,000, and the water is not always safe to drink. Those who cannot afford bottled water have to take their chances by drinking from the wells or from the local streams. A few villagers complain to me that they have been asking Unilever for help with this, but that they have received no response from the company.

I leave Mufindi feeling ambivalent about the benefits of a certified tea operation. On the one hand, Unilever offers pay and benefits (as required by the Rainforest Alliance) which are higher than Tanzania's legal requirements. In particular, the firm's provision of free healthcare has a tremendously positive impact on workers and their families in a context of limited social services. On the other hand, the Rainforest Alliance does not require the payment of a living wage, and has not compelled the firm to help the community with their poor access to water. It's clear that despite Unilever's efforts and the positive influence of Rainforest Alliance, crucial gaps remain. This is especially concerning when these gaps exist under a multinational with an annual turnover of over £46 billion (€52 billion) - one of the companies with the most resources on the planet. If Unilever can't provide a living wage and access to water, what chance is there for smaller firms without Unilever's resources?

Returning home from Tanzania, I browse the tea section of my local supermarket back in Coventry, England, and notice how many boxes bear the Rainforest Alliance logo. It brings back memories of the colourful tea plantations of Mufindi, and I feel like I understand a little bit better what it means to buy a certified tea brand. Working and living conditions for tea workers and their families may be better (and sometimes by a long way), but it is still no guarantee that their labour will provide them with fair pay and a decent standard of living. These symbols may help to assuage guilt in the supermarket shopper filling their basket, but there is still a long way to go before they can be seen as a sign of truly ethical consumerism.
Unilever's UK press office provided the following response: "Our policy is to provide all workers, temporary or permanent, with free PPE [personal protective equipment], aprons and baskets. We've asked management to check immediately that all the estates are complying with this policy."Worker's earnings vary as tea plucking is a piece rate job so we can't comment on an individual case. But the rate for temporary and permanent workers is the same and we negotiate plucking targets for different seasons to ensure wages for day's work remain in line with the Collective Bargaining Agreement rates. The living wage includes both cash earnings plus benefits, such as free medical care, education and housing. This means the cash portion can be in line with the CBA and above the minimum wage but less in cash terms than the living wage rate." The Rainforest Alliance responded: "Our aim is to help certified farmers and supply chain actors discover and bridge the gap between prevailing wages and living wages of agricultural workers. In our 2020 Certification Program - which will be rolled out starting mid 2021 - we are going further to achieve living wages for agricultural workers through the introduction of several innovations that allow farmers to assess the gap to a living wage and measure progress. We're also promoting a shared responsibility approach that encourages companies to do their part as well." *Names have been changed. It's not OK if any are not. That is not the policy and we'll correct things. Read more: Many workers like gumboots, which are popular with farmers but not required PPE. We therefore offer a credit arrangement with a local supplier they can buy on credit at a better price if they wish.
The company did not address the lack of response to the villagers who have been asking for help to access clean drinking water but added: "We have extensive community programmes working with local farmers, including our outgrower schemes around Mufindi and Njombe," citing the following examples:

All images in this story were taken by CIFOR (The Center for International Forestry Research) who work with tea pickers in Tanzania. CIFOR is a nonprofit global organisation dedicated to advancing human wellbeing enivoronmental conservation and equity. Find out more here.

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How ethical is your Rainforest Alliance tea? - Lacuna Magazine

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From more than 150 interviews with tea pickers in Tanzania our writer discovers a life-changing benefit of Rainforest Alliance certification but also finds many workers are still not paid a living wage and struggling for clean water.

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In eastern India's Jharkhand state , photojournalist Stefano Schirato brings these striking images from Jharia, the country's largest coalfield, where fires rage beneath the ground and unregulated mining puts lives at risk.

India is currently the world's third largest energy consumer, behind China and the US, (although its per person energy use is far lower on the world league table, with World Bank figures suggesting the average energy footprint in India is less than a third of that in China - which is still less than the average in the UK, which in turn is less than half that in the US).

Somewhere between 55% and 70% of the country's domestic energy needs are fuelled by coal, with a significant proportion of that coming from the Jharia coal mines in eastern India's Jharkhand state.

Here in an area of 270km2, underground fires have been burning for more than a century beneath India's largest coalfield, but in recent decades open-cast mining has brought the flames to the surface with devastating consequences for the local population.

In 1973 the newly nationalised Bharat Coking Coal Ltd (BCCL), a subsidiary of state-owned Coal India Ltd, started large-scale open cast mining as a more rapid and cost-effective method of extraction. But only up to a fifth of the people living in this area are employed by coal companies.

As a consequence, alongside the official BCCL coal trade, an unregulated mining trade has boomed (which is illegal in India because mineral resources under the ground belong to the state).

In the early morning, rows of women in brightly coloured traditional dress, with no protective gear, walk from their houses to the mines. They return after a few hours, carrying baskets full of coal on top of their heads.

A common sight along the highways and smaller roads are bicycles loaded with sacks of illegally gathered coal, pushed by "coal cycle-wallahs". Each bike carries a quarter-ton of coal, with the wallahs sometimes pushing them further than 40 miles from the mines.

Due to a century of underground mining, Jharia is now peppered with galleries and tunnels full of small pieces of coal that easily catch fire and make the ground unstable, causing subsistence and putting lives at risk.

Many of the homes here have cracked and crumbling walls caused by the fires below.

Thousands of people in Jharia are affected by serious diseases and respiratory problems such as tuberculosis, wheezing, asbestosis and lung disease. On average, the life expectancy of people living near the Jharia coalfields is reduced by at least a decade, said Om Prakash Agarwal, founder of Life Line Hospital in Jharia. The biggest culprit is airborne particulate matter, which is associated with the mining, storing and transporting of coal, says Biswajit Paul, associate professor at the Indian School of Mines, Dhanbad. According to Paul, high levels of both particulate matter PM10 and the finer and even more dangerous PM2.5 are found here in the coal belt. The average concentration of PM10 has been found to exceed India's air quality standards by three to four times, he said. PM2.5 levels are also elevated, exceeding national standards by as much as 66%, a problem made worse by vehicle emissions and transporting uncovered coal. Oxides of sulfur, nitrogen and carbon released by coal fires further pollute the air.

Together, these pollutants result in chronic respiratory diseases like bronchitis and asthma. Their incidences are at least 35-40% higher in the coal belt than in other parts of India. Patients frequently arrive at this hospital with symptoms of pneumoconiosis - a disease caused by the accumulation of fine dust particles in the lungs. Coal miners in particular may develop anthracosis, also known as Black Lung Disease, resulting from deposits of minute coal dust in the lungs.

In recent years many local residents have been injured or killed in Jharia. People have been burned alive after being sucked into flaming sinkholes in the ground.

In 2006 the Indian government began a bid to resettle residents by buying land on the margins of the coal mines, offering landowners fair compensation and employment. The affected area includes many villages, such as Belgaria. Once based on an agricultural economy, the village has been transformed over the years into Belgaria township, where working class people from Jharia have been relocated.

The lives of Belgaria's inhabitants have been dramatically changed since the land grabbing. Despite government promises, compensation was given only to landowners and the policy was doubly discriminatory against small landowners, tenants and landless agricultural workers. No alternative work was offered to anyone who lost less than two acres of land.

People who have been resettled say their current living conditions are even worse than before. Many of them are living with inadequate housing and with no access to employment opportunities.

They have been moved from their former houses to one or two-room flats in Belgaria with inadequate amenities: a poor sewage system; ramshackle houses, and no toilet. Because Belgaria is so far away from Jharia, most of the villagers have been forced to quit their jobs, while those still working in the coal mines face a long daily commute, forcing many to reduce their work hours.

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Living in India's burning coal city - Photographs from Jharia

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This striking photo essay comes from Jharia, India's largest coalfield, where fires rage beneath the ground and unregulated mining puts lives at risk.

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In 2011, I was invited to make an art project for the 12 th edition of Premio Cairo Art Competition taking place at Museo della Permanente in Milan. Being born in Belgrade in the former Yugoslavia, now Serbia, where I grew up before moving to Italy for studies, I looked for a topic which could interweave my background with my place of residence at the time, and to underline my specific position as an artist who had been shaped by the two geographical and social contexts.

Around the time of the competition, the Italian media was dealing with a series of protests organized in the south of the country due to the closure of one of the FIAT plants. There was a strong feeling of betrayal as the public saw that FIAT the national car magnate which had been always been supported and financed by the state, had been recently expanding its facilities by investing in the East European low cost labor market - in this case Serbia - and acquiring the local Serbian car manufacturer Zastava.

Like others coming from the territory of ex-Yugoslavia, I was familiar with the unfortunate story of the once state-owned Zastava ( flag in Serbian). Founded just after the Second World War and originally called "Crvena Zastava" ( red flag), the factory made cars that were considered a major industry product of the former communist state and which contributed, both in a historic and a symbolic way, to the creation of an 'authentic' national identity of the Yugoslav nation (despite mostly using the designs of foreign car models, including FIAT's). These cars represented something of a collective "mechanical dream" which was, in accordance to the paradoxes of the system that produced them, synonymous with the 20 th century progressive West and the capitalist consumer-driven society where they were even exported during Zastava's golden years.

The image of the socialist society changed dramatically

With the breaking apart of Yugoslavia in the 1990s the country's economy collapsed, lead by the failure of Zastava itself. Simultaneously, the image of the socialist society changed dramatically, its 'authentic' values disappeared and its former identity was entirely deconstructed. Similar to the fate of many other industries in the countries born from the Balkan Wars, which were in a so-called "state of transition" and submerged in the economic and cultural colonialism, the Serbian car producer found the solution for its almost twenty year-long crisis in selling its stakes and factory to a foreign investor, FIAT. While the Italian public was wrapped up in the scandal of FIAT moving its investments out of the country (already in a state of hardship triggered by the Great Recession), the Serbian government was glorifying the same event and making the acquisition look like a success that would revitalise its economy.

This was the inspiration to start the art project "Mechanical Dream", the social reality which was hiding behind the news. The imagery used by Serbian mass-media and state officials became the focal point of the work. I started an online investigation into Zastava's history and present situation, and looking for its car models and promotional material through the years, tracing the company's marketing strategies which closely corresponded to the shifting economic and political dynamics in the very system it belonged to. In parallel, I looked for people who were a part of Zastava in some way - its former employees, those still employed, their relatives, the inhabitants of the city of Kragujevac where the factory is situated - anyone who could give me a first-hand insight into the factory's life.

Very few people wanted to talk

I was surprised to discover that very few people wanted to talk to me. Some were reluctant to revive bad memories and others were unwilling to risk their position since they were bound by the confidentiality clause to their new employer. I also made a few visits to the city itself and tried to see the inside of the main plant under reconstruction at the time (the Zastava car factory was bombed and mostly destroyed in the NATO bombings in 1999). I was denied permission to enter the site after an interview with the head of Human Resources in the factory and a letter I had sent to FIAT. These barriers became the constitutive elementof the video "Mechanical Dream", and my struggle to approach the subject transformed itself into a sort of leitmotif of the work.

The lack of recorded testimonies was "compensated" by my own off screen reading of the statements obtained from the members of the local community and the people directly involved in the past and present life of the car factory. The reading resembled to me the monotonous, one-voice style of TV and cinema dubbing in the East European countries from the Soviet era. Similarly, I compensated for the failure to see inside the factory by using images of the factory's architecture and location documented from a window of a car being driven around the city. In the relay of moving camera and the steady shots caused by the red traffic lights or traffic congestions, I sought to capture the geo-historical and social context of Zastava through the panoramic view of the factory buildings, the city landscape, fragments of its architecture, and the cars on its streets.

The unstable nature of the documentary footage, always recorded from a distance, is interrupted by the old Zastava advertising material - the TV commercials made for foreign and domestic markets over the past few decades. Those 30-second inserts were meant to provide a contraposition to the reality of the demolished facades of the factory, its worn down headquarters, the old socialist, never renovated architecture and the streets which reveal a society wrapped in the ever present struggle to emerge from the ruins of the past marked by almost ten years of economic embargo and sanctions caused by Serbia's politics under Milosevic and the four wars it fought, as well as the struggle to adjust itself to the volatile and often cruel dynamics of the new neo-liberal capitalism which has substituted the old system abruptly and wildly. Yet, the steady reality of ideals and referential values to believe in, aspire to and rely on, which the commercials offer, is "destabilized" and deconstructed by the distance in time from which we watch them. From today's disillusioned perspective, their narrative and accompanying music appear comical and tragic; but they are sadly nostalgic too, naïve in comparison to the contemporary seductive mechanisms of high production commercials and mass-media propaganda.

The bitter aftermath of yet another economic colonization with unknown consequences

The story I tell though is not entirely of the past. In the last few months, local media have been flooded by news of the dismissal of more than one thousand workers from FIAT Automobiles Serbia (formerly Zastava Automobiles and since 2014 FIAT Chrysler Automobiles Serbia), due to low sales of the car models assembled in the Serbia based factory. What was once called the "business deal of the century", which would recover the country's industry and economy, is now being interpreted as a purely political move with disastrous long-term consequences (1). For someone who had a brief encounter with Zastava's story - its historical, social and political background - through an artistic "case study", the shift of public perspective doesn't seem surprising at all.

My curiosity that lead to the sporadic following of the news about the car factory in the years after "Mechanical Dream", made me take notice of the parallels between the instrumentalisation of the former Zastava for creating and maintaining the ideal of collective identity defined by the socio-communist system and dream of the powerful, progressive Yugoslav nation, and the idealistic image forged by the media (and by the government) in more recent times showing the Italo-Serbian car producer as shaping the new identity of a progressive, now just Serbian, society. But the house of cards has collapsed, though much faster this time and, apparently, with considerably less astonishment from the part of the local community and the public. And while the former Zastava and its "transitional" society is tasting the bitter aftermath of yet another economic colonization with unknown consequences, FIAT has just announced the relocation of the headquarters of the company from Italy to the Netherlands in order to reduce taxes; yet another blow to the Italian economy by the ultimate symbol of country's industrial might (2) and the dolce vita.

This almost calls for an epilogue for "Mechanical Dream", but today, I would be tempted to rename the work "Mechanical Nightmare".

Main image above showing vintage Fiat in Como, Italy, by Izabela Brzeczek on Unsplash.

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(1) The contract between the goverment and FIAT expires in 2018 and, according to many local analysts, it won't be renewed by the Italian company due to low profits. Instead, Serbia would be forced to buy back the part of the car company sold to FIAT and try to find a new foreign investor (source: www.politika.rs)

(2) source: www.bloomberg.com

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In 2011, I was invited to make an art project for the 12th edition of Premio Cairo Art Competition taking place at Museo della Permanente in Milan.

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VIDEO: The women who risk their lives crossing Ceuta’s Spain-Morocco border for less than €20

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VIDEO: The women who risk their lives crossing Ceuta’s Spain-Morocco border for less than €20

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VIDEO: Death on the Spain-Morocco border as women scramble to earn just €20

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Why are thousands of women facing daily stampedes and crowd surges in Ceuta?

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From round here: A portrait of life in a northern town

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From round here: A portrait of life in a northern town

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The library has closed, jobs have dried up at the factory, and everyone has an opinion about life in this northern town. In this short fictional story, based on the writer's hometown of Ellesmere Port, a bunch of old school friends reunite in a local pub. Have things changed too much or too little? And what hope is there for the future?

This piece of creative fiction was originally written as a response to one of the themes of the Writing Human Rights module at the University of Warwick. The module confronts human rights themes and develops creative responses to them in writing. Students have free rein to choose the topic and style of their stories. They have written pieces of journalism, short fictional stories, sci-fi, screenplays, comment pieces, podcast episodes and TED talks. We have worked with students to develop the best examples of their writing and publish them on Lacuna (find them here). Sam recently finished a three-year BA in English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Warwick. Following graduation, he continues to write about the people and places often forgotten by both the literary world and society.

First face I see is familiar, standing over at the fruity. Ron in his hi-vis, as always, drinking a pint of Guinness, as always. A hacking cough before every sentence. The floor of the pub has that same sticky pull on my shoes, the same lingering staleness of cigarette smoke from a time I never knew.

Still works at same factory he started at fifty odd years ago, Ron does, though course he knows now what he didn't back then, that what he's breathing is killing him, drying out his lungs. But goes anyway,

The corners of his eyes are crinkled and closing and soon I don't think he'll be able to see no more. Some reason it annoys me, I guess cos most of what those eyes have seen in their sixty-five years is the fifteen-minute bike ride down to the factory. The factory that he can just about see from his back garden, when he sits out there on a nice Saturday afternoon listening to Everton get beat.
how they doin', the Toffees? shite as usual, glad I can't afford going games no more cos they're bloody hopeless. Never going to be like it were in the 80's like.
For him, I wonder what had changed, aside from Everton being shite, since the 80s. The 60s.

Nothing much has changed down that dank lit street called the town centre.

Takeaway, takeaway, charity shop, barbers, takeaway, goods for cash, bookies, beauty salon, charity shop, bookies, takeaway. Like some sicko sightseer I peer into them, as if they're display cases at a zoo or museum. Anything new, anything different? The regulars at the bookies and the grey kebab meat in the takeaways stare back at me, all looking older, looking tireder, like them fading wax statues in London, a million miles away.

It was over there, between the pool table and the toilet that we had our first pints, hidden round the corner from the bar. Must be for the nostalgia that Harry had picked here to meet. I thought getting married was meant to make you look ahead, not back. I snorted into my half-empty drink. Where were they all? It was past 4.
how long that new bus station been up in town? 'bout six months, summin' like that. Waste of money isn't it. think it looks nice to be fair. tsst, yeah, for miserable people going to work to enjoy. Round million quid they spent. million, on that? same as always, init. Local council common sense at its finest. Got some of worst schools in area, but oh well, let's build a spankin' new bus station, yeah. Bollocks, mate.
He sees it as the cue for him to get up and join me. I'd forgotten to never get one-on-one with Ron. That was your night gone.
fuckin' council, government, Tory bastards, lot of 'em, ain't got a clue. Sent 'bout dozen letters or summin' to Peter Trevors I did - our MP, and he's done nowt. ain't he Labour? You vote for him? yeah, and I wish I hadn't, cos he does fuck all for this town. Hear on news that there's this drive to get kids readin', so they go close the library in town, don't they, so now the closest one is five miles away, out in the sticks. Guess the news meant all kids 'part from ones here, probably cos most of 'em ain't ethnics or immigrants so they're meant to do everythin' by themselves. well, dunno about that like but yeah, is shite library closed. Loved it in there. You remember that old vending machine they had, made a right racket when you bought something. oh, nah, nah can't say I ever went in much.
There's a rattle at the door. I smile as soon as I see Joe's got a shaved head. That hairline had been embarrassing since Year 5.

Friday afternoons after school I'd go and pad down them corridors of fantasy and thriller, then onto books I shouldn't've been allowed near at that age. I'd come out, bag full of my weekend, and get these looks from the chavs smoking by the entrance and the old bloke prowling round town centre cos he had nothing else to do. No words, just the looks that said
what you doin' in there? Books? Go smoke, go drink, go play footy, go get laid. You bent or what? Having your nose up a book's arse ain't what life is about round here, kid.

So I'd go home, shove me nose right into the book so I didn't have to know what life was about round here. The smoking and drinking that came later seemed special to me, cos I did them for fun, not out of necessity. Where we ended up moving, our new library was bigger, better stocked, and yet the books more meaningless.
how old were we, seventeen or something, when we had our first pint here?
Joe's drinking some bitter ale I've not seen before. He says it's the cheapest. Goes down a treat and all.
yeah, around that I think. Harry threw up after two didn't he. oh, shit yeah. Fanny, he was probably on Dark Fruits and all. Wish I could say he's gone soft since becoming site manager and his bird, but truth is he's always been soft. you met his bird then?
Suppressing a burp, Joe looks at me, confused.
you not seen her no? nah, first time back here for like year or two init. ah, fair enough then like, guess you wouldn't have met her. Yeah she's pretty sound like, not from round here like but by er ... you know like if you go past the car plant, keep heading up, come to that new estate, the nice one? yeah, yeah, that was there when I were still around. What d'you mean, that is round here. nah, yeah, sort of but not like round, round here.

Am I still from round here? Is there a time limit like there is a distance limit?

Joe is getting through his bitter quick.
talking 'bout the car plant, you hear what happened to it?
I shake my head.
closed didn't it, sometime in summer. bloody hell, mad that. Must've hit town hard like mustn't it, all them jobs.
nah mate, most them who worked there weren't from round here. Came in from all over the area, mechanics with degrees or whatever. Couldn't get a job at that place for the life of you, too high requirements and that. I applied four, five times.

Used to be that a young lad could turn up at the plant and have some shitty job within ten minutes. Spend long enough there, and you had a job for life.

Joe's shredding up the beer mat.
people got enough work round here then though yeah? oh, mate, there's jobs comin' out every hole in the town. Problem ain't jobs, it's getting people doing them. Lazy round here man, telling you, no one bothered 'bout working. Get enough from benefits, as much as me, and I'm labourin' every day. come on man, that ain't true. People only on them benefits cos they need them.
Joe slams his empty glass down.
remember Carla, from school, yeah? She pretended she had mental health or summin', doctor signed for her cos they don't care, so then she claims disability benefit. In between all this she's popping out kids left right and centre to get on that child benefit. All 'em with different dads and that, yeah, and then she got the cheek to come moanin' to me other day 'bout being a single mum, that she can't control all her kids, that there's nothing or no one for her to turn to. Where's her accountability mate, where's her brain at, that she's got some responsibility. Complainin' that she have to feed her fuckin' kids from a free fuckin' foodbank? Gimme a break.
I'm past town and near the estate now. A graffitied concrete bunker watching over some asphalt pitches finally sprouting some green. More weeds ain't what this town needs. Both pitches and youth club closed when we were fifteen, left to the birds to roost in and the smack heads to shoot up in. Council or whoever pulled the plug on it cos it cost too much, so now what's there to do for kids round here on a Saturday? I went a few times, mainly to watch the five-aside, for Year 10s to (roughly) 18-year-olds only. For some though, like Joe and Tom and Harry, it were all they looked forward to, out of school and out of home.

Got only a year of playing in that five-aside before it was gone. We'd got promoted, then a week before the leagues were going to start again, it were over. Most likely funding got cut to pay for a new car park or something. I remember Joe crying into the Man U shirt his mum had saved up months to buy him to play in.

Was about this time my parents realised they were done with being from round here and started to look beyond the car plant.

It had been some team, I thought as I walked on, kicking a half full can of Carling in reminiscence, the beer sloshing on my shoes.

Gav, our pill dealer keeper, eyes half glazed every game, shouting obscenities at the defenders, Joe who was overweight, Harry who was always late and I was here, there, trying to be everywhere, patch up the damage done by Tom, the Monday night Roy Keane.

A hand slaps my shoulder. A round bearded face grins at me.
alright Tom, lad, what's happening?
Tom sits besides me, going the Ron route with a pint of Guinness.
not bad mate, getting by, you know me. What you saying about Carla, Joe? She still not banged you no?
Ignoring Tom's laughter, Joe gets up and heads the bar.
salty as anythin' that lad. Pretty much only one from round she hasn't been with. he was telling me she has a few kids. never heard seven be called a few but there you are. how's your kid doing? Alex. he's alright yeah, growing fast like. Got another little one on the way haven't I. oh, shit man, congratu- well, it weren't meant or nothing. I ain't with Rose now, got some other bird knocked up.
I take a long swig of my drink.
what you working at now? got a job at Ron's factory, just packaging stuff, piece of piss. There's talk of it shutting, though, so I'm bricking it ain't I mate. Need the job for Alex, then now for this other one. Nightmare lad. heard 'bout the car plant shutting so maybe they'll leave off closing this one. Fair few work there don't they? too many probably. They'll lay off the older ones, like Ron. Harsh like, but just means they can pay us young ones for cheaper you know. Amount of immigrants coming in which's fucked up wages and that, all the Polish and Romanians who work for nothing. be alright lad, Joe was saying there's pure jobs round here. dunno 'bout that man, it's ... but yeah, no, I'll be sound. Here's to Harry anyway, whenever he's gonna get here.

We clink glasses. I don't want to look at Tom and see Ron, Ron with his closing eyes and cough. My beer suddenly tastes vile. Do I think I'm better cos I'm not from round here anymore? Better than old Ron, Ron with his bottomless tab here, better than Tom with his two kids? Better cos this town ain't my problem anymore?

was saying to Joe before, remember our first pints in here yeah? haha, yeah course. What were we, sixteen?
The offy is still here of course, just round the corner from The Bull. Was a time when bunch of people thought old Mo was gonna sell it to some chain and we'd get a Local or Metro or whatever. Sprayed 'paki' on the walls and threatened to brick in his window if he did, so he stayed and served them their usual Lotto tickets and 20 ciggies and 4 pints of semi-skimmed. Us kids were happy, cos there'd be no chance of getting served at one of them proper shops. Harry went in on his fourteenth birthday and somehow got some spirits: vodka or whiskey or I don't wanna know what. We all ran off back to the park, laughing about getting one over stupid old Mo. When we woke up, clothes damp from dew and covered in congealed regurgitated chips, it were clear he'd got one over us.

There's a shout from the doorway as Harry gets bundled through by Gav.
'bout fuckin' time,
Joe mutters into his pint. Harry engulfs me in a bear hug. I look for Gav, but he's not there.
long-time no bloody see,
Harry booms, and I laugh.
yeah mate, been too long. Had to choose this place to meet didn't you. course, no place like the Bull. Fifteen we were, weren't we, sat over there having our first pint. Had to come here for a few before hitting the town. Few new places up there you know. didn't see any of them, everything just looked the same to me. Shit. nah mate, not in old centre, they've moved things about, things happening here mate, it's pretty decent. oh, right. I saw the new million quid bus station and heard the library shut, that about it. Can't say it sounds too great for the place. yeah but who needs the library. I've never read a book in me life, and I've got a Land Rover and a mortgage on a five-bed detached before I'm twenty-five. Come on, what's your poison?
Gav pops up at the bar, fiddling with his nose. We catch up in the time it takes for three pints to be drawn. He's back at his parents, uni didn't work out, and that's about it. Back at the table, Tom and Joe argue about jobs. And immigrants.

what, so the government just meant to go like, ah, don't worry, no, no, you don't have to work love, nah you just sit and shoot smack or smoke weed or whatever and cash your cheques. Don't bother to get up to work cos we'll just bring over some half-starved foreigner to work, and then you and all your town can bitch about immigrants taking your jobs.
reason why people just claim benefits is cos the immigrants have taken wages down round here, Joe. And you talk 'bout there being jobs - it's all just grunt work a monkey could do. Brainless. the principle though of working Tom, where's that gone, why's there this sudden entitlement to have everything put on our plate without lifting a finger for it? let's leave the politics bollocks out of tonight why don't we lads,
Gav says, clapping his hands to stop Tom answering Joe.
we're here for Harry and, more importantly, to get absolutely plastered.
We all laugh or grin or grimace and settle back into how we were that time we had our first drinks, like nothing's changed, not us nor this town, not knowing what to do with it or ourselves, just like we did when we were just kids.
Read more:
All illustrations by Oreofe Morakinyo

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From round here: A portrait of life in a northern town - Lacuna Magazine

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The library has closed, jobs have dried up at the factory, and everyone has an opinion about life in this northern town.

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La Petite Rockette: The short-term contracts at the heart of France’s civil society

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La Petite Rockette: The short-term contracts at the heart of France’s civil society

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As funding cuts in France leave 200,000 people facing unemployment, Olivia Konotey-Ahulu feels the fear at a community centre in Paris.

The reverent hush of those in the presence of bargains falls when La Petite Rockette in Paris opens its doors one Saturday afternoon.

The former squat, transformed into a multi-purpose association (the French equivalent of a non-profit) community centre several years ago, is crammed with household essentials, all sold for next-to-nothing.

Children interrupt the quiet by picking from the baskets of free toys and dropping them on the floor, whilst teenage girls rummage through piles of underwear sold for 50 centimes.

A queue forms to drop off donations in front of a man who is scowling at his computer.

On his desk is a sign pasted on all the work stations, reading: "Without government help, my job would not exist."

Eddie Hurand, like 14 out of 20 employees here, is on an aided contract ( contrat aid é). This puts him in a precarious position.

Many of these short-term, government-subsidised contracts, which are mostly in the not-for-profit sector, will be cut in the coming year following an announcement by Prime Minister Edouard Philippe last summer.

These cuts will leave over 200,000 people without jobs by the end of 2018.

The changes have seen French civil society start a scramble for alternative sources of funding as the ground beneath it shifts.

The work La Petite Rockette does is varied: one day, Eddie might be serving in its café, La Trockette, where hipsters sip cheap coffee and share space with homeless people coming in to shelter from the cold and chat with whoever's behind the counter.

The next, he might work in the basement to sort the tonne of donations the non-profit receives daily, from chandeliers to baby's clothes. More than 80% of these donations are recycled or repurposed and sold back into the community.

Eddie used to be a squatter, like many of the employees at La Petite Rockette.

He says he's found his place at the non-profit:

"It was my destiny to come here. I'm surrounded by people who hold me together, who get me...we're a family. "

Despite his silver beard, Eddie's large grey eyes make him look younger than his 39 years. They light up as a man with a long ponytail approaches.

Slinging his arm around Eddie, Dimitri Callens, the head of administration, is giving a tour of La Petite Rockette.

Smiling with some bitterness, Dimitri explains to the visitors that the government cuts represent nothing but "slowly, surely, the extinction of social security in France".

Aided contracts were never meant to be a financial support for the third sector. They were introduced to help vulnerable groups, such as those with disabilities, or young people, enter the world of work.

Employment lawyer and researcher Professor Marie Mercat-Bruns laments the fact that aided contracts have become a "double-edged sword".

She says that the contracts have actually increased inequality because they are "very temporary. They're precarious because once they're over you have nothing."

Prime Minister Philippe has called the contracts "costly and ineffective", as the chances of those in aided contracts finding long-term employment have always been minimal.

Mercat-Bruns adds: "Vulnerable groups of people tend to end up in these jobs... so they get stuck under a glass ceiling, with no means of advancement."

Eddie's contract ends in May 2018. Under the cuts, it will not be renewed. But he remains upbeat.

When asked where he will go after La Petite Rockette, he cackles: "Hopefully not to prison! "

Then he shrugs. He always finds something.

Dimitri acknowledges that relying on aided contracts is an unstable and unfair business model. But to him, it is the only way of enabling the public to invest in their own community.

He says: "For us it's not at all the same thing to spend one euro at a non-profit, which exists for the public, and to spend one euro in the private sector - we're not against businesses, we're against a system which forces us to rely on them."

Some non-profits avoid aided contracts altogether. "We do not support local associations that employ aided contracts," Solène Ducci, an employee for leading immigration rights non-profit GISTI ( Groupe d'information et de soutien des immigrés), professes. "It's not in our notion of employment law to use low-priced contracts."

But the not-for-profit sector has to fund itself somehow, and those who don't rely on aided contracts tend to lean on private donors.

Just over 30% of GISTI's funding comes from private donors.

Scribbling across a notebook Dimitri estimates that, with the cuts coming into effect, La Petite Rockette needs to make €300,000 more each year to survive.

He repeats the number like a mantra, staring into a sea of invisible figures: "That's 300,000 when you sell clothes for a euro, furniture for 15 - so what do you do?"

Eddie appears, sneaks a packet of tobacco from Dimitri's pocket, then goes outside to smoke. The door handle comes off in his hand. The two men look at each other, and Dimitri continues.

La Petite Rockette can raise prices, which "goes against the nature of who we are". And private donors? Dimitri grimaces. They can't rule anything out.

***

Thanksgiving at La Trockette finds Eddie philosophical about the shifts in French civil society.

Leaning across the bar, he explains: "If tomorrow you found you had nothing, you would be happy to find an organisation like us. And that's what the people who criticise us have never experienced."

He stares around the room of people smiling at each other over their beers whilst Bruno, a homeless man who sleeps under the building's awnings, croons to himself on the piano in the corner.

Eddie sighs, as though in disbelief: "It's crazy what we accomplished here."

Images by Sophie Pasquet at the Fondation de France

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La Petite Rockette: Austerity in France hits vulnerable workers

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As funding cuts to aided contracts (contrats aidé) leave 200,000 people facing unemployment, Olivia Konotey-Ahulu reports from a community centre in Paris.

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Since the unravelling of authoritarianism and the end of conflicts that scarred the region until the late Nineties, the Western Balkans are re-emerging from recent histories, rebuilding societies and reshaping identities.

Those countries are now surrounded by EU member states, and Brussels has invested substantial political energy and injected financial assistance through Stabilisation and Association Agreements to give the region a clear EU perspective facilitated by preferential trade arrangements. At the same time, Turkish and Russian legacies and interests are reasserting their presence throughout the Western Balkans - also a strategic area for NATO since its contentious involvement in Bosnia and Kosovo. But while external powers have looked to the Western Balkans as an international stage offering political and economic opportunities, the people of the region have picked up the pieces of their past and faced the realities of everyday life.

People across former Yugoslavia have withstood waves of radical economic transformations that have taken their toll on community life as well as on employment prospects. In Mechanical Dream, Iva Kontic offers a panoramic view of the city and people of Kragujevac, celebrated for housing car manufacturer Zastava, a massive industry giving work to many in former Yugoslavia. For decades, Zastava was synonymous with Yugo cars, the symbol of a powerful, progressive Yugoslav nation exporting goods in both East and West; today, images of empty factory buildings, bleak city landscapes and people's complicated relationship with the automotive industry contrast with the idyllic past evoked nostalgically by some. The production plant was founded just after the Second World War, folded and bombed in the Nineties, and recently taken over by Italian car giant FIAT promising a much-anticipated revival. Iva revisits the social realities around the life of Zastava: her video combines different visual, social and personal perspectives on the factory, and residents' hopes for a new golden era brought by foreign investment. Reflecting on her project, Iva intertwines the fates of Zastava and FIAT, their workers and those left with no job in both Serbia and Italy. And as the future of car manufacturing in Kragujevac remains uncertain, even its new owners at FIAT have moved their headquarters out of the historic premises in Turin to more favourable business conditions abroad, betraying the workforce that built the symbol of Italy's industrial miracle. Despite all this, in Kragujevac, some remain optimistic about Fiat Automobili Srbija's ability to create jobs and revive the city. But others wonder what will be of the people of Kragujevac, if this new project doesn't deliver on its promises: "This city will probably have to disappear", one disillusioned interviewee said, putting in words her deepest fears for her community.

Besides vital socio-economic justice considerations in transitional and post-conflict communities, cultural spaces and the arts are also sites in which societies may be restored and bridges built between different political and linguistic groups in the Western Balkans. In Kosovo in particular, Serbian attempts to ethically cleanse the Albanian population in the 1990s included an attack on their native tongue: the Albanian language was repressed in public life, Albanian media outlets were shut down, and Albanian children in Kosovo could not access education in their mother tongue. So opportunities in which the two languages may coexist on a par with each other, such as in creative projects, carry a special political symbolism. In Friar Lawrence in the Balkans, Shakespeare scholar Preti Taneja meets Uliks Fehmiu, the son of a Kosovo Albanian actor and a Serbian actress. Fehmiu plays Friar Lawrence in an extraordinary bilingual production of Romeo and Juliet that took place in Belgrade and in Pristina. This was the first time that the administrations of Kosovo and Serbia have collaborated on a cultural event: the play was co-produced by Serbia's Radionica Intergracije and Kosovo's Qendra Multimedia. For many of the actors, it was their first experience of meeting and working with counterparts from the 'other' side of a conflict that continues to divide along ethnic, religious and linguistic lines. Performed in both Albanian and Serbian by a carefully selected cast of Kosovo Albanian and Serbian actors, this version of Romeo and Juliet provided the chance to speak beyond boundaries to people across the Balkans, and to reach an international audience as well. For Uliks in particular, conscious of his mixed heritage, playing Friar Lawrence in this play was also a political act of reconciliation through language.

Across the world, neighbouring countries with complex political histories and unequal current relations expose ordinary people to lives of hardship and preventable suffering. Kim Harrisberg tells the story of Samuel, a Basotho "street surfer" sifting and carrying recyclable goods on the streets of Johannesburg, like many other men crossing the Lesotho-South Africa border looking for employment opportunities. His story fits into a long history of migration from land-locked Lesotho encircled by South Africa, providing a cheap source of labour in the mining industry and across other exploitative sectors. In Johannesburg, Samuel is merely another unknown face who lives a precarious existence sleeping in parks and sorting rubbish. But the police are making life increasingly difficult for these migrant workers, fencing off parks where they sleep, setting fire to their blankets and clothes, and keeping a close eye on them. So after a minor brawl defending himself from an attack by another street surfer, Samuel ended up in prison, only to be released back onto the streets after charges against him were dropped a few months later: deportation was too much time, money and effort.

What is worth our time and efforts? Just a few weeks ago, the inauguration of the Trump administration in the US sparked a range of community responses, with many ordinary people across the world concerned by the new president's statements on women, religious and ethnic pluralism, and political borders. At the Women's March in London, captured in a short film by Mark Latimer, many expressed their fears and hopes for the future. "We will build bridges, not the wall, we will defend our human rights, we will fight on against the hate" is the powerful slogan and intention of women and men who uphold an alternative vision for the world, based on justice, equality and human rights. Building metaphoric bridges that in practical terms connect people, communities, cultures and political groups seems like the only option available to make the world a better place for everyone, regardless of who they are and where they're from.

Bannery photo by Thomas Hawk.

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Those countries are now surrounded by EU member states, and Brussels has invested substantial political energy and injected financial assistance through Stabilisation and Association Agreements to give the region a clear EU perspective facilitated by preferential trade arrangements. At the same time, Turkish and Russian legacies and interests are reasserting their presence throughout the Western...

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Stanney Mill, Dutton Green, Chester CH2 4SA

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Four Years of Foodbank: How Can We Move Beyond Food Parcels?

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Four Years of Foodbank: How Can We Move Beyond Food Parcels?

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Alec Spencer, Development Officer at West Cheshire Foodbank, reflects on more than four years of food parcels and asks ''If we envisage a future without foodbanks, what should our response be now?'

In the last few years, I have witnessed and been an integral part of the development of local foodbanks as a response to the public health crisis caused by rising food poverty. This experience means that I can't help but be impressed by the commitment and generosity of the people who volunteer their time and donate food on a regular basis. In the last four years, volunteers at West Cheshire Foodbank alone have distributed enough three day emergency food parcels for 15,577 adults and 7,393 children. And the West Cheshire Foodbank is just one of many in this Diocese.

But increasingly, I'm troubled by concerns that such generosity is actually shoring up unjust systems rather than tackling the underlying problems. I have witnessed a retreat of the welfare state and foodbanks have moved into that space. Problems with benefits - whether delays, changes or sanctions - account for two-thirds of referrals to West Cheshire Foodbank. I am very unhappy that there are such large gaps in welfare provision and we would like to step back from filling those gaps. I am also worried that it has become acceptable that people aren't paid enough so they can afford to eat. This can't be justified by the idea that foodbanks will help them out. Charity is not a substitute for justice. We need people who are in work to be paid a real living wage that meets the cost of living.

The team at West Cheshire Foodbank has constantly grappled with such challenges and has been committed not only to provide emergency food, but also to ask 'Why are people going hungry?" We have carefully documented the reasons why people use foodbanks, and what could be done to reduce foodbank use, most recently in our ' Still Hungry' report, co-authored with the Universities of Oxford and Chester. The question of why people go hungry has also been at the heart of our work with the West Cheshire Poverty Truth Commission. This has created safe spaces for people with first-hand experience of poverty to tell their stories. At the same time it has also created opportunities for those making decisions to listen. We hope that the project will ensure that the voices of those affected by poverty are then put at the heart of local decision-making process.

It is also important that we now turn our attention to other, equally important 'justice' questions which affect the way we work with local communities. Such questions include ' Are there ways of working that will offer people greater dignity? How can we build stronger communities, tackle injustice and develop skills so that all can afford to eat?' And, ' 'If we envisage a future without foodbanks, what should our response be now?'

It is also important that we now turn our attention to other, equally important 'justice' questions which affect the way we work with local communities.

At a recent "Beyond Food Parcels" event, food bank volunteers, local authority representatives, housing association staff, academics, policy-makers, members of faith and voluntary organisations and people with lived experiences of food poverty all came together to share what they are doing and discuss the barriers and benefits of working in partnership to tackle food poverty. It became clear that we shared a common desire to work together to share stories, co-ordinate resources and gather data to be used in campaigns. It will require openness to work across the boundaries of different organisations, but developing a collaborative approach seems to be a vital first step.

Image: People with direct experience of poverty distributed red foodbank vouchers to people queuing for lunch at the West Cheshire Poverty Truth Commission launch. The message 'Visiting the foodbank was the lowest part of my story' was printed on the back of the voucher. Credit: Alec Spencer

In West Cheshire, these conversations and experiences are helping to shape the work of a newly emerging 'Welcome Network' with a vision to establish friendly, welcoming places which bring people and organisations together to reduce loneliness, end food poverty and create sustainable lives. One initiative we have developed is at Wesley Methodist Church in Chester. It is called 'Meet Cook and Eat' and involves single adults who have particularly complex and enduring needs. We make bread and soup together with aim of building relationships. Elsewhere, we are working in partnership to tackle holiday hunger through holiday clubs for kids which involve healthy meals alongside sports and games. These kind of activities are a response to the challenges and limitations of the foodbank model. We want to encourage the creation of much more open and inclusive spaces which are active and participatory and where we are seeking to add to peoples' sense of dignity and self-worth. We also want spaces that are equal, so we remove the lanyards and markers of place, position and status.

Now, with so much commitment from local people; the leadership of a local MP, and funding secured for two people to co-ordinate this work, we have a way to move forward. By working closely with others, including people with lived experiences of poverty, we plan to learn how to tackle food poverty in a very different way. We mean it when we say: no-one in our community should have to turn to a foodbank.

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Four Years of Foodbank: How Can We Move Beyond Food Parcels?

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In the last few years, we have both witnessed and been an integral part of the development of local foodbanks as a response to the public health crisis caused by rising food poverty.

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Losing your home: one day at Coventry County Court

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Losing your home: one day at Coventry County Court

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Losing your home: one day at Coventry County Court - Lacuna Magazine

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When their empty bedrooms were declared spare rooms, she was charged an under-occupancy fee, taken directly from her housing benefit. Since the bedroom tax, as it’s widely known, was introduced in 2013, working age claimants who live in social rented housing deemed too large for their needs have lost between 14 and 25 per cent... Read more »

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Can We Measure the Impact of Austerity?

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Can We Measure the Impact of Austerity?

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In November last year, 100,000 people signed an e-petition calling for an assessment of the impact of changes in the welfare system on sick and disabled people, their families and carers. And 100,000 is a magic number: it triggered a Parliamentary debate on February 27 th at the end of which Parliament passed a motion calling on the Government to carry out the assessment demanded.

So far, the government have failed to comply. They argue that 'the complexity of the modelling required and the amount of detailed information on individuals and families that is required to estimate the interactions of a number of different policy changes' makes a cumulative analysis impossible.

Is this true? The government regularly makes claims that it can measure things that look pretty complex and uncertain. We've been told that, for instance, for every £1 you spend on high speed rail (HS2), you get £2.30 in economic benefit back, which of course requires predicting a whole series of costs and benefits of a future project where construction will not even start until 2017. So are the impacts of austerity measures, particularly on the most vulnerable and disadvantaged, really too complex for the government to measure?

Finding out about the impact of policies on real people

Public authorities already, on a regular basis, measure the impacts of their policies on a range of equality strands including disability, gender, race, religion and belief, sexuality and age. Measurement is carried out primarily through a process known as 'equality impact assessment' (EIA). But the Prime Minister is not a fan.

In a speech to the CBI in November 2012 David Cameron said he was 'calling time' on equality impact assessments describing them as 'bureaucratic nonsense' and 'tick box stuff'. They were unnecessary because there were enough 'smart people in Whitehall' who would think about equality when developing policy.

It's certainly true that many equality impact assessments have been pretty woeful. It's also true that many of the most inadequate have been carried out by those same 'smart people' in Whitehall. Take the Ministry of Justice's impact assessment on the effect of cutting legal aid. It acknowledged that women were more likely to receive legal aid than men. But it argued that cutting legal aid didn't have a disproportionate impact on women because the higher proportion of women who would lose legal aid was in line with the fact that they were more likely to claim it than men in the first place. Now that really does make a mockery of the whole idea of discrimination. It's like arguing that wounded soldiers would not be disproportionately affected by a decision to stop funding prosthetic limbs, because more of them are getting injured in the first place than your average citizen. It completely fails to engage with why people need services, and what happens to them when they are removed.

The broader problem with the impact assessments undertaken by those smart people in Whitehall is that they stayed in Whitehall when they did them.

Our own research of government EIAs has found that, among other problems, they generally lack any proper consultation with people who will be affected by the measures. As a result, government officials don't gain any understanding of what the real impact of their policies will be on those affected.

The petition for an impact assessment on changes in the welfare system was asking for something different. It was demanding a cumulative assessment of all the welfare cuts and reforms undertaken by the government on sick and disabled people, their families and carers. This means getting out of Whitehall and finding out about the actual affects of policies on these peoples' lives.

Undoubtedly there are a great range of cuts and changes currently underway. Disabled people may be affected by cuts to Employment and Support Allowance, Personal Independence Payment, housing benefit, council tax benefit, the bedroom tax, the benefits cap, freeze to child benefits, cuts to tax credits and cuts to spending on health, transport and adult social care. And that does make analysis complex. But when you are experimenting on such an enormous scale with so many fundamental elements of peoples' lives, you really do have to make every effort to find out what the effects of those policies are. And there are plenty of people outside Whitehall who have worked hard to measure the human impact of austerity and have produced results that politicians should look at carefully.

In 2011, we produced 'Unravelling Equality', the first of three reports examining the cumulative equality and human rights impact of the spending cuts on women in Coventry. Unravelling Equality was the first report of its kind. It examined cuts in housing, education, welfare benefits, employment, health and social care, legal aid, violence against women services and the cuts in the women's voluntary sector. We used Equality Impact Assessment as a starting point, but added a human rights dimension to it as well. We compared how different groups were faring (the equality dimension) and we examined whether any groups or individuals were suffering particularly badly (the human rights dimension).

Our research found that these cuts will have a significant impact on gender equality. Women will lose more money, more public sector jobs and will be hardest hit by cuts to public services. And the poorest women will be hardest hit of all. The report concluded that we're in very grave danger of seeing decades of progress made on equality unravelling over the next few years.

Our second and third reports examined the specific impact on older women (' Getting off Lightly or Feeling the Pinch?') and BAME women (' Layers of Inequality? '). All three reports explicitly recognise that not all women are affected equally by the cuts. Disabled women, older women, young women, BAME women, lone parents and women victims and survivors of violence have been particularly badly hit as a result of the intersection between their gender and other factors such as ethnicity or disability (see Kalwinder Sandhu's article for more on this).

The reports also found that it's the combination of cuts that are most damaging. Because many women in Coventry weren't just affected by one cut, they faced a whole series of cuts at once. For instance, when we spoke to older women, particularly carers and disabled women, for our second report, 'Feeling the Pinch?' , we discovered that cuts to transport services loomed large in terms of the impact they had on their lives. Their ability to get to work, to education and to get to hospital or other health services was badly affected. Among women over 75, 60% have no access to a car. We already know that 1.4 million people a year don't access health services because of transport problems. Among the older women we talked to it was very clear that the combination of poverty, transport cuts and cuts to health services were causing major problems.

Getting to hospital to find out your appointment has been cancelled (and we found the cuts mean this has been happening more regularly) can be annoying for anyone. Imagine being on a very low income and finding this out when you've already had to pay for a taxi because there's no suitable bus service; Or you've spent a couple of hours taking several buses to get across town. If this happens to you, it can mean that you don't bother next time.

Many of the women we spoke to were very worried about the reassessment for 'ring and ride' services and what that would mean for them - they might be able to get on a bus into town, but have problems getting back with heavy shopping or waiting at the bus stop for long periods in cold weather. If they no longer had access to this service they would go out less - increasing loneliness and isolation, reducing their access to health services, making it harder to buy cheaper food in the supermarket if they're having to shop locally and increasing costs for heating if they're at home for longer during the day.

Sometimes the cut can be tiny but the impact significant. At an Asian women's organisation funded by the local Primary Care Trust, around 40-50 women met every week for discussion on health related issues. They were also able to help each other fill in forms, organise lifts to hospital and people to accompany them to translate. The cost of the group was the hire of the hall and one worker who facilitated the sessions - most of the support was provided by the women themselves. But then their funding was cut. Projects like this help provide resilience to cuts - women are able to help and support each other, when this support disappears the impact of the cuts is far more serious.

Our reports also raise serious concerns about the long term effects on structural inequalities within the UK.

One area where this appeared particularly serious to us, was in relation to violence against women. Estimates of the impact of violence against women vary, but surveys suggest that one in four women experience domestic violence and abuse during their lifetime while one in five experience some form of sexual violence.

In Unravelling Equality, we showed how women victims and survivors of violence in Coventry were likely to be affected by cuts to the budgets of the police, Crown Prosecution Service and health services, combined with cuts to voluntary support services, welfare benefits and legal aid. Together these cuts risked a situation where there would be less successful investigation and prosecution of offenders, more ongoing mental and physical and sexual problems for women, and more women trapped in violent relationships. This example shows how you cannot simply add up the impact of different cuts. You need to examine the way the different cuts interact. A series of smaller cuts by a range of different organisations might add up to a 'perfect storm' which threatens our ability to tackle serious human rights issues.

In Coventry, the City Council has made a commitment to continue to fund violence against women services, meaning that the situation is not as bad as in other parts of the country. But nationally a snap shot survey by Women's Aid in 2013 showed that in one day 155 women and 103 children were turned away from refuges because of lack of space.

By focusing on the lives of groups and individuals affected by a range of cuts, it is possible to uncover some really profound (and very disturbing) impacts. Our reports demonstrate that 'measuring' the impact of public spending cuts is not only possible, it's an absolute necessity. Without an understanding of the combined impact of a series of different cuts (as in the case of violence against women) policymakers can proceed in their silos blissfully unaware of how the cuts combine with others taken elsewhere to have devastating overall effects. There are so many cuts happening at once it can be difficult for people to keep on top of everything. Even in the relatively small area of Coventry, we found that both councillors and public officials who knew a great deal about cuts in one area didn't know what other cuts would also be affecting the same groups of people.

Building up the National Picture by Investigating Locally

The work we did in Coventry examined what was happening locally. Often we were asked the question - why are you looking at the local situation, when the key decisions are being made nationally?

Local government and other public bodies in the Coventry area sometimes felt that we were being unfairly critical of their decision-making, when their own resources were constantly being cut by the national government. And we had a huge amount of sympathy for the incredibly tough decisions that they had to make because of funding cuts imposed from above.

But we concentrated on our local area because we knew that the combined impacts we were assessing would have a different effect in different areas of the country for a number of reasons. For instance, although cuts to welfare benefits have taken place across the UK, some of these cuts, like cuts to housing benefit, will vary dramatically in their impact depending on local rents and availability of rented accommodation in both the private and social sector locally. Decisions about cuts to services are being made at a local level by individual local authorities, police authorities, clinical commissioning groups etc. So to understand what the impact is of public spending cuts on the lives of individuals, you need to understand what is happening locally.

Fortunately, there's now evidence of the impacts of public spending cuts being gathered by groups up and down the country. Our reports in Coventry have been followed by a series of reports in other parts of the country including Newcastle, Birmingham, Manchester, London, Bristol, Wakefield, Hampshire and the East Midlands as well as a number of reports looking at impacts in Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland.

And there's also increasing amounts of guidance and support for those who want to undertake their own assessments; for public authorities as well as voluntary organisations. In Scotland, we worked with the Scottish Human Rights Commission and the Equality and Human Rights Commission to produce a set of good practice building blocks for public authorities who want to undertake Equality and Human Rights Impact Assessments. Those building blocks were tested by Fife and Renfrewshire Councils. The results of the pilots were launched in April this year. We also worked with the TUC to produce a toolkit for trade unions and women's groups wanting to undertake studies, which was used by Fawcett groups in Bristol and East London.

In fact, there are now so many reports and assessments that we decided to set up a database of assessments at our Centre so we could keep track of them all. They have sought to uncover and highlight the human cost of public spending cuts either through statistical analysis of the groups most likely to be affected, assessments of the actual (or likely) impact on those groups and individuals, or a combination of the two. If you combine the local reports and assessments with those that have looked at the overall national picture, we now have more than 150 reports and assessments in our database.

All of this suggests that measuring the human impact of austerity is not only possible and vitally important, but that it is already happening up and down the country.

It's happening because individuals and groups from all kinds of backgrounds and perspectives believe they can and should find out what's really happening as a result of the complex web of public spending cuts that are currently affecting peoples' lives.

The national government should be embracing these efforts, and utilising this wealth of research to help it make better decisions; to take action to reduce and mitigate the effects of cuts on those least able to cope; and to ensure that the existing structural inequalities in our society are not further entrenched because the cuts disproportionately affect services that are vital to particular groups (like services for women who are survivors of domestic and sexual violence).

But in the absence of action by central government, this research is also a vital tool for all those concerned about the increasing inequalities of our society that will be exacerbated by the public spending cuts. Research into the real impacts of austerity on real peoples' lives is vital to re-frame the debate away from a simplistic narrative about strivers and scroungers to one that recognises the complexity of why we end up as a 'have' or a 'have not'. And when more and more local authorities and academic institutions join civil society actors in undertaking such research and publicising the findings, it becomes harder and harder for central government to put its fingers in its ears and claim that such measuring efforts are impossible. It also becomes harder and harder for them not to take action to tackle the impacts.

Photo by Barbara Krawcowicz

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Can We Measure the Impact of Austerity? | Lacuna Magazine

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So far, the government have failed to comply. They argue that 'the complexity of the modelling required and the amount of detailed information on individuals and families that is required to estimate the interactions of a number of different policy changes' makes a cumulative analysis impossible. Is this true?

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The Online Activist

One Sunday this summer 'Jean' (not her real name) had taken enough. She had worked for a Job Centre in the North East of England for several years but had become disillusioned by the 'harsh environment' which she felt was designed to 'trip up' job seekers and by the pressure on staff to sanction people for the smallest mistake.

She resigned from her job and along with two colleagues set up a website which aims to help job seekers challenge sanctions and unreasonable demands placed on them by the job centre.

With little fanfare the site went live in June and started dealing with a steady stream of inquiries. But as more and more people started to link to the site on social media, demands on the site exploded, leading to over 60,000 visitors and national press coverage . The three women provide help and advice in individual cases as well as promoting a series of model letters to challenge unreasonable job centre instructions and appeal against sanction decisions. They use social media to promote their successes and encourage others to appeal.

Jean and her colleagues are part of a growing number of activists who are using social media to challenge dominant narratives on austerity. These dominant narratives are based around a division between 'strivers' -the 'hard working families' who fund the welfare state, and 'scroungers' - those who receive benefits but put little back into society. This division is repeatedly emphasised by Government ministers and large sections of the press.

Challenging Dominant Narratives

In a speech in January this year, Secretary of State for Work and Pensions, Iain Duncan Smith, said that middle class families watching the Channel 4 programme, Benefits Street, had been shocked by the reality of the 'twilight world' of Britain's welfare 'ghettos'.

The claim that programmes like Benefits Street represent the reality of generations on welfare benefits with little desire to look for work is reinforced by a steady stream of newspaper articles, which focus on individual cases of benefit fraud, or of families who appear to be receiving large amounts of benefit payments. Not surprisingly, public attitudes to benefits have hardened - a poll carried out for the TUC in 2013 showed that 59% of people questioned, thought benefits had created a culture of dependency. The majority of people vastly over-estimated the amount of benefit fraud that was taking place.

The TUC and anti-poverty campaigners have attempted to tackle this narrative. For example they have pointed out that the average person imagines 27% of the welfare budget being lost to benefit fraud. Government's figures show that it is actually 0.7%. While people think that 41% of the entire welfare budget goes on benefits to unemployed people, the true figure is 3%.

the strivers and scroungers narrative has proved stubbornly resistant to statistical evidence.

However, the strivers and scroungers narrative has proved stubbornly resistant to statistical evidence. Analysis of the British Social Attitudes Survey by NatCen Social Research found that 35% of people thought that people on benefits 'don't really deserve any help', 37% thought most people on benefits are 'fiddling' and 54% thought that if benefits were less generous, people would 'stand on their own two feet'.

One of the main challenges to this dominant narrative has come from social media and blogging, which has created a space for the voices of those living on benefits to be heard directly, rather than mediated by the mainstream media. Social media has served a dual function of increasing awareness of the real cost of welfare reform, and providing a counterpoint to misinformation and common myths that can pervade mainstream media sources.

Some blogs have been set up by established campaigning organisations in order to provide a voice to people claiming benefits. For example, Who Benefits? is a campaign that aims to share real stories from people who have received or are receiving benefits. False Economy, set up by the TUC, acts as a hub to share information, reports and personal testimony about public spending cuts and welfare reform.

Other blogs have been set up by individuals and combine personal accounts and campaigning. Sue Marsh blogs at Diary of a Benefit Scrounger about her own experiences of disability and claiming benefits, alongside sharing the experiences of others and campaigning against cuts to disability benefits. Her choice of title for her Blog, like that of Kaliya Franklin who blogs at Benefit Scrounging Scum, confronts the use of the term scrounger head on. These are two bloggers among many who have become experts on the workings of the benefit system; able to provide first-hand experience of what life is like on benefits as well as extremely detailed analysis of benefits policy and practice.

The mixture of personal testimony and detailed analysis makes for a powerful combination.

The mixture of personal testimony and detailed analysis makes for a powerful combination. It provides not only a human response to the narrative of 'scroungers' but also the sort of detailed challenge to claims from Government which is lacking in much of the mainstream media. On the Where is the Benefit blog, claims from the DWP that over a million people claiming Employment and Support Allowance have been found fit for work are picked apart with data showing how many of these people will have been wrongly assessed, how many will have had short term health problems and how many will have been obliged by the benefits system to claim Employment Support Allowance if they have lost their job for reasons of ill health

These voices have made positive contributions to the welfare debate, and in some cases have helped to shape and influence it. Disabled people have been particularly prominent in on line activism, using the internet to organise responses to policy proposals as well as campaign. Detailed analysis in blogs and reports has been backed up by twitter campaigns, which have helped bring the voices of bloggers to a much wider public.

For instance, the WOW campaign calls for a cumulative impact assessment of welfare reform on sick and disabled people. They succeeded in collecting enough signatures through on line activism to trigger a parliamentary debate on February 27 th.The debate itself was covered in detail by bloggers and on twitter and the motion to carry out a cumulative impact assessment was carried.

Debates around the bedroom tax provide another example. This is one of the few areas of welfare reform where the Labour party has spoken out against the Government. This followed several years of warnings of the likely impact and then first-hand accounts of the actual impact by online bloggers. As print and broadcast journalists become aware of the importance of online voices as a source of information and analysis, some of these voices have been able to move to national media outlets, such as Jack Monroe at the Guardian.

Silencing of new voices

The new voices have not always been welcomed. Both Sue Marsh and Kaliya Franklyn have blogged about their experience of being asked to take part in television debates only to be stood down at the last minute, or have items cancelled because of the refusal of the Department of Work and Pensions to provide someone to oppose them.

Activists have been faced with online abuse alongside attempts to vilify them in the mainstream media. For instance, benefit claimants who do not fit into a narrow view of how they should act face a backlash: Jack Monroe has already been subjected to a Daily Mail smear campaign.

When she moved away from her role as a single mother living on benefits' and began to write for the Guardian the attacks against her began. Appearing in an advertising campaign by Sainsbury's increased the vitriol aimed against her.' She was criticised by Richard Littlejohn both for her tattoos ('she may have had more money for food and heating if she hadn't spent so much on tattoos') and for her use of kale in a recipe ('a typical Guardianista's idea of what 'ordinary people' should eat). She was used, in the same article as an example of the 'spendthrift' poor, (living in poverty because of her own poor lifestyle choices and her decisions to spend money on frivolities) and as being too middle class to understand the real experiences of ordinary people.

While social media has provided a forum for the vilification of campaigners, it has also offered new opportunities to challenge this sort of smear tactic in the press. Jack Monroe's response to the Richard Littlejohn article, and more recently to comments by Edwina Currie, were reproduced in full in the Guardian and Daily Mirror respectively and were widely circulated via twitter and Facebook. Jack Monroe, Sue Marsh and Kaliya Franklyn have all provided strong alternative narratives to dominant 'debates' which often serve to silence or distort the voices of those most affected by austerity.

The Power of Twitter

Benefits Street was widely criticised for tapping into the 'scrounger' narrative and for attempting to create public controversy. Programme makers have become aware of the idea of a TV event and have become keen to promote discussion on sites such as Twitter, for example by flashing the hashtag #benefitsstreet on screen during especially divisive moments.

The ability to respond immediately means that topics that prove controversial can snowball and negative comments can escalate quickly. Many of the comments using the #benefitsstreet hashtag were extremely unpleasant and included death threats made against those appearing in the programme.

An analysis of tweets about the programme showed that while there were many negative comments, the largest group of tweets (13.8% of the total) were attempting to provide a 'balancing narrative' with statistical information about actual numbers on benefits, levels of fraud and so on, and the second largest group (9.7%) offering criticism of the programme makers and their agenda.

Unlike discussions on Facebook or blogs which might be assumed to be preaching to the converted, Twitter offers an opportunity for a huge variety of different voices to be heard, particularly for those following comments using a particular hashtag. Sue Marsh's post reporting that she had been declared ineligible for Disability Living Allowance went viral on twitter. The hashtag #spartacusreport was used to promote a critical review of the Government's proposals for changes to DLA and the failures of consultation around these proposals. It was one of the top hashtags trending in January 2012 and was even used by the DWP when responding to criticism.

While the dominant narrative in much of the mainstream media continues to support the division of society into scroungers and strivers, online forums and social media, fuelled by publicity on twitter, do provide an alternative. Increasingly powerful they run the risk of becoming part of the mainstream, an ironic twist on the story to date.

Photo by swirlingthoughts

Blogs:

False Economy / Gingerbread / Benefit Scrounging Scum / Where's The Benefit / A Girl Called Jack / Birmingham Against The Cuts / Diary of a Benefit Scrounger / We Are spartacus / Spartacus Stories / Diary of a Goldfish / Disability Now / Carer watch / Ripped Off Britons / The Disability Book / Rage Against The Coalition / Disability Voices / Arbitrary Constant

Campaign sites:

Who Benefits? / DPAC / Disabled People Protest / The Hardest Hit / The Broken of Britain / Action for ESOL / We Will Be Heard / Job Seekers Sanction Advice

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Alternative voices on austerity - Lacuna Magazine

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The Online Activist She resigned from her job and along with two colleagues set up a website which aims to help job seekers challenge sanctions and unreasonable demands placed on them by the job centre. With little fanfare the site went live in June and started dealing with a steady stream of inquiries.

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In three decades a social welfare advisor has not seen the levels of poverty that are routine today. Rebecca Omonira-Oyekanmi listens to the stories of Londoners who struggle to survive.
Mahder Redie has not slept since finishing an 8-hour cleaning shift at 7am. It is noon on Thursday 3rd April. Since 8am he has been waiting for the repairman, sent by his landlord.

Mahder, 35, prepares lunch for his pregnant wife and daughter in the closet-sized kitchen. His wife Hiriti tries to relax on the sofa. One-year-old Merken wants to play, squealing happily.

Hiriti is subdued. 'I want a fresh start,' she says. Speaking a mixture of Bilen, her native Eritrean tongue, and English, Hiriti says the thought of raising another child in the mouldy flat is depressing. Above the dining table is a framed photograph of 30-year-old Hiriti wearing traditional Eritrean clothes; her dark hair pulled into thick braids that fan out into luxuriant mahogany cloud; her face is decorated and her expression carefree.

The Redie's one-bedroom flat is infected with mould; they can't afford to move. Spooning sweet white rice and salad into a bowl for Merken, Mahder says that since the start of the year his housing association landlord has sent seven inspectors to the flat and, each time, 'They do nothing.'

Mahder Redie earns £8.61 an hour as a cleaner at the Westfield shopping centre in East London, across the road from the multimillion-pound Olympic Park. Like many low paid workers, his job is temporary and barely covers living costs in a city where the average monthly rent is £1,233.

The family is desperate to move, but for those on low incomes there is little choice. The provision of council homes and social housing continues to fall. Nine London councils recently lost a legal challenge to Mayor Boris Johnson's plan to increase the upper limit of rents deemed 'affordable' in the capital.

These circumstances have deepened an inequality of arms between London's poorest renters and their landlords. Pamela Fitzpatrick sees the consequences every day.

After nearly 30 years spent working in social welfare, for organisations such as Child Poverty Action Group and the Citizens Advice Bureau, Pamela set up the Harrow Law Centre four years ago. 'I have never seen the level of poverty that we are seeing today,' she says. The centre takes calls from all over London. The biggest problem is housing.

'Evictions are a real problem, even with housing associations,' says Pamela. 'We have had a case where somebody got into arrears with their rent [and was] unlawfully evicted. Her 10-year-old son came home and found they had changed the locks with no notice.'

The ease with which landlords can evict tenants makes it difficult to challenge the poor state of some housing. Margaret Thatcher's government deregulated tenancies back in 1989. In parliament at the time, deregulation's champions claimed this would encourage private sector landlords to invest and better maintain homes.

'That has not happened,' Pamela says. 'All we really have are people who are in very poor accommodation paying really high levels of rent and living in squalor. One five-year-old child brought in her lunchbox to show me that rats had eaten it. We are talking about pretty grim situations.'

Mahder Redie's problems began in 2008, a few months after he moved into the one-bedroom flat in Brixton, South London. He scrubbed the dark smudges on the bedroom walls, but they always came back: furry, blackish green blotches, spreading upwards and outwards from the wall's corners.

Each year the mould got worse, seeping into the bedframe, the wardrobe, onto the frame of his daughter's cot. Merken has been rushed to hospital three times after struggling to breathe while asleep.

'Every year since 2008 I took a picture of the room,' Mahder says. The landlord 'just sent people to come and check it, but they did nothing.'

Mahder's landlord is Metropolitan, a national housing association providing homes to social tenants across England.

Hiriti became ill while pregnant with Merken back in 2012. A desperate Mahder went to Metropolitan to complain, saying he was sure the damp was affecting her health. Hiriti developed asthma, coughed up blood. After Merken's birth in January last year, Metropolitan sent a handyman to repaint the bedroom walls, and install a small ventilator in the bedroom. The mould soon came back.

Mahder began to fall behind on rent; he had to spend money replacing things ruined by damp - mattress, bedframe, clothes. 'I took my family to the housing office to discuss in person the problems,' he said. 'When the receptionist informed the housing officer that we had come to see her, she refused to see us and told the receptionist to tell us that nothing can be done until I pay the arrears.'

Up till the summer of 2011 when he lost regular work on a construction site, Mahder paid the rent on time. He put in a claim for housing benefit. The money arrived in November, too little, too late.

When Mahder found work again the following March, housing benefit payments stopped. But the job paid £72 a week, not enough to cover the rent or clear the arrears.

It's a common situation, says Pete Elliott, a caseworker at Brixton Advice Centre. Pete also volunteers at a local food bank at St Paul's church in Brixton. He sometimes bumps into former clients he's advised on welfare benefits or housing.

'A lot of rent arrears are through welfare benefits not being paid properly,' he said. 'For the majority of our clients, it is because they start working 10 hours a week and immediately their Jobseeker's Allowance gets stopped and recalculated.'

By 2013 Mahder's arrears exceeded £2,000. But when Merken got sick, Mahder spent what little he earned trying to clear the mould. The family moved Merken's cot into the living room, the adults took turns sleeping on the two-seat sofa.

Then in April last year, Metropolitan served Mahder an eviction notice: 'You have failed to make satisfactory payments to clear your arrears, so we are in the process of applying to the County Court for possession of your home.'

Did this mean that Mahder and his family would be evicted and rehoused?

No. People evicted due to rent arrears are considered 'deliberately homeless'; the council is under no obligation to rehouse them.

Mahder and Hiriti were miserable in their squalid flat, but now they faced something worse.

Across the River Thames in Stamford Hill, one private landlord has decided to evict tenants two months earlier than planned. One Thursday in March, the residents of a three-storey terrace house are given 15 minutes to pack and leave.

Two police vans, blue lights flashing, pull up in the large drive. Around half a dozen police officers and high court sheriffs pile out. They break into the house, run up and down the stairs, shouting over and over: 'You have to leave, you have got 10 minutes!'

The house is sectioned into 22 rooms, each one home for families, couples, and individuals. Some of the residents try to show the sheriffs an order with the original eviction date: 22nd May. They are ignored. Other residents gather what they can, piling clothes into plastic bags.

Libia Montaya, a 57-year-old cleaner from Colombia, lives alone in a small room on the top floor. She's had a difficult few years. She separated from her husband and is estranged from her daughter. She's on medication for depression. Her hours at work have been cut. When the sheriffs bang at her door, she crumbles. 'Why is this happening? Someone help me please.'

Libia struggles to breathe, her head is spinning. Terrified, she rushes into the toilet and in her distress grabs a bottle of bleach and tries to drink it. The officers tackle her, handcuff her, and then she blacks out.

Some of the residents spend the night in a nearby park. Others stay with friends or find hostels. One group takes a bus to the local town hall. They find the grand Art Deco building closed, and try to bed down on the stone steps. Security guards order them to move on.

In the morning they are first in line for the council's housing officer. The families with children and an elderly woman who recently suffered a stroke are given temporary accommodation, but 16 adults are ineligible for help. Around 5pm they are sent to the local law centre.

Nathaniel Mathews, a senior solicitor for Hackney Community Law Centre, immediately gets to work on their case. He applies to the high court for an interim injunction against the eviction. The warrant possession was obtained unlawfully and the residents have the right to challenge it in court.

Nathaniel, a tall Englishman with a shoulder-length ponytail and bemused expression, converses with the residents in fluent Spanish (most are originally from South America). He'll need immaculate financial information from each tenant otherwise the legal aid agency could refuse to fund the work.

Hackney Law Centre, like legal aid providers across the country, has struggled to stay afloat after more than a decade of cuts. Legal aid 'reform' means only the very poorest are eligible for legal aid, and even those on income-related benefits do not automatically qualify. Drastic cuts have been made to advice and representation for housing disrepair and welfare benefits. There is nothing for employment and debt.

The injunction has been granted. One Mr Justice Collins rules that the landlord, named as Destbray Limited, must allow the 16 tenants to re-enter the property. They can return home, for now.

Back in South London, in January, with the help of Brixton Advice Centre, Mahder kept his home, negotiating a repayment plan of £3.60 a week on top of his rent. Hiriti was pregnant and their case against the housing association was due in court within weeks. In court Mahder's lawyers would argue that Metropolitan should waive the arrears and cover the cost of extensive work to improve the ventilation in the flat.

Then Hiriti miscarried. Mahder blames stress caused by their housing situation. As well as the damp and debt, the couple had to contend with a broken kitchen sink. They placed a large bucket under the sink, emptying it three or four times a day. Mahder says this went on for 'several months' before the sink was replaced. In February, Hiriti's doctor wrote a letter which said: 'I would be grateful if these repairs [to the sink] could be carried out as soon as possible as in her present condition she cannot manage to carry these heavy loads. She is also complaining of back pain and abdominal pain relating to this.'

Mahder went to court in February 2014. He had managed to reduce the arrears from £2,292.80 to £953.70, partly by borrowing money from friends. He told the court: 'Since I've moved to the flat I have been miserable as the housing office neglects our needs. We are physically, emotionally, mentally drained from this situation and still saddened by the loss of our unborn child and nobody seems to understand.'

Metropolitan agreed to waive the arrears and carry out improvements to the flat. The court order decreed that work must begin within 28 days.

After leaving the law centre, the 16 tenants broke into their home. In the time they had been away the landlord had changed the locks and the house had been vandalised.

Mattresses slashed, toilets ripped from the floor surrounded by broken tiles, cisterns discarded in the yard, windows nailed shut. Chunks of plaster gauged from walls. Clothes left behind strewn across rooms. No heating or gas.

Diego was embarrassed. 'We usually keep the house very clean, we don't live like this,' he says. The trim, pepper-haired Colombian is 45. Before moving to London, he lived in Spain for 10 years - he was a social worker for a charity, providing support for new migrants and refugees.

Now Diego earns slightly more than the minimum wage as cleaning supervisor for an agency contracted to clean offices at Canary Wharf, the financial district across the city in East London. He paid £550 a month for his room with a double bed, a sink, a wardrobe, and a portable shower. But, he says, it will be difficult to find somewhere similar. 'They want £1,200 or £1,300 and you see the flat and you want to cry.'

Libia paid £433 a month for her room, slightly smaller than Diego's and without a shower. She earns about £200 a month from her cleaning job and receives £83 a week in housing benefit. 'I am too exhausted and too tense,' she says. 'I can't think about where to go or what to do. Committing suicide was the only way to leave behind all of these problems.'

Who owns the house? The tenants don't know. They paid their money to managers who say the house was sold several months ago. Whoever owns it wants rid of them before the agreed notice period. 'I imagined London to be a city that welcomed you, but it's the opposite,' says Diego, 'I think London is becoming a city only for rich people.'

Nathaniel says the exploitation of poorer tenants is routine. 'We have got tenants in low paying jobs from abroad, all cleaners, in relatively cheap but completely unregulated accommodation. It is not uncommon for landlords one way or another to evict these people whether through the courts, or not through the courts, and often giving them no notice at all. You have got people who just don't know their rights.'

In a statement about Mahder Redie's flat, the Metropolitan Housing Association said: 'We settled compensation in February and agreed to carry out improvement works. A maintenance survey report was undertaken before then which identified a condensation issue and suggested an action plan to remedy the situation. The condensation was found to be as a result of a number of factors, including ventilation and heating, rather than attributable solely to the structure of the building.

'We aim to carry out repairs quickly and efficiently... and we have regularly attended the property to carry out improvements to assist the resident with managing the condensation. Unfortunately, it reoccurred. Prior to the legal process, we have no record of the resident making a complaint through our complaints procedure.'

On 3rd April the Redie family wait for a repairman to arrive between 8am and 1pm. They finish lunch and Mahder looks at his phone.

Around 1.15pm he calls the housing association to find out why the repairman hasn't shown up. The visit is rearranged. Mahder tries to sleep before his next shift at 11pm.

This article was first published on OurKingdom.
Illustration: Patrick Koduah is a London-based illustrator and animator whose prizewinning work includes projects exhibited in the Embassy of Japan, commissioned portraiture of Prince Michael of Kent and music video animation for the Rolling Stone Band of the Year 2012. This piece was funded jointly by OurKingdom's Shine a Light project and The Friend, the independent Quaker magazine. It is published simultaneously on OurKingdom and in The Friend. This is the second collaboration between Rebecca and Patrick. The Lone Parent Trap appeared on OurKingdom and in The Friend in August 2013.

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In three decades a social welfare advisor has not seen the levels of poverty that are routine today. Rebecca Omonira-Oyekanmi listens to the stories of Londoners who struggle to survive.

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Building from what was broken: Coventry is named UK City of Culture 2021

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Building from what was broken: Coventry is named UK City of Culture 2021

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As much-maligned Coventry proudly prepares to become a cultural capital, Olivia Konotey-Ahulu tours the city's art scene and asks what it can teach the rest of the UK.

When Coventry was announced as winner of the competition for UK City of Culture 2021, the supporting crowd, poised with flags in hands, erupted.

Gathered in the Belgrade Theatre, representatives from arts and cultural groups were in jubilant disbelief that Coventry, a city battered by modern history, had been selected to represent the nation as a cultural icon.

To outsiders the city's reputation may not be enviable, but Coventry is a mirror in which Britain can examine itself.

It has been literally and symbolically shattered several times in recent British history: first by World War II, which wiped out the city's medieval cathedral along with two thirds of the city centre.

The new cathedral built next to the ruins of the old one inaugurated Coventry's status as City of Peace and Reconciliation.

Today it stands as a testament to the city's history of building from what has been broken.

A brief window of economic recovery after the war was slammed shut by the deindustrialisation of the 1980s, which saw unemployment rise to over 20% across the city.

By 1983, more than 3 million people were unemployed across the country, and Coventry was feeling the strain.

Deindustrialisation left the city with something of an identity crisis, as a proud history of car manufacturing crumbled.

After the devastation of the war (in which some people believe Coventry was "sacrificed" by Churchill), city planners envisaged a socialist city, full of communal spaces and parks. But the reality today reflects the chronic lack of funding available for British cities during post-war reconstruction.

Planners were forced to rely on private developers for funds, resulting in a cityscape dominated by retail parks.

Ahead of education, retail is now the largest employer in a city where many cannot afford recreational shopping.

The measure of multiple deprivation in Coventry is almost nine percentage points higher than the national average, with 18.5% of Coventry residents living in neighbourhoods that are ranked amongst the 10% most deprived in Britain.

The local council continues to be increasingly squeezed for money. In 2016, government funding for Coventry City Council was halved relative to 2010. Last year, 11 of Coventry's 18 children's centres, and all "universal youth services" in Coventry, were forced to close.

These cuts have resulted in a loss of spaces and ways for the community to come together.

Coventry playwright and performer Richard Wallis, who was born in Coventry and who has lived in the city for most of his life, says: "Coventry is like the kid at school who everyone said is really shit and who starts to believe it."

To him, becoming the City of Culture is a chance for the next generation to re-evaluate, and start taking pride in itself.

During the Shoot arts festival last March, Richard could be found with his actor friend, Rishard Beckett, performing in the city centre's Theatre Absolute (dubbed "the UK's first professional shop front theatre").

The room was packed, overflowing with plastic chairs and arm chairs and people standing four-deep against the windows.

To a latecomer, it was not immediately obvious what was going on.

In the centre of the space, Richard and Rishard were singing to a hat stand, with a coat and hat slung rakishly on top. The room was ringing with laughter and when the performance ended with Rishard proposing to the hat stand, the audience erupted with applause.

Theatre Absolute resides in an old chip shop. Artistic Director Chris O'Connell explains that the theatre's position, "next to an off-license, opposite Argos, with big windows so anyone can see in", helps to "build a relationship with the community...people come from the nooks and crannies all over the city" as well as showcase the theatre's work.

This little theatre, and the City of Culture bid itself (backed by a team including photographer/weaver Nilupa Yasmin, Afghan refugee-turned chief exec Sabir Zazai, BMXer Gaz Docker and the Positive Youth Foundation), demonstrate Coventry's determination to build itself from the ground up, and do whatever it can to support the most deprived members of its society.

This determination is highlighted by the fact that Coventry has welcomed more Syrian refugees per head of population than anywhere else in the country.

Local councils elect their own strategies for caring for refugees, and Coventry chose to allocate the local Citizens' Advice Bureau, Coventry Law Centre and the Coventry Refugee and Migrant Centre, to act with a small army of non-profits to provide asylum-seekers with everything from housing and legal advice to the chance to join a local football team.

But integration in the city of peace and reconciliation isn't always trouble-free. Today, hostility to immigration can be summarised by a letter to the Coventry Telegraph, in which one reader writes that "day after day coaches of Africans and Eastern Europeans keep arriving with their suitcases...Enough is enough."

It's an attitude that seems to be reflected by the success of the Leave campaign in Coventry during the 2016 EU referendum.

Serena McCarthy, a local church youth worker, remembers the atmosphere at her polling station when voting was underway. Surrounded by people discussing their ballots, she recalls that almost every person in her local polling station in the constituency of Longford/Coventry North voted Leave on the grounds of immigration.

"It was: 'We want our country back, they're taking all our jobs' - all of that...which isn't true", she adds.

All four constituencies in Coventry voted for Brexit, a move which some suggest could cost the city and hinder regeneration efforts.

Rabiah Hussain, a 32-year-old playwright from East London, whose work was recently showcased at Theatre Absolute, says: "The idea of progress has been sold to us in terms of race relations but that's a false position."

Rabiah's play, Where I Live and What I Live For, is about British racism in the 21 st century, and draws on Hussain's own experiences with racism, such as repeatedly being mistaken for a secretary in meetings when working as a contractor in communications and digital marketing in London.

To Rabiah, moments such as these "make you feel very self-conscious, constantly second-guessing yourself, and feeling you don't actually belong."

But the team behind the bid for City of Culture is determined to battle against these social problems.

Plans for the future include a photo series of two of the "most diverse streets" in Coventry, and an arts festival during Refugee Week.

Richard says that in Coventry in the years to come "it is the responsibility of all artists that no one is left behind, and we don't just preach to the converted.

"Otherwise we're just going to pat ourselves on the back and feel good about ourselves when nothing's changed."

Local artists are only too aware of the significance of Coventry being labelled City of Culture.

While less than one percent of government spending is currently allocated to the arts, the Arts Council claims the sector gives £7.7 billion back to the economy.

Coventry's Belgrade Theatre, for example, estimates that it generates £5 for £1 granted by Coventry City Council.

The UK's first civic theatre built after the Second World War, The Belgrade pioneered the Theatre in Education movement, aiming to give young people a space and voice to explore the issues of their time.

In 2017, its show RISE, a play focussing on the challenges young women face in Britain today, was central to the bid.

Driven by an all-female company, aged 11 to 25, the play's persistent themes include sexual harassment and domestic abuse.

In Coventry the rate of hospital admissions "for violent crime, including sexual violence" is almost 60% higher than England as a whole.

The multitude of social problems conveyed by the actresses in RISE can feel overwhelming. As the play begins, the women enact being heckled in the park and reacting against it, pulling out their phones and broadcasting the 'man's' face, who cowers off stage.

They then snap out of the fantasy. "Do you feel better now?" a girl asks her friend, who nods slowly. "There. Now we've reclaimed the space."

For decades, Coventry has been in the process of reclaiming its space against war, and poverty, all whilst navigating its way in a rapidly globalising world.

Chris says: "It would be naïve to think that getting the City of Culture will solve all our problems... it won't, it can't."

But the title - and the money - can give the city the tools to continue rebuilding itself.

When the cast of RISE, who are representative of Coventry's diversity, stand on a stage and shout out the names of their female role models, they have a chance to be loud and to take up space - an opportunity rarely afforded to young women outside the theatre.

Like these women, drawing strength from their vulnerability, Coventry has defined itself as a place which strives to protect and include its citizens with ingenuity and courage.

When the city takes centre stage in 2021 it will have the chance to show the rest of the country how to do the same.

Losing your home: one day at Coventry County Court

Hungry in the school holidays: Are voluntary schemes the long-term answer?

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Building from what was broken: Coventry named UK City of Culture 2021

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As Coventry proudly prepares to become a cultural capital, Olivia Konotey-Ahulu tours the city's art scene and asks what it can teach the rest of the UK.

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Morocco's cities have one of the highest rates of youth unemployment in the world, with young people struggling to find affordable housing and meet basic needs. In this story, our author spends 24 hours with a group of Moroccan youngsters in Casablanca, hearing how they handle these pressures while looking on the bright side of life, just as the Arabic exclamation "Raha!" suggests.

I am sitting out on the terrace of a beach shack in Casablanca, soaking up the afternoon sun, my hat slightly tilted so I can peer at the last of the golden light setting over the Atlantic Ocean. The café is one of many along the Corniche - a beautiful seaside promenade lined with palm trees along panoramic views of the coastline. The Hassan II mosque - a vestige of Moorish splendour - stands proudly against a dramatic ocean backdrop, undeterred by the waves crashing against its façade.

At the adjacent table, a group of animated boys raucously chit-chat away as they delight in artificially-flavoured, brightly-coloured ice cream purchased for less than a couple of cents. One captures my attention. I notice the shoddy stitch work on his pair of knock-off ' Abibas' sneakers. The worn-out jersey emblazoned ' Wydad AC' - a Moroccan soccer club popular amongst poor kids in a country where sports not only unite but also provide an outlet to day-to-day ennui. He has his feet propped up on the table, imperturbable and nonchalant, almost in defiance of social conventions. He smirks sardonically, as he scrutinises the overly pompous crowd in the more 'high-end' terrace restaurant next door, almost amused at how anyone could take themselves so seriously.

'A Casawi [local from Casablanca]', I deduct from the inflexions in his dialect. Though his unfazed attitude, and how unimpressed by the surrounding opulence, tells me he must hail from a nearby shanty town on the outskirts. I follow his gaze as he pauses from devouring his now-melting Solero sorbet to contemplate the glorious sunset vistas. He scans the bed of sea urchin spines covering the honey-coloured sand. The flock of pelicans in the distance skimming over the water. Then the blue-shuttered homes lining the horizon, before lingering on the tiny barbecue stalls overlooking the ocean where a carousel of fishermen come-and-go carrying nets of gleaming fish. Soon after dawn, locals will be feasting on succulent red mullet for a few dirhams. His mouth trembles at the aroma of frying fish.

He inhales, and as if his heart and soul have just suddenly been permeated with all the joy and gratitude in the world, he exclaims: "Raha!"

Chances are, if you've been to Morocco, you've heard locals use the word "Raha" colloquially. In its simplest form, the Arabic meaning for Raha translates to "Happiness, Freedom, Bliss". It slips out of the mouth in instances of intense rapture - beatitude, ecstasy - and captures the essence of Moroccan culture. A testament to the inexorable naïveté with which we delight in the littlest things. An ode to the veracious way we rejoice in moments of exquisite joy and ravishing beauty, that we know are temporary. An invitation to let oneself be wholly swathed in the present.

I stare at him a bit longer. The human allegory for all of Morocco's forgotten lot. Homeless youth. School drop-outs. Parking boys. Street vendors. Rag-pickers and shoe-shine boys. Cataclysmic levels of despair and misery - softened by youthful roguishness, riotous cheekiness, buoyant modesty and pathological generosity all at once.

The beautiful boys of the Corniche - how do they do it? I follow the boy - Hussein - out of the café and ask if I can tag along the next day. Perhaps shoot some portraits.

8 am-10 am. I am standing at the meeting point Hussein advised, near the railing overlooking the sea where fishermen have started lining up. It's a scorching hot Sunday morning. The beach has already opened for lovers' trysts - a grey-haired couple bikes past us, while a few young paramours have sought refuge under the shady grove, perhaps hoping to escape the watchful eyes of parents. A man is selling candy from an old wooden cart a few meters away; the scent of warm candy floss tickles my senses when I am interrupted by the joyful Hussein. He lets out a sigh of relief, "I am glad I have a reason to leave the house today!"

North Africa has one of the highest rates of youth unemployment rates in the world. With six out of 10 Moroccan youth unemployed or between jobs*, the Corniche provides solace away from the hectic, congested bustle of the medina - a vulgarised term loosely used to refer to poorer neighbourhoods. At home, 23-year-old Hussein explains he spends most days cramped in the one-bedroom unit he shares with his parents and two younger siblings. Exorbitant gas prices also make it increasingly difficult to travel, "I only use my motorbike in case of extreme necessity". Broke, bored and with no realistic prospects other than low-paying menial jobs, Morocco's 'invisibles' linger their days away on the few desolate industrial sites the government hasn't bulldozed yet.

I feel for an entire generation's wasted potential. For the lack of foresight from our nation's leaders. For these youth whose aspirations might never extend past these shores. For those who, in a last act of desperation, embark on perilous sea journeys to a foreign El Dorado in search of what they fantasize to be a better existence. But Hussein reassures me: "For me, just staring at the Corniche opens up an ocean of possibilities. I like to stare at the migrating birds or planes passing by and imagine where they're heading". The power of gratitude... " Raha!"

10 am - 2 pm. We've now set up camp on the beach, where we're joined by a crowd of Hussein's friends. Greek Gods under the Sharqi sun, they've swapped their street clothes for a soccer strip, revealing the width of their musculature. Sun-weathered hair. Skin warm and soaked in iodine. It's a scene stealer. A postcard-from-the past recalling a hedonistic era. The days when the metropolis served as the playground for intellectual revolutionaries. Where Uum Kulthum, the 'Voice of Egypt', once mingled with Samy Elmaghribi, dubbed the 'Morrocan Aynavour'. Where trail-blazing women - Fatema Mernissi, Aicha Chenna, or Touria Chaoui - pioneered feminism and decolonial thought.

As with most Moroccan boys - divine creatures of eternal youth and imperishable beauty - I cannot place their age. They exude a Peter Pan allure; perhaps due to their impetuousness towards authority, or the way they delight in the mundane with juvenile candour. Their big brown eyes, warm like the incandescent hue of melting chocolate, bear an adolescent glimmer. Upon closer inspection, however, the lines of strain around their mouths and eyes, and hardened expression etched on their faces, let transpire years of toil and hardship. Eerily similar to Hussein's story, they tell me the beach is the only place where they're embraced, not cast out. Fancy cafés, which routinely charge steep prices, are out of reach. The swanky malls refuse them entry. "If we're lucky, they allow us to look at designer stores from afar," jokes Achraf, a cheerful 21-year-old aspiring graffiti artist who's been working as a garbage collector since moving from a far-flung village near Ouirgane to the city.

The boys joke about it. But the injustice sits at the limit of humour. With the Corniche just a stone's throw from the port, the spot offers only temporary respite to these youngsters looking to sidestep boredom and misery, drugs or abuse. Yet, as ever, I am stupefied by their disarming dose of self-derision. Something beautifully, achingly familiar about Moroccan resilience; we laugh even as we weep. I stare at Achraf as he sprints towards the ocean, undeterred by the treacherous salmon rocks and viperous tidewater. " Raha! "

2 pm - 7 pm - The rest of the afternoon alternates between viciously competitive soccer games, naps under the palm tree shade, and ambient trip-hop pouring from speakers - North African classics such as reggae, raga and . Occasionally, time momentarily stops at the distant sound of prayer calls from the nearby minaret, gently lulling worshippers into the mosque. We indulge in the devotional adhan melodies; a humbling reminder of Man's cosmic insignificance. Children are playing makeshift games using whichever they can scavenge - sand, sticks, plastic bottles, recycled foam boards. As the sun intensifies and the Atlantic swell grows more ardent, attracting the most intrepid surfers, beach-goers are now struggling to plant umbrellas and plastic chairs on the last strip of the Corniche that's still free to the public.

Later, Hussein offers to fetch a few bocadillos, a hoagie-style street sandwich, from an improvised Mahlaba stationed at the entrance of the beach. In typical Arab fashion, lunch lasts hours, punctuated by a few mint tea interludes. Anass, a former national wind-surf champion from Essaouira and familiar presence around the Corniche, teaches me how to make Sahrawi tea the "proper Amazigh way". I watch the atay boil over hot charcoal, as Anass tells me about his early days as a struggling athlete: "I'd spend hours picking up trash on the beach and bring it to local surf shops. In exchange they'd give me old boards to practice".

These accounts signal that the 'left-behinds' enjoy disproportionally fewer public spaces. A shortage of basic social infrastructure, such as parks, playgrounds and sports facilities amongst other cultural assets. Despite these realities, the boys exhibit a refreshing brand of optimism - one rooted in perseverance and resourcefulness. "We try to make the most of the places available for us to meet and engage in community life." The power of perspective... "Raha!"

7 pm - 12 am. We're wandering the Old Medina and each turn down a new alley provides a fresh photo opportunity: a tightly- packed medley of shops selling everything from fresh spices to used electronics, cafés so packed they're pouring crowds onto the curbs, and tuk-tuks struggling to make their way amidst the clatter of the souk. A patron lures the group inside one of the many hole-in-the-wall bars. Posters of Leon Sultan and Ali Yata - two emblematic figures of the Moroccan Liberation and Socialism party in the 1960's - adorn the walls, giving the place a communist flavour. The owner stands languidly beside us, cigarette protruding from beneath his moustache, reminiscing about a time when political activists and militants secretly convened in his basement to re-imagine a one-world utopia.

As the night progresses, patrons gradually migrate to the pavement where people squeeze around communal tables to mix with drinkers from neighbouring bars. The crowd continues to spill out onto both sides of the street. Most remain outdoors even as it gets chilly, huddling under awnings to nurture their cigarettes, chatting the night away in a blend of French, English and Darija amongst other distinctive Moroccan patois. The sweet symphonies of spoken Berber languages Tashalheet and Talifeet..." Raha!"

1 am - 3 am. It's now late, and the boys - invigorated by the trust built over the day - spend the next hours detailing their day-to-day lives. What comes out are stories of herculean resilience. Perpetual hunger, the struggle for affordable housing and worrying about needs as basic as proper shoes and warm clothing. For Mohcin, a 23- year-old who found himself unexpectedly homeless during the Covid-19 pandemic after his father could no longer support their household, the experience felt disorientating. "As long as I remember, getting access to food and shelter has always been complicated. But since the lockdowns it's become harder." The majority lament similar ordeals, including the lack of wrap-around services to improve social safety. It's a war waged by the dominant class - as the 1% add on to ever-increasing private debt making use of wild speculation, the appropriation of public resources and subsequent breakdown of social protection. "Leaving us [the poorest] to shoulder the cost while a few lucky ones enjoy their fiscal paradise."

They also talk about the implicit, symbolic violence of poverty; beyond "the obvious economic domination", as Hussein puts it. The ostracization and feeling of 'otherness' from having their lack of 'socio-cultural riches' reflected back onto them. Not being 'polished' in the ridiculously pontifical art of conversation and manners, of coteries and associations, of educational prestige and expensive hobbies.

Jaafar, a bold and vivacious 22-year-old who taught himself graduate-level sociology to score a vocational training in a prestigious French business school, describes the incomprehension (and rage) he felt when wealthier peers acted genuinely surprised that Jaafar had never been to Varsity ski. Or that he could not cover the €200 fee for the May ball.

In other instances, he was left out of chess club because they assumed Jaafar "wasn't into that stuff" rather than understanding that 'no one taught me growing up. I did not even know it existed'. He tells of 'cool, rich kids acting poor', "dressed in rags [..] chastising anyone who does not make their own Kombucha", throwing "disgustingly opulent parties that appropriate third-word or ghetto culture" as they drive up gentrification in traditionally poorer neighbourhoods. "All they'll ever know is a fantasy world of great fairs and exhibitions, travels, mundane dinners, enchanted childhoods punctuated by countryside escapes, the joys of organic home-cooked meals, berry picking, mushroom hunting and nocturnal swims [..] What do they know about living off food stamps, cramped in a one-bed house with no distraction or pastime other than wasting your sanity in front of the TV?"

These incidents capture a dark reality; that of a close-knit elite, which exerts - willingly or unconsciously - a form of power that is simultaneously subtle but violent. One which is keenly aware of external allures, socialising together in exclusive settings that serve as points of condensation for polishing networks, and which ultimately functions in 'co-opting mode', deciding who can be part of these circles. What transpires is the absolute nullification of interactions amongst classes. Socio-cultural separatism rooted in totalitarian rejection of anyone perceived as non-valuable "...ultimately rendering us, and our struggle, invisible." A tautological loop whereby some are expected to play a lifetime of catching up, proving their worth to institutions, while simultaneously being shamed for not meeting standards of excellence. Doomed to never belong.

This juxtaposition of economic wealth and social affluence - such as connections in high places - is constantly working insidiously against lower classes. The disengagement from lacking a 'support system' to guide them through school applications, the absence of a 'network' when searching for a job, not knowing how to write a CV. Jaafar looks back on the series of tone-deaf remarks from university peers; being told "he could start his own business to get out of poverty", he's "not a risk-taker" or people looking down on him for working menial jobs instead of pursuing his passion for academia. "These people cannot comprehend that not everyone enjoys a financial safety net to take on jobs you like. I have zero ownership on career or life trajectory." By lacking access to 'social wealth' - like exclusive youth clubs, elite universities or acquaintances in eminent positions from business to politics, arts and letters - the poorest get locked in a disadvantage which may take a lifetime to overcome. "Plus, if you're not of value to them, no one will help. It's all transactional, mobilised in the pursuit of their own interests." No such thing as kindness without return.

The irony lies in the arbitrary nature of such social order. "Some won the genetic lottery, act self-righteous about what they think is a successful life [...] but they could've been born in my slum", opines Hussein. The judgmental attitude amongst the privileged seemingly boils down to a misconstrued belief that "blue collar people lack work ethic", chips in Mohcin. A myth the wealthiest have not only internalised, but actively perpetuate through the toxic positivity mantra 'you can achieve anything, if you work hard enough'.

This idea of meritocracy, illusionary at best, eclipses an uneven playing field: systemic inequalities in access to education and job opportunities; jumping through immigration hoops; food insecurity which keeps a racialized underclass trapped on cheap food and empty calories; financial stress and the harmful consequences - academic, personal and medical - of constantly overriding body and mind limits. All mechanisms of oppression that take place at the intersection of race, gender and social class.

This psychological aspect to precarity and inequality - such as mental health - is discussed at length. The "exploited" know there is nothing natural about class hierarchies. Yet, "to be denigrated [directly or implicitly] profoundly affects the mind and sense-of-self". Some recall the overt disdain of bouncers outside shops and cafés, like 22-year-old Nassim, who was refused entrance into a bakery "despite showing I had the 5 euros to pay for the pastry [..] I just wanted to treat myself to a tart." He details the "tingling in the hands [..] and pit in the stomach from the humiliation" - showcasing the intangible yet pernicious ways class violence manifests in the psyche and physical level.

Lahbib, a teen wise beyond his years, notes that "the more privileged, their bodies become of a certain kind [..] they're marked differently because of the nutritious food they eat". The naïve reflections of a kid going through life always hungry. These socio-economic fractures ultimately morph into physical and spatial distance amongst classes. "The urban space is designed for the rich," interjects Hussein. This is true in regard to housing segregation - "the poorest are rendered invisible in the eyes of the richest" due to virtually zero social interactions across income brackets. As the lifestyle choices open to poor people remain far more constrained than those the wealthier can pursue, the latter are able to monopolise lands to grow their own organic food, privatize oceans for exclusive use, spend time in nature for leisure, prioritise wellbeing through fitness, or escape to far-flung havens in times of crisis - as many have done during Covid-19. A freedom of social and geographic mobility the boys cannot dream of as they endure the patronising tone of employees at the bank or visa centres; the interminably suspicious line of questioning when attempting tasks as simple as applying for a loan or wishing to pursue an education abroad. Visa restrictions mean "I have no control over the jobs I take, let alone moving around for leisure,", says Hussein.

Surprisingly, the boys do not feel they're missing out. They choose to live by the old adage that a good life comes from altruism, purpose and community - with a responsibility to care for each other. The delusive nature of hedonistic happiness, hoarding wealth, and the inherent selfishness in pursuing pleasure at the expense of other human beings and the planet;

"None of this makes sense. A good life is about empathy. That's how you cultivate abundance. That's the power of Raha! "

5 am. Sunrise. The crowd is still boisterous and on the move; relishing the last of Casablanca's al fresco nightlife. Syrian refugees from a war not far away, are ducking between tables, badgering the last-remaining drinkers to buy some roses. A street artist from Cameroon - self-taught as we learn later - adds the final touches to a portrait painted on scavenged wood. A comicotragic picture takes form: 'Ad-dār al-Bayḍā', the arab name for 'Casablanca' in homage to the 'white tower' that guided 19th-century passing sailors who stopped by the metropolis for its art and culture scene - now stands as the parkway of broken dreams for disillusioned artists, poets, writers, musicians. The shattered aspirations of an entire generation.

Yet, here they are, bringing the streets to a standstill until the early hours of the morning. The beautiful sight of the Corniche boys. Melancholic, wistful. Simultaneously nervous but desirous to see what the future holds.

Conspicuously resolute in the face of adversity. Brimming with optimism rooted in the certitude and knowledge - passed on by their elders - that a meaningful life lies in our collective humanity. The power of 'Rahaaaa', the way the boys utter it, extending the 'a' akin to honey melting in their mouth.

'Raha!'... a reminder to lean into the delicious accumulation of small joys, the little things that once were and shall always be. The fresh taste of watermelon on the first day of summer. Post-nap mint tea. The perfume of the sea mingled with the sandalwood and coconut-spiced undertones of sunscreen and monoï oil. The familiar, comforting memory of rattan furniture in my grandmother's house. The olfactory titillations of grilled fish and kofte bocadillos. The last choco-almond Cornetto on the beach. Birds chirping in the morning, mosquito bites on the way back from a friend's house on a humid summer evening. Open-air terraces and crowded cafes, all connected by disorientating tunnels and lit in startling colours. Long, easy summer nights as streets come alive with revellers and peddlers... "Raha!" as we fall in love with Casablanca again.

It's in these ephemeral moments, transient morning scenes - both frenetic and fickle - that Casablanca's beauty is revealed. The city can be seen in the lights reflecting off the Atlantic Ocean, its expansive sweep from beyond the Corniche and to the lighthouse. As clear as the bluest sky. Freed from its severity. A picturesque vista. At times, the free oscillations of the sea mirror "my hopes and fear that time might escape through my fingers", muses Hussein. "But mostly hopes and dreams"... a final testament to Moroccans' unwavering optimism.

* This statistic is from an interview with Dr Driss Ouaouicha, president of Al Akhawayn University. There is a lack of accessible data on youth unemployment in Morocco. This report found four out of five unemployed Moroccans are aged 15-34, while this report estimated youth unemployment at 32% in 2022. This report by the International Labour Office (ILO) also finds high rates of youth unemployment, particularly in Morocco's urban areas.
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The magic of saying "Raha!" - Lacuna Magazine

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Morocco's cities have one of the highest rates of youth unemployment in the world, with young people struggling to find affordable housing and meet basic needs. In this story, our author spends 24 hours with a group of Moroccan youngsters in Casablanca, hearing how they handle these pressures while looking on the bright side of life, just as the Arabic exclamation "Raha!"

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Exactly a year ago, university student Nis Warsame was due to return home to the UK from their internship in Leipzig on the day Germany announced lockdown (Monday 22 nd March 2020). Stuck in a foreign country and relying on their German-speaking friends for updates, they describe how they coped in isolation so far from home.

LEIPZIG, GERMANY - I wake up without my alarm clock. I wake up too early. It's 07:54, I fall asleep again. It's 09:34. The sun can no longer be ignored as it floods through my thin curtains. A chorus of birds can be heard from the window I left slightly ajar last night. I can't sleep any longer but it's at least an hour before I'll rise. Things move much slower these days and I force myself to at least mimic this pace - so the days don't feel as painfully long.

After an hour of scrolling, checking social media, replying to friends and family, organising video dates etc. I get up.

I have kept a few parts of my daily routine, pre-lock-down, for some semblance of normality. I immediately go to the kitchen for my morning coffee, and to smoke my first poorly rolled cigarette of the day.

I've only been smoking since August, when I moved to Leipzig, and I've noticed my habit increasing and how it's becoming my crutch for getting through this time. When I roll my cigarettes, I can never quite get the tobacco evenly distributed throughout the paper.

The end result almost always is an awkwardly shaped banana. Straight at the beginning but curved at the end. I've had months of practice and still can't get it right. I've given up. It still smokes okay, I guess.

After my coffee and cigarette. I go to the toilet, I reach for paper and notice that we are running on our last loo roll. I groan and also realise after today, I will have run out of food. I need to go outside.

It has been three days since the lockdown was announced. It started at 00:00 hours, nine hours before I was due to leave Leipzig for home, which is Birmingham, UK. Stopping briefly in Amsterdam, the city of my final traineeship for my year of working abroad.

Having completely muted all COVID-19 news, which was rather easy considering I don't speak German, I rely solely on the word of my German flatmates that grocery shopping is a permitted reason for an excursion to the outside. They also informed me that it actually was not a quarantine which is what I initially thought, but only a lockdown. So you could still go outside for your grocery shop, take walks, engage in some solitary sports, and if you had to work this was also allowed.
***

It's now been a month since the lockdown started. In the beginning, my days were mostly filled with lounging about, worrying about how I didn't account for a global pandemic in my finances, and looking forward to my daily walks.

I don't typically plan my routes. It adds more excitement to the dull humdrum of lockdown life. Leipzig is a big city and actually underpopulated due to a mass exodus of its citizens to West Germany, after the country reunified, and the population never recovered. So, fortunately there's plenty of space to roam around without worrying too much about getting too close to others.

When I describe Leipzig to people back home, it can be perfectly summed up by the following words: "Bristol - but on crack." It's the liberal bubble of East Germany, with a more radical version (hence the "on crack") of Bristol's co-operative and hipster spirit, distilled in an extraordinarily German manner.

With housing projects (squatting the hundreds of abandoned buildings in the city) on almost every other street, and the nearly complete absence of familiar franchises such as McDonald's, or Burger King as the locals prefer to support the independent shops. And political demonstrations, pre-COVID19, a weekly routine for the city. But, if you pan your out too far, this liberal bubble is burst as you realise that Leipzig is based in Saxony. The state which is also Germany's heartlands, and headquarters, for the Alternative für Deutschland, AfD, Germany's far-right party.

If I'm on a call with a friend, to add some excitement to my walks, I'll let my pals back home choose my directions. "Okay, Munira," I say. "Where shall I go, left, right or straight?" I'm not so familiar with Leipzig, so after a three-hour call, I usually find myself rather lost or having gone round in circles.

Or I'll go to a park if I am sick of the same four corners of my room in my shared flat. The weather is usually nice, in the upper 10s or low 20s celsius.

As I make my way the park, I have noticed that streets are covered now with public health posters. This is one tell-tale sign of what's changed. Gone are the campaign posters for the mayoral election, which were up a week before lockdown. Now the lampposts are adorned with punny state posters warning one that you should "Share stories, not Corona" ("Teilt Stories, nicht Corona").

But at least there is some continuity, the bakeries are open and the familiar smells of German bread and Döner still waft down the streets. And the scenes at the park are always interesting. Many people have taken up sport. I rotate between my favourite spots at the park.

This week it was a bench facing the gates of Rococo-esque German stately manor. To my side, there is a woman with blonde hair in her, I guess, mid-20s wearing fitness gear, who stops jogging down the path leading to my spot, to use the empty bench beside me for step-ups.

I, meanwhile, proceed to smoke my eleventh cigarette of the day. It's late in the afternoon. I feel guilty, I should probably take this time to exercise more.

I take some time to think about this and the thought's nice. But I know it won't be converted into action.

It's getting chilly, too chilly for me in my summer get-up: a blue shirt, my thrifted Lee Riders denim jacket, and grey jogging bottoms. I don't bother too much about what I wear these days, I haven't worn a bra since the lockdown began last month.

Back in my home in the kitchen, I am talking with my flatmates, a place where I spend most of my time now, eating, socialising and doing what work I can from home. Our second-hand chairs are always in need of being repaired, and the seat falls off the chair's frame for the umpteenth.

My flatmate Basque jokingly remarks how the state of our kitchen is like entropy. One meaning of entropy, which is the same in German, is a "lack of order or predictability" and that's precisely how life feels these days.

But, mostly, life in lockdown is just fucking uninteresting and I've just run out of tobacco, again.

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Life under lockdown in East Germany - Lacuna Magazine

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Student Nis Warsame describes finding themselves stuck in Germany after lockdown was announced on the day they were due to fly back to the UK. Relying on their German-speaking friends for updates, they describe how they coped in isolation so far from home.

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Finding the right words: Translating the Covid-19 pandemic in Rohingya refugee camps

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Finding the right words: Translating the Covid-19 pandemic in Rohingya refugee camps

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How do you convey vital health messages when the terms simply don't translate? With the extra pressure of an internet blackout in Rohingya refugee camps, Jennifer Chance finds organisations such as Translators Without Borders are carefully considering local dialects and biking across the camps with loudspeakers.

Hasan, a Rohingya refugee, recalls there was confusion in Bangladesh's refugee camps at the beginning of the pandemic.

"We didn't know what to do," he says. "In our culture, we depend a lot on the stories told by our elders, but this was a new situation. No one had stories about Covid-19 as no one knew what it was."

In early April 2020, the government imposed a complete lockdown in Cox's Bazar district, home of 34 refugee camps. NGO presence was slashed by 80%, making it increasingly difficult to reach refugees with information and support.

In late 2019, the Bangladeshi government also instituted an internet ban and phone restrictions for the refugee camps as a "security measure", further hindering communication efforts during the pandemic.

Language barriers, lack of NGO presence and the internet ban in refugee camps meant that good information was hard to come by. As a result, the first reaction towards the virus was nonchalance. Community responses were linked to their religion and the belief that they would not get sick.

"Nothing will happen to us... Allah will save us."

There are almost 900,000 refugees in Bangladesh as of March 2021 and the camps in Cox's Bazar are some of the most densely-populated in the world, with up to 10 family members living in a single room.

This makes it nearly impossible to adopt social distancing.

Access to health services, despite NGO efforts, is lacking. As a result, hygiene and sanitation are significant problems even in the best of times.
Read more: The defiant Rohingya of Bradford
May 2020 saw the first case from a refugee camp. After the virus began spreading more rapidly, refugees started seeing people being taken to isolation centres.

At this point, rumours and fear began to spread. By June 2020 - the peak of the pandemic in Bangladesh - a majority of the refugees avoided getting tested because they worried they would be detained or killed. As a result, among the 900,000 residents, only 339 tests were conducted - and of those 9% tested positive.

"Rohingya have seen people or those who tested positive taken to isolation centres. This led to several rumours which affected the community and their way of thinking. Some rumours were so serious it made people stop visiting clinics and hospitals, as they heard that if they test positive, they will be taken far away from their families so that they cannot spread the virus," says Pearly Luthfun, a research officer with Translators Without Borders.

The scarcity of factual and well-translated information surfaced as a significant hindrance to pandemic prevention efforts.

Translating to refugee communities

Even in the digital age, where a push of a button can translate a phrase into hundreds of different languages, the nuances of dialogue cannot always be captured by computer-generated translations.

There may be a lot of similarities between Rohingya and Chittagonian (a nonstandard form of Bengali), but the small details matter. Misusing certain terms or words can heighten refugees' distrust in both the speaker and the information being shared.

The job was therefore more complicated than simply translating a language - NGO researchers needed to understand the jargon.

Rohingya speakers, for instance, would use "coronavirus" or "virus" to refer to the pandemic, but the new term "Covid-19" would not generally be understood.

"Social distancing" was vague and would require being translated into "one should keep a distance from others".

Words like "hand sanitiser" also did not exist, and speakers would have to use the Rohingya expression for "medicine to cleanse hands".

To assist NGO and community volunteer efforts, Translators Without Borders compiled a language guide to ensure that helpers could effectively communicate information which could save lives.

Other NGOs such as IOM (International Organisation for Migration) and UNHCR prepared recorded messages and videos containing translated Covid-19 information.

Rising Up

When Hasan heard the translated messages compiled by researchers and NGOs, he wanted to make sure the rest of the community had access to the same information.

During the peak of the pandemic, Hasan spent every day cycling across the camp with a loudspeaker.

"In the beginning, some people thought it was crazy," he says. "Tom toms [horse carts] have a hard time accessing the camp's narrow alleys, but with my bicycle I was able to reach everyone, even those who couldn't leave their shelter because of age or medical condition."

The messages played over the loudspeaker were recorded in Rohingya and spoken by a Rohingya person, which improved confidence in the quality of the information.

"[The refugees] felt that the messages were coming from within the community and not told by an outsider. Kids would even run up behind me and repeat the words heard on the loudspeaker," says Hasan.

Mohammad Jaber, another health volunteer who is affiliated with the UNHCR, lives in Cox's Bazar and uses resources such as flipcharts and videos to appeal to the local community.

"We have demonstrated handwashing methods, social distancing techniques, and other health habits to follow while cooking and dishwashing during household visits," he says.

He visits 20 households every day to conduct group sessions on Covid-19. When he finds people exhibiting Covid symptoms, he refers them to the health centre.

Both volunteers have found that people in the refugee camps have gradually become more receptive to Covid prevention messages.

At the same time, while the efforts may have combatted misinformation and resulted in higher testing in the following months, there is still plenty of room to grow. Without the internet, the NGOs and local communities have had to resort to a manual awareness-raising process, and this means that there is a loss in efficiency that may hinder the timeliness of the information.

The number of positive cases has been low in Bangladesh's refugee camps, which may be linked to the low levels of testing. In March 2021, only 432 refugees in the Cox's Bazar district are confirmed Covid cases. The World Health Organization has only collected 30,000 tests from Cox's Bazar since March 2020, a small proportion of the almost 900,000 Rohingya.
Read more: GALLERY - The human and environmental toll of mass Rohingya migration
Door-knocking and sharing health information with technology has further supported these efforts but it may still be insufficient. And because of the dynamic nature of the virus, the approach may need to be updated and new information spread again and again.

Jaber says that the current lack of cases may be driving complacency in the community again, even though the need to remain vigilant remains high.

"Not everyone is very serious about the Covid-19 in the camps since the rate of infection is not very high. Many people tend to ignore the health habits...I always encourage people to follow health measures to keep themselves and others safe and healthy."

A ray of hope?

Vaccine rollouts have begun in Bangladesh in late January, and the government has expressed willingness to provide vaccines for Rohingya refugees.

Last month (February 2021), the government of Bangladesh released a draft proposal and budget plan with the WHO regarding the Rohingya crisis. This report confirms the country's willingness to include refugees in national vaccination strategies.

The proposal, however, has not been finalised and does not have a set timeline. This means that there is still uncertainty over when the rollout will come to pass - or whether it will end up happening at all.

The process of coordination and communication between the government and the camps, is also patchy at best and may hinder the success of these programs.

A Refugees International report states that the government's communication with the refugee community "has been limited to poorly coordinated, last-minute information campaigns". This, coupled with the internet ban, will form a serious obstacle in rolling out the vaccine.

NGO translation efforts have surely alleviated matters, but these translations only go so far if there is not enough information being made available to the community leaders in the first place. The lack of official NGO presence may also result in complications with coordinating and monitoring the logistics of vaccine rollouts.

In this recent article in The Diplomat, writers and researchers Simon Tran Hudes and Kyra Jasper explore these concerns, stating that the Rohingya refugees " risk being forgotten " in the vaccination drive.

Still, the Rohingya people remain hopeful about the potential of a vaccination programme for refugees and Jaber believes it would be welcomed by the camps' residents.

"I heard people talking about the vaccine... whether there will be any vaccination campaign in the camp or not, and so on. Someone asked me to inform him if there is any vaccination opportunity," he says. "They are interested to keep themselves safe."

Read more:

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Finding the right words: Translating the Covid-19 pandemic in Rohingya refugee camps

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How do you convey vital health messages when the terms simply don't translate? With the extra pressure of an internet blackout in Rohingya refugee camps, Jennifer Chance finds organisations such as Translators Without Borders are carefully considering local dialects and biking across the camps with loudspeakers.

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The American hunger-industrial complex: Do big businesses have a vested interest in food banks?

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The American hunger-industrial complex: Do big businesses have a vested interest in food banks?

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Currently touring the UK with his book, Big Hunger, community food campaigner Andy Fisher of Portland, Oregon, claims the relationship between corporations and food aid in the US is not always as healthy or as charitable as it seems.

A few Christmases ago, my eight-year-old son Orion came home one afternoon quite excited: "There's a food drive in my school. The class that brings in the heaviest food and raises the most money will win a pizza party." He promptly started scouring our kitchen cabinets for the heaviest food he could find.

A week or so later, as I was heading out to the grocery store, he urgently implored me to pick up some more heavy food, as his class bin remained only half full. Orion really wanted that pizza party.

As I was at the grocery store, considering the dollar-per-pound ratio, I realised that his food drive reminded me of the fundamental weakness of the charitable food system. Food banks typically measure their effectiveness by the weight of the food they distribute and the number of people they serve. The heavier the food, the better. The more people they serve, the more they appear to be successful.

Yet, pounds distributed and people served do not measure impact, but only activity. Food is the solution to hunger only in the most illusory of ways. Just giving away food does not resolve the underlying problems that lead people to be food insecure in the first place. If all food banks do is treat today's hunger, but not its underlying causes, charity perpetuates itself. A free box of food every month keeps people at hunger's edge, doing little to help them avoid coming back the next month.

Despite their ineffectiveness in truly solving the hunger problem, food charity has been growing by leaps and bounds since the early 1980s, when food banks took hold as a community-based answer to food stamp cutbacks in the midst of a deep recession. At last count, in the US, some 200 food banks, 60,000 food pantries and soup kitchens served 4 billion meals to 46 million people in 2016.

Food banks have become a semi-permanent feature of the non-profit landscape in virtually every American community.

In the US, food banks have become inextricably linked to Corporate America and specifically to "Big Food". Post-retail and post-manufacturing food waste has made up the vast majority of the food that food banks distribute (although with waste reduction strategies, food banks are moving toward purchasing food on the secondary market). Corporate dollars have been a key source of funding for food bank operations and equipment. And it is not just the food industry that supports food banks, but companies in virtually every sector of the economy. In 2015, the main 11 national anti-hunger groups reported receiving food and cash from over 150 corporations. By far, Walmart [owner of UK supermarket Asda] has been the largest funder to the anti-hunger sector, donating $2.6 billion in food and cash from 2010-2015. In many communities, food bank trucks plastered with Walmart logos roam the streets transporting excess food. Yet, Corporate America does more than just provide food and money to food banks. They are an important source of volunteers, especially board members. Some 22% of food bank board members work for Fortune 1000 companies (or their privately owned equivalent), while only 0.07% represent labour unions. Their presence can be problematic.

As a result of these relationships, many of the largest food banks in the country have become, in the words of one former East Coast food bank CEO, "mainstream, respectable and rich." Salaries of over $200,000 are common for these executive directors, with the upper tier earning over $300,000 per year. Food banks in America have few incentives to actually end hunger, when their bonuses are tied to the amount of food they distribute, not to reductions in the food security rate in their communities. So as not to offend their bi-partisan donor base, the vast majority of food banks only dip their toes into political waters, advocating for federal commodities and tax deductions that benefit their bottom line.

At a national conference of social justice-oriented anti-hunger groups held recently in the Seattle area, food banker after food banker mentioned how the lack of understanding and support of their board members was the key barrier for them to engage in progressive policy advocacy and other justice oriented work.

One Washington state food bank employee expressed the disconnect between her organisation's white board and its primarily immigrant clientele as the primary factor in reinforcing her food bank's contribution to structural racism.

Most food banks do not prioritise accountability to their clients when looking for new board members. For example, low-income individuals don't meet the needs of food banks that use their boards as fundraising entities, whose responsibilities are bluntly phrased as "give, get, or get off." As sophisticated organisations with multi-million dollar budgets and significant infrastructure, food banks seek professional board members with the requisite experience to provide effective governance. Given their close relationships with the food industry, it should come as no surprise that they look to colleagues from these firms to serve on their boards. Likewise, as food banks have much in common with the grocery business, board members employed in this sector can help food banks leverage needed technical support and resources to professionalise their operations.

Board members from the grocery industry can also carry over their company's financial interests into their volunteer position in food banks. The profitability of the supermarket industry remains highly dependent on keeping a lid on labour costs. The industry's representatives on food bank boards have in some cases opposed them from undertaking public policy advocacy to raise the minimum wage. That does not mean that all employees of major corporations who sit on food bank boards have right-wing political beliefs. Nor do corporate food bank board members hold their positions as representatives of their employers. Most do not typically check in with their bosses, except perhaps on rare occasions, to discuss how they should vote on organisational matters. Yet it is highly unlikely that, in their volunteer roles, they will contravene their company's interests. Kevin Bott, the former chief information officer of Ryder Inc. explains: "Senior management of top companies is already heavily Republican. Middle management might be more liberal, but they will not do anything to embarrass their employer, or that will cause them problems at work, if it [their vote on a controversial matter] were to go public."

Food bank leaders differ on the actual influence that corporate employees have on their boards. Joyce Rothermel, the former CEO of the Greater Pittsburgh Community Food Bank notes that she wanted the food bank to support a living wage ordinance, but she refrained from bringing it to her board because she knew they would shoot it down.

Gloria McAdam, former CEO of Foodshare in Hartford, Connecticut, agrees: "It's an easy sell to this board to be doing SNAP [Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Programme] outreach and advocacy on SNAP. But it is more challenging to convince them that we should work on health care and minimum wage. They [her board members] are business people with their own business objectives, and they don't see these things so well in that regard." As a result, she did little work on these issues, and avoided conflict with her board. But she imagines that "if I were too out there on living wages, I would get backlash. Walmart is now the biggest donor to food banks."

Down in Louisiana, Natalie Jayroe, the head of the Second Harvest Food Bank in New Orleans, asserts that the corporate employees on her board are not any different from any other board member in terms of their political beliefs: "Nor have I ever had any corporation on my board that threatened to cut off food if we took a certain political position." She believes that: "there are very few boards that would give food bankers leeway to fight for a living wage."

It's difficult to determine the impact of businesspeople on these organisations' public policy advocacy choices. But food banks' undeniably corporate-heavy boards do indicate the extent to which these organisations have become social service agencies rather than agents of social change.

Regardless of their exact impact on advocacy stances, the composition of food bank boards brings up the broader issue of accountability. Most food banks are not membership organisations, and as such do not have a formal accountability mechanism beyond the legal requirements demanded of non-profit organisations. While the strong representation of the business community and upper middle class professionals on food bank boards enhances the financial viability of these organisations, it does create an accountability vacuum for them. Without a significant representation of food pantry staff and their clients on food bank boards, food bank decision making will be driven by the economic interests of organisational self-perpetuation rather than the political exigencies of hunger elimination.

Hunger relief has become quite a marketable cause because of hunger's universal immorality. Supporting these efforts is a safe way for corporations to enhance their reputation as a caring company without threatening their profits. The truth however is that they receive quite a haul for their spare change.

Cash donations earn them a tax deduction. They get an estimated $200 million per year in tax deductions for the food they donate (at halfway between the retail and wholesale value). They save on garbage disposal costs. In 2015, food manufacturers sold $630 million of processed foods to the US Department of Agriculture for distribution to food banks. Companies get an uncalculated amount of earned media for their good deeds, bolstering their reputations, which in turn has been shown to boost their stock valuation. And in the case of Walmart, the company has deployed its charitable deductions as a strategic tool to neutralise opposition to its entrance into major cities from which it has been shut out because of the company's exploitative practices.

This nexus has become a self-perpetuating hunger-industrial complex, akin to the military industrial complex that President Eisenhower warned about in 1961. There are few incentives to actually seek to end hunger, as it would be bad for business on all levels.

Despite the unfortunate damage that food charity causes to the dignity of many of their clients, they possess incredible untapped potential as a force for progressive politics. With claims that 80-100 million people are participating in food drives annually, and 46 million are receiving food while millions are volunteering, we can reason that one third to one half of the country's 320 million people are involved with food charity at some point during the year (either as a donor, volunteer or recipient). Were food banks to educate and mobilise even a modest percentage of these individuals toward political action, their voices - linked to others on the left - could shift the public debate around such issues as minimum wage, affordable housing and universal healthcare. This untapped potential can be seen in one example from 2013, when the House of Representatives passed a bill that took food stamps out of the Farm Bill for the first time since 1973. The Chief Operating Officer of the association of food banks Feeding America stood up at a conference and proudly mentioned that they had organised 5,000 calls to Congress in support of SNAP. Impressive, until one considers that this translates into only one of every 10 food pantries mobilising one person to make a phone call. Had they been more focused on organising their constituents, they could have made 50,000 calls happen without much effort. They are hardly a political powerhouse like the National Rifle Association.

Still, a growing number of food banks - perhaps one third to one half - are changing their operations to move towards community-building, economic development, health promotion and human capital development approaches. While they are not shedding their connections to their corporate donors (one of the nation's most progressive food bankers, Susannah Morgan of Oregon Food Bank sheepishly declared at a conference that it was her job to accept as much of Walmart's excess food and money as possible) food banks are doing more than just nibbling around the edges. Some are redefining their effectiveness around client health promotion. Many are increasing their distribution of produce, while a growing number are rejecting junk food and soda from their distribution stream. Others are implementing job training programmes, community gardens, community organising campaigns, and catering businesses, or are engaged in providing their clients with wrap-around services to help them escape poverty. These changes need to be accelerated through institutionalising support and information sharing about successful practices.

One example of this approach is Foodlink in Rochester NY. This food bank utilises its resources to support the local agricultural economy and to create jobs for food bank clients. Since 2014, they have purchased 3.8 million pounds of apples from local growers, employing residents to cut and bag them and sell them to schools. It's a win-win-win, putting money into the pockets of farmers, training the unemployed, and helping kids eat healthily. The revenue from the apple sales is reinvested in their catering business for local schools and social service agencies. In addition, they operate community gardens for families who have recent immigrated.

Despite food bankers' growing awareness that you "can't food bank your way out of hunger," embracing economic justice-related policies remains their final frontier. Most are too fearful of alienating their donors and Board members to venture too far down the justice path. Even the VP of Ending Hunger at Feeding America, arguably the person charged with having the most ambitious vision for the food banking network, rejected the idea that food banks should be more politicised in a recent conversation with me. Food banks in conservative areas can do great work without straying into such ideological landmines, she contended. What remained unsaid however was that the current approach of food banking is itself highly political, reinforcing the status quo of neoliberal politics that undermines the more effective and larger response of the federal government to food insecurity.

This aversion to embracing a stand for social and economic justice represents a core limitation for food banks to actually end hunger. As one of the keynote speakers at the Seattle- area conference mentioned above, African-American food activist Malik Yakini articulated very clearly this contradiction "You can't be anti-hunger and pro-capitalism."
Images from the US Department of Agriculture. MORE ON FOOD BANKS Beyond the Food Bank 1 and Beyond the Food Bank 2: Our series exploring the increasingly complex web of initiatives and organisations trying to tackle food poverty in the UK. Foodbank Futures: What is causing food bank use to rise in the UK? We hear from Trussell Trust managers and volunteers. The Foodbank Dilemma: We visit three UK foodbanks and consider the wider social and political issues surroundings the provision of emergency food.

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Do businesses and corporations have a vested interest in US food banks?

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Food campaigner Andy Fisher claims the relationship between corporations and food aid in the US is not always as healthy or as charitable as it seems.

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Free school meals: Why did MPs vote against helping hungry children like me?

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Free school meals: Why did MPs vote against helping hungry children like me?

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Seventeen-year-old Ellie Beckett shares her experience of free school meals, including feelings of stigma and shame . As the UK faces its worst cost-of-living crisis in 40 years, she asks why footballers are campaign ing for child rights and against food poverty , while MPs turn away.

Ellie Beckett is the winner of the University of Warwick's sixth annual Writing Wrongs Schools' Competition, organised by the Centre for Human Rights in Practice. This is her winning article which she reworked with Lacuna Magazine during a paid summer internship.

Across England, children are eligible for free school meals because they are living in poverty . It's a statistic that is difficult to digest. And the Covid pandemic and cost-of-living crisis are making it worse.

As one of the 1.9 million, I witness first-hand the media and the government's neglect of young people's views about young people's issues. It's easy to quote statistical reports, but the fact is, these numbers have faces and voices and they deserve to be seen and heard.

In the fifth richest country in the world, the next generation of workers are going hungry, and social stigma leaves us too embarrassed to talk about it or to ask for more.

And so, we are unified only by this terrible triad: shame, hunger, and disappointment.

Shame

I remember overhearing my parents' conversation that day. Their low muffled voices coming from the kitchen. When my curiosity took me into the room, I found myself speaking in the same hushed tones, asking quietly: 'What will that mean?'

My dad had been made redundant, and my mom's wage would be stretched too tightly to cover our costs, so we had to tighten our belts and that meant relying on benefits.

I was 15 and, like any other teenager, I just wanted to fit in. The last thing I wanted was to be seen as different, to be 'othered'. So, I didn't tell anyone.

When it was lunch time, I would eat slowly to make a small amount last longer.

Then after finishing, only half-satisfied, I went to class. I avoided my teacher's eyes when my stomach rumbled - just in case he .

Cafeteria prices can be a source of stigma and anxiety for pupils like me. I've seen people being asked to put food and drink back on the shelves because the balance on their cashless catering accounts didn't cover the cost. I can remember my cheeks flaring red when the dinner lady said I didn't have enough money to pay for my meal. I get the standard allowance of £2.30 a day. If a pasta pot costs £2 and I can't buy anything for 30p, that money is lost. I drink tap water.

In truth, at first, I didn't even tell my friends because I knew they weren't on free school meals and I didn't think they'd understand. I bit my tongue when we walked past the Job Centre building, and they made a passing joke.

Not long after that conversation with my parents, I came across a video on YouTube of someone criticising Universal Credit and Free School Meals to add salt to the wound. I read a comment and it felt like someone had just spat on me, as if I were something dirty on the bottom of their shoe:

"These people think they're married to the state. Lazy, good-for-nothings who won't get off their arse for anything other than a ciggie or booze. They should spend their drug money on feeding their kids!" Was this what people thought? My teachers? My friends?

Was this harmless passing comment really harmless?

Because it hurt.

While I am fortunate enough to receive state-provided lunches - and I am grateful for it - I also feel the prejudice and social stigma that come with it.

Thinking back now, I know it's never a child's place to worry about food or where the next meal will come from. That should be the responsibility of the Houses of Parliament.

Hunger

After lunch, every school day in the UK some of those 1.9 million children (and some of those who don't qualify or don't claim for free school meals but are still living in poverty) begin anticipating their next proper meal, which for many is a nail-biting 24 hours away (72 hours if you count the weekend). With more and more parents struggling to put sufficient food on their child's plate due to the cost-of-living crisis, this governmental duty appears to be going ignored. Parents face an even greater challenge to put nutritional food on the plate as it's cheaper to feed kids a 99p microwavable burger than a healthy home-cooked dinner.

The long wait over a weekend for a nutritional, hot meal in term time is tough. But it is even tougher in the school holidays, especially during the long summer break, when the next free school meal is six weeks away. So, how did hungry children cope in lockdown?

When COVID-19 hit, it exacerbated the country's weaknesses and revealed an ugly underbelly. The Food Foundation found that the 7.6% of households who were experiencing food insecurity pre-pandemic rose to 9.7% in the first half of 2020. Redundancies, rising taxes, fuel and food prices left families desperate, leading to a plea for free school meals to be extended over the holidays. Why did it take a campaign by a celebrity footballer, Marcus Rashford, who was a recipient of free school meals himself, for anyone to take notice? And why were these desperate pleas voted against by Tory MPs?

Map showing every firm helping with free school meals across the UK after Marcus Rashford's campaign.

Rishi Sunak (who was then Chancellor) rejected the proposition ahead of the autumn budget in October, claiming that the end of furlough meant other support schemes such as free school meals provision outside of term time, should end too. He said families could rely on holiday and activities clubs instead.

Sunak was just one of 320 Conservative MPs (plus one independent) who voted against extended free school meals across the summer holidays.

After the vote, Marcus Rashford said: " A significant number of children are going to bed tonight not only hungry but feeling like they do not matter because of comments that have been made today."

Perhaps he was referring to comments like those of MP Ben Bradley who took to to say that "ever- extending freebies are a sticking plaster not a solution" and that it "increases dependency". Bradley's words have pejorative undertones, reinforcing the misconception that free school meals recipients are "sponging from the state".

This is why we expanded FSM, introduced breakfast clubs, increased school budgets and made the welfare system more generous incl increasing UC during COVID. We're doing A LOT to help the most vulnerable children, but ever- extending freebies are a sticking plaster not a solution. https://t.co/Bs4MEJDtJF

- Cllr Ben Bradley MP (@BBradley_Mans) October 21, 2020

If the immorality of hungry kids isn't enough to persuade you how desperately change is needed, there are also worrying long-term effects of hunger on society in general.

have shown that a malnourished child is more likely to be aggressive, hyperactive or depressed in class if they have not eaten enough that day. These conditions disrupt a child's schooling - with hunger hindering healthy brain development.

These poor school outcomes affect access to higher education and then, to higher-paying jobs. So how can these hungry children escape the inevitability of going on to raise hungry children themselves?

Poverty becomes cyclical and what a vicious circle it is.

These children deserve deserve the cycle to be broken because our children deserve it too.

We've been deluding ourselves for too long that child hunger is not a 21st-Century issue. It is.

Disappointment

Between April 2020 and March 2021, the Trussell Trust gave out 2.5 million emergency food parcels . A total of 980,082  of these parcels went to children. The needs were clear.

In March 2020 the government stepped in to set up a food box scheme as a lifeline for the clinically vulnerable. But when the boxes were delivered, pictures soon appeared on social media, showing frugal parcels.

Two contractors, Bidfood and Brakes, were awarded a £208 million contract (without a tender process ) . They delivered boxes that had a 69% mark-up, yet did not satisfy minimum nutritional standards - which is of particular importance for those with dietary needs, such as people with cancer. Outrage and disappointment followed when pork was delivered to Muslims, while others received boxes of rotten fruit and vegetables.

And here's what one Local Authority thinks passes for £30, five days (!!!!!) of food. Spot the difference. pic.twitter.com/HGhBDfE8L8

- Jack Monroe (@BootstrapCook) January 11, 2021

I now fear how inflation and the cost-of-living crisis will take their toll on the £2.30 daily allowance. Will students on free school meals be able to buy a basic snack or a drink like the rest of their friends?

Low-income families in the UK pass up around £ 400 a year by not participating in the free school meals programme. Ten years later, this is still an issue and there's no sign of change.

The power to create meaningful, lasting change lies not with schools or celebrities but with politicians. When we look back in another 10 years' time, what will we see?
*** The 320 Conservative MPs who voted against the extension of free school meals in the impassioned commons debate (October 2020):
Nigel Adams (Selby and Ainsty), Bim Afolami (Hitchin and Harpenden), Adam Afriyie (Windsor), Imran Ahmad Khan (Wakefield), Nickie Aiken (Cities of London and Westminster), Peter Aldous (Waveney), Lucy Allan (Telford), David Amess (Southend West), Lee Anderson (Ashfield), Stuart Anderson (Wolverhampton South West), Stuart Andrew (Pudsey), Edward Argar (Charnwood), Sarah Atherton (Wrexham), Victoria Atkins (Louth and Horncastle), Gareth Bacon (Orpington), Richard Bacon (South Norfolk), Kemi Badenoch (Saffron Walden), Shaun Bailey (West Bromwich West), Duncan Baker (North Norfolk), Steve Baker (Wycombe), Harriett Baldwin (West Worcestershire), Steve Barclay (North East Cambridgeshire), Simon Baynes (Clwyd South), Aaron Bell (Newcastle-under-Lyme), Scott Benton (Blackpool South), Paul Beresford (Mole Valley), Jake Berry (Rossendale and Darwen), Saqib Bhatti (Meriden), Bob Blackman (Harrow East), Crispin Blunt (Reigate), Peter Bone (Wellingborough), Peter Bottomley (Worthing West), Andrew Bowie (West Aberdeenshire and Kincardine), Ben Bradley (Mansfield), Karen Bradley (Staffordshire Moorlands), Graham Brady (Altrincham and Sale West), Suella Braverman (Fareham), Jack Brereton (Stoke-on-Trent South), Andrew Bridgen (North West Leicestershire), Steve Brine (Winchester), Paul Bristow (Peterborough), Sara Britcliffe (Hyndburn), James Brokenshire (Old Bexley and Sidcup), Anthony Browne (South Cambridgeshire), Fiona Bruce (Congleton), Felicity Buchan (Kensington), Robert Buckland (South Swindon), Alex Burghart (Brentwood and Ongar), Conor Burns (Bournemouth West), Rob Butler (Aylesbury), Alun Cairns (Vale of Glamorgan), Andy Carter (Warrington South), James Cartlidge (South Suffolk), William Cash (Stone), Miriam Cates (Penistone and Stocksbridge), Maria Caulfield (Lewes), Alex Chalk (Cheltenham), Rehman Chishti (Gillingham and Rainham), Jo Churchill (Bury St Edmunds), Greg Clark (Tunbridge Wells), Simon Clarke (Middlesbrough South and East Cleveland), Theo Clarke (Stafford), Brendan Clarke-Smith (Bassetlaw), Chris Clarkson (Heywood and Middleton), James Cleverly (Braintree), Thérèse Coffey (Suffolk Coastal), Damian Collins (Folkestone and Hythe), Alberto Costa (South Leicestershire), Robert Courts (Witney), Claire Coutinho (East Surrey), Geoffrey Cox (Torridge and West Devon), Virginia Crosbie (Ynys Môn), James Daly (Bury North), David T C Davies (Monmouth), James Davies (Vale of Clwyd), Gareth Davies (Grantham and Stamford), Mims Davies (Mid Sussex), Philip Davies (Shipley), David Davis (Haltemprice and Howden), Dehenna Davison (Bishop Auckland), Caroline Dinenage (Gosport), Sarah Dines (Derbyshire Dales), Jonathan Djanogly (Huntingdon), Michelle Donelan (Chippenham), Nadine Dorries (Mid Bedfordshire), Steve Double (St Austell and Newquay), Oliver Dowden (Hertsmere), Jackie Doyle-Price (Thurrock), Richard Drax (South Dorset), Flick Drummond (Meon Valley), David Duguid (Banff and Buchan), Iain Duncan Smith (Chingford and Woodford Green), Philip Dunne (Ludlow), Mark Eastwood (Dewsbury), Ruth Edwards (Rushcliffe), Michael Ellis (Northampton North), Tobias Ellwood (Bournemouth East), Natalie Elphicke (Dover), George Eustice (Camborne and Redruth), Luke Evans (Bosworth), David Evennett (Bexleyheath and Crayford), Ben Everitt (Milton Keynes North), Michael Fabricant (Lichfield), Laura Farris (Newbury), Simon Fell (Barrow and Furness), Katherine Fletcher (South Ribble), Mark Fletcher (Bolsover), Nick Fletcher (Don Valley), Vicky Ford (Chelmsford), Kevin Foster (Torbay), Mark Francois (Rayleigh and Wickford), Lucy Frazer (South East Cambridgeshire), George Freeman (Mid Norfolk), Mike Freer (Finchley and Golders Green), Richard Fuller (North East Bedfordshire), Marcus Fysh (Yeovil), Mark Garnier (Wyre Forest), Nusrat Ghani (Wealden), Nick Gibb (Bognor Regis and Littlehampton), Peter Gibson (Darlington), Jo Gideon (Stoke-on-Trent Central), Cheryl Gillan (Chesham and Amersham), John Glen (Salisbury), Robert Goodwill (Scarborough and Whitby), Michael Gove (Surrey Heath), Richard Graham (Gloucester), Helen Grant (Maidstone and The Weald), James Gray (North Wiltshire), Chris Grayling (Epsom and Ewell), Chris Green (Bolton West), Damian Green (Ashford), Andrew Griffith (Arundel and South Downs), Kate Griffiths (Burton), James Grundy (Leigh), Jonathan Gullis (Stoke-on-Trent North), Luke Hall (Thornbury and Yate), Stephen Hammond (Wimbledon), Matt Hancock (West Suffolk), Greg Hands (Chelsea and Fulham), Mark Harper (Forest of Dean), Rebecca Harris (Castle Point), Trudy Harrison (Copeland), Sally-Ann Hart (Hastings and Rye), Simon Hart (Carmarthen West and South Pembrokeshire), John Hayes (South Holland and The Deepings), Oliver Heald (North East Hertfordshire), Chris Heaton-Harris (Daventry), Gordon Henderson (Sittingbourne and Sheppey), Darren Henry (Broxtowe), Antony Higginbotham (Burnley), Damian Hinds (East Hampshire), Kevin Hollinrake (Thirsk and Malton), Philip Hollobone (Kettering), Adam Holloway (Gravesham), Paul Holmes (Eastleigh), John Howell (Henley), Paul Howell (Sedgefield), Nigel Huddleston (Mid Worcestershire), Eddie Hughes (Walsall North), Jane Hunt (Loughborough), Jeremy Hunt (South West Surrey), Tom Hunt (Ipswich), Alister Jack (Dumfries and Galloway), Sajid Javid (Bromsgrove), Ranil Jayawardena (North East Hampshire), Mark Jenkinson (Workington), Andrea Jenkyns (Morley and Outwood), Robert Jenrick (Newark), Boris Johnson (Uxbridge and South Ruislip), Caroline Johnson (Sleaford and North Hykeham), Gareth Johnson (Dartford), David Johnston (Wantage), Andrew Jones (Harrogate and Knaresborough), Fay Jones (Brecon and Radnorshire), David Jones (Clwyd West), Marcus Jones (Nuneaton), Simon Jupp (East Devon), Daniel Kawczynski (Shrewsbury and Atcham), Alicia Kearns (Rutland and Melton), Gillian Keegan (Chichester), Julian Knight (Solihull), Greg Knight (East Yorkshire), Danny Kruger (Devizes), Kwasi Kwarteng (Spelthorne), John Lamont (Berwickshire, Roxburgh and Selkirk), Robert Largan (High Peak), Andrea Leadsom (South Northamptonshire), Edward Leigh (Gainsborough), Ian Levy (Blyth Valley), Andrew Lewer (Northampton South), Brandon Lewis (Great Yarmouth), Ian Liddell-Grainger (Bridgwater and West Somerset), Chris Loder (West Dorset), Mark Logan (Bolton North East), Marco Longhi (Dudley North), Julia Lopez (Hornchurch and Upminster), Jack Lopresti (Filton and Bradley Stoke), Jonathan Lord (Woking), Craig Mackinlay (South Thanet), Cherilyn Mackrory (Truro and Falmouth), Rachel Maclean (Redditch), Alan Mak (Havant), Kit Malthouse (North West Hampshire), Anthony Mangnall (Totnes), Scott Mann (North Cornwall), Julie Marson (Hertford and Stortford), Theresa May (Maidenhead), Jerome Mayhew (Broadland), Karl McCartney (Lincoln), Mark Menzies (Fylde), Johnny Mercer (Plymouth, Moor View), Huw Merriman (Bexhill and Battle), Stephen Metcalfe (South Basildon and East Thurrock), Robin Millar (Aberconwy), Maria Miller (Basingstoke), Amanda Milling (Cannock Chase), Nigel Mills (Amber Valley), Andrew Mitchell (Sutton Coldfield), Gagan Mohindra (South West Hertfordshire), Robbie Moore (Keighley), Penny Mordaunt (Portsmouth North), David Morris (Morecambe and Lunesdale), James Morris (Halesowen and Rowley Regis), Wendy Morton (Aldridge-Brownhills), Kieran Mullan (Crewe and Nantwich), David Mundell (Dumfriesshire, Clydesdale and Tweeddale), Sheryll Murray (South East Cornwall), Andrew Murrison (South West Wiltshire), Robert Neill (Bromley and Chislehurst), Caroline Nokes (Romsey and Southampton North), Jesse Norman (Hereford and South Herefordshire), Neil O'Brien (Harborough), Guy Opperman (Hexham), Owen Paterson (North Shropshire), Mark Pawsey (Rugby), Mike Penning (Hemel Hempstead), John Penrose (Weston-super-Mare), Chris Philp (Croydon South), Christopher Pincher (Tamworth), Rebecca Pow (Taunton Deane), Victoria Prentis (Banbury), Mark Pritchard (The Wrekin), Jeremy Quin (Horsham), Will Quince (Colchester), Tom Randall (Gedling), John Redwood (Wokingham), Jacob Rees-Mogg (North East Somerset), Nicola Richards (West Bromwich East), Angela Richardson (Guildford), Rob Roberts (Delyn), Laurence Robertson (Tewkesbury), Mary Robinson (Cheadle), Andrew Rosindell (Romford), Lee Rowley (North East Derbyshire), Dean Russell (Watford), David Rutley (Macclesfield), Gary Sambrook (Birmingham, Northfield), Selaine Saxby (North Devon), Paul Scully (Sutton and Cheam), Bob Seely (Isle of Wight), Andrew Selous (South West Bedfordshire), Grant Shapps (Welwyn Hatfield), Alok Sharma (Reading West), Alec Shelbrooke (Elmet and Rothwell), David Simmonds (Ruislip, Northwood and Pinner), Chris Skidmore (Kingswood), Chloe Smith (Norwich North), Greg Smith (Buckingham), Henry Smith (Crawley), Julian Smith (Skipton and Ripon), Amanda Solloway (Derby North), Ben Spencer (Runnymede and Weybridge), Mark Spencer (Sherwood), Alexander Stafford (Rother Valley), Andrew Stephenson (Pendle), Jane Stevenson (Wolverhampton North East), John Stevenson (Carlisle), Bob Stewart (Beckenham), Iain Stewart (Milton Keynes South), Gary Streeter (South West Devon), Mel Stride (Central Devon), Rishi Sunak (Richmond (Yorks)), James Sunderland (Bracknell), Desmond Swayne (New Forest West), Robert Syms (Poole), Derek Thomas (St Ives), Maggie Throup (Erewash), Edward Timpson (Eddisbury), Kelly Tolhurst (Rochester and Strood), Justin Tomlinson (North Swindon), Michael Tomlinson (Mid Dorset and North Poole), Craig Tracey (North Warwickshire), Anne-Marie Trevelyan (Berwick-upon-Tweed), Laura Trott (Sevenoaks), Tom Tugendhat (Tonbridge and Malling), Martin Vickers (Cleethorpes), Matt Vickers (Stockton South), Theresa Villiers (Chipping Barnet), Robin Walker (Worcester), Charles Walker (Broxbourne), Jamie Wallis (Bridgend), David Warburton (Somerton and Frome), Matt Warman (Boston and Skegness), Giles Watling (Clacton), Suzanne Webb (Stourbridge), Helen Whately (Faversham and Mid Kent), Heather Wheeler (South Derbyshire), Craig Whittaker (Calder Valley), John Whittingdale (Maldon), Bill Wiggin (North Herefordshire), James Wild (North West Norfolk), Craig Williams (Montgomeryshire), Gavin Williamson (South Staffordshire), Mike Wood (Dudley South), William Wragg (Hazel Grove), Jeremy Wright (Kenilworth and Southam), Jacob Young (Redcar), Nadhim Zahawi (Stratford-on-Avon).
And one Independent MP
Julian Lewis (New Forest East).
Read more:
All illustrations by Oreofe Morakinyo

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Free school meals: Why did MPs vote against helping hungry children like me? - Lacuna Magazine

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Seventeen-year-old Ellie Beckett shares her experience of free school meals, including feelings of stigma and shame. As the UK faces its worst cost-of-living crisis in 40 years, she asks why footballers are campaigning for child rights and against food poverty, while MPs turn away.

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Cuba combats ‘vaccine apartheid’ to protect countries in the Global South against Covid-19 

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Cuba combats ‘vaccine apartheid’ to protect countries in the Global South against Covid-19 

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When the Covid-19 pandemic hit and wealthy countries assured poorer countries that 'help is on the way', instead of waiting for those promises to materialise, Cuba got to work. Belinda Rawson explores how one of the poorest nations in the world is developing vaccines and sharing them where they're needed most.

Cuba is one of the poorest nations in the world, yet resilience and scientific accomplishment in healthcare is never in short supply. This Caribbean nation's innovative Covid-19 vaccine development program and willingness to share its intellectual property and technical know-how, in spite of experiencing its own severe and sustained economic hardship, is providing a lifeline for not only Cubans, but also for many people living in the Global South.

The director-general of the World Health Organization (WHO) has referred to this nationalism as " vaccine apartheid " and condemned it as a " catastrophic moral failure " of our time leading to a " two-track pandemic ". Vaccine apartheid has hampered the equitable distribution of Covid-19 vaccines on the international scale needed to end the pandemic and prevent the emergence of new variants of the highly infectious disease. These practices have also been described by scholars as " a microcosm of neocolonialism that hurts us all".

Human rights defenders and champions of global health equity have condemned these nationalistic practices. They say they not only worsen the divide between rich and poor countries, causing global inequalities to be exacerbated and leading to human rights violations , but also subvert notions of international solidarity and collective responsibility during the Covid-19 pandemic.

Since 2020, countries in the Global South have been advocating for a "waiver" to a World Trade Organization (WTO) agreement that restricts poorer nations' access to vaccines. Waiving patent rules under the Trade Related Aspects of Intellectual Property Rights (TRIPS) Agreement would permit the scale-up of manufacturing of Covid-19 vaccines, increasing global accessibility beyond the borders of wealthy states. After almost two years, WTO member states have agreed to a TRIPS waiver, however, campaigners argue that it has shaped up very differently to what was originally sought and is "absolutely not the broad intellectual property waiver the world desperately needs ".

The international COVAX initiative led by the WHO, Gavi and the Coalition for Epidemic Preparedness Innovations (CEPI), was developed with admirable intentions to "accelerate the development, production, and equitable access to Covid-19 tests, treatments, and vaccines" globally.

But bilateral agreements struck between wealthy countries and pharmaceutical giants have undermined the scheme's success, and resulted in tokenistic gestures of "goodwill" by wealthy countries "donating" stockpiled vaccines with a short shelf life to poorer ones with little notice, making it difficult, if not impossible, for the latter to use those doses to vaccinate their populations .

In this context, Cuba has emerged as a new protagonist in the story of infectious disease control, becoming a crucial player in the global fight against vaccine apartheid by making moves to vaccinate the Global South against Covid-19.

Cuban vaccines for Covid-19 and human rights

Cuba's ability to import Covid vaccines for its own population, like the majority of other Global South countries, was severely hampered by the economic and market forces that enabled vaccine apartheid to take root. While wealthy countries paid lip service to poor countries intimating that 'help is on the way', instead of waiting for those promises to materialise, Cuba got to work.

It pooled resources and capitalised on its prestigious biotechnology sector by developing five Covid-19 vaccine candidates (Abdala, Soberana 1, Soberana 2, Soberana Plus, and Mambisa). Clinical trial data indicates that the Soberana vaccines have very high efficacy against Covid variants ( ). Being subunit vaccines, all of the Cuban vaccines contain highly purified proteins of the pathogen and are deemed to be much safer than whole-pathogen approaches .

These vaccines do not need to be kept at super low temperatures, are inexpensive to produce, and can be easily manufactured at scale , which make them ideal candidates to dispense throughout the Global South.

By mid-2022, of Cuba's population (of more than 11 million people) had been vaccinated against Covid-19, and as Cuba is now one of the most vaccinated countries in the world with its astonishingly high rates of inoculation ( doses administered per 100 people), it has far exceeded the benchmarks of many wealthy nations for Covid-19 vaccines.

fair pricing and equitable distribution globally (offering Covid-19 vaccines to poor countries for free or at cost),

its pledge to full technology transfer in order to enable producers in low- and middle income countries to manufacture Cuban vaccines for their local populations,

and its commitment to not enforce exclusive patent rights on its Soberana 2 vaccine which it considers 'open source'.

Cuba has itself been subject to by human rights organisations for restrictions of basic civil liberties, with critics highlighting widespread government repression of dissent, restrictions on freedom of expression, arbitrary detention of political activists and discrimination against LGBTI people.

While Cuba's overall human rights record is therefore much debated, its achievements in providing vaccines that are important in realising the right to health for not only its own citizens but for those in many other developing countries are laudable.

How did Cuba become a trailblazer in vaccine development?

Cuba has historically enjoyed a stellar reputation for demonstrating solidarity with its Global South comrades in providing emergency health care and facilitating access to locally produced essential medicines and health technologies despite its own limited resources.

Cuba's biotechnology successes are in part attributable to former President Fidel Castro making health care " a defining characteristic of its Revolution " by investing early in biotechnology and scientific education in the early 1950s. The country's investment in social services and health care are unrivalled in the developing world.

During the 1970s, Cuba sent its first doctors to , and by 1982, many thousands of Cuban doctors, nurses, and other healthcare workers were serving in 26 countries across Africa, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia . Many more were on the ground during the height of the 2014-16 Ebola crisis in West Africa , and almost 40 countries across five continents received Cuban medical support during the Covid-19 pandemic . This commitment to equality in healthcare has saved an immeasurable number of lives globally.

How is Cuba planning to protect countries in the Global South against Covid-19?

Cuba has also to share knowledge and technical know-how with Global South countries to enable local manufacture of the vaccines and will assist countries with building medical capacity and training for vaccine distribution by deploying its Henry Reeve International Medical Brigades. has already become the first country to begin local production of the Cuban Soberana 2 vaccine at scale, with many more including Vietnam, Argentina and Mexico, to shortly follow.

While Cuba has been the first country in Latin America and the Caribbean to develop its own vaccine candidates for Covid-19, many more countries in the Global South are anticipated to shortly follow suit. The (similar to the Pfizer-BioNTech and Moderna vaccines for Covid-19) locally. UK organisation mRNA vaccine technology transfer hub in South Africa has, with WHO's support, already made headway in supporting vaccine manufacturers from Argentina, Brazil and to produce mRNA vaccines prised out of the hands of the profit-obsessed transnationals " and into the hands of those who need it most. Global Justice Now has praised this as a huge development allowing for revolutionary medical technology to be "

Will other countries in the Global South follow Cuba's lead?

While Cuba has not been the only country to engage in vaccine diplomacy during the pandemic, its commitment to share vaccines and technology with Global South countries will assist in combatting vaccine apartheid. Cuba's ingenuity in developing Covid vaccines was necessitated by a range of factors−its tumultuous past, beginning with its violent colonisation; the continued trade embargo by the US leading to the political and economic isolation of Cuba; and the monopolisation of Covid-19 vaccines by wealthy nations to the detriment of poorer ones. Its Covid-19 vaccine successes were also possible due to Cuba's prestigious biotech sector and extensive experience in vaccine development, and its inclination to assist other countries in this time of need is likely to be grounded in its long history of medical diplomacy.
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Featured Image by Ricardo IV Tamayo on Unsplash

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Cuba combats 'vaccine apartheid' to protect countries in the Global South against Covid-19

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When the Covid-19 pandemic hit and wealthy countries assured poorer countries that 'help is on the way', instead of waiting, Cuba got to work. Belinda Rawson explores how one of the poorest nations in the world is developing vaccines and sharing them where they're needed most.

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Complexo do Alemão, Rio de Janeiro - State of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

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The right to health in times of crisis: ‘Necropolitics’ in Brazil’s favelas during the Covid-19 pandemic

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The right to health in times of crisis: ‘Necropolitics’ in Brazil’s favelas during the Covid-19 pandemic

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Who decides who has the right to health and the right to life in the favelas of Brazil? And what impact did Covid-19 have on the 16 million people living in favelas? After spending two years in Brazil, and visiting Complexo do Alemão favela in Rio de Janeiro, PhD student Maria Weickardt Soares wrote this story as a response to the annual Lacuna Writing Competition.

The day I met Anna was a typical warm spring day, humid and sunny, heralding the upcoming summer season. As I left the city centre of Rio de Janeiro and walked into the favela, accompanied by a local guide, it felt like I was entering another world.

The beautiful weather could not hide the pain this urban area had experienced over the years. The brightly coloured façades were flaking. Power lines were patched together in a makeshift fashion. Dirt piled up on the streets. Nevertheless, the unique spirit of this urban area was undeniable, not least the solidarity between its residents.

Anna sat on her desk, nervous yet eager to talk, emotions bubbling.

She had just learned that a friend of hers, a father of seven children, had died. He had no money to buy canned gas so, out of necessity, he made fire with alcohol. "And the father of this family died this morning because he was burned so badly, while attempting to cook food for his children," she says. "That is inhumane."

This is just one of many similar stories from the favelas.

Anna works as a volunteer in one of many non-governmental organisations and initiatives in Complexo do Alemão, a favela in the north of Rio de Janeiro. Like most of the volunteers, Anna grew up in a favela herself. She knows the community, the people who shape these urban spaces, and the severe inequalities these communities have to face in their day-to-day lives. And, like many of the residents, she has never moved away from her home favela and now raises her two children here.

Anna is one of 16 million so-called living in one of the more than 11,000 favelas in Brazil, representing around 8% of the country's population .

Having grown up in Germany, Brazil has become my second home. During my time living in this Latin American country, I inhaled its beauty and was able to witness the population's hardships. Particularly Dilma Rousseff's impeachment and, two years later, Bolsonaro's election were turning points in my relationship with Brazil and made me a vital defender of human rights. The encounter with Anna taught me how deeply embedded social inequalities still are in Brazilian society and how the right to health can be jeopardised due to political ideologies and power struggles.

In the Covid-19 pandemic, favelas became a tragic symbol of the political failure of the Bolsonaro government. A right-wing government that prioritised economic profit and the reinforcement of the Brazilian state over human rights, with dire consequences. Anna said: "Many favela residents have no more money to spend. If you have to choose between eating and buying hand sanitiser, what will you do? You're going to buy food, right?" This trade-off between food and protection from a potentially fatal infectious disease was not only decisive when purchasing groceries. It was also on the minds of the hundreds of thousands of favela residents who are in informal labour.

They had to choose between no income or the risk of bringing home an infectious disease. Many chose the latter, due to a lack of savings, the fear that starvation would be worse than the health consequences of Covid, or simply because they were not sufficiently informed - or were even misinformed - about the dangers of catching the novel coronavirus.

Bolsonaro himself was the source of much of this fake news ; including the claim that hydroxychloroquine, a medicine used against malaria, has the potential to combat this infectious disease. An unproven yet potentially dangerous treatment - spread through media, government statements, and press conferences.

Brazil's public healthcare system is the largest in the world, with about 180 million service users covering around 70% of the Brazilian population . But in this time of crisis, the service failed to protect the country's most marginalised - people who have often been forgotten in national welfare programmes for decades. The former and just recently re-elected president Lula tried to change this situation. Bolsa Família , a welfare programme introduced during his first term in office, was intended to lift families out of abject poverty and enforce their rights to education, health and food. Bolsa Família was effective. Since then, Brazil's middle class has grown tremendously ; yet Brazil has continued to be a country of extreme inequality, and this has only become more visible during the pandemic .

Laura (not her real name), a public health professor from the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ) pointed out that even before Covid-19, Brazil's public healthcare system - the Sistema Único de Saúde (SUS) - was systematically underfunded and its health distribution networks were inefficient. Health experts like Laura also argue that the Brazilian government, including Bolsonaro and his predecessors, had failed to address the actual root causes of health inequalities, including socioeconomic and racial discrimination, throughout the years. Health is hence inseparable from other societal issues. Other - economic, political and social - decisions, accordingly, may have a tremendous impact on health policies and thus on the health of millions of the Brazilian citizens. The main of these shortcomings are the favelas. Laura asked not to be named out of concern that sharing her opinion could have a negative impact on her work. The Brazilian population, even in academic institutions, is politically deeply divided - into both Bolsonaro supporters and opponents.

Despite being more visible and gaining a voice - thanks to Lula and the work of local NGOs, the church, and volunteers like Anna - certain problems persist for . - a term used to refer to the inhabitants of impoverished neighbourhoods located on the outskirts of large cities - is fraught with major challenges, but is also deeply rooted in Brazilian history. At the beginning of the 20 th century, favelas developed as informal settlements of liberated slaves after the abolition of slavery in 1888. Individuals without any formal education, money, or savings, from African descendant, and with no future prospects.

Since that time, these settlements have evolved into flourishing communities; yet the average still faces the same types of discriminations as one hundred years ago - based on skin colour, employment status, education, and - not least - living background. Being a is thus a stigma in itself. Figures from favelas in Rio de Janeiro indicate that around half of the population does not have access to running water. Around 60% of the favela residents say they have provided a fake address when filling out application forms. And, even though most favelas are within a two-kilometre radius of a hospital, hospitals in these urban areas are commonly understaffed and badly equipped.

Anna says: "We have a hospital that doesn't have an intensive care unit bed. It is very bad care for cases of Covid, and many people die without access to health, even to basic services."

While the country's richer people are able to counterbalance this with private insurance, the majority of favela residents - with below-average salaries or no income at all - are entirely dependent on SUS, feeding into the development of a two-tier healthcare system. A complementary health system that is common in many countries worldwide; yet Bolsonaro's neoliberal healthcare strategy pushed the privatisation of health care services and hence the emergence of a dual class system at its extreme. Around 47 million people were covered by private insurance at the beginning of the pandemic - a new record.

However, many experts agree that without SUS, healthcare in Brazil would be significantly worse. In particular, vaccination programmes, including the Covid-19 campaign, have proven how vital the system can be when used purposefully and supported by national and sub-national policies.

The right to health is enshrined in the Brazilian constitution of 1988 (in section II (da saúde) in accordance with article 12 of the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights and the Human Rights Declaration of 1948). It is explicitly stated that the state must do everything in its power to minimize the population's risk of contracting a disease and to provide equal access to health care for all citizens. So, why were favela residents denied this right during the peak of the pandemic?

Many volunteers blame the inactivity of the Bolsonaro government on the former President's antipathy to poor populations and his stereotypical views on .

Laura, the UFRJ public health professor describes this as "necropolitics" - a term introduced by Cameroonian intellectual Achille Mbembe , and an extension of Michel Foucault's concept of biopolitics.

It describes a form of governance in which power is used to influence who can live and who must die. Those who were left to die under the Bolsonaro government were the favela residents.

Individuals who have been stigmatised throughout their lives and deprived of their rights on the grounds of socio-economic status, heritage, and - in many cases - ethnicity.

Laura says: "It is a policy that aims at the death of poor people and the valuation of the rich." The Bolsonaro government, the UFRJ professor concludes, made it explicit during the Covid pandemic that health is a choice and not a right.

Disregarding the right to health as attributed to all Brazilian citizens by written constitution, Bolsonaro put millions of lives in danger.

The government's necropolitics also brought ramifications for domestic politics through the empowerment of illegal organisations. Long before the pandemic, multiple operations aimed to put an end to illegal activities and crime in the favelas of Rio, particularly in the wake of the 2016 Summer Olympics and the 2014 Football World Cup.

But now, drug lords have once again taken control of these urban spaces. Instead of abandoning the residents during the pandemic, local gangs actively tried to improve the situation in favelas .

They began to organise the distribution of food and medicine and to enforce Covid lockdowns, thereby evolving into custodians in the absence of a just welfare state. It seemed altruistic; yet, doubts were cast on the motives, suggesting the loss of potential customers and the ongoing battle with the government over control in favelas were the key drivers.

After all, says Laura, favelas are places "that do not receive quality attention from the state, but instead are subject to constant police interventions." An ongoing battle, which appeared to have a certain winner with the pacification of the biggest favela in Rio de Janeiro . Yet it seems that the Covid-19 pandemic has altered this course, and the old power balance between the state and the drug lords was restored.

Back in Complexo do Alemão, for Anna and her volunteer colleagues, the incentives for helping their people are quite different. They know one another and they know the neighbouring families that mourned and are still mourning the loss of loved ones. Though having an accurate account of the number of cases and deaths due to Covid-19 is almost impossible. It is not only because there is a high number of unrecorded individuals living in favelas. Rather, the Brazilian government just lost count of all the fatalities, especially in areas that are mostly outside the scope of political consideration.
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Beatrice M. Spadacini and Stefano Schirato

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The right to health in times of crisis: 'Necropolitics' in Brazil's favelas during the Covid-19 pandemic - Lacuna Magazine

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Who decides who has the right to health and the right to life in the favelas of Brazil? And what impact did Covid-19 have on the 16 million people living in favelas?

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Inequality is skin-deep: The Buruli ulcer in Benin

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Inequality is skin-deep: The Buruli ulcer in Benin

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Inequality is skin-deep: The Buruli ulcer in Benin - Lacuna Magazine

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AFRICA’S MYSTERIOUS SKIN Like snakeskin. That’s how your skin looks, with a kind of diamond pattern, when you have a skin graft done in Africa. That’s if you’re lucky and they have the little stretching machine that makes holes in the skin cut from you so it can then be stretched like a mesh over... Read more »

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"The Trussell Trust partners with churches and communities to open new foodbanks nationwide. With over 420 foodbanks currently launched, our goal is for every town to have one." Trussell Trust Website

When I think about foodbanks now, more than anything else, I think about Louise.* Louise was the first person I ever met who talked to me about her experiences of using a foodbank. Six months later, it is still my meeting with Louise I return to time and again. As if making sense of that meeting can somehow help me unravel all the issues that I have wrestled with in the months that have followed, as I have visited foodbanks, talked to the people who run and use them, interviewed food experts, and read books, reports and articles, trying to understand the foodbank phenomenon.

I'm having lunch in the Hope Centre Café in Hillfields, a deprived area of North Coventry. The sun is streaming through the glass frontage into the clean airy space where we sit eating at sleek, moulded corporate tables and chairs. It feels like the kind of café you might find at a small conference centre. But the café is about to be transformed. Once a week, on a Friday afternoon, it becomes a place where local residents can come and receive a few shopping bags of provisions. This is what I now understand to be a Trussell Trust 'foodbank centre'.

Hugh McNeil, the project manager of Coventry's foodbank network is with me. With us are a journalist and photographer from the Independent newspaper. The café is already full of volunteers, bustling around. The atmosphere is upbeat, energised. We finish eating, and Hugh suggests we take a brief tour before the Centre opens its doors.

We leave the café and go down a narrow corridor, and arrive at a large storeroom. It's full of middle-aged women talking animatedly and sorting through provisions stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling. Tins of soup, packets of pasta, cartons of juice. Too many different foodstuffs for me to make sense of it all. My eyes are drawn instead to the numbers scrawled in black highlighter pen everywhere.

"What are the numbers for?" I ask Hugh.

"Those are the use-by dates." He replies. "So we know when we have to use the food. You don't want to give out food that is good until 2017, and then find that you have to throw away other tins and packets that have already gone off."

"Most of the food comes from collections from Tesco, Morrisons and Sainsbury's," Hugh tells me. "The supermarkets allow us to give their customers a shopping list and we're then relying on the generosity of the people of Coventry to go in and buy a couple of extra items and give them to us. Just the annual collection we do at Tesco for three days every July should bring us in around ten tonnes of food from across the city."

"People do still donate at churches and other places. We literally have ten tonnes of beans. We have a 'bean room' at our central storehouse. People for some reason associate a foodbank with beans. But actually what we need is coffee, sugar, UHT milk, tinned fruit, tinned fish. A whole range of things. So we try and get the shopping list to people and ask them to buy from it. But whatever you do, you still get lots of beans."

We leave the storeroom and go through a large hall at the back of the café, and out into a small back yard. A lorry is parked in the middle of the yard and younger men and women are sweating as they heave down crates. They are jobseekers, getting some work experience as foodbank volunteers. The crates are full of fresh fruit and vegetables. Hugh says they've been donated by Costco.

When we get back to the café, there are people sitting at almost every table. I quickly scan the room: these are the people who have come to use the foodbank. Some are already sipping tea and coffee while they wait. At one table a volunteer is asking a couple if they have children. Then "Are you a vegetarian?" She ticks boxes on a form, and soon scuttles off to prepare three days' worth of provisions, tailored to the couple's needs.

There is a table set out by the entrance of the café, full of forms and papers. Tony, the volunteer co-ordinator, is greeting two new arrivals. A young clean-shaven man leads an older, grey-haired, battered-by-life-version-of-himself to where Tony stands. Tony greets them kindly and asks the younger man who referred them to the foodbank.

There's a moment of startled silence. Then the younger man says gruffly, "It's not for me, it's for my dad", and looks down at the floor. The colour flushing his face makes clear his embarrassment.

The older man appears confused until his son tells him to hand over the piece of paper he's holding in his hand. It transpires he's been sent to the Foodbank by a debt councillor at Whitefriars, Coventry's largest provider of social housing. Tony takes a note of some numbers. All seems in order. He tells them to take a seat and someone will be over to see them shortly.

A typical Trussell Trust Foodbank three day food package for a single person: 1 small cereal, 2 standard soup, 2 small beans, 2 small tomatoes, 2 small vegetables, 2 small meat, 1 small fish, 2 small fruit, 1 rice pudding, 1 packet biscuits, 500g sugar, 500g pasta, 40 bags tea/coffee, 1 carton juice, 1 milk UHT

Hugh explains to me how the system works. "People are referred by specialist agencies from across the city," he says. "We work with over 250 agencies including churches, schools, housing agencies, GP's surgeries and hospitals. Each person is entitled to 3 vouchers over a six month period. And each voucher entitles them to 3 days of food. We are there to help people with short-term crises. We aren't the long term solution to people's problems."

Hugh asks me if I want to meet some of the clients. I hesitate. More than anything else, this is what I have come for: to talk to people who use the foodbank, to understand why they have come and how they feel now that they are here. But suddenly I feel awkward and unsure, as if I'm pushing myself into the midst of a very private and sensitive process. At the same time, I see the journalist and photographer buzzing round the room talking to people and asking for pictures. I steel myself and agree to Hugh's offer.

He approaches a small, slight young woman, who is sitting crumpled and small on a chair in the corner. They talk. Even at a distance, I can tell that his infectious enthusiasm is beginning to win her over. She slowly unfurls, brightening and then, a nod. Hugh beckons me over, introduces me; Louise is happy to have a chat.

"School holidays are the hardest time because you have to feed your children three times a day. That's why I am coming here now," she begins.

"The foodbank is wonderful. Normally I shop only from the value range and often I go round a couple of different supermarkets for the cheapest bargains so I can make my money stretch. And it's all tinned and frozen stuff - beans, pasta, that kind of thing. No fresh fruit or vegetables.

"Normally I eat porridge in the morning to fill myself up and then often I don't eat at all myself in the evenings. But today is the start of the kids' holidays and so they don't get the school meals, they have to eat all their food at home and I just can't manage, and so the foodbank is a lifeline."

Louise is a single mother with two young children. She has always found it a struggle to make ends meet, she says, and then she lost her Employment Support Allowance and Disability Living Allowance and was deemed fit for work. There is a garbled tale of an interview that went horribly wrong. She looks down at her feet.

She brightens again as she tells me about winning her appeal against the decision. But the appeal took six months and she's still waiting for the payout. In the meantime, she has struggled to feed and clothe her two children and pay all the bills. The school holidays and the extra financial pressure they bring were the final straw. That's what brought her here today.

At one point the journalist from the Independent comes over to see if I'm finished. She sits for a while, notepad poised. But she realises that we have wandered off foodbanks and onto our very different experiences of parenthood, and she drifts off again. Louise grows in confidence as she tells her story. I wonder if, as a single mother, Louise ever talks about her problems to anyone other than Jobcentre staff, lawyers and healthcare professionals.

The only other way to get something nice like that is to talk to the local shoplifter who can get you a nice piece of meat at a price you can afford.

"The Foodbank is great because there are a couple of nice puddings and a pizza in there, some cornflakes and chocolate biscuits. Stuff I would never normally be able to buy. The only other way to get something nice like that is to talk to the local shoplifter who can get you a nice piece of meat at a price you can afford. People do use him, but you can't really blame them. Like my neighbours. They've been to the foodbank too. They both work. But they never know how much work they're going to get, and sometimes it's just not enough. It's horrible not being sure you can put food on the table for your family."

And then a smiling foodbank volunteer comes over, weighed down with shopping bags. Louise's eyes light up as the woman puts the bags down in front of her. They sag outwards to display their contents. I see Louise catch sight of the bright shiny wrapping paper of two Easter Eggs perched on a solid base of soup, beans and pasta. She blinks back the tears. For a moment I think she will break down and fall into the volunteer's arms. But she settles for a series of heartfelt 'thank yous'. The volunteer smiles again, a real joyful bottom-of-the-heart-smile this time.

Louise thanks me for the chat. We awkwardly wish each other well for the future. And she is off, out of the bright glass doors of the café and up the street. I am left thinking about Louise's story, the story of her neighbours, and the feeling of joy we all felt when her food arrived.

Hungry Britain

There have always been people in Britain who are hungry. And for centuries there have been attempts to feed them. The soup kitchens of the late 18 th Century, which sprung up as a response to the ruptures caused by the industrial revolution, were replaced by the workhouses of the 19 th century. Today charitable food aid comes in many shapes and sizes. From school breakfast clubs to evening soup runs, from lunches at drop in centres for rough sleepers to "meals on wheels" for the elderly. Food aid is provided in a myriad of different forms to an equally wide range of different groups across modern Britain.

Oxfam and Church Action on Poverty have calculated that more than 20 million meals were given to people in food poverty in 2013-14 by the three main food aid providers. But that does not take into account any of the foodbanks, soup kitchens, breakfast clubs and other forms of food aid that are run locally. Professor Liz Dowler is one of the authors of a report that recently reviewed emergency food aid provision in the UK for the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs. The report concludes that "it is impossible at present to give an accurate estimate of the numbers of people fed by charitable food aid providers in the UK..."

The truth is we simply have no idea of the extent of who is providing emergency food aid and who is receiving it. Professor Dowler explains to me that this situation is part of a wider problem inherent in trying to understand issues of food insecurity.

"Not having enough food is a very private issue. It is a private sector issue. Food production, distribution and even the regulation of food does not involve the government a great deal. It is an issue of private shame. People eat mostly within the home, and so what people eat, and the ways in which it is inadequate, people keep to themselves. And it is an issue of private suffering. If you are not getting enough food, or the right kind of food, you absorb the misery yourself. The cost is embodied by you. It is your body that becomes unhealthy."

Food poverty is not then a natural headline-grabber. But recently the rise of the Trussell Trust Foodbank Network has brought the issue of hunger and its causes into the public consciousness.

The Trussell Trust was launched in 1997 by Paddy and Carol Henderson to improve conditions for homeless children in Bulgaria. While fundraising back home in Salisbury in 2000, Paddy received a call from a local mother whose children were going to bed hungry that night. He realised she wasn't alone and so he started Salisbury foodbank in his garden shed and garage. The foodbank provided three days of emergency food to local people in crisis.

But it was clear to Paddy and Carol that the problems affecting some of Salisbury's residents were not unique to that city. In 2004, the Trust created a not-for-profit social franchise so that foodbanks could be set up elsewhere. The model is a relatively simple one. The Trust manages the network. Local groups (mostly coalitions of churches) obtain franchises to run foodbanks in their town by making an initial donation and then an annual contribution to the Trust. The Trussell Trust provides support and training in setting up and running the foodbank. And they audit each foodbank annually to make sure they are meeting the network's standards.

A month before the election of the coalition government in 2010, there were 54 Trussell Trust foodbanks in Britain. Four years on, there are now around 420 across England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. That's an average of more than 90 foodbanks opening in new towns across the country each year.

But Adrian Curtis, the Trussell Trust's Foodbank Network Director, tells me that the "420 foodbanks" figure is increasingly misleading, and fails to capture the true rate of growth in the network:

"We tend to talk more now about 'foodbank centres' when measuring the size of the network. There are around 420 foodbanks in Britain. But many of those foodbanks are now operating at a number of different centres where people can come and receive food. We estimate that there are around 1,400 foodbank centres now.

"There are still one or two new foodbanks opening in new towns each week. But growth in new foodbanks has slowed. The real growth is in the number of foodbank centres which are being opened by each existing foodbank. There are as many new centres opening as ever before."

So for instance, Coventry Foodbank counts as a single 'foodbank', but now has sixteen centres which give out food at various locations around the city seven days a week. Overall, the Trussell Trust has created a network that in ten years has grown from scratch to having more "branches" than Lloyds Bank. And these branches are not empty. Most important of all is the number of people the network is feeding. The Trussell Trust estimate that they fed 900,000 people last year (a 163% rise on the previous year). They haven't been doing it quietly.

Initially the coalition government appeared relaxed, even positive, about the growth of the foodbank network. David Cameron was said to be particularly enthusiastic. After all, this was the Big Society in action. Communities coming together to provide for each other, without the need for government to get involved at all. Ian Duncan Smith was also said to be "very keen", and wanted staff in jobcentres to be able to direct claimants to foodbanks "because of the difference it could make to their lives."

But then the Trussell Trust started to get "political". They went public with figures that showed more than half of their clients were receiving food because of benefit delays, sanctions, and financial difficulties relating to the bedroom tax and abolition of council tax relief.

"The reality is that there is a clear link between benefit delays or changes and people turning to food banks, and that the situation has got worse in the last three months", said the Trussell Trust executive chairman, Chris Mould. "We are calling on the government to listen to what's happening on the ground, to realise that when the welfare system breaks down, it means families go hungry."

But the government did not want to listen. It wanted to fight back. Chris Mould reported that the government had privately threatened the Trussell Trust with closure. Publicly, government officials sought to shift the blame elsewhere for the growth in the network.

Initially, the Trussell Trust themselves were blamed. Ian Duncan Smith denied the links between welfare reform and use of foodbanks and suggested that the Trussell Trust were merely seeking publicity as part of their business model to promote their own growth. Lord Freud, the minister for welfare reform, suggested this was a supply rather than a demand led issue; if foodbanks are set up, people will use them. A senior DWP official argued, in a similar vein, that the network was primarily serving its own needs, not those of the community: "For the Trussell Trust, foodbanks started as an evangelical device to get religious groups in touch with their local communities."

More recently, blame has also been apportioned to the individuals who use foodbanks. Michael Gove suggested that people who rely on foodbanks do so because they are unable to properly manage their finances. A Mail on Sunday investigation argued that many of those using foodbanks were doing so fraudulently. In an article headlined: "No ID, no checks... and vouchers for sob stories: The truth behind those shock food bank claims", an undercover Daily Mail reporter pretended he was unemployed and struggling for food and was given food parcels without having to substantiate his claims. Other undercover reporters found evidence of "repeat users" and flouting of rules about how many food parcels individuals could receive.

Across the political divide in the Labour Party, the rise in the use of foodbanks is seen very differently. Foodbanks have been a key weapon for Ed Milliband in his cost-of-living offensive against the government. According to Labour, welfare reform combined with low wages and spiralling costs of basic goods and services are driving people to foodbanks.

The contentiousness of the issue, and the lack of progress in dealing with it, has led Frank Field MP to set up a Parliamentary Inquiry into Hunger and Food Poverty to "investigate the root causes behind hunger, food poverty and the huge increase in demand for food banks across Britain". The Inquiry includes both Labour and Conservative MPs. But the widely publicised disagreement over what is causing the surge in the use of foodbanks means there is scepticism about whether they will be able to reach a consensus on root causes or agree on what should be done in the future.

National Organisation, Local Imagination

The Trussell Trust may operate on a franchise model, but this is not McDonalds. Foodbanks will never make profits. And so when a local church group make the decision to set up a foodbank, they make use of whatever resources they can get their hands on. Primarily that means the time of volunteers, the food and other goods that are donated, and the spaces that the local community can provide. Each foodbank is unique. Shaped to the contours of the available spaces, the numbers of clients they serve, and the ingenuity of the people who run them.

In my local area, there are three foodbanks. Coventry is by far the largest. Its sixteen foodbank centres are served by a central distribution centre. The food is collected and stored by a team of paid workers and volunteers in an old Methodist church hall. On the day I visit, they are talking about concreting over the narrow cracked path up to the church's main entrance. They need easier access for the tonnes of food that come in and out of the church each month.

Inside, workers stack the food as it arrives, and then sort it into date order in the main hall of the old church (apart from the beans of course, which have their own room). Food is stacked in boxes, and placed on vast racks that cover the whole room. The crosses on the wall above the mountains of tins and packets are a powerful symbol of the religious origins of the foodbank movement, of dwindling congregations and adaptive imagination. In a back room, they are diversifying into clothes, and although it is early days, they already have enough stock for a small charity shop.

In Kenilworth, six miles south of Coventry, there is another foodbank. In size and scope, it could not be more different. The town is small with a population of just over 20,000. It's relatively affluent. Kenilworth has a single foodbank centre housed in the Town Council Buildings, at the site of the old police station. All the food is stored and distributed there. Twice a week it opens its doors to local residents who receive their supplies in a small council office upstairs. The food is kept in the basement, packed into the old police station cells that were used to hold overnight prisoners.

"It's the basic basket here mostly. We don't do fresh food," Les Thornton, the warehouse manager tells me. "We do sometimes get cakes, puddings that kind of thing. We get rid of them quickly before they go off.

"Our foodbank opened in August 2012. We saw the need at our churches and through other agencies like the Citizen's Advice Bureau. When we opened, we were getting half a dozen or so clients a week. Gradually it increased. We were serving Warwick and Leamington as well at that stage. But it's quieter again now that the Warwick and Leamington foodbank has opened."

Warwick and Leamington are two bigger towns which are effectively a single conurbation, five miles south of Kenilworth. Around 80,000 people live there. There are bigger pockets of deprivation than in Kenilworth. The foodbank opened last year and already has five distribution centres in churches, community and childrens' centres across the town. The food is stored centrally.

Andy Bower, a former chef who owned two Italian restaurants before they went bust during the recession, manages the Leamington Foodbank network. The racking he used in his restaurants has now taken up residence in the garage where the food is stored. He tells me, "Up until the end of last year, we were distributing 250 to 300 kilos per week out to the five centres. We are now distributing 450 to 500 kilos. I can't see us getting smaller any time soon."

When I visit, Andy is excited at having just secured funding for an advisor from the Citizen's Advice Bureau to come in and talk to clients. The advisor hands the clients a pamphlet entitled 'Making the Most of Your Money?' and offers them an opportunity to talk through their financial issues.

Franchises like this exist up and down the country. They operate the same basic model, involving three days of emergency food accompanied by cups of tea or coffee, the opportunity to chat to volunteers, and the signposting of other services and funds that the clients might find useful. But there is never-ending variety in terms of the physical space that they occupy, the add-on goods they can provide beyond the basic food package, and the services they are starting to develop.

On a trip to Scotland, I visit a foodbank in Edinburgh. I meet up with Arthur Mathieson, the operations manager of the Edinburgh North East Network, based in Leith (really a separate town from Edinburgh, Arthur tells me). Again I find a tale of local church communities identifying a need and using their communal resources to set up a local network with its own individual local hallmarks.

"My church have been doing a Sunday breakfast 'soup kitchen' for almost 25 years," Arthur says. "But with tougher times we saw that there were different types of people who needed our help, and more people who were struggling to get by. And so we set up the foodbank here."

Arthur says that his foodbank is relying more on food from the local congregations and less on food collected at local supermarkets than other foodbanks. There is more of a struggle to ensure they have the full Trussell Trust three-day food parcel. But, through a network of volunteers, five days a week, churches and community centres open their doors in and around Leith to provide food.

The foodbank centre we visited was in Pilrig's St Paul's Church. Church pews and an altar are an imposing backdrop to the make-shift café set up in the church's entrance. The volunteers are a little older, and the extras provided are more focused on basic toiletries like toothbrushes, soap and nappies for the many young families who seek assistance.

Arthur says, "Staff doctors from the local medical centre donate a box of toiletries to us every so often." Different local contacts, different basic needs that the Foodbank are able to satisfy.

A Last Resort

While there are endless subtle varieties in the way different foodbanks operate, there is one fundamental similarity in the reasons why people use them. Professor Dowler and her colleagues, in their report to DEFRA, found that people turned to food aid as "a strategy of last resort", when they have exhausted all other possibilities, including cutting back on food and turning to family and friends. No one I met used a foodbank lightly. Louise had been skipping dinners for months before she went to Coventry Foodbank. She finally attended so she could feed her children during the school holiday. Others displayed the emotional and physical efforts of their visits in a variety of different ways.

In Edinburgh, I saw a young woman break down into floods of tears when the food was brought out. She was overwhelmed by the idea that she could feed her family properly that night. Another man, too shy to talk to me, told the volunteers he had walked miles across the city to get a referral and then a few miles more for his food that afternoon. He didn't have enough money for the bus fare. He sat, exhausted, cradling a cup of tea, rocking backwards and forwards, before making the same trip home again. This time laden down with his bags of food.

Alan, a man who had suffered a delay in his benefits payments, said: "I had an emergency payment of £70 or so more than a month ago. But that has mostly gone. I am down to the last pound or so on my electricity card and I am really starting to worry about that. And so I have been going to bed really hungry for a week or so. It's my second trip. I was really worried about coming the first time. I was ashamed, but everyone has made me feel so welcome, and told me not to worry. This time I feel more comfortable. I hope my benefit issues will get sorted out soon so I don't have to come again. But I can't be sure."

Sometimes talkative, sometimes silent, sometimes overwhelmed, time and again I witnessed reactions that suggested that foodbanks are indeed a place of last resort, driven by demand from desperate people, not "consumers" making choices to try the Foodbank this week as a cheaper alternative to Tesco. That doesn't mean some people won't try to use foodbanks fraudulently. But the one example I saw only made me more certain that abuse of the system is very much a minority pursuit.

John was only the second client to come into Leamington foodbank on the day I visited. But he made the church café feel three times as full. As everyone else sat quietly, he paced up and down nervously, saying that the heat in the place was making him sweat. He came and sat down with me. Without prompting, he told me a rambling story of how his tent had been set on fire by kids last night. His food, clothes and money were gone. Enough cash for a bus ticket and he'd be back up north where he belonged.

Compared with every other foodbank client I had met he was excessively keen to justify his presence. His clothes looked too clean for a man living in a tent and whose worldly possessions had just been destroyed in a fire. Eventually his bags of food were produced. He haggled for a couple of extra cartons of juice and left with loud goodbyes, still complaining about the heat.

As he left, another client shouted "druggie" after him. Visibly upset, the other man explained to those who remained in the café that John would be selling the food for drugs later on. The tale John told me was probably the one he used to obtain his referral to the Foodbank in the first place. But John was the exception that proves the rule. His emotional reaction to being in the foodbank was so different to all the other people I met.

I'm sure others are "defrauding" the foodbank like John. If you have a powerful story of suffering which you can tell your doctor, or your debt advisor or your lawyer, the chances are you probably will get a referral, whether the story is true or not. But if you watch and talk to the people who actually come into foodbanks in large numbers, you realise that there is a more important story to tell. And report after report from people on the frontline has found that the vast majority of people who use foodbanks are doing so because they are struggling to cope.

Papering over the cracks?

At the heart of Louise's story was a benefit sanction, a successful appeal and a long wait for everything to get sorted again. The Trussell Trust's figures show that half of all referrals to foodbanks in 2013-14 were as a result of benefit delays or changes. It's these kind of figures that led Chris Mould, the Trust's Chairman, to protest very publicly about the "broken" benefits system. And it points to a dilemma at the very heart of the foodbank phenomenon.

I met Jimmy in Coventry Foodbank. Like Louise and many others I spoke to, a benefit sanction was the reason for his visit. But in his case, it was a government agency that had sent him. He told me, with an air of bewilderment, that he had signed for the wrong date on his job searches. And because this was his second 'offence', he had received a three month "sanction" (his benefits were stopped). He was waiting for a hardship payment that he thought wouldn't come through for a couple of weeks. He had been given his Foodbank voucher by the Job Centre that had sanctioned him.

For Sue Bent, the Director of Coventry Law Centre, which serves the same areas of deprivation as Coventry's Foodbank network, Jimmy's is the kind of case that makes her worried about the role the Foodbank Network is playing.

"Even before welfare reform started, people were struggling to heat their homes, or choosing between heating and eating. We saw many people living very sparse existences. And then welfare reform has meant that, for a lot of those people, their benefits are being cut in order to make work pay. And at the same time they are being asked to comply with a whole series of requirements in order to keep those benefits, which for some people is very difficult. This is sometimes because they've led a fairly chaotic lifestyle and are not used to dealing with those kind of constraints and requirements.

"There may be some benefits to some of these people if they do get their lives together and get in the job market as a result of being encouraged to become less chaotic. But the sanctions that are applied when they do not comply, they are just adding another level of harshness and making things worse for most of them.

"I don't think that the punitive approach to getting people to a better place is going to work for most of our clients. And, I don't think foodbanks trying to make it less bad is the solution either.

"Foodbanks are papering over the cracks. Now you don't want to see those cracks appearing. You don't want to see people fall off a cliff. But the fact that the Job Centre refers people to food banks is quite shocking in itself. The State is supposed to make basic provision for someone not to be destitute. But we have created a system in which that is part of the outcome. You are left with nothing, and then the State gets round that by referring you to a foodbank where other people have given food that you can scrape by on."

You are left with nothing, and then the State gets round that by referring you to a foodbank where other people have given food that you can scrape by on.

These concerns resonate within the church communities that are providing emergency food aid. A report from Oxford Diocese collected evidence from across the Thames Valley region. It found that "many [who run emergency food aid initiatives] were worried and concerned that, whilst helping individuals, they may be fuelling a larger political problem by colluding with injustice and letting the government off the hook for leaving many of its people without the means to feed themselves and their families."

Adrian Curtis, the Trussell Trust's Foodbank Network Director points out that only 2% of their referrals come from Jobcentres. But I am not sure this gets to the heart of the issue. Does it matter who makes the referral? Whether it is the Jobcentre directly, or someone's doctor, debt advisor or lawyer? Isn't the real issue that, whoever sends them, people who are left destitute by the State are being fed by charity from the foodbanks. Is this letting the government off the hook?

Adrian is keen to emphasise that the Trussell Trust is about a great deal more than "the re-distribution of food to people in need". On benefit reform, they have played an important role in advocating on behalf of those people who are suffering as a result of the system. They will continue to do so, he says.

At this point my head starts to swim. How do we measure the impact of the Trussell Trust's advocacy on welfare reform against the fact that it is reducing the pressure on government by feeding many of its "victims"?

There is a tendency to respond to this dilemma by invoking the immediate alleviation of suffering. Andy Bower in Leamington says: "I do feel like we are becoming another arm of the welfare state. And that does worry me a bit. But we are fulfilling a very basic Christian ministry of 'when I was hungry, you gave me food."

When is a crisis just a chronic struggle to survive?

For many foodbank clients, there is a crisis they can (perhaps) overcome. For others the situation looks more complex. When Louise gets the payout from her appeal, there is at least hope she will be able to make ends meet again. But what about her neighbours? They both work. But they are never sure how much work they will get, never sure if they will have enough money to pay the bills and feed the family. Is emergency food aid an appropriate response to their problems?

I met Simon in Coventry Foodbank. He's a security guard with a wife and two children. He told me that when he got a job these days it was always on a zero hours contract, and so did not guarantee he could pay the bills. He had made 30-40 job applications over the last three weeks. But he didn't envisage having a job any time soon that would provide a stable income, pay the bills and put food on the table. For Simon, as for Louise's neighbours, the situation is not so much a one-off crisis, as a continual struggle to survive.

Use of foodbanks is fuelled by a complex set of factors. A report by Oxfam, Church Action on Poverty, and the Trussell Trust itself has argued that it is driven by "a perfect storm of changes to the social security system, benefit sanctions, low and stagnant wages, insecure and zero-hours contracts and rising food and energy prices." Hannah Lambie-Mumford and Liz Dowler, in their research, identify precarious housing circumstances, indebtedness and high-interest pay-day loans as additional factors.

many of the people who use foodbanks are not in crisis, but hanging on by their fingernails.

Professor Dowler tells me that "many of the people who use foodbanks are not in crisis, but hanging on by their fingernails. Hit by wave after wave of problems." The Trussell Trust's own figures support this idea. Almost 30% of people who use Trussell Trust Foodbanks give the primary reason for their visit as low income or debt. There are even more for whom these issues are in the background of their more immediate crisis situation. Is the Trussell Trust approach appropriate for dealing with these longer term struggles?

Sue Bent argues, "It's an issue that you can have only three lots of food. While that is completely understandable as a model, it implies that you just need to tackle short term crises, and many of these people are not living in a crisis, they are living in a permanent place of hardship. And so again, there is a further de-humanisation, which I do not think is intended by the foodbanks. The implication is you have three packages and you should be alright. But for a lot of people, actually, the situation is that they won't be alright after three packages because it is an ongoing, very harsh situation that they are trying to survive in. It is very difficult."

When I put this issue to Adrian Curtis, he tells me that the UK foodbank network is also about attempting to deal with the underlying issues behind the crises:

"The Trussell Trust network now work with more than 20,000 expert agencies who refer their clients to foodbanks. Our partnership with these organisations can really help.

"We want to grow in our relationships with these organizations so that we can help people to deal with debt issues, to teach them to budget and to eat healthily, to help them to cope better.

At the end of the day, we want to see more foodbanks with less people using them.

This new approach is starting to catch on. I saw evidence of it in Leamington where they had a CAB debt advisor talking to the Foodbank's clients. Coventry were working on a partnership with the CAB to provide advice on benefits and they also wanted to start doing cookery classes. A six-figure donation by money saving expert Martin Lewis is paying for a pilot financial advice scheme in six Trussell Trust foodbanks. The hope is that this will then become a blueprint for a model that can be rolled out nationally.

It's clearly a good idea to give people the opportunity to gain life skills which will make them better financial planners or allow them to cook better meals. But is Michael Gove right that the primary blame for the foodbank phenomenon lies with peoples' individual financial failings?

Professor Dowler argues that: "Research shows that the key causes of hunger and food poverty are structural - how much money people can spend on food, what it costs them, and whether or not they have equipment and fuel to store and cook it - rather than individual characteristics, such as whether people know what to buy and eat, can budget and cook well."

When I talk to people in the movement about these deeper root causes of food poverty, time and again, I hear people compare food aid to first aid. Chris Mould has said:

"We get challenged a lot on being a sticking plaster. But we're not trying to solve the root causes - other agencies have that responsibility. But I always ask people 'Do you believe in first aid?' Ambulances don't work on accidents being prevented, but that doesn't mean we should abolish ambulances. It just means we need other systems to look at root causes."

If hundreds of thousands of people who had never needed ambulances before suddenly started calling for them, then government would be examining the reasons behind this very seriously. But is anyone doing this in relation to the hundreds of thousands who are starting to use emergency food aid?

Looking beyond the hunger issue

In her book Sweet Charity, Janet Poppendieck tells the tale of the great US cheese giveaway in the winter of 1981. She recounts how three days before Christmas, President Ronald Reagan authorised the distribution of 30 million pounds of government surplus cheese by volunteers across the country. A media frenzy reported on long queues of people waiting hours in the freezing cold for a 5-pound brick of cheese. The queues were so long that some people left empty-handed. Others received cheese that was mouldy.

Popendieck talks of this incident as one of the catalysts for the explosion of emergency food aid in the US in the 1980s. Volunteers returned to their communities convinced of the need for emergency food aid. The great cheese giveaway and every subsequent hunger-related event "helped to reinforce the definition of the problem as hunger in the public mind."

The underlying social and economic dynamics of 21 st century Britain eerily echo what occurred in the US of the 1980s. According to Poppendieck

"The cutbacks and reductions in [US] public assistance benefits, along with declining wages at the bottom end of the pay scale, increasing shelter costs, and a growing reliance on layoffs and downsizing to increase profitability are reducing people to destitution and sending them to the food lines. These changes are causing the hunger to which kind-hearted people are responding with pantries and kitchens."

More than 30 years on, food insecurity now affects almost 1 in 6 people in the US. In 2013, the US Department of Agriculture reported that 49.1 million Americans lived in food insecure households. Feeding America, the US's largest distributor of emergency food aid claims to provide food assistance to an estimated 46.5 million people annually. People are as hungry as ever and, at the same time, emergency food aid provision is happening on a vast scale.

Poppendieck provides a compelling account of the power of the food issue to draw in assistance from across the community. "Fighting hunger is the non-partisan, inclusive, ecumenical goal that we can all agree upon," she writes, and she goes on to examine the ways in which people and institutions from across US society were inspired to contribute to the efforts to feed the nation; from boy scouts groups to the United Steel Workers of America, from Coca Cola to CitiBank, organisations across the US rushed to support the cause.

And at the heart of those efforts were the volunteers who kept coming back because, as emergency food aid providers told her, "It feels so good ... you see the results right away. Someone comes in the door hungry, and you give him something to eat. That's what it is."

I felt those same sensations. It was impossible not to be moved by Louise's joy when her bags arrived. And time and again I heard from those who work in the network about the power of the food issue to move people, to make them feel compassion and solidarity with those in need. I heard from elderly members of church congregations who lived through the scarcity of the 1940s and 50s and wanted to help those facing hunger and poverty today. I heard from a younger generation, some of whom had been helped by the foodbank themselves, and later returned to volunteer.

Arthur Mathieson explains it like this: "Foodbanks register with people big style. If we were doing something else we would not have got the number of people involved from the local congregations. There is something so basic about food. It strikes a chord with so many people. And in the supermarkets, we get so many people coming up and saying well done."

Beyond the individual volunteers and donors of food, I also began to get a sense of the extent to which organisations up and down the country are becoming involved in the provision of emergency food aid. Adrian Curtis told me about the 20,000 organisations who act as referral agents for foodbanks. Then there are the large supermarkets - Tesco's, Morrison's, Waitrose, Asda, Co-op, and Sainsbury's - happy to partner up with foodbanks and allow their customers to donate the food they buy. I heard about companies like HSBC, Severn Trent Water and Peugeot who allow their workers to volunteer at foodbanks as part of their corporate social responsibility programmes, and others like National Power and Volvo who organise food collections among their staff. And I heard about the local Rotary Club, and the County and District Councils who provide funding towards foodbank programmes and activities.

These are just anecdotal examples, plucked from conversations with foodbank managers and volunteers. But I suspect that what is really happening here is what Poppendieck observed in the US - the institutionalisation of foodbanks, "the movement from shoestring to stability", "the process by which an arrangement, a programme, an activity becomes a predictable part of society."

The Trussell Trust are very aware of the US foodbank phenomenon and are keen to stress the differences. The issue is flagged up in one of nine "rumour responses" that they provide on their website. Unlike the US, the Trussell Trust say they discourage reliance on foodbanks by offering "a time-limited crisis intervention based on a referral system with food vouchers signed off by front-line care professionals." Trussell Trust foodbanks also direct people to support that can help them with their longer-term problems.

But are these differences sufficient to avoid foodbanks becoming a permanent feature of the British landscape? Once every town in Britain has a foodbank, and there is institutionalised support for them from a myriad of agencies and corporations, will we really be able to find a way of making sure they are used less and less? Will we be able to look beyond the hunger issue and see foodbanks as the canary in the mine, a warning that there may be something very wrong with the economic and social model we are pursuing in Britain today?

When I think about these questions, my mind goes back time and again to my meeting with Louise. Does all the kind-hearted effort that goes into feeding Louise and her neighbours now, make it more likely or less likely that she will need help again in the future?

* Some of the names have been changed to protect identities.

Original artwork by Lottie Stoddart

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I'm having lunch in the Hope Centre Café in Hillfields, a deprived area of North Coventry. The sun is streaming through the glass frontage into the clean airy space where we sit eating at sleek, moulded corporate tables and chairs. It feels like the kind of café you might find at a small conference centre....

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How mental health services fail young people and what can be done about it

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How mental health services fail young people and what can be done about it

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Recently I wrote about Kesia Leatherbarrow, a teenager from Lancashire who took her own life after being detained in a police cell for more than two days.

Kesia, 17, suffered serious mental distress while she was locked away, pulling clumps of her hair and banging her head against concrete cell walls. Kesia's pain began long before she came into contact with the police. When she showed signs of mental illness in early adolescence there was little healthcare available for her.

Kesia's mother Martina and her husband Matt triedrepeatedly to get help, but they were turned away by local health providers. "The scary part is we are two professional people," says Martina, who is a senior secondary school teacher. "We know where you go to get help. I dread to think how somebody will be treated if they didn't know."

What happened to Kesia happens to children and teenagers across England and Wales. Treatment or counselling for children suffering a mental illness is hard to come by. NHS spending on child and adolescent mental health services in England has fallen by more than 6 per cent in real terms since 2010. Because of bed shortages, when mentally ill children do get help it might be hundreds of miles from home.

Mental health services in general are hugely underfunded taking up just 13 per cent of the national health budget. How much of that 13 per cent goes towards treating children?

Less than half of it.

In the past five years the skeletal service provision has been cut even further. Is it possible that things could become even worse for children with mental health needs?

Long hours, heavy workload

Sarah (not her real name) is a social worker for a London-based youth offending service. The hours are long and her workload heavy. Many of the children Sarah works with have been refused help in the past, their needs too complex for local mental health services. This just isn't good enough, she says. "Help needs to be offered early to prevent problems escalating and that help needs to be holistic and flexible to the needs of individual young people."

One reason it is so difficult to reach young people before their mental health problems develop into serious illnesses or addictions is the current structure of care. A structure that is all about clinical treatment and diagnosis, not prevention.

Sarah argues that for change to happen, the ways of working need to change. "Mental health workers need to be able to go out into the community, to work creatively and alongside other agencies to meet the needs of people whose lives may be chaotic and who may be facing multiple difficulties. There are a number of organisations offering 'street based' mental health outreach services of this kind, who do some excellent work, but these are too few and chronically under-resourced."

Again, a question of resources. To improve mental health services for children, where will the money come from? With central government devolving more of its powers, could local authorities step in?

Slashed budgets

Lately the charity YoungMinds asked local authorities in England how much they spent on child and adolescent mental health services between 2010 and 2013. Of those asked, 51 authorities replied. Two thirds had slashed their budgets, one - Derby City Council - by 41 per cent. And it's not as if the budgets were generous to start with.

YoungMinds asked more questions. They discovered that 75 per cent of NHS mental health trusts froze or cut their budgets in 2013/14; 67 per cent of healthcare care commissioning groups froze or cut their budgets between 2013/14 and 2014/15, and 1 in 5 local authorities either froze or cut their child and adolescent mental health care budgets every year since 2010.

In a time of limited spending on public services, the mental health of children is far from a priority. And yet, the wider consequences, though delayed, could be costly, both for the public purse and to the lives of their families.

According to the Chief Medical Officer, "Some 50% of adult mental illness (excluding dementia) starts before age 15 and 75% by age 18."

Good care for children and young adults might prevent decades of mental illness, and the pain, familial stress, and economic cost that come with it.

When money is spent on treating mentally ill children where does it go? And why is it so difficult for families like Kesia's to find it?

Healthcare for children and adolescents is split into four tiers which can include community-based services and acute or specialist care within an NHS hospital. Each tier, or a particular service provided within that tier, is commissioned and delivered by a distinct provider.

Services vary across the country; in some places early intervention might be delivered by the council. Education authorities could deliver early intervention programmes too (in fact much of the Coalition government's reform of the children's mental health sector was about better support in schools; in February 2015 the education secretary pledged £8.5m for early intervention projects).

Then there's the youth offending teams and children's social services, also providers. And last year NHS England took over the provision of specialist and crisis care for children.

The problem is, this means the quality of treatment children receive is dependent on where they live, as documented recently by Kids in Crisis, a Channel 4 Dispatches investigation. For example Dispatches interviewed the family of bright and smart 13-year-old Oli, who has autism and sometimes voices suicidal thoughts. There are no in-patient psychiatric beds in Cornwall where they live and they worry that travelling hundreds of miles for treatment will make him worse.

In some places in England and Wales you can get mental health care for children up to the age of 16, while adult services in the same area begin at 18. That leaves children aged 16 to 18 in that area with little or no mental health support.

And it's precisely at this point that young people are most likely to need help, particularly where there's been a lack of early intervention services (predominantly funded by financially squeezed local authorities).

1 in 5 local authorities either froze or cut their child and adolescent mental health care budgets every year since 2010

So, you have a group children, who, because of a chronically underfunded service, won't have received much support before 16, don't qualify for help when they aged 16, 17, 18. Treatable health needs worsen, then they're shunted straight into adult care.

Or they re-surface in other services ill-equipped to help mental health patients. It might be Accident & Emergency or, as with Kesia, the police.

Too often, instead of getting treatment, young people are dealt with punitively through the courts, and locked up. The Prison Reform Trust's detailed analysis of 300 randomly selected children in custody found that 20 per cent of them had self-harmed and 17 per cent had a formal diagnosis of emotional or mental disorder. The research findings were published as Punishing Disadvantage in 2010 and cited by Carolyne Willow in Children Behind Bars. "Our prisons are filled with the poorest, most disadvantaged children who often have considerable mental health and learning difficulties," Willow wrote.

Mental health services for adolescents are provided by many different companies, institutions and hospitals. One result is that it is nearly impossible to hold accountable a particular provider failing in its duty to young people.

Collectively these different services have become so impoverished that their defining culture is to turn people away because there simply aren't the resources to cater for everyone or carry out preventative work.

Many such young people, sometimes fresh from A&E, turn up on Dr Simon Newitt's doorstep. He runs Off the Record, a youth mental health charity in Bristol.

Five years ago the charity saw around 150 young people a year, these days it's closer to 1,500 and even then there can be long waits for some kinds of support like counselling.

"There is so much unmet need - much of it is driven by wider social and economic inequalities - that those most in need of early help are also those least likely to seek it out," says Newitt, who has worked in frontline mental health services for both the NHS and third sector for over ten years.

Off the Record is a self-referral service that offers counselling and therapy for children across Bristol and South Gloucestershire. Its ethos is, never turn anyone away.

Newitt (pictured right) says: "There is an increasingly large number of young people who need something more than light touch early intervention services like ours, but who don't meet the criteria for more specialist services.

"They bounce around in the gap between early intervention and specialist help, before maybe reaching a crisis point and ending up somewhere like A&E. They'll get assessed at that point but they still won't get ongoing support unless they are assessed as having a mental illness of some kind."

Collectively these different services have become so impoverished that their defining culture is to turn people away

Off the Record recently teamed up with its local NHS provider to work on a pilot project to try and fill in these gaps. Newitt says, "Really it shouldn't take admission to hospital before the right kind of support is available."

Cat Papastavrou, a mental health specialist from Avon and Wiltshire Mental Health Partnership, works on the new project as a youth transition worker helping 16 to 25 year olds access adult services. The pilot project is starting with three key workers from Avon and Wiltshire's mental health team. The workers are based in community and outreach mental health groups, and help young people navigate services.

Papastavrou serves people living in South Bristol. Some of the wards here fall into the most deprived 10 per cent in England. In places such as Bishopsworth, Whitchurch Park and Hartcliffe, for example, the proportion of children living in poverty is 30 per cent, 39 per cent and 41 per cent - compared to an average of 24 per cent for the rest of Bristol (2012 figures).

Government cuts to a range of welfare benefits for young people is an added pressure for Papastavrou's clients. Take the scrapping of housing benefit for 18 to 22 year olds. "The people I work with - a lot of them are looked after children and a lot of them have complex relationships with their family and there is a lot of difficulty in that. Actually being able to get your own place and have a space separate from that is such an important thing in terms of mental health recovery. It's going to make the work I do much more difficult," she says.

Many of Papastavrou's young clients end up missing school because of their illness, or, like Kesia, have been excluded, and they believe that this dent in their education destroys all chance of them finding a job.

"It shocks me," Papastavrou says. "At 17 they feel their life is hopeless. A lot of it is based on the fact that they feel they have messed up. Not being able to cope at school and they've messed up their future in a very real way."

Papastavrou, who has also worked in drug and alcohol services in the criminal justice sector, thinks this is part of the current political narrative sold to support cuts to welfare benefits.

It shocks me. At 17 they feel their life is hopeless

"You just have to work very hard and you will be ok. There is a cultural narrative about people who are deliberately on benefits, they don't deserve benefits and it's their own fault and they should work harder. That narrative - if you are on benefits you are a failure - is really damaging.

"What do you say to someone who suffers from really bad anxiety and drops out of school and actually can't, at that point in time, really cope with the situation they're in - they are just trying to get through the day?"

What is to be done?

There are more children and young people experiencing mental illness than ever before and the reasons why aren't clear. In a paper published in the British Journal of Psychiatry Professor Swaran P Singh says: "It's a paradox that although the treatment for mental health disorders in young people have improved substantially in the past two decades, health system responses to young people with mental disorders have been inadequate."

It is not all bad. Efforts are being made to improve children's mental health services. Earlier this year Birmingham and Solihull Mental Health NHS Foundation Trust and Barnardo's put together a proposal to deliver services for children and teens in Birmingham right up to the age of 25. Similar services exist in Norwich and London.

Even amid plans to cut spending, the coalition government of 2010 to 2015 promised to give mental health "parity of esteem" with the billions invested into physical health. Better services for children and young people formed a key part of this pledge. In five years, the coalition published several policy plans including better access to talking therapies for young people, funding for beds on crisis wards, waiting time targets, better mental health support within schools and a special taskforce created to investigate children's access to mental health services.

That taskforce published a list of 'aspirations' for the government to meet by 2020. They include tackling stigma, improving access, integrating services and improving care for children in crisis.

Norman Lamb, the Liberal Democrat MP and at the time minister for care, said at a parliamentary select committee last year: "Is it really rational that 6 per cent of the mental health budget is applied to children and young people when we know that a very significant proportion of mental health problems start in the teenager years? I think there is overall a funding issue and I will, for as long as I have this job, fight for a better deal for mental health."

Lamb is no longer in the job. A new Conservative government has already revealed plans for continued austerity which include cuts to local authority budgets. The financial implications of the government taking away nearly all benefits for young people will be devastating for vulnerable children in mental distress without supportive family networks. The promises made by the last government so far mean little to overworked and stressed mental health workers on the ground. Even where improvements are being made there is a fear that these will stall or be reversed because of funding.

If funding continues to fall short of the government's promises, only severely affected young people will be able to access mental health care.

For now, the services survive because of committed staff who "are actually really good at what they do and who care, and are trying to the best that they can", says Papastavrou. "But the structure of commissioning and the structure of services almost gets in the way. Where you are no longer commissioned to work with someone and then you have to pass them on, that's really difficult. There needs to be a rethink and a stronger sense of a youth service. Is there the political will to do that?"
KESIA'S STORY
This piece was commissioned and first published by Shine A Light at openDemocracy.

Banner photo Western Mental Health Institute by Brent Moore is licensed under CC BY 2.0

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How mental health services fail young people and what can be done about it - Lacuna Magazine

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Kesia, 17, suffered serious mental distress while she was locked away, pulling clumps of her hair and banging her head against concrete cell walls. Kesia's pain began long before she came into contact with the police. When she showed signs of mental illness in early adolescence there was little healthcare available for her.

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While new HIV infection rates have been steadily falling worldwide, in Eastern Europe and the Caucasus the rate of HIV diagnosis per 100,000 inhabitants has risen by 126% since 2004. In that area a record 100,000 new cases are diagnosed each year, which make up nearly three quarters of new cases in Europe.

Romania is one of the hotspots for this new HIV epidemic. The economic downturn and reduced funding for prevention efforts and treatment programmes have led to the spread of this virus, especially among the most vulnerable sectors of society, such as drug users, sex workers and the homeless. HIV infections among communities at risk have skyrocketed: among IDUs (injecting drug users) the rate of HIV grew from 1% to 53% between 2007 and 2012, affecting mostly the capital area. Thousands of people in Bucharest, many of them young adults born after the fall of Ceaușescu's regime, live between the streets and the sewers in unsavoury conditions worsened by disease, drug use, and unprotected promiscuity.

These figures continue to rise as a consequence of funding cuts for HIV prevention activities in Romania. The EU has discontinued its financial support for distribution of clean needles and syringes. The Romanian government has been slow to respond, despite clear research indicating that new infections drop up to 80% where free supply programmes are in place. Against the backdrop of the unprecedented economic crisis and the simultaneous boom of legal highs, HIV has soared since 2009. And in the homeless communities around the Gara de Nord train station in Bucharest HIV infection rates are close to 80%.

'Romanian Nightmares' is a journey in the communities afflicted by HIV. The author met drug users, sex workers, orphans and homeless people in squats, ghettos and hospitals. This journey is about the forgotten victims of AIDS in the only European capital facing an HIV epidemic while global infection rates are falling.

Florin is lying in bed. His arms unnaturally thin, his legs barely skin and bones. He's been kept alive by a respirator at the Dr Victor Babeș Hospital in Bucharest for about a month, the doctors say he only has a few weeks left now.

What is killing him is a virus we no longer talk about in Europe. It seems so far removed from us, perhaps an African or Asian problem, but certainly not something we worry about here. Florin contracted HIV two years ago, when he was only 15. At that time he had been living on the streets for 5 years, moving from one abandoned building to another, and sometimes down in the sewers of the city. Much like Florin, another 25,000 people in Romania, mostly in the capital, are living with HIV.

25,000 people in Romania, mostly in the capital, are living with HIV

"It is a real and proper epidemic. An epidemic which is killing thousands right in the heart of Europe, without anyone saying a word," says Dan Popescu, of the NGO Aras, which provides assistance to the most vulnerable groups, such as drug addicts, prostitutes and the LGBTQ community. It is precisely amongst these groups that HIV is spreading. In 2007, among drug addicts, the percentage of infected people was 1%; in 2012 it had risen to 53%. But where does this epidemic originate from? And why is it so difficult to contain in a country now part of the European Union?

"There are two main reasons," says Dr Adrian Abagiu of the Matei Balș Hospital in Bucharest. "First, with the entry of our country into the European Union in 2007, the Global Fund has cut funding for HIV prevention initiatives, as well as programmes aimed at reducing the effects of HIV/AIDS. Then in 2009, we experienced the boom of so-called 'legal highs'. These substances are far cheaper and much more readily available, in addition to having now been legalised. This has contributed to increase in drug addicts who need to inject themselves with these new synthetic drugs up to 20 or 30 times a days now, which multiplies the risk of contracting contagious diseases such as HIV."

Florin used to live in what is known as the community of the Gara de Nord. Close to forty or fifty people, of both sexes and all ages, with no home, no jobs, no possessions, congregating around the central station of Bucharest to find shelter. During the freezing Romanian winter, they sleep down in the sewers to survive the cold. In the summer they return to the surface. They walk around the streets and parks like zombies, begging in parking lots, scraping together just enough for the next dose. Then they run back to their makeshift shelters, tiny brick structures, just behind the hospital, facing the central station. There, among bunk beds and gas cylinders they use for cooking, they sleep, eat and take drugs constantly. The thick air reeks of glue snorted by the younger ones; syringes are littered all over the floor.

The top dog of this community used to be an ambiguous, charismatic figure. He has since been arrested (in July 2015) for drug trafficking. He goes by the name of Bruce Lee. This is what this man in his forties, with lots of tattoos and scars on his arms, with grey gel in his hair wants to be called. He walks the streets with a 30 cm knife tucked under his belt, along with snap hooks and keys attached to his jacket.

"I'm trying to help these people, to give them a home," says Bruce Lee, "because just like them, I never had anything either."

Here nearly everyone is ill

Not a word about drugs, and certainly no mention of the diseases infesting this building: TB and hepatitis C. Here nearly everyone is ill. Aras volunteers come here at night, three times a week, with an ambulance, to supply new syringes and condoms to these people in an attempt to try and slow down the spread of infections. According to their statistics, 80% of this community is HIV positive.

"I was born in an orphanage, I was abused more than once, and when I was 12 I ran away. The street is my home, and drugs are the only entertainment I have. It's a distraction, the only way I have to forget," says Nico, 17 years old, HIV positive, snorting glue from a black plastic bag.

Since joining the EU, the severe economic downturn has become the primary concern for state institutions. The desperate young people at Gara de Nord, many of whom are children of Ceaușescu's fallen regime, are a social ill to be kept hidden away. Only a handful of local charities have taken any notice of them. And one brave woman stands out: Raluca Pahomi. Four years ago she decided to take care of the homeless people of Bucharest. She brings food, she helps with any paperwork, and she hosts some of them in her house.

"This situation is outrageous; these people are dying in the streets without anyone noticing them. HIV contagion and drug addiction rise together. Cases of TB and hepatitis C have also exploded over the past few years. And all these people, and I mean thousands and thousands, have no rights, no accessible healthcare, not even the right to die humanely." Raluca has asked for permission to bury Florin when his time comes. The local administration said no.

The epidemic is invisible in central Bucharest, among the busy shops, trendy bars and upmarket restaurants

People living with HIV still face stigma and discrimination across Romanian society. They are confined to living on the margins of urban life by the government and local institutions, who are yet to understand how social inclusion and prevention are the only ways forward to limit this epidemic. The epidemic is invisible in central Bucharest, among the busy shops, trendy bars and upmarket restaurants. But you may notice whilst walking along the streets of Ferentari, one of the biggest ghettos of the city, where mostly Roma people live.

Here, the luxurious villas of the nouveau riche and the squalid grey buildings of the communist era in appalling states of disrepair coexist. Drug addicts appear from behind every corner as soon as the Aras ambulance arrives. The people form a crowd around the van as they wait for clean syringes. Some even take buckets full of used ones, so that they may pick up more new ones. Drugs, like HIV and TB spare nobody here. Substance abuse and diseases spike during times of crisis, when the poor become even poorer. European austerity measures and the cavalier attitudes of Victor Ponta's government run the risk of ruining a whole generation. One in four Romanians between 19 and 24 has been diagnosed as HIV positive. These are the highest figures in the EU. By comparison, in Italy only 6% of that age group are HIV positive. There is no upper or lower age limit to contracting the disease, which in the vast majority of cases ends in death.

He could be cured, like some of his friends, and live. But his condition of homelessness, social marginalisation and vulnerability, teamed with the prejudice of Romanian society and institutions, have sentenced him to a premature death

The methadone distribution centre at the Matei Balș Hospital receives more or less between two and three hundred people per day, most of whom are teenagers. Just like Romeo, Nomi, Mona, and Santo, who have yet to reach their twenties. At night they wander the streets of Bucharest snorting glue and injecting 'legal highs' into their veins. They say Santo has only another month to live; he has been HIV positive now for three years. He could be cured, like some of his friends, and live. But his condition of homelessness, social marginalisation and vulnerability, teamed with the prejudice of Romanian society and institutions, have sentenced him to a premature death.

"When the Global Fund axed funding to Romania because it joined the EU, the government should have raised its voice to say that the threat of HIV had not yet disappeared," says Dan Popescu, "so the combination of the economic downturn and the ready accessibility of new synthetic drugs, most of which are legal and found quite easily in high-street shops, was enough to make the situation collapse. Studies demonstrate that efforts to reduce the damage are a very effective tool to fight HIV spreading further, but politicians seem not to quite understand. Better to keep the whole thing hidden, not to speak about it at all, and finance some other social problem with the small amounts of funding available." Still, it is always the most marginalised who die, those who are the least important. And this is in Europe in 2015.

All photos by Tomaso Clavarino.

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Romania is one of the hotspots for this new HIV epidemic. The economic downturn and reduced funding for prevention efforts and treatment programmes have led to the spread of this virus, especially among the most vulnerable sectors of society, such as drug users, sex workers and the homeless.

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Seeking solutions to food poverty: A journey across America

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Seeking solutions to food poverty: A journey across America

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Charlie Spring travelled between ten cities in the US and Canada to find out how surplus food is redistributed by charities. In this diary of her travels she recounts some of the stories, people and projects she encountered along the way.

My trip was inspired by Janet Poppendieck's book Sweet Charity, written in 1998 and critiquing the explosion of "emergency" food assistance under the Reagan government. The welfare cuts in that era led to the development of a food aid network that continues to plug gaps in public safety nets today. Poppendieck describes food banks as a "moral safety valve". They allow the public to feel reassured that those worst affected by inequality and the withdrawal of the state from providing social security, are at the very least, fed. I wanted to find out whether and how food banks were responding to such criticisms, especially around the indignity and inadequacy of charitable food.

Feeding America

To understand mainstream food charity work, one cannot avoid Feeding America, the largest food bank network in the US, with revenue of over $2 billion. It distributed the equivalent of over a billion meals from January to March alone and gives food to 46 million Americans each year. I visited three of its cavernous food bank warehouses. Forklifts buzz about, stacking chest-high boxes of apples inside giant fridges. Several of the warehouses boast docking stations for a fleet of lorries. This feels like a form of retailing, an idea that is reinforced by Feeding America's advertising campaigns, IT systems and corporate branding.

Poppendieck's book pointed to the nutritional inadequacies of food bank supplies. My discussions with food bank leaders highlighted efforts to improve the healthiness of redistributed food. The apples I saw are one example of the fresh produce some food banks now distribute, alongside protein-rich foods like peanut butter or other surplus products, with some farmers producing specifically for the food bank.

Some food banks were refusing donations of sugary soda and cake, a bold step given that food banks' success is still measured in pounds of food distributed - and soda is heavy.

Other food banks, especially those located in farming regions, pre-ordered fresh produce from local farms, and distributed farm seconds, such as celery whose fresh, green smell filled the whole place. However, such progressive policies are by no means the norm across the network, and are concentrated among food banks located in farming regions.

Treating people with dignity

Have food banks made efforts to address the fundamental indignity of receiving charitable food? I found laudable examples when I looked beyond Feeding America. Canada's Community Food Centre model combines a "healthy food bank" with other activities such as cooking, growing and eating together. Food bank leaders I spoke to were encouraging partner agencies to use shopper or client choice models of food distribution. But my visit to a shopper model food pantry in Albuquerque suggested that food choices can be narrow - between two types of soup for example. On other items there were display tickets limiting the number of items that a visitor could choose. Volunteers patrolled the aisles, and shoppers still had to wait in line in queues that could stretch around the building.
Read more: Do big businesses have a vested interest in America's food banks?
Another soup kitchen I visited in Albuquerque was providing multiple services: medical care, needle exchange, postal service and clean socks. The director described how racism, ill health, housing policy, substance abuse and lack of federal funding exacerbate hunger and homelessness in his state, New Mexico. Meeting peoples' basic needs with dignity is hard enough, he said. Prevention and long-term solutions are even harder, requiring coordination with other front-line services and political advocacy that many like him struggle to make time for.

There are currently 42 million Americans receiving federal food assistance from the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP). This reinforces the argument that charity cannot solve the persistent underlying problem of incomes too low to afford a decent diet.

One man at the Albuquerque food pantry told me that the queues are longest at the time of the month when SNAP runs out, suggesting that even federal benefits are not making up for shortfalls in people's income.

Alternative solutions

Canada's Put Food in the Budget is a campaign to raise social assistance rates to enable a decent living standard. Led by people with experience of hunger, it uses creative approaches to campaign against poverty, e.g. leafletting local events and challenging city officials to survive on state benefit. In Washington DC, city-funded scheme Produce Plus gives benefit recipients cash to spend at farmers' markets. The idea is to encourage producers to locate themselves in low-income neighbourhoods. Any participant can spend up to $20-a-week on fruit, vegetables and herbs, until the city's yearly budget runs out.

On the other side of the country, I spent a day cooking with Community Kitchen Collective (a.k.a. 'CommieKitsch') in New Orleans. It cooks community meals for those displaced by gentrification and Hurricane Katrina and others who don't earn enough to eat well.

I trucked around pot-hole-ridden back streets with volunteer Lauren to collect food from warehouses. We found labourers who'd been heavy-lifting food crates since dawn. Lauren had packed them a cooked meal to say thank you for the food donations, for which we both received big, sweaty hugs. Surplus food here flowed reciprocally on the basis of informal but longstanding friendships.
Read more: Why is Asda partnering with the Trussell Trust
Back at the house and garden where we cooked, I watched a girl scald-roast green chillies that she blended with lime, salt and pepper into a fresh hot sauce to liven up the stew. We rode in the back of trucks with brimming pots to a park for the shared meal. Efforts like CommieKitsch have always differentiated their politically-motivated work from that of food charity. Like Poppendieck, they criticise charity for perpetuating a system that allows people to go hungry. Described by Nik Heynen as " non-violent, civil-disobedient direct action for the hungry", they position their work as solidarity rather than charity. Choosing to feed people in public places serves as a visual reminder of the failure of state institutions to uphold the right to food, even when this exposes them to crackdowns by city authorities, including public feeding bans.

Radical roots

There is a long tradition of combining food charity with activism. I met Judy Goldhaft at a café on the edge of the Haight Ashbury, San Francisco's hippy heart. She now campaigns for 'bioregional' environmental activism, but was a founder member of the San Francisco Diggers in the late 1960s. The Diggers gathered rejected food from markets and stores to cook free, public meals for anyone who needed them.

Judy explained to me how they shared food with the Black Panthers for their Free Breakfast Program and the Indians Of All Tribes occupying Alcatraz from 1969-1971. In this way, food redistribution created collaborations across struggles over racial and class injustices and indigenous land sovereignty.

Market traders sometimes mistook Judy and her fellow Diggers for the Catholic nuns who also distributed surplus food to those in need; radical and charitable food redistribution shares tangled roots. Finally, I was hugely inspired by DC Central Kitchen. Refusing to view food parcels as the solution to poverty, they focus on boosting skills and providing employment through a culinary training programme for people excluded from the workplace. Many graduates of the programme are then employed by the Kitchen, cooking healthy meals that are sold to schools, or given to community meal programmes. This approach still requires significant fundraising. But it has more chance of creating systemic change than providing free food to hungry people.

Beyond food charity

My trip reinforced my sense that food charity cannot, and will not, solve the underlying problems that result in food insecurity. Foodbanking in the US has created a secondary food system that has had little demonstrably preventative impact on levels of food insecurity in North America.

Food banks need to talk about race, gender, class, depression, health, housing, wages, and control over our food system.

One California food bank I visited focused not only on healthier food provision but employed a worker to advocate for public policy that could prevent hunger. She described vocally challenging local budget hearings where cuts to disability benefits were justified by the argument that people could at least rely on the food bank. Another food bank tries to boost client representation in decision-making through inclusion on advisory boards (though in Big Hunger, Andy Fisher points out that these often have little formal authority, while food bank boards often include members employed by large corporations whose interests may clash with efforts to address underlying causes of hunger).

A key lesson, then, is to involve people most affected by policies and practices that alleviate or aggravate hunger, who Mariana Chilton calls " witnesses to hunger ". She accompanies these witnesses to testify about their experiences to senators who may have influence over budgetary decisions around welfare and wages. Some food banks offer empowerment training to assist their clients to speak truth to power; these suggest ways of moving beyond "dignified distribution" towards more systemic change.
Charlie Spring's trip to the US and Canada was funded by the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust and formed part of her doctoral research into the growth of surplus food redistribution in the UK. The formal report of the trip's findings can be found here. MORE ON FOOD BANKS: Beyond the Food Bank 1 and Beyond the Food Bank 2: Our series exploring the increasingly complex web of initiatives and organisations trying to tackle food poverty in the UK. Foodbank Futures: What is causing food bank use to rise in the UK? We hear from Trussell Trust managers and volunteers. The Foodbank Dilemma: We visit three UK foodbanks and consider the wider social and political issues surroundings the provision of emergency food.
Main image by Kassidy Dawn.

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Seeking solutions to food poverty: A journey across America

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After touring food banks and projects across the US and Canada, Dr Charlie Spring shares what she learned about food charity in North America.

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Will Covid strip what few rights the Rohingya refugees have left?

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Will Covid strip what few rights the Rohingya refugees have left?

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Since one of the fastest growing migrations in recent history, the Rohingya refugees in Bangladesh have been living in a climate of uncertainty and mistrust. Now, confronted by a global pandemic and the prospect of being banished to an island for quarantine, will the Covid crisis strip the last remaining rights of the Rohingya people?

August marked the three-year anniversary of what quickly became one of the fastest growing refugee movements in recent history. In August 2017, nearly 700,000 Rohingya found refuge in Bangladesh, fleeing ethnic violence in the neighbouring Rakhine state of Myanmar. Since then, more than 1 million Myanmar Rohingya have been living in refugee camps in Cox's Bazar, a city in south-east Bangladesh. The camps not only form the largest refugee settlement in the world, but also the most densely populated.

Since the first Covid-19 case was identified in the camps in early March 2020, many feared the worst. An early report from the Johns Hopkins School of Public Health projected that even in conservative estimates, after the initial infections in the camp, a large-scale outbreak was highly likely.

Although the number of infections reported remains low, with 79 cases detected and six deaths, many human rights organisations including Amnesty International have warned that measures adopted during the early days of the pandemic are insufficient, overlook some of the most vulnerable members of this community and in some cases violate the rights of the Rohingya people. Some of these measures have reignited deep-seated fears among those living in the camps, causing rumours to spread across the communities, further challenging local Covid-19 prevention work.

These widespread fears are not new and are deeply rooted within the Rohingya community in Bangladesh. To understand this fully one would need to follow their three-year journey, since their traumatic arrival in Bangladesh in 2017.

A breach of trust

"The Bangladeshi people in Cox's Bazar where the first ones to intervene," one Rohingya elder remembers back to 2017. "They brought us food, clothing... We are very grateful to the Bangladeshi people."

But not long after, things began to change. An area where around 200,000 Bangladeshi used to live, now had to accommodate over 1 million Rohingya, and this had a considerable impact on the local communities. Jafaralam, a 40-year old Bangladeshi farmer from Ukhia Upazila in Cox's Bazar, explains that some took advantage of the situation by employing Rohingya for work outside the camps and, banking on their vulnerability and willingness to work for less, decreased all salaries from 1,000 Taka [£9 GBP] a day to 300 Taka [£3 GBP]. This together with a series of forced land expropriations to extend the refugee camps, fuelled tensions between the Rohingya and the local communities.

In February 2018, the government of Bangladesh started plans to relocate the Rohingya living in Cox's Bazar, by building a refugee camp on Bhashan Char, an uninhabited island in the Bay of Bengal. Although initially planned as a way to free up space in the camps and ease tensions, Bangladesh Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina has said it could at some point accommodate as many as 1 million Rohingya. The island is located in an area prone to cyclones and unpredictable floods and is considered by NGOs and human rights organisations as unsafe and not fit for purpose. This decision was immediately met with opposition from the Rohingya community who felt the right to choose had been once again taken away from them.

In November 2018, amid the pressures of a general election, the Bangladeshi government decided to pilot a programme of voluntary Rohingya repatriations. We met Mohammed Hasson some time in December that year. He was in hiding and had been moving between friends and relatives in different camps since November of that same year, when his name appeared on a government list for repatriation.

Like many other Rohingya, he arrived in Bangladesh a year earlier, between August and September 2017. In Myanmar, Mohammed was captured by the army alongside his two older brothers. He was 15 years old at the time. He was tortured for hours alongside other Rohingya people in a military compound. They were finally grouped and shot at repeatedly. He was left for dead in a mass grave beside his two dead brothers.

"When I woke up, I kept my eyes shut and waited for the soldiers to leave, and then I ran towards the forest." After five days looking for a way into Bangladesh, Mohammed was found by a group of Rohingya escaping a massacre in a nearby village. They cleaned his wounds and crossed into Bangladesh, where he underwent emergency surgery.

Every day I think that I would have been better off dying on that day next to my two brothers".

Like Mohammed, many others on that list had no intention to go back to Myanmar, and resisted repatriation. Between November and December 2018, the Bangladeshi army entered the camps, and riots broke out. Many elders that had made this very same journey before, first in the 70s and then again in the 90s, told us that, they were not going to trust "the empty promises" of the Myanmar government, not again. They would rather take their own lives than to go back to Myanmar.
Read more: GALLERY - The human and environmental toll of mass Rohingya migration
There is no question now that repatriations and relocations were a failed attempt to ease tensions in the area. If anything, it was a blow to the trust and hopes of many Rohingya that at the time considered Bangladesh a safe haven.

Amid this climate of uncertainty and mistrust, the Rohingya are now confronted by a global pandemic that has already taken over 700,000 lives and infected nearly 20 million people worldwide. Many fear that the Covid-19 crisis will be used as an opportunity to take rights away from the Rohingya and limit their freedom. Others worry that the lockdown will severely affect the already-weakened lines of support.

A fragile balance

Since the beginning of the lockdown, and as a measure to reduce the risk of infections, NGOs decreased staff presence in the camps by 80%. This measure alongside the government's decision to restrict access to some NGOs applying for new projects, has left the camps drastically underserved.

For Foyazl Islam, a resident of the Kutupalong-Balukhaly camp, the issue is clear: without the NGOs in the camps, life for the Rohingya has become a lot harder. "Our shelters are very damaged because of the monsoons, and due to the lockdown, we didn't get any materials to repair them." He says that although they have been asked to stay at home as much as possible, he finds it very difficult to stay in. "[Because of the damage] when it rains the water leaks into the house... It is very hard to sleep."

But the difficulties extend far and beyond housing conditions. The fragile and unforgiving economy of the camps, determines now, more than ever before, livelihoods. Foyazl has not been able to work since the lockdown started. The little money that he earned helped him supplement the food rations his family receives from the World Food Programme (WFP) and buy additional supplies. "Now the rations and food distributions have been reduced. It is not enough for us to survive, and supplies in the markets and shops are difficult to get and more expensive."

A resident of the Jamtoli camp confirms that a shortage of basic products and the ever-growing demand has made market prices increase dramatically. "Before the lockdown, 1kg of fish was around 100 Taka [£0.90 GBP] but now it is more than 200 Taka [£1.80 GBP]. Also, people have lost their income as during lockdown they cannot work."

In a place where malnutrition is an endemic issue, the news of shortage of supplies is alarming. Many Rohingya like Foyazl worry about their prospects if the current situation continues as it is, particularly regarding the access to health facilities. "I am not only worried for me but for everyone. Health facilities in the camps are not enough for everyone; if there were better facilities, then we would have a better chance."
Read more: The price of silence in Myanmar: Who is to blame for the plight of the Rohingya?
This concern is shared by Noor Hossain, a resident of the Kutupalong-Balukhaly camp. Since the beginning of the Covid-19 response, Noor has been recording complaints from community members.

The camps are not well resourced. If you reduce by 80% the NGO presence you can imagine the consequences."

Many Rohingya have come forward to complain about the healthcare they receive, from strenuous waiting times to the lack of proper examinations. "I have heard of many, many cases where no physical examination was carried out. The patient is asked from a distance a few questions, and based on the answers, drugs are prescribed."

Noor tells us that a relative of his was recently denied access to the Hope Foundation Hospital. Noor shares a photograph showing a woman who is lying beneath blankets on a stretcher on the bare floor, next to the main gate of the clinic. "The staff in the clinics are very scared of Covid," he explains. "She arrived at the health centre with fever and was refused entry. After two hours waiting, she was sent to the MSF Hospital, where she died. We were told that she had no Covid".

Distribution of supplies to tackle the pandemic have also been affected by the lockdown. Ayas, a volunteer team leader with the Danish Refugee Council (DRC) confirms that at the moment it is difficult to ensure basic hygiene and protection within the camps.

"The provision of soap is not enough, but the real problem is clean water. People have to carry water from the well, at the bottom of the hill, to the house at the top". In addition to this, wells are not always functioning, and water shortages are common. "Although there is a water distribution point, the queues are long, and after waiting until the evening, people can only get 3 or 4 pots of water. That is simply not enough water for drinking and washing your hands." Aya also tells us that the DRC together with the International Organization for Migration (IOM) and Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) have been distributing masks among the community, but supplies are scarce. "We have been distributing two cloth face masks per household, but that is not enough for all the family members." Face masks are available for sale in the markets around the camps, but they cost anything between 20 to 50 Taka [£0.18-0.45 GBP], too much for many Rohingya that have to make the choice between staying safe from the virus or being able to buy supplies for subsistence.

For Farjina, a 25-year-old mother of two, the concerns are altogether different. As NGO-run schools and Madrassas (Muslim schools) have been closed since the beginning of the lockdown, in order to avoid the spread of the disease and ensure social distancing, children in the camps remain at home unable to access education. "As Madrassas and schools have been closed, my children are having no education. If this [lockdown] continues for longer I fear for the future of our children."

A measured response?

Sirazul Islam, now 18, was born in the Kutupalong-Balukhali camp. In 2008, as part of The Gateway Protection Programme, a resettlement programme for refugees, he was granted asylum in the UK. Acting as youth advocate for the Bradford-based human rights group The British Rohingya Community, he is concerned with some of the measures adopted in the camps as part of the Covid-19 response. Particularly concerning is the announcement that the Bangladeshi Government would use the Bhashan Char island as one of the quarantine facilities and relocate some Rohingya there. He says: "The fears I had actually became true the moment they [the Bangladeshi Government] transported Rohingya into Bhashan Char island without their consent."

Many Rohingya refugees attempt the dangerous journey from Bangladesh to Malaysia in search of a better life. Since May 2020, hundreds of Rohingya, intercepted on the southernmost coast of Bangladesh on their way to Malaysia have been taken to quarantine in Bhashan Char. Sirazul believes that this violates the rights of the Rohingya as they are taken to the island against their will and without informing their families. Above all, he says, the Rohingya feel trapped and scared.

They are all genocide survivors. I cannot ask you to walk in their shoes, but it makes you wonder, when are they going to be treated as human beings? They have been through so much that the pandemic is the least of their concerns. They would rather suffer from the virus than be separated from their family again. That's the sentiment."

Mohammed Sultan has not seen his daughter Asma since early April. She left the Kutupalong-Balukhali camp to take a boat to travel illegally into Malaysia. Smugglers charge around 40,000 Taka [£360 GBP] per person - a lifetime of savings for most. After one month of journeying adrift in a leaky boat, Asma, alongside other refugees, were intercepted by Bangladeshi authorities, arrested and taken to Bhashan Char. "My daughter was taken to the island in May. We miss her so much, and we worry about her".
Read more: The defiant Rohingya of Bradford
Communication is difficult and Mohammed has not had any news from Asma since mid-June. "Currently I have no access to communication with my daughter, I have only talked to her three times on the phone since May." When asked about the living conditions on the island, Mohammed tells us that Asma is not allowed to move freely from one building to another and remains all the time in one room, with no NGOs to support her there. "She was crying a lot when I talked to her, no one is allowed to leave the island; she feels like a prisoner. I am eager to get my daughter back at any cost".

The spread of rumours

Like Mohammed Sultan, many other Rohingya people have been unable to communicate with their relatives for some time. Since September 2019, the Bangladeshi government has enforced a telecommunication ban on all the Rohingya people living in the camps by blocking internet, and not allowing them to buy or own SIM cards under the premise of maintaining security. With little to no reception in the camps, and the internet being blocked, it is nearly impossible to communicate.
[Editor's note: at the time of publication, the internet ban had been lifted]
Ro Sawyeddollah, an 18-year-old resident of the Jamtoli camp, confirms that since the start of lockdown many Rohingya have lost contact with their family and friends living in other camps: "I have not been able to contact my family since the lockdown started. They live in the Kutupalong-Balukhali camp. Before, there was one army checkpoint in Ukhia Upazila, now we cannot move from one camp to another as there are many checkpoints between camps, and with the internet ban it is very difficult to communicate".

One refugee says he has been fortunate, as since the beginning of lockdown, he has managed to contact his relatives living in another camp by using a Myanmar 2G SIM card, "but there is only one point in the camp with access, on top of a high hill. It is hard to get to."

Many others like Ro Sawyeddollah do not know if their relatives living in other camps are safe, resulting in a great deal of distress. But this is not the only problem caused by banning all communications in the camp. Kasim and Faruque both concur: "There is a lot of misinformation and rumours in the camp about this [Covid-19]". The rumours are many, but they have a common denominator:

People feel that anyone that is tested or goes to the health facility will be killed or taken to an island by the government".

Faruque adds: "The main issue is the lack of trust in the government and the organisations".

Faruque and Kasim arrived in the camp in 1991 and 2017 respectively and have been living in the Kutupalong-Balukhali camp alongside their relatives ever since. In March this year, amid the confusion created by the lockdown measures, they co-founded Omar's Film School, a Rohingya-run and led community engagement initiative aiming to "create awareness among the Rohingya on what the virus [Covid-19] is and what to do to stay safe" Faruque explains: "Most of us are uneducated and have very little information particularly now with the internet ban." The members of Omar's Film School go door-to-door, sharing information leaflets and educational videos with community members. Faruque says: "We mostly target elders as they are very vulnerable and the youths, so they can teach other members of their families. Members engage with NGOs still active in the camp to collate information, and check updates from The World Health Organisation, but very few have access to network and connectivity within the camps."

When asked about the internet ban, Faruque is quick to respond: "A very bad decision; when you lack information, rumours spread faster."

Putting trust in the future

For Mohammad Mainul Islam, professor in the Department of Population Science in the University of Dhaka, although the intervention to date has been faced by many challenges, "We shouldn't panic; but we need to intervene urgently." It is clear that the lack of information, the spread of rumours, and fear, are among the main challenges, and for that he says: "We need to build confidence among the Rohingya. The fear of isolation and separation from their relatives is persistent, but unless we can build trust among the Rohingya, it will be very difficult to achieve a successful intervention". The lack of robust data on infected Rohingya as a result of a low rate of voluntary testing within the camps is greatly challenging the prevention work. Prof Islam says:

Data is very important; we need more reliable data. How can we make a meaningful analysis without testing? Ultimately, we really don't know what is happening in the camps."

But these are not the only challenges. The intervention in the camps is currently suffering from a systematic lack of adequate support, as the preventive measures are not reaching the majority of the Rohingya people. Prof Islam continues: "Until the end of July, only 14,000 of the existing 187,000 households had been provided with adequate hand washing and hygiene kits, and only 32,000 households were distributed soap regularly... It is clear that the prevention measures are not sufficient." When asked about a potential ease of the lockdown measures in the camps the professor is clear: "At the moment we can only work on prevention. Undoubtedly the only long-term solution involves vaccination but when will the vaccine become available to rural, poverty-stricken populations? Who will provide the funds for 1.1 million vaccines for the Rohingya people? We don't know."
Read more:

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Will Covid strip what few rights the Rohingya refugees have left?

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The Rohingya refugees in Bangladesh are confronted by a global pandemic and the prospect of being banished to an island for quarantine. Will Covid strip what few rights the Rohingya refugees have left?

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Over the last six months in Lacuna, we have looked at some of the most troubling human impacts of the government's austerity programme; how it has affected vulnerable groups like single mothers, the sick and disabled, and black mental health patients. We have also presented a series of ' perspectives on prosperity' to stimulate deeper thinking about the society we want to be, and the policies we should prioritise to get there. This week we revisit many of these austerity and prosperity issues by thinking about foodbanks.

In The Foodbank Dilemma, James Harrison examines the explosion of foodbanks in church halls and community spaces around Britain which provide emergency food parcels for individuals and families who cannot afford to eat. The article focuses on the Trussell Trust's Foodbank Network. Ten years ago the Trussell Trust had a single foodbank. It is now widely reported to have more than 420 foodbanks. James reveals the fact that the actual figure is close to 1,400, as many foodbanks run a number of different foodbank centres within a particular area.

Before sitting down to write the piece, James visited a number of different foodbanks, interviewing both the people using them and those running them. What he found surprises. The growth of foodbanks is about more than hunger and it is about more than welfare reform. Yes, many people visit foodbanks because they are down to their last few pounds after a lengthy jobcentre sanction or they have starved themselves and there still isn't enough to feed their children. But there are also those "hanging on by their fingernails", as one interviewee told Lacuna. These foodbank users aren't experiencing a crisis as such, simply an ongoing struggle to survive dictated by low wages, insecure jobs and high housing costs.

James' wide-ranging piece also looks to the US: what can the country's vast network of food aid, feeding tens of millions of Americans, teach the UK about food insecurity? The Foodbank Dilemma is a revealing portrait of the varying levels of destitution in Britain today, which challenges popular assumptions and questions the long-term social impact. It follows in the footsteps of our previous work on austerity by highlighting more hidden victims. It also suggests that we need to think more deeply about the society we want to be, and as James argues "to look beyond the hunger issue and see foodbanks as the canary in the mine, a warning that there may be something very wrong with the economic and social model we are pursuing in Britain today."

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Over the last six months in Lacuna, we have looked at some of the most troubling human impacts of the government's austerity programme; how it has affected vulnerable groups like single mothers, the sick and disabled, and black mental health patients. We have also presented a series of 'perspectives on prosperity' to stimulate deeper thinking...

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By sending doctors to Italy, Cuba continues its long campaign of medical diplomacy

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By sending doctors to Italy, Cuba continues its long campaign of medical diplomacy

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With the spread of coronavirus, the world has been reminded of Cuba's longstanding medical internationalism as Cuban doctors travel to support medics in Covid-19 hotspots, including Wuhan, China. Stéphanie Panichelli-Batalla considers the economic and diplomatic impact of Cuba's travelling doctors and calls for global cooperation in these unprecedented times.

As Italy continues its battle against the global coronavirus pandemic, Cuba has sent 52 doctors and nurses to the country to help. The excellent training of Cuban doctors as well as the fact that they are used to working in precarious and high-risk situations will provide invaluable support for the Italian people.

For nearly 60 years, Cuba has been sending healthcare professionals around the world. It does this in solidarity with those in need, but also as part of a concerted campaign of medical diplomacy and to make money to help the country survive an ongoing US embargo.

Since the very early years of the Cuban revolution, its former leader, Fidel Castro, made clear that universal healthcare and internationalism would be key to the country's strategy.

Based on the socialist concept that everyone should have the same opportunities in life, Cuba believed these ideals should be applicable at the global level. The Cuban programme was born out of an interest to export its revolutionary socialist ideals, first to Africa, and later to South America and the rest of the world.

Cuba sent its first long-term mission of Cuban doctors to Algeria in 1963, a country facing a territorial conflict with Morocco. Since then, Cuba has sent more than 400,000 healthcare professionals to work in 164 countries, according to statistics published by the state media.

They have helped both in disaster relief, as well as to provide access to healthcare for those living in remote areas, for example in Venezuela and Brazil. These interventions are born out of trade cooperation agreements between the receiving country and Cuba, for which the Cuban government gets paid either in cash or in goods.

In 2019, more than 28,000 Cuban healthcare professionals were working abroad.

And before the outbreak of the coronavirus, 59 countries were benefiting from Cuba's medical internationalism. The Cuban government recently confirmed that its medical missions will be maintained and that, where needed, the services provided by their doctors would focus on combating the virus.
Read more: Coronavirus is affecting the wellbeing of people with intellectual disabilities
The national press never misses an opportunity to present Cuba's internationalist doctors as heroes, responsible for giving hope to people all over the world who are in desperate situations. Pedro*, one of the doctors I interviewed as part of my research on the life stories of Cuban healthcare workers, explained the uniqueness of the Cuban doctors' position:

The doctor can be Cuban, or from another country, but not every doctor will sacrifice their life and put themselves in danger to save lives, and this without any kind of financial compensation. This is something we Cubans only do.

Critics and fugitives

Despite the admirable aspects of the programme, it has also received criticism. Some suggest the real interests of the programme are economic and diplomatic and that it allows Cuba to shift scrutiny away from its own poor human rights record.

Others have criticised what they see as the "selective humanitarianism" of the programme, calling attention to the lower numbers of doctors available to the Cuban population due to the high numbers of doctors working abroad. In my research in Cuba, I've witnessed long waiting times in medical centres and several of the people I interviewed spoke of a lack of continuity in doctor-patient care.

Read more: Why did my cancer diagnosis lead to stigma and shame?

As for the doctors and nurses who take part, their participation is not always driven by solidarity but in some cases by the opportunities these missions represent for them and their families. In many cases, working on a mission will improve their standard of living when they return to the island. Many are also able to send goods such as fridges or other household appliances to their families while they are away.

Many doctors have also used the mission as a way to escape a country that is still governed by an authoritarian regime and between 2006 and 2016, more than 7,000 Cuban doctors defected to the US.

Several have even accused the Cuban government of using them as modern slaves.

A moment for global cooperation

Cuba always offers its medical help, but Italy is the first developed European country which has decided to accept it.

Many global leaders have been wary of doing so, because of Cuba's poor human rights record. The case of Hurricane Katrina in 2005 is illustrative here. Castro offered to send 1,500 doctors to the US to help with the relief effort. A special group of healthcare professionals was formed for the task called the Henry Reeve medical brigade, named after an American who supported the Cuban independence forces in 1868 and died in combat for the cause. But US president George W Bush never got back to Castro and the doctors and nurses were redeployed elsewhere. It's this same brigade which has now gone to Italy.

In 2005, while waiting for Bush's response, Castro made clear what should be at the centre of decisions in times of crisis:

This is not a war between human beings, it is a war for the life of human beings, it is a war against diseases, against repeating calamities, and one of the first things this world should learn especially now, with the changes that are taking place and the phenomena of this type, is to cooperate.

* Names have been changed to protect the anonymity of interviewees.
While everyone may not agree with Castro's revolution, perhaps this is a moment for the world to put ideological disagreements aside and focus on the global war against coronavirus by all working together.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article here.

Main image by Amy Goodman

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Beatrice M. Spadacini and Stefano Schirato

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Cuba sends doctors to Italy continuing its campaign of medical diplomacy

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With the spread of coronavirus, the world has been reminded of Cuba's longstanding medical internationalism as Cuban doctors travel to support medics in Covid-19 hotspots, including Wuhan, China.

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Saidpur, Islamabad Capital Territory, Pakistan

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The Foreigner: One family’s journey from Pakistan to the UK

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The Foreigner: One family’s journey from Pakistan to the UK

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This vivid short story gives us a glimpse into one family's journey from Pakistan to the UK. Our 16-year-old writer presents a sensitive and spirited description of immigrant life, based loosely on the experiences of his grandfather.

Kadeer Khan is the winner of the University of Warwick's fifth annual Writing Wrongs Schools' Competition, organised by the Centre for Human Rights in Practice. This is his winning article which he reworked with Lacuna Magazine.

I had no intention of leaving my family behind. None at all, in fact, but the desire for a better life proved to be an inescapable mirage.

My home in Saidpur - a glorious stretch of land rooted deep in Islamabad - was as close to perfection as anything could be. The mountains of Daman-e-Koh stood watchfully beside the city, overseeing the happenings of a humble people.

The community was a spider's web; each thread delicately woven into shape.

The marketplace lay tribute to the work of former generations, sparking life into fading embers. Wafts of chillies hovered patiently in the pure air. Trolleys of ripened fruit rattled rhythmically against the uneven ground. By day, Saidpur bustled with undying optimism. By night, I was engulfed by a morbid reality. Hope was dead.

* * *

The man who pushed me away from my family was British. A disapproving, pale face sat begrudgingly on his stern neck. His icy breath sent chills throughout Saidpur. Pinched lips screamed disdain. The man was far taller than the rest of us, but instead of legs, he was seemingly propped up by two British flagpoles.

Without saying a word, he worked his way through the street, handing stacks of paper to every man he could find. When he eventually reached me, a deafening silence was felt by all.

His harsh stare scorched me; his eyes were a magnifying glass, directing unforgiving rays of sunlight onto my skin.

If I had stayed any longer, I fear I would have been burned to ash. So, I took the papers and headed off, not looking back.

I could not forget his face; it reminded me of my father. According to my relatives, he was charm and likeability personified, but the poorly-hidden scars on my mother's arms and neck told a different story. He died well before I had the chance to get to know him, but the white man looked just like the man in our photos. Perhaps, I saw my father in these papers too; they were a contradiction - a gift and a curse.

Most of the papers were formalities, but the sheet that sat at the front read, in large, bold writing: 'Paid work in Britain - VISA NOT REQUIRED.'

This irked me. My mother always told me - in our native tongue, of course - that if something seemed too good to be true, it probably was. My hopeful, younger self would have dismissed this, but as our financial situation gradually worsened, an opportunity as blatant as this one seemed to be our only choice.
Read more: The Jungle, Calais: "The best and worst of humanity in one place"
I was the only one of my six siblings who was old enough to work. Getting by through innumerable hours of labour was unsustainable, especially with the underwhelming salary it provided. I sat alone in the garden for the rest of that bitter evening, arguing back and forth with myself. While my options were simple, the outcomes were not.

I had to choose between being with my family or providing for them. I could either allow my family to fall into inescapable poverty or allow myself to fall into inescapable loneliness. Eventually, as the last of the evening light was sucked from the blanketing sky, I had concluded that I would not go - alone.

The next morning, having had a restless night, I clambered to the marketplace where I, once again, found the white man. Through gritted teeth, I mumbled the only question that festered in my mind. The warmth of the response he gave juxtaposed his cold, piercing breath. "You can take three people, kid."

So, I did what any logical man would do in my position. I took the opportunity.

* * *

The ship was packed to the gunwales. It was nearly impossible to take a few steps in any direction and not tread on someone's feet. The salty stench of sweat was potent. There was no night or day.

Me and my three younger brothers were given a dingy cabin with two single beds and a work-desk that provided no usefulness to us except as a seat. The main deck acted as some sort of a common area, where restless kids moaned and cried and slept on the hardwood floor, while the parents sat uncomfortably, suppressing their anguish and hopelessness.

Though my reasoning was completely justified, I felt guilty for bringing them along; I could not be the sole provider for much longer. It was an immeasurable pity that I could not take my entire family, but I had no choice. My mother was reluctant to see me go - as was I to leave her behind - but someone needed to stay behind to care for the little girl, Faizah.

I hoped my brothers would see that I brought them along for their own benefit, but the longer I sat and watched the three of them struggle to sleep, I began to doubt whether my decision was informed enough. Jamil, the oldest of the three, would be able to work in four years.

Hopefully then, I would see that it was for the best. For the time being, however, they were nothing but a burden I imposed on myself.

Once a few hours had passed, everyone - including the children - participated in melancholic silence, with the occasional whisper or creaking floorboard disrupting the quiet.

I left my brothers asleep in the cabin and went to the upper deck. Sat on a rounded dining table - with names, numbers and foreign symbols etched into the pinewood - were a small group of elderly men.

Their demeanour was surreal. Their odd and mechanical interaction comforted me; it was a reassuring blanket, masking their fear of the unknown. I, however, could not hide my fear at all. I sprinted back to the cabin and slammed the door shut, closing myself off from the world.

* * *

Nechells Hall - the centre we were living in - was dimly lit. For the first few days, everything was still. Hardly anyone entered, and almost no one left. The softwood flooring was hollow, and a few tiles cracked under the immense weight of men in sleeping bags. Bulbs died out by one until the only source of light was in the centre of the room.

Once work at the factories had officially begun, the men, women and children all began dispersing among the public. I was reluctant. I was a pioneer, an explorer, a tourist in one respect, but I was also a guardian, responsible for my brothers. So, I laid low for the first week or so.

When I eventually mustered up the courage to explore this new land, I began heading down to local shops with the week's pay in my left pocket. No one shopkeeper was the same. Some met me with beaming smiles, others glanced at me with pitiful smirks, and I was struck by the majority with apprehensive glares.

Although their dissent was noticeable, I was never refused service. However, once I inevitably branched out into public territory, I was met with unequivocal abuse.

It began with a wave of muttering, gradually picking up pace until eventually, I was washed over daily with an unstoppable tsunami of hatred.

Litter left in the ruins read 'paki', 'curry muncher' (which, accrediting their own lack of knowledge, was geographically inaccurate) 'brownie' and 'coconut' - among others.

I battled with myself daily about whether to retaliate, but decided it was wisest not to; it was a losing battle from the outset. So, I kept quiet, cutting glass with rusted machines at the dingy, perilous factory. Working there was not an enjoyable experience by any means, but it kept me away from the beady eyes of vultures, hunting me down.

Any spare hours were spent at the factory, while my brothers played increasingly uninteresting board games for hours back at the hall. Year by year, I cut away my youth, abandoned in the dust, to be forgotten forever.

* * *

My brothers and I visit my wife today. In the car I ask them about their work. Jamil is working for a law firm that, quote-unquote, "drains the life energy from [his] soul". The youngest is out of employment but promises me he won't stop looking until he finds the right one, and then he'll look for a job. Rashid, the middle child, is due to get married this summer and I will - as expected - be the best man.

Maybe I don't deserve any credit for getting them this far, and maybe I gave them no choice, but I can say for certain they are no burden on my shoulders. Under my subdued exterior, they know how proud I am, so maybe it was worth the struggle.

When I eventually arrive home and gaze at our wedding pictures, I feel almost certain I can see whispers of her walnut brown hair dance in the picture frame.

Her welcoming face still glows on the wall; she is my incandescent flame. It ignites in me every memory of her - her strength to overcome the hate, her spontaneity, and her spark when she had an epiphany. More-so than anything else, she never ceased to garner my admiration with her unconcealed vulnerability.
Read more: "Never again": The defiant Rohingya of Bradford
I visit her on the weekends - and on her birthday - with a bouquet of poppies and white roses to lay on the ground that envelops her. She is the mother to my four children: Miel, Sofiane, Kian, and the eldest - Zaya.

With Miel taking the bus to school, my only job is to watch as Sofiane steps out of the house and heads off walking to college. With his hood up and earphones in, he sprints out of the house and meets up with his friends at the end of the road, ignoring the crowd of people outside our front door. But I struggle to do the same.

As my foot hits the pathway of the front garden, a metallic stench is injected into my nostrils - paint. Using the cloud of pointing fingers as an indicator, I jerk my head towards my right.

On the fence, a written message in massive, uneven capitals, using blood-red paint reads: "FUCK OF HOME". This makes me livid, and not because of what the inhospitable sentiment.

The message has lost its meaning; it's a story told to the same people a million times in different ways. What frustrates me is the culprit's inability to spell simple words.

So, I go to the shed at the back of my garden, grab the closest shade of red I can find, and march back. The neighbours' looks of collected confusion as I begin painting the second 'F' onto the fence is unparalleled. I even let out a little chuckle in acknowledgement.
Read more:
When the job is finished, I head back into the house and go to the bathroom to wash the paint off my hands. Almost simultaneously, the most tragic of ironies washes over me; I am the foreigner, but they don't know the language.

All images by Oreofe Morakinyo.

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The Foreigner: One family's journey from Pakistan to the UK - Lacuna Magazine

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This vivid short story gives a glimpse into one family's journey from Pakistan to the UK. Based loosely on the experiences of his grandfather, our 16-year-old writer presents a sensitive and spirited description of immigrant life

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In times of crisis, refugees cannot survive on compassion alone

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In times of crisis, refugees cannot survive on compassion alone

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In times of crisis, refugees cannot survive on compassion alone

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Coronavirus is spreading, tensions at borders are rising and refugee camps are overcrowded and under-resourced. As refugees at the Greek-Turkish border are met with water guns and hostility, Mariana Fotaki calls for countries across the EU to offer more than just compassion.

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How can we trace and name each refugee who has drowned in the Mediterranean?

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How can we trace and name each refugee who has drowned in the Mediterranean?

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In Italy forensic pathologist Cristina Cattaneo is working to identify some of the 20,000 refugees who have died or gone missing while trying to cross the Mediterranean. Relatives post pictures of their missing loved ones in kiosks in their home towns while those who can afford it travel to Cattaneo's lab to find answers. Journalist Greta Privatera hears their stories and asks why westerners who have seen families fight tirelessly to find missing relatives after 9/11 or the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami fail to imagine that the families of Eritrean, Senegalese or Syrian people are desperately looking for their loved ones too.

There was an Eritrean girl who travelled here from Stockholm. She was looking for her brother who had been with his wife and children on a boat from Libya headed to Sicily. She sat on the chair in front of the doctors, and asked to see the photographs of the bodies found at sea as well as the personal effects that were collected. She was working her way through the pages, slowly. Then she stopped on a scrap of paper covered with scribbled telephone numbers. She said: "This is my brother's handwriting, I'm sure of it." She kept reading, opened her eyes wide and burst into tears. Among all of the phone numbers, she saw her own. She had found her brother.

This is one of dozens of stories relayed by Cristina Cattaneo when we meet in downtown Milan. She is a professor of legal medicine at the University of Milan (known locally as UniMI or Università Statale di Milano), and is the director of LABANOF, the Laboratory of Forensic Anthropology and Odontology, based on campus. It is the only laboratory in Europe that works to identify migrants who have gone missing in the Mediterranean.

Cattaneo, author of Naufraghi senza volto and Corpi, scheletri e delitti: Le storie del Labanof (Bodies, skeletons and murders: the Labanof stories), has dedicated her life to the dead. Her interest in the dead started when she was just seven years old after the death of her neighbour. She had so many questions about what had happened to him, but her mother's answers left her unsatisfied. From that moment on, her desire to investigate grew. She graduated in medicine and surgery from the University of Milan, and then specialised in legal medicine. In 1995 Cattaneo became the Head of LABANOF, which deals with missing people and bodies which haven't been identified. Over the course of her career she has worked on autopsies of important cold cases in Italy, such as Stefano Cucchi, the young man who died in prison in 2009, but in 2013 her attention was drawn to the story of people trying to reach Europe.
Read more: How refugees are living in limbo at an asylum centre in Italy
On the night of October 3, when a boat carrying nearly 400 people capsized off the coast of the Isola dei Conigli, in Lampedusa, only 366 corpses were recovered, and Cattaneo began researching the identities of the dead by studying their DNA and analysing their remains and personal effects.

"That episode unleashed the solidarity of many and pushed the authorities to move in different directions," she says. The International Committee of the Red Cross asked Cattaneo to help organise a network of immigration authorities in countries around the Mediterranean to name the people who have lost their lives at sea. She accepted.

Victims on these kind of boats were certainly not new, but this disaster shook our consciences more than any other," she says. "It is fundamental to give a name and a story to those who are no longer here. It's essential for those still living. Relatives need it to process their mourning, otherwise they go crazy. Think about the mental health of a mother who does not know if her child is dead or alive, or of orphans who without a parental death certificate, are unable to reunite with relatives in Europe."

With the help of collaborators, and funded by the Commissario Straordinario per le Persone Scomparse (the Italian government's Special Commissioner for Missing Persons), she got to work.

In the western world we have seen families fight tirelessly to find missing relatives after extraordinary events such as 9/11 or the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami. Why, then, do we fail to imagine that the families of Eritrean, Senegalese or Syrian people are desperately looking for their loved ones too? The truth is that there are thousands of African and Middle Eastern families who are still waiting to know what happened to their loved ones and who will go to great lengths to find answers.

In some villages in Eritrea, for example, the International Committee of the Red Cross has dedicated kiosks where they collect details about missing relatives, and then cross-reference with information cataloged by operations such as LABANOF. These local kiosks are essential because many families do not have enough money to travel to Europe and Italy in search of their relatives.

Thousands of African parents don't even know that our laboratory exists, and that's why it should be institutionalised in Europe," says Cattaneo. "Every country should have one and each should be connected to a centralised institute that manages all this information. I hope that this dream will come true one day."

The majority of the relatives that Cattaneo has met - and she has met hundreds of them - are people who live in Europe and come to Italy in search of news on behalf of the family in their country of origin. One such relative was an aunt originally from Eritrea who now lives in Switzerland, and lost all contact with her nephew.

"I don't understand," she said as soon as she was in front of Cattaneo and her team. "Immediately after the shipwreck in Lampedusa someone collected DNA from my brother's son, saying that it would be used to identify the body, but then what was done?"

Often Cattaneo's responses are not enough to appease the anger of people who understand the injustice, as in this case.

"This aunt was right," says Cattaneo. "How could we tell her that everyone had forgotten to identify her relative?" Her beloved nephew had just graduated and fled Eritrea in search of a better life in Europe.

When we gave her the photographs of the deceased, she stopped at the fourth one and broke into a silent cry," says Cattaneo.

"Samuel, Samuel, Samuel," she kept repeating. After a few minutes of sobbing, she tried to compose herself. She took a deep breath and moved onto the next step in her mission. That woman wasn't just there for Samuel.

"She wasn't done yet," recalls Cattaneo. "Another mother, her friend, also did not know what had happened to her son."

The woman produced a lock of her friend's hair rolled up in a sheet of paper, explaining to Cattaneo that she hoped it would be useful for identifying the DNA of the missing young boy. Cattaneo's team took it and catalogued it.

Every parent, brother or sister that Cattaneo has met, has become a story that is now part of her, just like the story of a Somalian girl who won a scholarship from a prestigious European university. She took a chance and sailed towards Italy on a "death boat" as she did not have the money to pay for a flight. She didn't make it to university as she drowned in the Mediterranean Sea. Or the story of a man with no more hope in his eyes whose only mission was to bring his wife's body home.

Read more: What do 270 migrant and refugee interviews reveal about Europe's approach to migration?

"I remember a Syrian doctor who arrived with his wife," Cattaneo says. "They had long been looking for their children. They painstakingly told us how they lost sight of them as the ship sank. They gave us their DNA, and photos of the three little girls who were playing happily in their home in Damascus," she continues. "They looked at the photos of the dead we had, but their girls were not here. They had already contacted Malta, but they weren't there either. With painful precision, the doctor wrote on a sheet of paper: 300 people had boarded the boat, 22 bodies had been found by the Italians, 18 from Malta. He put the two digits one above the other and subtracted them, drew a line and under it and he wrote in capital letters: 260 still on the seabed. We were devastated."

LABANOF's work to identify victims is highly complex, lasts for months and involves experts from various disciplines.

We analysed bodies, remains, clothes, pictures from Facebook, and DNA," Cattaneo explains. "I found a lot in people's pockets: money, personal documents, bags with dirt from their native land, library cards and blood donor cards.

"But I can't forget the day I discovered a booklet well sewn in the pocket of a pair of pants of a 14-year-old from Mali. I carefully cut around, peeled it off and read: 'Bulletin scolaire and the slightly faded words mathématiques, sciences physiques.' It was a report card. It was the most precious thing he had, his dreams. He wanted to go to school and live in a country of peace."

This boy ended up at the bottom of the sea.

One scene that Cattaneo shared, better than any other, illustrated the injustice these bereaved families face.

"Outside of the laboratory, there was an elderly man sitting in a chair, he was holding our letter, we invited him to identify his missing relatives. He was waiting in silence for his turn while images of the Germanwings disaster - the one in which a co-pilot took control of the plane and crashed into the French Alps killing 150 people - were scrolling on the TV hanging on the wall. The man stared at the progress of the rescuers and the interviews with parents and children of the victims who told their stories to the world. He seemed to recognise the pain in their faces, it was very similar to his."

There was only one enormous difference: in two days their deceased had all been identified, they had a name and a place to return to, but, a year and a half after the sinking of a boat in Lampedusa on October 3 2013, that man and the others in the room with him were still waiting and hoping to find out what happened to their children.

This particular image is stuck in my mind because to me it is a symbol of what these families are forced to go through," Cattaneo says. "Not only must they resign themselves to the fact that they will no longer see their loved ones and that, in many cases, they will not have a grave to cry on, they must accept that even in death, their children are considered to be second-class citizens."

In the Mediterranean Sea "there have been at least 30,000 victims, and it is only the tip of the iceberg. It is the largest humanitarian disaster in the post-war era," says Cattaneo. "Millions of men and women have left everything they had to try to save themselves from war, hunger and poverty.

"Giving a name to the dead is our duty. We have managed to collect the data of nearly 1700 missing persons, but there is more to do, and we need help."

Art by Kassidy Dawn.

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Beatrice M. Spadacini and Stefano Schirato

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How can we trace and name each refugee who has drowned in the Mediterranean?

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Greta Privitera hears the stories of some of the 20,000 refugees who have died or gone missing while trying to cross the Mediterranean - and the families and friends still trying to find them.

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In this edition, Lacuna magazine explores some of the realities of life in the Western Maghreb and exposes some of the challenges we face when attempting to understand it.

The idea of exploring the desert is dangerously romantic. Rational thoughts wander towards elongated shadows of camel caravans languidly treading over dunes that evaporate into the sunset. The armchair orientalist may not be stirred from her daydreaming, the beauty and seduction of this picture is unrivalled. But reality eventually catches up. The Sahara has always been inhabited, I quickly remind myself. Resilient communities have made it their home, fighting harsh conditions with the imperative of human survival. That desert belongs to them and their stories.

Present day Western Maghreb is a socially and politically complex region that blurs the borders of neighbouring states spanning numerous cultural and national identities. This geopolitical mosaic, and the contradictions that inevitably arise from it, cannot be described in just a few words. It is the people in the camps, villages, towns and cities whose voices must be heard in an attempt to navigate society in and around the Sahara.

Their lives are intertwined with the bitter legacies of colonialism and the current waves of radicalisation. New and old opponents from the outside and from within threaten these communities' existence, their opportunities for development and political recognition. There seems to be a recurring theme of resistance to subjugation. The violence suffered at the hands of European colonialists and the defamatory cultural consequences endured by the local population. The paralysing fear instilled into the hearts of those communities by the creeping menace of jihadist groups. The denial of political identity, segregation and gross human rights abuses imposed by oppressive governments. The region can only be seen in context, through the eyes of its inhabitants.

In Forty years in exile journalist and photographer Tomaso Clavarino provides an in-depth investigation into the struggle of the Saharawi people to survive in the Western Sahara. Through a combination of text, picture galleries and video clips, this feature takes readers to the stretch of land between the Algerian border and the Mauritanian one and tells the stories of Saharawi communities living on both sides of the wall. On one side are the "liberated" territories controlled by the Polisario Front, on the other the "occupied" territories under Moroccan control. In the absence of a political settlement, the Saharawi people remain vulnerable to violence and exposed to humanitarian emergencies.

Lauren Beadsworth reviews Timbuktu, the latest film by Mauritanian director Abderrahmane Sissako about the difficulties of life for a small town in Mali suddenly taken over by jihadists. In Timbuktu: An Uncertain Future she gives us a glimpse of how the movie weaves the personal story of a cattle herder and his family with the emerging regime imposed by the jihadists.

In The Politics of the Other, Tony Boardman provides an insightful review of a new novel by Algerian journalist Kamel Daoud, The Meursault Investigation. The book re-imagines the events of Albert Camus' 1942 masterpiece, The Outsider ( L'Etranger), offering a rich, provocative investigation of identity and place in post-colonial Algeria.

And Rebecca Omonira, Lacuna Magazine's writer-in-residence, reflects on Henrietta Butler's latest book The Tuareg or Kel Tamasheq: the people who speak Tamasheq in Uncovering the stories of the Sahara. It is a collection of essays, poems, art, photographs, old manuscripts, letters and notes from early explorers documenting Tuareg life, which sheds light on the events unfolding in the Sahar today.

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Ways into the Western Maghreb - Lacuna Magazine

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The idea of exploring the desert is dangerously romantic. Rational thoughts wander towards elongated shadows of camel caravans languidly treading over dunes that evaporate into the sunset. The armchair orientalist may not be stirred from her daydreaming, the beauty and seduction of this picture is unrivalled. But reality eventually catches up.

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How Europe is using coronavirus to reinforce its hostile environment in the Mediterranean

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How Europe is using coronavirus to reinforce its hostile environment in the Mediterranean

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How is the coronavirus pandemic affecting refugees seeking safety in Europe? And as the continent is pre-occupied with internal affairs, are some countries using COVID-19 as an excuse to refuse sea rescues and enforce anti-immigration strategies? Maurice Stierl considers the current situation in the Mediterranean and the response from Italy, Malta, Libya and the EU.

"You have to understand," Warsan Shire writes in her poem Home, "that no one puts their children in a boat, unless the water is safer than the land."

But what do you do when not only the land of departure but also the land of arrival becomes unsafe?

In the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, some European countries have begun to implement a new strategy to reject migrants travelling on precarious boats: declaring themselves unsafe.

On April 7, and for the first time in history, Italy announced that due to the health emergency, Italian harbours could no longer be considered "safe places" for migrant landings. Two days later, Malta followed suit, stating it would be in the migrants' own interest not to endanger their lives at sea.

As a result, hundreds of migrants have been stuck at sea in the past few weeks, somewhere between war-torn Libya and "unsafe" Europe. Some were eventually rescued by commercial vessels but barred from entering European harbours. Others were left adrift on flimsy boats.

One group of 63 people was stranded at sea when their engine failed them in the Maltese Search and Rescue zone in mid-April. European authorities were informed about their distress and for days Malta, and the EU border agency Frontex, observed them from the sky. With no help sent, some starved to death on board and others drowned, according to one of the survivors who spoke to the activist network Alarm Phone:

We shouted for help and made signs. Three people tried to swim to this big boat as it started moving away. They drowned. We made signs to the aircraft with the phones and we held the baby up to show we were in distress.

Eventually, after days with no help, the Maltese authorities orchestrated a secret operation to push the migrants back to Libya, carried out by a small fleet of private fishing trawlers. During their involuntary journey back to Libya, three other individuals are reported to have died, bringing the total number of fatalities to 12.

The UN High Commissioner for Human Rights expressed deep concern, and a Maltese NGO triggered a criminal enquiry against Malta's prime minister, Robert Abela, over the deaths and the forced return of survivors to Libya. Responding to the accusations, Abela defended the government's actions by alluding to its responsibility to ensure the health of "all the Maltese" through restrictions on immigration.

Blame game

In the aftermath of yet another catastrophic failure to prevent lives from being lost at sea, a familiar game of deflection has ensued, with EU institutions and member states rejecting responsibility.

Shifting blame to smuggling networks, though still a common strategy, has been complicated by revelations of Europe's close collaborations with these very networks.

In the past, politicians have cited the pull-factor theory, which argues that the presence of NGO rescuers off North African coasts encourages migrants to make the journey across the Mediterranean. But this theory has also lost persuasive power given the fact that migrant departures are continuing despite the current absence of NGOs at sea due to the coronavirus crisis.

Without NGO rescuers left to blame, Malta accused the EU and its member states of failing to act, insisting that the new migrant arrivals were " not Malta's problem ".
Read more: In times of crisis, refugees cannot survive on compassion alone
United in migrant deterrence

These deflections of responsibility and tensions between EU member states and institutions over migration have become commonplace. And yet, in reality, Europe is largely united in its efforts to militarise its border over the past five years. As I have argued in a recent study, both EU member states and institutions have worked hand-in-hand to turn Europe into a hostile environment for migrants seeking protection.

The European Commission was not wrong to state in 2019 that in matters of border security: "We have made more progress in the space of four years than was possible in the 20 years preceding them."

Agreements with Libyan authorities, including militia groups, have led to the interception of tens of thousands of people at sea, often after being spotted in the air by the EU operation SOPHIA or by Frontex. In this way, Europe has militarised its borders in full awareness of the systematic violation of migrants' rights in Libya, including forms of rape and torture, that have been documented for years.

Every theatrical plea to the EU by a member state demanding more support distracts from this reality of a rapidly militarising European border that has dramatically brought down migrant arrivals. Despite characterisations of Mediterranean migration as an ongoing crisis, data on migrant crossings shows that 2020 could see the lowest number of arrivals in a decade.
Read more: How can we trace and name each refugee who has drowned in the Mediterranean?
Italy and Malta's declaration of their harbours as unsafe should not be viewed as an exceptional measure during an exceptional time but as part and parcel of continuous, and collectively European, efforts to reinforce anti-migrant deterrence measures.

Those languishing in Libyan torture camps or drowning off Europe's coasts must regard deterrence in the name of "unsafe Europe" for what it is: yet another cynical way to keep them away and deprive them of safety, no matter the cost.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article here.

Main image by Cassiano Psomas.

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Beatrice M. Spadacini and Stefano Schirato

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How Europe is using coronavirus to reinforce its hostile environment in the Mediterranean

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How is the coronavirus pandemic affecting refugees seeking safety in Europe? And are some countries using COVID-19 as an excuse to refuse sea rescues and enforce anti-immigration strategies?

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“My name is Kotaiba. I am from Syria.” - Lacuna Magazine

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It Can Be Done, a new podcast series from the Migrants’ Law Project, tells the story of young refugees stuck in camps in northern France and how lawyers worked to open safe and legal routes to reunite them with their families in the UK.

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The Jungle, Calais: “The best and worst of humanity in one place”

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The Jungle, Calais: “The best and worst of humanity in one place”

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Migration podcast It Can Be Done returns for its second episode, continuing the story of a team of lawyers, activists and organisers who come together to reunite children in Calais refugee camp, the jungle, with their families in the UK.
During the summer of 2015 thousands of refugees found themselves trapped in the "jungle", an unofficial camp in Calais, France.

Two English lawyers travelled to the jungle and were shocked to discover unaccompanied children living in unsafe, squalid conditions.

In the second episode of It Can Be Done, a Syrian businessman discovers the harsh reality of life in the jungle, a British community organiser is moved to visit Calais and tries to help, and lawyers look to European Union asylum law for a solution.

Listen on SoundCloud.

Listen to episode one here.

Podcast by The Migrants' Law Project

Interviews, script and production: Rebecca Omonira-Oyekanmi
Production and editing: Simone Lai
All additional music in episode 2 by Blue Dot, CC BY-NC 4.0

Theme music from the Stone Flowers album, Ngunda, provided with permission from Music Action International. Stone Flowers are a refugee torture survivor collective from around the world who meet regularly to write, share and perform songs to raise awareness about human rights abuses and to connect audiences in a positive and uplifting way. The programme is delivered with Music Action International who create life-changing music with people affected by war, torture and persecution.

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The Jungle, Calais: "The best and worst of humanity in one place"

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A Syrian businessman discovers the harsh reality of life in the jungle, a British community organiser is moved to visit Calais and tries to help, and lawyers look to European Union asylum law for a solution.

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More than 500 refugees have drowned in the Mediterranean Sea this year raising fears that this could be the deadliest yet in Europe. Politicians have responded by tightening EU border security and outsourcing controls to third countries. Meanwhile refugees continue to move. In this four-part series from Ethiopia, Rebecca Omonira-Oyekanmi tells the stories of people risking their lives to reach Europe and the factors affecting their decision making. Photos and film by Gabriel Pecot.

Nakfa was 15 when she first left Eritrea.

Leaving the country under cover of darkness was something like a rite of passage at her secondary school in Asmara. The year Nakfa ran away around half a dozen of her classmates were leaving each month. Sometimes in groups and sometimes alone they would cross the northern border into Sudan. Nakfa left with two friends. It was a snap decision with little planning. "One of my friends, Solyen, got 100 Nakfa [about £5] from her home to buy transportation tickets. We headed to Tesseney in the footsteps of the other children. We didn't tell anyone."

In Tesseney they caught a bus to Mekeserat, a small village on the northern border with Sudan. Nakfa had never travelled this far from home and immediately she was struck by the pale skinned northerners with their "Arabic look". Up till then she imagined that hers - soft brown hue, round cheeks, loose curly hair - was the look of Eritrea. "We saw their faces, different to us, we felt excited," she said. "We had never seen such people and we assumed we'd entered a different country." The trio stopped at a cafe for bread and tea, and gawped at what were likely members of Eritrea's Rashaida tribe.

An elderly woman selling coffee spotted the outsiders and beckoned them. "If you would like to cross the border, you need to veil your faces and wear the full dress otherwise you will be taken by smugglers," she said, passing them a bag of black cloth. "You are still in Eritrean soil and not in Sudan. If you want to cross the border, you will have to pass through vegetation, banana and orange plantations. Pretend to be fruit pickers and then cross."

The teenagers had been walking for some time when they saw a man approach. "As-salaam 'alaykum," he said. The man carried a "big knife" and a "pistol". A veil covered most of his face. "Because we watched films, we knew how to respond," says Nakfa. "We said, 'Alaykum salaam.'"

The man replied: "Do you speak Arabic?"

Confused and scared, Nakfa and her friends shook their heads. "So he took us. He said, "OK let's go.'" They followed him into the forest.

Nakfa wants to go to Europe from the Horn of Africa and her only option is on foot.

She knows people that have travelled this way. She has relatives whom she knows have been tortured and killed on route. And she has neighbours who have drowned as they attempted to cross the Mediterranean Sea, the deadly finale for refugees and migrants without papers on their way to Europe. Last year 4,579 people drowned trying to cross the sea from Libya, including around 700 children. Hundreds of thousands with dreams like Nakfa's remain trapped in Libya.

Death is not the only risk. Children are especially vulnerable to a myriad of evils. UNICEF collected the testimony of thousands of children in a new report, a violent tale of kidnap, rape and torture as they make their way across Africa to Libya and Europe.

Nakfa didn't make it as far as Libya. She and her friends followed the mysterious man into a forest to a house made of tin sheets. "He put us there. There were many girls and boys kept nearby. We were kept in different cells." Nakfa's biggest fear was sexual assault. "This is a known fact, every Eritrean knows this. For women sexual assault is common. Kidnap is common."

Increasingly international governments, journalists and NGOs working closely with refugees across Africa and Europe know this too. Nakfa was at the start of what is known as the "Sinai Trafficking" route, a gruesome trail of exploitation and murder. It is estimated that some 5,000 to 10,000 people die in the Sinai Peninsula, on their way to the northern shores of Africa.

The other captured children Nakfa saw were Eritrean too, and she soon discovered why they - and she - had been kidnapped. "The smugglers asked me for my phone number. I said no because in my home country I knew that there was a relative who experienced these difficulties. I wanted to avoid bothering my parents," she said. "Of course, I knew my home number, but I said I didn't know. Then he beat me." The man began to shout: Tell me the truth! Tell me the truth! He wanted Nakfa to call her parents so that he could demand a ransom. When she refused, he beat her.

The evidence of her ordeal is a forest of darkened scars on her calves and thighs. One of the shrivelled patches of skin is shaped like the three prongs of a small fork. A knife, hot rod and a fork dipped into hot oil and pressed on to her skin. "My leg was swollen, liquid was coming out, it was very big. They couldn't... I wasn't telling them everything."

Four years separate Nakfa from that night and she is matter of fact as she wields a knife and fork to explain what happened. Torture was always a possibility, she says, perhaps in hindsight: "I knew they were doing such things. I have a cousin who was held by the smugglers. He was very burnt with so many iron rods. He was released. I paid him a visit, he showed us the wounds. He died in Asmara hospital."

Time disappeared. Nakfa heard the screams of others, someone locked a door, she was in a room with adults and children now, they were left alone. Her friend Solyen was with her again and had fallen asleep, but now and then she would wake up, screaming. Perhaps the noise bothered him or maybe he needed the room for the latest cohort of unfortunate travellers, but Nakfa says her kidnapper eventually let them go. "He opened the door and let us out. We were five in total." The others had been held longer than Nakfa, more than a month in their darkened prison, and they winced when they were let out into the daylight. They were all sent back across the border and warned to stay quiet.

When they reached Eritrea they were taken to a military base where the adults were held by soldiers and the children were scolded and then sent home.

Nakfa returned to school and stayed until she was 16.

Following her 16 th birthday, she joined the Eritrean army. It wasn't by choice. Every Eritrean schoolchild is obliged to complete their final year of secondary education in a special school cum military base known as Sawa, where they undergo physical training alongside academic study.

During the brief years of peace after independence in 1991 and before the border war with Ethiopia in 1998, Eritrean leaders devised a governance strategy that put military service at the heart of a new Eritrea. The spirit of the liberation movement would live on. Men and women would serve together, everyone between the ages of 18 and 50. Training would begin at school, with few exceptions. The slogan oft heard was, No war, no peace. Life in the army was tough, especially if you were a young woman. Sexual assault was common. The most extreme cases were documented in the UN's report from its special inquiry into human rights abuses in Eritrea.

Recruits worked a 12-hour day, starting at dawn with a long run. Much army work was construction, agricultural and mining. Food rations consisted of one or two meals of watery lentils, stale bread and tea. There were no wages until the first year of training was completed, even then it depended on the whim of senior officers. And military service can last years. There are Eritreans who have served since the mid-90s with no prospect of release.

Nakfa hated army life. She served one year and performed poorly in her final exams, and after a brief period at home she was recalled back to serve. But for two months, Nakfa ignored the summons.

***

Nakfa is the eldest child of eight and she needed to find paid work. It wasn't clear whether she would be paid in the army. Her father had died when she was 13 and there were no relatives abroad to support the family. Nakfa's family had moved from their home in Adi Quala to the capital Asmara because her mother hoped to find work there. Though her mother earned an income as a hairdresser, it was still a struggle to pay the rent and basics were expensive.

But there was little chance that a 17-year-old girl could disobey army officers without consequence. The army stopped the family's food ration card when Nakfa failed to report for duty. Join the army or starve your family, the message was clear. "The food coupon was for the whole family," Nakfa said. "We don't have anybody abroad to send us remittances, we cannot afford to buy food from other shops, it's too expensive. So we rely on the food coupons. To avoid my family being prevented from accessing the subsidised food I was forced to go." She was given a uniform and sent to a small town in the north west of Eritrea close to the border with Ethiopia.

It wasn't long before Nakfa decided to escape again. Furious at being refused leave to see her family, she tried to simply walk out, but was caught and punished. "I considered all the problems I might encounter. I could die on the journey. But my plan was, like my peers who settled in other countries, to send remittances to my mother," she said. "Upon the completion of my punishment I decided to leave my home country."

A teenage shepherd boy named Kibrom herded his cattle close to the border where Nakfa was stationed. They struck up a friendship. Kibrom was smart and deft on the mountains and forest trails of the border. He knew the safest places to cross and the shift patterns of soldiers guarding the border. When Nakfa confided her plans, he decided to go with her. To keep her company, he said, and protect her from the dangers of being a young woman crossing borders on foot.

Nakfa and Kibrom walked for hours, unseen by the border patrol.

They were frightened, exhausted, but certain of their path. Thousands had walked it before them. Every month 5, 000 people leave Eritrea. The profile of the people fleeing is getting younger. Like those before them and others since, Nakfa and Kibrom traversed mountains, forests, steep hills and trenches. Then they came to the river.

In some seasons the River Marab is shallow and easy to cross, but the teenagers were unlucky. The water flowed fast and lapped over Nakfa's chest. "There were two people swept away by the river when we were crossing," said Nakfa. Kibrom was calm. "For me the fact that I have grown up near, whether it is deep or fast flowing, it is the same for me. I can swim and I can manage to cross," he said.

Kibrom is 19 and grew up in a rural village close to the border between Eritrea and Ethiopia. He was the middle child in a family of nine. After leaving school aged 11 or 12, he worked as a shepherd herding goats, cows and other cattle. His family sold firewood, charcoal and what crops they could grow. "We could afford life," he said. "We could help ourselves, but we couldn't help others."

Now he had chosen to help Nakfa, he cared for her as a sister. "She shared her plans with me, that she wanted to leave our home country. I decided to help," he said. "She could face rape or something else bad or be attacked by wild animals or drown in the stream. So I decided to go with her." Nakfa was tired and struggled to swim, so they waited for low tide. Then early one morning, they crossed the river.

When Kibrom and Nakfa first arrived in Ethiopia they were separated for two weeks. Nakfa feared she would never see Kibrom again. He was more sanguine. "Once I crossed the Marab River I convinced myself we could face anything. I wasn't afraid," he said.

Any euphoria Nakfa felt on reaching freedom was fleeting. The first thing she did was attend a makeshift funeral for a woman who drowned trying to cross River Marab. Then she was taken to a refugee screening centre where she was surprised to find others like herself. It depressed her. "Women, children, mothers, many brothers. I didn't expect so many people to have left their home country."

Kibrom and Nakfa found each other again in the Adi Harush refugee camp, buried in the lush valleys and mountains of the Tigray region of Ethiopia, in a place called Shire, close to the border with Eritrea and a long way from the nearest city. The camp is home to a fluctuating population of round 8,000 Eritrean refugees. The camp opened in 2010, but only in recent years has it began to look habitable: the tents have been replaced with brick huts, built using supplies provided by the Norwegian Refugee Council. Several NGOs and charities offer jobs training, and language and literacy classes. The UNHCR puts on screenings and distributes leaflets alerting refugees to their human rights and warning them of the dangers 'onward secondary migration'. Onward secondary migration is how humanitarian organisations and the refugees themselves describe the irregular trail from Africa to Europe. The information is designed to subtly deter people from leaving, rather than explicitly tell them not to. Even so, across the four refugee camps, including Adi Harush, in the Shire region, 40 per cent of new arrivals leave within three months, 80 per cent within one year, according to UNHCR data.

Now having escaped the brutality of military service, Nakfa wondered how she could fulfil her next ambition: to find work to support her family in Eritrea. One of the first things she did on arrival was to create a Facebook account to contact her mother. (Relations between Ethiopia and Eritrea remain fraught; phone calls from Ethiopia to Eritrea are banned.) "Once I told her my whereabouts she cried," Nakfa said. "I thought she was going to ask me to send money, but she said no, what she really wanted to know was my whereabouts." Nakfa often boasts that she is the first in her family to escape Eritrea. But obligation flowed from such an achievement: money must be earned and sent home. As weeks turned into months, Nakfa grew desperate.

Ethiopia recognises nearly all the refugees appearing bedraggled at its borders, but the sheer number means support is limited. They are mostly stuck in border camps, where there are few opportunities for work. Eritrean refugees can only leave the camps if they have money or relatives in urban areas. In the Shire region, home to a handful of Eritrean refugee camps, there are pockets of comfort in some of the bustling towns featured on tourist trails from Axum airport. But Ethiopians living in the tiny hamlets surrounding the refugee camp have very little. Their poverty mirrors that of the refugees. Some NGOs even share resources, such as clean water, between the two communities. Nakfa couldn't see how she would find work here, but she didn't have any money to leave either.

Nakfa buried her anxiety by immersing herself in camp life. "If I stay home [in her hut], I think too much. Why am I living here? Why am I staying here? But if I leave home, then I entertain myself, I think less." Babysitting for her friends was one way to stay busy. Hoisting a chattering child to her hip when mum was busy selling food or cleaning. Her favourite chattering child is the daughter of her neighbour Amleset. Nakfa likes babysitting her, "because I have a sister like her and when I am with her I feel good".

The months waiting turned into a year. As she approached 16 months in Aid Harush, Nakfa had completed all the education opportunities open to her: courses in music, drama, dancing, poetry, computing. She wrote her own songs, melancholy tales of Eritrea, and performed in a show staged in a nearby town, part of an effort to reduce local hostility towards the refugees. Nakfa sang of home. "When I was singing about Asmara I was about to cry. I feel emotional, close to tears."

Music consumed her, it was a way of reckoning with her situation and a way to escape it. She danced traditional Eritrean dances with her friends and began to teach the younger children. "When I'm dancing I don't even feel like I am a refugee," she said. When the Jesuit Refugee Service built a suite of classrooms at the bottom of the camp, Nakfa soon began to spend all her time there. She jammed with older musicians, her vocals reminded them of the traditional high pitched tones of classic Eritrean pop singers.

But there were times when Nakfa had to return to her hut.

There she was always restless. It had been more than a year since she left home and what had she achieved? "The biggest problem is that I need to help out my mother."

Every day people leave for Europe, crossing Ethiopia's border into Sudan. The same dangerous journey she attempted as a schoolgirl. On Facebook, news is constant: a friend in Holland, another in Germany, Switzerland. One friend dead. "I would consider going along with my peers to Sudan," she said. "But there are too many risks on the journey. You could drown in the sea, you could get killed, you need to have money." Even so, at times she thinks taking the irregular route to Europe is the only way to "put myself in a higher position" and "to support myself and send remittances to my family."

The only certainty of Nakfa's future in Adi Harush is the endless wait. "There are girls and boys like me who stay six years long here, who haven't had any success for resettlement. I fear becoming like them," she said. "I cannot predict my future, but I will go one day. I will see my chance. There are women who managed to reach their destination."

Having fled twice, it is unlikely Nakfa will stay put. The only questions are how and when she will move, and what will happen to her on the way.

Watch: A glimpse of Nakfa's daily life at Adi Harush. Song written and sung by Nakfa.

Next week Part 3 - Camp Life

Photos by Gabriel Pecot ©

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Leaving the country under cover of darkness was something like a rite of passage at her secondary school in Asmara. The year Nakfa ran away around half a dozen of her classmates were leaving each month. Sometimes in groups and sometimes alone they would cross the northern border into Sudan.

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A story in pictures: female migrants in Hong Kong

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A story in pictures: female migrants in Hong Kong

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After visiting Transit In Doubt, a photography exhibition put together by Indonesian domestic workers in Hong Kong, Warwick student Lauren Beadsworth considers the simplistic media representation of migrants, often a stark contrast to the complexities involved when a person moves from one country to another.

There are around 300,000 foreign domestic workers in Hong Kong, making up about 3% of the total population. These workers are often exploited and poorly paid; they earn just one third of the average Hong Kong salary despite working over 80 hours a week.

Lensational, a social enterprise that runs photography workshops for women from the poorest communities, met 10 of them, all women from Indonesia, and gave them cameras. I went along to view the results which were exhibited at a small, trendy gallery in east London.

The thinking behind the project is to empower these women by enabling them to show others what they see every day. This project is significant as it helps give a voice to domestic workers who are usually a hidden presence in Hong Kong, and draws attention to their perspectives and experiences. By attending photography workshops these women acquire new skills, as well as a potential source of income by selling their artwork, while becoming part of a new creative community. They find solidarity with other women who are in a similar position as them and the feeling of isolation as migrant workers is perhaps partly alleviated by being given cameras, coming together and sharing stories.

The exhibition launched with a timely panel discussion titled Reimagining Migration: Intersectionality and Empowerment in a Global Age in autumn 2015. Professor Cathy McIlwaine from Queen Mary, University of London, Professor Shani Orgad from the London School of Economics and Political Science, and Tara Mikhael of Migreat, a migration information service, led the discussion with talks on the connotations of the word 'migrant'. The phrase 'migrant crisis', coined by the media, has brought attention to migrants and refugees in an increasingly negative manner and 'migrant' has almost become a derogatory term.

What I found so refreshing at this event is that no one was afraid to use the word migrant. It was used simply and factually to describe someone who is moving (or has moved) to another country, without any negative connotations. I understand that there is a difference between the word refugee and the word migrant, however there is a fine line between them, so why should one be viewed as worse in comparison to the other?

The women whose work is on display at the exhibition are migrants, but the reason that they have migrated to Hong Kong is acute financial hardship which leaves them unable to support their families. As they don't have the same earning opportunities in their home countries, the decision to migrate and take up employment abroad offers the only chance to earn a little money to send back to dependant relatives.

What is noticeable from the diary entries displayed alongside the photographs is the eagerness of the women to return home. There is a sense of embarrassment that transpires from their stories, these women seem stranded in an alien land. One describes her confusion at the fact that there are 20 different cloths for cleaning, and that she doesn't understand what all their different uses are. This just reiterates to her how out of place she feels working in a huge house and how desperate she is to get back home. Many write about missing their families, and a desire to get back to them as soon as they can. When they see photos that their families post on social media the sadness of missing out on life back home becomes even more painful.

What transpires might resonate with migrants all over the world

In Britain economic migrants tend to be portrayed negatively, often described as coming over here to 'steal jobs' and take advantage of the welfare system. However, I think these photos and diary entries show how these women are just trying to build better lives for themselves and their families. And although these images describe an experience of migration in Hong Kong, what transpires might resonate with migrants all over the world. They are simply pursuing the limited opportunities available to them, no matter how gruelling and depressing, to help support their loved ones and build a better future. They work hard for meagre salaries and can't wait to go back home. And while media portrayals can make us lose sight of the fact that migrants and refugees are people, exhibitions like this one are an important reminder of our shared humanity. In the current political climate it's becoming too easy to lose sight of why people have to leave their homes and choose an uncertain future in a new country.

This was reflected in the talks given. Professor Shani Orgad described the way the media feeds the public's imagination. News outlets shape people's opinions and judgements, including where migrants are concerned. So by using the language of crisis to describe the recent mass movement of people, the public understanding of what's happening is influenced by certain narratives. The public are led to imagine a static state of emergency; yet what is missing from the picture portrayed is the complexity of the journey people take and the reasons behind migrations. The structural conditions of injustice migrants face are not recognised, the media portrayal appears to be one-sided and skewed towards the new challenges that host societies must address when migrants and refugees arrive.

Orgad argued that we need to understand migration through a longer time-frame and as a long-term commitment. And by removing the language of emergency, the simple movement of people across borders is hardly a new phenomenon. She also described the concept of a nightmare narrative, the idea that our safety and nationality are being ambushed. In contrast, sometimes we're given what she terms a 'dream narrative' where migrants' stories are celebrated and overly romanticised. Neither narrative is helpful, instead there needs to more ambiguity and nuance, which offer a more accurate reflection of life. So a story can be told without imposing fixed notions about what is good or bad, trusting audiences to make up their own minds about a situation.

Tara Mikhael then spoke about the barriers that migrants face once they arrive in a new country. They have limited access to information and often face language barriers, a disadvantage which is especially apparent for women. The developed world's perspective of migrants is sometimes to look down at them, she says, which can be alienating. This sense of hierarchy often leads to distrust and discrimination within migrant groups, depending on visa status and other social factors. To combat this, Mikhael's organisation Migreat provides a platform for migrant voices. She connects people with each other so that they can exchange advice on the process of migration and tips on how to settle in. And most importantly, argues Mikhael, once they have settled in a foreign country accessing educational opportunities is a useful way to start feeling at home.

Gender identities change before, during and after migration

Finally, Professor Cathy McIlwaine spoke about the vital role played by migrants in ensuring that large cities like London carry on functioning. Migrants are the invisible force that wake up early and work late to keep the city running. She raised interesting questions about whether migration empowers women in connection with gender geographies of power. Gender identities change before, during and after migration, and gendered practices may also change once a woman has migrated. For instance, she may not have been expected to have a job in her home country, but once in her new home this may change. And while all women face inequalities, the migratory experience may worsen the situation for some.

Take domestic violence. A man might react badly to working in what they see as a 'feminine' job (e.g. cleaning, a task carried out by women in traditional contexts, yet often the only job opportunity available to some migrants in the UK) and become violent towards his wife. His own gender identity may be disrupted through the migration process and his sense of bitterness about this may manifest itself through sexual harassment or violence. All of this demonstrates an interesting geographical element to gender identities and how these can be transformed throughout the migration process. Migrating isn't as simple as is often thought and conceals a degree of complexity beyond the process of moving country. So a migrant's journey does not end once they reach a new country.

Lensational as an idea is powerful. To give migrant women a skill that they can benefit from and create spaces that bring them together, helps them realise that they are not alone in their journey. The photography resulting from the project need not be exceptional: this is not the main aim. The point of these photographs is to bring out the stories that accompany the images, and the skills and support the women gain from becoming part of the project.

A migrant's journey does not end once they reach a new country

The images and the panel discussion really made the audience think about what it is to be a migrant and how they are depicted in our society today. It raised important questions about the temporal limits of considering someone a migrant after they have settled in a new country, and how they should integrate. It also explored the complexities around being identified as a migrant or as someone who is an integral part of her context, but who just happens to be of a different race or ethnicity.

The conclusion I drew from the discussions and exhibition was that migration is of course a more complex and multifaceted phenomenon than is often believed. And it made me think about the responsibility of the media in informing people that migrants are not a threat wherever anti-migration sentiments are based on a fear of the unknown and worries about change. I left reflecting on the sense of self-righteousness in countries like Britain, whose policies often contribute to the destabilisation of countries where people are forced to migrate, and yet very little empathy is shown towards those who flee conflict and poverty. A more positive message about migration was however conveyed at the exhibition: by bringing to life the experiences of migrant women, we can appreciate that like millions of people around the world, including in our own society, these people are trying to make ends meet as best they can.

Banner photo by Wfords378

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A story in pictures: female migrants in Hong Kong - Lacuna Magazine

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There are around 300,000 foreign domestic workers in Hong Kong, making up about 3% of the total population. These workers are often exploited and poorly paid; they earn just one third of the average Hong Kong salary despite working over 80 hours a week. Lensational, a social enterprise that runs photography workshops for women from...

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'I was born in London but I no longer recognize this city...a city where at least 55 per cent of people are ethnically white British, nearly 40 per cent were born abroad, and 5 per cent are illegally in the shadows. I have no idea who these new Londoners are. Or even what their London really is.' Ben Judah, This is London
In 10 years, the population of London will reach 10 million, and many of the city's new citizens will be immigrants. 57 per cent of new births in the city are to migrant mothers, and 100,000 of those moving to London each year between 2011 and 2015 have come from overseas. In a city in which no street looks as it did twenty years ago, Judah, a foreign correspondent and author of Fragile Empire, is concerned and intrigued by the seismic demographic shifts reverberating across the capital.

In the style of George Orwell's The Road to Wigan Pier, This is London is a comprehensive mapping of the city and its immigrants by story-telling, as Judah talks to 'everyone', drug-dealers, policemen and social workers in order to understand 'the new London' and see for himself the fractured pieces of the collection of extremes that is London. In some ways, it is remarkable how little has changed where poverty in Britain is concerned. Orwell described the working class as caught in 'a sort of deadly net of frustration in which it is harder and harder to persuade yourself that you are happy, active or useful,' a net also slowly creeping over the ranks of the middle-classes. In London, on the streets of Beckton, of Peckham, of Edmonton Green, Judah encounters the same kind of despair in a hidden city lurking in plain sight and yet utterly invisible to half its population. At one point, 'a harried African cleaner in Day-Glo, clutching a mop, accidentally thwacks [a French woman's] shoulder, and apologises. But she hardly registers...like that Day-Glo is on an invisible man.' This type of encounter plays out again and again, as Londoners serenely ignore those labouring around them.

Judah opens in Victoria Coach Station, an area of prosperity and tourism, walking distance from Buckingham Palace, the Houses of Parliament and Hyde Park. But, seen from the eyes of a journalist pretending to be a homeless Romanian immigrant, Hyde Park, or at least the underpass underneath its grounds, becomes a place marked by fear and urine, inhabited by slaves. Victoria Coach Station is 'our miserable Ellis Island. The point from which our society is changing.' Judah's language is suspended between the lyrical and the crude. People and places are distorted, dystopic versions of themselves; a person is described as a grinning skull covered with skin, only to be revealed by a photo on the next page to be nothing more than an elderly man, with deep crow's feet. Everyday sights take on a surreal colouring - 'wheels crash through dirty water as coaches... unload Paris, Bucharest and Rome. Pigeons flutter and ventilators moan.'

This is London relentlessly strips away the gilt of London to reveal the poverty upon which the capital is built

This is London relentlessly strips away the gilt of London to reveal the poverty upon which the capital is built. At a time when Britain has revealed its internal struggles with globalisation and 'fluxes' and 'streams' of immigrants, London has often been depicted as a beacon of tolerance, where 60% of its voters voted to remain in the EU. Sadiq Khan, in his new position as Mayor, is building his own political momentum from this reputation, spearheading a campaign on the importance of immigrants in the city, titled 'London Is Open.' Judah puts a sharp pin in any inflated sense of complacency, by showing just how much you need to ignore to navigate London and not be hugely uncomfortable about the way in which it is structured.

The problems presented by Judah which saturate London are numerous: homelessness; the care sector; gentrification; slums; slavery; mental illness and postcode warfare. Each of these issues is exposed as a gaping wound in the fabric of the city of the disenfranchised. Sometimes, the sheer variety and enormity of the matters Judah explores can be overwhelming, and seem chaotic. But, with emphatic force, he keeps returning with growing anger to the same themes: prostitution, London's cocaine industry, and the extremity of the inequality of distribution of wealth, asking how capital is distributed in a nation where £10 billion of its GDP can be attributed to the drugs trade and prostitution.

London is built on extremes of wealth and poverty

Much of Judah's recent work has focussed upon London's status as the money-laundering capital of the world. With this in mind, it is possible to understand the fury with which he repeatedly picks at the way London is built on extremes of wealth and poverty. The Roma Gypsies whom he interviews in the first chapter, are not only homeless, but enslaved. They are forced to give their meagre earnings from busking and begging to men who are charging them one hundred per cent interest on loans which they will never repay. Surrounded by heroin addicts, dying men and women, one loses his temper completely when a passing woman only gives him coppers. Sleeping on concrete, begging to protect his family from violence from debt-collectors, he is living in a place where filthy water is poured onto the pavements outside shops selling some of the world's most expensive real estate, so people like him cannot sleep there.

Once wearing the uniform of the homeless amongst the Roma community, Judah is 'invisible', except for when passers-by retreat in fear away from the homeless community, or shout abuse. 'Why do the English hate the Romanians so much?' another man asks. The general consensus amongst the Romanians is that it is because they were allied to Hitler in the Second World War. However, it is not known for people to scream 'fuck you' at Germans in Britain the way they do to the Roma. Judah does not offer any answers, unlike his interviewees. A policeman he speaks to does not trust Romanians; he feels that they are crafty, pretending that they don't speak English to get out of trouble. In fact, he blames the current crime wave directly on Eastern Europeans. Browsing recent articles from tabloids is a remainder of the stereotype that many are here to claim benefits; one says that a Ukrainian man leapt in front of a car just to demand compensation, whereas the Express has been outraged 'as UK gives £160 million in child benefit to Eastern Europe.'

London is a city divided by interracial and international hatred

A recurring sentiment in the book is that London is a city divided by interracial and international hatred. Every interviewee has an opinion on another culture, another ethnicity; it is only rich white people who 'cannot bear' to talk about race. But most of the people Judah interviews have no such qualms.
'It's like this: Russian and Ukrainian people hate Polish and Lithuanian people. Eastern Europe peoples hate Indian people. Everybody hates the black people. Whites hate everyone...That's just the way it is.'
However, Judah makes increasingly clear that London is not only built around but built upon the people it holds most in contempt. One hundred thousand people are employed in the construction industry in London who are paid below minimum wage (a man interviewed received £5 an hour) and largely from Eastern Europe. As Judah writes, these are the people building David Cameron's 'dream of two hundred new skyscrapers'. The country is also predicated on immigrant labour in many other ways; they represent two thirds of London's carers, ninety-five per cent of the Tube's cleaners, and ninety-six per cent of the city's prostitutes. The latter, which is the most at-risk group for murder, also mostly consists of Eastern European women.

The estimate given by Judah of the number of prostitutes in London is seven thousand; an ongoing inquiry held by the Home Affairs Select Committee reckons the true number to be almost five times that number. However, the study Judah cites was conducted in 2003, bringing into question the reliability of the statistics given in the book. But then, it is notoriously difficult to collect hard evidence where the sex industry is concerned; the Parliamentary inquiry has so far yielded few concrete results. The Select Committee has expressed deep disappointment at the lack of reliable information on the issue, although it has recommended, in the interests of safety, immediately lifting the ban on soliciting and 'brothel-keeping' (defined as when more than one prostitute is working in the same building).

These women are in constant danger

Judah's findings show these women are in constant danger. In both the chapters which focus on prostitution, the women can only talk about the other women they know who have been killed in stabbings, from infatuated men high on cocaine, or simply because a man did not want to pay. It is uncertain whether this anecdotal evidence suggests that the real number of women killed in prostitution in the past twenty-five years is really 152, as official figures show, or much higher. Either way, This is London and the inquiry strongly suggest that women who are immigrants are at much greater risk: of the last eleven sex workers killed, nine were immigrants. Non-UK sex workers are paid less too. Sex workers have an average of 25 clients per week paying an average of £78 per visit, which totals almost £2,000 a week. The woman whom Judah interviews in Edmonton Green counts herself lucky to make £500 in the same amount of time.

Some might say that the Home Affairs Select Committee and its inquiry into prostitution have been undermined by the behaviour of its former chair, Keith Vaz. Whether this is true or not, the scarce data available shows that the sex industry is one of many evils which makes women vulnerable in every way possible, and it is essential for those in power to have the safety, dignity and fundamental rights of women as their primary concern.

Those in defence of prostitution have made the argument that sex work is lucrative, allowing women independence and financial freedom. One sex worker, a Romanian woman called Jenny, gives a counter argument:
'You think we do this job for pleasure? You think us...bitches...can think of anything else...when sometimes we get stab? Of course we are scared...We are scared...We are scared of men.'
Despite the constant fear described by every woman Judah interviews on Fore Street, Edmonton Green, there are around 72,800 sex workers in the UK. Their work is in demand, after all: estimates show that 11% of men in Britain, 2.3 million individuals, have paid for sex on at least one occasion.

If prostitution is an ever-present problem, so too, Judah points out, is cocaine, highlighting how easily the Class A drug can be obtained. An interview with Moses, a highly successful drug dealer, describes single mums used as carriers and 'rich white folk...nostalgic for the old days. They want you to be respectful, talk nicely to them, they want a big black gentleman.' Such customers are spending between £10 to 20 thousand a year on cocaine, people whom Moses utterly despises but makes huge profits from. 'I'm the criminal, but who created me?' he asks.

London has been called the cocaine capital of Europe

Demand for men like Moses is high. London has been called the cocaine capital of Europe, with consumption so high that its presence has been noted in drinking water. Although it is mostly associated with the high-octane and extravagant lifestyle of the City, the development of the cocaine industry into a two-tier market means that low quality, weaker cocaine, mixed with chemicals such as anaesthetics and animal worming agents, is often sold very cheaply - a line of cocaine can cost between £2-8, meaning that its consumers have diversified. Higher quality powder on the other hand can be as much as much as £120 a gram. The UK needs to import 25-30 metric tonnes of cocaine annually to meet the demand for its cocaine powder and crack market, only 12-14% of which is intercepted by the authorities. It is then distributed by 'the people it gives the least of a shit about: teenage boys - especially black teenage boys,' says Judah, people who are demonised for fulfilling the addictions of their clientele.
'Because this is London: and if you're not doing drugs you're fucking sex workers...And I know that behind every rich family in London is a drug dealer...What was the British Empire fucking based on? Drugs: sugar, slaves and fucking opium.'
In the century following the disintegration of the British Empire, Britain continues to both rely upon and demonise its foreign labour in an unequal, prejudiced society. In This is London, multiculturalism in London has failed.

Multiculturalism in London has failed

It cannot be said the government are not trying to deal with the issues that arise from immigration, battling with the conflicted but strident opinions of the media and the public. As I write this article, the Immigration Act 2016 is coming into force, which will penalise anyone housing or employing illegal immigrants, as well as deporting those waiting on their asylum claim, which will put many in risk and further endanger their claims.

Politicians have also grappled with rising public panic as the refugee camp steadily expanded at Calais over the past year. Last summer, I attended an evidence session of the Home Affairs Select Committee, where those testifying were hugely concerned about the rapid changes and increases in global migration. Keith Vaz summarised the evidence given to the former Immigration Minister, James Harrison, as follows:
'We in no way underestimate the scale of the task at hand in Calais, but we are concerned that there is a sense that the situation there is spiralling out of control. The Deputy Mayor of Calais told me last week that the situation in Calais is like a "civil war". 'The security measures at both the ferry and tunnel ports appear to be creaking under the strain of the enormous increase in migrants who have flooded the town in search of a better life in the UK. Fences are not enough. The number of people who have crossed the border illegally to reach Dover via Calais has trebled in the past year and many lives have been lost in the process, including the two tragic cases we have seen in recent weeks.'
The cases in question were two men who had attempted to cross the Channel using the Euro Tunnel. Harrison expressed little sympathy for these cases and few solutions for what had been presented as the onslaught of an oncoming crisis, one of which is currently being implemented: a wall sixteen feet high.

One year later, much has changed, both for the better and for the worse. The camp at Calais has been cleared, the first of the Syrian children promised refuge have crossed our borders, and the membership of the Cabinet and the Home Affairs Select Committee have changed substantially. As of 24th November, the minimum salary for Tier 2 (General) immigrants will increase to £25,000. For graduate trainees, this threshold will be £23,000 and the number of places available to extra-EU candidates has quietly been increased to 20 per company per year. But the panic, and the fear surrounding the global refugee crisis and the effect it could have on England have not diminished. This panic is partly based on the fear of the unknown, of people only glimpsed in newspaper headlines and adverts for charities. Judah repudiates this reliance on external sources for knowledge of our own cities, which has resulted in This is London.

'I have to see everything for myself. I don't trust statistics. I don't trust columnists. I don't trust self-appointed spokesmen. I have to make up my own mind.'

One criticism which can be levelled at This is London is that it presents a very one-sided picture. Judah gives no success stories of immigration; even those that are rich and privileged seem to be suffering no less than those working on slave wages. It might seem as though he is describing a world in which many readers, who are educated, middle-class, or comfortable, are invisible. This would not necessarily be a bad thing because the primary problem of the people presented is that, away from this book, they barely exist in the public perception.

Occasionally however, the white, the middle-class, the wealthy, are glimpsed: women, middle-aged, drunk and teetering in high heels shrinking away from the Roma beggars; young hipsters gawping into braiding salons as they make their way through Brixton; wealthy bankers pitying their black drug dealers before obliterating their faculties with cocaine. These glimpses are brief and unforgiving. It calls into question the reader's own behaviour in treating people with dignity, and whether we can afford to respect the humanity of every individual in a global capital. Although Judah prompts himself, and his readers to reach their own conclusions, his work nevertheless sounds a call for London, and the rest of the UK which is affected by its capital's reverberations, to confront the ugliness of its society, and to do so at a human level. As one interviewee articulates:
' "Do you see yourself in a black African mental-health officer?" He smiles, rubbing his knuckles. "That's the question. That's the critical question. Do you see bits of you in someone else even if he looks totally different from you? If the answer is yes: you are ready for the multiculturalism." '

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Review: This is London - Lacuna Magazine

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In the style of George Orwell's The Road to Wigan Pier, This is London is a comprehensive mapping of the city and its immigrants by story-telling, as Judah talks to 'everyone', drug-dealers, policemen and social workers in order to understand 'the new London' and see for himself the fractured pieces of the collection of extremes...

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‘Coconut woman’: Resolving my ethno-cultural identity crisis

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‘Coconut woman’: Resolving my ethno-cultural identity crisis

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In this story, a second-generation Nepali woman born in Britain, reflects upon her experience of an ethno-cultural identity crisis. She works through issues of deep-rooted sexism and colourism in her mission to embrace both her Nepali and British roots.
"Are you a coconut?" My Buba interrupted me. I tilted my head. "A what?" I replied. "A coconut." He paused, looking at my confused face. "A person who is white inside and brown on the outside."
As a second-generation South Asian woman, I often felt disconnected and confused about my identity. This was largely due to my dual-cultured life. A Nepali girl, birthed on British soil. I was trying to find a balance between my culture and Western society, while growing up into a young woman and wondering who I really was.

EMBARRASSMENT

My Buba (pronounced , meaning, father) used to be a Gurkha. Gurkhas are Nepali soldiers recruited by the British Army. Their motto: "Better to die than live a coward". Buba is a hardworking, disciplined man who encapsulates the conception of masculinity with ease. Extremely temperamental. As time has gone by, I've realised he also owns a soft, naïve heart, taking care of people silently without expecting anything in return.

In contrast, my Muma (pronounced ) is a fiery and proud woman. She is very short and appears almost innocuous. It is, however, a façade. From her tiny frame, fury erupts, bubbling, hot and vicious. All the frustration kept within her is expelled in one blistering explosion. On her dormant days, she is warm to hold and be held by.

These are my parents. They moved from rural Nepal to the UK in the hope of providing a better life for their children. I have learnt both anger and love from them.

My Muma cannot speak fluent English. When I was younger, I wanted her to be able to talk English properly, like the other mothers. I was tired of her stuttering, her accent and her "ers" and "ums".

This memory makes my stomach turn, to this day. Why would I cringe whenever she tried to speak? Why was I so ashamed?

I realise now that I had internalised believing that English and intelligence were intrinsically woven. I had been ashamed about her identity and her roots. My own roots.

I spoke both English and Nepali, but I spoke primarily English in the house. So did my brother. How must my Muma have felt not being able to hold a conversation with her children because they preferred a language she did not speak?

I wish I had been more understanding back then. When she speaks now, with her proud, broken English, I do not shrink away. I listen.

Outside of the safety of our house, I grew more and more embarrassed to embrace my culture. Our traditional clothes were loud in colour, a palette of tangerines, papayas, fuchsias, jade and deep purples. Exotic.

The gold jewellery and vivid bangles on my wrists felt heavy to me. They caught too much attention.

I remember on Diwali, when I was six, I put on a turquoise , a traditional three-piece garment, for school. I was a little bundle of excitement.

My hair was braided with silk, my palms adorned with delicate (henna) designs done by my Muma. I could not wait to show it all off.

When I arrived, the white girls in my class teased me incessantly for the stains on my hands and the 'weird' outfit I was wearing. I felt like a freak. I was too exotic.

I cried when I got home. My Muma and Buba tried in vain to tell me to be proud of my culture but I didn't listen. I wanted to be accepted.
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SUBMISSION

Growing up in a Nepali household, there was a dichotomy between the outside world and my life inside our home.

Boundaries were established in the house that constricted me but did not affect my brother. I was taught to wash dishes and carry out religious duties. My brother played football in the garden.

Whilst my Muma closed her eyes and prayed to the Hindu gods and goddesses next to me, I longingly peered out of the window. My brother would be laughing as he played. It was as if I was a caged bird, watching another bird flying freely outside my enclosure.

Every once in a while, my parents told me I was to marry someone who was Nepali and from my own caste. For years, I nodded. I was told to be a good girl, so that I would, in turn, be a good wife and mother. That was the highest achievement for a woman, it seemed.

When I was much older, I realised that my brother was never told to be a good father or husband. I began to understand the underlying racism, sexism and classism taught to me at such a young age.

I was to be submissive and quiet. A good girl.

FEAR AND SHAME

One winter morning, when I was about ten, I felt an ache in my stomach. A deep, sickening feeling. I went to the bathroom and saw something red on my underwear.

I was bleeding. I started wiping myself compulsively. There was more blood. I sat there for ages, bleeding and bleeding, whilst my parents were shouting downstairs at me that I was going to be late for school.

I finally mustered up the courage to call out for my Muma and I told her I was dying. She looked at my underwear and quietly left. She returned shortly with a fresh set of underwear and something square in her hand: a sanitary towel.

She taught me how to put it on and patiently waited for me to do so. She took my stained underwear and told me she would clean it. I was then ushered to school and instructed not to tell anyone, especially my brother and friends.

I was introduced to the world of menstruation without warning or education. I had to learn everything by myself. My Muma would not give me advice and I was not allowed to talk to my friends about it.

When I was on my period, I was not to touch the water or food that was going to be passed on to my family members. I felt alienated, shunned. I thought I was dirty and being punished for something sinful.

I cursed the blood that came out of me. I only learnt about periods the next year, when my school put on classes in sex education.

It was only recently that my Muma realised how harmful this treatment had been. She apologised and confessed her reasons. I listened.

In Nepal, there is a deep-rooted shame attached to menstruation. This is because of an ancient tradition, , practised throughout the country.

Chhaupadi involves banishing menstruating girls and women to huts and sheds made out of mud and dirt for the duration of their period. My own mother was a victim of Chhaupadi.

The reason that it had been forbidden for me to touch the water and food was due to the belief that girls on their periods bring their family bad luck or ill health. I still wonder how a natural bodily function, a process that helps women give birth, resulted in such a discriminatory practice.

I imagine my Muma when she was young, inside a dark, cold hut, squatting in agony, bleeding all alone. That image makes me more nauseous than any period ever has.

EMPOWERMENT

As time passed, I started to deviate from the ideals of my culture. I became loud and more confident. I became open about my sexuality and about the issues in the South Asian community. I became less like the good girl my parents wanted me to be and more interested in empowerment and equality.

I started to argue a lot with my parents. To become confrontational. They did not like it. At all. There was a period of time when everything that came out of my parents' mouths and my own lips was vicious.

I argued about how unfair it was that my parents kept delegating chores to me and not to my brother. I told them how unfair it was that they kept reminding me not to go out under the sun in the fear of getting darker, "uglier" skin.

I told them how this colourism (Prejudice or discrimination against individuals with a darker skin tone. For South Asians, it stems from both the Ancient Hindu caste system and European colonialism.) affects South Asians and promotes anti-blackness in our community. I told them how disgusting it was that they expected me to marry someone Nepali, Hindu and of my own caste. I was punished, physically, for speaking out.
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ANGER AND CONFUSION

I couldn't believe that my parents, who I had worshipped more than the gods and goddesses in our mandir (temple/shrine for deities) , were so prejudiced. Sexist. Racist. Colourist. Classist. I kept calling them out on these issues and I can never forget how my Buba responded:
"Are you a coconut?"
This one question highlights the identity struggle I have been battling with ever since I was a child. Was I white because I didn't follow tradition? Was I not brown enough? Was I ashamed of my own culture?

I didn't know how to answer Buba then. I felt guilty. I didn't know which side I was on.

Even though I did not agree with some of the traditional customs and boundaries placed upon me by my culture, I still loved my roots. I felt blessed growing up with my South Asian parents no matter how absurd their thinking seemed at times. I was still proud of my culture.

I remember the rage I felt when girls in my year would wear on their palms and to festivals. Rage because it wasn't the Nepali or South Asian girls who were wearing them. It was the white girls. I felt my blood rise. I could not believe the hypocrisy.

Ever since I was six, their taunts had made me too ashamed to show off the beauty of my culture. Yet here they were, drawing mehndi on their hands. While my culture was too exotic, too strange when adorned by people like me, it was deemed cool and trendy on white people.

I felt insulted. I shouted at them. Most of them ignored my hurt.

Coconut. White-washed. When was I going to fit in? When would I feel like I belong? I was too brown for Western society, yet my beliefs clashed with some of the traditional customs of the South Asian community. Was I really a coconut?

It took me a long time to discover some answers.

LOVE

At 21, I have finally realised that there is nothing wrong with embracing my family's Nepali culture and also the culture of the country where I have lived my entire life. Intertwining both sides of my upbringing and education cultivates my identity. I do not need to feel ashamed.

I can hold on to what I have learnt from my education without feeling as if I have neglected my roots.

As time has passed, my own parents have realised their faults and the faults in the South Asian community. Their mindset has changed and they have apologised. Slowly things are becoming better. This change was created by me. By speaking out.

My parents are still adamant that I will marry someone Nepali and carry out "tradition", but we shall see. I will choose what I will do in my future. Not them. Because deciding what I want is not being a coconut. I am not and have never been a coconut.

A term like "coconut" undermines my personal choices as an individual. It erases my brownness. My own Buba using the insult encapsulates his traditional masculinity overlooking all the issues I have dealt with as a brown woman.

I do not need to prove to anyone that I am South Asian. Speaking out against the unrealistic and inherently wrong ideals of my culture does not make me any less Nepali.

After all my confusion and self-doubt, when I choose what I like about my culture, the values I admire in my parents and the vital lessons I have taken from my studies in the UK, it has moulded me into a strong, educated and loud South Asian woman. All these different parts of me make up me.

To be a South Asian woman living in Western society is to live a life of identity struggle and conflict, but it is a painfully beautiful battle. I have come to love my uniqueness. To love myself.

I will not let anyone invalidate me, my experiences, my actions or feelings. I will not invalidate others. I want to be myself and I want to be free to live unapologetically.

I owe that to myself after all these years.

All images by Oreofe Morakinyo.
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'Coconut woman': Resolving my ethno-cultural identity crisis

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A second-generation Nepali woman works through issues of deep-rooted sexism and colourism in her mission to embrace both her Nepali and British roots.

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The last time I travelled in Europe reporting on the experiences of refugees and migrants was 2013. I met men, women and children from around the world: from Eritrea, Sudan, Afghanistan and Vietnam. Most languished without papers in camps and communities, often destitute, trying to regularize their status, while the EU scratched its head deciding how to deal with them. Two years later, more than one million people reached Europe by sea. Many fleeing Syria. The continent was thrown into crisis. If the system had been unable to cope before, I wondered, how would it cope now with a million new arrivals? In August, I visited Sicily to find out.

There will be migrants in search of better lives; there will be refugees, fleeing death and persecution; and there will be a huge grey area in the middle, growing all the time, where people move because of poverty, because they have been driven to the margins of life by ethnic tensions, or because a new damn has flooded their village.
From 'Human Cargo' by Caroline Moorhead
Fatima* left Libya at night.

The men loading the boat were reluctant to let her board, they knew her as an activist and expected her to cause trouble. Small in stature, but commanding, Fatima handed over 1,000 Libyan dinar (about US$711) and took her place on the wooden vessel. She looked around her and guessed there were around 100 other people packed onto the boat. They travelled light, no luggage and in most cases carrying only the clothes on their backs. Fatima had left everything behind - her passport, even her teaching certificates. They told her, you can't take anything on the boat. At the time she didn't question it, but later she berated herself. Leaving the certificates hurt the most. But here she was. Everyday people went to the beach and disappeared. Her pregnant neighbour Molly was one, and she had drowned. Fatima began to pray.

Fatima is one of more than 150,000 people who landed in Italy last year.

They travelled in wooden boats unfit for the rough Mediterranean Sea. A large number had at some point left Eritrea, Nigeria, Somalia, Sudan, Syria and the Gambia. A handful were from Iraq, Morocco, Mali, Pakistan and other places.

Europe's refugee crisis dominated headlines in 2015 and spawned a series of European Union emergency summits. But Fatima's story, and the stories of people like her, was never on the agenda. More than one million refugees and migrants entered Europe in the past 12 months, 48% of them were from Syria and most travelled through the Aegean Sea. The men, women and children in Italy make up just a fraction of that number, and though some are Syrians travelling from Egypt and Libya, most are from sub-Saharan African countries; they receive a less sympathetic press.

When I last visited in 2013 and before that in 2011, I met people from Afghanistan on their second trip back to Europe having been deported from the UK, a dozen Eritrean women in a camp on isolated farmland, exhausted men from Sudan who had been waiting years to find a way into the UK, a silent tent of Vietnamese people on the edge of Dunkirk. If the system of managing people without papers in the European Union still hasn't accommodated them, how could it support more than a million new arrivals?

There is a large camp for migrants at Città Giardino, a small town consisting mostly of building sites, office blocks and apartments painted cheerful yellows, pinks, blues and peaches.

The garden city is a new town in ancient Syracuse and lacks the imposing grandeur of neighbouring towns adorned in baroque architecture and black lava. It feels isolated, forgotten. This is a theme across Europe; build immigration camps in remote, often inaccessible places. Journalists and members of the public must apply for permission to enter the camp Città Giardino, which can take months. My request, made in person in August last year, is still pending.

The camp is set in a sleepy neighbourhood and looks like an old school building, but it's heavily guarded and surrounded by high brick walls. Outside in the courtyard Carabinieri officers sit on low chairs playing cards with a group of small African children. Beyond that two Guardia di Finanza officers, a public police service in Italy, sit behind a reception desk. After being turned away at the gates by armed police on my first visit, I try again and get this far. The police officer, who is also the receptionist, is apologetic but says I'll need permission to enter through the locked doors behind him, which lead to the living quarters. Despite the difficulties of getting in, the migrants and refugees held here can come and go freely. A friendly young woman with bright red and gold hair falling down her back in thick braids stops to chat on her way back into the camp. Her name is Anabelle and she looks like a student in a smart white shirt and jeans. She arrived in a boat from Libya a couple of months ago. She lived with her uncle in Libya and decided to leave the country when he was killed and her own life was threatened. Anabelle likes the camp. Without prompting she says, 'I'm not like the other women. They go out with men, maybe for money. I want to go to school in Sicily.' Anabelle thinks the camp's manager is kind and will agree to let me and another journalist enter the camp and speak to her friends. She disappears behind the locked gate, promising to return with a response. I never see her again.

The next day, whilst looking for Anabelle, I meet Fatima. She sits on a low brick wall behind the camp, chatting with a cluster of young women from all over Africa. They're dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, but their hair is painstakingly straightened and styled, and their make-up is meticulous. They wouldn't look out of place in a hip bar in Lagos or a stylish London club. Except for Fatima, whose hair is cropped short and who has an air of maturity about her. They are all waiting for the infrequent bus into town. Fatima's authority within the group is immediately obvious. When I say I'm researching the experiences of women migrating to Europe, the others look shyly at their feet, but Fatima's face brightens and words tumble forth in precise clear English.

'I too want to do work for women and children,' she says.

She'd arrived at the centre in July and was told she would be there two weeks. That was two months ago. Since then she'd grown concerned about the plight of other women held at the camp. 'There are a lot of women who want to work. It's not easy for these women. It's not easy to split from those men,' she says.

'Which men?' I ask.

'Unexpected husbands,' she says.

'Unexpected husbands?'

'They say, "You have an affair with me, you quickly have your documents." It's a trick. A strange man, you don't even know is behaving anyhow. He can just come round to you and explain, we will get to Europe our documents will be so easy; this is trash.'

'Has this happened to you?'

Her eyes widen. 'No, I don't allow this to happen to me. I am a learned person. I am an English teacher in Libya. I understand things, I read the news.'

Perhaps it's this confidence that leads many of the other women at the camp to confide in her. 'They say, "Aunty, aunty help me please. Help me get out of this situation."' When a UNHCR inspector visited the camp, the manager called Fatima to speak to them about her concerns, but she isn't convinced this will lead to anything.

'I have heard a lot of cases. One day if God should permit me, I will help people out of this. They are suffering. A little girl bound to big men. I am thinking, to see if I can find a solution. Not just to talk to you. I want to do something to help people.'

The clandestine path from North Africa to southern Europe by sea is well travelled.

From the mid-1990s numbers grew significantly and eventually sub-Saharan Africans would outnumber the Moroccans and Algerians who once crossed the sea in small fishing boats. Crossings peaked in 2006, when 24,000 migrants arrived in the Canary Islands. That same year more than 10,000 people arrived on the Italian island of Lampedusa.

In a paper published in 2006, migration expert Hein de Haas writes of the complex geopolitics across the Sahel region and West Africa, and the aggressive externalization of European Union borders, and how both influenced migration routes. Interesting too is how the notion of borders in the region has changed through time. 'It was only with the advent of colonialism, which drew its borders where there had been none and created modern states, that trans-Saharan mobility and trade collapsed. However, soon after independence, the foundations were laid for the contemporary trans-Saharan migrant system,' he writes.

Up to the last migrant crisis and long before it, war and economic decline drove people from across sub-Saharan Africa north, mostly to work in wealthier countries such as Libya and Egypt. During his 'pan-Africa' period, Colonel Gaddafi invited sub-Saharan African workers to Libya, establishing a migration pattern that existed up until his death. These migrants could earn more than if they stayed home, though a drawback was overt racism and discrimination. After a wave of anti-migrant violence in Libya in 2000, Gaddafi adopted a tough (if inconsistent) anti-migrant stance to appease disgruntled Libyans. This involved random mass deportations and strict controls of migrants' rights, policies that happened to help his burgeoning relationship with Europe. Right up until NATO launched airstrikes in 2011, Gaddafi collaborated with Italy to keep Europe's borders sealed against migrant workers and asylum seekers travelling through Libya.

Gaddafi collaborated with Italy to keep Europe's borders sealed against migrant workers and asylum seekers

Concurrently, the European Union was structuring an area of 'freedom, justice and security', banishing internal borders while securing external ones. The European Council came together at Tampere in 1999 and agreed that the right to move freely should be extended to non-EU citizens granted asylum. To that end they pledged to create a common European asylum system underpinned by the principles of the Geneva Convention. The system would respect the right to seek asylum and ensure 'nobody is sent back to persecution'.

This new system would also lead the fight against 'illegal immigration', which entailed heavy policing at Europe's borders and the stopping of migrant journeys in transit countries, before they reached the continent. (There was no allowance for the fact that a transit country might be a destination place for some, where there might be more employment than back in poorer countries left behind, or that migratory journeys are never fixed and dependent on cash flow. Conversely, the emerging body of asylum and immigration guidance assumed that an asylum seeker was in fact an irregular migrant. Unless they reached EU soil.) Various readmission agreements were made with Morocco, Libya, Tunisia and other African governments. These countries received funds to finance mass deportations and often created hostile environments for foreign nationals. In 2005, between 200 and 500 sub-Saharan Africans tried to climb a six-mile border fence between Morocco and Melilla, and were shot at by border police. Five people were killed. Spain blamed Moroccan police for the deaths saying its guards fired only rubber bullets and teargas. Many were injured in the crush. The same year, the EU created Frontex, which began patrolling the Canary Islands in order to 'intercept' potential migrants. With EU support Gaddafi built detention camps for irregular migrants where many were detained in inhumane and degrading conditions.

In March of that year after NATO's intervention in Libya, a decade of push-back, keep-out, border policy began to fall apart

By the time of the Tunisian and Egyptian revolutions in 2011, the number of people crossing the Mediterranean had fallen dramatically compared to the peak of 2006. On the island of Lampedusa, the large reception centre for migrants, once packed with thousands of people, was empty and derelict. Frontex had turned its focus to the land border between Greece and Turkey, where 90% of all irregular migrants entered the European Union at that time.

But in 2011, men, women and children fleeing the violent aftermath of revolution once again began to risk the dangerous boat journeys across sea in the tens of thousands. In March of that year after NATO's intervention in Libya, a decade of push-back, keep-out, border policy began to fall apart. Relying on Europe's fear of migrants and sub-Saharan African refugees, Gaddafi relinquished his role as an EU border policeman. He opened the borders and let people travel freely (still risking their lives by sea) to Europe. Many black Africans now in Europe say they were rounded up and packed into boats against their will.

Against this historical backdrop Fatima lived and worked in Libya. From the chaos of this history and her own complicated past, she sailed towards a new, unfolding crisis, driven by a myriad of factors but partly sown in what had gone before at Europe's borders.

Fatima's boat spent several days at sea before it was rescued by a German rescue ship.

Few people reach Europe this way without help from coastguards or other vessels. The boats are flimsy and packed to bursting with terrified people. Any movement can cause a boat to capsize, so everyone lies still while people vomit and pray. Even on the sturdier crafts, which cost more, food and water runs out after a couple of days. Most spend days drifting at sea, piloted by inexperienced captains, the passengers sick, cold and hungry. Last year alone 3,770 people are reported to have drowned. But official figures are likely to be an underestimate. A consortium of European data journalists has created a data sheet to monitor the deaths of people migrating to Europe. Given the secrecy of the journeys, there's no official headcount on departure when people leave Libya or Egypt, only on arrival at ports in Italy; what happens in between is vague. Sometimes entire boats disappear. It took a few of these tragedies before European countries banded together to implement a rescue mission. Early in 2011 a boat carrying around 60 Afghan refugees sunk in the Aegean Sea and a year after that around 60 people, mostly from Syria, died after their boat capsized in the same stretch of ocean. Another boat off the coast of Lampedusa overturned in April 2011: around 200 people drowned.

In September 2011, Thomas Hammarberg, then Commissioner for Human Rights of the Council of Europe, wrote a report urging Italy to do more to rescue unseaworthy boats leaving Libya. He refers to a specific incident where a boat carrying 72 men, women and children was left adrift for two weeks, even though authorities in Italy and Malta knew about their plight, as did NATO ships in the vicinity. In that tragedy 61 people died. Hammarberg wrote: '...the Commissioner finds it difficult to accept that people in distress at sea can face death in one of the busiest areas of the Mediterranean, especially now with the large numbers of military and other vessels in the area.'

Italy was shocked into action when a 20-metre boat carrying around 500 people, many of them women, overturned just a few miles from the shores of Lampedusa in September 2013. More than 300 people died. Local Italians mourned the dead and the Pope chastised the world's indifference.

A few days later Italy launched Mare Nostrum ( Our Sea), a multimillion euro search and rescue mission with five naval ships, helicopters, five aircraft and two submarines. According to the Guardian newspaper, in the year of its operation it saved more than 100,000 lives. In October 2014 Mare Nostrum was replaced by a much smaller mission called Operation Triton, led by Frontex, with support from 21 EU states, albeit reluctantly. Britain's then foreign office minister Baroness Anelay wrote: 'We do not support planned search and rescue operations in the Mediterranean. We believe that they create an unintended "pull factor", encouraging more migrants to attempt the dangerous sea crossing and thereby leading to more tragic and unnecessary deaths.'

The people the minister and her government feared were those fleeing Syria as the war worsened there. Many had left behind deteriorating conditions in refugee camps in the region. Others were fleeing continued violence in Egypt as power changed hands for the second time since the toppling of the dictatorship in 2011. Migrant workers and refugees from places like Sudan and Eritrea living in Libya, fled racist attacks and the violent disorder following the collapse of the coalition government in the country. The civil war in Mali and skirmishes across the Sahel drove more West Africans to Libya, and then, when that government collapsed, they got into boats.

Britain relented and has since joined Triton, which focuses less on search and rescue, and more on border control and tackling 'smugglers' and criminal activity. Even with Operation Triton, there were nearly 4,000 deaths last year including three large capsized boats carrying more than 200 people (and dozens carrying smaller numbers). The worst sinking was in April and carried at least 700 people with only 28 survivors.

The week after I arrive in Sicily late in August 2015, 50 bodies wash up on the Sicilian coast close to Augusta, a tiny islet set against the handsome backdrop of the Ionian Sea with views of Mount Etna on clear days.

I stay with a close friend and her mother, an active woman in her seventies who played a huge role in feeding and collecting clothes for newly arrived refugees during the crisis of 2013. Angela, my friend's mother, does wondrous things with some olive oil, a few tomatoes, aubergines and the herbs that seem to flourish on every spare patch of green in this fertile part of Sicily. The food draws family and friends daily, and without fail the conversation always turns to the refugee crisis. The general view is that the crisis is not an isolated thing, they see connections with Augusta's politics, the difficulty for young people finding work, pollution, poverty, gay rights, gender equality. Augusta is not a prosperous place and the 35,000 inhabitants are reliant on the navy and the local petrochemical factory for work. For five years the town was managed by an emergency commission. 'The problem in Italy,' says my friend Dany, 'is that emergencies last for years. We had an emergency commission for five years. The reason is that the previous mayor was fired because of his involvement with the mafia.'

The problem in Italy is that emergencies last for years

As you drive off the main motorway down into Augusta, the olive groves disappear and in the distance a giant maze of pipes and metal cylinders overshadows the town. This is the petrochemical factory, which pumps out pungent fumes into the air. Augusta locals travel to neighbouring towns to swim and sunbathe, rather than risk the toxic waste ( alleged to come from the factory) that they say lurks beneath. On windy evenings, the air is thick with the stink of petrol. The battle against the international oil and gas companies is one Augusta has fought for decades, says Angelo, a 51-year-old salesman. 'In any other part of the world you wouldn't have petrochemical factories along the coast line of such a traumatised area. It is a seismic area, there are earthquakes. It's so bad, it's like the fourth world, not the third world,' he says. But there is a sense of fatalism. Dany chips in, 'We in Augusta can get angry, then we accept our fate.' Angelo agrees:

'People say, "I prefer to die of cancer rather than die of hunger." If I work, I pay the price with my life in these facilities. People will never say no to jobs. It is the best job you can get in this area. It is guaranteed for life; you pass it on to your children. Most people work in this facility.'

Two years ago, Angelo joined the Five Star Movement, which he hopes will bring the change Augusta needs. In June last year, the Five Star Movement mayoral candidate Cettina Di Pietro, won in Augusta with 78% of the vote, an astounding victory for a radical, anti-establishment party in a conservative, religious area. But in many ways, Sicilians in Augusta had been self-organising since it welcomed the first boat of 60 survivors in September 2013. As with the pollution problems and unemployment, they expected little support from central government and received none.

In the centre of Augusta, just off the main high street, is a small mustard coloured apartment with a well-kept garden out front.

It's called Talita Kum, a reference to a biblical story where Jesus raised a child from the dead. Talita Kum is a sort of halfway house for the poor, day-release prisoners, vulnerable young people or anyone who needs temporary assistance. It currently houses three young refugees. Every afternoon, my friend's mother, Angela, runs homework sessions for young people and cooks for the inhabitants. One afternoon she takes to me the church opposite Talitha Kum to meet Salvatore Ponzio, a retired banker, grandfather, fisherman, and president of Caritas who coordinated the churches response to the boat arrivals. When I ask when the first refugees arrived he says, 'Since 1991, in Lampedusa. The main difference is the number. Back then it was 8,000 a year, now it's a day.' Surprised, I bring him back to the current crisis.

'When they arrived there was absolutely nothing,' says Salvatore, a tall man with glasses, a shock of white hair and an earnest manner. Every day he would get in his car to collect the children from the port; at the time there was nowhere else for them to go. Locals pitched in with transport, food, clothes, taking children home for cooked meals. Augusta accommodated more than 3,000 unaccompanied minors, several families even adopted individual children. In one of the poorest parts of town, there's a large sports tent or palazetto dello sport opposite a housing estate. It's where the young people on the housing estate played basketball and other games. The refugee children were housed here. 'There were six showers and hundreds of kids coming at a time. We provided clothes and other necessities.'

Soon the Carabinieri began bringing minors straight from the port to the palazetto dello sport. Often, young refugees would die after being rescued but before they reached the ports. 'Many young boys arrived dead on the boats and we arranged their funerals. Nobody knew where they were from,' says Salvatore.

Many young boys arrived dead on the boats and we arranged their funerals. Nobody knew where they were from

It was a chaotic set-up: the sports tent was overcrowded, children ran away and not a euro of the money that had started to trickle in from government went to those involved in the relief effort. Eventually the palazetto dello sport was closed, the children dispersed across Italy and a few hundred kept in Augusta and rehoused in a small, abandoned school, which had been closed because the structure of the building wasn't safe. The prefettura stepped in to help, but the situation only worsened. 'The green school was a last resort,' says Salvatore, 'It was a disaster. There were toilets outside. From a hygiene point of view, it was terrible.'

The green school closed last year and where once hundreds of young sub-Saharan African and Egyptian boys lounged about the streets of Augusta waiting, uncertain, now only one or two remain begging silently outside supermarkets or hiding in squats.

Our conversation turns to the Pope and his latest pronouncement that, everyone should take in one refugee. Dany, Angela and Salvatore slip into Italian fiercely debating the Pope's comments and a solution to the crisis. A church volunteer, who has overheard our conversation, says loudly, w e have been doing this for three years before the pope said anything.

In Augusta it seems to me that there is a fierce pride in what happened from 2013 onwards. But lately, a sense of collective fatigue has taken over. They feel abandoned not just by the Italian government, but by the European Union. More than 700,000 people arrived in the Aegean Sea, compared to the 140,000 or so in Sicily, and naturally how to deal with that crisis, and the heartrending chaos in places like Lesvos, Hungary and Calais, has occupied every EU summit on migration to date.

But here, people grow sick of simply watching, waiting as more dead people wash up on their beaches. They ask, how can it possibly continue? Who will stop it? After all, they have their own problems. Unemployment is high, prospects for the young are bleak, and though the half-built motorways and abandoned building projects might suggest a poorer county, the cost of living tallies with the rest of Europe. It's expensive.

I have another conversation about the refugee crisis in a café in Augusta one morning, this time with a fellow journalist and a local Sicilian (a maritime enthusiast with excellent knowledge of the comings and goings of ships to Augusta), when a young man interrupts the conversation. He calls over to our table and says something in Italian. My colleague translates: Excuse me but I want to say something. The Vatican should stop telling us to help immigrants, it should move to Africa and help them there. I feel sorry for these poor people and I cry in my heart when they drown, but the Pope should go to Africa and help them there not lecture us.

A day later I watch the arrival of another boat carrying 131 people, mostly from Nigeria, Gambia and Senegal, at Augusta's large industrial port.

Augusta's port is a short drive from the mainland, off one of the motorways leading to the livelier, richer city of Catania.

There are checkpoints at the port's entrance and a long drive to the waterside where officials and aid workers gather to meet the incoming ship. The air is hot and sticky, and smells of Sulphur. A Carabinieri police car pulls up, armed officers in dark flat caps and Ray Bans climb out. They are wearing stab vests and white masks cover the lower half of their faces. Red Cross volunteers set up a small tent with a desk just by the quayside. Two Frontex officers stand nearby and there are staff from Save the Children and the International Organization for Migration. There's a couple of broadcast journalists from Russia, also wearing the white masks.

These arrivals are routine by now, but few people are willing to accommodate journalists' questions. A stern Italian woman in jeans and crisp pink shirt seems to be in charge. Everyone defers to her and her answer is always a sharp no.

"Absolutely no contact with the migrants." She barks the words at us. No interviews, no images of state officials. And no crossing the line, she says, pointing to a faded line on the harbour floor a few yards from where the ship is to land.

A young woman and an older man wearing matching white polo shirts and navy blue shorts are happy to talk, briefly. They work for Augusta's Guardia Costiera. Their base is in the centre of town, but orders come from Rome. On an occasion like this, Rome will tell them, 'There is a rescue boat coming in and you have to be at the port at this time'. As a large, grey ship approaches the dock, they both pull white protective suits over their uniforms. It's a British ship, the HMS Protector (this was most likely one of its last 'Triton' missions) with the words 'Border Force' and a Union Jack painted across its side. Towards the rear of the ship a few dozen black people sit huddled and silent. The scattered officials, aid workers and police officers suddenly move into place as one.

A team of Italian officials, also wearing white protective suits and masks, board the ship. Two of them carry rifles. Someone starts hosing down the deck. After a few minutes the women and children are ushered to the front of the ship. The women's expressions are glazed and five of the children are tiny, toddlers at most. Before leaving the ship they are screened by health ministry officials and then given a bottle of water and a pair of plastic sandals to wear. It takes another half hour or so to clear them. The men, mostly dressed in jeans and T-shirts, lean against the ship's rails, waiting for instructions. The sun is high and too bright, there's no shade in the port.

When the passengers are sitting silently on the dock, the children playing around them, the masked officials move in each with a distinct job to do. The process is strictly managed by Ministry of Interior officials; people are passed from the Red Cross and local health organisations, who do the initial screenings, onto the charities like Save the Children and the International Organisation for Migration and others to help process migration status. Eight men are taken to one side, while the rest are slowly sent through to a large tent city at the far end of the dock where fingerprints are taken, further health checks conducted and claims for asylum made.

It's an unsettling scene, unfolding slowly over three hours.

Julia, a young Italian volunteer for EMERGENCY, an Italian NGO with a mobile clinic stationed in the tent city at the far end of the harbour, has been based at the port in Augusta since June. Their work here and at the port in Catania is financed by the government. They provide basic healthcare and send people to hospital if necessary. Julia looks exhausted and worried. 'A lot of the guys spent time in prison in Libya, so they have been beaten. We see people with leg injuries and foot injuries ... they have been thrown from buildings. There are skin burns, scabies, burns from oil on the boats,' she says. 'On the boat there is a small engine, they don't have good oil. Sometimes there are incidents, we don't know what the exact details are but we see a lot of burns. People are really stuffed onto these boats, most sitting near the engine can be burned.'

While Julia attends to a fainting woman and her fearful husband, the pink shirted woman appears and ejects all the journalists from the tent city. Suddenly, we need extra permission to be there. It's surprising given that this is the most organised, functioning part of the process. People are rescued, treated and cared for, a direct response to unbearable images of death and drowning at sea. But from this point on coherence ends. At no other stage in the reception process do international, national and charitable bodies work alongside each other giving coordinated support, particularly where the people involved are considered migrants and not refugees. There's no plan beyond the happy ending of rescue and survival, and as I discover, what happens next is a game of luck and chance.

The first question asked of everyone rescued from the sea when they disembark at the port is, 'Do you want to seek asylum?'

It belies the limited options available to them, suggesting concern, an interest in their wants and needs. In reality it embodies the blind side in European Union asylum and immigration policy; which is that their best chance to stay is being granted some form of protection, if not full refugee status, then subsidiary protection granting limited leave to remain.

'Do you want to seek asylum?' If the answer is 'no' they face deportation. Or in some places, a spell in prison and then deportation for entering a country illegally. If a person has fled a conflict known to European governments or a regime widely acknowledged as 'tyrannical', then they have a better chance of receiving some form of asylum. In September last year the European Commission published a factsheet outlining its priorities in managing the refugee crisis. High on the list is the relocation of 120,000 people from Italy, Greece and Hungary (in addition to the Commission's May 2015 proposal to relocate 40,000 people). But the only people eligible for this relocation scheme are those with a 75% chance of being granted asylum across the EU. This 75% figure is calculated by looking at the existing outcomes of asylum claims across Europe. So if the average number of Afghans granted asylum across the EU is 69%, then Afghans won't qualify for the relocation scheme. Thus the relocation scheme only applies to people from Syria, Iraq and Eritrea.

Everyone else enters a kind of purgatory. A place of indefinite uncertainty and limited rights; though you are on European soil, you don't exist as a person or a full European citizen, thus you have limited access to civil and social rights. You are both within and without of Europe's borders. You become illegal according to EU border policy. An illegal immigrant or failed asylum seeker.

Fatima answered 'yes' to the asylum question. She tells me she's a 38-year-old widow and mother of two from Nigeria who worked as a teacher in Libya for five years before she crossed the Mediterranean in July 2015. She is the kind of neighbour forever trying to enlist you in the local resident's association; or the campaigner delivering leaflets or canvassing on a weekend; or the kindly stranger who will bravely chastise anti-social behaviour on a bus when everyone else stays silent. A woman who will always want to help.

Fatima moved to Libya for a mix of reasons, among them trouble at home. In Nigeria she'd been a teacher and also involved in community organizing, working with groups to improve women's rights and campaigning against local oil spills, which damaged land and crops where she lived. She says the government and 'richest in the area' accused her of inciting violence. From then on she was ostracized and harassed, making it impossible to find work. 'My house was vandalized. They started spoiling our things, out of it... I think they gunned down my husband. So...I was.... struggling, struggling, struggling...'

She dislikes dwelling on the past and raises it only because I push for details on the life she has left behind. 'Come to Libya, there is work, we are told,' she recalls. And so Fatima chose to migrate to Libya where she could earn money to send back to Nigeria for her two children and their grandmother, visiting when she could afford to. In this Fatima is far from unusual. The World Bank predicts that remittance payments to poorer countries will reach $440bn by the end of 2015. Around $33bn of that will be sent to sub-Saharan Africa, two thirds of which goes to Nigeria. 'If I have 100 dinar, 80 will be saved for my children,' Fatima says. She shrugs nonchalantly, and smiling says: 'They think you can't do it without a man, but I can do it without a man.'

Initially her life in Libya was tough, but eventually Fatima who is fluent in Arabic, found work as a teacher. She secured her Iqama papers allowing her to work legally in the country. 'Once you had this document, you have a chance of work,' she says. 'Gaddafi fought for us. When he saw that citizens treated us badly he didn't like it.' It was the fallen dictator who made it easier for people like her to get their Iqama. But the 2011 civil war in Libya was catastrophic for any migrant in Libya. The country then was home to 2.5 million migrant workers from across Africa. They dominated Libya's construction industry, and service, education and healthcare sectors. Many were refugees from places such as Sudan and Eritrea (though there is no opportunity to claim asylum in Libya, which isn't a signatory to the Refugee Convention). They were particularly vulnerable when protests broke out. The narrative told by the international media was that Gaddafi had unleashed a band of sub-Saharan African mercenaries on the Libyan people; within Libya itself the large black African migrant population immediately fell under suspicion. Throughout the revolution, Amnesty International documented bloody human rights abuses committed by both the Gaddafi government and the rebels. In September 2011 it published shocking findings about the treatment of foreign nationals in Libya.
'Refugees, asylum-seekers and migrants in Libya lived under constant threat of being arrested and detained in appalling conditions for "migration-related offences". Beatings, torture and other ill-treatment of refugees and migrants were rampant in detention centres and perpetrated with total impunity. Sub-Saharan Africans in particular were also vulnerable to exploitation and racist and xenophobic attacks by ordinary Libyans, fully aware that such abuses were tolerated by the authorities. Those responsible for such crimes were never held to account - facilitating the repetition of such abuses as evidenced in the ongoing conflict. As the unrest in Libya evolved into armed conflict in late February 2011, foreign nationals were vulnerable to indiscriminate attacks like other civilians. They were also targeted by both sides. 'Widespread, but largely unfounded, reports that al-Gaddafi forces were relying on Sub-Saharan African mercenaries to fight the opposition put them at heightened risk in areas that fell under the control of the NTC. Sub-Saharan Africans in territories under Colonel al-Gaddafi's control fared little better. Racist and xenophobic attacks, already frequent before the unrest, increased as a result of the breakdown of law and order and an escalation of xenophobic rhetoric by both sides of the conflict. In a speech on state television on 20 February, Saif al-Islam al-Gaddafi blamed the uprising on foreign elements, and accused the opposition of using "Arab brothers and Africans" to create havoc in the country. This exposed foreign nationals to further risks of attack.'
That was in 2011. Now, the political crisis in the country has worsened with two main factions warring for power, while on the ground smaller militia fight for land. Meanwhile, skirmishes in the south of Libya between militiamen and local tribesman have weakened the borders and opened up routes for smuggling arms and people. This all makes it difficult for refugees and migrants. There are significant dangers in travelling back through the Sahara from the south of Libya; the fighting extends across the region making it nearly impossible to travel safely. And if they stay, there is the daily threat of violence. I hear many stories from recent arrivals to Sicily of the daily terror from 'Asma boys', gangs of young Libyans who terrorise dark-skinned migrants in public spaces.

Chiara Montaldo, an MSF coordinator working in Sicily, told me: 'Before it was mainly the black Africans telling us about the violence but now everybody tells us, Syrians too. It is really dangerous to stay in Libya. At the landings we receive people with wounds, cuts, sometimes they have been shot. They tell us that sometimes they are in detention centres, a kind of prison where people are kept for many months.' People are held in big warehouses before they are put on the boats, often with no food and they are beaten if they complain.

They say it is more dangerous to try to go back to their countries than to come here. So finally they come here but it is not their first choice

Back in 2011 when Gaddafi threatened to unleash boats on Europe, such stories were common, but Chiara says in recent months MSF doctors at the ports have heard more tales of people forced onto boats against their will. 'Especially many people from West Africa who were in Libya for work and now they would like to go back to their countries. But they can't. They say it is more dangerous to try to go back to their countries than to come here. So finally they come here but it is not their first choice. Others wanted to stay in Libya. Others for sure they are victims of trafficking. Some women for example.'

Fatima stayed put initially despite all the dangers and found work teaching the children of the Libyan elite; most of their American teachers had fled the country. And for a while she was OK. Other migrants would come to her to help them find work. If one of her employers needed a cleaner she would find someone in need of a job.

But 2015 was a difficult year for Fatima. Her employers were public sector workers and hadn't been paid for six months. They in turn didn't pay her. She took extra work as a cleaner, doing this from early morning until 1pm and teaching the rest of the day. She could make about 400 dinar a month this way. And even then this was never guaranteed. 'You could bargain a wage of 500 dinar and the employer would say, "I am not happy with this work take 250 dinar,' she says.

Fatima grew tired. Tired of the bombs, tired of street harassment, tired of earning too little. When difficulties arose in the past she had moved, providing for her family at a distance. And so one night, once again she decided it was time to leave.

Rain falls in billowy sheets as we dash to the nearest place of shelter, a smart bistro a few streets from the main train station in Syracusa.

A few tables have been set with white porcelain plates, polished cutlery and thick cream napkins. We perch, dripping on stools by the counter and order coffee. 'Let's sit there,' says Fatima, pointing to the carefully laid tables.

I chose an as yet unmade table, while Fatima rummages in the large, peeling once-white faux-leather handbag she carries with her. The bag, along with most of her clothes and the slip on pumps she wears, was scavenged from bins, items discarded in black bags among mounds of rubbish on the streets of the city. Thrift is survival.

Fatima wore a hijab in Libya, but in Sicily she is bareheaded and, 'To cut down my expenses, I cut my hair. I make it low. Because I know that now it's just food expenses I have [to cover] to be alright.'

'You want to eat?' she asks, pulling a small can of tuna and four slices of thin white bread wrapped in a paper towel from her bag. She grabs a white plate from another table, pulls open the tin and tips the pale meat onto the plate. 'I didn't have breakfast,' she says mopping up tuna with the bread.

The food at the camp is poor, consisting mostly of stale bread and plain pasta, Fatima tells me. Imagine being in Italy and eating so badly, she muses. She'd rather not live at the camp, but says it isn't too bad. 'They are trying,' she says with a smile. 'We shouldn't complain. I can tell you that if it was my government that is given this money, they will not do what they are doing here. They won't. You know Nigerians, bad leaders. People pack the money into their pockets and give it to their children.'

Fatima has a good relationship with the camp manager and regularly petitions her about the quality of the food, the lack of Italian lessons and the snail's pace at which her asylum application is being processed. The latter makes her anxious while the former helps keep her mind focused on something other than an uncertain future. Fatima still hasn't been given a date for her interview with the Questura, after which she'll find out if she can stay in Italy. It is two months since she arrived, two months with no work. Her only income is €2.50 a day, the sum given to everyone rescued and held in reception centres while asylum claims are processed. In some camps people are given cigarettes or phone cards instead of the €2.50, which allows them to make an extra euro or two by selling them on. Like others, Fatima sometimes chooses the €5 phone cards and sells them on for €3 or €4.

In Fatima's situation, people can wait months and sometimes several years for a final decision on their migration status

In Fatima's situation, people can wait months and sometimes several years for a final decision on their migration status. Being Nigerian could delay things even further. Of all the non-EU nationals entering Europe without papers, Nigerians are some of the least likely to receive sanctuary; according to data collected for the third quarter of 2015, 77% of Nigerian asylum applicants across the 28 EU member states were rejected in the first instance. The most welcoming place for them is in fact Italy, where they are more likely to be granted refugee status, subsidiary protection or permitted to stay for humanitarian reasons ( though most - 2,660 - were rejected in the first instance in the third quarter of 2015).

Even if Fatima's application is rejected, she has the option of taking up legal aid to make an appeal. At this stage a tribunal judge will decide on the case and most cases - around 70% - are successful. But the Italian Ministry of Interior almost always appeals this decision. The applicant then enters another layer of the Italian justice system (the court of appeal) and there's another layer after that (the court of cassation) before all appeal rights are exhausted. By which time years will have passed.

Some people choose not to wait around. After boats of Syrian refugees arrive in Sicily, all their passengers can vanish from the camps within a few days. The same happens with Eritreans and Sudanese refugees. The Syrians might have enough money left to get them to richer European countries where they might have family or a better chance of work. Others follow well-trodden migratory paths with Italy merely a transit point on their journey. These onward expeditions aren't always successful; the images of Syrian families destitute in both east and western European countries will long remain a stubborn stain on the continent's humanitarian record. But the plight of Syrian refugees echoes the situation for thousands of Sudanese and Eritrean refugees, who for many years have been prevented from choosing where they apply for asylum and get stuck for years in places like Calais.

What hope then for Fatima?

She cannot afford to keep moving. Others I meet in her situation, temporarily without citizenship or nation, flail bewildered in the face of whatever foreign bureaucracy is resetting the start button on their lives. Without a clear cut claim to some form of humanitarian protection or refugee status, months and even years of uncertainty lie ahead. Depending on which European country a person chooses, this time might be spent in a purpose built camp for migrants and asylum seekers with token support and limited rights to work or study. The lucky few granted limited leave to remain give everyone else hope that with hard work, a dose of good fortune and a benevolent official they might be granted a form of citizenship.

For now, Fatima hopes. Like every migrant and refugee in Sicily, she speaks wistfully of London and Germany, but every morning she gets up early to practise her Italian. It's partly because the camp's Italian teachers rarely show up and partly because she wants to stay a few steps ahead of the children she has begun teaching there. Key to surviving the numbing uncertainty of the wait is to stay busy. Initially, the euphoria of having survived the Mediterranean sustains people. More than once Fatima says, her survival was God's will and this means she has a responsibility; to be useful, to help and remain purposeful.

That's not to say she isn't anxious. Not just for herself - the deteriorating situation in Libya, the treatment of Syrians in Hungary, the women at her camp; these geopolitical and local events all occupy her thoughts.

'The way I see people suffering, I wish I could be one of the people to help. One of the volunteers to speak to them,' she says. 'People are dying in the sea every day. I read in an Italian newspaper, they rescue one boat. Check your Italian newspaper today, they rescue 40. One girl as they rescue her, she gave birth in the boat. But there were more than 40 people on that boat.'

At the camp and in Libya Fatima witnessed women forced into relationships with men who promise protection or a better life and documents. The trafficking of women is also rife. Even on the boat, she says, one 28-year old woman was coerced into a relationship with a man who convinced her that she needed a husband to get papers. Now at the camp all they do is fight, but because they've made a joint asylum application they are must stay together or risk deportation.

Aid workers and Italian activists working with migrants and refugees arriving from the sea express the same fears. Chiara from MSF, tells me 'We receive many women from Nigeria, who we suspect to be victim of trafficking. We receive a lot of Somalian women alone. This surprised me a lot. I was expecting them to come at least in families. At the landing it is difficult to talk because they don't really trust you and it is difficult to talk. They are scared. Many of them tell us they have been raped and many are pregnant. So we follow them because many of them ask to terminate the pregnancy. Now we are following four women who landed recently - four of them are pregnant and four of them want to interrupt the pregnancies. Most of the time they come alone, sometimes they come with someone they call husbands but we have many doubts if it is real husband or not.'

The stories I also hear from other people at the docks or outside the camp are horrific. An Eritrean girl was raped and beaten by detention centre guards in Libya for three days. A man from the Gambia says his sister was raped and killed in the desert on route to Libya.

Salvatore, the Caritas volunteer I met in Augusta, tells me of a Nigerian girl tricked into thinking she was being given a job, trafficked from her home in Nigeria to Libya and eventually bought to Italy. Her passport was taken from her and she was raped. He describes seeing a small boat arrival of 20 Eritrean women. 'They were all together and everybody had the impression that there was some kind of organisation looking after them.'

Salvatore adds, 'The exploitation of women is a big problem.'

I ask him how such exploitation is dealt with at the reception centres and at the port, and by the charities and local groups working with people while their migration status is processed. He replies that women aren't treated differently and there are no special structures for them.

Should there be? Women receive the same help as the men arriving, he says.

And what happened to the Eritrean women?

'Within two days they vanished.'

Therese* leaps from her chair and pushes the large table in front of her onto its side.

It lands loudly causing everyone to start and rush towards her. She screams and shouts out in rapid French, pushing concerned hands away. Nothing soothes her. Pulling off the wraparound green cotton dress she's wearing, Therese gestures wildly at her nearly naked body. Her face is contorted and covered in tears, her fury seems to be directed at one of the centre's volunteers, a stocky young man with dark hair and a beard. He is bewildered and repeats, 'I don't understand. I asked you one question.'

No one else understands either. Therese has apparently had a friendly relationship with the young man, a local imam and volunteer at the centre. They got on well and he is one of the few locals who could speak French with her (though her Italian is good despite having only lived in Sicily for a year). Giovannella the warm, if officious, Italian woman in charge of the refuge, is shocked, and has to gather herself before rushing over to comfort Therese. Just moments before Therese was laughing and talking, finishing off her lunch of pasta and bread. She had cheerfully helped prepare lunch for about 20 people, covering two long tables with tablecloths covered in lime green pears and carefully placing a napkin and an upturned cup at each place. In one corner of the brightly lit hall, her 7-month old baby daughter gurgled, happily occupied as two of the young boys staying at the refuge fussed over her.

'She never acts this way,' says Giovanella quietly. 'Maybe once or twice, but not as bad.'

Theresa is a 31-year old refugee from the Ivory Coast. Her boat landed in Sicily late in 2014. She worked first as a cleaner in Tunisia and then moved to Libya. Giovanella doesn't know what happened in Libya, just that Therese's daughter's father is there and likely a Libyan man.

While Therese's asylum application is being processed she and her daughter live at Casa delle Culture, a spacious building over three floors with a cultural space and beds for around 40 people. According to Giovanella it is the only project of its kind in Sicily dedicated to providing a safe space for single women arriving on the island. It also hosts children and unaccompanied minors. Casa delle Culture is part of a bigger project called Mediterranean Hope, created by the Federation of Protestant Churches in Italy after the tragic sinking of the boat carrying 500 people near Lampedusa in September 2013. Initially the churches opened a small observatory in Lampedusa, but it was clear that more than just immediate aid was needed. The Federation wanted to provide social care and integration support after the initial sea rescue and after much deliberation, on 12 December 2014, it opened the Casa delle Culture in Scicli, a remote town at the bottom of a deep limestone valley in Ragusa, south-eastern Sicily.

Normally, the municipality organises a centre like this outside of the city

Walking down into Scicli is akin to stepping back in time; a few of the once-inhabited caves etched into the surrounding hills have been restored for tourists and the cobbled streets off the town's main road lead to magnificent baroque churches with Sicily's history of conquest and myriad of cultural influences detailed in religious sculptures, dramatic facades and intricate balconies. It could be the perfect pace to convalesce. And despite the town's remoteness, Mediterranean Hope lies at the heart of a seemingly strong community, situated around the corner from the town's main square.

'I think it is an interesting project because we have a centre for refugees in the centre of the city,' says Francesco Sciotto, a young Methodist pastor based at the church of Scicli, which is on the same street as the centre. 'Normally, the municipality organises a centre like this outside of the city.'

Francesco's church is part of ' Mediterranean Hope '. He says the church's history of social intervention spans more than 100 years in Scicli and that was key to the decision to open the Casa delle Culture there. 'Casa delle Culture is not just a centre for refugees but also a centre about cultural integration. It is a very open space, open for refugees who can go out and come back when they want, but also open to the population of Scicli.'

Initially there was some opposition to opening such a centre in the small town, mostly whipped up by Italian fascist anti-migrant group Forza Nuova. Francesco laughs and says that the group's presence in Scicli is minimal; when they called a protest against the centre just six or seven people turned up. The pastor says the project is well supported locally, beyond the church. 'Many people in the city helped us. Not just from the church, but social organisations, students from high schools. They were very interested in our project, now they come to the centre and they help us.'

Casa delle Culture is not part of the Italian immigration reception centre system where financing is provided by central government and the European Union. The cost of the centre, which includes eight social workers, is covered by the 'otto per mille' or eight per thousand tax, which all Italians pay. Tax payers choose the recipient of 8% of their income tax. Recipients consist of organised religious groups and the state, and the money should be spent on social works. Much of the centre's funding comes from the otto per mille tax receipts received by the Union of Methodist and Waldensian churches.

Sexual violence against women is common at every stage of the journey to Europe, and can continue on arrival when people are left in large reception centres and camps with little protection

It is one of the few centres where only women, children and boys under 18 are housed. No adult men are allowed to stay. As well as meeting the immediate need for beds, the centre tries to provide an integrated service not offered elsewhere.

'It is for women that need extra security,' says Giovannella Schifo, who has managed the centre since it opened in 2014. 'When people need to be removed from the reception centre environment and taken somewhere safe.'

An MSF doctor or concerned state official based at the port in Pozzallo will refer women or unaccompanied children to the centre. Usually, it is women who are pregnant, women with small children and those with obvious psychological needs, suffering from the after-effects of significant trauma.

Sexual violence against women is common at every stage of the journey to Europe, and can continue on arrival when people are left in large reception centres and camps with little protection. And while the women making the journeys from across the Middle East and Africa to Europe are far from victims and often agents of their voyage, the act of moving makes them more vulnerable.

'It is the journey. It is because they are moving and they are women,' says Giovannella. She explains: 'Violence against women is everywhere. It happens in their home countries, it happens in Italy, it happens. Not just to migrants.

'But it is doubly traumatising when it happens to women in such restricted spaces because they can't get away from it. They're on the boat or they're in Libya waiting to be housed or they are in a refugee camp. That compounds the trauma.'

Violence against women is everywhere. But it is doubly traumatising when it happens to women in such restricted spaces because they can't get away from it

Giovanella tells me about a beautiful 20-year-old woman from the Gambia on board one of the ships arriving at Pozzallo last year. MSF doctors at the port noticed she was agitated; she would tear her clothes off and was jumpy. Eventually she was sent to a psychiatric hospital and after a brief stay referred to Casa delle Culture. At first she refused to leave the building. When a man approached she would start to take her clothes off again. But after some time, she became calmer and even left the building to meet and speak to locals without fear. She never explained what had caused her distress, but Giovannella was just pleased with her progress. It wasn't until some women arrived at the centre and recognised her that Giovanelli learnt some of her past. They had known her in Libya; she had been tied up and raped by several men.

Many of the women arriving with young babies have also been raped, either on the boat or in transit countries like Libya. 'The children are fine because they are only four or five months old,' says Giovannella. 'They quite often have illnesses caused by the journey. So they might be malnourished or dehydrated. But it is the mothers who are very traumatised.'

Which is why Casa delle Culture is so invaluable. 'They get to do normal things in a safe space. Get up in the morning, make breakfast, have Italian lessons, go for a walk in the afternoon, visit the main piazza. It is important for them to do these things without feeling under threat,' says Giovannella.

Despite the haven offered by the centre, there still comes a time when the women will have to continue their navigation through the system. Women stay at the centre anywhere from one week to a couple of months. The Ministry of Interior decides where they are to be transferred to next, but the centre will do as much as possible to influence that decision. Staff lobbied for one woman and her two-year-old to go to Naples, for example, because she had family there and could more easily establish a network of support. The alternative is that they are sent to one of the many 'sprar' centres around Italy, which are usually smaller than the initial reception centres, housing a dozen or so other migrants or refugees.

'In theory, the sprar centre should find them work,' says Giovannella, 'in reality not all of them do.'

Often sprar centres will have relationships with local businesses which will provide work experience for the people staying there under special state subsidised contracts. It is usually in the service sector or agricultural work and lasts a few months. At one sprar I visit in Ragusa I meet a young sub-Saharan asylum seeker who was given a three-month contract to work in a florist. At other times, farmers turned up at his spar each morning and took three or four people to work in the fields. They were paid in cash. One man received around €200 a month. Often it can simply be a way of securing cheap labour, but if a refuge or migrant finds a good placement and is staying at a good sprar committed to integration, it can lead to an offer of permanent work or at least a chance to learn some transferable skills.

The trouble is a lack of accountability throughout the system - anyone can open a sprar and collect the €35 per person housed per day to cover costs - and the EU-wide reception standards set out in European legislation are not always applied. In response to the large numbers of people arriving from 2013 onwards, the government streamlined the tender process for sprar centres, making it quicker and easier to apply for and win contracts. In many cases, these means sprars aren't always equipped to provide integration services necessary.

While the summits and politicians focus on rescue and the initial arrival, there is little thought given to whether or not existing integration structures have the capacity to meet the million-plus people arriving. Giovannella tells me, 'Giving people somewhere to live and some food is not the only thing people need. These people have been through wars, they have needs, they want to make a new life in Italy.' It is why the Casa delle Culture hosts a cultural space on one floor to encourage Italians to take part in the integration process, swapping stories and food, creating theatre and music performances alongside the refugees and migrants. It is a hopeful experiment, but one operating in a sea of chaos.

Which is part of the problem. Once people leave Casa delle Culture, the landscape changes. The day before Therese's episode, she received her papers granting her temporary leave to remain. When a person receives their papers the €2.50 support ends, and for Therese this means leaving her family at Casa delle Culture and the warm welcome she received in Scicli.

It is women like Therese whom Fatima wants to help.

How she will do this while her situation is so precarious is unclear. Collecting, cooking, stirring, she says. I will collect people with experience, especially Italian people and together we can do something. Lucia, an Italian activist with more than 10 years of experience working for migrant rights in Italy, is one of Fatima's growing network.

I met Lucia in downtown Catania soon after her first meeting with Fatima and just before she rushes off to advise at a drop in centre for migrants. She enthuses about Fatima, saying it is rare that she has the opportunity to build relationships with female migrants or refugees; the Syrian women she's met all leave Sicily quickly, so it is very difficult to ascertain the needs of women in immigrant communities here.

Since the start of the crisis in 2013 Lucia has thrown herself into understanding (and exposing) the realities for people on the ground and linking them with wider human rights struggles. She left her job in Milan with the plan to stay in Sicily for three months - more than a year later she is still here.

'I never really understood the crisis until I moved to Sicily and saw with my own eyes what the issues were,' she says. These are issues around exploitation; in particular, the existence of smugglers operating on the edge of camps in Sicily and elsewhere in Europe, and the mismanagement or corruption in reception centres across Italy.

We believe that the defence of their rights is the defence of our rights

Prior to her move south, Lucia gave legal advice to refugees and worked for a trade union. Now her work is a mix of research, activism and support work within migrant and refugee communities across Catania and Syracuse. She contributes to a blog named Borderline Sicily that monitors arrivals at the ports, the situation within camps and dispersals. Her ultimate aim is to help protect migrant by making them aware of their rights. 'We believe that the defence of their rights is the defence of our rights,' she says.

Like Fatima and others in Sicily, Lucia is thinking about what happens beyond the initial rescue programme and what the so-called refugee crisis means for European politics and society. One way to do this, she says, is to 'keep the human connection'. But how?

Lucia says, 'I have met many ordinary Italians helping with the arrivals. Then they realise that the migrants are like them. It is important to have migrants living side by side with Italians. They should live in cities where they can meet Italians.'

Humanising the crisis is one way to reclaim the dominant political narrative and focus instead on human rights questions, she adds. Even after the image of three-year-old Aylan Kurdi shifted the public conscience, discussions in Europe still focus on the numbers of people arriving and the politics of settling them, rather than their rights as refugees or as people moving within the EU's Schengen area or what happens when they come up against closed external borders. Lucia's antidote is to, 'Listen to the stories of people. I follow their life day by day and I see the consequences of political decisions. You see people waiting, they go crazy. People are forced to escape after three years you can see the impact of politics on the body of migrants.'

It's is very difficult though because lots of people arrive full of energy, but then they are kept waiting for one year or more with no information or support

Her fear is that Fatima will lose her drive because of the way the system is designed. 'She has so much energy. It's is very difficult though because lots of people arrive full of energy, but then they are kept waiting for one year or more with no information or support. Fatima wants to stay energetic by helping other women, but it will be difficult because of her situation.'

The EU response to the movement of people, essentially as a result of war, persecution and global inequality, has been to focus on security and continue exporting border control.

The European Commission announced plans for a permanent border and coastal patrol with increased powers, which will include the ability to deport people and a mandate to launch operations in non-EU transit countries. In November, EU member states pledged an extra €3bn in 'aid' to Turkey to support its efforts in managing refugee and migrant flows. In return Turkey must 'help stem the irregular migration', which in effect means prevent people from entering the EU from Turkey. In some cases, governments were willing to extend control of movement to EU citizens and close Schengen area borders, as in the case of France after the Paris attacks and in October when Hungary closed its borders to refugees. Most recently Sweden has introduced border checks for people entering from Denmark for the first time since 1957, having secured temporary exemption from the Schengen agreement rules.

But even the bureaucrats in Brussels recognise that militarising borders and creating a fortress around Europe can only have a limited effect on the movement of people. At the summit on migration in Valletta last year, a plan was developed to support and invest in the long term regional development in Africa. The wide ranging conference covered the need to increase diplomatic efforts in regional conflicts, the need for legal migration routes, and the creation of better employment opportunities in high-migrant producing countries. The action plan, like most Commission documents on migration and movement, is high on ideals and there is much talk of human rights and dignity, a far cry from the experiences of people moving through Europe today.

It's unsurprising that there is much scepticism on the ground. When I meet Chiara Montaldo at her office in Pozzallo, one of the Sicilian ports where the EU is trialling its hotspot response to the crisis, she appears resigned. MSF's work in responding to people drowning in the Mediterranean as they tried to reach Europe began long before the current crisis. What is frustrating, says Chiara, is the tendency for governments to remain in crisis mode. The number of people moving had already begun to rocket in 2014, so the response in 2015 should have been much better. Instead, it is as though each landing is a surprise and the response becomes ad hoc rather than well planned in advance.

'We all knew. It's not a surprise,' says Chiara. 'A small example. The centre here in Pozzallo has a capacity of 180 people. For at least two years the average number of people arriving in one landing is 400. This centre has not been adapted. This is just in terms of numbers, I haven't even touched on services. There is too much attention on the rescue,' she says. 'It seems the problems are the boats, the sea and the landing. The problems start when they land.'

Lucia says something similar: 'It's a big excuse to say it's an emergency. This has been happening for 20 years. The system is disorganised. A lot of people make money from this. There is no oversight or regulation. It is important to destroy this image of an emergency, it's an excuse for people to do whatever they want.'

A few weeks after returning home to the UK, I hear from Fatima.

She's been granted six-months temporary leave to remain in Italy. She still lives at the camp in Città Giardino and has begun recording the testimonies of the women living there on her mobile phone. Her activism continues and she recently posted a picture of her 'first level Italian certificate' online. Fatima remains 'energetic' but she sounds sad and tired.

'Up to next year I will stay here. If I can I will rent a flat and get a job. When everything is alright I wish to bring my children. It's been two years since I last saw them and I can't continue to leave my mother alone.'

But before she can realise any of her plans, she must wait for a second interview regarding her migration status. Though she's been on the move for years and in Sicily some six months or more, I sense her journey has barely begun.

*Names changed to protect identity.

References
Articles / blogs / reports
AIDA Asylum Information Database country report Italy
Italian Council for Refugees (2015)

Hein de Haas. Trans-Saharan Migration to North Africa and the EU: Historical Roots and Current Trends Migration Policy Institute (1 November 2006)

Hein de Haas. Morocco: Setting the Stage for Becoming a Migration Transition Country? Migration Policy Institute (19 March 2014)

Increased Influx of migrants in Lampedusa, Italy
Joint report from the Ministry of Health, Italy and the WHO Regional Office for Europe mission of 28-29 March 2011

Italy: end of ongoing sea rescue mission 'puts thousands at risk' The Guardian (31 October 2014)

Martin Baldwin-Edwards. The Changing Mosaic of Mediterranean Migrations Migration Policy Institute (1 June 2004)

The Economist (12 October 2000)

Pushed back, Pushed around: Italy's Forced Return of Boat Migrants and Asylum Seekers, Libya's Mistreatment of Migrants and Asylum Seekers
Human Rights Watch (21 September 2009)

Rebecca Omonira-Oyekanmi. A better life? A study of irregular migration through Europe to Britain (2011)

Report by Thomas Hammarberg, Commissioner for Human Rights of the Council of Europe, following his visit to Italy from 26 to 27 May 2011
(7 September 2011)

The Battle for Libya: Killings, disappearances and torture
Amnesty International (2011)

UNHCR concerned over humanitarian situation in Lampedusa, Italy The UN Refugee Agency (23 January 2009)
Data / stats / maps
Eurostat -asylum quarterly report
http://ec.europa.eu/eurostat/statistics-explained/index.php/Asylum_quarterly_report

IOM missing migrants project
http://missingmigrants.iom.int/

The Migrant Files
http://www.themigrantsfiles.com/

The Migrant Files datasheet: events during which someone died trying to reach or stay in Europe
https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1YNqIzyQfEn4i_be2GGWESnG2Q80E_fLASffsXdCOftI/edit?pref=2&pli=1#gid=1085726718

Trans-Saharan Migration Routes
http://www.migrationpolicy.org/sites/default/files/source_images_oldsite/sahara_map_nov06.pdf

UNHCR Refugees/Migrants Emergency Response - Mediterranean
http://data.unhcr.org/mediterranean/regional.php

The European Commission - useful links
Refugee Crisis: European Commission takes decisive action - Questions and answers. Strasbourg, 9 September 2015
http://europa.eu/rapid/press-release_MEMO-15-5597_en.htm

Valetta summit on migration, 11/12 November 2015
http://www.consilium.europa.eu/en/meetings/international-summit/2015/11/11-12/
Background
Books http://ec.europa.eu/priorities/migration_en

Immigration and European Integration - Beyond Fortress Europe?
Andrew Geddes(2008)

Refugee Cargo
Caroline Moorhead (2005)

The Uninvited. Refugees at the Rich Man's Gate
Jeremy Harding(2000)

Banner photo by Sergi Camara
Port of Tripoli by weisserstier
Photo of Talita Kum and shipwreck by Khadra Aden

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Beyond the refugee crisis - Lacuna Magazine

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The last time I travelled in Europe reporting on the experiences of refugees and migrants was 2013. I met men, women and children from around the world: from Eritrea, Sudan, Afghanistan and Vietnam. Most languished without papers in camps and communities, often destitute, trying to regularize their status, while the EU scratched its head deciding...

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An Eritrean in Ethiopia: Teddy Love’s story

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An Eritrean in Ethiopia: Teddy Love’s story

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An Eritrean in Ethiopia: Teddy Love’s story - Lacuna Magazine

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Singer “Teddy Love” is one of tens of thousands of Eritrean refugees living in Ethiopia. In this short film, photojournalist Gabriel Pecot captures the story of this enigmatic father-of-two who is using music to transcend borders and unite people.My first meeting with Teddy Love took place at a glitzy hotel in Addis Ababa. I was... Read more »

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Migrants in distress in the Mediterranean are returned to danger in Libya

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Migrants in distress in the Mediterranean are returned to danger in Libya

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“I don’t need to be on the news, I need to be rescued.”

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Mediterranean migration is changing as Libya’s coastguard is left to do the dirty work and flagrant human rights violations are becoming the norm.

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More than 500 refugees have drowned in the Mediterranean Sea this year raising fears that this could be the deadliest yet in Europe. Politicians have responded by tightening EU border security and outsourcing controls to third countries. Meanwhile refugees continue to move. In this four-part series, Rebecca Omonira-Oyekanmi tells the stories of people risking their lives to reach Europe and the factors affecting their decision making.

When I first met Nakfa she didn't mention her trip to Sudan or what happened to her there.

We sat side by side watching a play in a small classroom in a refugee camp in northern Ethiopia. She was 19 but trying to look older: curly hair piled high on her head, a smudge of dark pink lipstick and an air of certainty and confidence.

I was reporting at the camp alongside the photojournalist Gabriel Pecot. We'd been commissioned by two experts on migration from the Overseas Development Institute (ODI). The ODI had its own team of researchers working on an official report, but what they wanted from us were stories and the human realities of what life was like for Eritrean refugees living in Ethiopia. Both Gabriel and I had covered different aspects of the European refugee crisis in recent years, and shared a desire to delve deeper into the lives of the people arriving on Europe's shores.

This was back in November when the narrative around the refugee crisis had long since shifted. While there were still pockets of sympathy for the plight of refugees in Europe, the popular press had reverted to vilifying them. They drew links between terrorist attacks and refugee arrivals, and questioned the veracity of asylum claims. Meanwhile, the fall in refugee numbers in 2016 made it easier for policy makers to look away even though the symptoms of the original crisis remained. Refugees and migrants arriving in Europe by sea fell from more than one million in 2015 to around 360,000 in 2016. In one of its regular press notes Frontex, the EU's border police, attributed this to deal the Union agreed with Turkey last March. A deal widely condemned as unlawful.

Of the more than one million arrivals in 2015, a little over 800,000 came via the eastern Mediterranean. These refugees are now blocked by the Turkey deal: that number dropped to 173,450 in 2016. Over in the central Mediterranean, the number of people arriving from North Africa rose, from 153,842 to 181,436. And this group, from Africa, accounted for many of the deaths at sea last year, which jumped to 5,082.

This all matters because policy-makers continue to look away from the structural, global symptoms causing people to move. They look only at the numbers. In February, European Union leaders signed a deal with Libya, echoing the pact made with Turkey last year. In return for millions in aid, Libya will beef up its border security and stem the flow of people crossing the Mediterranean Sea. Again, this deal has been widely condemned. The horrors of life in Libya for migrants are well documented. But still the compromises continue. The deaths of people trying to get to Europe, will simply be pushed back, away from our beaches, the dying will occur out of sight.

But what if we knew more about the hundreds of thousands who arrive in Europe? Something of their inner-lives before they even make the decision to leave Africa, the fantastical, dangerous aspects of their reality and the mundane, the everyday things that affect them. What if we listened to the tapestry of stories lost in the deals and politics? This is what I went to find out in Ethiopia.

Nakfa told me her story over several days. We chatted first, casually as she went about her day, before sitting down for a formal interview, filmed by Gabriel. The next day, I followed Nakfa to a friend's house, where she babysat and prepared lunch while her friend cleaned the hut. And we talked some more about her family and about Eritrea, her home country, and life in the camp. After some time, a shy teenager looked in. He was thin, shorter than Nakfa, with darker skin and thick eyelashes. 'This is the one I told you about,' Nakfa said. His name was Kibrom and they'd crossed the border from Eritrea together.

Later I interviewed Kibrom too, in the one-room concrete hut he shared with Nakfa and another girl, Tewen. (Tewen wanted to share her story as well, but I was evicted from the camp by officials before I could speak to her.) Their room was dark, but the late afternoon sun provided a slither of light through the doorway. Nakfa knelt in front of a portable stove and roasted a pan of coffee beans. We talked for an hour. He told me about the route people took through Sudan and the costs that would incur.

At one point Nakfa interjected. She had been bustling in the background, conducting the elaborate coffee ceremony both Ethiopians and Eritreans perform several times a day. Greenish beans are roasted, ground and strained into hot water, transferred to a special jug, and poured slowly into tiny cups full of sugar.

Nakfa looked up. "I myself went to Sudan in 2012. I was burnt by fire," she said in English. Then, switching to Tigrinya, she stood up, lifted her leg and pointed at the skin on her calf. "I was stabbed. They boiled an iron rod and burned my leg." Her expression blank, she twisted her body and lifted her shorts revealing more thick slabs of blackened skin.

Our first interview had been harrowing, she had been in floods of tears. But here was yet more trauma that she'd kept hidden. 'I didn't think you were interested in that," she said when I asked why she hadn't mentioned it. The translator wondered if she'd told UNHCR, it might help her chances of resettlement. She shook her head. Nakfa had kept quiet during her screening interview when she'd first arrived in Ethiopia.

But that was months ago. The dream of resettlement had dwindled and Nakfa was less fearful of the official process. We agreed to another interview, later, but for the moment we continued with Kibrom's story and she went back to making us coffee.

Banner photo by Gabriel Pecot©

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Waiting & Hoping: Refugees in Ethiopia - Lacuna Magazine

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More than 500 refugees have drowned in the Mediterranean Sea this year raising fears that this could be the deadliest yet in Europe.

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MOVE: A Rohingya child dances for hope in the world’s largest refugee camp

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MOVE: A Rohingya child dances for hope in the world’s largest refugee camp

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This story about a Rohingya child forced to flee her home, won the undergraduate prize in our 2020 Warwick Law School writing competition. Inspired by her work on a Save the Children campaign for justice for the Rohingya people, Amber Shah interweaves tender moments and tragedies in this clearly purposed piece.

Your name is Sayeka. You were born under a full moon in a small Myanmar village. Your mother held your writhing body close to her chest and felt hope on your fresh skin.

Your father stared into your dark eyes and saw the future. Your older brothers pretended you did not exist, but loved the unacknowledged creature stealing away their mother's attention all the same.

Ma always says that you never walked your first steps; you danced them.

"One day", she would speak softly into your ear, fingers entangled in the knots of your hair, gentle yet persistent, "I placed you down on the ground, and I glanced around, just for a moment. When I turned back, you were standing, your little fingers reaching towards the heavens.

"Slowly, you took a step forward - first your heel, then your toes. You looked at me and your smile was full of pride. Then you sat back down, waiting for me to hold you, always wanting me to hold you."

At this part of the story, she would stop her efforts at taming your unruly curls, instead caressing your cheek.
Read more: In pictures: The human and environmental toll of mass Rohingya migration
You would giggle and chastise her for such sentimentality: "That's not dancing."

At this she would give you a knowing smile. As you dived into its depths you could only assume that your mother had an ocean of knowledge and wisdom within her.

"Dancing, Priyō, is when movement meets wonder. And you, my child, are full of wonder, everywhere you go and with everything you do."

The first night after she told you this, you dreamt of a dancer, dressed in shimmering gold, pirouetting endlessly and infinitely until her toes lifted off the ground, and soon she was so far away that all you could see was a refracted light in the night sky.

***

Your name is Sayeka. The day after your seventh birthday, you became a statistic.

It was never explained to you, the hurry in which you had to leave. You fell awake to the sounds of shouts, the kind that burrow into your ears and settle uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach. Something was wrong.

You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping to wake up in a different day, but your mother was shaking you, telling you to get up, get up now.

Your eldest brother was standing in front of the window. He had become a man overnight. You ran to stand at his side, to see what held his attention.

Three houses were burning. Six bodies were scattered. Uniformed soldiers were swarming, like a plague.

No, it was never explained to you - but you understood the urgency like it was your mother tongue. It pulsed within you as you crouched in dark corners of a neighbour's house, the last sanctuary, pretending not to watch your village's destruction, pretending not to watch the soldiers kill a blindfolded man outside your home, pretending not to recognise his face whilst your mother muffled a guttural, choking cry into shaking hands.

Later you were told you walked through the jungle for sixteen days. That is not how you experienced it.

You remember holding your mother's hand and realising just how hollow her eyes had become when she did not squeeze it back. You remember the sounds of gunfire and exhaustion etched irrevocably deep into young bones. But there is no chronology to your recollections. Just painful, fearful, wonderless steps.

***

Your name is Sayeka. For three years, you have lived in Kutupalong. It is the world's largest refugee camp. It is antonymous with home.

You are forbidden from leaving your tent without the supervision of your brothers; your mother fears what could happen to you out there in the masses, vulnerable and alone, but you fear only what is happening to you as you lie in wait, unchallenged and unused.
Read more: The price of silence in Myanmar: Who is to blame for the plight of the Rohingya?
You have forgotten the sound of your father's voice, and soon you will forget your mother's laughter.

Some days she does not move, body curled into itself, face stony. She has not brushed your hair in three years, has not held you in two. You try not to resent her, fight hard to love her. It is not easy.

On the loneliest days, you stand in the middle of the floor, and you dance. Your arms rise and fall in graceful waves.
More stories from our 2020 writing competition: Read more:
Your legs jump to an erratic beat. Your eyes close and head tilts back, you twirl and jump and swing and sway, and you move in wonder at your resistance and power, move in hope of the future your father saw in your eyes and the resilience you saw in his, and you imagine that people in countries far away from Bangladesh are moving also - moving to bring aid for you and your 598,194 neighbours, moving to do so now.

All images by Oreofe Morakinyo.

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MOVE: A Rohingya child dances for hope in the world's largest refugee camp

# data[].attributes.attachment_link.description
This story about a Rohingya child forced to flee her home, won the undergraduate prize in our 2020 Warwick Law School writing competition. Amber Shah interweaves tender moments and tragedies in this clearly purposed piece.

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Yarl's Wood immigration removal centre, Thurleigh Road, Milton Ernest, Bedford

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A woman held at Yarl's Wood immigration removal centre made a tearful plea by phone to a crowd of protestors outside the Home Office in London one evening in February. The crowd fell silent as her wavering voice echoed from a mobile phone connected to a speaker: "Can I talk please?"

She is too afraid to give her name or say where she is from. "I left everything ... to save my life. I am an asylum seeker. Give me protection. I ask for human rights. Where is the human rights? I discovered it is only in the media, not more.

"They made me hate myself so much. They made me a criminal."

As the connection momentarily breaks, the crowd shifts uncomfortably, people wipe away tears. The lonely, now tearful voice continues: "They made me lose my feeling for everything nice in this life. I now have died slow. They have broken everything inside me ... It is too much. I am not a criminal. I can't say anything more. Thank you."

The nameless woman's voice disappears. The silence that follows is an eloquent expression of how difficult it is to support those mistreated during the asylum process

A woman who regularly visits detention centres once explained the odd, queasy feeling she felt on leaving the visitor's room. As a result, she always waits for the detainee she is visiting to be led away before leaving, unable to bear the thought of him watching her walk away.

Locked up for seeking protection in the UK

Yarl's Wood is a 405-bed secure immigration removal centre for women in Bedfordshire. It is one of 12 such centres across the UK, which in total, hold around 3,000 asylum seekers and migrants.

The majority of women held at Yarl's Wood are asylum seekers. According to recent statistics 1,867 female asylum seekers were detained at the centre in 2012. Of these, 735 stayed at the centre for more than one month, six were held for between one and 18 months, one person between 18 months and two years, and two people between two to three years.

The crowd at Thursday's protest had turned out in support of Women for Refugee Women's 'Set Her Free' campaign to end the detention of refugee women.

Civil servants watched from the windows of the Home Office's towering building in Westminster as protestors with placards, silver balloons and candles gathered on the street below. Nearly 100 people braved the cold. The numbers leant a strong sense of solidarity to the protest, especially for the refugee women used to having their suffering ignored. "Set them free, set them free," they shouted, fists raised at the bureaucrats inside, their voices angry and passionate.

Jude, a member of Women for Refugee Women and campaigner for London Women's Refugee Forum told the crowd: "I am so glad we are all here standing shoulder to shoulder. Even men, you are here. Our sisters...they were locked up. Their crime? Seeking protection. Please help us. Let them out. They are girls, they are mothers, they are grandmothers, they are sisters. They have done nothing wrong."

Jude was joined by a host of human rights campaigners and lawyers working with refugee women, who all spoke about the immorality of the detaining survivors of torture and rape.

Harriet Wistrich, a solicitor for Birnberg Peirce, has spent more than decade representing people unlawfully detained. Many of Harriet's clients have been survivors of rape and torture, people suffering serious mental illness, and trafficked women. Yet all have been incarcerated despite national and international guidelines that asylum seekers should be detained only in 'exceptional circumstances'. "This is a government that has policies that are supposed to be humane and in accordance with United Nations' Conventions, but which are regularly flouting those conventions. Now they want to take away the means by which you can challenge the lawfulness of that, we have to fight that as well."

Solidarity across the centre walls

The protest took place against the backdrop of intense hostility in the public debate about immigrants, a conversation that rarely distinguishes asylum seekers who make up just 7% of net migration to the UK. Faced with the relentless progress of the government's latest Immigration Bill, which contains draconian implications for refugees, and the cuts to legal aid support for asylum seekers, it can be difficult to imagine change.

Natasha Walter, feminist author and director of Women for Refugee Women, told the crowd. "I feel that if people working here", she points up at the Home Office, "could see the impact themselves of what their policies do to the women inside Yarl's Wood, a change would certainly come."

Women for Refugee Women recently published a harrowing report detailing women's tortuous experiences of seeking asylum. Detained: Women Asylum seekers Locked up in the UK combines new statistics revealed to the charity by the Home Office, interviews with 46 women, and a review of evidence.

One of the report's concerns is the use of the detained fast track process to assess victims of rape and torture. Fast track is where the entire process of applying for asylum is sped up and completed within two weeks, during which time the applicant is held at a detention centre. In theory UKBA should only apply fast track to simple cases that require little time to collect medical reports, translations, or witness statements. However, NGOs have highlighted the flaws of the initial screening process, during which unsuitable cases are often misrouted into fast track.

According to the Home Office's own statistics, out of 429 women in detained fast track in 2012, 89 cases were removed before the initial decision.

For female asylum seekers whose rape or torture forms the basis of their application, the process is traumatic. In many fast track cases applicants will only meet their appointed legal representative the day before the deciding interview with the Home Office caseworker. "There is little opportunity to build trust," the report says.

If the women are slow to reveal the full details of what happened to them, questions are raised about their "credibility", which then impacts on the asylum decision. Of the women interviewed for the report 12 were put through the fast track process. Six of these women were victims of rape, three were tortured, two had been raped and tortured, and three were on suicide watch while in detention.

A constant theme is the difficulty of being detained for women who have survived rape or torture. "One woman was arrested by government forces in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo under suspicion of being a rebel, held in prison with her legs chained apart, and repeatedly raped by soldiers over a period of weeks," the report says. "We know that this is part of a worldwide phenomenon in which battles are fought on the bodies of women."

Of the 46 women interviewed, 33 had been raped and 19 tortured. Many of the women interviewed said detention had forced them to relive their earlier experiences. One interviewee says, "I thought that the male guards were going to do to me what the soldiers had done to me back home. I couldn't sleep because the guards would come into my room and I wanted to make sure that I was awake so that I could protect myself."

Being detained after violent persecution in their home countries left many women severely depressed. Nearly all the women interviewed for the report were depressed, more than half had suicidal thoughts, 10 had tried to kill themselves and a third were on suicide watch.

Under rule 35 of UKBA's own detention centre rules, a medical practitioner must report the case of any detained person whose health is likely to be "injuriously affected" by continued detention, any person she suspects of having suicidal thoughts, or anyone that is a victim of torture.

But many caseworkers working with women at Yarl's Wood fail to adhere to the rule, according a report published by the Chief Inspector of Prisons last year. It found that: "Rule 35 reports were poorly completed, and many merely repeated what detainees had said, without adding diagnostic judgments, thereby providing little safeguard for vulnerable detainees."

The fight for change

Women for Refugee Women's report comes after a slew of sexual abuse allegations against male guards at Yarl's Wood, after which the government deported a key witness in the case.

Yet there is hope for change. These abuses have occurred over many years, during which time refugee women have begun to organise themselves, supporting each other and gathering evidence to campaign for their rights. One former Yarl's Wood detainee says: "While I was in detention I learnt about the system stage by stage. I went through hell in there. But I wouldn't let them suppress or subdue me."

Meltem Avcil, a 20-year-old activist and student, who was detained with her mother when she was just 13, has nearly 30,000 signatures for her Change.org petition calling for an end to the detention of women seeking asylum in the UK.

The W4RW report, which featured significant contributions from refugee women, has been widely read and shared online, as well as reported in the mainstream media. The organization has long been successful at raising high profile support, actor Juliet Stevenson and human rights barrister Helena Kennedy QC have extensively campaigned for the group.

Recently novelist Zadie Smith, who visited Yarl's Wood with W4RW last year, made a public statement supporting the Set Her Free campaign. "We need to urgently address the outrage of Yarl's wood. Its continued existence is an offence to liberty, a shame to any civilized nation, and a personal tragedy for the women caught in its illogical grip."

Antonia Bright from grassroots campaign group Movement for Justice summed up the women's determination not to remain silent: "The women in Yarl's Wood have fought to be in Britain, have left abusive homes or husbands or families, have escaped from forced marriages, have asserted their right to their own sexuality and refused to change who they are to fit in. The women in Yarl's Wood are fighters.

"We have got to support that fight. It is worth continuing your fight to stay because you are not on your own. The part of Britain that is worth staying for is the part that is here. It is us. It is the people that are standing up for justice, for equality, for our right to be here as who we are full stop. We have to stand up together. We can be a much better society. We fight, we fight to win."

The 'Set Her Free' campaign comes at a time when women are increasingly dictating the public agenda with diverse campaigns from ending female genital mutilation to calling out everyday sexism. And when feminist activism captures the public imagination, there are often cries of, 'well, what about men?' Discussing most campaigns advocating women's rights, it is easy to dismiss this out of context of the structural inequalities faced by women.

However, in the context of women held in detention, there is a case to be answered. Thousands of male refugees and migrants languish in British detention centres too, often for years. Many experience mental illness and post traumatic stress disorder, and a handful have been driven to suicide.

Yet evidence and activism demonstrates that the experience of female asylum seekers is distinct to their gender, particularly when survivors of rape and torture, perpetrated by male state officials, are imprisoned and guarded by men here in the UK.

The problem then is not the campaign, but the system itself. When deportation cannot be effected speedily, the indefinite deprivation of the liberty of any woman, man, or child, when they have committed no crime, is grossly unjust. Liberty is a human right to be applied equally and without favour.

This article was first published on OpenDemocracy 50:50 as part of the magazine's People on the Move platform, which seeks to shift the focus of public debate on migration.

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She is too afraid to give her name or say where she is from. "I left everything ... to save my life. I am an asylum seeker. Give me protection. I ask for human rights. Where is the human rights? I discovered it is only in the media, not more.

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Watching the clothes dry: How life in Greece’s refugee camps is changing family roles and expectations

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Watching the clothes dry: How life in Greece’s refugee camps is changing family roles and expectations

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On the Greek Islands where refugees face long waiting times and a lack of adequate facilities, women are being pushed to the margins of camp society as children are deprived of education and safe places to play. While governments and the EU fail to provide satisfactory support, and NGOs fight to fill the gaps, how can we stop a generation of women and girls with high hopes of independence and careers from being forced back into domestic roles?

"The days here are as long as a year.

"In the camp I have to wash my clothes and dishes with cold water in the cold winter, and I have to watch my clothes dry because I lost almost all of my dresses and clothes after hanging them up.

"As a woman I have to do these jobs - I mean because I am supposed to do them."

The boredom and hopelessness that Mariam* describes are, by now, common threads running through the messy, tragic tapestry of stories from the so called "migrant crisis" in Greece.

Mariam is from Afghanistan, and had been studying business at university in Kabul, before increasing violence and threats from the Taliban meant that she was forced to flee the country with her husband. Soon after I met her, I began to notice that life in camp was throwing two distinct concepts of herself into conflict: one, as a young woman, ambitious to study and start a career, and the other, as a female asylum seeker in a camp with appallingly few facilities, and little freedom.

While Mariam felt driven to continue her studies and love of reading, she could not escape the daily domestic chores in camp, a burden placed particularly on her because of her gender. I was familiar with Mariam the student: while managing the Alpha Centre, an activity centre run by Samos Volunteers, I would often come across Mariam sitting in a quiet spot, her head bent over a book for hours, or sitting diligently in language classes.

The other side of her was one I rarely saw, but it was a life which dominated Mariam's camp existence: hours and hours of her days spent cooking, cleaning, mending clothes, queuing for food, washing dishes, washing clothes, watching them dry.

Women as caregivers

Mariam's experience of boredom and hardship in the camp on Samos is, unfortunately, not uncommon for any person living in the overcrowded and squalid facilities on the Greek islands.

Many, many reports have been made, by newspapers, by Human Rights organisations such as Amnesty International, and NGOs such as Medécins Sans Frontières (MSF). All of them speak, to varying degrees, of the crushing boredom and despair faced by asylum-seekers in Greece, the dreadful conditions and lack of resources, and the mental health implications of living in such a situation. MSF describes the suffering on the Aegean islands as being on an " overwhelming scale."

While these issues apply indiscriminately to anyone enduring life in the island camps - and this undoubtedly includes men - there have been reports highlighting the particular hardships that women such as Mariam have to face while seeking asylum in Greece. In a 2018 report, " Uprooted women in Greece speak out," Amnesty International comments on the additional pressures many women face in camp:

The lack of facilities and the poor conditions in camps place a particularly heavy burden on women who often shoulder the majority of care responsibilities for children and other relatives. The psychological impact of prolonged stays in camps is profound. Women spoke of their anxiety, nightmares, lack of sleep and depression.

The article recognises how much more likely women are than men to take on a caregiving role, an issue that is not unique to asylum-seeking populations. According to a report titled 'Women's Work' released in 2016 by the Overseas Development Institute, women globally do on average over three times more unpaid work than men - work including childcare and domestic chores. This is across both 'developed' and 'developing' countries, and demonstrates inequality on a scale far beyond refugee and migrant populations.

However, as Amnesty points out, it is not the perceived roles themselves which are the issue, but rather the glaring lack of facilities in camps - such as lack of food, 'horrific' sanitary conditions, and poor or non-existent washing facilities, as well as significant lack of access to education for children, and waiting times of up to two years. All of these factors exacerbate the gender divides which may or may not have been prevalent in the first place.

The expectation for women to be primary caregivers was something I particularly noticed when running women's activities on Samos. There was a stark difference between the daily classes - which would fill up with men attending alone, as agents distinct from their families in camp - and the women-only sessions, where accompanying children were almost always expected, and had to be considered in every session plan.

The particular burden that I noticed so starkly in Mariam and many other women, was a constant battle to not be pushed to the margins of a society, which she desperately wanted to participate in, but had no opportunity to do so.

Beyond lack of opportunities, many women speak of their great fear for themselves and their children in camp. Not only does a lack of facilities make life harder for people on the move, it also makes it incredibly dangerous in many ways, putting the most vulnerable at a severe disadvantage. This issue is particularly grave on Samos, where the camp only has one official doctor, one toilet per 70 people, and a gross lack of women-only bathrooms. This, alongside a volatile and violent environment - which is particularly dangerous at night - culminates in a widespread, and well-founded fear of violence.

In an interview with Humans of Samos, Sawsan, a young woman from Syria, tells of the agonising kidney stones she experienced but was unable to treat, for fear of going to the toilet at night. "The doctor told me you need to drink a lot of water, but I can't drink a lot of water, I am afraid to go outside in the night, is very dangerous," she explained to my colleague.

As Amnesty International reported last year, "women's rights are being violated on a daily basis" in the Greek island hotspots. Their report features a list of ten demands from refugee women in Greece, including "full access to services," "safe female only spaces," and "livelihood opportunities." All of these demands not only demonstrate a clear lack of such services currently, but also a real need and desire for the means to change their lives, as expressed by the women themselves.

I remember the effect of this environment on Mariam, and the intense frustration she expressed at being forced to live an existence that she had not chosen. I have a vivid memory of sitting with her on a quiet afternoon in the centre: she was showing me photos on her phone of her and her friends at university in in Kabul. The photos were relatively recent but seemed another world away. I remember her looking up from the phone and telling me wearily, "life is so unexpected."

I remember her showing me the calluses on her hands, earned by washing her and her husband's clothes in cold water; her gesturing in exasperation towards the camp beyond the walls of the centre. She never thought she'd be in this position, she told me, performing never ending domestic chores, while waiting out her days for an unknown life.

Stolen childhoods

Beyond speaking of their own difficulties, many people I approached told me of their intense concern for the children living in camps across Greece. As Mariam put it, "this situation snatches their childhoods by taking away their actual right to be children" - in many inhumane and degrading ways. And, as highlighted above, when children are affected, women are then far more likely to be impacted as a result, creating a calamitous domino effect among the most vulnerable.

I also spoke to Abdul* from Iraq who said:

The camp is a terrible place for children because they are used to going out playing, visiting their friends and relatives in the neighbourhood, and going to school but in the camp there is nothing. They can't even play, and the environment is horrible."

Many asylum-seeking children do not have access to education in Greece. This is despite the government recognising the right of all children to access education, regardless of their status in a country, and even if they lack paperwork.

UNHCR recently described educational opportunities for the 3,050 5-17 year olds living on Greece's islands, as "slim." They estimate that "most have missed between one and four years of school as a result of war and forced displacement" - and they continue to miss out as a result of life on the islands.

There are several reasons why so many children are out of school, but Greek and EU policies are largely to blame. Based mistakenly on the grounds that people will only reside on the islands for brief periods before either being returned to Turkey or transferred to the mainland, the policies do not prioritise education. The reality of the situation is that many children end up waiting for months in the island camps before being moved, and during this time, have no access to formal education, subsequently losing their rights to play, learn, develop and integrate in a new society.

In place of formal schooling, many children in camps rely on informal education and psychosocial activities provided by NGOs and grassroots organisations. While generally doing a commendable job in filling the numerous gaps, these provisions can sometimes be sporadic, and can depend on funding as well as groups being given access to camps and shelters.

And while small organisations try their best to plug gaps in a faulty system, there will always, unfortunately, be children left behind. The ultimate result of Greek and EU policy is that the majority of children are spending months in limbo without education, waiting out their days in an unsafe and unstable environment.

This not only deprives children of formative months, and sometimes years, of education and development, it can also put them at risk of exploitation and abuse. Reports by the RSA and Save the Children state that refugee children are at much higher risk of exploitation when they are out of school. Save the Children highlight that, particularly for Syrian refugee girls, "a lack of access to education is contributing to sexual exploitation, harassment, domestic violence and a significant rise in forced marriages".

There have also been numerous cases of children - often unaccompanied teenage boys - being forced into " survival sex," selling sex to older, predatory men, for as little as €15 or even less, just in order to get by. The issue has been particularly prevalent in Greece's major cities, Athens and Thessaloniki.

While all children suffer in this situation, unaccompanied minors are especially at risk. The state has particular responsibilities to provide for unaccompanied and separated children under international guidelines, yet children in Greece, especially on Samos, are being failed. The failings are across the board, through lack of education, lack of psychological support, lack of appropriate guardians, and lack of adequate housing - many children are often placed in camps rather than in external shelters.

This is a particular issue on Samos, as the designated area for unaccompanied minors in the reception centre, was not guarded at all until recently, and is regularly subject to chaos and violence from other camp residents, visitors or even police.

Many refugee children in Greece are also at risk of violence not only as a result of state inactions, but at the hands of the state itself. Children are often subject to violent - and illegal - pushbacks at Greece's border with Turkey.

There have been multiple accounts of police beating migrants and confiscating belongings at the Evros river border, with one woman reporting that Greek authorities "took away her two young children's shoes" in order to deter them from continuing their journey.

The Council of Europe's Committee for the Prevention of Torture and Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment (CPT) spoke out earlier this year, criticising treatment in Greek camps and detention facilities, stating that conditions were "inhuman and degrading." They have called for an end to the detention of children with adults in police facilities, as well as the housing of unaccompanied minors in reception and identification centres, such as the hotspot on Samos.

Smaller organisations are also making their voices heard: Still I Rise, a young NGO on Samos providing education for refugee children, has just filed a lawsuit against the camp management at the refugee hotspot, for their ill treatment of unaccompanied minors. The organisation states:

We are in a unique position to witness the inhumane living conditions and experiences of our students in the refugee hotspot. With the support of Help Refugees, we gathered evidence, wrote affidavits, and build a class action on behalf of all the unaccompanied minors past and present who suffered abuse in the camp.

After witnessing the many failings of the camp management to protect the unaccompanied minors, the NGO decided to take matters into their own hands, raising up the voices of their students, students whose childhoods have been stolen from them as they flee war and persecution.

"Without love I would give up"

Every day on Samos, I worked with people who were battling the ever-consuming crush of hardship and boredom. People came to the activity centre to overcome it, through learning languages, reading, socialising, exercising, teaching and volunteering. They demonstrated amazing commitment and perseverance, and this should not be forgotten in the face of everything discussed so far.

Nadine*, a young woman from Cameroon whose help at the centre became invaluable, told me that she 'always' feels bored, and that "the worst is a closed camp," but that she has managed to survive by teaching:

I teach the alphabet and sounds, letters for them to be able to read. I teach adult beginners, it's not easy because some of them didn't go to school and they are not able to write in their own language. So it's hard work, patience and love because without love I would give up."

The perseverance demonstrated by Nadine, Mariam, and other women like them, is extraordinary. This is not only considering the challenges they had to confront before even reaching Greece, but in the face of such adversity once reaching the EU.

Those refugees who are most vulnerable - particularly women and children, but also the silent voices of this article, those who are disabled, LGBTQ+ or otherwise a minority - are being pushed to the margins of society by the despicable policies and practices being inflicted on migrants in Greece. Refugees and migrants are being forced to endure immense suffering simply for asking for a place of safety.

Yet despite everything, even those at the most disadvantage are continuing to fight for their right to a future. And while I know that, especially in this climate, we need more than love alone, I hang onto Nadine's words all the same: "without love I would give up."
*Names have been changed
All images by Beatrice Taylor.

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A generation of women are being forced back into traditional roles in Greek refugee camps

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In Greek refugee camps women and girls with high hopes of careers and independence are being pushed to the margins of society as children are deprived of education and safe places to play.

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Trapped: Eritrean and Sudanese refugees in Israel

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Trapped: Eritrean and Sudanese refugees in Israel

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Trapped: Eritrean and Sudanese refugees in Israel - Lacuna Magazine

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However, whilst travelling I met a young man called Alex who worked for Amnesty International Israel. According to Alex, Amnesty International Israel finds it incredibly difficult to work in the West Bank. As a result, they now focus their efforts on another group of people living at the mercy of the Israeli Government. Over the... Read more »

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Why are police in Croatia attacking asylum seekers trapped in the Balkans?

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Why are police in Croatia attacking asylum seekers trapped in the Balkans?

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Hearing increasing reports of police brutality against refugees on the Croatia-Bosnia border, Human Rights Watch is demanding action from Zagreb and the EU Commission.

In November, I spent four days talking to migrants, including asylum seekers, in dilapidated, freezing buildings in Bihac and Velika Kladusa in Bosnia Herzegovina, an area close to the Croatian border. I heard the same story over and over: Croatian police officers beat and robbed them before illegally forcing them over the border to Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Unfortunately, in my work as the Eastern Europe and Balkans researcher at Human Rights Watch, these stories are not new to me. But what really struck me this time around was the sheer brutality and cruelty of the police assaults.

"They are merciless," 34-year-old Fatima*, from Syria, said of Croatian police officers. She and her three young children, the youngest only two years old, were forced to watch Croatian police officers beat her 16-year-old brother-in-law. "My 10-year-old daughter suffered psychologically since it happened, having nightmares," Fatima said.

Nabila*, an Iranian woman who was three months pregnant at the time, told me a police officer struck her on her hand with a baton though she told him and other officers repeatedly that she was pregnant.

Sirvan*, from Iraq, said a Croatian police officer beat his six-year-old son with a baton on his leg and his head as he was trying to run away from the police beatings.

Yaran*, also from Iraq, was carrying his 14-year-old sister, Dilva*, who has a physical disability and uses a wheelchair, when Croatian police officers manhandled them. "When they captured us, I immediately told them 'asylum' but one police officer just pushed me hard so I fell backwards with my sister on my back." They both required medical treatment after they were forced back to Bosnia and Herzegovina.

Croatia's interior ministry has denied any wrongdoing but testimonies from migrants continue to emerge.

Since March 2016, when the Western Balkan route was closed, many people have found themselves stuck in the Balkans. After fleeing countries such as Syria, Afghanistan, Iran, Eritrea, Pakistan and Bangladesh, people had travelled through Turkey to Greece or Bulgaria, and onwards to Macedonia and Serbia.

There are now between 6,000 and 8,000 people trapped in Serbia and around 6,000 in Bosnia and Herzegovina, who want to move onwards to EU states and particularly to Western Europe.

Many have tried to cross to Hungary and Croatia but are met with violence from border guards. Most of the people I talked to had been walking for days inside Croatia by the time police detained them.

Some were taken to police stations, where they were denied food for up to 24 hours; others were taken directly to the border. They were transported in windowless locked vans on winding mountainous roads on trips of up to five hours. People kept sliding off the narrow benches, bumping into each other, and throwing up.

At the border, a "Tunnel of Terror" - as some called it - greeted them. A gauntlet of police officers beat them, pushing each person to the next officer and then to the next, laughing and mocking them on the way.

Tired and beaten, migrants and asylum seekers were then chased down a slippery slope or thrown into a ditch four to five meters deep that is the de facto border between Croatia and Bosnia and Herzegovina or made to wade across an ice-cold stream.

Most of the 20 people I interviewed, including parents with their children, the girl with a disability, and pregnant women, said they were brutally forced across the border in the cold of dark winter nights.
Read more: Crossing the Mediterranean: What do 270 migrant and refugee interviews reveal about Europe's approach to migration?
Every person I interviewed also said that Croatian police robbed them of their phones and money. They kept the good phones, forcing people to surrender their passcodes, and smashed the rest. Money, if found, was stolen too.

All this is going on at the EU's borders. With total impunity.

And it has been going on for some time. I documented similar abuses on Croatia's border with Serbia two years ago. The government rejected our allegations and the EU didn't act. In two years, rather than improving, the situation has got worse.

More recently, the Croatian government dismissed concerns raised by UN refugee agency UNHCR and the Council of Europe Commissioner for Human Rights and told us they didn't have enough evidence to bring prosecutions and that allegations can't be confirmed.

The EU provides funds for humanitarian assistance to migrants and asylum seekers in Bosnia and Herzegovina that, while helpful, cannot justify turning a blind eye to neighbouring member state, Croatia, blatantly breaking EU laws and ignoring violence committed against those same people.

Croatian authorities need to take these allegations seriously. They need to immediately open an investigation into the summary returns and violence by Croatian police against migrants and asylum seekers. And they need to hold those responsible to account.
*Names have been changed to protect identities.
It's also well past time for EU institutions to break their silence and send a strong message to Zagreb that pushbacks and violence flies in the face of Croatia's legal obligations. The EU should make failure by Zagreb to address this issue come at a serious cost.

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Why are police in Croatia attacking asylum seekers trapped in the Balkans?

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Hearing increasing reports of police brutality against refugees on the Croatia-Bosnia border, Human Rights Watch is demanding action from Zagreb and the EU.

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Bhasan Char: Prison island or paradise? Are Rohingya refugees being denied their right to freedom of movement?

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Bhasan Char: Prison island or paradise? Are Rohingya refugees being denied their right to freedom of movement?

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Bhasan Char: Prison island or paradise? Are Rohingya refugees being denied their right to freedom of movement?

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The government of Bangladesh plans to move 100,000 Rohingya refugees to the island of Bhasan Char, raising questions not only about freedom of movement, but about the unlawful detention of refugees. Following a visit to Bhasan Char, our authors, two researchers, explore the issues on the island and beyond.

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The Year of the Runaways - Lacuna Magazine

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Sunjeev Sahota’s recent novel The Year of the Runaways was praised on its release for its fresh take on the genre of the political novel. Never too dry or polemic, and refraining from turning into an explicit political statement, this novel focuses on contemporary issues around migration in Britain, without allowing itself to get dragged... Read more »

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Europe’s Other Border Crisis - Lacuna Magazine

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Twelve kilometres of wall separates Africa from Europe in Melilla, Spain. The barricade consists of three separate fences, each 6-meters high, with a road running down the middle. Armed police are stationed along both sides 24 hours a day, where motion sensors and thermal cameras are also deployed to further deter would-be immigrants. But it’s... Read more »

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In 2015, an extraordinary production of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet took place in Belgrade and in Pristina. Performed in Albanian and Serbian by a carefully selected cast of Kosovo Albanian and Serbian actors, the play drew tears and heartfelt applause in both cities. Serbia's Radionica Intergracije co-produced with Kosovo's Qendra Multimedia. It was the first time that the administrations of Kosovo and Serbia have collaborated on a cultural event. For many of the actors, it was their first experience of meeting and working with counterparts from the 'other' side of a conflict that continues to divide along ethnic, religious and linguistic lines. Shakespeare's play provided the chance to speak beyond these boundaries to people across the Balkans, and to reach an international audience as well.

For one actor in particular, a role in Romeo and Juliet, with its story of star-crossed lovers from warring familial tribes was an opportunity to lay some ghosts. 'I myself am a product of a love story between Romeo and Juliet,' says Uliks Fehmiu. 'I felt very often I was a mistake. I asked myself whether my life would have been easier if, you know, the love wasn't the product of parents who were from completely two different ethnic and religious backgrounds.'

Uliks is the son of the critically acclaimed Kosovo Albanian actor Bekim Fehmiu and Serbian actress Branka Petrić. Bekim was internationally recognised for his stage acting, and for his role in the film ' I even met happy gypsies,' by Alexander Petrović, which in 1967 won the Grand Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival.

By 1987, tensions across Yugoslavia were becoming unbearable for Bekim, an Albanian married to a Serb. 'When everything started falling apart, it all of a sudden became a burden,' says Uliks. 'Because no matter what you say, no matter what you do, you are going to be perceived by either side as one of the opposition'.

One night, Bekim was on stage at the Yugoslav Theatre in Belgrade. Half way through the performance, he walked off stage.

'Because of everything that was going on, as a sign of protest especially at the hate mongering that was going on against Albanians in the Serbian press, he was you know - thank you very much,' Uliks says. 'He withdrew completely from public life,' a boxer, hanging up his gloves. The family left Serbia for America, devastating Uliks who was about to follow in Bekim's footsteps with a place at the prestigious Belgrade Theatre school.

Bekim never returned to acting. He committed suicide in 2010. But for Uliks, his death came much earlier. 'He actually committed two suicides,' he says. 'I think that the first suicide, his professional and artistic suicide, was something that devastated him the most and hurt him the most. This was when he was actually hurting. The second one was his very conscious decision to end his life when he felt he had no more reason to live.'

One night, Bekim was on stage at the Yugoslav Theatre in Belgrade. Half way through the performance, he walked off stage.

Twenty two years later, relations between Kosovo and Serbia remain politically and emotionally fraught, with small changes towards recognition and reconciliation coming at an incremental pace. The Serbian actor and director of Romeo and Juliet, Mikki Manojlovic wanted to make a statement and so Uliks was persuaded to return to the Belgrade stage and to appear in Pristina for the first time.

'The reason why Mikki wanted to do this play was because everyone here is just talking. They are talking, talking, talking and nobody is doing anything,' says Uliks. 'Sometimes you need to start working before you are certain of the final result. And communication between people is apparently an extremely difficult thing but it shouldn't be. I mean Belgrade to Pristina, what are we talking - it's like 400 kilometres, I don't even know. I live in New York, right, it's the same distance from New York to Boston. And that you have this, how should I say, wall, of I don't know what, through which you cannot penetrate, it's utterly ridiculous. So I, as Romeo and Juliet's son, how could I not participate and take the role that I did?'

That role was as the lynchpin character in Romeo and Juliet, Friar Lawrence.

'Friar Lawrence is the only one who supports [Romeo and Juliet's] love from the very beginning. Nevertheless, his support leads to tragic endings, but nevertheless he is the one who believes in love. I mean he believes in God, but he also believes in love,' Uliks says.

It's a powerful performance which highlights utterly just how central this character is to the lovers' story. Friar Lawrence's cell provides a safe meeting space for the lovers, it is where he presides over their wedding, where Romeo comes for advice and to hide after his banishment. Friar Lawrence makes the plan that sees Juliet fake her own death; he tries to get the message to Romeo and finally, it is he who discovers the lovers together, dead in the tomb.

For Uliks, playing this part in this version of the play was also a political act of reconciliation through language. As the Serbs attempted ethnic cleansing of Kosovo's Albanian population in the 1990s, the use of Albanian language was repressed in public life; Albanian media outlets were shut down, and Albanian children did not have access to education in their mother tongue. With the help of the Kosovar actors and translators, Manolovic devised a script written in Albanian and Serbian, with actors from both backgrounds speaking both languages.

Uliks says, 'Albanian is personally important to me because though my father acted in Serbian, English, French, Italian and in the Roma language, he never, except when he was an amateur actor here in Pristina in the national theatre, he never worked in his own language. So me being here, performing in his mother tongue it's enormous emotional payback and I hope I did the language justice.'

These days, Fehimu is an actor living in New York with his Serbian wife and daughter. He says the sense of anger he had as a young man uprooted from his country and future is long gone.

'I was angry that somebody had done this terrible injustice to us, you know, that our generation, that this older generation did something terrible to us who are young, our lives were just about to begin. I was waiting, I felt as if somebody had hit the pause button on my life and I felt I was waiting for someone to press play again and my life will continue. Then I understood that nobody was going to hit the play button, that there is no pause or play, that life that we have is the only one that we do, that victimising yourself and getting angry is not moving us forward. It can't move us forward.'

At the after-show party in Pristina, he raises his glass to the young cast of the play. 'Of course,' he says, 'you still have to work, you have to water it with love, and then if you start multiplying these little things, that is the only dream you can have: that love will keep on growing more love, that keeps on growing more love.'

Banner photo by Maja Medić. 'Romeo and Juliet' produced by Quendra Multimedia (Pristina) and Radionica Intergracija (Belgrade).

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Friar Lawrence in the Balkans - Lacuna Magazine

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Uliks is the son of the critically acclaimed Kosovo Albanian actor Bekim Fehmiu and Serbian actress Branka Petrić. Bekim was internationally recognised for his stage acting, and for his role in the film 'I even met happy gypsies,' by Alexander Petrović, which in 1967 won the Grand Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival.

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Morton Hall Immigration Removal Centre, Swinderby, Lincoln

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Shining a light on migrant deaths in custody

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Shining a light on migrant deaths in custody

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The British government detains tens of thousands of people every year for immigration purposes, many in former prisons or prison-like centres in places away from public view. But there is a growing solidarity movement determined to expose the injustice of detention and shut all centres down. John Grayson reports from the frontline of a recent protest at Morton Hall Immigration Removal Centre, where protestors were surveilled by the police. This article was first published on Shine a Light, an investigate project that publishes first on openDemocracy.

Thanks for coming, get it out there, tell people what's happening in here!
Message shouted through the wire and steel walls of Morton Hall detention centre
Eleven days into 2017 Lukasz Debowski, a 27-year-old Polish man, was found dead at a Morton Hall, a little-known immigration detention centre in rural Lincolnshire.

Fellow inmates said that Lukasz was "young and quiet, never causing any trouble", that he had not committed any crime in the UK and that he had sought medical help for mental health problems. They said he'd spent his time watching TV, playing games and at the gym.

They said Lukasz had killed himself, and that he'd been refused bail just before Christmas because he could not provide sureties.

His partner, whose advanced pregnancy left her unable to attend the bail hearing, gave birth to the couple's son on the day that Lukasz died.

The mood at Morton Hall was low.

Just a few weeks earlier, another Morton Hall detainee had died in hospital. A friend reported to the Detained Voices website that Bai Ahmed Kabia fell down in his cell "foaming at the mouth", that nurses were called at 3pm, and Kabia was taken to hospital four hours later.

"He was really a nice person and was always willing to help people," said the friend, a fellow detainee: "He would just help people through the goodness of his heart for nothing in return."

Bai Ahmed Kabia was reportedly 49 years old and stateless, probably from Sierra Leone. The friend said he had lived in the UK for 27 years. Detainees had heard that when Bai Ahmed Kabia was close to death, the Home Office had signed his release papers.

"If he was given bail and left here. People would have been proud and happy," said the friend. "But the way he left really weighs heavy on your heart. The media needs to know about this. This place is a stressful place. He's been punished. We don't have anyone to stand for us."

Standing up for immigration detainees

Members of SYMAAG (South Yorkshire Migration and Asylum Action Group) decided to organise a demonstration to highlight the deaths, to show support and solidarity for the 392 men locked up at Morton Hall, and to alert local and national attention to this little-known immigration removal centre in the Lincolnshire countryside. We chose the date, Saturday 11 March.

In early February I took a call from Lincolnshire Police Liaison Officer Jimmy Conway 997, a Group B Community Patrol Constable, who is based in Sleaford. He said that he and another liaison officer in pale blue jackets would be the only police presence (with 'resources' nearby but out of sight), and asked us to appoint our own security marshalls "to keep everyone safe". He seemed relaxed.

But then, things changed.

Intrusive surveillance

About 60 people travelled from Sheffield, Leeds, Nottingham and Oxford to Morton Hall, near the village of Swinderby, 8 miles south west of Lincoln.

On the morning of the demonstration, just as our coach was leaving Sheffield, PC Conway called me again. He said: "There will be a number of uniformed officers present now John, and a unit who will be filming - you will recognise them by the orange flashes on their jackets."

Surveillance as deterrence works. Some of my SYMAAG colleagues in Huddersfield and Sheffield had already chosen not to come because they were still in the asylum system. They feared surveillance and its effect on their asylum claims.

PC Conway was true to his word. We were greeted at the gates to Morton Hall by a vanload of uniformed police and a van with members of the filming unit. As you can see from the picture: specialist filming cops were getting close-ups of demonstrators. This is pretty unusual in my experience - I have never seen them openly filming amongst demonstrators at the four Yarl's Wood detention centre demonstrations I have attended.

They didn't like our photographer filming them. One officer asked him: "How long have you been here in the UK?"

"Twenty two years," he replied.

Speaking from inside Morton Hall

We had some phone numbers for men locked up inside Morton Hall who had agreed to let us amplify their voices on our sound system.

They told us management had tried to undermine the demonstration.

"They play music and stop us being outside, they also bring ice cream," one man told us. "When we heard chants and we managed to get outside. We then heard it was people supporting us people."

Another said: "We heard the protesting and they try to stop us going outside but we manage to. They tell us it's about a football team."

And another: "I shut off the music, they will come and grab me today because I stopped the music."

"Freedom! Freedom!"

About 40 men gathered behind the wire fences. One climbed up the fencing and was able to shout to us. He was Nariman Jalal Karim, an Iranian asylum seeker who said he had been locked up in Morton Hall for six months. He was a physical education teacher who had left his family in the Middle East. For two hours, he chanted "Freedom! Freedom!"

One man, who spoke for eight minutes, told us: "People come in here normal but they get ill. But they don't care, they don't care. There are people in here who shouldn't be here - old people with grandchildren, some have not seen family for years."

"People need medical attention, for mental health, for diabetes. They need physical and emotional support.

"They lock us up like prison and it's bad conditions. They don't want us to show how we are living here. People taking their lives, we have no release date. You've no idea what detention does to your mind and body.

"A hundred of us sent a letter to the Home Office because of how long they are keeping us in here, but they never replied. They treat us like rubbish, leaving us to rot in here"

Among us protestors on the outside of the fence was Kingsley, who had been locked up at Morton Hall. Our sound system carried his voice to the protestors on the other side of the fence

"They refused me health care," Kingsley said. "They treated me like a liar and I had to prove myself. It's a disgrace. On my first night, I was in lots of pain. They did not believe me. By the third time I asked for help and was refused, I broke everything in the room. They finally called a nurse. They finally called the ambulance."

About the two recent deaths at Morton Hall, Kingsley said: "One man died because he was not given medical attention. You will be next if you don't stand up for your freedom against oppression."

"You have to fight. Never work for £1 an hour. If you refuse to cook and clean, the place will not run. Keep fighting!!"

By phone from inside Morton Hall, one man protested about mobile phones with cameras being confiscated. "They don't want us to show what it's like in here," he said. "But we can't even have pictures of our families and grandchildren to remember. We're not prisoners, we're not criminals, but we would be better off in prison, there we could have our phones."

Bill McKeith from the Close Campsfield detention centre campaign told the demonstration: "This is an important day to expose what's going on in Morton Hall. There are ten detention centres in the UK, nine are privately run - this one is run by the Prison Service on behalf of the Home Office. It was a prison for men from 1985 then for women from 2009, and since 2011 the prison changed its name and became an Immigration Removal Centre for 392 men. But it's still run like a prison - a badly run prison. The contract paid the Prison Service £11m of taxpayers' money in its first year, and presumably a lot more since then."

A safe place?

Morton Hall, a former women's prison, was 'reroled' as an immigration removal centre in May 2011. Within months - in September 2011 - eighteen men went on hunger strike to resist their removal to Afghanistan.

In July 2012 two men took to the roof; many detainees were "upset" over the duration of their detention, the BBC reported.

The Prison Officers' Association told ITV News in November 2012 that 150 detainees had protested and staff had "been forced" to use their batons. The POA blamed rising tensions on the mix of high and low-risk detainees.

On Christmas Day and 30 December 2012, staff and detainees were injured in disturbances involving scores of inmates. The POA told the Guardian that staffing levels were "at the very, very sharp end of what we believe to be safe". But the UK Border Agency insisted: "Morton Hall is a safe place for detainees and staff."

In September 2014 Morton Hall again erupted in a protest after a 26 year old Bangladeshi man called Rubel Ahmed was found hanging in his cell.

In March 2015 Morton Hall joined Yarl's Wood women and people in Harmondsworth in a hunger strike to highlight conditions across detention centres which had been the subject of a parliamentary inquiry, and a Channel 4 documentary exposing conditions in Yarl's Wood and Harmondsworth.

Across detention centres in the UK, figures show that there were 185 recorded incidents of self-harm in 2010. By 2015, that number had more than doubled to 409. In 2015 across the detention estate there were 393 suicide attempts recorded. That's an average of more than one a day. Morton Hall IRC with 51, was the fourth highest, and had 252 inmates listed as 'at risk' of suicide during the year.

A team of prisons inspectors visited Morton Hall last November and reported i n March: "Half the detainees in our survey said they had problems with feeling depressed or suicidal on arrival. There had been a three-fold increase in incidents of self-harm since the previous inspection [in March 2013]. During the previous year, four detainees had narrowly escaped fatal or serious injuries as a result of self-harm."

Protest and be punished

In a statement to the BBC Look North programme, after the Morton Hall demonstration, the Home Office said it respected "everyone's right to peaceful protest" but detention centres were "essential elements of an effective immigration system".

Directly after the demonstration Nariman and one of the people who had spoken on the phone to us, Raffael Ebison, were punished and shipped out of Morton Hall. I spoke to both of them whilst writing this article.

Nariman told me: "I am in Brook House now, it looks like another prison. They sent both of us here yesterday (Thursday 16 March)".

Raffael said: "At the end of the protest on Saturday I was taken straight to the segregation block. We had to stay there till they sent us here to Brook House."

Campaigners at the demonstration continue to support and contact Nariman and Raffael in Brook House. Plans are already being made for another action at Morton Hall. We are determined to shut down Morton Hall...and all detention centres in the UK.

Author note: Thanks to Lizy for notes, and to Manuch for photographs.

Photos by Manuch

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Shining a light on migrant deaths in custody - Lacuna Magazine

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Thanks for coming, get it out there, tell people what's happening in here! Message shouted through the wire and steel walls of Morton Hall detention centreFellow inmates said that Lukasz was "young and quiet, never causing any trouble", that he had not committed any crime in the UK and that he had sought medical help for...

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Yarl's Wood immigration removal centre, Thurleigh Road, Milton Ernest, Bedford

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Yarl's Wood is a large immigration detention centre for women in the east of England. In recent years it has been plagued with controversy including alleged sexual assault on the women by guards, the imprisonment of victims of torture and sexual violence, and racism among the centre's staff. Perhaps because of these horrific incidents, anti-immigration detention protest movements have tended to focus on Yarl's Wood. Last summer, hundreds flocked to surround the detention centre and listen to speeches from women formerly held there. Every few months, protest groups from across the UK come together to surround the centre and call for its closure. Warwick student Keira Koroma went along to one of these protests and reported back for Lacuna.

On a cold Saturday morning in November I made my way to Yarl's Wood immigration removal centre, a few miles outside Bedford in the middle of British countryside. I felt simultaneously excited to attend my first protest and guilty for the shallowness of my feelings.

Having previously visited and been given a tour of Yarl's Wood; I was glad to be on the outside able to join others in critiquing this centre. I crossed the muddy fields surrounding the building and was soon joined by other protestors, young and old. We could hear loud music and chants in the distance. On any other day and in a location such as that surrounding Yarl's Wood, we might be festival goers. Most of us wearing wellingtons and helping each other over muddy ditches.

As we neared the epicentre of noise, high-pitched yelling, drums beating out of sync, the chanting became clearer. A tall beige and brown coloured building came into view. It reminded me of my first-year undergraduate accommodation, whose ugliness had caused us to nickname it 'the prison-yard'. I could see women looking down at us from windows open but a sliver joining in with the organised chaos. There was a strong sense of camaraderie between the women and the protestors below.

Walking through the community of a thousand people and growing, I was offered cakes, pastries and juice. Smiling faces which would rhythmically break into chants of:

"No human is illegal!"

"No borders! No nations! Stop deportation!"

I spoke to a student education officer called Taz. This was her third Yarl's Wood protest: why? Because "the sight of the women waving and banging to get our attention" pulled her back each time. This was a key reason for the protest - to recognise the humanity of the women inside. Taz said it would happen to me too, you won't be able to leave them.

This was a sentiment shared by everyone I encountered. A Yarl's Wood 'Befriender' was there with her young daughter. As a befriender, she felt that she had a duty to visit the women detained and to attend protests such as this to shut Yarl's Wood down. "It's no place for them. We're the only country in Europe that detains people indefinitely. It's completely inhumane...They're not criminals. Why are we locking them up?" she said. "And more and more people need to know about it. It's completely obvious that we should be here and demonstrating against it. A complete disgrace. So many people don't know about it. It's in the middle of nowhere."

Recognising the humanity of the women inside was key to the protest

She was right. Yarl's Wood is miles from Bedford Station. To reach it you either must rely on the unpredictable Serco mini-bus transport service, or take an overpriced cab. In an unassuming Business Park, the centre is an eyesore in an otherwise picturesque country setting.

The well-placed Serco posters are the only indication of the purpose of the centre. Serco is the private company hired by the Home Office to run Yarl's Wood. Stephanie, a veteran protestor, said she was disgusted by the private ownership of the centre, which she felt was "unaccountable". She added that Serco "have a record for mistreating people." People walking past us nodded their heads and murmured their agreement.

Charities such Medical Justice have criticised Serco's treatment of the women held at Yarl's Wood for years, but the contractor made national news headlines last year after undercover footage showed its staff verbally abusing women. A few months later Nick Hardwick, the chief inspector of prisons, said that Yarl's Wood was failing the most vulnerable women. In a statement published online, he said:

Yarl's Wood is rightly a place of national concern. We should not make the mistake of blaming this on the staff on the ground. While there have been instances of unacceptable individual behaviour, most staff work hard to mitigate the worst effects of detention and women told us they appreciated this. However, Yarl's Wood is failing to meet the needs of the most vulnerable women held. These are issues that need to be addressed at a policy and strategic management level. We have raised many of the concerns in this report before. Pregnant detainees and women with mental health problems should only be held in the most exceptional circumstances.

He added that "decisive action is needed to ensure that women are only detained as a last resort."

Several former Yarl's Wood detainees attended the protest and spoke about their experiences while there.

A woman named Joy wearing a bright yellow hoodie underneath a blue coat described how she felt when guards tried to deport her: "...they lifted me like a sack of potatoes and lifted me into a van. All because I said: I. Am. Not. Going. Back. They called that 'verbal aggression'. What I'm trying to say is that the Home Office is funding all these detention centres and these contractors to brutalise women. In the hands of G4S and Serco."

Joy gestured at the crowds of protestors, "You guys coming out. I'll never forget it. I was on the inside and you were on the outside. You spoke: that together we could achieve victory."

Then turning to face the tall, green, barbed gate surrounding the centre where nearly 400 women are still held, she said:

My sisters on the inside, last time we sang '...d on't worry about a thing because every little thing is going to be alright.' Don't worry about a thing, because we are fighting. We will carry on fighting. We cannot do it without you and you cannot do it without us. So together - together we are going to end not just Yarl's Wood, but end detention altogether.

A cacophony of whistles, drums and cheers erupted in support. Joy continued:

I stand here on behalf of all the single women who've been locked up because they chose not to go the criminal way. I'm standing here in support of all the mothers who've been locked up while their children are being looked after by social services. I'm speaking here of the families who are locked up in there - young children who are full of potential are imprisoned. Why should they be there? They should be out here and getting a degree, an education so they can actually promote justice the way justice should be done.

Her final words were nearly unheard, covered by the roar of cheers and clapping. Defiantly she ended with, "No human is illegal!"

We also heard from 'Aunty Smile', my nickname for her because of the giant smile she offered to protestors as they passed her and she constantly aimed back at the women inside. Her high-pitched voice vibrated. Her passion obvious. Her rage palpable. She spoke to her sisters inside, shouting into the microphone, "We are fighting for you. We fight for you. We will fight through any means necessary until we achieve victory for you. And I want to say thank you for Movement for Justice. When I was in the detention centre, Movement for Justice came to visit me and they gave me power and now I stand here to now fight for all of you. Thank you. Thank you so much. Thank you. Thank you Movement for Justice."

Eva, another former detainee, was much shyer than the other speakers and had to be coaxed on stage by Joy. Her voice trembled slightly as she said: "Thank you for thinking about us. Thank you everyone here."

There was a surge of energy within the crowd. As one by one people lined up, their backs against the tall, barbed, turquoise gate and kicked. There was a deafening sound of hundreds of feet stamping against metal. Bang, bang, bang. A flare was launched. Those not on the wall waved frantically at the women looking down from Yarl's Wood. Their faces etched with a seeming desperation to reach the women. To show them that they weren't forgotten. That they were human and importantly people on the outside recognised that.

In response, the Yarl's Wood inmates dangled strips of toilet paper from the window. The women locked behind metal, glass and plastic had escaped in the tissue sweeping through the air. Such a simple act that felt like a tangible show of strength, determination and unity. Flying tissue. Smiles. The cheers grew louder. The feet banged harder. The chants became faster.

Then it was over.

The angry coach drivers demanded we return.

The crowds trooped back towards whatever vehicles we could get to take us home.

People hugged and cheerfully wished one another a safe journey home. But I could not stop thinking about what Taz had said about leaving the women behind. As the sun set over the fields of mustard yellows and sea-greens turning the sky blood orange, I couldn't help but turn back towards the women. Stuck in Yarl's Wood as we walked away enjoying the evening air. Hidden in an unassuming business park. Miles from any form of public transportation. Inside with only a slither of window to breathe the outside air from.

Last year a group of British MPs and peers from across the political spectrum published a critical report calling for a time limit on detention for immigration purposes and a reform of the entire detention estate. It remains to be seen whether their call for change is listened to and acted on by government; in the meantime the women at Yarl's Wood wait and the protests continue.

Banner photo by Darren Johnson

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Protesting Detention at Yarl's Wood - Lacuna Magazine

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Having previously visited and been given a tour of Yarl's Wood; I was glad to be on the outside able to join others in critiquing this centre. I crossed the muddy fields surrounding the building and was soon joined by other protestors, young and old. We could hear loud music and chants in the distance....

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Alone in Italy: Life after the shipwreck

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Alone in Italy: Life after the shipwreck

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Last month over 200 refugees died after two rubber dinghies sunk off the coast of Libya. With the arrival of spring and good weather conditions it is likely that more boats will leave Libya for Europe in the coming months. Indeed, within days of the last sinking, rescuers discovered several boats carrying 1,000 refugees. All but one woman survived. What happens to the survivors once they land in Italy, tired and in shock after long journeys? Lissalina Marwig tells the story of Amadou, a survivor she met on the streets of Catania last summer. Photography by Kelly O Brien.

While every refugee's story is different and their anguish personal, they all share a common thread of uncommon courage: the courage not only to survive, but to persevere and rebuild their shattered lives.
António Guterres
One summer evening in 2015, Amadou was pushed from a police car in the centre of an Italian city.

He was confused. At the police station an officer had told him that from prison he would be taken to a refugee camp. Instead the police dumped him in town with a piece of paper. The paper was Amadou's "foglio di via", a temporary identification card with details of his immigration status. Though Amadou doesn't speak Arabic, the document is written in Arabic. At the station the police told him to sign it, so he did. The paper says he must leave Italy within five days. He was supposed to make his own way to Rome and from there take a flight to Gambia, the country of his birth from which he had fled.

Amadou belongs to the Wolof people. He comes from a town on the Atlantic Coast in Gambia, where he worked as a fisherman. "I don't like to go back," he says. "I need to help my mum now. I am the first person who can help my mum."

Amadou left his home in Gambia late in December 2014. He travelled through Senegal, Mali, Burkina Faso and eventually arrived in Agadez, Niger. In Agadez, Amadou says that "Arab smugglers" caught and sold him to people traffickers. By the time Amadou arrived in Agadez, he was penniless. He said: "If you want to go to Sabha [Libya] but ... you don't have the money, you will be sold. ...they will not let you go and so they sold me." Thus, his kidnappers took him from Agadez to Sabha, a city in Libya.

Amadou's wait at the "connection" was an isolating, terrifying experience. "Everywhere you are, you hear boom, boom"

In Sabha, Amadou stayed in a place he called the "connection". The "connection" describes the compounds where migrants wait for the next connection to Italy. Amadou stayed for two months in Sabha at the so-called "connection" with "too many people" and he never went outside, "because if you go outside, people kidnap you in Libya". Sabha shares borders with Niger, Algeria, Chad and Sudan, making it a perfect transit city. Since the fall of Libya's former president Muammar Gaddafi border control has collapsed, people smuggling is rife.

Amadou's wait at the "connection" was an isolating, terrifying experience. "Everywhere you are, you hear boom, boom. You are never comfortable," he said. "Libya is a gun town and Arabs beat you every day in the connection." Eventually Amadou's family sent him money to pay for the next stage of his journey to Tripoli. In Tripoli he was taken to a warehouse full of people and held there until it was his turn to board a boat bound for Europe.

On the night Amadou was ready with others to leave, he says the Libyan men organising the trip forced him to drive the boat. Amadou refused, he had paid 700 Dinar for the journey. In response, the smugglers threatened to kill him and hit him with an AK47 gun. The scars from the beating line the upper part of Amadou's right arm.

A prison across the sea

When he arrived in Italy, the police took Amadou directly to prison from the port because he was the "driver" of the boat. Amadou tried to explain that he was violently forced to steer the boat and that he had no choice.

But, Amadou said later, it does not matter in the end what you tell the police. "If you say that you drove the boat you go to prison, if you say that you did not drive the boat you go to prison."

In prison, Amadou was detained in a room with five others, mostly from Tunisia. They were also accused of people smuggling. "I did not do anything, I did not steal...I did not see and talk to anybody. I cried for four weeks," he said. Starting a new life in Italy with a criminal record was impossible for Amadou. After completing a five-month sentence, he was released on to the streets with a piece of paper telling him to go home.

Alone in a strange city, Amadou begged the Italian police to help him. He had nowhere to go and no money. They responded that they too had nothing. Confused, he looked around at the hot, humid city of dark buildings. This was Europe. Up to that point from the moment he stepped off the boat after his journey across the Mediterranean Sea, Amadou had seen only the four walls of a prison cell. He was afraid of "everything, the police, of white people... I didn't know what was happening to me".

"I slept outside the train station. The next days, I ate off the street. I did not speak to anybody. On my fifth day in the city, I met a Senegalese man. He gave me €5. I called my family to tell them that I entered Italy, and that I was in prison and that now I have to leave Italy. My mother told me she has nothing to give to me."

After one month on the street, he found a refugee lawyer. But Amadou was too late. To appeal against an expulsion order, you must file within 15 days. The lawyer was unable to help him and the questura, Italian police offices, in other cities refused to take on his case. Thus, Amadou couldn't apply for asylum or residency. He had entered Italian limbo, lost in bureaucracy, condemned to the streets.

Amadou refuses to go to a CIE, a deportation centre, but there he has no alternatives. His case is far from uncommon among the survivors of Mediterranean shipwrecks. Thousands fall out of the system, an invisible society within most Italian cities.

Italy's invisible survivors

One of the organizations monitoring the situation for refugees in Sicily is Borderline Sicilia ONLUS. Lucia Borghi is a member and for two years has worked to challenge difficult conditions for refugees living in Sicily. She argues that the biggest problem for refugees on arrival is the lack of information about their rights, inadequate medical and legal assistance and no support to regularise their migration status.

At the ports when the boats arrive after being rescued, people are interviewed immediately. "Migrants are rescued and the investigations begin often on the boats," said Lucia, "immediately have to face police questions and their answers could change their future. In Sicily, everyone speaks Italian, so in the centres, with lawyers and the institutions, migrants are not able to understand."

Once the screening process is over migrants and refugees are taken to special camps, which are often in the middle of nowhere

Furthermore, Lucia says that "the aim of the government, and Frontex too, is to control, identify, select and reject migrants that are labelled as 'economic'." This decision making often ignores the Geneva Convention, she says, and other human rights law protecting refugees and the victims of torture and exploitation.

Once the screening process is over migrants and refugees are taken to special camps, which are often in the middle of nowhere. They can stay for years, without proper Italian language classes and cut off from the local community. "So, they cannot build a future in Italy and Italian people believe what the newspapers say, and do not know who migrants really are, people like them," said Lucia. "All focus is on the landings but not about what happens before or after. Nobody says that the barriers and the increasingly high walls built around Europe are the real reasons migrants continue to die and risk their lives at sea, feeding the trafficking of men that national and international institutions hypocritically claim to fight."

Absent Voices

Refugees in Sicily are often unheard, they are invisible. And when it comes to the politics of Europe's refugee crisis, their voices are entirely absent. The European Union plans to stem the flow of arrivals by pouring money into "humanitarian spaces of containment in third-countries". Key to this plan is close cooperation with Libya.

Amnesty International is among those critical of the EU's plans. Magdalena Mughrabi, interim Deputy Middle East and North Africa Director, said: "Of course, the Libyan coastguard's search and rescue capabilities have to improve to save lives at sea, but the grim reality at the moment is that the Libyan coastguard is intercepting and returning thousands of people to detention centres where they suffer torture and other abuses."

Any deal with Libya will leave refugees and migrants vulnerable to the militia and criminal groups that have power in parts of the country since Gaddafi's fall. A by-product of current power struggles is the fuelling the lucrative human smuggling business.

There is a long history of deals between Italy and Libya, and the EU and Libya. All designed to control the number of people travelling to Europe and often ignoring the barbaric conditions for refugees in the country, both under Gaddafi's regime and since his death in 2011.

People look to Europe for help and with hope but the reality is different

It's impossible to halt the migration flow because so many people are forced to flee because of conflict or crisis in their country of origin, for example, Nigeria where people flee the the terrorism of Boko Haram or from the forgotten conflict in Casamance. People look to Europe for help and with hope but the reality is different. In Italy refugees can expect long waiting times, missing information and a jungle of asylum processes.

Meanwhile, the arrival spring will almost certainly bring thousands of new refugees like Amadou to the harbours of Sicily, where buses wait to take them to other places in Italy. Or where a "foglio di via" is waiting for them or an overcrowded hotspot. For Amadou the future is uncertain. He might leave Italy and try his luck elsewhere in Europe. Such a path is fraught with difficulty, but Amadou must stay hopeful, he has no other choice.
*Name change to protect identity
Kelly O'Brienis a documentary photographer and workshop facilitator. Her photography practice is concerned with themes which humanise social and political issues, largely focusing on narratives of migration and identity. Kelly works internationally, and recently returned from Italy where she was involved in humanitarian work and documenting Gambian migrants seeking asylum resulting in her project "Beyond the Backway" which has since been exhibited and published, including in Le Monde Magazine. kellyobrienphoto.com

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Alone in Italy: Life after the shipwreck - Lacuna Magazine

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While every refugee's story is different and their anguish personal, they all share a common thread of uncommon courage: the courage not only to survive, but to persevere and rebuild their shattered lives. António Guterres He was confused. At the police station an officer had told him that from prison he would be taken to...

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Rohingya refugees are using photography to tell their own stories

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Rohingya refugees are using photography to tell their own stories

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Rohingya refugees are using photography to tell their own stories

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In the world’s largest refugee camp, Rohingya refugees are using cameras and mobile phones to document their lives for a new magazine. When the Covid pandemic stopped journalists visiting, Rohingya refugees stepped up to tell their own stories.

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The migrant trail: Walking from Mexico to the US across Trump’s proposed border wall

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The migrant trail: Walking from Mexico to the US across Trump’s proposed border wall

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The migrant trail: Crossing the Mexico-US border across Trump’s proposed wall | Lacuna

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Lisa Lopez-Smith spends seven days walking 75 miles in blistering heat across the Sonoran desert from Sásabe, Mexico, to Tucson, Arizona.

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The power of art and music in Ethiopia’s refugee camps

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The power of art and music in Ethiopia’s refugee camps

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In Ethiopia a sense of hopelessness hangs over refugee camps where hundreds of thousands of people are left waiting to build new lives. Lacuna's writer-in-residence, Rebecca Omonira-Oyekanmi, meets those who have fled home but are yet to find sanctuary, and sees how art and performance are helping them heal.

Within 12 months of arriving at the Adi Harush refugee camp Nakfa, 19, had completed courses in traditional Eritrean dance, singing, youth work and computer studies. She wrote poems protesting sexual violence against women and songs about her home town, Asmara. When the Jesuit Refugee Service (JRS) built a suite of classrooms to house a library and host art, music and dance lessons, Nakfa would spend all her time there. After she graduated from her own classes, she assisted with dance classes for the younger refugees. Nakfa's anxiety rose as the opportunities to stay busy dwindled. She feared the time when there was nothing to do but wait.

Around her, other refugees waited, stuck in the unending time between fleeing home and finding sanctuary. The border crossed, story told, refugee status awarded, temporary hut secured, then the wait. Days became weeks, weeks turned into months. One year, two years, three years. "There are girls and boys like me who stay six years long here, who haven't had any success for resettlement. I fear becoming like them," said Nakfa.

Watch Nafka's story below

***

Tesfaye, a friend of Nakfa's, describes this feeling of hopelessness in a poem he has written in between classes at JRS. The 24-year-old scribbles in a thick blue notebook, the story of his life "written in sheets of papers". The poem is about the lack of Ele, he says. He makes a high pitched sound, rolling his tongue and raising his head. The "Ele" is a long ululation cry of happiness. "My country is desperate of getting [he ululates]. My mother is desperate of getting Ele."

In sleep Tesfaye is haunted by all that has happened since he last saw his mother in Eritrea. He finds some relief in writing and telling stories of home. "Sometimes when in grief you can write about it. When you do this, you are writing life."

Storytelling, whether through poetry, song or drama, is an important part of life among Nakfa's group of friends at the camp. Most days they leave their huts and follow a dirt track busy with children playing, women carrying loads, herds of scrawny cows and occasional signs ( Let's Join Together to end violence against women!). After a mile or so the track dips into a rocky stream and up again to an open expanse of green and yellow grasses against a mountainous backdrop.

Adi Harush is found in the mountainous Tigray region of northern Ethiopia. It is one of four camps in the Shire district, home to predominantly Eritrean refugees of Tigrinya ethnicity. The day I arrive, Nakfa, wearing a ripped jean waistcoat, over pastel blue T-shirt with "JRS" written across it, dances between a drama rehearsal and a music session. She is one of the youngest musicians there in the jamming session. The others, a group of Eritrean men in their twenties and older, play guitar, keyboard, drums and an array of traditional instruments. Nakfa's high pitched voice strains over the boom of Eritrean folk music. In another room, teenagers gather to rehearse a play Tesfaye has written.

The makeshift studio is part of the JRS suite of classrooms built recently on this open expanse, away from the huts, shacks and community buildings that make up the camp. Drama, art and music classes take place daily, attended mostly by children and teenagers. There is a library where Kibrom finds comfort in Eritrean history books and a space for outdoor sports. The classes are the brainchild of the Jesuit Refugee Service, which employs social workers and artists to work with the children and young people in the camp. Their staff work across several camps in the Shire region and employ refugees with the right skills as apprentice teachers.

In the bright classroom next door to the music studio, Nakfa helps her friend Freweyni teach small children to dance and sing in Tigrinya. Aged between nine and 12 they are all Eritrean and have experienced varying levels of trauma.

Having fled their homes with their families, they are now stuck in the camp, some have lived there for years. The children dance on Mondays and Wednesdays. For special shows they wear white sheets over their jeans and T-shirts.

Botel is 12 and has lived in the camp for five years. She learned Tigrinya dancing in Adi Harush, it's her favourite subject. Glued to her side was Sale, a small nine-year-old with a wide smile. Botel is deaf and Sale was one of the few people who could communicate with her. Whenever Botel spoke, Sale turned to her and looked up at her face, hands flying, before turning to relay their thoughts. Zoweed, 10, was the best dancer and often led the group during performances. Before her family arrived in Ethiopia, she thought they were travelling to a big city, like Addis Ababa or somewhere outside Africa. "Then we came here and it's not so big," she says, smiling shyly. "We thought our life would be better."

One young Eritrean man, a teacher, waited five years in Adi Harush. He applied to the UN for resettlement, along with hundreds of thousands of refugees like him living in Ethiopia. Of almost 800,000 refugees in Ethiopia last year, around 6,500 were placed on the resettlement waiting list. The resettlement process itself can take years. In 2015 there were 5,965 people on the resettlement list and just 3,818 departures. The US took 3,543 people, Canada 180, Australia 82, Netherlands 6, Sweden 5, Norway 2.

"Resettlement doesn't mean movement. It takes an average of three years," said a senior official involved in refugee administration and policy in Ethiopia. We met in Addis Ababa where he gave a long-ranging interview which he insisted be off record, sensitive to the implications of critiquing the process. But what he said is an open secret. Resettlement is a lottery, dependent on the political mood of richer nations in the West, bureaucracy, and in some cases, knowing the right people.

"It is not perfect, but we try," he said, later adding: "Resettlement is not a right." It's a sentiment I would hear again from government officials, charity workers and refugees themselves.

The young Eritrean teacher placed his faith in the process and waited for resettlement. But for five years nothing happened. Tired of waiting, he left Ethiopia. He took the irregular route, crossing the border into Sudan. He made it as far as Libya, where he was caught in the crossfire of the civil war and killed. Back in Ethiopia his resettlement papers arrived too late.

***

The teacher's story was one of many I heard at Adi Harush, where people gave me different population figures for the camp ranging from 8,000 to more than 30,000.

In 2015, the UNHCR, the Ethiopian government and the World Food Program conducted a counting exercise across the four Shire camps and discovered only 33,115 refugees were regularly collecting their food ration cards. At the time, more than 100,000 refugees were officially registered to receive the cards. Many of the 'missing' refugees had left the camp and moved to cities across Ethiopia or left the country.

The food ration cards provide each refugee with monthly rations. Nakfa told me she receives 10kg of wheat flour, 1 litre of oil, 1kg of lentils and 60 Ethiopian Birr cash (roughly £2). "The 60 Birr is not enough to purchase other food items, only 1kg of tomato and oil. It is too small. But for other people, they have assistance from abroad. It is difficult for anyone to survive on this alone," she said.

The mobility of an increasingly youthful population, unwilling to spend years living in camps, is partly why it's difficult to keep track of how many refugees live here. Toward the end of 2015 and early 2016 the Danish Refugee Council conducted extensive research across Ethiopia into the onward movement of refugees in the country. It discovered that in Adi Harush 54% of the population were aged between 19 and 25. In neighbouring Hitsats camp, 69% were aged between 16 and 25,. And the young are constantly moving. Some live undocumented in Ethiopia's cities, others leave. Europe is one of many destinations. If there are opportunities in South Africa or Sudan, they go there. Or to countries in the Gulf, Yemen or Israel, all dependent on civil unrest, conflict, availability of work and the presence of a diaspora. Across the four Shire camps there were on average 300 to 400 unaccompanied minors arriving each month, and 250 leaving.

The Danish Refugee Council research revealed that "almost 40% of Eritrean refugees leave the camps within the first three months of arrival to Ethiopia and 80% leave in the first year of arrival."

Reasons for quick flight vary: lack of work or opportunities for education, pressure from family outside Ethiopia. Ethiopia grants refugee status to nearly all asylum seekers, but restricts their movement within the country. This means you could be stuck in a camp for years waiting for resettlement. Camps like Adi Harush are in rural areas with pockets of poverty and few opportunities for newcomers to find work. Back in Addis, I interviewed two researchers who worked on the Danish Refugee Council report. They categorised the reasons for people leaving as lack of employment, lack of education and lack of integration. The harder to quantify finding was the general feeling of hopelessness.

***

Zoweed, Tesfaye, Nakfa, and the other children aren't permitted to leave the camp. Though the Ethiopian government bestows refugee status on nearly all asylum seekers arriving in the country, it severely restricts their movement and access to the labour market. Refugees cannot leave designated camps, which are mostly spread along the country's borders, unless they have serious medical requirements, are vulnerable to exploitation within the camps or are waiting to be resettled.

All this might change. As part of efforts to stem the flow of people crossing the Mediterranean, European governments have offered Ethiopia millions in aid. In return, the Ethiopian government has promised to ease movement restrictions and open the job market to refugees. The timeline for this process is uncertain. The Ethiopian government has only just lifted a 10-month state of emergency which placed certain restrictions on Ethiopian citizens. It is uncertain what this means for freedom of movement for refugees.

Meanwhile in Adi Harush refugees are under curfew because of hostility from nearby locals. Poverty outside the camp is strikingly similar to that inside it, and some locals resent the support being given to the refugees. A few NGOs work around this by providing essentials like clean water tanks to both refugees and local Ethiopians. Relations are said to be improving but refugees are prevented from leaving the camp after 7pm.

***

Nakfa is too poor to take advantage of the out-of-camp policy for Eritreans and travel to Addis, the place she is mostly likely to earn money. There are rumours that Eritrean girls are trafficked from the camps to Addis for sex work, while others can earn a living as musicians performing at weddings and in clubs. Refugees aren't legally allowed to work, but unofficially the government is relaxed about Eritreans working as musicians or for charities within the refugee sector. This is something Tolde, a JRS social worker and teacher working in Adi Harush encourages his most talented students to consider. Music can be a way of surviving, he says.

He recalled one Eritrean refugee in his early twenties who had made some attempts to get to Europe, but found himself back in Ethiopia and at Adi Harush. He joined the music classes at JRS and looked set to stay put. Tolde was bowled over by his natural talent: "His work is amazing. He can create lyrics and melody immediately. He is an actor, a stand-up comedian. We all laughed when he performed." But in the spring of 2016, the young man set off again and this time made it to Italy. "He wanted to stay here," Tolde says sadly, "I was pushing for him to work on an album or a movie, to sell. But his family was pushing him to go again. He needs to help his family. They said, 'You have to go. There is no way to make money here'. He needed money so he went to Italy."

For the younger refugees left behind, music is a salve. "Most of them I would say, they are depressed," says Tolde.

Every week there are stories of people leaving for Europe, stories of people killed in Libya, people dead at sea. Some of the younger refugees in the camp self-medicate with alcohol. Last year two girls killed themselves. Suicide attempts are not uncommon. The classes provide some relief, they can take a break from these pressures. The idea of the classes is to achieve a kind of therapy, even counselling, through performing arts and storytelling. Tolde has worked across Africa and Europe as a producer, contemporary dance teacher and therapist, and is writing a second book about the role of the arts in therapy and counselling. Infused in every lesson are the cultural traditions of the Tigrinya people, an especial draw to the younger refugees, many having left behind difficult home lives. It offers a more positive narrative about home. "I love remembering the culture of our people," says Nakfa. "The culture of our grandparents is our inheritance."

I watch Tolde's class of teenagers and twentysomethings rehearse Tesfaye's drama sketch. Asmelash, who was an actor and playwright in Eritrea, runs the rehearsal sessions. He is 32 and has lived in the camp for nearly three years. He keeps a picture of himself from his acting days in his back pocket. It was taken less than a decade ago, he has full cheeks, thick hair and bright eyes. In the intervening years Asmelash was tortured and imprisoned for two years by the Eritrean government for writing a subversive play. Then he was tortured as he tried to get to Europe - three times in fact, in Sudan, in Libya and in Egypt. All this sits on his person like a cloak.

He is visibly thinner, his cheeks hollow and his large eyes resigned. But when he is teaching, something of the man in the photo is kindled.

"The major thing that makes me happy is that the students have passion like me. During the weekends I feel stressed, until JRS opens."

Asmelash begins his class with physical exercises. The students breathe, shout and stretch. "It is important because they are tired, their spirits are tired. It helps them relax their body and mind," he says. Once the children are relaxed, they immerse themselves in creating art. The scripts they write, their music and their improvisation becomes a way of telling their own stories. Nakfa's folksy songs of lament for Asmara. Kibrom's poems of a poverty-stricken land, sang to the strains of a krar, a wooden guitar used by Eritrean and Ethiopian musicians. "They explain their lives naturally. What they feel, how they survive. They explain in music and lyrics and drama," says Tolde.

They have been working on the drama sketch for two months. The objective, says Asmelash, is to reflect elements of traditional Eritrean storytelling as practiced in rural areas.

Rehearsals are cramped, taking place in one of the JRS classrooms. Chairs and tables are pushed to one side, and a gaggle of teenagers, or the chorus, slouch against the walls while scenes are acted out in the centre of the room. The play opens with a comedic exchange between two teenage boys leaning on shepherd crooks. Tesfaye, the lovesick lead character, enters and the scene becomes farcical. He hops and jumps, much to the delight of the chorus, as one of the shepherds tries to beat him.

***

Off stage Tesfaye is shy, far removed from the Romeo he plays, always scribbling in his notebook. The book was a recent purchase, for short stories, poems and scripts. Like Asmelash and Nakfa, for Tesfaye the drama classes provide a respite from the nightmare of his past. "When I come to the JRS centre I feel good. My mind is rested."

Parts of his story echo Nakfa's experience. Tesfaye was drafted into the army in Eritrea when he was just 15. He spent four years in the army and during this time saw his family just once. Aged 19 he fled the country and crossed the Marab River into Ethiopia. Free but poor and without connections, Tesfaye lived in a tent on a refugee camp for a year working odd jobs on the black market till he had enough money to leave. It was a lonely and isolated existence. "I felt stressed. I said to myself, 'Who is going to help me?"'

Tesfaye saved 2,000 Birr (about £70), which covered part of his passage to Sudan.

"As soon as I went to Sudan I was kidnapped ... I had no idea where I was. Then I was taken to the Sinai desert."

He was tortured for three months: up and down his legs the skin remains charred. They used electric shocks and burning rubber as weapons. "They also hung me upside down, they tied my hands. The perpetrators wore blindfolds, veils in order to avoid being recognised. They beat me." The kidnappers called his mother and demanded money or they would kill him. "But 11 years ago my father passed away, my mother has no money. But she raised the money.

She asked other people," Tesfaye said. "As soon as I was released I couldn't walk. My leg was paralysed. Then from Sinai we paced the desert and by foot we went to the Israel border and they dumped us there." The terror continued as he was passed from Israel to Egypt and imprisoned for another four months, in a basement with no light. Then there were spells in prison in Cairo, threats and bribes. Eventually when he couldn't pay anymore he was deported back to Eritrea. As punishment for leaving the country he was imprisoned where the torture and beatings continued. One day, during a mass escape from the prison he was being held at, four Eritrean prisoners were shot and killed by guards. Tesfaye escaped unharmed and made his way to Ethiopia.

That was two years ago. Tesfaye still dreams of going to school, but as far as he is aware he'll have to leave Ethiopia for that. He has no intention of trying the irregular route again, despite applying for resettlement and hearing nothing back. "I will wait for the legal process because I know the situation. I have injuries on my body and I cannot go this way again." Living in Adi Harush and seeing people leave every week can trigger nightmares of his own trip. Two of his friends took the same route he did; one made it to Germany and the other drowned in the Mediterranean Sea.

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MORE FROM ETHIOPIA: WATCH: An Eritrean in Ethiopia - The unique story of Teddy Love, a refugee who is using music to transcend borders IN PICTURES: Daughters of Drought - The disaster of Ethiopia's most severe drought for half a century, and its toll on women and girls

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The power of art and music in Ethiopia's refugee camps -Lacuna Magazine

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In Ethiopia Rebecca Omonira-Oyekanmi meets refugees who have fled home but are yet to find sanctuary, and sees how art performance are helping them heal.

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Living in limbo: How refugees pass time at an asylum centre in Italy

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Living in limbo: How refugees pass time at an asylum centre in Italy

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Photojournalist César Dezfuli has been named the 2017 Taylor Wessing Photographic Portrait Prize winner. In this remarkable gallery he shows refugees who have crossed the Mediterranean Sea now living in limbo in Biella, north Italy.

César Dezfuli first met Malick Jeng when he was rescued from the Mediterranean.

Malick was 19 when he and 120 others were pulled from their rubber dinghy on August 2 2016. They were among 362,753 people to reach Europe by crossing the Mediterranean last year. Of those, more than 180,000 were rescued and taken to Italy.

Leaving the coast of Libya six hours earlier, they had paid smugglers for their passage.

César, travelling aboard the rescue vessel Iuventa, owned by German NGO Jugend Rettet, photographed each of the men and boys (some as young as 15) from Gambia, Senegal, Ghana, Guinea and Nigeria the moment after their rescue in an attempt to humanise a crisis that is frequently reduced to statistics in the media.

César has now won the prestigious Taylor Wessing Photographic Portrait Prize for his work that day, and will be featured in the National Portrait Gallery in London.

Malick had left his hometown, Banjul in Gambia, five months earlier, fleeing the corruption and political persecution that were rife under dictator Yahya Jammeh.

After travelling through Senegal, he nearly suffocated hiding inside an oil tank to cross the Sahara.

When he reached Libya he was imprisoned for a month, where he witnessed the murder of some of his fellow inmates, before his family sent money to pay for his release.

After the rescue, César stayed in touch with Malick, later visiting him at a temporary reception centre for refugees and asylum seekers in Biella, Italy, where he has been living ever since, sharing a room with three other men.

This little town has one of the highest proportions of migrants in Italy.

An old hotel, Hotel Colibri, has been turned into an asylum centre run by a co-operative which receives funding per migrant per day from the Italian government for its administration.

Refugees like Malick can wait up to two years for an answer to their asylum application, during which time they are not permitted to work.

In the images below César moves from the rescue boat to the asylum centre to document daily life in a state of limbo as these young men wait to restart their lives.
MORE: Our writer-in-residence brings this vivid report about the power of art and music in Ethiopia's refugee camps Alone in Italy: Life after the shipwreck NB: Article was updated on November 14 2017 when César Dezfuli was announced the winner of the 2017 Taylor Wessing Photographic Portrait Prize 2017.

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Living in limbo: African refugees await asylum in Italy | Lacuna Magazine

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Taylor Wessing Photographic Portrait finalist Cesar Dezfuli captures images of refugees saved from the Mediterranean Sea now living in Biella, Italy.