Saturday, May 30, 2020

BBC: Rohingya refugee crisis: 'The bodies were thrown out of the boat'

"Nobody knows how many people have died. It could be 50 or even more," recalls Khadiza Begum.
The 50-year-old was among 396 Rohingya Muslims who had tried to reach Malaysia but who finally returned to the Bangladeshi shore after the boat carrying them was stranded at sea for two months.
Her estimate on the number of deaths comes from the funerals her son officiated as an imam, a Muslim preacher, on the same boat.
The human smugglers never delivered them to their longed-for destination.
Khadiza had to run away from her home in Myanmar because of violence that UN investigators described as a "textbook example of ethnic cleansing".
Neighbouring Bangladesh gave her shelter, settling the fleeing Rohingya Muslims in what has now become the world's largest refugee camp.
Around one million Rohingya are housed in Cox's Bazar in Bangladesh, and some among them, like Khadiza, hold dreams of a better life in Malaysia, lying across the Bay of Bengal.
But in Khadiza's case, the dream turned into a nightmare.
She recounts how the crew - the human traffickers - tried to conceal deaths on their crowded boat.
"They would run both engines so that none could hear the sound of splashing water when bodies were thrown out."
Often, she says, the bodies were disposed of during the night: "I know for sure at least 14 to 15 women died."
The death of a woman who was sitting next to her continues to traumatise Khadiza. Severely dehydrated, the woman was initially disoriented and behaving strangely. The crew took her to the upper deck of the boat, where Khadiza says she died.
"I am still haunted by her death. She died in front of our eyes."
The woman had four children with her. "My son informed the eldest daughter, just 16 years old, that her mother had died."
"The woman's three other children didn't know what happened to their mother." she says. "They were crying. It was heart-breaking.
"The body was immediately thrown out."
Khadiza is a mother of four, too. She was made homeless and stateless in 2017 after her husband and one of her sons were killed during army operations in the Rakhine state of Myanmar.
Her village was torched, forcing her to go to Bangladesh to settle in the Cox's Bazar refugee camp with her children.
After marrying off her eldest daughter, she craved to provide a better life for her remaining son and daughter. "We had a tough life. I didn't see any future for us in a refugee camp."
Stories she heard about the Rohingya who crossed the sea to Malaysia for a better life fascinated her. Khadiza sold her jewels and put together $750 (£610) to pay to traffickers who would arrange a boat for them.
Then one night in February, she received the phone call she had been waiting for.
She kept her intentions secret and bundled some clothes and gold jewels in a small bag. "I told my friends and neighbours that I would be going away for medical treatment," she tells the BBC.
With her son and daughter in tow, Khadiza locked their home and slipped away in darkness.
A man met them near a bus stand, guiding them to a farm house where she saw hundreds of others.
The group was taken to a boat that slowly set sail in the Bay of Bengal, between the Saint Marin's Islands in Bangladesh and Akiab in Myanmar.
"I had been planning for months. I wanted a better life. I was dreaming of a new life in a new country," she says.
After two days they were transferred into a another boat: a bigger one, full of people.
Khadiza says she didn't even have room to stretch her legs: "There were families with women and children. I think there were more than 500 people."
The boat was larger than a typical trawler used in South Asia, but certainly not big enough to carry so many people.
Crew members stayed on the upper deck, women were given the middle deck and men were pushed to the bottom. Ironically, the crew were Burmese men from Myanmar - the country from where the Rohingya were forced out.
"At the beginning I was scared," Khadiza remembers. "I didn't know what our destiny would be, but as we settled in, I started dreaming again.
"I thought we would achieve a better life. So whatever troubles we were going through did not matter."
The boat lacked basic facilities like water and sanitation. Khadiza washed herself only twice in two months by drawing water from the sea, in front of others.
Toilets consisted of two wooden planks with a hole in the middle.
"A few days after we started our journey to Malaysia, a boy fell through the hole into the sea," Khadiza remembers. "He fell and died."
It was the first of many deaths she witnessed.
After sailing for seven days, sometimes in bad weather, the group finally spotted the Malaysian coast. Here, there were expecting smaller boats to transport them to the land.
But none arrived.
The coronavirus outbreak had tightened Malaysian security: with coast guards conducting more frequent patrols, making it difficult to sneak in the country.
The captain told the refugees they would not be able to land in Malaysia. Khadiza's hopes had been shattered by the pandemic.
The crew had to retreat, but faced a shortage of food and water.
On their way to Malaysia the refugees had been given rice twice a day, sometimes with lentils, and a mug of water.
"At first, it became one meal every day. Then one meal every two days - just plain rice with nothing else," Khadiza recalls.
The lack of drinking water was becoming unbearable.
Khadiza says that, in desperation, some of the refugees even drank seawater: "People would try to quench their thirst by soaking clothes in water, then wringing it get the drops in their mouths." 
Days later, off the coast of Thailand, a small boat arranged by the human traffickers brought in much needed supplies.
But, while they were waiting for another chance to get to Malaysia, the Burmese navy intercepted them.
"They arrested the captain and three crew members, but they were released," Khadiza says. "I guess they made some sort of a deal."
Their second and last attempt to land in Malaysia was also to end in failure. It became clear to everyone on the boat that they were going nowhere.
"We were drifting around in the sea, with no hope of ever reaching the shore. People were getting desperate. We kept asking ourselves how long we could survive like this."
So, a group of refugees went up to the crew and pleaded with them to disembark anywhere, regardless of whether it was Myanmar or Bangladesh.
But the crew refused, believing it too risky. They could be arrested and their boat taken away.
As the boat drifted aimlessly in Bay of Bengal, stories accusing the crew of rape and torture started circulating.
"Things were getting out of control," Khadiza says. "I heard one of the crew members was attacked and killed - his body dumped in the sea."
There were 10 Burmese crew members overseeing almost 400 refugees. "They realised it would be very difficult for them to fight and win," she says.
The crew demanded more money to hire small boats which would take them ashore. Those on board coughed up another $1,200.
After a few days, a small boat approached them. Immediately, the captain and most of the crew members jumped in to run away.
Those remaining managed to steer the boat towards Bangladesh, with the help of two remaining crew members.
Khadiza Begum, a Rohingya Muslim refugee
"I was so happy when I finally saw the coast for the first time in two months." Khadiza remembers.
They were back in Bangladesh again. After seeing the people in such a bad condition, local villagers informed the Bangladeshi Coast Guard.
After spending two weeks in quarantine, Khadiza returned to her refugee camp, only to find out that her place was now occupied by another family.
She has no hope of going back to Myanmar to live again on the land she farmed.
She now has to share a tiny space with her son and daughter.
"I lost everything for my dream," she says, in quiet contemplation. "Never make the mistake I made."

Friday, May 29, 2020

George Floyd death: Why has a US city gone up in flames?

On a hot Thursday morning in the Longfellow neighbourhood of Minneapolis, a 28-year-old father named Nuwman stood outside the Minneapolis Police Department's Third Precinct drinking a large coffee as smoke wafted past from the smouldering ruins of nearby buildings.
It was day three of protests over the death of 46-year-old George Floyd, after a white police officer named Derek Chauvin kneeled on his neck for eight minutes and 46 seconds. Floyd begged for his life before falling unconscious and dying in the street, in full view of witnesses and a rolling mobile phone camera. Four officers, including Chauvin, were fired from the department for their involvement.
The previous night, tensions ignited, and for the first time the city saw looting, arson and violence. At least one man died in a shooting at a pawn shop.
"This is everyday. Everyday that these police officers have enforced their protocol has led up to this," said Nuwman, his voice rising with emotion over the din of protesters and sirens. "This is not just a singular moment. This is a cataclysm. A combination of all the things that happened before."
That night, protesters stormed the precinct as police cruisers flew out of the rear parking lot, abandoning it to demonstrators who quickly moved from room to room lighting blazes. 
The following afternoon, a Friday, saw the arrest of Chauvin by Minnesota's Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. Chauvin has been charged with murder.
This is not the first instance of a controversial, police-involved killing in the region. In 2016, Philando Castile was shot and killed by a police officer in a neighbourhood just 15 minutes away from the current epicentre of protest.
In 2017, a Minneapolis officer was charged with the shooting death of Justine Damond after she called to report a possible sexual assault. In 2015, protests erupted over the shooting death of Jamar Clark, a 24-year-old man who was being pursued by Minneapolis officers.
All three deaths sparked protest movements and yielded mixed results in terms of prosecution. Yanez was tried and acquitted. Mohamed Noor, Damond's shooter, was sentenced to 12.5 years. No charges were brought in Clark's case.
For some, Floyd's death was the continuation of those stories.
"WE SHOULD HAVE BURNT THE CITY DOWN FOR PHILANDO CASTILE," one person posted on social media.
But in some ways, the pictures beamed around the world this week tell a story that's unique.
Demonstrations are occurring in the midst of a historic, global pandemic. The sheer amount of property damage and arson has been staggering. The swiftness with which officers were fired, and the speed in which Chauvin was arrested and charged surprised many.
But Minneapolis - while a prosperous city that celebrates liberal policies and politicians - has struggled for years with socioeconomic inequality and segregation. It's a phenomena that's been dubbed the "Minnesota paradox".
The Twin Cities, as Minneapolis and St Paul are known, are still overwhelmingly white - about one-quarter of the population is non-white - and its neighbourhoods are still highly segregated. Most people of colour live on the cities' north sides.
They were shaped by racist red-lining policies dating to the early 20th Century, when black families were not allowed to buy homes in certain neighbourhoods. In the 1960s, the state built a major highway that cut through and destroyed a thriving black community known as Rondo in St Paul.
According to a 2018 study, the rate of black homeownership in the Twin Cities is among the lowest in the nation.
Even before the pandemic caused massive layoffs, 10% of black residents were unemployed compared to 4% of whites. That disparity ranks as one of the nation's worst.
In 2016, the average white household in the Twin Cities made about $76,000 a year, while the average black household earned just $32,000. Thirty-two percent of black Twin Citians fell below the poverty line, while only 6.5% of whites did.
Racial disparities persist in the way the community is policed.
After Philando Castile was killed, data released about police traffic stops in the area showed that 44% of stops were black drivers, though the population was only 7% black.
According to the Minneapolis police department's own data, in 2018 55% of drivers stopped for "equipment violations" were black.
As Covid-19 ravages the area, these disparities are sure to worsen, as thousands lose their jobs, and their homes to evictions and foreclosures.
On Friday afternoon, residents of both St Paul and Minneapolis headed into the streets carrying brooms and pails, and slowly began to literally pick up the pieces of the town.
Following the announcement that former officer Chauvin had been jailed and charged with third-degree murder and manslaughter, protesters at Minneapolis City Hall let up a cheer.
But it was quickly replaced by a new demand: "One down, three to go."

The Place of Muslim Women: Faith, Public Participation and the Question of Equality by Farhat Khan

The problem of the status of Muslim women in society has again emerged as a topic of discussion after the statement of Kerala's Sunni cl...