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One Syrian’s harrowing journey to freedom · Global Voices
Alreem Kamal

Firas in northern Syria after displacement. Used with permission.
One warm night in July, a young Syrian ventured into the darkness in hopes of escaping what he once called home. He plodded across valleys and fields, atop mountains and walls, all the while carrying his younger brother in his arms. From documenting the horrors of the war to traveling through tenebrous fields as hyenas howled in the distance, this is the story of Firas Al Abdullah.
Firas hails from Douma, a Syrian city in the region of Ghouta, located northeast of the capital. The region has witnessed some of the most inconceivable atrocities throughout the course of the war that has now spanned seven years.
After two rebel offensives that drove out regime forces, the Assad regime, backed by Iran and Hezbollah, counterattacked and laid a siege around Eastern Ghouta in 2013.
Among the besieged cities was Firas’ hometown of Douma. The UN Commission of Inquiry on Syria described the siege as ‘barbaric and medieval’. Numerous war crimes and crimes against humanity were committed during the 5-year long siege, ranging from the use of prohibited weapons to deploying starvation as a method of warfare.
The deadliest single incident against civilians in the area was the chemical attack of August 21, 2013. This attack also constituted the deadliest use of chemical weapons in 25 years.
A UN report confirmed that the attack was carried out using rockets filled with up to 60 litres of the nerve agent sarin. According to a preliminary U.S. government assessment, the attack claimed the lives of over 1,400 people including at least 426 children.
While the UN report failed to assign blame for the attack, several independent sources reported it was executed by the Syrian regime. Peter Bouckaert, a weapons specialist at Human Rights Watch, explained that the rocket systems identified in the UN report are known to be within the arsenal of the Syrian armed forces.
In early 2018, the persistent attacks on Eastern Ghouta intensified. A publication from Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) described the situation as “an outrageous, relentless mass-casualty disaster.”
The report released medical data from facilities that the organisation supports gathered during the first two week period of the military offensive. It revealed that from 18 February to 3 March, an average of 71 people were killed per day.
By the end of March, Douma remained the last rebel enclave.
The following month, a barrel bomb carrying sarin was dropped over the city, killing at least 70 people. Medics on the ground reported that the symptoms of those being treated were consistent with that of nerve agent exposure.
The attack was attributed to the Syrian regime by local activists, aid workers, and a number of nations. Russia, a key ally of the regime, claimed no attack took place and that video evidence of it was staged and directed by British intelligence.
For all five years of the siege, Firas and his companions would traverse the rubbled streets making video reports of the many massacres committed, which he would then post on his social media accounts.
After a ruthless military campaign, Firas and his family were forcibly displaced to northern Syria as part of an evacuation deal on April 1. In an interview with Global Voices, Firas gave a candid account of all he had experienced.
“Life in the north was very difficult. We’d hear of assassinations and kidnappings regularly, especially of activists. So it was very hard for me there.” Consequently, his family made the decision to move to Turkey. He explains, “We wanted to go on with our lives but of course, that doesn’t mean we wanted to forget. One cannot forget the revolution…to do that would be to let down all the people that have been martyred, all the people still detained, everyone.”
Firas and his family had made a deal with a smuggler to reach Turkey. Their perilous journey had begun late at night on July 21 as they walked through the groves of Deir Sawwan. The sound of hyenas howling loudly did not weaken their resolve. They rested under an olive tree as they waited for the smuggler's signal that the coast was clear.
Later into the night, they finally reached the border wall that was perched on a mountain. Firas, along with his parents and siblings, walked in a straight line on top of the wall, which was a mere 15 centimetres (approximately 6 inches) in width. There was no room to put one foot to the left. The further they walked along this narrow edge, the higher they got off the ground. Firas looked below only to find himself above a 30-metre deep valley.
Firas’ younger brother Muhammed is as old as the war. He had told him before leaving, “you'll be happy in Turkey. You'll be able to leave the house and play in nice, clean streets.” As they continued to tread the edge of the 1km-long wall, Muhammed's foot suddenly slipped off to the left and just as he was about to fall, Firas grabbed his wrist in mid-air.
Among the items in the 20 kg backpack Firas carried were the keys to his house, which was heavily damaged by airstrikes.
In the early hours of the morning the Al Abdullahs had finally reached the end of the wall, whose construction was not completed. By stepping off its edge, they had taken their first steps on Turkish soil.
Their strenuous journey continued as they walked for another three hours between mountains and through rock valleys. At one point, Firas had to carry Muhammed as he jumped over a river. His mother too grew tired, so he alternated between carrying her and his brother. “It was an extremely tiring course, and it was all so dark. The moonlight wasn't enough,” he says.
After walking over 5 kilometres since stepping off the border wall, they reached the Turkish city of Kilis. Parched and weary, a taxi with whom the smuggler had a deal took them to a flat to rest. Shortly after, another taxi picked them up for a 16-hour drive to Istanbul where their relatives awaited them. They reached Istanbul at 10:30 PM on July 22.
When asked to express his thoughts upon reaching Istanbul, he explained, “I was feeling quite shocked for about a week and in disbelief that I left [Syria] and am now in a place where people live normally. I had reached the ‘real world’ – that’s what I call it – the real world that everyone was living in but we were excluded from on account of the brutal oppression we had to endure under the Syrian regime. [The regime] made us live in a sort of regressive, barbaric age within this larger ‘real world’.”
He expressed his delight at the sight of streetlights for the first time in seven years. “For the first time in years we saw streets undamaged by missiles, sidewalks unmarred by shrapnel, and walls unblemished by war,” he said.
The terrors Firas experienced in Syria, however, followed him to his new home.
“The second a commercial airplane or helicopter flies over us, we automatically bury our heads between our shoulders and are overcome with fear. It instantly occurs to me to warn the others that the warplanes are above us, as if I was still in Ghouta,” Firas explained. “It may sound crazy,” he chuckled, “but we need some time to forget the horror we lived.”
He concluded, “things are, of course, better here, especially for my family. And my family is all that matters to me.”

author: Alreem Kamal


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Protestors artfully demand the release of Shahidul Alam, Bangladesh’s prisoner of conscience · Global Voices
GV South Asia

People gathered at the Shahbag Square in the Bangladesh capital of Dhaka wearing masks to protest the detention of internationally acclaimed photographer Shahidul Alam and other students. Image by Pranabesh Das, used with permission.
Detained Bangladeshi photojournalist Shahidul Alam has once again been denied bail in a case filed under the Information, Communication and Technology Act (ICT) for instigating “students to continue a [recent] movement against the government” and “spreading propaganda against the government”. Alam and his acquaintances deny those charges.
Meanwhile, protests continued at home and abroad to release the photographer and other detained students. A number of students got bail a few weeks ago, but an unknown number are still detained.
Alam was detained on August 5, 2018, officially arrested the next day, and ultimately sued under the ICT Act, to which his counsels submitted the bail petition on August 28.
On September 4, a two-member High Court bench felt ‘embarrassed’ to hear Alam's bail in the case. In Bangladeshi judicial practice, the judges can sometimes feel embarrassed to entertain cases demanding a fair and impartial dispensation of justice, especially if any party in the case is personally known, directly or indirectly, or if they fear they will be threatened or intimidated. Alam's counsels appealed to the High Court who directed the lower court concerned with the case to dispose of the plea by Tuesday.
#Bangladesh‘s #HighCourt judges felt #embarassed to hear #BailPetition of #ArbitrarilyDetained #Protographer #ShahidulAlam after a day's delay for allowing #AttorneyGeneral a #chance to argue in favour of the #Government. Thus, #injustice takes its roots! https://t.co/LAj3iHpNGY
— Ashraf Zaman (@ZamanAshraf) September 4, 2018
Alam was arrested in August after covering the student protests against ineffective traffic laws in Bangladesh on his Facebook and Twitter accounts and discussed the protests on Facebook Live.
Thousands of secondary school students in the capital city of Dhaka took to the streets on July 29 in sustained protests lasing more than a week, demanding improved road safety and rule enforcement after two of their classmates were killed due to reckless driving by a public bus.
Alongside his social media coverage of the protests, Alam gave a television interview with Al Jazeera where he talked about the recent situation in Bangladesh and criticized the government.
A #Bangladesh court has rejected bail for photographer Shahidul Alam, who was arrested after criticizing Prime Minister Sheikh Hasina in an interview. Here’s a smattering of his award-winning work. https://t.co/ESlMbpRIun
— Sadanand Dhume (@dhume) September 11, 2018
A number of international agencies, Nobel laureates, photography professionals, journalists and human rights organizations have urged the Bangladesh government to release Alam.
11 Nobel Laureates and 17 Eminent Citizens call for the Unconditional Release of Dr Shahidul Alam of Bangladesh. To read the full statement please visit: https://t.co/Rq5IVU0sRi pic.twitter.com/LgFkOadXE0
— Muhammad Yunus (@Yunus_Centre) September 2, 2018
Glad to hear Foreign Office are raising human rights abuses w/ authorities in Bangladesh in response to my #freeShahidulAlam letter to minister @MarkFieldUK One wonders if repressive government feels more able to get away with stuff now eyes of the world diverted to Rohinga pic.twitter.com/Jbd6eFjxKr
— Rupa Huq MP (@RupaHuq) September 7, 2018
Indian writer Arundhati Roy, American linguist Noam Chomsky, Canadian author Naomi Klein, American playwright Eve Ensler and Indian journalist Vijay Prasad have issued their second statement to the Bangladesh government to drop charges against Alam.
You look around in the #world and who are the global leaders [in documentary #photography. and there is really no one more important than Shahidul Alam, especially in our region – RMIT University photography lecturer Alan Hill. https://t.co/0ZmDkKv4SW @SBSNews @_MAQUETTE_
— Majority World (@Majority_World) September 12, 2018
Amnesty International has declared Shahidul Alam as Amnesty International prisoner of conscience.
In Bangladesh, numerous protests and solidarity rallies have been organized in the past weeks to demand the unconditional release of Shahidul Alam and other detained protesters.
New graffiti at the Dhaka University campus demanding release of noted photographer Shahidul Alam. © Sudeepto Salam#drik #pathshala #ShahidulAlam #ChobiMela #photography #street #FreeShahidul #cycling #Dhaka #abduction #detained #remand #case #jail #interrogation #HumanRights pic.twitter.com/5pPng3ZB2b
— Sudeepto Salam (@sudeeptosalam) September 4, 2018
My hands are tied by invisible shackles, my teardrops have blurred you. Sir I couldn't do anything for you.  Shahidul Alam is in Keranigonj jail now. #FreeShahidulAlam #freeshahidul
A post shared by  Tahia Farhin Haque (@tahiafarhin) on
On September 4, the Drik Gallery hosted an exhibition of selected photos of Alam titled “A Struggle for Democracy” to highlight his struggles and honor the fact that he founded the picture gallery 29 years ago.
#FreeShahidulAlam #FreeShahidul #Solidarity #WeWantJustice A Struggle for Democracy, a photography exhibition at Drik Gallery by Shahidul Alam. The exhibition is arranged to protest against the photographer’s imprisonment. The exhibition will be open for all till 10 September 2018 everyday 3-8 pm. Address: Drik Gallery House 58, Road 15 A, Dhanmondi Dhaka 1209 Photo by Mishuk Ashraful Awal @mishukashraf
A post shared by  Free Shahidul Alam (@freeshahidulalam) on
Alam is also the founder of the Pathshala South Asian Media Institute, a school of photography and multimedia journalism, and the Chobi Mela, a biannual International Festival of Photography.
On Sunday, September 9, a public gathering titled “Let democracy be free” was held at Shahbag Square in Dhaka to protest Alam's imprisonment along with several other students. Some of the images can found in this Instagram post:
“Let democracy be free” A public gathering to protest the imprisonment of Shahidul Alam and other students. September 09, 2018: Shahbag Dhaka. Photo @pranabesh
A post shared by  Free Shahidul Alam (@freeshahidulalam) on
Participants used art and performance to express their grievances.
One woman wore a paper bag which read “We are not supposed to have heads” and “we don't have tongues, words”. Another protestor sang and played guitar while wearing a makeshift cage. In front of the cage, a helmet and hammer were placed, signifying the pro-government vigilantes wearing helmets who attacked the student protestors using hammers.
A duct-taped camera was displayed along with a banner beside it that read “Let Democracy Be Free”.
“Let Democracy be free”. An innovative protest in Shahbag Square in Dhaka, demanding the release of Shahidul Alam. Image by Pranabesh Das, used with permission.
Protests in solidarity have been also arranged abroad in cities like London, New York, and Washington DC:
‘Tell everybody to be strong – I am’. Fascinating to hear from Shahidul's friends, colleagues and elder sister at the #freeshahidulalam protest in London. pic.twitter.com/8ej7GdoJ2u
— English PEN (@englishpen) September 7, 2018
We are standing in solidarity with Bangladeshi photographer #ShahidulAlam in Washington DC. Shahidul Alam was arrested from his home in #Dhaka on Aug 5, hours after he posted a video to Facebook about protests in the city. #freeshahidul #FreeShahidulAlam
Pictures by @mdedora pic.twitter.com/yaKGDMABb2
— Committee to Protect Journalists (@pressfreedom) September 7, 2018
Alam's niece, London-based Sofie Karim, activated the visual power of Instagram to protest her uncle's detention:
My uncle loves the world and the world loves him. Friends at @visapourlimage International photojournalism festival (France), NY, Washington DC and London – thank you so much. Love and truth beat torture and repression. Break the dark machinery of paranoia with your light. #freeshahidulalam – For my incarcerated uncle @shahidul001, prisoner of conscience. Link to petition in my bio. Please share this post freely. @hansulrichobrist @tate @liverpoolbiennial @whitechapelgallery @alessio_antoniolli @annemcneill215 @impgalleryphoto @icp @thephotographersgallery @bobandrobertasmith @fionabradleyxx @francesmarymorris @cammockhelen @joe_scotland @johnakomfrah @ikongallery @lubainapics @mahtabhussain @martinparrstudio @martinparrfdn @aceagrams @polly.staple @nicholascullinan @rachelwords @ranabegumstudio @autographabp @nadavkander @mack_books @loubuck01 @theartnewspaper.official @artnet @guardian @thetimes @jamesestrin
A post shared by  SOFIAKARIM (@_sofiakarim_) on
Arrow Through the Heart of Bangladesh Art: Screenshot of article in today’s The Art Newspaper @theartnewspaper.official with  my imprisoned uncle’s @shahidul001 punjabi shirt trim. Artist friends please read this important article. @shahidul001 is one of Bangladesh’s leading art and humanitarian activism figures, with international reach. His (and hundreds of others’) treatment by the state of Bangladesh, changes everything for the art scene there. The state wants silence, but forcibly mute art has little credibility. @theartnewspaper.official @nytimes @washingtonpost @time @thetimes @financialtimes @skynews @guardian @itvnews @bbc @channel4 @cnn @dhakatribune @newage_bd2011 @dhakaartsummit @dailystarbd @bdnews24.comm @unitednewsofbangladesh@indiartfair @kochibiennale @kochibiennalefoundation @the_hindu @indianexpress @kathmandupost.official @lemondefr @indiaartfair @india.today @amnesty @peninternational @tatemodern_official @themuseumofmodernart @thephotographersgallery @photographmag @royalphotographicsociety @commonwealthinstitute @autographabp  #freeshahidulalam #censorship #bangladesh #bangladeshprotest #asianart #contemporaryart #photography #royalphotographicsociety #blackphotography
A post shared by  SOFIAKARIM (@_sofiakarim_) on
‘Tell Someone’ (for my incarcerated uncle, photographer @shahidul001). When I was a child my uncle taught me: “if someone does anything bad to you, the best thing is to tell as many people as possible straight away. Don’t hide it, fearing others may not believe you. It won’t go away. Your best protection is to let people know and tell the perpetrator you are letting people know. But be transparent. Say what you say in front of everyone, including the perpetrator”. When he shouted that statement about his blood stained punjabi in those few moments he had, in front of the police, in front of the world, I knew he was applying that theory.  He told the world and he let the perpetrator know that he told the world. (My son’s painting of the Bangladesh flag, on my aunt Rahnuma Ahmed’s sari). #freeshahidulalam  @theartnewspaper.official @nytimes @washingtonpost @time @thetimes @financialtimes @skynews @guardian @itvnews @bbc @channel4 @cnn @dhakatribune @newage_bd2011 @dhakaartsummit @dailystarbd @bdnews24.comm @unitednewsofbangladesh@indiartfair @kochibiennale @kochibiennalefoundation @the_hindu @indianexpress @kathmandupost.official @lemondefr @indiaartfair @india.today @amnesty @peninternational @tatemodern_official @themuseumofmodernart @thephotographersgallery @photographmag @royalphotographicsociety @commonwealthinstitute @autographabp  #freeshahidulalam #censorship #bangladesh #bangladeshprotest #asianart #contemporaryart #childrensart #photography #royalphotographicsociety #blackphotography#humanrights #prisonerofconscience
A post shared by  SOFIAKARIM (@_sofiakarim_) on
More protest art is available through Karim's Instagram account and her interview with the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC).
London-based Bangladeshi legal consultant Dr. Rayhan Rashid expressed his reactions about the denial of Alam's bail on Facebook:
Disgraceful cowardice on the part of the judiciary and the ruling Awami League government in Bangladesh! When a regime is governed by nothing but fear, it is often a sign that the regime might have lost its plot. Weaponising fear as a tool to govern citizens, or trying to act tough – do not hide who are the afraid ones here!
A nationwide demonstration has been called for by student organizations on September 17 if Shahidul Alam and other student leaders are not released.

source: news-globalvoices

license: Creative Commons - Attribution - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

author: GV South Asia


text:
‘Crimes of solidarity’ in Europe multiply as 11 stand trial in Belgium for helping migrants · Global Voices
Melissa Vida

The September 6, 2018, trial of 11 people who have helped migrants in Belgium has attracted a number of protesters. Photo: Melissa Vida. Used with permission.
Eleven people who had been arrested and charged with human trafficking in October 2017 appeared in court in Brussels on September 6, the first hearing of a trial that activists say is yet another case of “criminalization of solidarity” in Europe.
The defendants have allegedly assisted 95 undocumented migrants, including 12 minors, to travel from Belgium to the United Kingdom last year, either by hosting them in their homes, by lending them phones and thereby indirectly helping them cross the channel.
On the day of the trial, three hundred people protested in front of the courthouse. Demonstrators say this is a political trial, aimed at dissuading people from helping migrants by establishing an intimidating judicial precedent.
The defendants are two Belgian journalists, one Belgian-Morrocan social worker, a Tunisian man who is a legal Belgian resident and seven people who are undocumented migrants themselves. Eight of the defendants have been in jail since the arrest.
Belgian law states that there must be a monetary transaction involved for an act to be framed as human trafficking, something the defendants deny ever happening. However, the relationship between the migrants and their helpers seems to fall into a legal grey area, raising fears that the law's scope is unjustly being expanded to target activists.
Myriam Berghe, one of the two journalists, said in an interview with RTBF (Belgium's public service broadcaster) that she's received money on behalf of a migrant she was hosting. The migrant in question had been sent money from abroad via Western Union, Berghe says, but had no way of collecting it due to having no papers. What for Berghe was simply an act of kindness, in the eyes of the authorities was payment for smuggling.
In the same interview, she explains that despite some of the people she's hosted being smugglers themselves, she wouldn't consider them “human traffickers”:
Oui, j’ai hébergé des passeurs. Mais il faut voir de quelle réalité on parle. Les douze personnes interpellées dans ce dossier n’ont rien à voir avec ce que le droit appelle des “trafiquants d’êtres humains”. Ce sont des jeunes paumés qui essaient de survivre en devenant de petits passeurs, le temps de se payer eux-mêmes un passage.
Yes, I've hosted smugglers. But you need to understand what is the reality we're talking about. The 12 people indicted in this case don't have anything to do with what the law calls “human trafficking.” They're clueless youngsters that try to survive by becoming small smugglers until they save up enough to cross the border themselves.
Bergue and Anouk Van Gestel, the other journalist, have written an open letter to the Belgian prime minister. In this excerpt, they express their dismay at the current state of Belgium’s democracy:
Est-il acceptable que, dans un pays qui se dit être une démocratie, deux citoyennes se retrouvent inculpées d'association criminelle et de trafic d'êtres humains avec la circonstance aggravante qu'il s'agit de mineurs, parce qu'elles ont ouvert leur porte à des personnes en état de détresse absolue?
Is it acceptable that in a country that calls itself a democracy, two citizens are indicted for criminal association and human trafficking, with the aggravating factor that it involves minors, because they opened their door to people who were in total distress?
On the day of the trial, Selma Benkhelifa, one of the defense's lawyers, remembered how Interior Minister Jan Jambon has blamed the squatting of Maximilien Park, which is home for hundreds of migrants in Brussels, on the people who help them. She said:
C’est un procès éminemment politique. Jan Jambon a déclaré que la situation au parc Maximilien était la responsabilité des hébergeurs. On entend d’abord ces déclarations très provocantes et derrière on constate effectivement des poursuites qui vont dans ce sens.
It is a trial that is eminently political. Jan Jambon declared that the situation at Maximilian Park was the responsibility of the [migrants’] hosts. We first hear these very provocative declarations and afterwards we notice that there are real lawsuits that are filed.
This is only the latest event around border control policies that have deeply impacted European politics in recent years.
In Brussels, 10,000 people marched in February against anti-migrant government policies. In May, the death of a four-year-old Kurd asylum seeker at the hands of Belgian police caused widespread outrage. More recently, the government's reopening of a detention center for undocumented families also drew criticism from human rights workers.
People who have helped undocumented immigrants have also stood trials in other Europeans countries.
In France, helping undocumented migrants was illegal until June 2018. In Italy, a Spanish charity that helps migrant's boats stranded at sea is under investigation, while in Switzerland a pastor was fined €1,112 for hosting an undocumented Togolese migrant in his church.
In Spain, human rights activist and researcher Helena Maleno was charged with human trafficking after helping to save dinghies in the Mediterranean. Maleno says there are currently 45 lawsuits undergoing in different courts in Europe with people facing criminal charges after helping undocumented migrants. Maleno herself is still under investigation by the Moroccan authorities.

author: Melissa Vida


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In a blow against impunity, Guatemala’s top court rules in favor of the return of UN anti-corruption commissioner · Global Voices
Renata Avila

Guatemala's Constitutional Court. Photo: Nómada GT, published under Creative Commons license (CC BY-NC-ND).
The next 48 hours will be crucial for Guatemalan democracy. In a unanimous decision, the Constitutional Court of Guatemala ordered the government to allow Colombian jurist Ivan Velasquez to return to the country and resume his work as head of the United Nations-backed International Commission against Impunity (CICIG in Spanish).
Last month, President Jimmy Morales announced that he will no longer renew the mandate of the CICIG aside from barring the return of Velasquez, who is now based in the United States. The decision caused outrage nationally and internationally, prompting protests and condemnation from human rights defenders. The president's decision followed the Commission's allegations of corruption, specifically illicit campaign financing against Morales himself, and against members of his family who are now facing a fraud trial before the Constitutional Court.
The next two days constitute not only a test for Guatemala's democratic institutions, but also for the sectors which backed the president in the past. According to the Court's official document, disobeying the Court's orders could mean the president's removal by constitutional mechanisms.
Journalists like Nina Lakhani and other commentators on social media closely observe and reflect upon the different looming scenarios, especially if Morales refuses to comply with the court order and enlist the support of the Guatemalan army:
Guatemala: constitutional court rulings are final. There is no legal/constitutional way to ignore or overrule tonight's rulings which back @CICIGgt against president @jimmymoralesgt. What will he and his network of allied elites do next? Obey the constitution or go rogue = a coup
— Nina Lakhani (@ninalakhani) September 17, 2018
Human rights advocates, including the Ombudsman, Jordán Rodas, reacted with relief and satisfaction, but are still worried about the next move of the government and Congress:
Excelente noticia para la justicia guatemalteca, bienvenido comisionado @Ivan_Velasquez_ a seguir desde Guatemala la lucha contra la corrupción y la impunidad. No podía ser de otra manera la honorable @CC_Guatemala restablece una vez más el orden jurídico.
— Jordán Rodas Andrade (@JordanRodas) September 17, 2018
An excellent news for the Guatemalan justice system. Welcome, commissioner Ivan Velázquez. Let's continue the struggle against corruption and impunity from Guatemala. It couldn't be otherwise. The honorable Constitutional Court reestablishes once again the public order.
What might happen in the next 48 hours, with the possible return of Ivan Velasquez to Guatemala:
These events gain special significance when seen in the light of the long and difficult struggle against corruption in Guatemala and the country's recent political turmoils. In fact, the rise to power of Morales followed an extraordinary popular movement fed up with the corruption and impunity of the political class that ended up with the resignation of President Otto Pérez Molina in 2015.
After the political crisis of 2015, in which the presence of the Commission also had an important role investigating corruption cases, the government of Morales was expected to be under close scrutiny.
As Morales finds himself in the middle of political and corruption scandals, the current crisis is seen as an important moment in which Guatemala could take step forward in protecting its democratic institutions, or a possible slide towards authoritarianism.
Salvadorian journalist Héctor Silva Alvalos points at the contrast between Morales ‘the campaigner’ and Morales ‘the president':
Jimmy Morales llegó a la presidencia de Guatemala aupado por grupos emergentes, vinculados algunos a la inteligencia militar. Llegó diciendo que no era corrupto ni ladrón. Hoy es un presidente que delira por el poder absoluto para evitar que lo investiguen por corrupción.
— Hector Silva Avalos (@HsilvAvalos) September 17, 2018
Jimmy Morales assumed Guatemala's presidency backed by emerging groups, some of them with links to military intelligence. He arrived [to power] saying he was neither corrupt nor a thief. Today he's a president who raves over absolute power to avoid being investigated for corruption.
Meanwhile, the hashtag #RenunciaYa (“Step down now”), which was used during the 2015 protests, has started gaining followers again while protests have been organized in the streets. At the same time, international media outlets from the region like Colombian newspaper El Espectador, underscored the importance of seeing the Guatemalan crisis in its regional dimension and urged the international community to pay attention to its development:
Más allá de ese posible cambio de último momento, la situación demuestra las tensiones por las que atraviesa el país y las fibras delicadas que Velásquez ha tocado. Hay un intento innegable por sepultar el tema sin que se llegue al fondo del asunto. Por eso, la comunidad internacional debe acompañar a los guatemaltecos en la protección de sus instituciones y en la búsqueda de la verdad. Los ojos del mundo deben posarse sobre Guatemala, que está en un momento clave de su historia, cuyo desenlace puede influir en la de todo un hemisferio que vive trances semejantes.
Beyond any last minute change, the situation demonstrates the tensions that are taking place in the country and the raw nerve that Velásquez has touched, There's an undeniable attempt to bury the subject without digging deep on it. That's why the international community must accompany Guatemalan people in the protection of their institutions and in the search for truth. The eyes of the world should be put on Guatemala as the country goes through a key moment of their history; and the outcome could weigh on the history of a whole hemisphere going through processes of similar significance.

author: Renata Avila


text:
Nigerian Twitter has an impersonation problem — and the platform is failing to take action · Global Voices
Rosemary Ajayi

Twitter logo remix from The Daring Librarian's Twitter Template via Flickr. Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-SA 2.0)
Seven months ago, Nigeria's minister of state for foreign affairs Khadija Bukar Abba Ibrahim appeared to have privately messaged Twitter user Matt Navarra a rather strange message: the state official was soliciting Navarra's help to secure “unclaimed funds”. Navarra immediately sensed red flags and tweeted a screenshot of the message linked to Twitter account @MrsBukar2018.
Predictably, this was a fake account impersonating Khadija Bukar Abba Ibrahim, acting in clear violation of Twitter's impersonation policy.
Impersonation is a growing problem on Nigerian Twitter with some accounts set up using politicians’ names to promote propaganda while others snag celebrity names as part of marketing fraud schemes. Often, the differences are slight and difficult to detect for the unsuspecting user.
Earlier this year, Femi Otedola, a billionaire Nigerian oil tycoon, publicly quit Twitter after the company failed to remove his impersonators. He used the platform for only six weeks. His Twitter handle has now been verified, although he is yet to resume tweeting.
These breaches have sent a warning to active Twitter users, calling attention to how easy it is to create and run fake accounts on the platform, despite its executives’ recent promise to wipe them away. The company claims to have purged up to 70 million fake accounts between June and July of 2018.
Yet unpaid citizens seem to be doing a better job at policing Twitter than the experts designated to monitor fraud and impersonation.
Evidence points to @MrsBukar2018 operating as part of a linked network of various accounts impersonating Nigerian ministers and targeting non-Nigerians in an advance-fee scam.
One of the accounts it followed was @Oyema201, which was impersonating Khadija’s real-life colleague, Nigeria’s senior Foreign Affairs Minister Geoffrey Onyeama. The @Oyema201 account also followed @Khadija_Bukar, yet another account impersonating Khadija. All three interconnected accounts were created in January 2018.
Twitter suspended @Khadija_Bukar on January 30. However, Twitter did not find @Oyema201 or @MrsBukar2018 — the account that originally sent the message to Matt Navarra —to be in violation of its rules.
As of August 20, the accounts @Oyema201 and @MrsBukar2018 are still active.
@MrsBukar2018 is yet to tweet with two followers and seven following (no change since January). @Oyema201’s followers have grown to 120.
A look at @Oyema201’s archived timeline shows that 17 tweets were sent between 7:33 a.m. and 7:58 a.m. on March 22. All tweets, containing the same text and grammatical errors and were sent mostly to real estate businesses, said the following:
I am Mr Geoffrey Onyeama Nigeria Minister of Foreign Affairs;
I have interest to partner with you invest into your company or any other profitable venture in your country. can you manage such partnership,
The inaction of Twitter and the Nigerian government regarding the relatively straightforward cases of Geoffrey Onyeama and Khadija Bukar Abba Ibrahim are worrisome particularly with Nigeria’s general elections coming up in 2019.
While these particular accounts have relatively limited reach in terms of numbers, their existence along with the fact that they were not shut down by Twitter when reported, sends an alarming message.

author: Rosemary Ajayi


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Arrested for fact-checking: Kazakh court fines Ukrainian journalist after police break up media workshop · Global Voices
Chris Rickleton

Aleksandr Gorokhovsky. Photo taken by Raul Uporov for Uralskaya Nedelya. Used with permission.
A media fact-checking workshop in northwestern Kazakhstan came to an abrupt conclusion on September 15 when police barged in, broke up the event and arrested one of the workshop leaders, Aleksandr Gorokhovsky.
The workshop's organiser, Lukpan Akhmedyarov, is the editor of independent regional newspaper Uralskaya Nedelya, that has long been the target of state harassment.
A respected journalist and media trainer from Kyiv, Gorokhovsky was slapped with a fine of roughly USD $110 after a Kazakh court found him guilty of violating Kazakhstan's migration legislation. The public prosecutor argued that when entering Kazakhstan, Gorokhovsky had failed to indicate who had invited him to the country on his migration form.
The two law enforcement officers that arrived on the scene said they were responding to a citizen complaint that “a seminar on Ukraine” was taking place in the Chagala hotel in the city of Uralsk.
Aleksandr Gorokhovsky with his lawyer in court on September 17. Lukpan Akhmedyarov is sitting in the row behind. Photo taken by Raul Uporov for Uralskaya Nedelya. Used with permission.
Ukraine became as something of a leader in media fact-checking after Russia invaded and annexed its territory of Crimea in 2014. The invasion was accompanied by a strident propaganda offensive that served to justify Moscow's actions towards the country.
Organisations like StopFake.org emerged as Ukrainian journalists worked to peg back the tide of lies emanating from Russian state media for the benefit of audiences both inside and outside Ukraine. Gorokhovsky's own media project, Bez Brehni (the name of which translates as Without Lies), is another website in the same genre that works with the International Fact Checking Network. He has also authored a book on fact-checking.
The arrival of a Ukrainian media trainer would logically cause anxieties for authorities in Uralsk, a town close to Kazakhstan's border with Russia. The country's leadership tends to avoid any discussion of Ukraine, reflecting a keen sensitivity to the pro-Moscow separatist potential in its own northern regions, where Russian influence is strongest.
But a more powerful motive for the police invasion may have been the fact the youth journalism school was the brainchild of Akhmedyarov, editor of the Uralskaya Nedelya newspaper, whose relentless reporting on corruption has been a thorn in the side for authorities in the region for years.
“I think it was a combination of the two things,” Akhmedyarov told Global Voices, speaking about police interference and Gorokhovsky's detention. “Anything the government thinks is related to Ukraine is extremely sensitive.”
On the other hand, he says, authorities have been hellbent on stopping the nascent journalism school from getting off the ground in recent weeks.
“When we tried to find spaces to rent for the school we kept on being turned away. Some of our students were told not to attend the course by their schools. Then there was a fake profile in my name on Facebook that advertised the course as costing money. But it is completely free,” he added.
The litany of obstacles described by Akhmedyarov is nothing new for Uralskaya Nedelya, which is one of the few remaining independent media in authoritarian Kazakhstan. In 2012, when the paper's relationship with local authorities was at an all time low Akhmedyarov was attacked by a group of men who stabbed him multiple times and shot him with air pistols. Although four men were sentenced to jail terms in connection with the attack, its ultimate organiser was never identified.
“It's dangerous to be your friend, Lukpan, you get fined for that,” joked one journalist colleague on Facebook after Gorokhovsky's punishment was confirmed.
An open disregard for the rule of law in Uralsk showed through in Gorokhovsky's trial, which descended into a farce almost immediately.
Talgat Katauov, the man that police said had called to inform them of the “seminar on Ukraine” appeared as a witness, but said he had never made any such call. He accused the police of using his name under false pretences and threatened to sue them in an angry tirade delivered in a mixture of Kazakh and Russian.
At the back of the courtroom, a man Uralskaya Nedelya journalists assumed was a young representative of Kazakhstan's Committee of National Security, a successor to the Soviet-era KGB, shielded his face from photographers.
Akhmedyarov told Global Voices that authorities had set a “terrible precedent” by fining the trainer. “Now NGOs and other organisations in Kazakhstan will think twice before inviting foreign specialists,” he said.
When Akhmedyarov told Gorokhovsky that he planned to try to hold the youth journalism school again next year, the Ukrainian journalist could barely control his laughter.

author: Chris Rickleton


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At the peak of the 2018 Atlantic hurricane season, Jamaicans remember ‘Wild Gilbert’ · Global Voices
Emma Lewis

Hurricane Gilbert near peak intensity in the northwest Caribbean Sea on September 13, 1988. Public domain image via the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), data superimposed by CooperScience.
As Hurricane Florence began to bear down on the Carolinas in the United States, and an uncertain storm named Isaac moved towards the Caribbean, Jamaicans took time out to remember the mighty Hurricane Gilbert of 1988 — a terrifying storm for which the island was largely unprepared.
Businessman Wayne Chen provided an overview on Facebook:
Thirty years ago [in] September 1988, Hurricane Gilbert hit Jamaica with sustained winds of 125 mph as its 15 mile-wide eye moved from east to west across the length of the island leaving a swathe of destruction. It produced a 19 ft storm surge and brought up to 32 inches of rain, causing flash flooding. 49 people died and US$700 million in damage was sustained. More than 100,000 houses were destroyed or damaged and the country's banana crop was wiped out. Hundreds of miles of roads and highways were heavily damaged and the electricity supply was disrupted. The country struggled to regain normalcy, but we prevailed and Jamaica was mostly back on track within months.
Mainstream media marked the anniversary via call-in radio shows, newspaper articles and photo montages. One Twitter user reminisced that something as simple as ice was one of the most sought-after items post-hurricane.
Others shared vivid memories of the storm:
Things that stand out for me re #HurricaneGilbert: 1. The silence at the end of it all. 2. Piercing sunshine & damp searing heat after the rain eventually stopped falling in a day or two. 3. The fact that wind can feel like a solid thing.
— The Honey Badger (@The_Badger_jm) September 12, 2018
The eye of the storm passed directly over the island, from east to west, and many recalled being shocked at the level of devastation:
I can’t believe it’s 30 yrs Miss Marcia..it feels like yesterday since this nightmare occurred.The sounds of the wind howling & the rain lashing..huge trees torn out the ground leaving giant holes.objects flying through the air like toys.destruction & devastation left behind??
— judz lanimac (@judzlanimac) September 12, 2018
Journalist Janet Silvera shared on Facebook:
I don't think I have experienced anything like Gilbert ever before or ever since. The winds were ferocious; the water was violent; the trees howled under the pressure and every door in the house sounded as if they were ready to be unhinged. We prayed. We hoped. We asked for a speedy passage. Nightfall came. Morning came.
We knew there was devastation, but could not possibly have envisaged what we saw when all the ‘dust’ settled.
All the leaves were stripped from the trees, and the hills looked barren. The roads were impassable. Communication nil!
Blogger Wayne Campbell noted that the storm increased a sense of neighbourliness:
The aftermath of Gilbert brought Jamaicans closer. I recall the morning after [its] passage, all who could walk did just that around the community inspecting and commenting on the damage done. It was a time to meet and chat with old friends and get acquainted with new ones. It was also a time to get to know your neighbour. There was no electricity so the transistor radio was the main source of information and entertainment. The Jamaica Broadcasting Company (JBC) and Radio Jamaica (RJR) were the primary media entities at the time. ‘Young bud nuh know starm’ [‘Young people don't know storms’] Thankfully, we survived hurricane Gilbert.
A mother and her son (then four years old) talked about the Gilbert experience from their different perspectives:
I sure as heck remember this! Again…all it meant for 4yr old me was…COOL!! #HurricaneGilbert #Gilbert30th https://t.co/xLRWB9Uz4A
— Alexis Goffe (@LexGoffe) September 13, 2018
Veteran politician Edward Seaga, who was prime minister at the time, recalled how the government coped with the disaster, while award-winning writer Nicole Dennis-Benn referred to the “Gilbert diet” of canned food and “bully beef” (corned beef):
Today is the 30th anniversary of #HurricaneGilbert. To this day, I can still smell bully beef from afar & hear the sound of that mango tree that nearly crush our house in Vineyard Town before a mighty wind flung it in the other direction. Be safe. #HurricaneSeason #Jamaica ???
— Nicole Dennis-Benn (@ndennis_benn) September 12, 2018
It's no surprise that Hurricane Gilbert soon had its own theme song. Singer Lloyd Lovindeer was inspired to write the humorous song Wild Gilbert when he saw satellite dishes flying in the air from uptown homes. Many such pieces of 1980s technology were strewn on the hillsides around Kingston. The dish was a status symbol at the time, so Lovindeer's song carried piquant social commentary:
In those 30 years ago days,having a big satellite dish in one’s front yard was a big status symbol. One could feast on foreign TV & not suffer the indignity of only having JBC TV (Govt. Owned) to watch. So Lovindeer’s ‘Unno See Mi Dish’ carried layers of meaning #HurricaneGilbert pic.twitter.com/rgsmSLRtAC
— Marcia Forbes, Ph.D., CD (@marciaforbes) September 12, 2018
Netizens couldn't help but compare the means of communication back in 1988 with today's technology:
Listening to news reports about #HurricaneGilbert from 30 years ago…from the @rjrnews archives…takes me back to a time when there was no internet, no Twitter, no cell phones, no what's app to turn to for news about what was happening…@djmillerJA #RJRBTH
— Susan Goffe (@suezeecue) September 12, 2018
The Meteorological Service of Jamaica also noted that it is much easier now to track hurricanes, and that Jamaicans have become more knowledgeable and are better able to prepare; in the case of Gilbert, authorities only issued the hurricane warning the night before the storm hit.
Nowadays, the Jamaican public is far more aware, and the country takes fewer chances. With the increasing number, growing unpredictability, and sheer intensity of storms during the annual Atlantic hurricane season, people now regard being hit by a hurricane as almost an inevitability.
The message? Be prepared. Even for the weak and vacillating Hurricane Isaac, emergency response agencies are on the alert to carry Jamaica through the next few months as safely as they can.

author: Emma Lewis


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In Syria, regime loyalists use art as a tool of war · Global Voices
Maria Mattar

Group of artists turn tunnel dug by rebels near Damascus into an art gallery. Screenshot from a report by Kremlin media outlet RT. Source: Youtube.
The Syrian conflict has plunged the country into a vortex of death and destruction, and triggered a humanitarian crisis with little precedent, so much so that it seems inconceivable that any of this macabre reality can be associated with aesthetics.
Nonetheless, the warring sides have invoked aesthetic representations of the war — that have sometimes bordered on the romantic — in an attempt to get across tailored messages serving propaganda purposes. A military state has crept into forms of expression that are predominantly thought to be at variance with war and militarization. This has been evident in drama, art, fashion, pop music and other spheres. And nowhere has this been more blatant than in regime circles.
Since the early days of the revolution, the Syrian regime has idolized and romanticized a military state. At the entrance of Lattakia coastal province, the birthplace of the Syrian dictator, a gigantic military boot filled with flowers greets arrivals. Similar jackboots are scattered across areas under government control.
The Syrian regime's media has been keen to show lavish outpourings of affection for the Syrian military, with prominent figures and ordinary citizens shown ‘kissing’ the military boot in reverence as a token of loyalty and gratitude.
Syrian drama series’ and movies have tapped into ‘ready-made’ locations of destroyed neighborhoods resulting from government shelling that leveled entire neighborhoods, saving them a fortune in set design. Films such as ‘Rain of Homs‘ directed by Joud Said and ‘the Revolution Man‘ by Najdat Anzour have been criticized for polishing the regime's actions.
Many believe that these scenes ride roughshod over the feelings of the locals who have lost loved ones, lost homes or both, which is thought to further inflame sentiments in a country reeling from a devastating war. This is especially felt because these series seek to bear out the regime's narrative of events which blame the rebels for the city's wholesale destruction.
In October 2017, a loyalist Syrian fashion designer, Manal Ajaj, sparked controversy when she posed on the catwalk with models dressed in Syrian military uniforms during a fashion show in Beirut in what she said was a “homage to the Syrian army”.
Last month, Bashar Assad and his wife Asma visited an underground tunnel dug by rebels (who were branded as terrorists by the regime) after the Syrian regime's takeover of eastern Ghouta in April.
A group of Assad-supporting artists turned the tunnel into an “art gallery”, according to the Syrian state news agency.
In support of the artists’ work, Bashar Assad was quoted as saying:
Destruction, darkness and death are the culture of terrorists, while construction, light, life and art are our own.
In addition, a video of a Syrian soldier dancing to the tunes of a hit song on his way to Idlib province in northwestern Syria to fight opposition forces went viral. The loyalists touted the video as demonstrating the Syrian army's ‘high morale’ ahead of an imminent battle to eradicate a last major opposition stronghold in what is feared to be yet another bloodbath in the Syrian conflict.

author: Maria Mattar


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Japan moves to accept more workers from abroad, but public opinion remains divided · Global Voices
Sarah Lee Stones

Pedestrians cross a street in busy Osaka. Image from Pixabay.
Japan is known for being a relatively homogeneous society. Just 2 percent of residents are foreign nationals, compared with neighbor South Korea's 4 percent. However, Japan may soon have little choice but to accept more workers from abroad in order to cope with an expected shrinkage in the working population caused by an aging and low birth rates. As the country's labor shortage has reached its most extreme level in more than 40 years, with 1.48 jobs for every applicant, there are signs the Japanese government is considering immigration as a solution to the problem.
Japan has traditionally favored domestic reforms that have avoided immigration as a solution, such as encouraging retired workers to re-enter the workforce and utilizing artificial intelligence.
A key part of Prime Minister Shinzo Abe's policy of economic reforms, dubbed “Womenomics“, also involves getting more women into the workforce. While this policy has achieved some limited success, domestic reforms alone are unlikely to be enough to fill the gaps in the labor market.
“We are opening up our country.”
In response to this growing concern, on September 14, 2018, Japanese Foreign Minister Taro Kono told the World Economic Forum that Japan needs to admit more foreign workers, claiming that the current policy was incapable of sustaining Japanese society.
“We are opening up our country,” said Kono. “We are now trying to come up with a new work permit policy so I think everyone shall be welcome in Japan if they are willing to assimilate into Japanese society.”
Prime Minister Abe also recently announced plans to attract 500,000 foreign workers to Japan by 2025 to fill chronic labor shortages in farming, construction, accommodation, and elder care by creating a new five-year visa category for non-professional foreign laborers. In order to support its graying citizenry and stabilize its population at 100 million, Japan would need to accept a whopping 200,000 immigrants each year.
The country had 1.28 million foreign workers as of October 2017, with Chinese workers making up the largest portion at nearly 30 percent, followed by those from Vietnam, the Philippines, and Brazil.
Non-Japanese cashiers are becoming more and more common, with non-Japanese workers accounting for some 5 percent of convenience store chain FamilyMart's employees.
As urban areas become increasingly international, one out of ten 20-somethings living in Tokyo are now foreign-born. For twenty-year-olds living in Tokyo, that number increases to one in eight.
For some people, immigration is already a reality in Japan.
日本、移民受け入れ賛成とか反対とか言ってるうちに、すでにどんどん移民が入ってきてるわけで、そもそも禁止されてないようなもんじゃないか。東京はすでに気づいたら移民天国状態のような。
— 秋葉原の丁稚 (@gonbe3) December 3, 2017
While Japan is busy arguing about whether or not to accept immigrants, they're already coming in, and it's not as if there's a ban on immigration or anything. Tokyo is pretty much a haven for immigrants at this point.
Many foreign workers enter the country via the “technical intern trainee” system, a 1990 program designed to transfer technical skills. Critics see the scheme as encouraging simple and cheap labor by allowing businesses in the industrial, agricultural and fisheries sectors to cheaply hire youth from abroad.
Trainees cannot change jobs, and there have been numerous reports of their being subjected to illegally long work hours and physical abuse from employers. Vietnamese trainees were even made to take part in nuclear decontamination work in Fukushima. Twitter user Mulboyne shared a Mainichi newspaper report about a Vietnamese worker who, after being left with only the equivalent of US$200 per month in pay despite working full-time, found a better-paying job by working under the table:
Although she kept her head down, police found her when conducting an investigation into another matter. She was arrested in April. The article notes her co-workers said she was a hard worker, very diligent and never late.
— Mulboyne (@Mulboyne) August 30, 2018
While trainees are currently able to stay for a maximum of five years, Abe's proposed reforms would allow those who have completed the program to stay for up to five additional years. However, the focus remains on encouraging temporary stays over permanent immigration. Trainees would be unable to bring their families with them, and must temporarily return to their home countries after finishing the program. This would technically prevent them from applying for permanent residency because one of the requirements is to have lived in Japan for ten years or more.
While Japan is already accepting more foreign workers, not everyone is comfortable with this change. “Many people in Japan believe that the country's peace and harmony is based on it being a homogeneous country where there are few foreigners,” says Chris Burgess, a migration researcher and lecturer of Japan studies at Tsuda Juku University in Tokyo, in an interview with CNN.
According to Burgess, underlying this belief is the so-called “foreign crime” debate, the fear that allowing in greater numbers of foreigners will harm public safety—a fear that has only been heightened in recent years by terrorist atrocities in Europe and other countries with high migration levels.
A recent poll shows that public opinion on this issue is mixed.
日本経済新聞が行った世論調査では、外国人の受け入れ拡大について賛成と反対がそれぞれ42％と結果は真っ二つとなりました。ただ年齢別の調査では傾向がはっきりと分かれているようです。18～29歳の若年層では賛成が約60％と反対の約30％を大きく上回っていますが、70歳以上は賛成が約30％、反対が約45％と逆転しています。若年層は人口減少の影響を直接的に受けていることや、グローバル化に慣れていることなどから外国人受け入れに前向きになっているものと考えられます。
A public opinion poll conducted by the Nikkei found opinion evenly split about whether Japan should admit more foreign workers, with 42% agreeing and 42% disagreeing. However, age was a large determining factor when it came to how people voted. Roughly 60% of 18-29-year-olds were for increased immigration, while just 30% were against it. The opposite trend was found among those aged 70 or older, with 30% for and 45% against. Young people are perhaps more accepting of foreigners as they are the ones directly affected by population shrinking, and they have grown up with the effects of globalization.
In this video from Asian Boss, reporters hit the streets to find out how ordinary Japanese feel about the issue:
While some interviewees were resistant to the idea of hiring foreign workers, others identified a need for Japanese people to accept people of various nationalities and to become more open-minded. “The Japanese love Americans and accept them, but to people from other Asian countries, the Japanese tend to be unkind,” one young woman explained.
Whether Japan will become a truly multicultural nation any time in the foreseeable future remains uncertain, but it is clear that increasing globalization is already having an impact on the nation. As for how demographic changes will shape Japan, only time will tell.

author: Sarah Lee Stones


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Kyrgyz artist calls on girls to ‘create our own freedom’ in breakout song, *drops mic* · Global Voices
Chris Rickleton

Screenshot from Zere's video ‘Kyz’.
Teenage artist Zere Asylbek has burst into public life in Kyrgyzstan with a song defending women's rights to do as they please with their bodies.
In doing so, she has also made her mark on a highly-charged debate with both national and global dimensions.
The song Kyz, which translates as ‘girl’ in Kyrgyz is Zere's first recorded song. Interviewed by the Kyrgyz service of RFE/RL on September 16, Zere said she did not consider herself a musician per se, but rather a “creative person in the freest sense.”
The point of Kyz, she said, was to highlight that while every person has their own mission, “the missions of others should be accepted, or at least acknowledged.”
Here's rough translation of Zere's song: pic.twitter.com/vrRv7ST3YZ
— Bermet Talant (@ser_ou_parecer) September 17, 2018
In Kyrgyzstan, women's clothing has been a hot-button topic for some time, pitting conservatives against secularists wary of Islam's growing as social battles simmer over the ex-Soviet country's future.
Former President Almazbek Atambayev poured lighter fuel on the bonfire in 2016 when he endorsed a series of banners that asked “where (the Kyrgyz people) were headed?”
The banners printed by a patriotic group compared a relatively recent penchant for the niqab in some parts of the country unfavourably with traditional Kyrgyz dress.
Those banners were later met with an ironic response in the form of banners carrying the same alarmist question but instead showing Kyrgyz women wearing short skirts and shorts in place of the women wearing niqabs.
Atambayev called the authors of the second banner “smarty-pants.”
“Our women have been wearing miniskirts since 1950s, and they never thought about wearing an explosive belt,” said Atambayev.
His throwaway comments on Islamic dress have been echoed by politicians elsewhere, including former British foreign secretary Boris Johnson earlier this year.
A controversial banner calling on women to disavow the niqab as non-national was put up in Bishkek by a group of patriots and later across the country after it won approval from ex-leader Almazbek Atambayev. Some of the banners were damaged or burned. Photo by Sputnik.kg. Used with permission.
A response to the original banners. Photo by Kaktus Media. Used with permission.
Poignantly, the video for Zere's debut song features women whose dress speaks to Kyrgyzstan's diversity. Unsurprisingly, that message has failed to please everyone.
Currently the video has gathered around 120,000 views in four days, a phenomenal number considering Kyrgyzstan is a country of just 6 million and the song is in the Kyrgyz language, rather than in the republic's second language, Russian.
As of this writing the clip has been liked 2,000 times and disliked 5,500 times. Many of the comments on Facebook posts featuring the video express disgust and even hatred towards the 19-year-old singer.
Hot topic in Kyrgyzstan this wkd: 19yo singer posts a feminist video wearing a bra and a jacket with ‘none-of-your-business’ message. Everyone judges and says ‘yeah, nice song, but would hv bn better to wear smth else’. People, it’s none of your business. https://t.co/7ZsECutMhv
— Jomart Ormonbekov (@ormonti) September 16, 2018
Writing on Facebook shortly after the clip's release, Zere Asylbek's father Asylbek Zhodonbekov said that he had received a mixture of congratulations and complaints from friends and acquaintances.
Zhodonbekov noted that Zere had become inclined towards political activism after a bride kidnapping victim was murdered by her captor inside a police station as she was waiting to write a witness statement against him in May.
The shocking crime sparked protests against law enforcement's negligence in a country where thousands of girls are kidnapped every year and “had a strong impact on her”, he said.
Some of the messages Zhodonbekov received were particularly harsh. One acquaintance even compared Zere to Baba Yaga, a scary witch-like character from Russian folklore. “Is this really your daughter?” the person asked.
“Yes, Zere is my daughter,” Zhodonbekov wrote in his post. “A free-thinking daughter of a free Kyrgyzstan.”


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Three days behind bars for the ‘crime’ of journalism: Diary of a Nigerian journalist · Global Voices
Guest Contributor

Samuel Ogundipe. Photo by PREMIUM TIMES, used with permission.
On August 14, 2018, Nigerian investigative journalist Samuel Ogundipe was detained by Nigeria’s Special Tactical Squad after refusing to name his sources for a story concerning the Nigerian security service's involvement in preventing officials from entering the Nigerian National Assembly in early August 2018.
Ogundipe, who works for the privately-owned Premium Times online newspaper, spent three nights in detention and was then arraigned without his lawyers present. He was released on bail on August 17 at his lawyers’ urging. The following is an abridged first-person account of the incident, written by Samuel Ogundipe and originally published by Premium Times. This version was edited and published by Global Voices as part of a republishing agreement with Premium Times.
For three days, I lay on a rough blanket in a cell inside the police Special Tactical Squad (STS) detention centre in Abuja, Nigeria’s capital.
I sweated profusely as I read an old copy of a Christian daily guide, printed by Paul Enenche’s Dunamis Gospel Centre—a book precisely written to prevent people from finding themselves in a spot like this. But for three days, this mouldy, fetid cage — shared with dozens of violent crime suspects — was my reading, eating and sleeping corner.
The book, which had been smuggled in by a Dunamis devotee, was my first encounter with the work of Mr. Enenche and his ministry, and I tried to savour it. I read a passage that preached about the value of freedom, and what believers must do to avoid any form of incarceration. Where individuals find themselves in custody through no fault of their own, it recommended holding on strongly to faith.
It was a striking sermon, one which bore relevance to my case, and gave me confidence that justice would ultimately prevail.
I spent three days behind bars for the crime of journalism. During that time, I heard from several others how people had been in and out of STS detention due to sloppy investigation by the police. Their tales provided mental fodder that helped me endure my first experience in custody.
My experience with STS left me with a sense of a police unit more restrained than others, although some of its tactics still mirror the notorious Special Anti-Robbery Squad (SARS). The STS facility is housed in a bungalow inside the larger SARS compound for hardened criminals — gives the impression that it is only for temporary custody, but this does not seem entirely true.
As with SARS, STS detainees are condemned from day one, starting with the archaic prejudicial method of interrogation and unbearable living conditions. And also like SARS, the STS seeks to psychologically torture detainees, to make them give in by isolating them in an attempt to crush their spirit and weaken their will. Many succumb. The only difference is that STS personnel appear more tidy, educated and less crude than their SARS colleagues, whose notoriety has made Abuja residents dub their premises an “abattoir” or “slaughterhouse.”
My journey through police detention began on August 11 when my colleague, Premium Times’ reporter Azeezat Adedigba, received a call from a police superintendent telling her she was being investigated for criminal offences.She alerted our office, and our managers advised that she proceed with caution.
Two days later, at her request, police delivered to our office a formal letter alledging that Ms. Adedigba had committed criminal conspiracy, cyber crime, attempted kidnapping and fraud, and ordering that she turn herself in by 10:00 a.m. on August 14.
My colleague honoured the invitation that Monday as instructed, accompanied by our Editor-in-Chief, Musikilu Mojeed. As they waited to speak with police superintendent Emmanuel Onyeneho, a fully armed junior officer confiscated Ms. Adedigba’s mobile phone and then  detained her.
Hours later, Mr. Oyeneho appeared, returned Ms. Adedigba’s phone and asked her to dial a number on it. The number turned out to be mine. The detective then asked that I join them. I was halfway through a piece of choco pie when the call came in. I devoured the rest before reaching for my keys.
I was halfway through a piece of choco pie when the call came in. I devoured the rest before reaching for my keys.
I arrived at about 2:30 p.m. to a barrage of questions from Mr. Oyeneho, all aiming to find out the source of our story about Inspector-General Ibrahim Idris’ interim report to then-acting President Yemi Osinbajo on the State Security Service’s siege on the National Assembly on August 7.
I’d written the piece on the night of August 9, after receiving the report from a trustworthy source and getting it authenticated by two high-ranking police officers. The police had no complaints about the accuracy of the story. They only assumed it was not meant for public consumption. In fairness to the police chief, the five-page document, aside from being clumsy, contained too many errors that cast him in a bad light.
On my arrival, Mr. Oyeneho released Ms. Adedigba. “We only used you as a soft target to get our main suspect,” the officer told her.
It soon became clear that Mr. Mojeed and I were going to be detained An officer in jeans and a t-shirt suddenly took a seat beside us, blocking all pathways The officer was slightly dreadlocked and wore a yellow jungle boot. He kept a straight face and was completely attentive to our conversation.
Mr. Onyeneho demanded my phone when he came to collect me at the entrance, but I told him I didn’t have it. He was curious, and ambled around me to make sure. My editors had advised I should never take my phone if I was called  in for questioning, because the operatives might end up finding details unconnected with their investigation, and also bugging the device.
Just before Mr. Oyeneho started interrogating me, he boasted that my salary account with Ecobank had been frozen hours earlier. My mind immediately dashed to a transfer that failed to go through on my bank’s mobile app, just before I received the call to turn up at the station. Before I could ask whether he procured a court order before taking this measure, he started growing increasingly furious about the source of my story.
When Mr. Oyeneho could not get me to reveal my sources on the spot, the police superintendent informed his superior at the STS and sought the next move. The administrative officer in charge of the STS detention centre said we should proceed to the Force Headquarters for further interrogation.
Four plainclothes officers, the administrative officer and Oyeneho drove us into the bowels of the Force Headquarters.
We arrived at the office of Sani Ahmadu, the police commissioner overseeing the Inspector General of Police (IGP) Monitoring Unit, of which the STS is a department.
As we took our seats, Mr. Oyeneho tried to boast about the “intelligence operation” they executed to arrest me, but Mr. Ahmadu interjected, apparently feeling it was too much information for Mr. Mojeed and me.
Mr. Ahmadu told us the story Premium Times published had violated the law, but assured us his men would be civil in handling the matter. They gave me a pen and two sheets of paper to write a statement.
Nigerian police officers complete their training in 2015. Photo by AMISOM, released to public domain.
As I wrote, Mr. Oyeneho was interrupting. He tried many times to tell me what to write, but I declined each time. He insisted I state the number of times I had written unfavourable stories about Mr. Idris, Nigeria’s police chief, or the police as an institution, or even the Nigerian government in general. I paid no heed.
While I was writing my statement, an officer assisting Mr. Oyeneho whispered that I was “in trouble”.
After about one and a half hours of back and forth with the officers, I turned in my statement, just as Mr. Ahmadu’s early evening meal was delivered. We would have to wait, I signaled to Mr. Mojeed, who was seated about a metre away.
As we waited, I saw Mr. Ahmadu working the keypad of his Samsung phone. He was shopping for a warrant to keep me in custody. Another officer also could be heard  discussing efforts to convince a magistrate to issue a warrant. About 45 minutes later, a police prosecutor attached to the STS arrived with some paperwork.
He pulled out a document and showed it to Mr. Ahmadu and other officers. Mr. Mojeed signaled to me that it was a warrant, and asked me to stay calm nonetheless.
We heard the officers saying the warrant would be valid from August 15 until August 25. By then, Mr. Ahmadu was through with his meal. He had also read my statement, and was  ready to conclude the session.
Then Mr. Mojeed’s phones  started buzzing non-stop. Apparently, Azeezat and Tosin Omoniyi, another colleague who was also at STS before Azeezat was freed, had broken the news to other colleagues at the office. Halfway into my statement, Mr. Oyeneho had already started receiving calls from our lawyers and other concerned persons.
Just before I was returned to the STS by my minders, Mr. Ahmadu asked for the last time if I could reveal my sources. I turned him down yet again. As we made for the exit, Mr. Mojeed turned and told him:
“I just want to let you know that this action you are taking, this attempt to lock up a reporter for writing a story, would embarrass this country seriously.”
“I do not care,” Mr. Ahmadu said meekly before snapping: “Go and tell that to those who are afraid of the media. We are not!”
“I do not care,” Mr. Ahmadu said meekly before snapping: “Go and tell that to those who are afraid of the media. We are not!”
As we made our way down the stairway from Mr. Ahmadu’s office, the officers were asking Mr. Mojeed how detaining a journalist for publishing a confidential document would embarrass the country.
“Your question shows that you people do not understand the implication of the assignment you were given,” Mr. Mojeed answered.
Before they were able to give any coherent response we reached the car park. The same Hiace bus did a pirouette to take us back to the STS detention centre.
Within minutes, we were back at the detention centre. Mr. Oyeneho quickly prepared a docket for my detention.
He asked me to remove my wrist watch, belt and shoes as he prepared to move me into the cell. Though obviously angry and disturbed, Mr. Mojeed remained level headed, and he admonished Mr. Oyeneho on the need to ensure I was not physically tortured or hurt in detention.
“Okay, I will tell the guys in cell not to touch him,” the officer responded, to my relief. “That would go a long way,” I said.
“Okay, I will tell the guys in cell not to touch him,” the officer responded, to my relief. “That would go a long way,” I said.
A female officer taking records of inmates gave Mr. Oyeneho the key to the cell and pointed me in the direction of the cell. “Follow him,” she ordered.
Everyone brought in for interrogation is a “prime” suspect in this centre and treated with disdain, and it is even worse if you are being detained.
Around 5:30 p.m., I was escorted into the cell. As the iron bar door opened, a musty odour oozed from the room. Mr. Mojeed was asked to step back while the officers pushed me in. For nearly a minute, Mr. Onyeneho called out the leaders of the cell and warned each of them to ensure my safety.
“President, IG, OC Torture,” he said, addressing various prisoners by their “roles” in the cell, “this person is a journalist and a visitor of the Inspector General, (referring to Nigeria’s police chief, Mr. Idris ), he did not come in here the same way the rest of you came here,” Mr. Oyeneho said.
“If he complains about any of you, the person will pay seriously for the offence, is that clear?”
“Very clear,” they chorused.
He then pointed to a blanket in a corner of the cell and said a space should be created for me there. Before I could whisper my appreciation, the officer had disappeared and the cell door slammed shut.
I had been told how new prisoners are usually tortured, especially those who came in with nothing. It is a form of ritual aimed at weakening a newcomer into submission to the existing authority in the cell.
“Who be that?” a sleepy voice mumbled from a mound of filthy football jerseys.
“Na one oga oh and dem don talk say make we no touch am,” the cell president responded. He’s a big man and we were told not to touch him.
“So person wey just come today now go dey siddon for president side, they sleep for president bed and e no bring anytin for president?” So this person that just arrived today will sit by the president’s side, sleep on the president’s bed and he did not bring anything for the president? another guy fumed.
“My people wan know whether you bring bread come, oga?” My people want to know if you came with some bread, boss, the president asked me.
“No, I no carry bread come but I get small change for my pocket if una wan buy anytin.” No, I did not come with bread but I have some small change in my pocket, in case you need to buy anything.
The whole cell erupted in ecstasy.
“This our new journalist e weigh so?” Is this our new journalist up to the task?, the president asked rhythmically.
“E weigh!” He’s weighty! He is up to the task.
“If una sure say e weigh make una give am seven gbosas!” If you’re convinced he’s weighty, then give him seven gbosa (greetings), the president said.
“Gbosa! Gbosa! Gbosa! Gbosa! Gbosa! Gbosa! Gbosa!”
I’d had about N6,000 (about USD $17) crammed in my pockets. Mr. Mojeed had advised that I should take only half into the cell. Even if I’d had no cash on me when I entered, the president would still have covered me from harm strictly on the basis of Mr. Oyeneho’s warning.
I learnt there are worse cells in the facility where people could be moved to. The president asked that I hold on to my cash until the next morning, when they would need to place an order for food.
I had barely spent 15 minutes in the cell and my head was already hot. 34 of us were packed in the 12×12 room. Inside the bare concrete cell, dozens of young men sat in rows, some with unshaved beards and dusty heads, laid out like an orchard plantation in the harmattan. It was difficult to imagine how they sleep at night in such a compressed setting.
Amongst the 34 men I met in the cell were kidnapping, armed robbery and even Boko Haram suspects. They had not been moved to the “condemned” suspects’ jail because they were providing intelligence to the police, and some were already negotiating their way out.
“I have been in this situation since February ending,” the president told me. “The former president smuggled this blanket in May and I inherited it from him when he was moved out.”
It was at this point that I realised the blanket I was sitting on had not been laundered for three months.
It was at this point that I realised the blanket I was sitting on had not been laundered for three months.
“I go bring clothes now make you use am do pillow, dem dirty small but you fit manage am.” I’ll bring some clothes that you can roll up and us as a pillow, they’re a little bit dirty but you can manage it, the president said in a bid to help me adjust to my new reality.
He was here on car-jacking allegations. An accomplice with whom he was arrested had since left after ‘bailing’ himself. But the president had no resources to extricate himself from the charges.
“Dem no even gree carry me go court again,” They don’t want to take me to court again, he said. “My mama and brother no get enough money wey dem fit use fight for me.” My mother and brother don’t have enough money to use in fighting for me.
It was already 7:30 p.m., and we were being called for Christian prayers; Muslim inmates had already concluded theirs. A digital wristwatch owned by the president read 7:12.
“We know say e no correct, but e get as we dey use am.” We know it’s not correct, but we use it like that.
“Why you no fit correct am?” Why can’t you correct it? I asked. He threw the watch at me, and I immediately noticed the crown was broken.
“Just add 18 minutes to anytin wey you see for the screen,” Just add 18 minutes to anything you see on the screen, he said.
After prayers, which lasted about an hour with songs of praise, it was time for dinner. And strong vexation rent the air. The cell president had ordered food at 4:40 p.m., but the vendor was yet to deliver.
“Cell guard!” he called out, trying to get the police officer on duty to look for the food vendor.
“Oga journalist, na so dem dey treat us for here.” Boss journalist, that’s how we are treated here.
The guys knew exactly which officers behaved well and which are unkind. They were taking mental notes.
The guys knew exactly which officers behaved well and which are unkind. They were taking mental notes.
At about 9:00 p.m., dinner arrived. The president, assisted by the IG and OC torture, served packs of food to 26 cellmates. Some had noodles, while others had ordered porridge beans. The food was divided, with each person getting not more than a small portion.
More than a dozen had only garri (cassava flour cereal) and kulikuli (a peanut-based snack) for the night. I was told these were inmates who had run out of money and had no family or associates that cared enough to visit them in jail, much less replenish their pockets.
As the others were eating, I quickly fell asleep. Luckily—and strangely—there were no mosquitoes. It was 5:00 a.m. before I woke up. By 6:40 a.m., both Muslim and Christian brothers had concluded prayers.
At 7:00 a.m., the cell guard came in for his routine counting of inmates. The others knew the officer was coming, so they were already standing.
“Who dey sit like chief for there?” Who is sitting like a chief there?, the officer said as he flashed a powerful torchlight into my eyes.
Of all the inmates, I was the only one the cell guard, who resumed shift that morning, was meeting for the first time. He asked that I join others on one end of the open concrete. One after the other, we were asked to move to the opposite side and given numbers as we obliged.
At some point, I pushed the OC Torture forward. “Na your turn,” It’s your turn, I said.
“Na you dey sleep for Aso Rock, make you go first.” You are the one sleeps in Aso Rock, so you have to go first, he replied. Aso Rock is what inmates call the cell president’s blanket area—a tongue-in-cheek reference to Nigeria’s presidential villa, which bears the same name.
Aso Rock is what inmates call the cell president’s blanket area—a tongue-in-cheek reference to Nigeria’s presidential villa, which bears the same name.
Before the counting session was over, I was already blending in with my fellow inmates, my remarks frequently eliciting cheers from many of them.
The impression I had  of prison cells was one of violence and exploitation. But I realised within one day that inmates, no matter how long they had been behind bars, could also be persons of candour.
We fraternised and discussed our individual ordeals without fear. Some talked openly about their offences in the cell, admitting things about which they had kept  investigators in the dark. An unwritten convention says cell mates should not divulge confessions shared, and flouting it could be costly.
Some said they had already confessed to the police and were waiting to be arraigned. The police often promise to help them through trial if they confess, but since such arrangements are seldom done before a lawyer, they are difficult to enforce. Yet the court continues to admit verbal confession of suspects as evidence.
I had a slight share of this one-sided practice in my own case, when I was secretly and hurriedly driven to court on the afternoon of August 15. The prosecutor and officers promised to let me call the office or our lawyers if I cooperated with them but this turned out to be a ruse.
Mr. Ahmadu, came to the detention centre to interrogate me a second time.
The commissioner’s expectation was that I would divulge the source of my story because I had become isolated from Mr. Mojeed. He also promised that I would be released immediately, and receive some unspecified benefits. But I dug my heels in, and it ended up being a wasted 40 minutes for both of us, or mostly for him.
Around 11:00 a.m., my breakfast arrived, brought in by Premium Times’ Administrative Manager, Williams Obase-Ota. He came in with one of our lawyers, and the two ensured I started eating before they left around noon.
By 1:00 p.m., I was being told preparations were underway to take me to court, and I started asking that I be allowed to call Mr. Mojeed or our lawyers. They declined. By 1:30 p.m., I was ordered into a Nissan light truck that would take me to court in Kubwa, about 25 minutes away. I insisted on being permitted to make calls, but I was denied yet again.
Abuja at night. Photo by Jeff Attaway via Flickr (CC BY 2.0)
The prosecutor called me aside, saying I should not resist because he would allow me to make a call along the way, and he had no plans of submitting any application to further detain me, anyway.
I got into the vehicle with three officers. The prosecutor went ahead in his own car.  We arrived at the magistrate’s court in Kubwa around 2:30 p.m. The prosecutor asked that we wait inside the car, and went into the chambers to meet the magistrate.
We were eventually called in around 3:45 p.m., after the discussion between prosecutor and the magistrate had dragged on for well over an hour. As we stepped into the courtroom, I was immediately put in the dock. While we were waiting outside, I repeatedly asked the prosecutor to live up to his words and allow me just a telephone call, but he declined repeatedly.
I was alone in the courtroom. The prosecution side had the prosecutor, another lawyer whom he had called to meet him at the court, and two of the three police personnel who had accompanied me. The charges were read: violation of sections 352, 288 and 319A of the Nigerian penal code, offences related to sexual assault and murder, not trespassing and obtaining police document, as the police officers had originally accused.
Even though I had not studied the charges closely, I entered a not guilty plea. The prosecutor who had promised not to seek my further remand demanded that the magistrate keep me in custody so officers could continue their investigation.
The magistrate immediately granted the relief, saying I should be kept in custody for five more days and returned to court on August 20.
Having listened to the charges and after the curious meeting the two held in camera, the prosecutor had stripped my identity and I needed to clarify this before the magistrate.
Just before the magistrate hit the gavel and retreated into his chambers, I quickly informed him that I was a journalist with Premium Times. I told him I did not burgle the Force Headquarters to steal documents from the IGP’s office, as the prosecutor implied in the first information report.
The magistrate was stunned, and looked right into the eyes of the prosecutor, apparently feeling a sense of manipulation. I needed to make a call, I told him. I had been denied access to my office and lawyers.
The magistrate was stunned, and looked right into the eyes of the prosecutor, apparently feeling a sense of manipulation. I needed to make a call, I told him. I had been denied access to my office and lawyers.
The magistrate initially said the prosecutor should allow me to make a phone call later. Then he changed his mind on the spot, demanding that the court registrar bring his cell phone to me so I could call whoever I wanted.
The entire court proceeding lasted about 10 minutes. I called Mr. Mojeed to brief him about it afterwards, passing across enough information before I was whisked back to detention.
I returned to detention devastated, unnerved at the thought of staying through the weekend. I wondered  why I was denied access to my office or lawyers.
The next day Mr. Mojeed visited and urged patience, saying I would soon be out. It was at that time that he first hinted that my arrest had sparked even bigger anger amongst freedom lovers in and out of Nigeria.
“You will be very proud of yourself when you come out,” Mr. Mojeed said. “Just be patient and continue to endure whatever treatment you get in here, because you will soon be out.”
Just before Mr. Mojeed came in, an officer had denied me a chance to brush my teeth outside the cell, to say nothing of having a shower. I had now spent two full days without bathing, and brushed only once.
I whispered this to Mr. Mojeed inside Mr. Agu’s office. “I understand everything, it is all part of their tactics,” he responded. “They want to break your spirit as much as they can. Just hold on and do not let them succeed.”
Some minutes later, just before Mr. Mojeed turned to Mr. Agu to discuss my welfare, the senior officer offered both of us akara and water. That was my first meal for the day.
After discussing with Mr. Agu for about half an hour, Mr. Mojeed was ready to go. Mr. Agu asked that I remain at his office for some fresh air, but this was only a face-saving gesture. A few seconds after Mr. Mojeed exited the building, a personnel officer was called in to usher me back to the cell.
That was already past 7:00 p.m., and the president was preparing Christian inmates for prayer. The akara I had was too heavy in my stomach, knocking me straight to sleep in the middle of the evening prayer.
When the cell guard arrived for the routine count of inmates at 7:00 a.m. on Friday, he asked me to step outside and gave me a seat at the front desk.
“If you get anything for inside, make you go carry am.” If you have anything inside, go and collect it, he said.
I had nothing in there — I had been wearing the same clothes since Tuesday.
“Call that your oga make he come sign for your bail.” Call your boss, let him come and sign your bail, the officer said.
I called Mr. Mojeed, who was already on his way to the station. I later learnt that my release had been concluded the night before, but it was too late to take me to court at that time. I had to be taken before the magistrate who ordered my remand until Monday before I could be released on Friday.
“What if the magistrate denied me bail again?” I asked an officer.
“No be him put you for cell, e no fit talk say make we no release you.” He is not the one that ordered your detention, so he has no right to tell us not to release you.
Adding my experience before the magistrate two days earlier, I began to appreciate the domineering influence police and other law enforcement agencies wield over magistrates across the country. Magistrates are often said to cluck under police officers like hens, but I did not know much about this until now.
Just before Mr. Mojeed stepped in, the cell guard asked me to go and take a shower. There had been an order from above that I should not be allowed to leave the station in the tattered way I had been for days. Some of the kidnapping suspects in my cell were called out to fetch water from a nearby well.
I had my shower and put on new clothes my colleague brought the day before, but which I was denied from putting on because I could not shower.
I met Mr. Mojeed at the front desk as I emerged from the bathroom. “You are free now,” he said to me gleefully. “Amen, thank you sir!” I responded reservedly.
At about 10:00 a.m., we arrived at the court. Our lawyers were already present, and it was not long before the magistrate arrived.
The seats and the floor were filthy. A dirty quilt was abandoned on the floor between the dock and the wall. Not a single computer or clock in the room. The ornamental bulbs and blinds were also broken.
Magistrate Abdulwahab Mohammed took his seat around 10:15 a.m. My case was listed at number four, but the magistrate moved it to number one, seconds after the registrar had already called the first case on the list.
I entered the dock before being prompted. It was a bail hearing, so our lawyers were called on first. The application for my bail was moved and the prosecutor raised no objection. It was already a done deal.
The prosecutor even sought lenient bail terms for me, even on self-recognisance, he said.
The suave magistrate, likely in his thirties, found this funny, and he first concealed his chuckle with his pen before using the sleeve of his jacket.
“Is he the acting president?” he asked the prosecutor. “He is a known journalist, your lordship,” he responded.
The magistrate approved the November 7 adjournment sought by the prosecutor and agreed to the motion by our lawyers and the hearing quickly wrapped up. In less than half an hour I was a free man. The entire hearing and tidying of paperwork for my bail were concluded within 20 minutes.
The officers who brought me to court were the first to request selfies with me. I was reluctant at first, then one said the picture was only an innocuous way of showing that I had no personal reservations towards them. I obliged.
I also posed for photographs with our lawyers and Mr. Obase-Ota who was in court to drive me to the office. But just as we were about driving away, I saw a news item pop up on his phone, saying the police had accused me of violating the official secrets law.
Why would they charge me with violating official secrets when I am not a public official? What I could immediately think of was that the government was out to muzzle the press, and it would stop at nothing, no matter how ridiculous. Even then, it would be difficult to describe the document as secret because nothing in it warned it was, a fact widely observed.
Moreover, Premium Times later learnt separately, days after my release, that Mr. Idris was angry about some of my stories in the past. This is understandable, especially as the factual bases of my work were not in dispute. But this was not enough grounds to lock me up for days, one would imagine. Then again, there have been several cases of journalists being hounded in the past three years, some of which I chronicled here only last year.
With the 2019 elections in view, there are fears that journalists may be deliberately targeted, or, like me, made scapegoats. It was in the car that my colleague informed me that another journalist, Jones Abiri, had been released after two years in custody. He was freed on August 15, a day after my arrest.
I also began noticing the magnitude of support and how big the story of my arrest was, when my colleague at the digital strategy desk would not allow me to get to the office before taking new pictures of me to upload with the breaking story of my release. Mr. Obase-Ota quickly parked at a safe compound and took pictures in the specified resolutions. The picture was everywhere before I got to the office, and both the management and I had to put together separate statements of gratitude.
The Buhari administration understands the critical role the media will play in the upcoming election, just like those before it, including the one that brought him to power three years ago. And, as The Punch noted in an August 24 editorial, Premium Times has been playing a leading role in unearthing the missteps of this administration, making the investigative newspaper a prime target for harassment.
Babajide Otitoju, a political analyst, also saw my arrest as part of a desperate strategy by state actors to instill fears in journalists ahead of 2019, describing it as an “elevated exaggeration.”
Babajide Otitoju, a political analyst, also saw my arrest as part of a desperate strategy by state actors to instill fears in journalists ahead of 2019, describing it as an “elevated exaggeration.”
Early last year, it was the leadership of the Nigerian Army that was uncomfortable with our journalism and goaded the police into arresting publisher Dapo Olorunyomi and Evelyn Okakwu, my colleague at the judiciary desk. They were released the same day and the matter was never brought to court, apparently because, as with my case, they had no serious complaint at the time.
I spent three days in detention. But it was enough time for me to appreciate the precarious fate of journalism in Nigeria, despite nearly two decades of uninterrupted civil rule.
I felt terrible to have been incarcerated and isolated and accused of crimes that were clearly unfounded.
But I remain eternally grateful to everyone around the world who pushed for my release. The unbelievable magnitude of support my organisation and I enjoyed during this episode has strengthened my resolve to always be a voice for the voiceless, while also pushing for the people’s right to know and holding our leaders accountable.

author: Guest Contributor