Each week, we bring you summaries of three compelling articles from media beyond the Anglosphere. It’s our way of helping us all read the world a little differently. This week, we’re bringing you stories from:

• Crimea, where a Russian journalist and a local Crimean resident wander through the deserted city of Simferopol to find out how fuel shortages are pushing people to the brink.

• The South Korean city of Andong, where the Green Party has made history by electing its first local councillor to break the conservative stronghold

• Brazil, to find out how foreign corporations, pension funds, and other financial actors are driving land dispossession of the country’s most vulnerable.

We’d also like to invite you to the next instalment of our much-anticipated Wine & Words event, taking place at People’s Wine in Dalston from 6-8:30pm on Thursday July 23.

This event pairs translated journalism with wine (and non-alcoholic alternatives). Our sommelier selects bottles that reflect the geography and character of each piece, and you’ll enjoy a series of intimate readings by our journalists and translators.

Get your ticket

Now, on to the Dispatch.

What happens when land becomes a financial asset? 

How corporations, pension funds, and other financial actors are driving land dispossession in Brazil

Many people in cities across Europe and North America might be familiar with real estate speculation and private equity firms buying up their city’s housing stock with the expectation that it will appreciate over time. But this phenomenon – as journalist Bruna Bronoski writes in a recent article for O Joio e O Trigo – is just the tip of the iceberg in Brazil. Here, land has become a financial asset that can be purchased and traded away at will by faraway speculators – a trend that is driving land dispossession among vulnerable communities.

She begins her piece by explaining how “financialisation” works in the abstract: deregulation and globalisation in the 1970s and ‘80s have enabled corporations, investment funds, and private equity firms to accumulate huge pots of money that they have sought to put to work by buying land and real estate in places such as Brazil. 

She cites experts in economic and agricultural policy who say communities are being forced from their land (the lifeblood of the community) and “pushed to rural backwaters ­­– unproductive lands, environmentally degraded and far from their place of origin.” Others find themselves confined to “urban peripheries” like favelas that lack proper education, health and transport services.

Bronoski describes how this practice is justified by a capitalist logic, whereby land previously dedicated to subsistence farming is given to agribusiness and thus subsumed into the market economy. This often goes hand-in-hand with long-standing criminal practices such as acumulação por espoliação and grilagem, she writes. 

The former refers to Marxist geographer and social theorist David Harvey’s idea of “accumulation by dispossession”, which, in the Brazilian context, often amounts to violent expropriation of land at the hands of local landowners and multinationals, as well as through land grabbing. The ladder refers to the old Brazilian practice of falsifying the land registry: putting forged documents into boxes full of crickets (grilos) that would gnaw away at the paper, giving them a more authentic, weathered appearance.

Land dispossession of this scale wouldn’t be possible without the help of successive Brazilian governments, which – despite recognising collective land rights of minorities including indigenous peoples and Afro-Brazilian quilombolas in the constitution – actively support land speculation and financialisation by fostering joint ventures between local firms and foreign corporations to accumulate more land. According to Raquel Rolnick, a professor of architecture and urbanism at the University of São Paulo, the solution is for the state to pursue policies that seek to “definancialise” land, such as land trusts where ownership is shared locally and collectively.

This is essential in ensuring land is no longer a tradeable asset and instead returns to being the foundation upon which different Brazilian communities can build their futures.

The original article ‘Como os fundos e as corporações expulsam pessoas na cidade e no campo’ was first published in Portuguese by Bruna Bronoski in O Joio e O Trigo on June 2, 2026.

O Joio e O Trigo is a Brazilian non-profit platform for investigative journalism that focuses on food, health, and power.

Summary by Bartolomeo Sala

Gulf royals have moved billions into global football. Now what?

Read Shadow Play, a new, limited-run print magazine from The Signal about football and dictators. 

On sale now in the U.K. and select markets globally.

South Korea’s Green Party makes history

Third time lucky for a candidate determined to disrupt the young democracy’s two-party system

South Korea’s Green Party has won its first-ever local council seat in the mid-eastern city of Andong. Huh Seungkyu was elected last month in his third attempt since 2018; his victory is being celebrated for breaking the political monopoly in his hometown. In a piece for the Korean weekly currently affairs magazine Hankyoreh 21, journalist Kim Kyu-nam traces his historic rise to power.

Andong is a city known for its traditional culture and UNESCO World Heritage sites, including the 600-year-old Hahoe Folk Village. The city is also known as the “holy land of conservatism”, according to the article, and is strongly influenced by traditional clan-based politics. For years it has been dominated by the right-wing People Power Party, which was led by Yoon Suk Yeol – the former President who infamously declared martial law in late 2024, throwing the country into chaos. He has since been sentenced to a life in prison for insurrection, among other charges.

The piece begins with Huh entering the local seniors’ centre a few days after the June 3 elections, where he is greeted with rapturous applause from residents. “He’s always on the site whenever we have an event,” 66-year-old Lee Dae-nam told Hankyoreh 21.

Voters say Huh’s consistent presence in the community is what won him the election. Born and raised in Andong, Huh went to college in the capital Seoul and came back to his hometown after graduation. Over the last eight years of his political career, his “community-based green politics” have earned him the title of “everyone’s politician”.

Huh has served on the neighbourhood welfare committee and the voluntary crime prevention squad. He joined a Zumba women’s dance program, he says, as a way to connect with residents and listen to their complaints – including a foul odour from a nearby pig farm, which he resolved through strengthening supervision on emissions.

Last year, when more than 700 families in Andong lost their homes in devastating wildfires, Huh devoted himself to volunteering at temporary shelters and helping to coordinate relief efforts with other regions. “He gained our trust through his hard work,” said Lee, another resident.

South Korea only became a democracy in the late 1980s, and its politics have long been dominated by two-parties: the Democratic Party and the People Power Party. For years, Huh repeatedly heard from voters: “You’re a great guy, if only you weren’t in the Green Party.” During the 2022 elections, the People Power Party offered him a candidacy for the North Gyeongsang Provincial Council, which he declined. The Green Party in Andong has grown from five members in 2016, to more than 70 today.

A strong advocate for ecologism, Huh aims to institutionalise his vision of a “Green City Andong” by introducing free bus passes for youth and promoting local food initiatives to boost the regional economy, as well as cutting down transport costs and pollution.

“We must rebuild the strongholds of green politics from the local grassroots up. The macroeconomic, global vision in our party platform must be brought down to local, tangible action,” said Huh.

The original article ‘허승규가 닦은 푸른 길에 안동이 물들다’ was first published in Korean by Kim Kyu-Nam for Hankyoreh 21 on June 11, 2026

Hankyoreh 21 is a weekly current affairs magazine based in Seoul. It is part of the Hankyoreh company, which publishes a daily newspaper with the historic aim of democratizing South Korea.

Summary by Yejin Gim

In Crimea, the last drop is the final straw

Could Russia’s worsening fuel crisis be a tipping point?

Fuel shortages in Russia have made headlines around the world. While middle-class Russians were once relatively protected from the fall-out of the Kremlin’s war of aggression in Ukraine, now even well-heeled Muscovites are feeling its effects: there are queues at every functioning petrol station in the capital, according to recent reports. Waves of Ukrainian drone strikes on oil refineries, among other targets, have caused the shortages. The economic impact of the full-scale invasion is being felt everywhere at home, and reports show Putin’s approval ratings have taken a hit. 

But before the petrol crisis went nationwide, fuel was already being rationed in Russian-occupied Crimea. Attacks on infrastructure and transport led to shortages on the peninsula – which was annexed by Russia from Ukraine in 2014 – as early as May. By mid-June, no petrol was available for anyone or anything, apart from “government agencies that ensure the functioning and security of Crimea,” authorities announced. 

Alexandra Loktionova, a correspondent for the Russian business daily Kommersant, painted a dystopian picture in her report when she travelled to the peninsula. 

In the city of Simferopol, “the central avenues, usually congested during rush hour, resemble the set of a disaster movie,” she writes. Petrol stations, however, haven’t closed. “They’ve been repurposed as roadside cafes and mini-markets. They sell coffee, chocolate bars, and antifreeze.” In contrast to a few weeks prior, there are no queues outside: people know the government’s restrictions on fuel mean it’s not worth waiting for petrol here.

Loktionova sets out with Viktoria, a Simferopol native who works as a social media manager, as she searches – without much hope – for fuel.

“Periodically, Viktoria approaches the lucky drivers still moving around the city and asks them where they got petrol,” writes the journalist. Some say they stocked up before the shortage. Others have travelled out of the occupied territory and into mainland Russia where some petrol stations are still functioning. The rest refuse to answer. 

“They’re afraid to look me in the eye,” Viktoria tells the correspondent. “That’s how we live now: with an empty tank and a look of distrust.”

Others look on the bright side. Sergey, a welder, tells Loktionova that the crisis has prompted him to get back on his bicycle. “It doesn’t need petrol, and you can park it anywhere … we’ll soon be the cycling capital of the south,” he laughs (other reports from shortage-hit cities have noted this move to different forms of transportation; in some rural regions, horses are preferred over bikes).

The Kommersant correspondent ends her dispatch with a call from Crimean authorities to “remain calm”. But the newspaper’s headline for the piece – “The Last Drop” – suggests another outcome is possible. While the title on one level refers to a liquid in short supply, it is also the Russian equivalent of the phrase “the final straw”. Could this fuel crisis, in Crimea and elsewhere, be the one that breaks the camel’s back?

The original article, ‘Последняя капля’ was first published in Russian by Alexandra Loktionova for Kommersant on June 23, 2026.

Kommersant is a Russian-language business daily newspaper.

Summary by Theo Merz

Thanks for reading this week’s Dispatch! Let us know what you thought of the stories in the comments below – and please do get in touch with other suggestions for pieces you’d like us to summarise.

We’ll be back next week.

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This year’s World Cup has been as dramatic as expected (or more?), and we’re marking the occasion by bringing you a special edition of the Dispatch with non-English football stories sent to us from our contributing editors, Instagram followers and via our Translator Mag Hotline.

Keep reading for summaries of stories about one of Spain’s star players told through vignettes of his youth, why Arab solidarity endures on the pitch (and evaporates off of it), and how the so-called ‘King’ of FIFA maintains his millions.

We’ll continue to share the best coverage of the World Cup beyond the Anglosphere on our Instagram, so please feel free to send us your favourites for a chance to be featured!

Now, to the Dispatches.

Lamine Yamal on and off the pitch

An anachronous highlights reel of the young Spanish footballer, told through six scenes.

Panenka, a Spanish football culture publication with a strong cultural and realpolitik bent, guest spots in Gatopardo, a Mexico City-based narrative journalism platform, and marks their first-ever collaboration.

The article, which translates to “Lamine Yamal in the School Yard” by Marcel Beltran, is an anachronous highlights reel of the young Spanish footballer’s life.

It kicks off with a flashback to a decisive Barça game, where the writer questions, with palpable awe, wonder and admiration, how it is possible for someone barely an adult to visibly enjoy that kind of pressure. Scene two partly answers the question: the 18-year-old plays well because of his youth, not despite it. The most plausible reason Beltran proposes is that, to play football well, “you need to be all class and no modesty. And to not have forgotten your childhood”.

A shift in pace reveals a turn towards the sociopolitical, and Yamal’s origin story. Those familiar with him will know his ritual of facing the camera and gesturing the number 304 with his hands: a tribute to his neighbourhood postcode of Rocafonda in Mataró, about 30 km northeast of Barcelona.

Born in 2007 to an Equatoguinean mother and a Moroccan father, Lamine Yamal becomes a prism through which we view a wave of immigrants from South America and Africa moving to an impoverished neighbourhood previously populated by a Spanish (not Catalan) working class. It was in 2014 that he was spotted by a talent scout and taken to La Masia, Barça’s famed training academy.

We skip forward to a match during which Islamophobic chants are directed towards a rival team. Yamal, unprompted, speaks out against it as a “Spanish Muslim” on his 45-million-follower-strong Instagram account. The fearlessness he displays on the pitch apparently echoes in real life. Jumping ahead, he is now in full celebration mode with the Barça team in an open-top double-decker bus on a victory tour of Barcelona, having just topped La Liga in May 2026. Yamal chooses to wave a Palestinian flag amid ongoing attacks on Gaza. Hours later, he posts it on Instagram, attracting criticism from the Israeli Defence Minister. Spanish President Pedro Sánchez, however, applauds his actions. “He only expressed the solidarity for Palestine that millions of Spaniards feel. One more reason to be proud of him.” Yamal, Beltran reminds us, “knows exactly what’s up.”

The final scene: a photo. The unlikely meeting of two football not-yet-legends, and a rare occasion where truth is stranger than AI. It is 2007. The Barça Foundation collaborates with UNICEF to raise funds for families in need. Yamal’s family, who stand to benefit from the fund, enter a competition to take part in a photo campaign and win. Months old, he is handed to a 20-year-old promising striker who bathes him. His name: Lionel Messi.

The article, while a tribute to the teenage prodigy, is also a compelling insight into modern-day Spain. Self-aware, social media-savvy, pro-Palestine and Muslim, Yamal holds too many uncomfortable truths for an increasingly right-wing-voting Spain. His detractors call him cocky and brash, but Beltran chalks this up to bravado in the age of social media. Success is no longer attributed to hard work, but rather self-belief. Quoting from an article in El País, in the new world order, to be number one, you need to believe you are first. “Or at least seem like you do.” Yamal, it seems, understands this perfectly.

The original article ‘Lamine Yamal en el patio de la escuela’ was first co-published in Spanish by Marcel Beltran for Panenka and Gatopardo on June 19, 2026.

Panenka is a Spanish football culture publication that focuses on stories that don’t get covered by mainstream media. Mexico City-based Gatopardo describes itself as the most influential narrative journalism publication in Latin America.

Summary by Farida Álvarez Fetouhi

Gulf royals have moved billions into global football. Now what?

Read Shadow Play, a new, limited-run print magazine from The Signal about football and dictators. 

On sale now in the U.K. and select markets globally.

To be an Arab in the World Cup

Palestinian poet and physician Amer Badran explores why solidarity feels elusive everywhere except on the pitch

Every World Cup, millions of Arabs rally behind national teams that are not their own. A Moroccan victory is celebrated in Kuwait. Palestinians cheer for Jordan. Iraq’s flag flies from cafés in Syria, while Tunisians and Qataris share balconies and streets decorated with each other’s colours. For a few weeks, national borders seem to blur.

Badran begins with an intentional “glass half full” perspective, highlighting the fact that eight of the 48 qualifying countries are Arab, representing more than a third of all Arab states. Given the wars, conflicts, political instability, and limited sporting infrastructure that affect many countries in the region, he argues, this is a remarkable achievement. But representation in numbers is just the start. What interests him more is the unifying identity and joy that football provokes – and why it often evaporates with the final whistle.

His essay rejects the idea that Arabs rally behind each qualifying team for its chances of winning, or because it acts as an ambassador for the region. Instead, he suggests that football offers something politics can no longer offer: a safe space for collective belonging.

Supporting another Arab country’s football team comes at virtually no personal cost, he writes. Similar displays of solidarity in politics, however, can carry serious consequences. Badran imagines young people waving the flag of another Arab state or cheering one of its political leaders in the streets. The image feels almost absurd today, he writes, and in some countries could even invite accusations of undermining national security or serving foreign interests. Yet nobody would think twice about the same people hanging the flag of another Arab nation, or even England, outside their homes during the World Cup.

While politics demands that people define themselves through parties, doctrines, or competing national interests, football demands none of these. It offers joy, disappointment and anticipation – universal feelings that are strongest when shared. Because those emotions are expressed through the language, he argues, Arabic itself becomes the thread connecting millions of strangers watching the same match, celebrating the same goal or lamenting the same defeat.

The essay stops short of romanticizing this fleeting unity. Once the tournament ends, this sense of unity dissolves, replaced by the divisions that shape everyday political life. But what if these feelings captured the attention of political and intellectual elites off the pitch? If millions of people can experience a shared emotional identity, however temporary, perhaps it points to a different way of imagining community, one built not on ideology or power, but on language, collective feeling and the simple desire to celebrate together.

The original article ‘لماذا-يسهل-علينا-أن-نكون-عربا-في-المونديال’ was published in Arabic by Amer Badran for Raseef22 on June 20, 2026.

Raseef22 is an independent digital media platform based in Lebanon.

Summary by Cendrella Azar

Football in the land of unrestrained capitalism

A Swiss investigation into FIFA President Gianni Infantino’s pursuit of power through expansion

Arguably, the most powerful man on the pitch in this year’s World Cup is Gianni Infantino, president of FIFA, the world football’s governing body. At the opening ceremony on June 11 in Mexico City, actress Salma Hayek wore gloves as she handed him the trophy. Infantino took it with bare hands. And a lot of cash passes through those hands, according to an investigation by a team of Swiss journalists at Neue Zürcher Zeitung (NZZ).

After all, the World Cup is a giant money-making machine, and Infantino (referred to in the piece as “King Gianni”) has been at the helm since 2016. Asked by journalists about exorbitant ticket prices in this year’s tournament, he shrugged them off with a nod to French singer Édith Piaf: “I regret nothing.” He similarly dismissed criticisms around the US’s denial of entry to Somali referee Omar Artan, telling people to “chill”.

But some of the press has been less forgiving: NZZ cites a piece in The Independent which likens one of his speeches to Trump-style provocations, and called it a “shambolic start” to the World Cup. In typical Swiss fashion, the piece is more a reconstruction of facts as opposed to a scandalous report.

Under Infantino’s leadership, far more so than with his predecessors, the World Cup is a celebration of money more than anything else. This year’s tournament is expected to generate around US$13 billion for the association – double what it was eight years ago. According to the article, a key driver is the tournament’s expansion to 48 teams, creating more matches and, in turn, more revenue from ticket sales.

But some people have refused to take part in the most expensive World Cup in history. In apparent protest, Mexican president Claudia Sheinbaum skipped the opening ceremony, giving her ticket instead to a 21-year-old Indigenous woman. New York City mayor Zohran Mamdani bought 1,000 discounted tickets at US$50 apiece, distributed through a lottery. As for the US opening match against Paraguay, even his close ally and billionaire president Donald Trump said he wouldn’t pay for a ticket.

Infantino’s philosophy is simple: extract every dollar possible. Yet, as NZZ notes, he comes from humble origins. The son of an Italian working-class family in Switzerland, he dreamed of becoming a footballer. Instead, he studied law, became secretary general of UEFA, European football’s governing body, and quickly climbed to the top of FIFA.

Infantino is known for his erratic arrogance and political power games. Last year, he made the FIFA Congress in Paraguay wait for three hours while he travelled in the Gulf states with a Trump delegation. In 2022, he delivered a now infamous speech in Qatar in which he criticised the Western media for “hypocrisy” in its coverage of the country’s human rights record. In between dramatic pauses, he declared: “Today … I feel Arab, I feel African, I feel gay,” before explaining that he understands “what it means to be discriminated and bullied as a foreigner in a foreign country.”

A seasoned diplomat, Infantino sits comfortably unchallenged in the football universe, despite the controversy and criticism that surrounds him.

Part of this could be due to his expansion of the FIFA Forward programme, a grant scheme for national football associations to which he has allocated US$2.25 billion this year. He has also significantly increased World Cup prize money: the champions will now receive US$50 million, with a total of US$871 million distributed through programme – almost double the figure of the last World Cup.

Meanwhile, federations largely remain silent – NZZ says it reached out to various African federations for their views on ticket prices, and not a single one responded.

Next year, Infantino will run for re-election, and he looks set to maintain his reign over the sport.

The original article ‘Die Fussball-WM findet im Land des ungezügelten Kapitalismus statt. Dort vermarktet Infantino den Fussball grenzenlos’ was published in German by Dominic Wirth, Peter B. Birrer, Benedikt Koller and Stefan Osterhaus for NZZ on June 14, 2026.

NZZ is a leading Swiss newspaper.

Summary by Isabel Jacobs

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This week, journalist Avery An (not her real name) has summarised a Mandarin Chinese piece from Women我们 about the government’s crackdown on Uyghur intellectuals – and the impact on cultural heritage as China invokes a new law on “ethnic unity and progress.”

We’re also pleased to introduce two of our new contributing editors: Cendrella Azar from Lebanon and Yejin Gim from South Korea, who have each summarised a piece from their country’s media landscape.

Later this month, we’re running a special edition of Dispatch with stories from The World Cup. If you’ve watched, read or listened to something you think deserves an English summary, please drop us a line at submissions@translatormag.co.

Now, to the Dispatches.

What’s left of Uyghur culture in Xinjiang?

The Chinese government has disappeared hundreds of Uyghur intellectuals since 2016, severing people from their land and history. Experts say this has created a “museumification” of Uyghur culture.

Rahile Dawut is one of hundreds of Uyghur scholars that have been arrested and disappeared by the Chinese government between 2016 and 2018. An anthropologist and professor of folklore at Xinjiang University, Dawut studied the significance of tombs of Islamic saints, known as “mazar,” in the daily life of Uyghurs, a Turkic-speaking, Muslim ethnic group native to Xinjiang in northwest China. Dawut disappeared in 2017, and six years later the human rights group Dialogue Foundation revealed that she’d been sentenced to life in prison for “endangering national security.”

For years, the Chinese government has been pursuing a massive campaign of forced assimilation and detention against Uyghurs.

Dawut’s story is retold along with those of various other disappeared intellectuals in a piece from the independent Mandarin Chinese-language publication Women我们. It reveals how Uyghur cultural and religious spaces are being systematically dismantled as part of Chinese president Xi Jinping’s pursuit of “great unity among all ethnic groups.”

According to the article, “a mazar usually refers to the burial place of a saint or a place where miracles are believed to have occurred”. It adds that “Uyghur pilgrimage practices in mazars include reciting the Quran, praying, offering sacrifices, cooking and sharing food […] cockfighting, gambling, and meeting potential partners.” Dawut’s research focused on how local traditions associated with the mazar have been preserved and reshaped over time.

Her daughter, Akida Polat, described her mother as “cautious” with a strong “survival instinct.” Other interviewees cited in the piece say that Dawut’s research sought to document culture and was not “radical,” as the Chinese authorities would suggest.

And yet, since 2017, over 100 Uyghur mazar have been destroyed, including the famous 450-year-old Imam Je’firi Sadiq mazar in the Hotan prefecture in southern Xinjiang. In 2019, the Uyghur cemetery in the city of Hetian was also taken apart for the sake of “urban development” and “freeing up more spaces.”

The article highlights arbitrary and obscure arrests of other Uyghur intellectuals, including The List of Persecuted Uyghur Intellectuals which includes the names of 124 Uyghur scholars, and four who are of Kirgiz and Uzbek ethnicities (the list has not been updated since November 2018). Another list by Abduweli Ayup, a Uyghur scholar in exile, documents 435 intellectuals detained since 2016. Many of them are writers, poets, journalists, doctors, and engineers, with sentences ranging from a decade in prison to the death penalty.

Women我们 also cites reporting from Radio Free Asia that Xinjiang Normal University built a specific detention centre for the arrested Uyghur scholars, where they were kept for extended periods without their family’s knowledge.

But the crackdown extends beyond Uyghurs. Feng Siyu, one of Dawut’s students who is of the dominant Han ethnicity, was arrested in 2018 and sentenced to 15 years in prison, on the same charge as their professor. The Council on Foreign Affairs reported last October that over one million Uyghurs have been detained in the Xinjiang region since 2017.

On 1 July, the Chinese government’s new law promoting “ethnic unity and progress” came into effect. It emphasises a unified Chinese nation that priorities Mandarin Chinese in education and public administration. This law will undoubtedly mean further repression of Uyghurs, yet detailed reporting will be hard to come by due to the Chinese government’s strict media censorship. Uyghurs living abroad also face threats and intimidation for speaking out.

Today, Uyghur culture has been largely hollowed out, according to the article. Scholar Rian Thum describes this process as “museumification,” whereby culture is uprooted from its social and historical foundations, and the connections between people, their land, and their history are severed. What remains are cultural artefacts, from architecture to performances – beautiful on the outside, but primarily presented for tourists, void of their deeper meaning and significance.

For Dawut’s daughter, this reinforces the need to resist Uyghur erasure. In a commemorative piece published last year and cited in the article, she writes:

“[My mother’s] disappearance forced me to confront responsibility in ways I never imagined. I had never been involved in politics before. My mother’s disappearance forced me to stand up and speak out for human rights. Advocating for human rights is not easy, especially living alone in a foreign country while struggling to build a life. I must persevere until she is released, until her voice – and the voices of others like her – are heard again.”

The original article ‘热依拉·达吾提永远失去了她的田野’ was first published in Mandarin Chinese in Women我们 on March 16, 2026.

Women我们 is “an imagined community” that writes about contemporary history in uncensored Chinese on Substack.

Summary by Avery An (not her real name).

Yemen’s Arabian jasmine is facing a dual threat

A fragrant flower worn at weddings, sold in city streets, and celebrated in song is becoming another casualty of Yemen’s overlapping crises.

Across Yemen, Arabian jasmine (Jasminum sambac) is more than a flower. Worn as garlands at weddings and celebrations, used as a natural perfume, woven into traditional cosmetics and praised in poetry and song, it’s deeply embedded in the country’s culture. It also supports thousands of livelihoods, from farmers and harvesters to the women who spend hours threading its delicate white blossoms into intricate floral arrangements.

In a feature for Raseef22, Yemeni journalist Alaa Al-Din Al-Shallali explores how this centuries-old tradition is coming under pressure from two forces that increasingly shape life in Yemen: war and climate change.

The story begins in Tihamah, on Yemen’s western coastal plain, where much of the country’s Arabian jasmine is grown. In recent years, unusually heavy rainfall has caused devastating floods that swept away farms, irrigation systems and crops that took years to cultivate. Farmers interviewed by Al-Shallali describe the floods as unlike anything they have witnessed in decades.

Kadaf Kashah spent two years tending his jasmine fields before floods destroyed both the crop and the solar-powered irrigation system that sustained it. He tells Raseef22 that neither government authorities nor humanitarian organisations came to the farmers’ aid, leaving many to confront mounting debts, bankruptcy and the prospect of poverty on their own.

But the report argues that extreme weather is only part of the story. Yemen’s civil war has fundamentally reshaped the jasmine trade. Export routes to Saudi Arabia, once the largest market for Yemeni Arabian jasmine, have been severed, fuel prices have soared, and transport has become increasingly difficult. At the same time, urban expansion has swallowed agricultural land, while growers and traders earn far less than they did before the conflict.

Women are also disproportionately impacted. Those who have long earned a living harvesting flowers and weaving them into garlands have also seen their incomes collapse as production declines. One widow, who supports her orphaned children through this work, struggles to speak about losing her only source of income. Meanwhile, shop owners in the capital Sana’a say they have begun selling roses instead of Arabian jasmine simply to keep their businesses open.

The report also cites a rare admission by agricultural officials, who acknowledge that Arabian jasmine has long been neglected despite its economic and cultural importance. Researchers and officials interviewed by Al-Shallali call for stronger farmer cooperatives, modern irrigation techniques, and greater investment in aromatic plants that have received little institutional attention.

Rather than treating Arabian jasmine as a niche agricultural crop, Al-Shallali presents it as a symbol of a much broader crisis. As conflict and climate change converge, Yemen is losing not just its harvests, but its cultural identity and traditions.

The original article ‘الحرب-وتغير-المناخ-يهددان-زراعة-الفل-وتجارته-في-اليمن’ was first published in Arabic by Alaa Al-Din Al-Shallali for Raseef22 on February 10, 2026.

Raseef22 is an independent digital media platform based in Lebanon.

Summary by Cendrella Azar

Where South Korea’s seasonal workers program went wrong

An investigation into foreign labour on the country’s oyster farms reveals how illegal brokers are profiting off exploitation.

In South Korea, where half of the population resides in the Seoul metropolitan area, smaller regional cities face chronic labour shortages in agricultural and fishing industries due to their aging population.

In response, the South Korean government implemented the Foreign Seasonal Workers Program nationwide in 2017. Under this program, seasonal workers from Southeast Asian countries like the Philippines travel to South Korea for up to eight months at a time to shuck oysters and perform other manual labour in the hopes of making more money than they would back home. But the work is gruelling and the reality is far from rosy.

Journalist Jun Dahyeon of SisaIN, a South Korean current affairs magazine, has exposed the systemic flaws and human rights blind spots in the country’s seasonal workers program. She visited oyster farms in Goheung, a small coastal county on the southern tip of the Korean peninsula, to show how illegal brokers are exacerbating the problem.

On March 10, the Goheung County Office issued a press release promising strong action against human rights violations involving foreign seasonal workers. They claimed they had “separated” 38 Filipino season workers from brokers who had tried to forcibly deport them. Just days earlier, a local rights group held a press conference demanding an investigation into the exploitation of seasonal workers.

At the centre of the story is a man named Han, who resides in the Philippines and claims to be a “Seasonal Worker Coordinator” responsible for the selection, paperwork, and training of Filipino seasonal workers destined for South Korea.

According to a letter from the Filipino regional authorities and seen by SisaIN, Han was also responsible for wage management, immigration control, and interpretation services.

But this letter is not valid in South Korea – in fact, the country prohibits anyone other than the state, local governments or specialised labour agencies from intervening in the seasonal workers program.

According to the report, the Jeonnam Migrant Workers’ Human Rights Network revealed in February that workers under Han’s “management” received less than 10 per cent of the hourly minimum wage. He’s also accused of forcing 15 women to live together in a dilapidated house under constant CCTV monitoring. Other workers saw their first month’s salary completely wiped out by Han’s upfront deductions for housing, food, airfare, and drug tests. Han says he feels “wronged” and “frustrated” by the accusations. He maintains that he paid upfront for things that should have been paid for by the local authorities, and then deducted the expenses from the workers’ first month’s salary.

The article underscores the administrative negligence that enables this abuse to take place. While Goheung brought in about 1,000 foreign seasonal workers last year, the county office employed only two officials to manage them. This creates the conditions for human rights abuses, including trafficking by laying the groundwork for illegal brokers like Han to step in. SisaIN also reveals that workers who were supposedly “separated” from their abusive brokers have continued working in the same place, and that many are forced to seek medical care under their employers’ names due to a lack of health insurance.

Government interventions have so far been ineffective.

In January, the Ministry of Justice introduced a new policy to designate private corporations or organisations as “Specialised Seasonal Work Agencies” in an attempt to stop illegal brokers. But critics warn this profit-driven system is backfiring because it effectively legalises brokers en masse, which could potentially worsen human trafficking and other labour abuses.

The article concludes with Ko Gi-bok, a representative of the Migrant Human Rights and Culture Center for All, arguing that the central government must step in and provide direct support to foreign seasonal workers and their employers through various government ministries.

“Migrant labour policy is fundamentally labour policy. This problem arises because the Ministry of Justice is attempting to take charge of labour policy beyond visa issuance,” he said.

The stakes are no longer just domestic. The article notes that US president Donald Trump signed an executive order earlier this year to review forced labour in overseas seafood supply chains. According to an anonymous expert on migrant workers: “If the seasonal worker system is operated in a manner akin to human trafficking, it will cause problems in trade with the United States as well.”

The original article ‘계절근로자 ‘브로커’ 키우는 대한민국’ by Jun Dahyeon was first published in Korean by SisaIN on April 22, 2026.

SisaIN is a prominent South Korean current affairs magazine known for its investigative reporting.

Summary by Yejin Gim

Translator Issue #3 is available now!

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My name is Nicole Froio and I’m a freelance journalist and editor based in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. I report on gender issues, culture, politics, and technology for publications like Prism Reports, The Verge, Global Voices, The Conversationalist, The Nation and many more. Recently, I’ve written a story about the rise of evangelical women seeking and gaining power in Brazil, a deep dive into AI-generated blackface videos on TikTok, and a feature on how people are pushing back on the United States’ current anti-immigration policies with nail art. I’m also co-founder of a feminist cultural criticism newsletter called The Flytrap, which is an explicitly intersectional feminist publication owned and powered by workers, not Big Tech “bros” and bosses. We seek to keep feminist culture-centered journalism alive at a time when feminist newsrooms are in decline globally.

Translation has always been at the core of my work – from translating source quotes, to explaining a cultural concept or word that doesn’t exist in English – and the way communication travels across languages fascinates me. I’m excited to write this special Guest Edit of Translator’s Dispatch, focusing on LGBTQAI+ stories to mark Pride Month, at a time when these rights are under attack globally.

Highlighting stories that centre queer people feels essential to me. A wave of far-right politics is washing over Latin America, as seen in the recent elections of Abelardo de la Espriella in Colombia and Keiko Fujimori in Peru. This shift could spell disaster for the hard-fought rights of queer and other minority groups.

And yet, queer people continue to exist and thrive. The stories I’ve selected below showcase the resistance of queer people in the face of constant attack. May they inspire us to continue fighting for equal rights for all.

How did Spain introduce a policy to provide IVF for all women – regardless of their marital status or sexuality?

The 2016 policy is being replicated across the country, and provides valuable lessons for reproductive healthcare globally

A decade ago, the Health Minister of the Catalan government Toni Comín announced that the public health system of Barcelona, Gerona, Lérida and Tarragona would provide in-vitro fertilization (IVF) for women without male partners. Until then, most single women and lesbian couples had to resort to expensive private healthcare for the treatment.In the public system. heterosexual couples were prioritized. “No matter who wants it, we will answer to the demand,” Comín said at the time. “We are talking about a right.”

Reporting for El País, Rebecca Mouzo delves into the history of this groundbreaking policy, which stemmed from a law passed in the Catalan government in 2014 to guarantee the rights of the LGBTQIA+ community. Mouzo details the political hurdles – from the economic crisis and healthcare cuts under Mariano Rajoy’s government to innovative solutions, such as group visits and improved fertility protocol. These learnings helped the reproductive medicine team at the Puigvert-Hospital Sant Pau Foundation in Barcelona improve the success rate of IVF in single women and lesbian couples from an initial 6 per cent to 20 per cent – in line with the outcomes for heterosexual women and their male partners. The policy has since been replicated across Spain and in 2021, the Ministry of Health published an order guaranteeing access to assisted reproduction within the public healthcare system for women without male partners, as well as transgender people with the capacity to gestate.

To date, Sant Pau-Fundación Puigvert hospital has helped at least 1,700 women conceive over a thousand babies. “It’s a very necessary service,” Victoria Blum, a mother who conceived her daughter Roma through the program, told El País. “I don’t know if I would have been able to try so many times through private healthcare.”

Froio on the selection:

Reproductive rights are under attack in many parts of the world – and single women and lesbian couples still face a number of barriers if they choose to become parents. This story, grounded in data and evidence, shows the impact of a decade of free reproductive health services for all. This policy has genuinely changed the lives of women in Spain and shifted cultural norms around what a family looks like.

Original article published in Spanish as “El plan que levantó el veto a la reproducción asistida a las mujeres solas o lesbianas en la pública: ‘Era una demanda social’” by Jessica Mouzo on 17 June, 2026 in El País.

El País is a major Spanish daily newspaper.

Is it possible to be trans and not suffer so much?

An Argentinian documentary follows a teenager’s transition to answer this question.

The documentary Tristán y los días por venir (Tristán and the days to come) was filmed over seven years, documenting Tristán’s adolescence and gender transition from the age of 14. The film emphasizes that gender transition isn’t something with a neat beginning and definitive ending – it’s an ongoing process with the support of a community and gender-affirming state policies.

Now 22, Tristán tells Argentinian newspaper Clarín: “I feel a lot of nostalgia and tenderness for the person I used to be. I see myself, all small and it makes me want to hug myself and say: ‘Everything will be okay.’”

The piece interviews filmmakers Martina Matzkin and Gabriela Uassouf, who sought to answer the question: is it possible to be trans and not suffer that much? Through Tristán and his family’s story, it was. But it wouldn’t have been possible without a community of people and institutions that are accepting and willing to provide resources for a safe, judgement-free transition.

The point of the film was to make visible a “positive testimony of growth; that it’s possible to be happy, that it’s possible to be surrounded by companionship and love,” Matzkin told Clarín. “Not to erase that there are many cases where this doesn’t happen, but to show the possibility that transitioning can be beautiful, positive, and happy.”

Froio on the selection:

As expressed by the filmmakers, positive gender transition journeys are rare. Often, trans people are blamed for their own tragedies because the world doesn’t want to accept who they are and prefers them to suffer in the closet. It would be easier on both trans people and their families and friends if the world shifted into acceptance and support. This piece demonstrates that love is the path of least resistance, and that hatred of difference makes everything harder.

Original article published in Spanish as “’¿Es posible ser trans sin sufrir tanto?’: el documental que responde esa pregunta” on 9 June, 2026 in Clarín.

Clarín is the largest newspaper in Argentina

Remembering Waldirene Nogueira: a pioneer in sex redesignation in Brazil

Gender-affirming surgery under military dictatorship paved the way for better rights today

Waldirene Nogueira was 26 when she sought gender-affirming surgery in Brazil. It was 1971, the middle of Brazil’s military dictatorship, and plastic surgeon Roberto Farina performed the first-of-its-kind procedure in Oswaldo Cruz Hospital in São Paulo.

Soon after, Farina was sentenced to two years in prison for “grievous bodily harm”. Nogueira unsuccessfully battled her case in courts to change her name and gender descriptors in official documentation, which had previously forced her to use her “dead name” (meaning her name prior to transitioning) for decades. In 1976, she was sent to the Forensic Medical Institute where she was photographed naked and subjected to an invasive gynaecological examination.

Finally, at the age of 65, Nogueira was granted the dignity to change her legal name in her birth certificate and on her national ID card. Her battle for recognition paved the way for trans healthcare in Brazil: since 2018, trans Brazilians can change their names directly in the registry office, without documentation from psychiatrists or judicial orders as previously required.

Froio on the selection:

Can you imagine how scary it was for Nogueira to be a trans pioneer in a country where the military government openly declared LGBTQIA+ people a threat? Nogueira’s bravery and resilience mean that today, trans people in Brazil have an easier time advocating for themselves and their transitioning bodies. Her story is important and more people need to know about it.

Original article published in Portuguese as “Quem foi Waldirene Nogueira, a pioneira da redesignação sexual no Brasil” by Anne Meire Ribeiro and Malu Lucena on 15 June, 2026 for AzMina, by Anne Meire Ribeiro and Malu Lucena.

We’ll be back next week!

The Translator team

First, we take you to Ethiopia, where a journalist has summarised a piece from The Ethiopian Reporter on the state’s renewed crackdown on press freedom amid simmering conflict.

From Chinese media outlet Minority Voices, contributing editor Billy Kin-Long sheds light on a story about disability rights – and wrongs.

And in German outlet NZZ, our editor-in-chief Charles Emmerson takes us through a story about the shadow networks of Iranian mullahs in Switzerland.

As always, if you have a story you’d like us to translate or summarise, please get in touch via The Translator Mag Hotline.

Silencing the press in Ethiopia

A crackdown on press freedom is intensifying in the Horn of Africa nation

Salsawit Baynesagn is the latest journalist to be detained in Ethiopia this month, according to an Amharic report from The Ethiopian Reporter, the country’s most popular newspaper. Her detention comes as a crackdown on press freedom intensifies in the Horn of Africa nation, where millions of people are facing famine and displacement as a result of endless conflicts – a narrative the government is intent on covering up.

Ethiopia has tumbled three spots since 2025 and now sits at 148th among 180 nations according to the Reporters Without Borders’ World Press Freedom Index.

The situation has worsened after a period of hope for journalists when Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed ascended to the Ethiopian premiership in 2018, promising a new era of media freedom after years of repressive rule. He won the Nobel Peace prize a year later and hosted UNESCO’s Global Freedom Day, declaring reforms that would enable full freedom of expression.

But the celebrations were short lived, as journalists and private media including The Reporter face harassment from Ethiopia’s Media Authority, which has silenced reporters and forced many outlets to shut down.

Baynesagn’s story is not an outlier, rather, it is reflected in the experience of many others in Ethiopia who are detained in local prisons with no court order and little communication with their family, friends and colleagues. The crackdown has forced many journalists to abandon their profession as it becomes increasingly dangerous to tell the truth.

And it’s not just local journalists – recently, international correspondents from the Economist and Africa Report were deported along with freelance reporters from the New York Times, and Le Monde for challenging the narrative of a government intent on telling an exaggerated story of development and growth.

Since February of this year, Reuters, one of the most visible news agencies operating in the region, has not able to report from inside Ethiopia, after the Media Authority declined to renew accreditation for its three Addis Ababa-based journalists.

Baynesagn’s colleagues say they have no idea of her whereabouts. She has not been presented in court and her capture by unidentified security personnel has sent shivers down the spines of some of country’s boldest and bravest journalists. If this trend continues, reporting on Ethiopia’s deepening crises – in Amharic or any other language – risks disappearing even further from public view.

The original article ‘ጋዜጠኛ ሳልሳዊት ካልተመለሰ የፍትሐ ብሔር ክስ መመሥረቱ ተገለጸ’ was first published in Amharic in The Ethiopian Reporter on June 17, 2026.

Headquartered in Addis Ababa, The Ethiopian Reporter publishes newspapers and magazines in Amharic and English. Its motto is “Free Press, Free Speech, Free Spirit”.

Summary by Rahel Assefa.

Beyond Good Intentions

What happens when helping disabled people in China becomes more about charity than equality?

Every year, China marks National Disability Assistance Day on the third Sunday of May with slogans about inclusion and support. Yet for many disabled people, these campaigns can be uncomfortable – not because of people’s desire to help, but the way such help is offered.

An article published by 少数派说 (Minority Voice), a Chinese platform focused on disability rights and lived experiences, asks a deceptively simple question: how can disability support lose its “爹味” – literally “fatherly flavour” – a contemporary Chinese expression describing a patronising attitude that assumes authority and the right to decide what is best for others?

For answers, the piece asks disabled people themselves – an obvious approach that is unfortunately too often missing from the narrative in Chinese and international media.

Some describe disability-related events that felt more performative than meaningful. One person recalls attending disability networking and matchmaking activities dominated by speeches, performances and group photographs, with little time for actual conversation. Another describes receiving community care packages stocked with rice, cooking oil and sunflower seeds. He did not cook, and the seeds required a level of dexterity he simply did not have. The problem was not the gifts themselves, they insist, but what they revealed: nobody had asked what disabled people actually wanted or needed.

Others point to a deeper issue: disabled people are often treated as objects of care, which positions able-bodied as superior. One contributor recalls attending a health check organised by a disability federation, only to find that the coach provided was not accessible. Along the way, staff from the federation openly complained about how troublesome it was to travel with disabled people, seemingly oblivious to the cruel irony.

The article is particularly critical of the language of charity. Slogans such as “有爱无碍” (Love knows no barriers) may sound warm-hearted, but several interviewees argue that accessibility is not merely an act of kindness – it is a right. Initiatives that present equal access as generosity risk obscuring that distinction.

What, then, would better support look like? Many of the contributors return to the same themes: make accessibility a priority from the outset; ask disabled people what they actually need; involve them in organising and decision-making; create more opportunities for disabled and non-disabled people to meet and understand one another; and support communities led by disabled people themselves.

Summariser’s Note: Throughout this discussion, contributors use the language of “rights” in a broad social sense. Their argument is not focused on disability law, but on a shift in perspective: accessibility should be treated as something people are entitled to as equal members of society, rather than a form of benevolence bestowed by others.

The original article ‘少数派说｜助残怎样「去爹味」?’ was first published in Chinese by 少数派说 (Minority Voice) and archived by the China Digital Times on May 17, 2026 on a WeChat Official account. It brings together reflections from contributors identified by their online screen names, including 树上的小鸟, 小林子, Deng, 在路上, 芳春木, and 沈丞晴.

Minority Voice is a Chinese-language platform focused on disability rights, accessibility, and the lived experiences of disabled communities in China.

Summary by Kin-Long Tong

An Iranian shadow network, or a mirage?

An investigation by one of Switzerland’s leading newspapers raises as many questions as it answers

The daughter of a former candidate for the Iranian presidency, and student at one of Switzerland’s leading universities. A member of the Basij – the volunteer militia Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps (IRGC) – who later set up a tourism company. Another former student of the same university, accused of smuggling high-tech items used in Iranian drones.

A highly suggestive article in the Neue Zürcher Zeitung by Fabian Baumgartner, Florian Schoop, Jan Ludwig (with arresting illustration by Anja Lemcke) draws together these biographies to paint a shadowy picture – the article uses the word “Schattennetz”, meaning shadow network – of Iranian regime influence in Switzerland. It’s a familiar tale: an authoritarian regime under sanctions exploiting the relative openness of democratic societies and their institutions to conduct espionage and keep tabs on its citizens (and non-citizens) abroad.

The NZZ investigations leads its reporters first to the letter boxes of a residential block of flats outside Lausanne where they find the name Arash Rezani. According to the article, Rezani came to Switzerland in 2011 to study for a PhD at the EPFL (the Federal Institute of Technology of Lausanne). He has since become a Swiss citizen and works at an innovation centre on microtechnology.

But there’s more to Rezani than this dry professional resumé. On Telegram he used a photo of General Qassem Soleimani – who ran Iran’s undercover military operations until assassinated by the US in 2020 – as his own profile picture. His LinkedIn posts suggest a strong political affinity with Gaza. His wife is said to be the daughter of a professor who teaches at an Iranian university closely linked to the IRGC.

So far, so circumstantial.

But the plot thickens. While her name isn’t on the letter box, the daughter of an Alireza Zakani – a former presidential candidate, and current Mayor of Tehran – is registered as resident at the same Lausanne address. Her life in Switzerland was once a political liability for her father. NZZ notes an online broadcast he made in 2021 claiming his daughter had returned to Iran after completing her degree (also at the EPFL). The article suggests that isn’t correct: as of 2023 she was working for a Swiss technology company.

Another name crops up, that of Eshraf Madani, yet another EPFL graduate. Here, the evidence of direct personal links to the misdeeds of the Iranian regime, if not individual malfeasance, is clearer. Madani outed himself as a former member of the Basij militia – essentially the regime’s day-to-day volunteer enforcers – by signing a letter (in Iran) celebrating the anniversary of the Iranian revolution (including his EPFL affiliation). He now works at the same Swiss research centre as Rezani.

The article does not contend that any of these people have broken any Swiss laws. Links between members of any country’s elite living abroad are hardly surprising. Nonetheless, it notes the undoubted fact that “historically, technology transfer to Iran has taken place via scientists and engineers”. The nature of espionage operations is often precisely their opacity and deniability. The fact that there is such a cluster of individuals in Lausanne should, at the very least, raise questions. Civilian technologies often have military applications.

As if to show where all this might go, the NZZ cites the case of Mohammad Abedini Najafabadi, an EPFL graduate accused of smuggling electronic components to Iran under cover of various Swiss companies (including a start-up advised at one point by the local economic development agency) and his academic research (motion sensors for equestrian sports!) Having been arrested in Milan in December 2024, he was eventually returned to Iran on a plane linked to the Italian intelligence services, in what appears to have been a swap for an Italian journalist held by the Iranian authorities.

In recent years, the EPFL and another leading Swiss research university, ETH Zürich, have said to have beefed up their background checks on applicants from Iran and Russia. Some have been rejected on security grounds. The Swiss spy agency is doing the rounds of universities and companies talking about the risks of espionage.

But, as the article alludes, this may be only the tip of the iceberg. Transnational repression is a real phenomenon: whereby authoritarian regimes attempt to chill dissent abroad by using pro-regime members of the diaspora as “policemen”. It has been suggested that a Europe-wide rise in attacks on Jewish sites has been supported, indirectly, by Iranian regime agents. Switzerland’s spooks have warned of possible Iranian sabotage operations – something Russia has been doing in Europe for a while.

Again, NZZ offers no evidence anyone named in the article has been involved in any such activities. It doesn’t need to. The suggestion is enough.

The original article ‘Das Schweizer Schattennetz der iranischen Mullahs’ by Fabian Baumgartner, Florian Schoop and Jan Ludwig was first published in Germany by NZZ on March 31, 2026.

NZZ is a leading Swiss newspaper.

Summary by Charles Emmerson

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The Kiosk is a new monthly feature from Translator where we profile a media outlet beyond the Anglosphere and invite them to curate a selection of three stories from their publication. First up is Scena9 – keep reading for the full interview with editor-in-chief Andra Matzal and her story selection, along with other news and updates from the Translator team.

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Publication Name: Scena9 (Pron: CHEN-a-NOU-a)

Founded: 2016

Format: Print and online

Country: Romania

Languages: Romanian, English

As featured in: Multiple editions of Translator’s Dispatch including summaries on the country’s cultural workers' rights, political satire scene and first sex magazine, as well as an investigation into Europe’s growing bear population.

“Arts and culture is no longer a safe umbrella.”

So says Andra Matzal, the editor-in-chief and co-founder of Romanian independent publication Scena9, in an interview with Translator from her office in Bucharest. Founded in 2016 to cover arts and culture, Scena9 has also evolved with Romania’s changing media landscape.

“The ethos we started with was a very optimistic mindset not only for us, but for many initiatives in the cultural field of journalism,” she explains of the publication, which means “the ninth scene” and reflects their showcasing of the ninth art – a common European term for comics. “We wanted to fill a gap in the way we speak about arts and culture, which has a very elitist bias in the Romanian landscape, both in mainstream and independent media.”

But then came the global Covid-19 pandemic, the Russian invasion of Ukraine, the rise of AI and far right populism – and things look different for the publication today.

“[These events] changed a lot how we work and our focus, because we could no longer afford to ignore what’s happening in the world. Our angle became wider, and we came to have a stronger social involvement,” says Matzal.

“In these last years we’ve been dealing with a revival of the far right, and this has brought up terrible tensions within society and within the journalism field,” explains Matzal. “Political publications are on the front line of this, but also all kinds of publications, because journalists have been under attack [...] they’re perceived as representing an ideological enemy.”

While Romania rose six places in the 2026 World Press Freedom Index – up to 49^th from 55^th in 2025 – press freedom remains poor. According to Reporters Without Borders, which publishes the Index, this is partly due to a lack of transparency surrounding media financing, particularly political parties’ public funds. It adds that editorial decisions are often made in the interests of private owners, fuelling the use of media as a propaganda tool. The 2024 presidential election was also cancelled after it was revealed that Russia was interfering in the political campaign through social media – a story that was widely covered in mainstream English media. Scena9 is transparently funded and governed by BRD Groupe Société Générale, a bank, along with its sister publication Școala9 (New School) and Rezidența BRD (New Residence) – something they make clear across their print and digital publications.

“We were a bit skeptical in the beginning because we were very aware of the pressure that may come with a private sponsorship, so the first thing that we tried to do was to assure editorial freedom, 100% autonomy, and believe it or not, we actually made it,” says Matzal.

But a series of challenges including rising production costs and the cost-of-living crisis is forcing the magazine to reconsider its annual print publication – a stunning, themed almanac featuring contributions from journalists, artists and cultural workers. They are now looking at finding additional sources of income to become sustainable – including reader donations.

Matzal says the funding will help their reporting, including focusing on the decline of women’s rights in Romania – a phenomenon they have covered extensively over the last decade.

“We started very shyly, speaking about the role of women in arts and culture and their absence from the political or institutional canon, but then we started exploring a wider set of contexts regarding to women’s rights,” she says. “We investigated from the very beginning the attack on reproductive rights, how civil society tries to curb down violence against women, and how legislation is poorly adapted or implemented. We have tried to keep a solutions journalism angle in mind in order to provide other approaches that might work for women, institutions and civil society.”

Looking ahead, Matzal says they also want to keep building trust with audiences and train the next generation of Romanian investigative journalists. Last year, they launched their first educational program for young reporters to fill the training gap left by the closure of many daily newspapers – a worldwide trend. The subsequent story by the first reporters to take part in the program, Daria Radu, Șerban Barbu and Maria Angele, was summarized by Translator in a recent edition of Dispatches.

“Independent media often don’t have headquarters where they can receive people to work directly with, so it’s a complicated time for young journalists to learn how to do the work concretely.”

Looking ahead at the future and the role of publications like Scena9, Matza says she feels a mixture of optimism and despair.

“The future is no longer something that excites me, unfortunately. It rather fuels my anxiety. But I’m trying to remind myself that hope is a choice. The one thing that I think hasn’t lost its power is the freedom to create the kind of journalism we consider meaningful, even when the times are changing. When we still have this privilege to build the space for in-depth reflection, to come up with new ways of connecting the people we report on with the people who read our stories ... it’s a mix of freedom and idealism, which our team has shared from the very beginning, and which keeps me going.”

We asked Matzal to curate a selection of stories from Scena9:

‘Omul de pe fața ascunsă a Lunii’ (‘The Man on the Dark Side of the Moon’) by Vlad Odobescu with illustrations by Mircea Drăgoi

The Transylvanian Hermann Oberth was one of the fathers of spaceflight, but also one of the researchers recruited to develop ballistic missiles for Adolf Hitler’s army. The life and work of Hermann Oberth overlap almost perfectly with the last century, in which curiosity and the appetite for destruction led humanity, along intersecting paths, both to the Moon and to the Nazi camps. Today, Romania honors Oberth through busts, street names, exhibitions, and a memorial house. Several educational institutions also bear his name. But how do we choose which parts of a public figure’s biography to place on display and which ones we prefer to sweep under the rug? Ultimately, what does that choice say about us?

Matzal on the selection: It is an invitation to question how the memory of public space is built and to rediscover a famous character outside official discourse.

‘A Populist’s Guide to Museums’ by Oana Filip with illustrations by Oana Barbonie. Translated into English by Claudia and Andrew Davidson-Novosivschei for Eurozine

In March 2025, Donald Trump accused the Smithsonian Institution, the world’s largest museum complex, of negatively portraying the nation’s history. The US president called on several museums to revise their exhibitions and present a history of America that would make citizens proud rather than divide them with ‘woke ideology’. Authoritarian governments have long been at war with museums and the knowledge they hold. In this war, they try to obfuscate anything that does not contribute to the image of a glorious past, to which they promise the country can return if the people trust them. Reporter Oana Filip discusses the politics of memory within museums when populist parties come to power: from the US, to Poland and Romania.

Matzal on the selection: This in-depth analysis shows how politics shape in real time the cultural narratives we create about ourselves.

‘The Fake Nobel that Duped the Romanian Academy’ by Andra Matzal, Ioana Pelehatăi, Ionuț Sociu and Luiza Vasiliu. Translated into English by Ioana Pelehatăi

In 2019, Scena9 published an investigation about a French researcher who had made up the “Nobel Medal for Philology”, as well as the institution that awarded it to the Frenchman himself, Noam Chomsky and other international scholars. When our national media rejoiced that the president of the Romanian Academy would finally get “a Nobel”, we wanted to find out more about the “International Society of Philology”. We ended up spiraling down a rabbit hole of lies, false information, and distortions. Seven years later, in early 2026, the case finally reached the attention of French authorities, who are now investigating the French academic for intellectual fraud. The Scena9 article, which Le Monde calls “a small masterpiece of investigative journalism”, is the first public account of this fabulous fraud, which has also recently reached The Guardian.

Matzal on the selection: This was definitely the funnest investigation I ever worked on and its late plot twist – the French investigation – speaks both about the impact of journalism, but also about its delay when you are a small Romanian media.

More from Translator

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– The Translator team

Welcome to the third online instalment of Read Between the Lines, where we commission a journalist or commentator to interpret a recent article from beyond the Anglosphere: decoding the article’s meaning in the broader political, cultural and social context in which it was written, helping us understand how it would be read locally and giving us insight into what is making headlines (and why).

In this edition, Argentinian climate journalist Julián Reingold helps us understand what’s missing from wildfire coverage in Argentina’s increasingly hostile media landscape.

But first … we’ve extended the deadline for you to share your feedback and shape the future of Translator for a chance to win a free magazine and tote bag for you and a friend!

We’re also hosting our next free event at Ibraaz in London on 17 June called Translating the Environment – we hope to see you there!

On fire in Patagonia

In early 2026, in the depths of winter in the northern hemisphere, temperatures in the southern hemisphere were peaking. In Argentina, forest fires raged for several weeks in the Andean Region, one of the most beautiful (and most visited) areas of Patagonia.

But these forest fires are not simply a natural disaster. They reflect a changing global climate – the result of human activity over centuries. In Argentina, they have also become a political football. The way they are reported – both in Argentina’s media and beyond it – is itself a reflection both of global debates and local political issues. In a certain sense, the forest fires have taken on an intense symbolic value, almost as intense as the flames themselves.

I chose to write about this topic for Read Between the Lines starting with an essay published on January 12, 2026 in Anfibia Magazine – an independent news outlet from Argentina – in which sociologist Maristella Svampa explains how climate change worsens inequality, and how President Javier Milei’s far-right ideology and climate denialism has made the situation much worse.

Svampa begins by describing the idyllic mountain town of Epuyén in Chubut as among the worst hit by the January wildfires.

“Hippies viejos, llegados hace décadas, que todavía incursionan en las ferias de artesanos, permacultores y ambientalistas de nuevo cuño, jóvenes de todo el país en busca de otros horizontes, se instalaron en  pequeñas chacras, dedicadas a la agroecología o a los cultivos orgánicos. Hoy se codean con comunidades indígenas originarias que disputan orgullosas la tierra, y con criollos de campo, de boina, que andan a caballo y sufren parte del desplazamiento que propone la gentrificación creciente. La Comarca es también ahora un territorio donde desembarcaron grandes empresarios turísticos y forestales […] Pero, lejos de ser un lugar idílico, la convivencia entre los diferentes grupos sociales que habitan la Comarca Andina no es armoniosa.”

“Old hippies, who arrived decades ago and still frequent artisan fairs, along with newly minted permaculture and environmentalists, and young people from all over the country seeking new horizons, have settled on small farms dedicated to agroecology or organic farming. Today, they coexist with Indigenous communities who proudly defend their land, and with traditional farmers, wearing berets, who ride horses and are experiencing some of the displacement brought about by increasing gentrification. The region is also now a territory where large tourism and forestry companies have established themselves […] But coexistence among the different social groups inhabiting the Andean Region is far from harmonious.”

Svampa goes on to describe the dramatic consequences of deforestation and the replacement of native trees with exotic species in Epuyén’s surrounding forests since the 1970s. Species like the radiata pine from the Northern Hemisphere are invading the land as the native forest recedes and centuries-old species such as coihue, lenga, notro, and maiten trees are lost. These plantations are now at a stage of extreme maturity, but thanks to Milei’s heavy cuts to the forestry department since taking office in 2023, there is no management of abandoned forests. Instead, they have become a literal tinderbox for the raging fires.

Another key factor affecting the Patagonian region is a virulent campaign against Indigenous people and their rights, in the context of land disputes and the advance of oil and mining extraction, dams, and mega-tourism projects across the country.

The fires have become a lightning rod, politicised by both sides of the political debate, used to score political points and scapegoat adversaries. As Svampa writes:

“ … con la llegada del ultra-neoliberal Javier Milei, y el regreso de Patricia Bullrich en el Ministerio de Seguridad Nacional (estuvo a cargo de dicho ministerio durante la gestión del PRO y fue responsable de los operativos que terminaron con la vida de Santiago Maldonado y Rafael Nahuel), el racismo anti-mapuche volvió a encenderse a niveles delirantes.”

“ … With the arrival of the ultra-neoliberal Javier Milei, and the return of Patricia Bullrich to the Ministry of National Security (responsible for the operations that resulted in the deaths of activist Santiago Maldonado and Indigenous leader Rafael Nahuel), anti-Mapuche racism has reignited to delirious levels.”

In times of multiple crises, with an absentee state and all kinds of denialism running rife, Svampa suggests the media and the government’s response is to find a scapegoat, namely an “internal enemy”, inevitably found among the most vulnerable sectors of society.

This becomes clear in the ways in which fires have been politicised by both right and left-leaning media outlets in Argentina. For example, the progressive newspaper Página 12 reported on an incident where two tourists started a bonfire inside a protected national park in Santa Cruz. Unverified claims that they were Israeli were widely shared on social media and by Argentina’s opposition. Meanwhile, La Derecha Diario, a far-right online outlet aligned with the government, quoted a statement released by the Ministry of Security pointing to the possible involvement of Indigenous Mapuche groups supposedly seeking to use fire as a tool of political pressure and destabilisation.

Argentinian media often pursues a click-bait approach to news stories that works well in such a polarised society as ours, pointing the finger at irresponsible tourists or Indigenous groups to stir up public debate. But they don’t tend to go much deeper into the main cause of the devastation: climate change.

Take Infobae – one of the most-read news outlets in the Spanish language. Despite having scientific journalists among its staff, their coverage contains only a mild criticism of Milei’s budgetary cuts for wildfire prevention and a shy paragraph pointing towards the government’s share of responsibility.

Meanwhile, La Nación, Argentina’s leading conservative newspaper, didn’t send a reporter to cover the wildfires and opted instead to republish a wire piece from the Associated Press.

In contrast, international media covering Argentina’s forest fires went far deeper.

The Spanish-language version of National Geographic explained how the involvement of residents in fighting the fire was due to the lack of a coordinated state response and that the Epuyén firefighters’ annual budget was only enough to buy two firefighter suits after Milei’s cuts.

French news outlet France24 mentioned the emergence of “fifth and sixth generation” fires: those with multiple fronts, extreme behaviour, and firestorms that overwhelm any capacity for control.

Spain’s El País noted that these are the worst fires of the last decade, with more than 55,000 hectares of land consumed – an area almost the size of the city of Madrid – and pointed to the operational fragility of those tasked with getting the fires under control. It also detailed how the water bombers' flight hours were cut dramatically since Milei took office.

Mongabay Latam quoted a new analysis by the scientific organisation World Weather Attribution which concludes that the extreme weather events that accompanied the fires were up to three times more likely due to global warming caused by the burning of fossil fuels.

Finally, Germany’s DW explained that the national government was finally forced to respond after the governors from the Río Negro and Santa Cruz provinces demanded it.

But all is not lost: an anonymous article by the Argentinian outlet La Política Online pushed for further accountability. It listed three of Milei’s decisions that worsened the Patagonia fires: choosing someone with no experience in natural resource conservation as director of Argentina’s 39 national parks; the deactivation of the Unified Command project planned to combat forest fires in Patagonia; and finally, an ideological refusal to acknowledge the role of climate change itself.

I asked environmental experts for their take on the Argentinian media’s failure to properly cover the wildfires. Bariloche-based climate activist Sofia Nemenmann said:

“In the climate crisis context, things are only going to worsen – we will not be able to avoid future fires, but we’ll try to contain them. However, we face an uphill road if the media refuses to mention the climate factor to comply with the government’s anti-science approach. Park rangers have lost their jobs just by mentioning climate change as a driver of fire.”

Sergio Federovisky, former vice-minister for the environment under President Alberto Fernandez (2019-2023), said:

“[Public] debate [in Argentina] is centered on whether Mapuche Indigenous people or Israeli tourists started the fires, which is why the response strategy is misguided: eight out of ten emergencies in Argentina are related to environmental issues, exacerbated by climate change. Therefore, the strategic focus must be on the environment, given that a changing climate requires long-term public policies and investment, and that is not something that Milei is willing to accept.”

I also spoke to Marc Castellnou, one of the world’s leading wildfire analysts. He told me that the 2026 fires are an evolution of what he saw in 2021 and 2024 in Patagonia, and that other countries in the Mediterranean, Canada, and the US state of California face similar challenges. Without effective strategies based on the realities of how climate change is playing out, he says, firefighters will always be playing catch-up.

There is a tiny silver lining in this. The wildfires in Argentina helped fine-tune the AI ​​engines of fire monitors in the Northern Hemisphere. Castellnou is currently working with the Meteorology and Air Quality research group at the University of Wageningen in the Netherlands to estimate the behaviour of future fires, including their type, size and intensity.

In Argentina, there has never been any discussion about how to adapt land-use planning to what climate change dictates. As extreme temperatures and natural disasters are set to become the new normal in Argentina and elsewhere, vulnerable communities like those in Epuyén will continue to bear the brunt.

Indeed, they are already facing new and urgent threats: the recent modification of the Glaciers Law will greenlight major new open-pit mining projects in periglacial areas that supply water needed for, among other things, putting out fires in Patagonia. Milei’s libertarian government also wants to repeal the Rural Lands Law, which prohibits foreign individuals or legal entities from acquiring rural lands that contain bodies of water, which are essential for firefighters in cases of environmental emergency.

Without much-needed interventions, we will see this same cycle of media coverage and disaster response strategy (or lack thereof) repeat itself.

The original article ‘La desigualdad es inflamable’ by Maristella Svampa was published in Spanish for Anfibia on January 12, 2026.

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When satire becomes unsafe in India

The parents of a Gen-Z icon fear for his safety after a government crackdown on his new cockroach-inspired political party

A new political party in India, the Cockroach Janata Party (CJP), has made international news headlines this week not only as a satirical response to the Chief Justice of India’s recent comments comparing unemployed young Indians to “cockroaches”, but also for the response it has provoked from Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s ruling party.

The Navbharat Times, a Hindi newspaper in India, reports that the CJP founder Abhijit Dipke’s parents are increasingly concerned about his safety after the government blocked the CJP’s X account, its Instagram was targeted by unknown hackers, and Dipke began receiving death threats on WhatsApp. In India, interviewing the parents of young people in the news, whether they are protestors, assault victims or rising celebrities is a common practice, as is reporting on their academic performance at school. A common question used to chastise young people loitering in India is: “What do your parents think of what you are doing?”

Dipke’s father Bhagwan told reporters “I can’t sleep because I am so worried about my son. I hate politics, and I just want him to stay safe.” His mother Anita said she’d like her son to stay away from politics entirely (he was previously a political communications strategist for a different Indian political party). She also said she thinks it’s unlikely that her son would do as his parents desired; she told the newspaper that he was studying to be an engineer, but found the subject “too difficult” and turned to journalism. He currently lives in Boston.

Some political observers say that the CJP’s soaring online popularity, particularly among Gen-Z Indians, is a notable expression of dissent that is reminiscent of recent student and youth-led uprisings and political revolutions across South Asia including in Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Indonesia and Nepal. Since its creation earlier this month, the CJP has amassed more followers on social media than the far right Hindu nationalist BJP, which has been in power since 2014. The government is known for harsh crackdowns on student protestors, often keeping them imprisoned for years without trial or bail. It’s no wonder then that Dipke’s parents are losing sleep.

Dipke has challenged the block of the CJP’s X account in a Delhi court and the party is now also the subject of a public interest lawsuit. Dipke and his parents have expressed concern that he could be arrested at an Indian airport and taken straight to Tihar, India’s largest prison complex, upon returning to his home country.

The Indian government has not yet made an official statement about the CJP.

The original articles ‘कॉकरोच जनता पार्टी के खिलाफ सुप्रीम कोर्ट में याचिका, जानें कौन-कौन से लीगल एक्शन लेने की उठी मांग’ and ‘हम बेटे को राजनीति में नहीं चाहते... ‘कॉकरोच जनता पार्टी’ वाले अभिजीत दीपके के माता-पिता को आखिर किस बात का डर’ appeared in Hindi The Navbharat Times on May 24 and May 22, respectively.

The Navbharat Times is a Hindi newspaper distributed in Delhi, Mumbai, Lucknow and Kanpur.

Summary by Nishita Jha

Dialogue with the dolls

Brazil moves to recognise trans language Pajubá as cultural heritage

In the hidden cracks of Brazilian society, where queer communities continue to resist erasure, a secret language is flourishing. Pajubá, once considered “the language of criminals” because of its use by the queer community to resist police repression during Brazil’s military dictatorship (1964-85), is a shared code that serves to identify and protect the trans community. It signals that “If you speak like me, you are like me.” Now, a language that emerged from a history of exclusion could be preserved and formally recognised as an intangible piece of queer heritage, according to a report by Brazilian investigative journalism outlet, Agência Pública.

On October 20, 2025, the National Association of Transvestites and Transsexuals (ANTRA) filed a landmark request with the National Institute of Historical and Artistic Heritage (IPHAN), the federal government’s agency responsible for preserving, protecting and promoting the country’s cultural and historical heritage. ANTRA is seeking the recognition of Pajubá as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Brazil, which would protect it alongside the Capoeira martial art, Samba dance and other festivals, music and art forms.

In an interview with Agência Pública, the writer, professor and trans activist Amara Moira says Pajubá is “a language of protection and identity”. She shares how Pajubá holds the keys to queer history in Brazil, which is deeply rooted in Afro-Brazilian and African religious traditions. “The language is born from this segregated life, from this exclusion, and it transforms itself all the time.”

According to the article, one of the first acts of the 1990s trans rights movement in Brazil was the creation of a dictionary, Diálogo de Bonecas (Doll Dialogue), by Jovanna Baby – one of the most celebrated trans activists in Brazil.

The dictionary was an inspiration to Moira, whose book Neca: A Novel in Pajubá, is intended as an encyclopaedia of trans knowledge. She explains that the inspiration for her book came from living and working in Jardim Itatinga, an area in the city of Campinas, São Paulo, that is home to many trans people and sex workers. She spent her formative years here, began her transition and worked as a sex worker.

Moira’s research initially drew from conversations with friends, but she says it developed further when she discovered dictionaries and ancestral records of “queer language”.

Responding to questions on whether a book or a dictionary would expose the Pajubá language and threaten the trans community, Baby and Moira agree that no one can learn the language from a book. In fact, attempting to do so will probably be met with ridicule, Moira says. Instead, she describes it as a “metamorphic” language with “little-known encryption strategies” that ensure the protection and secrecy of all those that speak it.

Amid widespread attacks and political violence on trans communities worldwide, the preservation and recognition of Pajubá could signal a new dawn for trans communities in Brazil. Moira believes that drawing attention to the language will help create other tools and strategies for its survival.

“Writing in Pajubá, for me, was the only possible way to tell this story. There was no other language capable of conveying what I wanted to say.”

The original article ‘Pajubá: linguagem, proteção e resistência’ by Andrea DiP, Sofia Amaral, Ricardo Terto and Stela Diogo was first published in Portuguese by Agência Pública on 14 December 2025.

Agência Pública is Brazil’s first investigative journalism agency, dedicated to public interest reporting with a focus on human rights, democracy and social justice.

Summary by Trà My Hickin

From hand to eye to mouth to ear

Amongst the deaf of Egypt’s Sinai peninsula

Fingertips pressed together in a twisting motion to indicate “lemon”; an energetic motion of both wrists to say “bread”, suggestive of how flatbread dough would be thrown into the hot embers of a desert fire to cook; a hand drawn across the cheek to indicate “man”, on the presumption that all men have beards. These are just some of signed words used by a single Bedouin tribe in Egypt’s Sinai peninsula, the triangle of desert and mountain that marks the meeting point of Africa and Asia, the Suez on one side of the peninsula, the Gulf of Aqaba on the other.

In a fascinating article for Usbek and Rica, Jenna le Bras explores lokha torsh (the local name for the sign language) as a phenomenon deeply anchored in Bedouin society – both shaped by its culture and shaping it in turn.

The first written record of the sign language’s existence crops up in travellers’ accounts from a few centuries ago. But in terms of scientific work on the language, lokha torsh is essentially newly discovered. An Israeli academic who has coined the name ABSL (Al-Sayyid Bedouin Sign Language) for the signed language used by Bedouin in the Negev desert – outside Egypt – cautions against imagining lokha torsh and ABSL as mere variations of each other. Some signs are similar; others are completely different. “It would take years of study on the ground” to even begin to understand the language’s origins and interconnections, she says.

There is a particular practical reason for the prevalence of lokha torhsh in Egyptian Sinai. Over time, marriage between cousins has tended to re-enforce genetic traits rather than dilute them. Rates of hereditary deafness are extremely high.

“Blood ties are important for us Bedouin,” explains Mohamed, one of those interviewed in the article, himself a deaf man of 40. Mohamed’s grandfather and uncle were deaf before him. He is now married to Husseina, his uncle’s daughter. The article begins with Mohamed and Husseina’s deaf child Salah complaining of a buzzing sensation in his ears. His parents rush to a local doctor hoping the call of the muezzin has miraculously awakened their child’s hearing – only to discover it’s an insect trapped in his ear.

As he is being interviewed, Mohamed’s mobile rings. He passes it to his wife, who acts as translator between the spoken word she can hear, and her husband signing his responses, arranging the logistics for a tourist trip. It’s an intimate scene. But le Bras draws out a larger point about how deafness is treated in Bedouin society: the sense of solidarity – she cites the Arabic term aṣabiyyah – which means it is common for deaf and non-deaf to be paired up, in both familial and professional situations, as needed.

Taking tourists out into the desert Mohamed is paired up with non-deaf Brahim. It’s a multilingual context: often English, sometimes Russian, sometimes Hebrew. “We are all used to working in several languages,” Brahim explains: “so I barely count lokha torsh as extra.”

On the first night of Ramadan, le Bras observes a vibrant conversation amongst members of Mohamed’s family as part of the festivities. “And yet,” she writes, “it all takes place in near silence. Stifled laughter, barely aspirated syllables….”. Many young people have smartphones. But their interactions on Tik Tok or other social media are mostly through emojis.

At the local school, 60 kilometres away, there has been a class for deaf children since 2017. It hasn’t been easy. When she first arrived, the new teacher found the textbooks had turned to dust. The sign language she had learned was classical Arabic rather than Bedouin. Even now, only five children regularly attend. “Formal education isn’t a priority” amongst the Bedouin, the article explains.

Then there was the time a charitable association decided to distribute hearing aids locally. Hundreds of hearing tests were done. Gilly, a retired British ballerina, drove to Cairo to order the aids. “It was fantastic,” she says, “we felt part of something useful.” But the aids were never worn. Emira, a local social worker, admits it was naïve to imagine turning up with a whole bunch of new gizmos would change things: “we should have stayed by their [the locals’] side… proposed hearing therapies.” The list of those who got the hearing aids bears a familiar name: Mohamed, husband of Husseina.

They are still there, in Mohamed and Husseina’s home, packed safely in a box. Why weren’t they used? The noise was too much for Mohamed, his wife explains. As for the children, wouldn’t they just have broken, or filled with dust? What language would they be expected to speak, anyhow?

The article concludes, powerfully, on the perspective involved. What the association imagined as a miraculous technological solution to the problem of deafness was viewed by others as an answer to a problem which didn’t exist. “Why complicate life when we have no problem communicating anyhow?” Husseina says.

Language, after all, takes many forms.

The original article ‘Sur les traces d’une nouvelle langue des signes née au cœur du Sinaï’ by Jenna Le Bras was first published by Usbek & Rica in French in their Futur magazine in 2024 and republished online on March 10, 2026. It was a finalist for the 2026 True Story award.

Usbek & Rica is a French language publication oriented towards writing about the future. You can also read its manifesto.

Summary by Charles Emmerson

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Ebola isn’t the only crisis unfolding in the DRC

How a political power struggle could distract from eradication efforts

An already deadly and worsening Ebola outbreak in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) is compounded by the ruling government’s controversial attempts to simultaneously revise the constitution and retain power, according to a press review compiled by Radio Okapi and cross-referenced by Translator.

Citing various national press sources, the review summarises the rising death and infection toll in Ituri province, where the outbreak was first declared on May 17. It highlights an Info27 article in which virologist Jean-Jacques Muyembe points out that no approved vaccine or treatment currently exists for the prevalent Bundibugyo variant. Still, he emphasises that the DRC has contained 15 of the 17 previous epidemics due to rigorous health measures.

But while international media attention is largely framed around the risk of the disease spreading beyond the DRC as a result of USAID cuts, this press review shows that – for now – the greatest risks remain inside the country, where health and political crises are feeding off each other.

Le Potential details how the epidemic is growing amid an explosive security situation between the Rwanda-backed M23 fighters, Congolese forces and other militia groups, where disease hotspots are virtually inaccessible to medical teams.

The newspaper also highlights the political background: Tshisekedi’s attempts to revise the constitution and secure a third term, which have been met with fierce opposition. The daily newspaper reports the launch of the Article 64 coalition on May 19 – a group made up of major opposition parties which aims to prevent him from holding on to power beyond the end of his term in 2028.

Opposition leader Nicolas Lenga of the Envol party called the political manoeuvring “an act of rebellion against the Republic and a declaration of war on the Congolese people.”

This political uncertainty could easily distract from vital emergency response efforts in a country long beset by war, disease, and other crises.

The original article ‘Ebola en RDC: le gouvernement en première ligne contre une variante sans vaccin’ was published in French by Radio Okapi on May 20, 2026.

It is available here.

Radio Okapi is the radio of the United Nations Stabilisation Mission in the DRC. It began its programming in February 2002 from Kinshasa with the purpose of accompanying the peace process in the DRC.

Summary by MBM

A Communist history of hip-hop

East Germany’s little-known musical history and the ongoing fight for recognition

Breakdancing, rapping, DJing and graffiti may not be the first things that come to mind when one thinks of Communist East Germany in the 1980s. But it was in fact home to one of the Eastern Bloc’s most lively underground hip-hop scenes, writes Benedikt Kendler in Berliner Zeitung.

The German Democratic Republic (GDR)’s “B-Boys” – as the breakdancers called themselves – first gathered around stereos in the mid 1980s in cities like Dessau, renowned for the revolutionary Bauhaus design school in previous decades. They would perform outside on the street, spinning across the pavement on their heads and hands to bewildered passersby.

But how did hip-hop make its way from its 1970s origins in the Bronx of New York City to East Germany? According to the article, it was first seen on West German television in 1983, when Thomas Gottschalk hosted a breakdance competition on his show Na sowas!. Initially, the imitation of a youth culture from the capitalist West was met with repression from authorities. B-Boys were arrested and police officers attempted to infiltrate the groups.

“Once I came to school with a Marlboro bag. After 10 minutes, I had to hand it over to a teacher. Simply because it was from the ‘enemy,’” recalls Mike Buchmayer-Zacke (also known as Magic Mayer).

The tide turned when the American hip-hop film Beat Street (1984) was approved for cinema release in the GDR. It was seen as an unfiltered portrayal of how Black youth were exploited and oppressed in poor neighbourhoods in the United States. Producer Harry Belafonte was admired in East Germany for his role as a peace activist and Black civil rights leader.

Breakdancing was soon co-opted as a tool of Communist propaganda, and it became a lucrative business after it received official support and cultural funding from the authorities. Buchmayer-Zacke said that at one point he was earning as much as a doctor.

But while music travelled through the airwaves, other materials like spray cans and tracksuits were harder to come by. “We made our own clothes or managed to get them from West Germans,” recalls Weimar rapper Frank Happich. His prized possession was a Walkman, acquired through Mozambican factory workers who, unlike most East Germans, were permitted to travel to West Berlin.

Little remained of GDR hip-hop after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989: “What we had back then is gone. After the reunification of East and West Germany (the Wende – “the change”), a lot of the hip-hop culture faded away,” Buchmayer-Zacke says. State funding for cultural activities including breakdancing was cut, and many B-Boys moved to the West where they quickly became disillusioned by the commercialisation of a subculture once rooted in resistance.

Today, people like Joerg Schnurre from the Dessau-based Newkid association are campaigning for official cultural recognition of the art form in East Germany – as has happened in western German cities like Heidelberg.

“Recognition as cultural heritage would give many a new sense of self-confidence and show that the specifically East German hip-hop culture is being seen and appreciated,” he said.

The original article ‘HipHop als immaterielles Kulturerbe? Eine Dessauer Initiative arbeitet daran’ by Benedikt Kendler was first published in German by Berliner Zeitung on April 2, 2026.

It is available here

Berliner Zeitung is a German daily newspaper based in Berlin. It was founded in 1945 in East Berlin and became an important newspaper in the GDR.

Summary by IJ

Trouble in the Albanian Alps

How a scheme to boost economic development in Albania’s mountainous north could end up enriching a few, harming the environment and angering its neighbours

There are few true mountain wildernesses left in Europe. In Switzerland, Austria, France and Italy tunnels have been bored through solid rock to connect railways and roads through the Alps. Once-remote landscapes have become more accessible. But the process has generally been slow – spread out over many decades, allowing for change which now feels organic rather than forced.

The Albanian Alps are an awe-inspiring range of soaring peaks along the Albanian and Montenegrin border, long considered of marginal economic value but now viewed as a source of tourism income. According to an article from the Center for Investigative Journalism of Montenegro (CIN-CG), change may be coming quickly, disruptively and controversially.

For much of the last century, the border was a stark political dividing line, even as the ecosystems on both sides remained fundamentally interlinked. Now, as the Albanian government seeks to develop the area – with a 2025 law called the “mountain package” at the centre of it – difficult questions naturally arise: should it be developed at all; by whom; for whom; and with what consequences, on both sides of the border?

Kristijan Gura, a 27-year-old café owner, thought the law would benefit people like him, by effectively legalising past construction on land passed down from generation to generation without established legal title. Instead, a photo shows him in front of buildings bulldozed after the law was passed, as part of an enforcement action against illegal construction. He’s now left with a €100,000 loan, and nothing to show for it.

What’s going on? The article suggests the law – sold as helping existing residents to get legal title for land, sometimes by paying a symbolic €1 fee to purchase state land – is rapidly turning into something else: a bait and switch. Small-scale local development may end up being replaced by large-scale development decided upon, not locally, but in the capital. Article 8 of the mountain package law allows for once “untouchable” public lands to be swallowed up in private development projects.

The word “agroturizam” is used frequently in the article – denoting things like farm-stays, or restaurants and cafés linked to small agricultural holdings. The vast bulk of applications made by locals to benefit from the law’s provisions fall under this rubric. (There are other categories: including livestock farming, and solar and wind farms).

In fact, the law is steering things towards bigger, more capital-intensive projects. Tourism expert Ardiola Alikaj warns that these may provide employment, but most benefits will flow to investors. “Agritourism is used as a legitimate narrative of state policy,” professor Doriana Musai explains, “but the real result is intensive tourism disconnected from the local social and economic structure.”

The change from small-scale to large matters environmentally, too, given the region’s ecological diversity and fragility.

The Albanian Alps contain some 1,500 plant species, 40 per cent of which are endemic. There’s a huge variety of trees (beech, Molika pine – also known as Macedonian pine – and alders are amongst those mentioned). The list goes on: 155 types of bird, 60 types of animals, some protected under EU law.

This picture of richness and diversity is matched on the Montenegrin side. “Last year,” the article notes, “hidden cameras recorded lynx, amongst the most endangered animals in the Balkans.”

CIN-CG raises concerns of a further worrying shift: a requirement to collect copious socio-economic, environmental and other data before a project is approved has been, in practice, massively watered down. “Subsequent legislation usually becomes more detailed”, Professor Erjon Muharemaj notes: “The opposite happened here.”

Albania’s neighbours are looking on in concern. “We have absolutely no information,” the mayor of the Montenegrin town Gusinje tells CIN-CG. This may end up having wider political ramifications. Albania is seeking to join the EU; if it doesn’t follow EU rules, might that bid become unstuck? Marija Lekić, representative of a Montenegrin bird protection NGO, notes that under the Espoo Convention, Albania is required to notify neighbours of developments with possible trans-boundary impacts.

“Podgorica [the capital of Montenegro] must react,” says one local activist.

The original article ‘“Planinski paket” - dogovor od jednog eura koji prijeti nacionalnim parkovima Balkana’, by Ola Mitre, Aida Ciro, Kristi Bašmili and Nemanja Živaljević was first published in Montenegrin in CIN-CG on February 24, 2026.

It is available here.

The Center for Investigative Journalism of Montenegro is a foundation dedicated to public interest investigations in Montenegro, and part of the Global Investigative Journalism Network.

Summary by CEM

Translator Issue #3 is available now!

Inside, you’ll find stories from across the world: a Korean middle school on the political frontline, the world of gaming in 1980s Hungary, the fragile ecology (and mystery) of eels in northern Italy, the culture of shamans on the border of China and Vietnam, a searing investigation into Romania’s aesthetic gynaecology industry and Translator’s original Street Talks give voice to hyperlocal stories from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore – all illustrated by artists from around the world.

Plus: Abdul Bacet’s photo essay on Babur’s Gardens in Kabul, an interview with Abeera Kamran and Zeerak Ahmed on digitising the Urdu script, a multilingual crossword, and reviews of Polly Barton’s debut novel and Alexander Voloshin’s migration memoir.

We begin in Romania where a new law to support independent cultural workers is falling short of its stated intentions. And in Nepal, medical experts are warning of a worrying rise in non-communicable diseases. Finally, a journalist in Kyrgyzstan explores the gendered legacy of the Soviet Union’s urban transport system.

But first …

Translator Issue #3 is available now!

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A victory on paper and nothing more

Why Romania’s efforts to legally recognize freelance cultural workers were doomed to fail

In April 2023, Romania launched a landmark programme: the Professional Cultural Worker Law.

This promised to be a lifeline for the country’s 100,000 independent cultural workers – artists, curators, managers, dancers, writers, freelancers – all of whom operate without social protection, stable contracts or specific legal recognition of their status.

Beyond creating a new type of employment contract for cultural workers, with certain tax advantages, the law was meant to offer such workers access to social insurance, unemployment benefits, seniority accumulation and collective representation rights. (In order to qualify as a cultural worker under the scheme you have to get at least half your income from cultural work – not including royalties from copyright – and not currently be working with a permanent employment contract).

The law was also, its architects hoped, an act of validation: a mark of recognition from the state that culture is not a hobby, and that those who sustain it deserve to be seen.

But a recent investigation by Scena9 reveals a damning statistic: nearly three years on from the law’s introduction, only 11 people are legally recognized as professional cultural workers in Romania. Reporters Daria Radu, Șerban Barbu and Maria Angele investigate why a new framework so useful in theory is, currently, a failure.

“We’ve been stamping our feet for so long about having no status, no protection,” bewails Mihai Ivașcu, a writer. “And yet when this opportunity is offered – which may not be perfect, but it is at least improvable – just six of us show up, when in fact we are thousands, or more.”

Ivașcu was the second person to register, after coming across the law entirely by chance. Believing it was the solution he’d been dreaming of, he registered with enthusiasm. Why didn’t more people do the same?

For the first two years, signing up to the register was only possible in person or by post, and this was itself a deterrent to many. But even after the process became digitised, it remained deeply bureaucratic. Scena9 journalists tried it out and ended up spending four hours and 19 minutes completing their own application, with two friends drafted in to help. Iulia Popovici, a critic, researcher, and policy expert who worked with the Ministry of Culture on the law’s adoption, puts the absurdity plainly: “The stated intention of the law is to cut through the bureaucracy. But now we have both the law – and the bureaucracy.” She refers to the tendency of the Romanian state to protect itself through ramparts of ever-multiplying paperwork.

Another significant oversight has been the lack of information extended both to those who might benefit from the law, and those who might be called upon to implement it. No one seems to know much: not cultural workers not accountants, not even staff at ANAF, the national tax authority. The Ministry invested almost nothing into outreach and promotion.

“The fact that there has been no promotion of the law, that there are no information meetings, that no registration assistance is offered,” Popovici notes, “suggests that the Romanian state has no great enthusiasm for the law.”

Rather than acknowledging the failure, the Ministry declared the results “exceeded expectations” – on the basis that the original funding for the programme only required that the law exist on paper, rather than it actually work in practice.

All of this sits within a broader picture: Romanian culture receives just 0.07 per cent of GDP in government funding, and the Minister of Culture’s response to the sector’s precarity has been to urge artists to think more “entrepreneurially”.

As the article points out, governments in other countries have shown what genuine commitment to cultural work looks like. In Ireland, a pilot programme gave 2,000 cultural workers €325 a week to pursue their practice. After finding that every euro invested in culture returned €1.39 to society, the pilot programme was made permanent. Germany and Austria have long-established social insurance systems specifically for independent artists. Romania could learn from these examples.

For those who did register, the law has delivered one tangible benefit: the ability to issue invoices legally under a new type of contract. But the sense of community and broader recognition the law might have provided have not materialised. Sara Pongrac, a 25-year-old theatre graduate and artist, speaks of the false hope: “I thought it could be like a kind of community.”

It remains, for now, a promise unmet.

The original article ‘Cum a eșuat Statutul lucrătorului cultural: 11 înscrieri la 100.000 de profesioniști’ (’How the Cultural Worker Statute Failed: 11 Registrations for 100,000 Professionals’) by Daria Radu, Șerban Barbu, and Maria Angele was first published in Romanian by Scena9 on 26 March 2026.

It is available here.

Scena9 is a Romanian digital culture and society magazine covering arts, ideas, and everyday life, with a strong focus on independent journalism and social issues. It is supported by BRD Groupe Société Générale.

Summary by TMH

Nepal’s silent epidemic

The devastating human and financial toll of surging non-communicable diseases

Writing for Nepal’s leading digital news portal, Online Khabar, Pushparaj Chaulagain warns us of an epidemic: the sharp rise in non-communicable diseases (NCDs). These are non-transmissible health conditions like diabetes, heart attacks, strokes, and kidney disease caused by air pollution, excessive alcohol and smoking, unhealthy diets, and a sedentary lifestyle. In low- to middle-income countries, the report says NCDs are now the leading cause of death.

Nearly 200,000 people die annually in Nepal as a result of NCDs, and eight out of the top 10 causes of death in the country fall into this category. The government has introduced a multi-sectoral action plan to address this, yet critics argue it leans heavily towards treatment rather than prevention. Health economist Ghanashyam Gautam puts it plainly: investing in prevention would be beneficial for both health and the economy. The root causes – shifting lifestyles, poor diet, physical inactivity – remain largely unaddressed.

Chaulagain illustrates the human cost through individual stories. The first is that of Hastimaya Limbu, a 55-year-old woman from Jhapa. After her husband disappeared, she was left solely responsible for her daughters and travelled to Oman for employment as a domestic worker. The conditions were gruelling; working from dawn until midnight, cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry, barely pausing even for water or bathroom breaks in the extreme heat. The relentless pace gradually wore her down – persistent back pain, vomiting, and loss of appetite followed. After collapsing, she was rushed to hospital, where she was told that both kidneys had failed entirely. She eventually underwent a successful transplant, but total treatment expenses reached 6 million NPR (£29,000 / $39,000), and she continues to spend 15,000 NPR (£70 / $100) on medication every month. “Now I have to depend on others just to survive,” she says.

Limbu’s story is far from unique. Rambahadu Tamang, a 52-year-old porter living alone in Kathmandu, supported his family on daily wages. With little time or inclination to cook, he relied on cheap market food – fried snacks, momos, chowmein, and samosas. “It was those habits that destroyed my kidneys,” he reflects. Years of fatigue and kidney swelling eventually culminated in organ failure. His son donated a kidney and the transplant operation was a medical success – but the financial toll was devastating. Although the government contributed 500,000 NPR (£2,400 / $3,200) towards costs, it fell well short of what was needed. “We had to sell our land and property to pay for treatment,” he told Online Khabar.

These are not isolated cases. Government data reveals the true scale of the problem: under the Deprived Citizens Medicine Treatment Programme, patient numbers and costs have both more than doubled over five years. For ordinary Nepalis forced into out-of-pocket expenditure, the burden is crushing. Over 500,000 citizens are pushed below the poverty line each year due to healthcare costs alone.

Experts are clear that around 80 per cent of NCD risk factors lie outside the health sector and are rooted in environmental pollution, pesticide use, and the food industry. Meaningful progress requires coordinated action across government, not just health services. Above all, prevention must begin early. Specialists agree that education about smoking, alcohol, and diet needs to start at school level, before harmful habits take hold. Without a decisive shift from disease treatment to prevention the epidemic looks set to deepen.

The original article ‘नसर्ने रोगको महामारी : उपचार खर्चले सडकमै पुग्छन् नागरिक’ by Pushparaj Chaulagain was first published in Nepali by Online Khabar on 31 March 2026.

It is available here.

Online Khabar is Nepal’s leading digital news portal, covering politics, health, business, and society. Its tagline is “No. 1 News Portal from Nepal”.

Summary by TMH

End of the line for Kyrgyzstan’s women drivers

A journalist set out to profile the women trolleybus drivers of Bishkek. What she found was a means of transport – and way of life – on the brink of collapse

A report in the Polish magazine Pismo begins as a portrait of a single female trolleybus driver in Kyrgyzstan and becomes something much bigger. This is a story about not only the dismantling of an urban transport system but also the continued aftershocks of the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Journalist Emilia Sułek follows Guljan Kurbanova, a 48-year-old in Bishkek, who is easy to spot in her high-visibility vest as she drives her trolley through the streets of the Central Asian capital. Like many Kyrgyz citizens, Kurbanova spent years working abroad – in her case in Moscow – before returning home, where she retrained as a transport worker. Driving had long been her ambition, despite resistance from male relatives. Eventually she enrolled in a Bishkek technical school, joining a profession in which women are in fact unusually well represented.

When Sułek visits the school, she is told in no uncertain terms that trolleybus driving is not thought of as “women’s work” because it is easy or automatic. One teacher explains: “Women in Kyrgyzstan are ambitious and have always wanted equal rights.” And in the USSR it was women who, in the teacher’s words, “colonised” trolleybuses.

The training itself is demanding. Students – often juggling jobs and family responsibilities – learn electrical engineering, safety procedures, and the mechanics of vehicles that must be controlled both on the road and via overhead power lines. Whatever the demands, though, this is stable employment in a country where jobs are scarce.

Or at least it was. By the time Sułek starts reporting, rumours are already circulating that the city is planning to dismantle the entire trolleybus network. Within weeks, those fears prove justified. 

Bishkek’s authorities announce the gradual closure of all lines, arguing that trolleybuses are outdated and too expensive to maintain. Passenger numbers have declined, officials say, and the system covers only a small portion of the rapidly expanding city.

Behind these controversial arguments lies a broader transformation.

The practical maintenance of the trolleybus network relied on cooperation between former Soviet Republics, Sułek points out. 

She writes: “Trolza, a Russian trolleybus manufacturer from Saratov [in southern Russia], declared bankruptcy in 2017 ... Electronics were once purchased in Kharkiv, Ukraine. An entire empire contributed to the success of the trolleybus. But that empire is gone; a full-scale war is raging in Ukraine, so Bishkek won’t buy anything from Kharkiv for now. And the rolling stock is aging.” 

Elena Sadunova, one of the final students in the technical school, says that shift is not only practical. 

“The USSR had engineers, technology, and money, but above all, a goal: to create transportation solutions that serve people,” she tells the reporter. “Today, the government doesn’t care about public transportation. Let everyone take their own children to school, commute to work. The car lobby is behind it. This is what capitalism looks like.”

City authorities present electric buses as the future. But critics are unconvinced. Activists argue that replacing trolleybuses rather than modernising them is short-sighted, especially in a city struggling with air pollution. They also question the transparency of the decision-making process.

“The situation is murky,” says one activist. “The city is taking out a loan from a Chinese bank to purchase buses manufactured in China. The bank is paying for the expert’s analysis of why the fleet replacement is necessary. This should alarm everyone. Such an analysis can’t be neutral, after all.”

Fear of dependence on China runs deep in Kyrgyzstan, according to the report. Their shared border stretches over a thousand kilometers, and Bishkek’s public debt to Beijing reached $4 billion at the beginning of 2024.

But protests against these electric buses from China are hampered by political repression at home. Even among transport workers, action is limited by fear of losing what are now precarious jobs.

Meanwhile, the dismantling proceeds – sometimes literally overnight, when crews cut cables. The longer the journalist stays in the city, the greater the sense of inevitability grows: even those who oppose the closures start to concede the system may be beyond saving.

Against this political backdrop, the article returns to the drivers themselves. Women like Irina, with three decades of experience, who cannot imagine another career; or Begimai, who takes pride in the discipline and independence the job offers. They describe trolleybus driving as skilled work requiring patience, composure, and responsibility for passengers’ safety.

By the end of the report, the transition is complete. Bishkek’s last trolleybus line is shut down. Workers disperse: some find new roles, others struggle. Teachers from the technical school relocate. A Soviet-era, female-dominated profession reaches the end of the line.

The original article ‘Trolejbus w Kirgistanie to kobieca sprawa’ by Emilia Sułek was first published in Polish on 3 December, 2025. 

It is available here. 

Pismo is a monthly magazine focused on long-form reporting that was first published in Poland in 2018.

Translator Issue #3 is available now!

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Inside, you’ll find stories from across the world: a Korean middle school on the political frontline, the world of gaming in 1980s Hungary, the fragile ecology (and mystery) of eels in northern Italy, the culture of shamans on the border of China and Vietnam, a searing investigation into Romania’s aesthetic gynaecology industry and Translator’s original Street Talks give voice to hyperlocal stories from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore – all illustrated by artists from around the world.

Plus: Abdul Bacet’s photo essay on Babur’s Gardens in Kabul, an interview with Abeera Kamran and Zeerak Ahmed on digitising the Urdu script, a multilingual crossword, and reviews of Polly Barton’s debut novel and Alexander Voloshin’s migration memoir.

This week, we begin in Russia, with coverage of a disturbing new law on genetic material, and what it says about Putin’s paranoia.

From Colombia, we follow a long-running series of articles about clerical sexual abuse by a leading local media outlet, and the legal victory which means that what was once private, must now be made public.

And from a Chinese language publication, we bring you the fascinating story of how a Fujianese store manager in south Wales has become an internet sensation, and what it says about creating a sense of belonging in a new country.

Translator Issue #3 is available now!

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What’s behind Putin’s new law on “sovereign genetics”?

A Russian-language outlet investigates the sinister motivations behind – and consequences of – the Kremlin’s new law on genetic material

Vladimir Putin has long had an intense - some would say irrational - focus on the study and applications of genetics. 

For years, the Russian president has been warning about the potential for biological weapons that would be able to target particular ethnic groups by attacking genetic particularities. While even state-supported scientists privately dismiss the suggestions as “Neanderthal nonsense”, Putin continues to claim that foreign adversaries are “collecting [Russians’] biological material, purposefully and professionally,” to develop such tools. 

This paranoia is one of the motivations for the Kremlin’s new law on genetics, according to a fascinating – and disturbing – recent piece reported by Valery Panyushkin of the investigative project Sistema, published on the website of Radio Svoboda (Radio Liberty). 

Putin signed off on the law in February of this year, Panyushkin reports. On paper, the legislative change is dry and technical: a framework for handling biological material and building a National Genetic Information Database, set to launch this autumn. In practice, it’s something else entirely, and potentially much darker.

The idea of a national genetics programme isn’t new. Since 2018, Russia has been investing in genetic technologies, with ambitions that echo those of Western nations: better diagnostics, new drugs, a foothold in cutting-edge science. But, as Russia becomes increasingly isolated in other spheres, the new law signals a shift away from that outward-facing model.

Experts interviewed by Sistema – all of whom speak anonymously – said the law is really about who controls this information and to what end. 

First, the national database sits close to power: Vladimir Putin’s daughter, Maria Vorontsova, is part of its leadership. 

Second, its most immediate use is military. A centralised genetic database would make it far quicker and easier to identify the dead and wounded – a practical problem in wartime that currently requires relatives’ DNA and time-consuming analysis. With a unified system, that could be reduced to minutes.

Third, there’s the question of surveillance. At the moment, individual laboratories aren’t required to hand over client data. If and when they are, the state would gain access to an entirely new layer of information about its citizens.

Finally, the law blocks cooperation with foreign healthcare systems (in part because of Putin’s paranoia about Russian material being misused). That cuts Russian medicine off from the global networks through which new treatments are developed and tested.

Sealing off this data has other, less obvious, consequences. Ukrainian investigators have collected genetic material tied to suspected perpetrators of sexualised violence in the country and elsewhere. Without access to Russian databases, matching that evidence becomes far harder: effectively shielding suspects from identification.

Taken as a whole, this law embodies an approach that Sistema describes in its headline as “sovereign genetics”. Centralised, cut off from the international community, and closely tied to the security state.

The original article (‘Суверенная генетика. Российская биологическая наука амбициозно отмежевалась от мировой’) by Valery Panyushkin was first published in Russian by Sistema on 26 March 2026.

It is available here.

Sistema is a Russian-language investigative project that has been run by Radio Liberty / Radio Free Europe and Nastoyashee Vremya (Current Time) since 2023.

Summary by TM

From silence, into the light

Over the last year and a half, the Colombian media outlet Casa Macondo has run a series of articles on accusations of sexual abuse in the Catholic church – and the ways in which it has been covered up – under the collective title “El Archivo Secreto” (the secret archive – in reference to the private curial archives of each diocese of the Catholic church, as well as the Vatican’s own secret archive).

Some of the articles in the series connect to international, cross-border investigations, conducted alongside El País from Spain, The Boston Globe in the United States, Observador in Portugal and Correctiv in Germany. (One article, from March 19 this year, goes into the details of Joseph Ratzinger, describing him as the “encubridor” – that is, the “abettor” to sexual abuse – who became Pope as Benedict XVI). As one might expect, the fight to reveal the extent of abuse across any global institution, particularly one as complex as the Catholic church, has many fronts; Colombia is just one.

Most of Casa Macondo’s articles are penned by Juan Pablo Barrientos, the head of the publication’s investigations unit.

Overall, they paint a disturbing – and disturbingly familiar – picture of what happened in Colombia: of priests moved around once accused of paedophilia, of protection from higher-ups, of stonewalling by church authorities when faced with requests for information, and even of priests being whitewashed in church-led outreach efforts intended to improve its image.

One of the earliest articles in the series, from November 2024, refers to a forum organised by the Jesuit order at the Javierian university (a church institution in the Colombian capital Bogotá) that year, where – the article says – questions from survivors about paedophile priest Darío Chavarriaga were “censored”. Another panellist at the same forum, Monsignor Francisco Antonio Niño Súa, advertising at length the measures taken by the Catholic church to prevent sexual abuse had, the article states, been himself responsible for protecting thirty-eight priests in a scandal the Colombian city of Villavicencio some years before, going so far as dismissing two female investigators in the case when they refused to toe the line of the church hierarchy.

Another much more recent article, published only this March, details the case of Father Mario Hernando Reyes Zambrano, an Ecuadorian-born priest who worked in both Colombia and Bolivia, in schools. There had been rumours and complaints for some years, Casa Macondo reports, but the way they were dealt with (or not) revlealed a pattern repeated with “mechanical precision”: a complaint, a temporary suspension (if that), transfer and re-instatement. Zambrano was eventually arrested on the basis of predatory sexual WhatsApp audio messages sent to a student at risk of failing his school year. Zambrano was rector of a school in Duitama at the time. (The article notes that Zambrano did not accept the charges).

A third article – and the most moving in the series (by Tatiana Escárraga this time) – is written in the first person, detailing the story of a man, now a surgeon, recalling his experiences as an altar boy to the parish priests who he once looked upon as father figures. His disturbing account details the arrival of a new priest who lured boys to stay behind by putting fish in the church fountain – which he asked them to look after – and then abused them in a nearby (deliberately secluded) private room. It also details the way in which another trusted priest, confronted with this account, became an abuser in turn. The victim – who at this point still aspired to become a priest himself – was in a situation of psychological torment and confusion. As he puts it in the article, “I lived trapped, condemned” in a hall of mirrors, caught between “guilt, manipulation, promises of help, vulnerability, an authority figure, and a commitment to absolute obedience”. At one point, the victim is told: “Don’t tell anyone, so as to avoid a scandal for the church”. The article is a study in psychological manipulation – Spanish readers should read it in full. It is available here.

At the core of the series is the intention to give voice to victims of clerical abuse (as above) and unmask those priests who have benefited from their positions of power (and those of the clerical hierarchy) to escape identification or punishment – but also a long running legal battle to ensure that the once secret archives of the church are made public, for good.

That battle, as Casa Macondo’s most recent article in the series shows, is achieving considerable success, a milestone in Colombian journalism. In 2023, Barrientos and another journalist (Miguel Ángel Estupiñán Medina) sent requests to 137 dioceses in Colombia, asking for whatever information they had on allegations it had received about priestly misconduct and what had been passed on (as required by law) to the public prosecutor. Only 17 dioceses replied, leading Casa Macondo to launch legal action against the others, based on earlier rulings of the Supreme Court. In May 2025, Casa Macondo achieved a legal victory in front of the full bench of the court, leading to a so-called “unification ruling” last month – in effect, pulling the various separate cases together into one.

It’s a remarkable achievement, and a reminder of the public importance of journalism. As the article notes, it makes Colombia “one of the few countries where the court has formally forced the world’s most powerful church to open up the records it has kept under lock and key for centuries”. The extensiveness of the final ruling means that it covers not only fifty dioceses, but also a range of church orders across the country and, in a new development, mandates information be provided to journalists – even of priests where there is no accusation of wrong-doing – in order to allow for patterns to be established which might suggest an institutional cover-up.

To date, Casa Macondo has received 13 per cent of the data originally requested, and yet has been able to build a database of some 800 priests accused of sexual abuse. If the proportions hold for the remaining 87 per cent of data as yet withheld, then the names of as many as 4,000 priests may ultimately be revealed. Once the information is there, Casa Macondo promises to publish a “complete X-ray of clerical abuse in Colombia, built with the same archives that the bishops have protected for decades.”

The private and secret will be made public. Into the darkness, light.

This summary draws in several articles from an extensive series by Casa Macondo. The specific articles referred to in the summary are linked above, and also listed below.

‘Los jesuitas encubrieron a siete sacerdotes denunciados por abusos sexuales’, by Juan Pablo Barrientos, November 3, 2024. Available here.

‘“No le digas a nadie para evitarle un escándalo a la Iglesia”’, by Tatiana Escárraga, June 14, 2025. Available here.

‘Joseph Ratzinger protegió a curas pederastas: la doble vida del encubridor al que nombraron Papa’, by Juan Pablo Barrientos, March 19, 2026. Available here.

‘“Quisiera estar a tu lado, ir tocando todo tu cuerpo”: los audios que hundieron al sacerdote salesiano Mario Reyes’, by Juan Pablo Barrientos, March 26, 2026. Available here.

‘La Corte Constitucional ordena a la Iglesia católica abrir sus archivos secretos de sacerdotes denunciados por abuso sexual’, by Juan Pablo Barrientos, April 17, 2026. Available her e.

Casa Macondo is a Colombian media outlet combining investigative, environmental, and cultural journalism with a strong social justice angle. It’s tagline is “Somos historias” – “We are stories”.

Summary by CEM

The multiverse of “UK Shelby”

How a Chinese immigrant in a Welsh town has built a following on Chinese social media platform Douyin and what his fame says about language and belonging

We’re standing at a general store in Port Talbot, a working-class industrial town in south Wales. Chen Qinghan, a journalist for the Chinese-language media outlet Initium Media, takes us inside. Beyond the price tags of the vapes, sweets, fizzy drinks and crisps on sale, there’s an unusual special offer available. Help the owner of the shop film a short video, the article reports, and the drinks are free.

The owner in question is Fei, a 40-year-old man from Changle, near the city of Fuzhou in southern China, capital of the province of Fujian. For the last decade or so Wei has been running The Aperitif, an unremarkable local shop in Port Talbot which has been selling the basic necessities of life (and alcohol) for the last fifty years. [Photos in the original article give a sense of the vibe]. Nothing special, you might think. But his Douyin account, known as “UK Shelby” – presumably after one of the characters from British television hit Peaky Blinders – has 900,000 followers. The secret to its success is it deceptively simple content: Fei teaches the town’s Welsh residents to speak Fujianese dialect and Mandarin on camera, in exchange for snacks.

Wei’s videos tend to feature a rotating cast of local teenage boys, most prominently a stocky, red-cheeked boy Fei has named “Seven Catties Six.” In China’s internet culture, the term “foreign teenagers” carries mildly menacing overtones: restless and rabble-rousing. Yet this particular Fujianese uncle, who can barely speak standard Mandarin himself, has somehow managed to round up a group of these potential troublemakers to stand obediently in front of a camera shouting Fujianese dialect words, a source of considerable online astonishment in China. On Douyin, the hashtag #teenagertamer generated millions of views. Fei became, briefly, a celebrity.

But journalist Chen Qinghan, who visited Port Talbot in November 2024 and spent three hours at the till watching the town pass through, is interested in a somewhat different story. His article is less about online virality than about what precedes and underlies it: eleven years of daily interactions, of letting shoplifting teenagers pick one free item from the shelves and telling them to ask next time, of covering energy drinks for boys without pocket money, of driving teenagers home in his cobalt-blue van. “Only when they genuinely respect you as a person,” Fei says, “will they be willing to film videos with you.”

The locals in the videos are largely unaware of their online afterlives. Among the recurring cast is Michelle, the mother who shouts “Nǐ hǎo” before Fei has finished introducing her, and nine-year-old Caden, whose shouts words in Fujianese. The videos are uploaded to Chinese social media platforms. Most locals only find out how many likes they got the next time they stop in. In Fujianese dialect, phrases like “Hǔ jiū” for “Fuzhou”, or “Yā bà yā yìng” for “excellent”, function less as cultural transmission than as a private language between people who have simply known each other for a long time.

The article’s secondary and more subtle subject is the audience on the other side of the screen. At nine each evening, with one hour left until closing, Fei sets up a second phone and starts a livestream on a smaller account: “Late-Night Souls, Fujianese Dialect.” Nine in the evening in Wales is five in the morning in China, but there are nonetheless around seventy viewers there. They are mostly Fujianese men scattered across the world: running supermarkets in Florida, riding delivery bikes through Changle county at night, sitting inside shops in Argentina. They send online gifts, argue good-naturedly in dialect, and leave their microphones open so the others can hear their background sounds: truck engines, street noise, the soundscape of being somewhere far from home, late at night.

Anthropologist Song Ping, who researches overseas Fujianese migration, describes this as the operation of “little traditions”: the informal, unsystematic knowledge that grassroots communities build to navigate unfamiliar worlds. What Fei has built is something like that: a loose order held together by nicknames (the Dean, the Director, the Director-General), dialect, and the accumulated credibility of years of turning up.

The piece ends on a detail that really earns its place. Fei’s most recent filming idea is to ask a local elderly woman in Port Talbot to recite a phrase from the Chinese internet: “At sunset the mountains return to the sea; the sea holds its depths. No one is without regret – only some do not cry out in pain.” He writes out the characters, notes the pronunciation, and explains the meaning.

The journalist Chen questions him why he’s chosen to do this. After a brief pause, he offers: the contrast is the point – an old lady saying something so literary. She doesn’t press him further. She doesn’t need to.

The original article ‘「英區謝爾比」的多重宇宙：福州方言，威爾士teenager和抖音直播間裏的深夜靈魂’ by Chen Qinghan was published in Traditional Chinese by Initium Media on August 27, 2025.

It is available here.

Initium Media (端傳媒) is an independent Chinese-language digital media outlet founded in 2015, specialising in in-depth reporting and commentary on politics, society, and culture across the Chinese-speaking world.

Summary by TMH  

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Inside, you’ll find stories from across the world: a Korean middle school on the political frontline, the world of gaming in 1980s Hungary, the fragile ecology (and mystery) of eels in northern Italy, the culture of shamans on the border of China and Vietnam, a searing investigation into Romania’s aesthetic gynaecology industry and Translator’s original Street Talks give voice to hyperlocal stories from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore – all illustrated by artists from around the world.

Plus: Abdul Bacet’s photo essay on Babur’s Gardens in Kabul, an interview with Abeera Kamran and Zeerak Ahmed on digitising the Urdu script, a multilingual crossword, and reviews of Polly Barton’s debut novel and Alexander Voloshin’s migration memoir.

This week, we begin in Colombia, with a powerful piece on how Venezuelan women seeking abortions are crossing the border to access healthcare, and the challenges facing them when they get there.

From India, we have a reminder of the ongoing gas crisis – essential for cooking and heating – as a result of the closing of the Strait of Hormuz.

And from France, we have a piece of long-form reportage on the sanctions situation in Cuba, how it is affecting daily life and the challenges it poses for both Cuban society, and the regime which has ruled it since the 1950s.

Before we get to the summaries…

Translator Issue #3 is available now!

On Wednesday, 22 April, we launched Translator Issue #3
– You can order your copy now.

Order Issue #3

Inside, you’ll find stories from across the world: a Korean middle school on the political frontline, the world of gaming in 1980s Hungary, the fragile ecology (and mystery) of eels in northern Italy, the culture of shamans on the border of China and Vietnam, a searing investigation into Romania’s aesthetic gynaecology industry and Translator’s original Street Talks give voice to hyperlocal stories from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore – all illustrated by artists from around the world.

Plus: Abdul Bacet’s photo essay on Babur’s Gardens in Kabul, an interview with Abeera Kamran and Zeerak Ahmed on digitising the Urdu script, a multilingual crossword, and reviews of Polly Barton’s debut novel and Alexander Voloshin’s migration memoir.

Support Translator to continue translating and publishing long-form reportage and journalism from beyond the Anglosphere by purchasing your copy of Issue #3 here.

Order Issue #3

…ok, back to this week’s summaries. Enjoy the read!

This side of the bridge

Venezuelan women cross into Colombia for abortions they cannot legally have at home, only to find that this “right” is not always easy to reach

In Venezuela, abortion remains a crime. In Colombia, since a landmark Constitutional Court ruling in 2022, it has been legal for up to 24 weeks. The distance between those two facts, measured in river crossings, missing documents, and hostile waiting rooms, is charted by a recent investigation by the feminist Colombian outlet, Volcánicas.

The piece opens not at the border but in a coastal Venezuelan city, where on February 5 this year, police raided a medical clinic and arrested a 69-year-old obstetrician allegedly mid-procedure. The doctor, Frank Peña, had delivered children for generations of local families. Dozens came out to defend him online and in the streets; one TikTok user described him as her gynaecologist for 26 years, through three pregnancies. The woman being treated at the time of the raid was transferred to another clinic. Official reports say her vital signs were stabilised. Whether she was ultimately able to make her own decision about her body is not recorded.

Absences – inadequate information, protection and recourse – are at the core of this article. Journalist Mariángela Urbina Castilla goes through the key elements of Venezuela’s crisis: a penal code that criminalises both the person who aborts and the person who performs the abortion; a healthcare system operating at a “fraction of its capacity” due to years of political and social crisis; a long-standing contraceptive shortage; and religious groups that have continued to accumulate political influence through each successive crisis. Magdymar León Torrealba, a clinical psychologist and director of Venezuela’s leading sexual education association, is clear about the consequences: criminalisation doesn’t prevent abortion, it silences it. Women internalise the fear of being judged, reported, or mistreated. They delay. They manage alone.

For many, travelling to Colombia is the response. That country’s 2022 legal ruling is explicit: all women on Colombian territory, regardless of nationality or immigration status, are entitled to a free, timely abortion through the health system. No documents required. No payment. No delay. According to organisations working with migrant women, the lived reality is different. They are asked for papers they don’t have. They are told to pay. They are shuffled between appointments and worn down until many simply give up. The Mesa por la Vida y la Salud de las Mujeres association (Table for Women’s Life and Health) has been by the side of two hundred women in this situation since 2022. Those are only the ones that managed to reach them in the first place.

Castilla follows four women through the maze. Victoria, a Venezuelan journalist living in Bogotá, was still breastfeeding her first child when she unintentionally fell pregnant a second time. She knew the law and she used it – she explicitly named the court ruling when a functionary tried to delay her access and was treated the same day. She was assigned at random to a doctor who wore a green handkerchief in her hair and had a sign on the wall that read: “You decide, I follow.” Victoria paid nothing. She is clear that in Venezuela, the same process would have been, in her words, “a nightmare”.

Yolima, a 25-year-old migrant from Venezuela and mother of three, was facing a fourth unwanted pregnancy with no support network or stable income. Frightened, she shared her story with some in her local community, and through the kindness of strangers the word spread. A health official made a referral. A rights’ monitor made calls. Costs – including transport, cost and accommodation -- were covered by local associations. As a result of such support, Yolima was able to access the care she needed with dignity. A spokesperson for one of the associations notes: “a trajectory of exclusion was transformed into a story of success and care”.

Only a bridge separates the border towns of Ipiales, Colombia, and Tulcán, Ecuador, where activist Yanni Ximena Caicedo has spent years building infrastructure to help women in need. It started with a Google search of what women in Ecuador might face. The results were, she says, terrifying: unsafe providers and fundamentalist misinformation. She is Catholic, an anthropologist, and known in her city as “Yanni, the abortion one.” After the 2022 ruling, she began crossing into Ecuador to spread the word of the new rights women were entitled to in Colombia. Ecuadorian women of means, she notes, come to Ipiales to terminate pregnancies discreetly, in hotels. Venezuelan migrant women are treated differently – not with gentle social condemnation but stigmatised as incapable of mothering anyway.

Tatiana Cordero, coordinator of the feminist organisation Mujer y Futuro in the Colombian city of Bucaramanga, rounds out the picture. She spent years navigating bureaucratic certification processes to register her organisation as a healthcare provider to help Venezuelan women becoming, in her own account, architect, engineer, and nurse. Now her organisation offers teleconsultations and sends medications by post, reaching women in Chocó, Medellín, and wherever else they are, up to ten weeks of gestation. Given the amount charged by local hospitals in the state of Santander to perform an abortion – 14 million pesos rather than a national average of five – it can make sense to fly women to Bogotá for treatment. “It’s a form of conscientious objection through pricing”, she says.

The article ends where it begins: at the border. On one side of this line, the right to abortion exists. On the other, it does not. In between, there are women who have spent years building the bridge; one body at a time, one decision at a time.

The original article ‘Del puente para acá abortas’ by Mariángela Urbina Castilla was published in Spanish by Volcánicas on March 16, 2026.

It is available here.

Volcánicas is an independent Colombian feminist journalism outlet founded in 2017 that specialises in gender, reproductive rights, and social justice reporting.

Summary by TMH  

Running on empty

As war in the Middle East disrupts energy flows, millions of Indian households are left scrambling for gas

As Indian publication Khabar Lahariya reports, the ongoing conflict between the United States, Iran and Israel – specifically the closure of the Strait of Hormuz – has been wreaking havoc on the streets of India. A fall in imports has led to gas shortages, panic buying and, importantly, a run on gas cylinders – a source of portable energy which provides heating and cooking for millions.

[This isn’t the first time Translator has touched on this subject: Issue #1 contained a Street Talk from N’Djamena in Chad, where the search for a “bouteil” of gas constituted a daily grind for many of the city’s residents].

The consequences of all this can be fatal. Khabar Lahariya takes the case reported in the Indian Express of a seventy-year-old man in Uttar Pradesh, fabric worker Mukhtiyar Ahmed, who died complaining of chest pains after being forced to wait in line for an extended period. Elsewhere, in Punjab, sixty-six-year-old Bhushan Kumar arrived to pick up a gas cylinder early one morning, spent two hours in a queue, and collapsed.

The issue is not just supply shortages of gas itself, but the public response, and how others have been able to capitalise on the situation. Fear around being caught short has meant that people are booking gas cylinders ahead earlier in an attempt to get ahead, exacerbating the sense of shortage. Companies have taken to social media to try and calm the situation.

In some places, a black market has emerged, with LPG gas cylinders being sold at double or triple the normal price, cylinders being stockpiled and racketeers getting in on the action. In Mundka, West Delhi, police confiscated over six hundred cylinders being stored illegally. In the state of Madhya Pradesh Amar Ujala, another Hindi-language daily, reported on the formation of a special task force to uncover illegal storage. According to News 18, by mid-March, nearly five thousand raids had taken place in Uttar Pradesh.

It’s a salutary reminder that while many around the world may be tracking the oil price, interest rates or the share market, more immediate and tangible consequences are being felt throughout the world in terms of the ability to cook and heat themselves – and have been for weeks, without a clear end in sight.

The original article by Suchitra Hindi, ‘LPG Gas Cylinder Shortage: दिल्ली, यूपी और एमपी में एलपीजी गैस सिलेंडर की कालाबजारी शुरू और भारी मात्रा में गैस सिलेंडर जब्त’ was published in Hindi by Khabar Lahariya on March 17, 2026.

It is available here.

Khabar Lahariya is an independent, women-led Indian digital news organisation founded in 2002, originally as a print newspaper in Uttar Pradesh, offering fearless feminist journalism.

Summary by TMH  

Special Period II

How Cuba is faring in its economic war with the US, and what it bodes for the future of the island’s regime

In this mix of reportage and analysis published a little earlier this year by the left-wing French publication Le Vent se Lève, journalists Vincent Ortiz and Pierre Lebret take us inside the worsening daily situation in Cuba, and the stresses it is placing both on society, and on the regime which has ruled the island since 1959.

Faced with an energy crisis prompted by the drying up of oil imports from Venezuela after the American intervention there, the government has issued an edict for the nation to “Do more with less”. “It’s what Cubans have been doing for decades”, an interviewee retorts. Inventiveness, adaptation: these have been watchwords for Cuban citizens trying to get by with what they have, what little they can purchase, or receive in direct support from the state.

In one of Havana’s working-class districts – the finca of Marianao – a retired schoolteacher reuses the water she has cooked her rice in to feed the plants. Coconuts serve multiple uses: the milk can be reused as skin cream, the husk can be mixed with a little bit of charcoal and paper (in this case, a few pages of the local Communist party newspaper) to make fire for cooking. State rations – the “libreta” – buy much less than they used to. School breakfasts have been cut. Rates of child mortality (historically one of the best in Latin America) have doubled since 2018, the article reports. A minister recently resigned after stating that Cuba had no beggars – a claim contradicted by daily evidence on the streets of Havana.

For some, the current situation recalls a version of the “special period” following the fall of the Soviet Union and the end of its subsidies to the fraternal Cuban regime. [For a different take on this, read Abrahám Jiménez Enoa’s wonderful piece ‘The Hunter’ in Issue #1 of Translator, translated by Lily Meyer]. Ortiz and Lebret suggest that even those Cubans who oppose the current regime have a soft spot for Fidel Castro’s rule in the 1990s, when the Cuban regime managed to survive the Soviet collapse that proved fatal to most of the world’s other avowedly Communist states.

The election of Hugo Chavez in Venezuela offered Cuba a lifeline, the article suggests – a lifeline that has now been cut. But there was another, trickier set of alliances that served the Cuban regime in that time. In a fascinating aside, the article looks at how the regime got around the American embargo – reinforced with the 1996 Helms-Burton Act – with the help of hyper-capitalist commodity traders (the article cites Vitol, Trafigura and Marc Rich) ready to run the risk of American ire in return for a handsome profit. For a while, instead of the USSR, Cuba’s lifeline was Vitol SA, a Switzerland-based company which bought and refined Cuban sugar in places as far away as Kyrgyzstan. A French bank operated on the island through its Channel Island affiliate.

Then things started to get trickier – not under Donald Trump, but under Barack Obama – with American authorities using the dollar by financial institutions around the world as a tool to get them to follow American rules. The article cites a French businessman whose French account was shut down for making a trivial €8.50 transfer to Cuba. Under the first Trump administration, the article explains, things tightened further, with little pushback from Europe. Under Trump II, Latin American countries have been forced to repatriate Cuban medical missions (a source of Cuban soft power and income) while tourism has become trickier.

Cuban businesses operate more freely than the Cuban state does (for example, US Secretary of State Marco Rubio has confirmed it’s legal to export petrol to a private Cuban company, as long as it has no links to the state). But this, the article suggests, poses a different kind of ideological challenge. Le Vent se Lève speaks to a young Communist cadre: “America’s entrepreneurial mentality is seeping in, bit by bit”. The solidarist expressions she grew up with have become the subject of social media memes.

Marielisa, affirms her support for the regime’s “orthodoxy” and its talking points. Electricity cuts mean the streetlamps are out. On the other hand, “In which other Latin American capital could one walk home at night, in the dark, without being attacked at once?”, she asks. She fears liberalisation – but knows her position is a minority one.

The journalists attend a public meeting on the parlous state of Cuban healthcare. There’s real tension between fears of how liberalisation might change Cuban society, and the need to address growing shortages. “Things can’t go on like this”, one participant says. It’s a painful insight into a society struggling with the consequences of a burned-out economic system, amid a geopolitical environment that offers very little support.

The original article by Vincent Ortiz and Pierre Lebret, ‘La Havane, abandonnée face à l’embargo le plus dur de son histoire’ was published in French by Le Vent se Lève on March 8, 2026.

It is available here.

Le Vent se Lève is an avowedly left-wing progressive French publication operating since 2016, highly critical of what it terms the oligarchy in control of mainstream French media, in opposition to the ideological dominance of neo-liberalism, and in response to the success of the far-right in occupying the information space on social media.

Summary by CEM 

Issue #3 is available now!

Translator Issue #3 brings you long-form journalism, reportage and non-fiction from Korea, South Africa, Greece, China, Italy and beyond - translated into English and beautifully illustrated by artists from around the world.

Alongside this, Street Talks from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore give voice to hyperlocal stories as told by those who live there. A multi-lingual crossword, book reviews, a memoir excerpt and a photo essay are also part of this issue.

You can order your copy from us now at a discounted price.

Read the world differently!

This week we begin in Finland with an in-depth article into the funding model behind Finnish film-making and where it’s broken.

From Tunisia, we hear about an educational fraud and its consequences.

And from Bangladesh, a piece on how Dhaka’s hidden waterways may offer a solution to the mega-city’s traffic gridlock.

Before we get to the summaries…

Translator Issue #3 is available now!

On Wednesday 22 April, we launched Translator Issue #3 – you can order your copy now.

Order Issue #3

Inside, you’ll find stories from across the world: a Korean middle school on the political frontline, the world of gaming in 1980s Hungary, the fragile ecology (and mystery) of eels in northern Italy, the culture of shamans on the border of China and Vietnam, a searing investigation into Romania’s aesthetic gynaecology industry and Translator’s original Street Talks give voice to hyperlocal stories from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore – all illustrated by artists from around the world.

Plus: Abdul Bacet’s photo essay on Babur’s Gardens in Kabul, an interview with Abeera Kamran and Zeerak Ahmed on digitising the Urdu script, a multilingual crossword, and reviews of Polly Barton’s debut novel and Alexander Voloshin’s migration memoir.

Support Translator to continue translating and publishing long-form reportage and journalism from beyond the Anglosphere by purchasing your copy of Issue #3 here.

Order Issue #3

…ok, back to this week’s summaries. Enjoy the read!

Who’s calling cut on Finnish film?  

How dwindling grants and a war over who deserves them are threatening Finnish cinema  

Trouble is afoot in the Finnish Film industry. A recent investigation in Long Play by Kalle Kinnunen, based on interviews with nine producers, came to a stark conclusion: “Nobody is having fun”. The Finnish film industry is headed towards serious trouble. The main culprit? Money – but not just.   

Several interviewees point enviously to the international successes of their Scandinavian neighbours in recent years. Swedish director Ruben Östlund’s Triangle of Sadness received three nominations at the Oscars. Norwegian director Joachim Trier’s Sentimental Value got nine. Finnish cinema is close to achieving the same. As producer Jussi Rantamäki notes: “Juho Kuosmanen is just one step away”.  

None of the producers interviewed think there are open conflicts of interest in the industry as such but when scarcity is shared, two mindsets – commercial and artistic – inevitably collide.  

Last autumn, public funding for Finnish cinema narrowly escaped planes massive cuts to production support from the state. A fierce campaign on behalf of Finnish cinema brought together both those who see film as a business for the domestic market, and those who have wider or more artistic ambitions. In the end, even the ruling centre-right National Coalition Party signalled that the intended cuts had been a huge mistake.   

But the sector’s audible sigh of relief may only be temporary. In the current financial situation, the article notes, “no sector is safe from cuts”. Just recently, the budget manager at the Ministry of Finance, wrote a newspaper column signalling the need for further retrenchment in public finances.   

Subsidies for film in Finland are already significantly than in other Nordic countries. As the article notes, there’s been no increase in the last fifteen years. On the contrary, subsidies were actually cut by five million in 2018. When you factor in inflation over the last few years, Kinnunen explains, the Film Foundation’s grants these days are “simply too small”. He emphasises that the Foundation has a statutory mandate to support Finnish culture: “this law is the cornerstone of the filmmaking ecosystem”.  

What to do? “If the pot doesn’t grow, the number of films will inevitably decrease, and the number of production companies will inevitably decrease. We make too few ambitious films for the public. Should they be financed with more money specifically on cultural grounds?”, asks producer Nina Laurio.  

To be clear, films aren’t generally made with grants alone. Their function is to act as seed funding, to attract commercial actors with the promise that the film is viable. Grant funding is “an essential message that there is trust in the project.” But who should get it?   

The article divides Finnish films into three broad categories: films for the general public, motivated by the pursuit of high viewership; internationally co-financed films, which are usually director-driven; and domestic auteur films that are not developed on commercial lines. The latter are sometimes financed up to 70 per cent by grants from the Film Foundation.   

Because so few films turn a profit, production companies have virtually no cash reserves. Self-financing essentially means the producer deferring their own fee and, in a wonderful turn of phrase in the article, “eating pea soup”.   

The Finnish Cinema Association, naturally enough, has set out its position that subsidies should be directed to films with the possibility of having a large domestic audience – the target of two million is cited. There’s a big skew in terms of who watches what in Finland: domestic films account for thirty per cent of what people watch in the country overall, but it’s over half in the regions, and eighty per cent in some villages.   

The Foundation operates a complicated points system for determining who gets support. Past success is a major factor. Some in the industry suspect foul play involved in manipulating applications to maximise points: including the name of a famous director on the application for example, then dropping the director once funding is in place. But, of course, it’s difficult to prove.   

What do distributors want? Copper-bottomed, sure-fire, dead-cert winners. Doesn’t everyone? But, in reality, these don’t exist. Kinnunen notes an unusually large number of films that were expected to be hits have flopped in recent years. Success can spring from surprising places. Though sequels, TV spin-offs, and biopics may be statistically more likely to reach higher viewership, this can only be achieved if the end product is actually good.  

What can actually happen, in the search for the magic formula to get domestic funding and appease local distributors, is something else. Domestic storylines grow stale, artistic risks are not taken, foreign market are ignored. “Courage”, the article notes, “is the only way to move forward”.   

But courage with the right support networks in place. “Making a film is fantastic, but financing it is really boring,” says producer Jani Pösö.  

The original article ‘Enemmän elokuvatukea mutta harvemmille. Kenelle?’ by Kalle Kinnunen was published in Finnish by Long Play on March 18, 2026.

It is available here.  

Long Play is an independent, reader-funded Finnish digital magazine founded in 2014 that specialises in long-form investigative and narrative journalism.  

Summary by TMH  

Degrees of deception  

How a private institution in Tunis sold students the dream of an internationally recognised degree, then failed to deliver  

When somebody tells you “university is a scam”, it’s usually a matter of opinion. In Tunisia, one institution has made this phrase uncomfortably literal.   

Inkyfada, a Tunis-based non-profit media collective, recently published the findings of its investigation into the workings of the so-called “Digital College”, which they claim amounts to a fraud on students – giving them useless certificates while taking thousands of dinars in fees, and years of students’ lives that they’ll never get back.   

Targeting students fresh out of secondary school with promises of internationally recognised certificates and the opportunity to study abroad, the Digital College offered courses in digital marketing, social media management, content creation and digital communication, all made more palatable by its apparent affiliation with the Collège de Paris, a French institution with several satellite branches around the world.   

It was launched with great fanfare in 2022 with ads across billboards and on social media. One student tells Inkyfada how he fell for it. Ahmed* had an offer at a public university but enrolled at “Digital College” after seeing the online ads and because friends were already studying there. He visited the campus and met with a representative who boasted of work opportunities in digital, and the chance to study abroad. It all seemed, he said, like an “official university” – with the formal language of “students” and programmes described as “Bachelor’s” and “Master’s” degrees. It never occurred to him to ask whether such degrees would carry formal status as such.    

During his first year, suspicions began to mount. Things started changing on the website. (The article includes the screenshot of a 404 Error message when looking up the college online, snippets from emails, and recordings of students talking about their experience). Ahmed was not alone in getting worried. Many students hoping to study abroad had begun to ask about the process. Several contacted the Collège de Paris directly – only to be told that no such affiliation existed. Some reached out to the Tunisian Ministry of Higher Education to inquire about the college’s legal status – to discover it was not recognised within the national system.   

On 23 December 2025, the Ministry issued a statement making clear that only licensed institutions can award degrees, and that advertising otherwise is prohibited. In January 2026, students noticed changes on the college’s website – the word “university” was replaced with more generic terms referring to “training”. As public scrutiny grew, the institution formally admitted to not holding university status at a meeting on 14 February 2026. A lawyer consulted by Inkyfada explained that misrepresentation is illegal in Tunisia, carrying the risk of five years in prison and a fine.   

The story doesn’t stop there. Inkyfada’s research connected them to French journalists investigating the wider Collège de Paris group. A report by Béatrice Mathieu revealed that the group is teetering on full blown bankruptcy, with debts of up to 90 million euros (£78 million / $105 million). Several French investigations into institutions belonging to the group are underway.  

For students like Ahmed*, the revelations have been devastating. The programme cost him TND 7,900 (equivalent to £2,000 or $2,700) per year, an enormous sum that he, and many other Tunisians, had considered a serious investment. Some may be able to get their money back; some may have already done so. But how should they value their certificates, or their wasted time? There are some things you can’t get back.   

The original article ‘“Digital College”: بين صفة الجامعة وواقع مركز التكوين’ by Omaima Al-Zarwani was published in Arabic by Inkyfada on March 18, 2026.

It is available here.  

Inkyfada is an independent, non-profit Tunisian web magazine founded in 2014 that specializes in investigative journalism, data journalism, and digital storytelling.  

Summary by TMH  

The city that forgot it was built on water  

Dhaka was once defined by its waterways – restoring them, experts argue, could finally free the city from its gridlock  

Those who live in Dhaka describe the rush hour commute as “urban hell”. The capital of Bangladesh is the second most populous city on earth, home to an estimated 36.6 million people. It is also said to be the slowest city, with road traffic crawling at 4.8km per hour. Al Amin Tusher, writing for Netra News, says it feels like “a life sentence”.  

He describes the experience of boarding a local bus: “there is barely room to stand inside... Horns blare relentlessly. The bus lurches forward, pauses, crawls, and jerks again. The inertia is constant, testing the body’s ability to absorb shocks.”  

Now, perhaps, a solution has emerged: Dhaka’s waterways, many of which have been covered up with concrete in recent decades. (Some striking maps in the article show the situation from 1960 to now). Could re-opening these waterways solve the city’s traffic crisis? “Dhaka is at a critical juncture”, transport specialist Dr Hadiuzzaman tells Netra News. The entire city lies within a ring of water 110 kilometres in circumference, he explains. If all the waterways within this circle were connected, the resulting 450-kilometre network - Tusher uses the word “artery” - could reduce pressure on the roads by 30 per cent.   

The destruction of the waterways wasn’t purely accidental, argues urban planner Iqbal Habib, but is rather the result of greed, corruption and over development. He recalls a 1996 attempt to restore Dhanmondi Lake - which ended up leading to the construction of a shopping centre instead: “A mess of structures was then built to engulf this water channel. There was no way to think about how it might be restored again.”   

In the 1980s, the Begunbari Canal was concreted over to build the Panthapath Road. Reducing natural flow of water has increased run-off in the monsoon, increasing the risk of flash floods, while also trapping sediment. (The city is now removing 200,000 tons of sludge from the Hatirjheel and Panthapath areas).   

Netra News describes the situation as a “painful case of bureaucratic neglect”. A 2016 decision to restore the waterways has met with little progress. The project director said he had not been given any directives to proceed. To achieve the task, he tells Tusher, “one would have to tear apart the existing infrastructure and plan a new city”.   

A new government has taken office in Bangladesh in recent days. Will they rise to the challenge?   

The original article ‘Why Dhaka’s Waterways Matter More Than Flyovers’ by Al Amin Tusher, was published in English by Netra News on March 22, 2026. It is available here.  

Netra News is an independent, non-profit Bangladeshi digital news outlet founded in 2012 that specialises in investigative journalism and in-depth reporting on Bangladesh. Based in Sweden, it was founded by Tasneem Khalil, an exiled Bangladeshi journalist, who serves as their editor-in-chief.  

Summary by TMH  

Issue #3 is available now!

On Wednesday 22 April, we launched Translator Issue #3 – you can order your copy now.

Inside, you’ll find stories from across the world: a Korean middle school on the political frontline, the world of gaming in 1980s Hungary, the fragile ecology (and mystery) of eels in northern Italy, the culture of shamans on the border of China and Vietnam, a searing investigation into Romania’s aesthetic gynaecology industry and Translator’s original Street Talks give voice to hyperlocal stories from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore – all illustrated by artists from around the world.

Plus: Abdul Bacet’s photo essay on Babur’s Gardens in Kabul, an interview with Abeera Kamran and Zeerak Ahmed on digitising the Urdu script, a multilingual crossword, and reviews of Polly Barton’s debut novel and Alexander Voloshin’s migration memoir.

Support Translator to continue translating and publishing long-form reportage and journalism from beyond the Anglosphere by purchasing your copy of Issue #3 here.

Each week, Translator’s Dispatch brings you summaries of three compelling stories from media beyond the Anglosphere. It’s our way of helping us all read the world a little differently, to get out of our mono-lingual media bubbles.

We begin in Poland, where a Catholic magazine explores the growing phenomenon of “apostasy” – where individuals are officially renouncing their faith.

From Lebanon, an investigation warns of a “cancer tsunami” driven by environmental degradation, widespread smoking and systemic political inaction.

And from Switzerland, an interview with the director of the European Space Agency reflecting on whether Europe is “naked in space”.

But first, we have some exciting news to share… Translator Issue #3 will be released on Wednesday 22 April. You can pre-order your copy now - available for international delivery!

It’s a feast, including long-form journalism, reportage and non-fiction from Italy, South Africa, South Korea, China and more, from searing investigative journalism and stories to fascinate and delight.

We’ll be hosting a London launch event – Wine & Words on Wednesday 22 April at People’s Wine Bar in Dalston from 7-8:30PM. Our team will be reading from the pieces we've selected and translated for Issue #3.

Limited tickets are available here. Secure your spot now to ensure you don't miss this opportunity to celebrate and connect with Translator’s community.

Pre-order Issue #3

…ok, back to this week’s summaries. Enjoy the read!

How do you say “apostasy” in Polish?

A magazine in Poland explores the increasingly common phenomenon of believers formally abandoning their Catholic faith

While some media outlets in Western Europe talk of a “quiet revival” of the Christian faith, especially among young people, the Polish Catholic magazine Tygodnik Powszechny published a recent piece on those who have chosen to make a decisive break from the Church.

The article by journalist Adrian Burtan features the stories of two women who turned to “apostasy” – a complete, official abandonment of the faith, rather than a decision to stop attending Mass.

While reliable figures on apostasy in Poland are scarce, an “Apostasy Map” project and the website apostazja.eu, which offers templates for leaving the Church, have recorded thousands of downloads since 2020. Not everyone who downloads a declaration submits it, but the figures suggest that such formal departures may be widespread.

Alicja Bazan grew up deeply involved in the Church in Kraków. She attended retreats, belonged to youth groups and helped organise church camps.

But over time she became disillusioned, especially as she watched bishops make hostile statements about sexual minorities and saw little accountability among the clergy for abuse scandals. When she raised questions with officials, she said she was told she “thinks too much” and was expected to accept the Church’s teachings without discussion.

“It’s not that I didn’t try to fight for my faith,” she told the magazine. “I did, because giving up something you’ve dedicated a large part of your life to isn’t easy.”

Eventually she concluded she could no longer stay. When she was writing her list of goals for the New Year of 2025, she made apostasy one of them. The formal process involved submitting a declaration and visiting a priest.

Joanna Banach, also featured in the report, turned to the Church as a teenager, finding it provided an escape from a difficult family environment. She became deeply involved in parish life.

But a crisis came later when her own daughter told her she was attracted to women. After seeking guidance from a priest - who advised her to love her child - Joanna chose to support her daughter openly, attending Pride marches and sharing this publicly online.

The reaction from fellow parishioners, however, was harsh. Community members condemned her, and pressure from the parish council led to her removal from official roles.

The experience pushed her into a depression and led her to stop attending Mass. Apostasy, when she chose it, formalised a separation that had already happened.

Banach said: “Over time, I began to think that the Church was no longer my place. That everything the community taught had nothing to do with the Gospel. Jesus said that we are all loved just as we are. But in the Church, it’s different.”

Experts cited in the article said that these two examples were part of broader trends. Katarzyna Zielińska, a sociologist of religion at Jagiellonian University, pointed to cultural and economic change as well as the COVID-19 pandemic. Polish religiosity, she says, often relies on ritual and repetition. When lockdowns disrupted that rhythm, many people simply did not return to church.

Recent declines have also been shaped by local factors: the Church’s closeness to politicians, and what critics like Alicja Bazan see as a lack of decisive action against abusive clergy. Without movement on either of these issues, Poland’s secularisation is likely to continue, the Catholic publication predicts.

The original article ‘Dlaczego wierni odchodzą z Kościoła? Dwie opowieści o apostazji’ by Adrian Burtan was first published in Polish on 10 February.

It is available here.

Tygodnik Powszechny is a Catholic weekly magazine that was founded in 1945.

Summary by TM

Lebanon’s slow motion “cancer tsunami”

Rising cancer rates expose a web of pollution and public health failure in Lebanon

In an in-depth report for An-Nahar, journalist Laila Girgis examines the sharp increase in cancer cases in Lebanon, framing it as a looming public health crisis driven by environmental degradation, widespread smoking and systemic political inaction.

The article opens with a stark warning: Lebanon may be facing a “cancer tsunami.” Drawing on research published by The Lancet – a British medical journal – Girgis notes projections that cancer mortality could increase by as much as 80 per cent by 2050 if current trends continue. While some figures are based on predictive models rather than complete national data, health experts broadly agree that rates in Lebanon are rising, particularly for breast, lung and prostate cancers.

At the centre of the crisis is a complex web of interrelated risk factors. Chief among them is smoking. Lebanon ranks among the highest globally for tobacco consumption, with both cigarettes and shisha deeply embedded in social life. Experts warn that these products contain dozens of carcinogenic substances, significantly increasing the risk of multiple cancers beyond the lungs, including those affecting the throat and urinary tract. Alarmingly, smoking is also widespread among young people, with nearly a third of adolescents reported to be smokers.

Environmental pollution is another major driver. The widespread use of diesel generators, necessitated by the state’s failure to provide reliable electricity, has created a toxic atmosphere, particularly in urban areas like Beirut. Studies cited in the article reveal dangerously high levels of carcinogenic particles in the air, many of which penetrate the body and contribute to long-term health risks. Industrial pollution, contaminated water sources such as the Litani River, and unregulated pesticide use further compound the problem, introducing toxins into both the environment and the food supply.

Girgis highlights how these risks are exacerbated by weak governance. Regulations exist but are poorly enforced, whether in relation to smoking bans, environmental protections or food safety standards. According to experts and activists, many of the underlying causes of cancer are tied to entrenched political and economic interests, making meaningful reform difficult. This has led to what the article describes as a “chaotic” system in which pollution, unsafe agricultural practices and even counterfeit medicines persist largely unchecked.

Data gaps also complicate the national response. While cancer incidence is relatively well tracked through a revived national registry, mortality data remains incomplete due to historical limitations in accessing population records. This has forced reliance on projections rather than comprehensive statistics, though recent steps to improve data access may help clarify the scale of the crisis.

Ultimately, the article argues that Lebanon’s cancer burden is not inevitable, but indeed largely preventable. Addressing it will require political will, enforcement of existing laws and coordinated action across sectors. Without this, Girgis suggests, the country risks moving from warning signs to a full-scale public health catastrophe.

The original article, ‘تسونامي السرطان: كيف يُصنع في لبنان أخطر أوبئة العصر؟’ by Laila Girgis was published in Arabic on February 27, 2026 in An-Nahar.

It is available here.

An-Nahar is one of Lebanon’s leading Arabic-language daily newspapers and is widely regarded as a “newspaper of record” in the Arab world.

Summary by ZN

Spatially challenged

The director of the European Space Agency explains how Europe is both behind, and ahead, in space

A few months ago, the German foreign minister gave a talk in Berlin. In the time it took to give his remarks, he noted, several spy satellites from Russia and China would pass somewhere overhead. Around the same time, a plane carrying the head of the European Commission was forced to change plans due to interference — presumed to be a form of Russian hybrid warfare — to its navigational systems, which depend on networks of satellites circling the earth.

In a world where space is no longer just the final frontier for state-led exploration, but the backyard of the global economy, a playground for billionaires and a domain of geopolitical competition, Beat Balzli from the Swiss newspaper NZZ asks Josef Aschbacher, the director of the European Space Agency (the ESA), whether Europe is “naked” in space.

“Europe is not completely naked, but almost”, Aschbacher admits. There is no European space defence programme. A few countries – he lists Germany, France and Italy – have national satellite programmes. Aschbacher points to Europe’s Copernicus earth observation satellite networks and to the Galileo positioning network as civilian projects which gave some defence benefits. The One Web constellation is growing. But, Aschbacher says, it is nothing like what the United States or China have. When it comes to the rapid expansion of Space X, Aschbacher notes drily that America just has more money.

The NZZ reports that only five percent of the ESA budget goes on defence-related. Nonetheless, Aschbacher declares that something akin to a “Paragdigmenwechsel” – a paradigm shift – is underway. The next European Commission has earmarked 131 billion Euros for investment in defence and space over the next years. “How it will be divvied up isn’t clear”, Aschbacher says.

The director steers the NZZ away from the notion of space weapons, preferring the language of “resilience” and “defensive infrastructure”. A lot seems to be in flux. Aschbacher notes “discussions” with NATO, but no treaties. Mention is made of a Swiss project – Alpstar – which the ESA is collaborating with. Aschbacher brushes off any question of how this might affect Swiss neutrality. “You’d have to ask the Swiss”, he says.

Despite reprioritisation at NASA – the US space agency – Aschbacher points to ongoing European cooperation. When asked about the notion of Space X putting AI data centres in space, he simply says: “Yes, it will happen”.

He points to the ways in which Europe is either catching up or – in the wake of fears about over-reliance on the United States – taking a more strategic approach. “No one is going to replace Starlink”, Aschbacher says – but a European project, Iris 2 may supplement it. He notes the success of the Ariane 6 rocket programme, characterising it as slow to start but quick to ramp up. “European engineering is one of the best in the world”, he says: “it took longer, but it was better”. If Space X launches a hundred rockets in one year, and Europe launches ten, Europeans shouldn’t simply view the US as being ahead by a factor of ten – “we look to our own needs”, he says. Meanwhile, the American company Amazon is using European rockets as well as American ones. A European project for a reusable rocket – Ariane Next 2030 – is coming in the next few years.

But there is an undertow here. Aschbacher notes that Europe can be “incredibly innovative, incredibly good at new technologies” – but miss out on the really big commercial opportunities. There is something of a lament in the director of the ESA noting the ways in which the Copernicus project is world-leading in terms of understanding the planet. “We should praise Europe a little more”, he says.

The original interview was conducted by Beat Balzli in German and published as ‘Verteidigung im Weltall? “Europa steht night ganz nackt da, aber fast”’, in the Neue Zürcher Zeitung on February 8, 2026.

It is available here.

NZZ is one of Switzerland’s leading newspapers. This interview was published in its Sunday edition.

Summary by CE

Pre-order Issue #3

Translator Issue #3 will be released on Wednesday 22 April – you can pre-order your copy now. Inside, you’ll find stories from across the world: a Korean middle school on the political frontline, the world of gaming in 1980s Hungary, the fragile ecology (and mystery) of eels in northern Italy, the culture of shamans on the border of China and Vietnam, a searing investigation into Romania’s aesthetic gynaecology industry and Translator’s original Street Talks give voice to hyperlocal stories from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore – all illustrated by artists from around the world.

Plus: Abdul Bacet’s photo essay on Babur’s Gardens in Kabul, an interview with Abeera Kamran and Zeerak Ahmed on digitising the Urdu script, a multilingual crossword, and reviews of Polly Barton’s debut novel and Alexander Voloshin’s migration memoir.

Keep your eye out in the upcoming weeks for a cover reveal, more details on our launch event and exclusive previews on Instagram @translatormag.

This week we have something special for you: the first digital edition of our Street Talk. Until now exclusive to our print issues, Street Talk is our hyperlocal format capturing the word on the street, the whisper on everyone’s lips, stories from around the world that rarely make it into mainstream Anglophone journalism, told by locals who live there.

The piece below is on Carnival in Jamaica, which is happening this week. Carnival needs little introduction as one of the world’s greatest parties, but its roots run deeper: in resistance to colonial rule, in a collective celebration of unity and liberation. Our writer Rebecca “Becx” Williams reports from the streets of Kingston in the days before the big event, taking the temperature of the city as it prepares to dance.

This is a taster of more Street Talks to come in Issue #3 of Translator with dispatches from Karachi, Tehran, Bangalore, Gaza and Kyoto… available to pre-order now.

Or, you could pick up a copy of the magazine and a glass of wine, in person, on Wednesday 22 April from 7-8:30pm at People’s Wine Dalston (London) for Wine & Words: Celebrating Issue #3 of Translator Magazine, an intimate evening of readings, carefully chosen wine pairings, and the pleasure of hearing great journalism read aloud. Find more info and book your tickets here.

Book your ticket for Issue #3 Launch

…okay, back to this week’s exclusive Dispatch. Enjoy the read!

Who owns Carnival in Jamaica?

Women may be taking centre stage, but who does Carnival really belong to?

Carnival in Jamaica doesn’t arrive all at once. It builds slowly. Early mornings at the gym. Waiting in the salon as hair appointments run over. Sitting in the back seat of your friend’s car, where someone asks who you’re playing with this year and listens closely to the answer. Even though we all know nothing can live up to DJ Private Ryan’s 2015 mix.* People talk about payments, fittings, whether the costume will actually look like the pictures, and whether it is worth the money.

Women carry on most of these conversations. They are the ones budgeting months ahead, shaping their bodies around fittings, arranging nails, hair, makeup. They are also the ones who will wear the costumes all day, moving through heat and crowds, managing their own comfort, exposure, and confidence. Carnival lives on women’s bodies first.

And yet, most of the major Carnival bands are still owned and run by men. Men approve the final designs, set the prices, decide the themes, and ultimately shape what Carnival looks like. Women participate heavily, but ownership – financial and creative – often sits elsewhere.

This imbalance isn’t usually discussed out loud. Instead, it shows up quietly. Subtle complaints about fabric quality. Venting frustration over costumes that look good online but don’t hold up on the road. Decisions are made for women instead of with them. And so, Carnival becomes something women buy into not something they can control.

That’s why YardMas has been coming up so much in conversation this season. Not just because of the marketing, but because people can see the difference. The band is a newcomer with a more modern philosophy. It is also more affordable in a way that changes who shows up. YardMas makes room. It loosens the financial grip that has begun to dictate who gets to cross the stage and who has to watch from the pavement.

YardMas appointed female designer Anna-Lisa Guthrie to lead costume design, and the difference is tangible. The materials move better with the dancers. The designs feel more considered. There’s an understanding of how bodies actually behave over hours, not just how they appear in promotional images.

This isn’t about women being naturally more aesthetic or considered designers. The point of the matter is having a designer who understands what it is like to wear costumes, pay for them, and live in them. Things that are easy to overlook from a distance. Where straps strain. Where wire irritates. How weight shifts as the day goes on. These details matter when your body is the site of celebration.

On the streets, women talk about bands the way they talk about service providers they trust – tailors, hairdressers, nail techs. Who listens. Who doesn’t. Who respects their customers. Carnival, stripped of spectacle, is a transaction as much as it is a celebration. Money changes hands. Labour is performed. Visibility is negotiated. When women make up the majority of consumers, performers, and cultural labourers, but are excluded from ownership and decision-making, participation starts to look like extraction.

The culture depends on women, but power does not usually circulate back to them. As Carnival approaches, this conversation will keep surfacing. In fittings. In group chats. In post-fete discussions about what worked and what didn’t. Carnival hasn’t reached the road yet, but people are already paying attention – not just to the costumes, but to who is shaping the experience, and who is being asked to carry it.

Carnival is often described as freedom. But freedom still has structure. Someone gets to decide the terms. And more women are starting to ask whether participation is enough, or whether ownership should finally be part of the celebration too.

– Rebecca “Becx” Williams

*DJ Private Ryan (Ryan Alexander) is a world-renowned Trinidadian DJ, producer, and event curator celebrated for elevating Soca (”soul of calypso”) and Caribbean music globally. As the creator of the “Soca Brainwash” event brand, he is known for his versatile, high-energy mixes blending soca, dancehall, and Afrobeat.

Pre-order a copy of Issue #3 here to read more Street Talks from Karachi, Tehran, Bangalore, Gaza and Kyoto.

Pre-order Issue #3

In case you missed it…

On Wednesday April 15 come along to the first in a series of events entitled The World Overheard held in central London in collaboration with Ibraaz: The World Overheard 1: Newsrooms in Exile

The first in our series of conversations about journalism, translation and power looks at the growing phenomenon of journalists and non-fiction writers (even whole newsrooms) forced into exile from their home countries, sometimes continuing as journalists and writers in exile, sometimes finding new ways to engage.

To explore this increasingly important theme from different angles, we’re bringing together journalists and writers from around the world - Iran, Afghanistan, El Salvador, Hong Kong, Egypt and Eritrea - to talk from personal experience on what it means to be forced into exile, how it is changing the informational and civic landscape, how displaced media can sustain community and create new forms of association, and the challenging situation faced by writers and journalists even in their supposed country of refuge.

Speakers include Alaa Abd el-Fattah and Lotfullah Najafizada joining remotely, and Ricardo Avelar, Vanessa Tsehaye, Negin Shiraghaei, and Galileo Cheng participating in person. The panel is moderated by Charles Emmerson, editor of Translator.

Tickets are free but must be reserved via this link. We hope to see you there.

That’s all for now – we hope you’ve enjoyed the read. Keep an eye out for our next Dispatch of summaries this time next week!

The Translator team

Before we get into this week’s summaries, we’ve got a few bits of exciting news to share…

First and foremost, Translator Issue #3 is nearly here!

The magazine will be released at the end of April 2026. It’s a feast, including long-form journalism, reportage and non-fiction from Italy, South Africa, South Korea, China and more, from searing investigative journalism and stories to fascinate and delight. More information at the bottom, and available to pre-order here.

Pre-order Issue #3

If you are in London, stay tuned also for tickets to our Issue #3 launch event. Follow us on Instagram @translatormag to be the first to know.

But you don’t need to wait till then to start expanding your horizons and your mind.

On Wednesday April 15 come along to the first in a series of events entitled The World Overheard held in central London in collaboration with Ibraaz: The World Overheard 1: Newsrooms in Exile

The first in our series of conversations about journalism, translation and power looks at the growing phenomenon of journalists and non-fiction writers (even whole newsrooms) forced into exile from their home countries, sometimes continuing as journalists and writers in exile, sometimes finding new ways to engage.

To explore this increasingly important theme from different angles, we’re bringing together journalists and writers from around the world - Iran, Russia, Afghanistan, El Salvador, Hong Kong, Egypt and Eritrea - to talk from personal experience what it means to be forced into exile, how it is changing the informational and civic landscape, how displaced media can sustain community and create new forms of association, and the challenging situation faced by writers and journalists even in their supposed country of refuge.

Speakers include Alaa Abd el-Fattah, Ricardo Avelar, Lotfullah Najafizadah, Vanessa Tsehaye, Galileo Cheng and Negin Shiraghaei. The panel is moderated by Charles Emmerson, editor of Translator.

Tickets are free but must be reserved via this link. We hope to see you there.

…ok, back to this week’s summaries. Enjoy the read!

Forest and faith in Mentawai

How Indigenous life and spirituality remain bound to forests undergoing ecological and political pressure in Indonesia’s Mentawai Islands

In this extensively reported feature for Ekuatorial, journalist Dewantoro documents the lives of the Mentawai Indigenous people in West Sumatra, exploring how land, ritual and identity are inseparable from the forest, even as external pressures threaten both cultural continuity and ecological balance.

The story centres on communities in Siberut, where the forest is not simply a resource but considered a living, spiritual entity. Through the voice of Sikerei, traditional healers and spiritual leaders, Dewantoro reveals a worldview in which land is governed by ancestral memory, ritual obligation and strict customary law. Figures like Walter Samalelet describe how every act, from planting crops to building canoes, must be preceded and followed by ceremonies that honour the spirits believed to inhabit the land. Hunting, too, is bound by ritual and taboo, reinforcing a system that historically maintained ecological balance.

At the heart of this system is sago, a staple crop that anchors both subsistence and culture. Forests provide not only food, but medicine, materials and spiritual grounding. Land is collectively held by clans, or umma, and regulated through customary rules that impose fines for violations such as illegal logging or unauthorized harvesting. These systems, while restrictive on the surface are understood locally as mechanisms of care, designed to preserve harmony between humans, nature and the unseen world.

Dewantoro highlights how migration, economic pressures and the encroachment of state and corporate interests are reshaping Indigenous life. Logging concessions, conservation policies and unclear land rights have created tensions between communities, the government and private investors. Although much of Mentawai is classified as state forest, Indigenous communities maintain that all land is ancestrally owned.

Environmental change is also evident in shifting their hunting practices. Traditional methods, once governed by ritual and restraint, are giving way to more efficient technologies such as rifles, often used by younger generations less bound to customary norms. This shift has contributed to the decline of species like the bilou, an endemic primate considered sacred by some groups. Where once cultural taboos protected such animals, those protections are now uneven, raising concerns about long-term ecological sustainability.

At the same time, the cultural systems that underpin this balance are themselves under threat. The traditional leadership and healing role of the Sikerei is becoming harder to sustain, requiring years of training, strict taboos and significant material resources. Younger generations, facing economic pressure and changing aspirations, are increasingly reluctant to take on the role. As older healers age, communities fear a loss not only of medical knowledge, but of the oral histories and territorial knowledge that define their identity.

Ultimately, Dewantoro’s reporting presents the Mentawai not as relics of the past, but as communities actively negotiating change. Their struggle is not only for land, but for the survival of a worldview in which humans, forests and spirits are still intertwined.

The original article ‘Kisah Hidup, Hutan dan Harapan Masyarakat Adat Mentawai’ by Dewantoro, was first published in Indonesian on March 3, 2026, by Ekuatorial.

It is available here.

Ekuatorial is an Indonesian environmental journalism platform focused on in-depth reporting on climate change, biodiversity, Indigenous communities and natural resource governance. It produces long-form features, investigations and multimedia storytelling, often highlighting voices from remote or underreported regions.

Summary by ZN

Ashes to ashes

Read how the discovery of 17 tombs from the Iron Age has sparked the curiosity of archaeologists in a small village of rural Navarre

We are used to thinking of European history before the Greeks and the Romans as a negligible affair: hundreds and hundreds of years reduced to a couple of bitesized anecdotes to repeat in passing before moving on to the truly important periods – the Roman Empire and Christianity – that have shaped history (and Europe) as we know it.

But what if this prehistory – for the most part shrouded in mystery – was to hold the key to understanding many of the continent’s local customs and traditions? This is the question that journalist Aritz Intxusta asks himself in his fascinating article ‘La muerte y el círculo, piedras y fuego’ [Death, Circles, Stones and Fire] from the Basque publication 7K.

Concretely, the article discusses the discovery of 17 tombs from the Iron Age that have been discovered in the village of Garinoain, 24 kilometres south of Pamplona, Northern Spain, as a result of the works for the high-speed railway that will run nearby. The author goes into detail about the funerary rites that are thought to have been performed in and around these tombs dating to 600 BC. He also discusses their architecture and the material culture – the artefacts and symbols they carry – found in their vicinity. This is more or less all we have to go on to try and interpret an unknown civilisation that used to live in the area known as Euskal Herria (of which Navarre is part) before it was settled by the Basque people.

As a result of the development of iron tools (in particular, weapons!), people in the Iron Age took to building fortifications in the mountains of Navarre, areas especially difficult to reach where they could find refuge in case of attack. In these same settlements, they began to bury their dead in the ways now revealed by archaeological discovery. As both the author and the archeologists he interviews speculate, those who were buried in this way were most likely people of high rank who came to symbolise the continuing existence of the community more broadly.

As demonstrated by the human remains found at Garinoain, these Iron Age “notables” weren’t simply buried whole. Rather, they were burned first on special pyres – in a way not unlike that portrayed in the ancient Greek epic poem The Iliad. Their bones were then smashed into smaller pieces so they could fit into small adobe clay containers that were finally placed at the centre of each of these tombs.

As to the architecture of the tombs themselves, these were circular structures made of stone with a diameter ranging between seven and 18 metres. It’s unclear if they had a roof or whether they served other purposes. Most likely, they functioned as specifically designed sacred areas. In one of them, as well as grave goods which testify that this wasn’t a particularly rich community, archaeologists also found a stele – an archaeologist’s word for a stone slab or pillar – carved with circles, as well as other symbols vaguely reminiscent of a flower with petals. This allows them to connect the settlement to at least a hundred others unearthed in and around Navarre.

This is all the strictly archaeological conjecture and interpretation that the findings of the Garinoain site have so far allowed for. But the author of the article makes another tantalising conjecture. As it happens, the previously hidden burial ground has long been a site of pilgrimage for the people of the nearby village of Santa Caterina. Each year, come harvest season, they make the trek to a chapel built over the Iron Age burial ground, and the local priest gives his blessing to the surrounding cereal fields. What if this contemporary ritual, in which Catholic liturgy and Pagan fertility cults of the Roman era blend seamlessly, and the village comes together as a community, have its origin in the distant and little understood Iron Age?

The original article written by Aritz Intxusta, ‘La muerte y el círculo, piedras y fuego’, was published in Spanish on February 8, 2026 on 7K.

It is available here.

7K is the Sunday supplement of Basque daily website Naiz. It specialises on long-form articles on social issues, culture, economy, as well as current affairs, with a particular focus on the Basque Country.

Summary by BS

A Christian book boom in Norway

A new wave of writing reflects rising interest in Christianity amid uncertainty and political contestation

In a reported feature for the Norwegian newspaper Klassekampen, journalist Mylena Kifle explores a sharp rise in non-fiction books about Christianity, positioning it as part of a broader cultural and political shift in Norway.

The trend follows what some observers describe as a growing conservative current, particularly among young people, alongside a recent increase in church membership and Bible sales. This renewed attention to religion is now visible in publishing. Where only one book on Christianity appeared the previous spring, at least eight are set for release this year, written by figures spanning the ideological spectrum, including clergy, academics, politicians and converts.

Among them is philosopher Ali Jones Alkazemi, whose forthcoming book traces a personal journey from a Shiite Muslim upbringing through atheism to Catholicism. Rather than presenting religion as something to escape, Alkazemi complicates dominant narratives, describing his path as a continuation of a lifelong engagement with faith traditions. At the same time, he resists framing Christianity as purely liberatory, noting its own internal conservatism and tensions.

Other contributors approach Christianity from markedly different angles. Former Oslo bishop Kari Veiteberg writes about faith and resilience, while academic Ragnar Misje Bergem examines the relationship between Christian ideas and contemporary authoritarian movements. Meanwhile, politicians Sofie Marhaug and Mímir Kristjánsson offer a left-wing intervention with The Socialist’s Guide to the Bible, seeking to reclaim Christian texts from conservative ownership.

Kifle’s reporting suggests that this surge is driven in part by a wider sense of instability. For many young people, pessimism about the future has created a renewed appetite for frameworks that offer meaning and continuity. In this context, religious institutions can also function as spaces of social connection in societies where traditional forms of community have weakened. For those who grew up in largely secular environments, Christianity may feel less imposed and more available for exploration, curiosity and reinterpretation. This distance, according to the article, allows religion to be approached not as doctrine but as a cultural and intellectual resource.

At the same time, several voices in the article point to the increasing politicisation of Christianity. Influences from the United States, where religion is deeply entangled with right-wing politics, have reverberated in Europe. In response, some authors are explicitly attempting to challenge this alignment. Marhaug, for example, argues that Christian cultural heritage should not be left to the right, framing engagement with the Bible as a political as well as intellectual project.

Concerns about this politicisation are also reflected within the publishing world. Editor Preben Jordal notes both the growing demand for religious literature and the lack of a strong intellectual tradition in contemporary Norwegian Protestant writing. He calls for more nuanced, critical works that can engage seriously with Christianity as both a cultural inheritance and a framework for interpreting existence.

Ultimately, Kifle presents the current wave of Christian publishing as more than a literary phenomenon. It reflects a broader moment in which religion is being re-examined as a source of identity, community and political meaning.

The original article by Mylena Kifle ‘Flere skriver bøker om kristendommen’ was published in Norwegian in Klassekampen on 21 January, 2026.It is available here.

Klassekampen is a Norwegian daily newspaper known for its in-depth reporting on politics, culture and social issues.

Summary by ZN

Pre-order Issue #3

Translator Issue #3 will be released at the end of April 2026 – you can pre-order your copy now. Inside, you’ll find stories from across the world: a Korean middle school on the political frontline, the world of gaming in 1980s Hungary, the fragile ecology (and mystery) of eels in northern Italy, the culture of shamans on the border of China and Vietnam, a searing investigation into Romania’s aesthetic gynaecology industry and Translator’s original Street Talks give voice to hyperlocal stories from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore – all illustrated by artists from around the world.

Plus: Abdul Bacet’s photo essay on Babur’s Gardens in Kabul, an interview with Abeera Kamran and Zeerak Ahmed on digitising the Urdu script, a multilingual crossword, and reviews of Polly Barton’s debut novel and Alexander Voloshin’s migration memoir.

Keep your eye out in the upcoming weeks for a cover reveal, more details on our launch event and exclusive previews on Instagram @translatormag.

We begin in Ukraine, with the story of how the rise of the (originally Russian founded) Telegram messaging app is changing how people consume news.

From Beirut, we hear about how a battle over the fate of an iconic theatre encapsulates the wider challenges to the protection of Lebanon’s built heritage.

Finally, we have an article from Slovakia about how the country’s many young emigrants to the rest of Europe navigate identity, language and opportunity away from their homeland.

P.S. - Thank you for your suggestions for what we should summarise or translate, many of which make it into the Dispatch, and may make it into the magazine. Issue 3 is due out in April. We’ll let you know more in due course.

Here’s what we’re looking for and how to let us know.

We’re also hiring an Editor to join our editorial team, helping us source and translate the best non-English language journalism from across the globe. The ideal candidate will take the lead on the Dispatch, help us source outstanding journalism from beyond the Anglosphere, and bring editorial rigour to everything we publish. The role is part-time, 3 days a week and London-based.

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Telegrams from the front

Since the start of Moscow’s full-scale invasion, Ukrainian use of the Russian-invented Telegram has skyrocketed. And the app is no longer just a messaging service but an apparently trusted news source.

In Ukraine and around the world Telegram has become far more than a messaging app. According to a 2025 study by the analytics service Telemetrio, the platform effectively now functions as essential infrastructure, used by millions of Ukrainians not only for news but increasingly for commerce.

The 2025 study is cited in an article for Texty, an independent Ukrainian outlet with a focus on data journalism. The piece highlights two central tensions at the heart of the country’s increasingly important relationship with Telegram.

First, that usage of this Russian-invented app boomed even as Moscow launched its full scale invasion of Ukraine. [The Teksty piece warns readers of security risks. Telegram inventor Pavel Durov is Russian born but was already out of the country when the app was developed, and the service denies any links to the Kremlin. The Kremlin has pressured the app and is threatening to block access within Russia as it promotes a home-grown equivalent called Max.] Second, that users cite Telegram among their most trusted news sources, despite vast numbers of anonymous accounts and swathes of unverified information. The app allows users not only to message each other individually or in groups, but also subscribe to channels, which disseminate information one-way.

The Texty piece reports that activity on the platform is intense: Ukrainian Telegram channels collectively publish between 11 and 14 million posts each month. This growth has tended to come in waves during moments of crisis, including Russia’s full-scale invasion and subsequent attacks on Ukraine’s energy infrastructure.

Posting patterns have even developed a predictable rhythm: Wednesdays and Thursdays are the busiest days, while the peak publishing time is around midday Kyiv time. In other words, Telegram increasingly operates less like a chaotic feed and more like a structured media market competing for attention in prime-time slots.

Politics dominates this ecosystem, in Ukraine as elsewhere, with more than 90% of Ukrainian users following news or political channels. President Volodymyr Zelenskyy alone accumulated more than 16.2 billion views on Telegram. A distinct cluster of military commanders, defence officials and volunteers also commands large audiences.

Commercialisation of the app, meanwhile, is increasingly visible. Payment activity through the platform has surged: according to data from the mobile banking app monobank, the volume of payments made via Telegram has grown more than fourfold in just a year and a half. This shift is reflected in the growing number of service bots and verified brand accounts.

Telegram has evolved from a messaging tool into a marketplace – one where trust, attention and money are in play. While the app’s popularity has boomed worldwide – last year the app boasted some 11.3 million channels, up from 1.7 million in 2020 – in Ukraine its transformation is particularly striking.

Original article ‘Телеграм більше не месенджер. Це ринок, на якому змагаються за довіру, гроші та увагу’ by Sergey Mikhalkov was first published in Ukrainian on 5 January, 2026 in Texty.

It is available here.

Texty is an independent Ukrainian media outlet with a focus on data journalism

Summary by TM

When greed erases cultural memory

A battle over the fate of the iconic Théâtre de Beyrouth has laid bare a broken legal system that consistently privileges investor greed over the cultural memory of a city that has already lost so much

When the Théâtre de Beyrouth opened its doors in 1965, it was a major event, opening the city to deeper and broader horizons. Today, however, the building finds itself at the mercy of a decision that could lead to its demolition – the site of a modern drama, a battle between cultural memory and financial greed. Those concerned are waging a moral battle to preserve the theatre, but reports from the Ministry of Culture confirm that its protection is now at risk. Writing for An-Nahar, journalist Laila Girgis uses the theatre’s precarious fate as a window into a wider crisis: the systematic erosion of Beirut’s historical buildings under pressure from real estate investment, legal fragility, and political inaction.

The most severe blow came with a 2014 State Council ruling, which nullified the theatre’s inclusion on the general inventory list of historical buildings on the grounds that “protecting cultural activity” was not a sufficient reason for listing, and that the Ministry of Culture had not adequately justified its historical significance. It is clear that there is a division between how the State Council protects buildings and what people feel strongly should be protected. Despite the ruling, the theatre remained on the inventory list for a further eleven years, until the Ministry finally reinstated the decision in September 2025.

Actress and writer Hanan Al-Hajj Ali, who spent five years documenting the theatre’s history in her book Teatro Beirut, does not hide her exhaustion. She describes the hope of saving the building as “diminishing day by day,” and is frank about where responsibility lies: “Saving Beirut’s theatre is the responsibility of the state, specifically the Ministry of Culture. We need a political decision.” Civil society, she argues, has done what it can. The final word rests with the state – and the state has so far failed to act.

At the heart of the problem is a legal framework that has not kept pace with the scale of the threat. Sarkis Khoury, Director General of the Directorate General of Antiquities, explains that the primary tool for protecting historical buildings is their inclusion on the general inventory list – but that this mechanism is increasingly strained by economic pressure. The 1950 Beirut Urban Planning Law allowed property owners to increase building heights across the city, causing land values to surge. For owners of older buildings, the incentive to demolish and build upward became, in many cases, overwhelming. As Khoury puts it, the high investment rate in Beirut has presented many with a difficult dilemma: preserving an old house of historical value or succumbing to financial temptations in exchange for major urban development projects.

One proposed solution is a draft law for the Protection of Heritage Buildings that would allow owners to transfer investment rights from one property to another – enabling development elsewhere in exchange for preserving the historical building. But the bill remains stalled in Parliament. Khoury is measured about its prospects, noting that the fundamental need is not for any specific law, but for “any alternative proposal capable of protecting Lebanese heritage and preserving historical buildings, in Beirut as in other regions.”

Girgis also examines how buildings qualify for protection in the first place, through a conversation with architect Khaled Al-Rifai of the Directorate General of Antiquities. Al-Rifai outlines five criteria: architectural value, urban value, historical value, artistic value, and cultural or symbolic value. It is this last category, intangible, symbolic significance, that proves most legally vulnerable. The Théâtre de Beyrouth, located in Ain Mreisseh, underground in a 1960s building with no distinctive architectural features, qualifies almost entirely on cultural grounds. The State Council, applying the letter of a 1933 antiquities law, found that insufficient.

The scale of the challenge is vast. Al-Rifai estimates there are between 150 and 200 historical buildings in Beirut, and around 2,500 heritage buildings in total – yet there is still no complete national inventory. The Directorate receives between five and ten requests annually to demolish classified historical buildings, and around 200 requests related to heritage buildings more broadly. So in practice, protection arrives only at the moment of threat.

Other buildings in the piece illustrate both what is at stake and what has already been lost: Mansour Palace, which hosted parliamentary sessions during the civil war; the former home of Charles de Gaulle in Al-Musaytibah; and the Commodore Hotel on Hamra Street, once a nerve centre for the international press. Each carries layers of memory that no architectural classification can fully capture.

As Girgis concludes, protecting heritage is a collective national responsibility that cannot be left to cultural organisations alone. The question her investigation leaves open is whether Lebanon’s political class will act before Beirut’s remaining history is converted into towers.

The original article by Laila Girgis, ‘الأبنية التاريخية في بيروت تُصارع طمع المستثمرين: ضغوط باتجاه الهدم لإقامة أبراج أو مجمعات تجارية’ was published in Arabic on 1 February 2026 in Al-Nahar.

It is available here.

Al-Nahar is the leading daily newspaper in Lebanon.

Summary by TMH

Young Slovaks abroad navigate opportunity and belonging

How work, language and identity shape life abroad for young Slovaks

In a reported feature for the Slovak publication Kapital, journalist Dorota Suranová examines the lives of young Slovaks who have left the country to work elsewhere in the European Union, focusing on migrants in Austria and Germany and the uncertain question of whether they will eventually return.

Since the fall of communism and Slovakia’s accession to the EU, labour migration has become a defining feature of the country’s economy and social life. According to estimates cited in the article, the Slovak diaspora now amounts to more than two million people, with around 20,000 leaving the country each year. Austria and Germany are among the most common destinations, offering higher wages, stronger labour protections and broader opportunities than many regions at home.

Suranová grounds these structural shifts in the experiences of several young migrants now living in Vienna and Hamburg. Their stories reflect the two broad categories of migrants identified by researcher Lucia Mýtna Kureková: those who leave because of unemployment or limited opportunities at home, and those who seek experience abroad, hoping language skills and international work will later improve their prospects.

Oliver, who moved from Bratislava to Vienna after meeting a partner online, illustrates the precariousness that can accompany migration. Despite previous work in marketing and hospitality management, he struggled to secure office work and eventually took a job in the city’s nightlife economy. While bar work has provided financial stability, the long nights and physically demanding shifts have made him question how sustainable the lifestyle will be in the long term.

His friend Anna followed a different path but encountered similar challenges. Originally from Košice, she moved first to Brno for university before spending time in Vienna on Erasmus. Higher wages in Austria persuaded her to remain, and she initially supported herself through work in bars. Yet despite holding a degree in art history, she found it difficult to break into the cultural sector, highlighting a broader pattern researchers describe as “brain waste”, which is when highly educated migrants accept lower-skilled work abroad due to language barriers, limited professional networks or employer biases.

For Anna, the service industry also exposed the social hierarchies migrants often face. As a young woman with an Eastern European accent, she sometimes encountered harassment or stereotypes from customers and colleagues. Only after securing internships in museums and cultural institutions did she begin working closer to her field, where she felt her professional identity was taken more seriously.

Other migrants describe similar tensions between opportunity and uncertainty. Adam, who studied electrical engineering in Brno, moved to Vienna with the help of Slovak friends but now works in a kitchen while searching for a role related to his training. Although the job offers income and stability, he sees it as temporary and hopes eventually to return to engineering.

Despite their varied experiences, all the interviewees share an ambivalent relationship with the idea of returning home. Vienna’s proximity to Slovakia makes regular visits possible, yet the political climate and limited professional opportunities there make permanent return uncertain for many. Others imagine raising families abroad while maintaining cultural and emotional ties to their hometowns.

The decision to return remains unresolved for many young Slovaks. As Suranová’s reporting shows, migration within the EU has opened new possibilities for work and mobility, but it has also created a generation living between countries, balancing opportunity abroad with lingering attachments to home.

Publication Details:

The original article by Dorota Suranová, ‘Kedysavrátišdomov?’ was published in Slovakian, on November 27, 2025 in Kapital.

It is available here.

Kapitál is an independent Slovak magazine and online platform focused on culture, politics and social analysis.

Summary by ZN

Soon: Pre-order our upcoming issue

Issue #3 is almost here and you can pre-order your copy now. In our upcoming issue, our Street Talks voice authors from Tehran, Karachi, Kyoto, Gaza and Bangalore. Our long-form features include stories of resilience from a Korean middle school, gaming nostalgia from Hungary, and a deep dive into the culture of shamans on the border between China and Vietnam—all beautifully illustrated by artists from around the world.

More stories and, as always, a photo essay, and an intricate crossword to test your language curiosity and knowledge. All of them in Translator's spring issue.

Ps: Keep your eye out in the upcoming weeks for a cover reveal, launch events and more content via our social media

We begin in Colombia, where an investigation explores how surrogacy has become a booming industry.

From Greece, a report traces how Amazon-backed wind farm projects are encroaching on some of the country’s last untouched mountains.

And finally, in South Korea, a cultural critique explores the deeper histories of displacement and state control behind Incheon’s Chinatown.

P.S. - Thank you for your suggestions for what we should summarise or translate, many of which make it into the Dispatch, and may make it into the magazine. Issue 3 is due out in April. We’ll let you know more in due course.

Here’s what we’re looking for and how to let us know.

We’re also hiring an Editor to join our editorial team, helping us source and translate the best non-English language journalism from across the globe. The ideal candidate will take the lead on the Dispatch, help us source outstanding journalism from beyond the Anglosphere, and bring editorial rigour to everything we publish. The role is part-time, 3 days a week and London-based.

Sound like you, or someone you know? Full details and how to apply here (https://editortranslatorjd.tiiny.site/).

Mothers for hire

How Colombia has turned into a “paradise for reproductive tourism”

We are used to discussing surrogacy in fairly abstract terms. If the neoliberal idea of us being nothing but self-interested agents selling our skillsets, including our ability to bear children, in an all-encompassing marketplace sounds like an aberration to most of us; women’s sacrosanct right to self-determination – “my body, my choice” – might nonetheless be reason enough to support a practice that, at best, can be seen as an act of selfless altruism.

What happens, though, when these justifications, which largely assume a world of gender parity and freedom from want, encounter our own world of long-existing disparities and endemic economic violence?

In the article ‘Cuando seas grande no recordarás que naciste en un país extranjero’ [When You Grow Up You Won’t Remember You Were Born in a Foreign Country], Marina Sardiña at the Spanish non-profit and investigative journalism platform La Marea offers an in-depth, balanced look at the situation in Colombia and shows how economic inequality and a lack of opportunities especially for young mothers, coupled with a legal vacuum (partly justified by good intentions), can end up being an environment which allows for deception, exploitation, and abuse.

The piece starts by telling the story of Martha, a 30-year-old mother who has recently acted as a surrogate to a couple in France. As she explains, she was in economic dire straits, and now has to deal with the consequences of an emergency caesarean as well as having to let go of the child she bore. Through stories like hers, as well as those of women who found themselves former surrogates turned recruiters, so-called “referidoras” and even a former worker of one of the clinics – the author exposes the true workings of a system that acts through a veneer of altruism, but in effect preys on the most vulnerable and economically marginalised.

They explain how in theory prospective surrogate mothers have to fulfil certain conditions as a way to avoid exploitation. Indeed, some of them must be prepped by more expert ones to make it through the interviews.

As the narrative progresses, it becomes clear how most of these requirements – for example, the fact that they should be mothers to at least one other child – act as a mere cover for an arrangement that “utilises” them at every step of the process and keeps them captive both legally and economically. (Paulina – whose name was changed like those of all other women who appear in the piece – admits how she would often paper over candidates’ need for cash and come up with some other “socially acceptable” reason as part of her former role at the clinic.)

For their service, surrogates are paid in the region of 11,500 euros, which is a very considerable sum in a country where 43% of the population makes less than 310 euros per month, the purported minimum wage. As the author explains, this fee is broken down into instalments specifically designed to incentivise surrogates to see their pregnancy through and eventually give up the child. Likewise, by entering an agreement, they are subject to all sorts of obligations, including the ban on travelling and seeking an abortion, which severely limit their freedom and agency over their own body.

The very system of referidoras in which former surrogates groom new candidates in exchange for a finder’s fee seemsdesigned to sustain the fiction that these women came to surrogacy out of their volition, taking the clinics which advertise the practice off the hook.

These ads not only tend to couch surrogacy in the language of generosity, depicting it as a selfless act of philanthropy, but also severely downplay the health risks involved. The author relays the story – horrific in its matter-of-fact banality – of Elena. After experiencing a spontaneous miscarriage, she developed a myxoma [a benign tumour] as a result of the hormonal treatments. However, the clinic refused to pay for its removal. “When the baby is no longer with you, the attention toward you disappears … it is like you are no longer important.”

Not all women interviewed had a negative experience. The author, for instance, includes the testimony of Diana – a Venezuelan woman 37-weeks into her pregnancy who will use the money to go back and open a restaurant in her country. However, the general feeling you get from reading the piece is that by and large women who go on to act as surrogates do so mainly for financial reasons and often have little idea of what they are signing up for even if they have all gone through pregnancy before.

An important aspect that the author explores in the piece is the lack of legislation and unwillingness to broach the subject politically. It is this laissez faire attitude and lack of clear rules and guarantees that create the grey areas which then allow the exploitation to continue.

The original article written by Marina Sardiña in collaboration with Marco Dalla Stella, ‘Cuando seas grande no recordarás que naciste en un país extranjero’, was published in Spanish on October 13, 2025 in La Marea.

It is available here.

La Marea is an investigative journalism platform and a non-profit organisation run as a cooperative of journalists.

Summary by BS

Global giants are tearing up Greece’s remaining wild mountains

A $1 billion Amazon-backed wind farm is tearing through Northern Greece’s untouched Vermio mountains, part of a wider industry assault that could affect nearly a third of the country’s remaining wilderness

In Northern Greece lie the Vermio mountains. Herodotus once said this mountain range was impassible and according to tradition, paradise was to be held on the other side. Now, there’s a different story. A recent investigative piece from Reporters United shares how tech giant Amazon has breached Greece’s uncharted mountains. Only a few months ago, to climb the 2,062-meter Hamitis, the highest peak of Vermio in Western Macedonia, one had to hike for several hours through dense forests and pastures. Now, it looks more like a construction site.

“The magic of the summit, of the untrodden, has been lost. Now, companies have the right to just tear up our mountain,” says Giorgos Kasapidis, a member of SOS Vermio.

The culprit is a 59-turbine wind farm owned by the Cyprus-based Aer Soleir, a subsidiary of the Irish company Aer Solei, which is in turn owned by the American Quantum Capital Group. In November 2024, Amazon backed the project with a $1 billion investment to purchase the energy produced by the farm for fifteen years. The complex cuts directly through what Greek researchers call Roadless Areas (ΠΑΔ) – zones where the core lies at least one kilometre from the nearest road. These areas cover just 6% of Greece’s land surface and represent the country’s closest equivalent to true wilderness. Scientists say they should not be subject to any form of intervention.

Reporters United’s investigation, part of the pan-European Green to Grey project coordinated by Arena for Journalism and involving eleven media outlets, used satellite imagery to reveal how wind farms have destroyed 1,487 stremmata (roughly 150 hectares) of roadless land over the past three years, opening 60 kilometres of new roads into previously untouched terrain. Vermio has suffered most: 13 of the 59 turbines are sited within its two roadless zones.

Amazon is not alone. The investigation traces construction activity by some of the world’s largest energy corporations – including EDF, Iberdrola, EDP, DEI (Greece’s public power company), and Mitsubishi-backed European Energy – across unprotected wilderness sites stretching from Boeotia to the Peloponnese. If all planned projects go ahead, the article reports that the share of roadless mountain territory affected could rise from 3% to nearly 28% – roughly one in three of Greece’s untouched peaks.

Greece’s Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis had promised at COP26 in 2021 that wind turbines would not be placed in the country’s roadless mountains and formally protected ten such areas. But hundreds of other roadless zones remain legally unprotected, leaving them vulnerable. The Deputy Minister of Energy told Reporters United that a spatial plan for renewables is still being drafted and declined to commit to including all roadless areas in exclusion zones. Amazon did not respond to the outlet’s questions.

Biology professor Vasiliki Kati, who led the mapping project at the University of Ioannina, warns that new roads into wilderness are among the gravest threats to biodiversity worldwide. Once a roadless area is fragmented, even neighbouring untouched land may lose its wilderness designation in future surveys – quietly erasing what took millennia to form.

The original article by Daphne Karavola, Eurydice Bersi and Ioanna Petsiou, ‘Η Amazon πατά τ’ απάτητα βουνά της Ελλάδας’ was published in Greek on 1 October, 2025 on Reporters United.

It is available here.

Reporters United is a non-profit investigative journalism network based in Athens, Greece, dedicated to producing independent, in-depth reporting and cross-border collaborations.

Summary by TMH

The truth behind Korea’s “voluntary ghetto”

Incheon’s Chinatown looks like a fun day out – but culture researcher Park Mi-Sook argues it’s one of the most revealing sites in Korea for understanding how the state has long displaced, suppressed, and then commercialised its Chinese community.

On any given weekend, Incheon’s Chinatown draws crowds. Tourists pose beneath red lanterns, read plaques about the origins of the globally beloved noodle dish jjajangmyeon and declare in front of dragon sculptures that the place “feels like China”. It is one of Korea’s most visited “exotic” destinations – familiar, photogenic, and apparently uncomplicated. Culture researcher Park Mi-Sook, writing for Slow News, wants to challenge this assumption.

Her piece takes as its entry point a term long attached to Incheon’s Chinatown: “voluntary ghetto.” The phrase is, as Park immediately notes, a contradiction. A ghetto implies coercion – historically, the forced concentration of a marginalised group into a bounded urban space. To call it voluntary is to dissolve that coercion into something more comfortable: community, choice, autonomy. Park uses this contradiction not to resolve it, but to pull it apart. The phrase, she argues, is doing ideological work – and understanding what that work is tells us something important not just about Chinatown, but about how Korean society constructs and consumes its relationship with the “other”.

The history Park traces is one of accumulated structural pressure, not free settlement. The original concentration of overseas Chinese in the area during the imperial-era concession period was not the product of communal desire but of imperial spatial logic – the Qing and Japanese empires carved Incheon into administrative zones designed to demarcate and monitor. After Korean liberation, anti-Chinese government policies and economic suppression pushed residents further from the city centre. Decades of decline followed: Chinese schools shuttered, commercial districts contracted, and a community found itself inhabiting a space that was, in Park’s words, “neither Korean nor Chinese” – caught between periphery and centre, belonging fully to neither.

Then, in the late 1990s, came reinvention. Incheon City designated Chinatown a cultural and tourism special zone, introducing Chinese-style sculptures, red colour schemes, and Chinese character signage. The problem, Park argues, was not the renovation itself but what it prioritised: the China tourists wanted to see – mythology and stereotypes over the lives of the people actually living there. Residents became, in effect, backdrop. Their histories, their precarity, their community networks were subordinated to an exportable image. The result is what Park calls “a China without the Chinese”: exotic enough to attract visitors, controlled enough not to unsettle them.

This dynamic has only intensified with the rise of platform capitalism. Today, Chinatown’s character is increasingly shaped not by city planners but by food delivery apps, Naver Maps ratings, and Instagram algorithms. Certain restaurants and streets are amplified by recommendation systems; others quietly disappear. Speculative capital follows tourist traffic, driving up rents and displacing longer-term residents. The district is being reorganised, Park writes, around “Instagram hotspots” rather than community – transforming what she calls a “city of memory” into a “city of images.”

What is lost in this transformation is substantial. In Park’s own words, “All of this has transformed Chinatown from a “place to live” to a “place to show.” What gets erased are the histories of hardship – the communities whose lives were shattered by post-liberation anti-Chinese policy, the immigrants navigating precarious labour and housing conditions today, the everyday texture of a life lived between cultures. Urban regeneration projects across Seoul follow similar patterns, from Euljiro to Seongsu to Gyeongridan-gil: certain memories are displayed, others quietly buried.

Park is clear that this is not merely a problem of misrepresentation. The myth of the voluntary ghetto has active political consequences. It transfers responsibility for spatial exclusion from the state onto residents themselves, turning discrimination into “community preference.” It justifies continued neglect by suggesting that people have chosen their conditions. It renders invisible the structural forces – imperial legacy, nationalist policy, tourism capital, algorithmic reorganisation – that have in fact shaped this space across more than a century.

To truly understand Chinatown, Park suggests, one must ask whose imagination is being served, whose choices are genuinely free, and whose memories have been selected for display. The place most Koreans associate with a bowl of jjajangmyeon is, she concludes, one of the most revealing sites in the country for examining how Korea has constructed – and continues to construct – its relationship with migration, otherness, and the past.

Publication Details:

The original article by Park Mi-Sook ‘인천 차이나타운, ‘자발적 게토’라는 신화’ was published in Korean on 24 November 2025 on Slow News.

It is available here.

Slow News is a South Korean digital media publication that focuses on “slow journalism,” providing in-depth analysis, commentary, and long-form articles rather than breaking news.

Summary by TMH

Don’t miss out. Get your copy of Translator Issue #2

Inside, you’ll find investigative and deeply human stories from Brazil, Tunisia, Japan, Belgium, Sweden and beyond. Discover Muhammad al-Zaqzouq’s profound essay on fatherhood under siege in Gaza, Tunisia’s environmental activists fighting back against industrial pollution, and how three young Dutchmen cornered the nitrous oxide market.

Plus: Ishan Tankha’s striking photo essay on Nepal’s Gen Z revolt, Fairuza Hanun reviews Khairani Barokka’s Annah, Infinite, and our first print edition of Read Between the Lines, where Jessie Lau unpacks media narratives around China’s ‘Mask Park incident’.

⇒Order your copy

We begin in Uruguay, where a report explores a decades-old cooperative housing model that has helped thousands of working-class families build their own homes while limiting speculation in the age of Airbnb.

From Iraq, an investigation documents the human cost of unregulated landfills in Diyala governorate.

And in Brazil, reporters examine how online therapy platforms are reshaping the profession of psychology.

P.S. - Thank you for your suggestions for what we should summarise or translate, many of which make it into the Dispatch, and may make it into the magazine. Issue 3 is due out in April. We’ll let you know more in due course.

Here’s what we’re looking for and how to let us know.

We’re also hiring an Editor to join our editorial team, helping us source and translate the best non-English language journalism from across the globe. The ideal candidate will take the lead on the Dispatch, help us source outstanding journalism from beyond the Anglosphere, and bring editorial rigour to everything we publish. The role is part-time, 3 days a week and London-based.

Sound like you, or someone you know? Full details and how to apply here (https://editortranslatorjd.tiiny.site/).

Brick by brick

How mutual-aid construction has helped thousands of working-class families secure homes while limiting real-estate speculation in Uruguay

Published in El País’s América Futura section and reported by Noor Mahtani, this article explores Uruguay’s decades-old cooperative housing system, which allows low-income families to build and own homes through a model of collective labour, state subsidies and community governance.

The story begins with Patricia Ríos, a domestic worker who spent years paying more than half her income on rent before joining a housing cooperative in Mercedes, Uruguay. Alongside 29 other families, she helped construct her own home through the country’s “Mutual Aid” program, dedicating several hours each day to building the cooperative’s apartments. The model, first introduced in the 1960s, requires residents to work together during construction while receiving government support through subsidised loans and technical guidance from architects, lawyers and social workers.

Uruguay now has around 730 housing cooperatives, and more than 20,000 homes have been built through this approach in the past 15 years. The system does more than provide housing. Participants collectively manage finances, make decisions about land and design, and develop new organisational skills. Experts say this process empowers residents while strengthening local communities.

Unlike conventional property markets, cooperative housing sharply limits speculation. Homes can be inherited or sold, but usually only to other cooperative members, preventing the rapid price inflation seen in many cities affected by short-term rental platforms such as Airbnb. As a result, Uruguay has maintained relatively high levels of decent housing: 57.3% of citizens own their homes, and most properties have reliable access to electricity, drinking water and sanitation.

The article places Uruguay’s experience within a wider regional crisis. Across Latin America, declining wages and rising property speculation have pushed homeownership out of reach for many younger people. In countries such as Colombia, Chile and Mexico, housing costs and inadequate public investment have forced many families to remain renters or live with relatives.

Uruguay’s cooperative system offers a partial alternative. Beyond building apartments, the program reshapes neighbourhoods by bringing infrastructure, services and social networks into previously underdeveloped areas. For participants like Ríos, the process is as transformative as the result. Working side by side with neighbours, she says, has taught her that collective action can achieve what individuals alone cannot.

The original article by Noor Mahtani, ‘El cooperativismo, el secreto de Uruguay contra la especulación inmobiliaria en tiempos de Airbnb’ was published in Spanish by El País on September 15, 2025.

It is available here.

El País is a Spanish daily newspaper headquartered in Madrid, Spain. Through their América Futura section, they cover sustainable development, innovation and technology in the Americas, and are widely regarded as one of the most influential newspapers in the Spanish-speaking world.

Summary by ZN

Slow death in Diyala

Illegal landfills in eastern Iraq expose residents to toxic smoke and disease as environmental laws go unenforced.

Published by Daraj and reported by Tamara Emad, Istabraq Al‑Zubaidi, and Israa Tariq, this investigation documents how unregulated landfills in Iraq’s Diyala governorate are exposing nearby communities to severe environmental and health risks despite years of official closure orders.

The reporting focuses on the Kanaan and Al-Khalis landfill sites, located east of Baghdad, where waste continues to be dumped illegally by several municipalities. Residents and scavengers work and live among mountains of garbage that frequently burn, releasing toxic fumes. Women and children sift through waste to survive, often earning only a few dollars a day while handling hazardous materials such as medical waste and chemicals without protective equipment.

The investigation follows workers like Shaima Alwan, a displaced mother of seven who scavenges for recyclables to support her family. She and others describe constant health problems, including respiratory illnesses, skin infections and untreated wounds. Children are also involved in the work, despite the risks and the disruption to their education.

Official documents reviewed by the reporters show that the Kanaan landfill was ordered to close in 2017 for operating without environmental approval. However, the site continues to function and has accumulated years of fines without meaningful enforcement. Local officials acknowledge the violations but argue that the landfill cannot be shut down because there is no alternative waste disposal system for the region’s 700,000 residents.

Environmental experts warn that uncontrolled dumping and burning contaminate groundwater and soil with toxic substances, while releasing dangerous gases such as methane and dioxins into the air. Nearby villages report rising cases of asthma, allergies and chronic respiratory disease, particularly among children.

Beyond the immediate health crisis, the investigation highlights wider structural failures in Iraq’s waste management system. The country produces around 50,000 tons of solid waste daily, yet most landfill sites lack environmental approval and recycling remains minimal. Iraq currently ranks near the bottom of global environmental performance indices.

For many families in Diyala, the landfill economy has become both a livelihood and a trap. Without social protection, education or employment opportunities, hundreds depend on scavenging despite the dangers. Residents warn that unless authorities act, entire communities may eventually be forced to abandon their homes to escape the pollution.

The original article by Tamara Emad, Istabraq Al‑Zubaidi, and Israa Tariq, ‘ مطامر غير نظاميّة وقرارات إغلاق معلّقة : الموت البطيء يلاحق سكان ديالى العراقية’ was published in Arabic by Daraj, on January 9, 2026.

It is available here.

Daraj is an independent pan-Arab digital media platform founded in 2017 and headquartered in Beirut, Lebanon.

Summary by ZN

The ‘uberisation’ of psychology in Brazil

Digital platforms promising affordable mental health care are pushing psychologists into precarious gig-style work

Published by Repórter Brasil and reported by Gabriel Daros, this investigation examines how online therapy platforms are reshaping the profession of psychology in Brazil by introducing gig-economy dynamics like ride-hailing services.

The article focuses on digital platforms such as PsyMeet and Central Psicologia, which connect patients with therapists while charging psychologists a monthly subscription fee to appear on their websites. Sessions advertised on these platforms can cost as little as R$30 (about £4.50), far below the R$213.93 (about £30) minimum consultation fee recommended by Brazil’s professional associations.

Psychologists interviewed for the report say the system forces them into intense competition and unstable income. Because clients often choose the first therapist who responds, professionals feel pressure to remain constantly available, replying to messages late at night or during weekends to secure appointments. Some report shortening therapy sessions or seeing multiple patients in a row to make the work financially viable.

Labour experts warn that this model creates a grey area in employment law. Although platforms describe therapists as independent professionals, prosecutors argue that when companies influence pricing, procedures or client distribution, workers may effectively be ‘false self-employed’ rather than genuine freelancers.

Professional associations have also criticised the platforms for presenting extremely low prices as a form of social therapy aimed at vulnerable patients. According to union representatives, the approach transforms a practice traditionally offered voluntarily by therapists into a commercial marketing strategy designed to attract both professionals and clients.

For many newly qualified psychologists struggling to build a client base, the platforms appear to offer opportunity but often deliver little financial stability. After paying subscription fees and professional expenses, some therapists say they barely recover their costs.

The investigation suggests that the growing “platformisation” of therapy risks undermining an established profession while reshaping mental-health care into a fast-paced gig economy.

Publication Details:

The original article by Gabriel Daros ‘ Plataformas ‘uberizam’ trabalho de psicólogos com consulta a R$ 30’ was published in Portuguese by Repórter Brasil, January 12, 2026.

It is available here.

Repórter Brasil is a Brazilian non-profit investigative journalism organisation and digital news platform founded in 2001 and headquartered in São Paulo, Brazil.

Summary by ZN

Don’t miss out. Get your copy of Translator Issue #2

Inside, you’ll find investigative and deeply human stories from Brazil, Tunisia, Japan, Belgium, Sweden and beyond. Discover Muhammad al-Zaqzouq’s profound essay on fatherhood under siege in Gaza, Tunisia’s environmental activists fighting back against industrial pollution, and how three young Dutchmen cornered the nitrous oxide market.

Plus: Ishan Tankha’s striking photo essay on Nepal’s Gen Z revolt, Fairuza Hanun reviews Khairani Barokka’s Annah, Infinite, and our first print edition of Read Between the Lines, where Jessie Lau unpacks media narratives around China’s ‘Mask Park incident’.

Order your copy here

We begin with an investigation from a Danish newspaper into a cyber-scam compound in Bamban in the Philippines, at the intersection of digital fraud and modern slavery.

From Sweden, we have a fascinating investigation that explores how food has become a political weapon for the far-right, from online boosters for raw-egg masculinity to nationalist school meal policies.

And a Spanish report from Mauritania on a vast refugee camp for those who have fled Mali, which is increasingly taking on the attributes of a city.

P.S. - Thank you for your suggestions for what we should summarise or translate, many of which make it into the Dispatch, and may make it into the magazine. Issue 3 is due out in April. We’ll let you know more in due course.

Here’s what we’re looking for and how to let us know.

We’re also hiring an Editor to join our editorial team, helping us source and translate the best non-English language journalism from across the globe. The ideal candidate will take the lead on the Dispatch, help us source outstanding journalism from beyond the Anglosphere, and bring editorial rigour to everything we publish. The role is part-time, 3 days a week and London-based.

Sound like you, or someone you know? Full details and how to apply here (https://editortranslatorjd.tiiny.site/).

The cyberslaves of Bamban

A daring escape from a Philippine scam compound exposes the global system of digital fraud built on torture, corruption and modern slavery

In a joint investigation for Danish newspapers Jyllands-Posten and Politiken, journalists Thomas Foght and Sebastian Stryhn Kjeldtoft, expose the brutal machinery behind one of the world’s fastest-growing crimes: digital fraud sustained by modern slavery. The first of their reports centres on a scam compound in Bamban, a small town in the Philippines, where hundreds of trafficked workers were forced to swindle victims across the globe.

The story begins with “Danny,” a 31-year-old Vietnamese man who had been lured to the Philippines with promises of legitimate work as a chef. Instead, he found himself imprisoned inside a heavily guarded scam centre run by Chinese criminal gangs. For a month, he and hundreds of others were coerced into working long hours at computers, posing online as romantic partners, investment advisers or trusted officials. Their task was to manipulate victims into handing over money through dating scams, fake cryptocurrency schemes and other elaborate frauds. The gangsters chillingly referred to the process as “pig slaughter”: cultivate trust and affection, then drain bank accounts slice by slice.

Danny’s escape was desperate and precarious. Exploiting a lapse in guard patrols, he climbed a wall, tore through barbed wire and fled into the night. Running through woods and along a river to hide his tracks, he reached a farm owned by a Filipino-American retired US Air Force officer. Others who had attempted escape before him had reportedly been returned by corrupt police. This time, the farmer sheltered him and connected him with a priest, who in turn contacted the Philippine government’s anti-cybercrime task force, PAOCC.

Winston Casio, a senior officer with PAOCC, led the rescue. The operation nearly collapsed when another armed police chief arrived, allegedly carrying authorisation to shoot Danny if necessary. Casio succeeded in extracting the witness just before the situation escalated, later securing a search warrant based on his testimony. That testimony made Danny the key witness in a case that would shock the Philippines and reverberate across East Asia.

When authorities raided the Bamban compound, they discovered 680 enslaved workers from more than 20 countries. Many had been recruited via social media with promises of high-paying jobs. Instead, their passports were confiscated, and they were forced to commit fraud under threat of torture or death. Survivors described brutal punishments for underperformance or resistance. According to investigators, some victims who died were dismembered and disposed of in Manila.

The compound itself was staggering in scale, the journalists report. It towered over Bamban’s modest homes and had fuelled a local economic boom. Locals helped construct mansions for the gang leaders and found work in what they believed was an online casino operation. Inside were lavish residences with gold furnishings, a wine cellar worth millions, an Olympic-sized pool, and luxury vehicles. Just beyond the compound walls stood the mayor’s office.

The scandal deepened when evidence linked the town’s mayor, Alice Guo, to the property. She was later arrested in Indonesia, extradited, and sentenced to life imprisonment for human trafficking. Courts determined she had falsified her Filipino identity and was in fact from China, prompting further political and intelligence concerns.

The investigation also reveals the global dimension of cyber slavery. According to Danish authorities, cybercrime victims in Denmark alone increased by nearly 100,000 in one year. Yet the crimes often involve small sums and cross-border networks, making prosecution difficult. Scam centres have proliferated not only in Southeast Asia but increasingly in Africa, South America and Europe, often operating in collusion with corrupt officials.

Following the Bamban raid, the Philippines deported 100 Chinese suspects back to Shanghai in cooperation with Chinese authorities. Whether they were trafficked victims or willing perpetrators remains unclear, but in China they are presumed criminals until proven otherwise.

[If you found this article interesting, might also find interesting ‘The rescue that never came’, in Translator magazine issue #1, translated from Initium Media, about cyber-scam compounds in Cambodia]

The original article by Thomas Foght and Sebastian Stryhn Kjeldtoft, ‘Tusindvis af mennesker blev holdt som slaver på svindelcentret i Bamban. Kom med Politiken og Jyllands-Posten tilbage til gerningsstedet,’ was published in Danish on 21 December 2025 on Politiken.

It available here.

Politiken and Jyllands-Posten are Danish newspapers. Both are published by the media group, JP/Politikens Hus A/S.

Summary by ZN

Protein, pork and power

How food culture is being weaponised by the far right, from raw-egg masculinity to nationalist school meal policies in Sweden

In Sweden’s anti-racist publication Expo, journalist Jenny Damberg traces how food has become a political battleground in the country. Across two features – ‘Egg White Diet’ and ‘School Food Nationalism’ – Damberg explores how diet, masculinity, race and national identity are increasingly fused in far-right ideology.

The first article investigates the subculture surrounding British far-right influencer Charles Cornish-Dale, known online as Raw Egg Nationalist (REN). Cornish-Dale promotes the consumption of extreme quantities of raw eggs, unpasteurised milk and offal, sometimes suggesting 12 to 36 eggs a day, as part of a broader political project to strengthen “white nations.” His rhetoric blends bodybuilding culture with white nationalist conspiracy thinking. Protein becomes more than nutrition; it is framed as civilisational defence.

Damberg situates REN within a wider digital ecosystem of “protein activists” who combine caveman aesthetics, anti-globalist ideology and hypermasculine grievance. Industrial food systems, soy products, seed oils and vegetarianism are portrayed as tools of a corrupt global elite allegedly intent on weakening Western men. In this worldview, eating meat, particularly red meat and animal fats, signals virility, racial strength and resistance. Vegetarians are mocked as emasculated “soy boys,” while insects, promoted in sustainability debates, are cast as dystopian symbols of elite control, linked rhetorically to the World Economic Forum’s “Great Reset.”

The article connects these narratives to broader anxieties about bodily decline and loss of control in the wake of the pandemic, economic instability and political polarisation. Dutch researcher Ruben Stoffelen notes that focusing on one’s physique through strict diet and exercise offers them a sense of salvaged agency. Yet Damberg underscores the risks: excessive meat consumption carries health consequences, and unpasteurised milk can spread infection. What masquerades as ancestral authenticity is, she suggests, a highly modern political performance.

The second article shifts from fringe subcultures to municipal policy. In several Swedish municipalities governed with support from the Sweden Democrats (SD), school meal guidelines have been revised to promote “Swedish home cooking.” In practice, this often means increasing the frequency of pork dishes while eliminating alternatives for students who avoid pork for religious reasons. A vegetarian option remains, satisfying legal requirements, but specific accommodations have been removed. Damberg shows how these changes function symbolically. Pork, a food prohibited in Judaism and Islam, becomes a marker of belonging. Jonatan Leer, professor of food studies, argues that insisting on “pork or nothing” signals a political stance on migration and integration. The debate echoes Denmark’s earlier “meatballgate” controversy and fits within what sociologist Michaela DeSoucey terms “gastronationalism,” the use of food to define and defend national identity.

Damberg also notes the practical consequences. In Uddevalla, food waste reportedly increased after policy changes, and replacing vegetarian or poultry options with pork has raised costs in some municipalities. Meanwhile, national dietary guidelines from the Swedish Food Agency recommend reducing red meat for health and climate reasons. The increase in the use of pork cut against scientific advice.

Taken together, the two articles reveal how food operates simultaneously at the level of the body and the state. Online, raw eggs and red meat become symbols of racial revival. In schools, pork becomes a tool for signalling who fully belongs.

The original articles by Jenny Damberg, ‘Äggstrem diet’ and ‘Skolmatsnationalism’ were first published in Swedish on May 23, 2025 on Expo.

They are available here and here.

Expo is a Swedish anti-racist magazine founded in 1995 by journalist and author Stieg Larsson. It is published by the non-profit Expo Foundation (Stiftelsen Expo) and focuses on investigative journalism about nationalist, racist, anti-democratic, antisemitic and far-right movements and organisations.

Summary by ZN

The desert city holding back a war

In Mauritania’s far southeast, a refugee camp of nearly 300,000 people has become both sanctuary and buffer zone between Mali’s collapse and Europe’s borders

Reporting from the edge of the Sahara, journalist Martín Mucha in El Mundo traces the humanitarian catastrophe unfolding in Mbera, a refugee camp in southeastern Mauritania that now resembles a city. Built among dunes just kilometres from the Malian border, it shelters families fleeing a country crumbling under jihadist siege and geopolitical neglect.

Around 136,000 people live inside the camp, with another 154,000 or more scattered in surrounding settlements. If counted as a city, it would be among Mauritania’s most populous, second only to the capital, Nouakchott.

They arrive from a Mali described as “bleeding itself dry.” The jihadist coalition JNIM, linked to Al Qaeda, has tightened its grip, blockading fuel and isolating Bamako. Russian mercenary forces, successors to the Wagner Group under the rebranded Africa Corps, add another layer of violence. Civilians are caught between rival armed actors, their villages emptied by executions, rape, mutilation and extortion. “One day some killed part of my family; then others came and finished off the rest,” one woman recounts. Another, whose husband was executed, stares at the floor as if willing him back to life.

Despite its harshness, Mbera offers relative safety. It has eight schools, four health centres, a market of 500 stalls, banks, hair salons, and even high-speed internet via Starlink. UN agencies are planning its transformation into a permanent city, with roads, electricity grids and improved water systems. For some long-term residents, it already is home. For others, it is a pause.

That pause is politically charged. “If Mbera didn’t exist, the newcomers would go straight to the coast, trying to reach Europe,” a tribal leader tells Mucha. Mauritania, sparsely populated and strategically positioned, has become a buffer state. The European Union, represented by Ambassador Joaquín Tasso Vilallonga, openly supports Nouakchott with funding aimed at stabilising refugee flows, strengthening vocational training, and combating trafficking. The policy has had measurable impact: arrivals to the Canary Islands via the Western African route have dropped sharply compared with previous peaks.

Mauritania’s president, Mohamed Ould El Ghazouani, praised in Western capitals for keeping jihadist movements at bay, governs with a firm hand in a country where corruption remains endemic. Spain and the EU have funded detention centres for migrants and invested hundreds of millions of euros in migration control infrastructure. Human rights organisations question the trade-offs, while Spain’s domestic political partners demand transparency.

Migration, Mucha suggests, is driven by more than hunger or bullets. Social media fuels dreams of an El Dorado abroad. TikTok and WhatsApp circulate filtered visions of Europe, shaping aspirations among young refugees. The story of a 22-year-old Mauritanian man hospitalised after his emigration attempt failed underscores the psychological toll of dashed hopes. In Mali, influencers themselves become targets; one content creator with 150,000 followers was executed by jihadists in Timbuktu.

Mucha’s six days end with departure at dawn, planes shrinking on the horizon. Mbera stands as a barrier between civil war and Europe’s shores.

The original article by Martin Mucha, ‘Entramos en Mbera, el superpoblado campo de refugiados en medio del desierto que va camino de ser metrópoli: “Huimos escapando de la muerte, las violaciones y la deshonra”’ was published in Spanish on November 15, 2025, on El Mundo.

It available here.

El Mundo is a major Spanish national daily newspaper based in Madrid, Spain.

Summary by ZN

Are we on Insta? Yes.

Give us a follow. We’re posting every week, featuring our contributors' work and sharing interesting opportunities for our community.

In this peek into the magazine, we present Street Talk, our iconic series that takes you to places like Guadalajara or Hanoi, hand in hand with a guide who delves into the scenes you’ll encounter there and offers a unique polyglot perspective
–from the margins.