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

Since January 2025, we’ve published 146 summaries spanning over 65 countries and 38 languages. At a time when much of the Anglophone media flattens the world, Translator seeks out stories and perspectives that reveal its richness – offering a portal into multiple media landscapes.

This week marks a milestone in that mission: the launch of Translator Issue #2. As with our weekly Dispatches, the new print issue issue starts where stories are already being written and spoken about: in magazines, in newspapers and on street corners around the world. Inside, you’ll find more pages, more Street Talks, and more translated reportage and essays – from Palestine, Japan, Brazil, Belgium and beyond.

We’re so excited to be celebrating the launch of Issue #2 on Wednesday 19 November in London with an event at Ibraaz – a brave new space for art, culture and ideas from the Global Majority. Just as Translator seeks to illuminate stories that might otherwise go unseen, Ibraaz is rooted in cultural pluralism and the exchange of ideas across borders. Its name – derived from the Arabic phrase ‘to shine a light on’ – perfectly captures what both of us strive to do: amplify the many voices beyond the Anglosphere.

The evening will bring together our editors Charles Emmerson, Trà My Hickin and Zanta Nkumane, alongside Karachi-based journalist Sanam Maher and New Delhi-based photographer and Issue #2 contributor Ishan Tankha (joining by video). We’ll also share the voices of our contributors on the cinema screen of Ibraaz’s Minassa (Arabic for ‘platform’), gathering around a shared desire to read the world differently. We’d love to see you there – book your free ticket here.

As ever, our hope is to create a space – in print, in conversation and online – where language is a bridge, not a barrier. Issue #2 is a celebration of that belief, and of the storytellers – writers, illustrators, designers, publishers, cultural platforms like Ibraaz, translators of all kinds – who make it possible.

Of course, our deepest gratitude goes to you, our readers. As a thank you for joining us on this journey, we wanted to share the opening of one of the most powerful pieces in the new issue of Translator – an extraordinary essay by Palestinian writer and editor Muhammad al-Zaqzouq, originally published in Arabic by 7iber and translated into English by Nour Jaljuli.

‘To Be a Father in a Time of Annihilation’ is a meditation on what it means to parent amid destruction. Al-Zaqzouq reflects on the inheritance of fear and the impossible weight of protection in Gaza, where fatherhood is both an ethical and existential act.

With striking clarity and restraint, the piece captures the dissonance of trying to shield one’s children from a world collapsing around them and, ultimately, a portrait of love stretched to its limits, that continues to hold.

We hope you enjoy this excerpt.

To Be a Father in a Time of Annihilation

Palestinian writer and editor Muhammed al-Zaqzouq writes about how the war in Gaza has reshaped the concept of fatherhood for him and his children

I have lived through many wars in Gaza, from when I was a child until I myself became a father of three. Like an overbearing guest, the war came and went as it pleased, leaving behind many scars. Time was only able to mend a few, while the rest painfully persisted on, never fully healed.

Throughout all the wars Gaza has endured, I lived in the heavy shadows of fear and trauma, constantly afraid for myself, for my parents, my brothers and sisters, relatives, and close friends.

However, it all felt radically different, more prevalent and tangible during the wars that I witnessed as a father to children who believed I was a saviour, that I would be able to protect them from atrocious calamities they were facing for the very first time.

I was forced, in these moments, to provide answers to a deluge of questions, to children whose consciousnesses were being shaped by complex residuals of war – questions about life and death, danger and safety, remaining and leaving, memory and forgetfulness. Suddenly, they found themselves surrounded by terrifying sounds and scenes that pushed them into a narrow corner of the horizon, blocked and unfamiliar, and they were powerless to end any of it.

Fatherhood between philosophy and war

“This was inflicted upon me by my father, which I have not inflicted upon any other.” Abu al-Alaa al-Ma’arri asked for this famous line to be inscribed on his grave after his death, indicating his absolute rejection of procreation, and adamant refusal to implicate himself in the continuation of the human race after a lifetime spent trapped between two prisons: blindness, as he lost his sight at a young age, and voluntary exile, choosing to seclude himself from people and confining himself to his home in al-Ma’arra city for most of his life.

Al-Ma’arri’s verse encapsulates his view on fatherhood and procreation: rather than partaking in bringing more souls to a world drowning in filth and monstrosity, humans must abstain from reproducing as an act of mercy and moral responsibility. Bleak and morbid as it may seem, and perhaps selfish on the surface, this view reveals his prescience in a world marching towards ever greater ruin.

Al-Ma’arri’s philosophy thwarts all common conceptions about fatherhood, in which fathers are solid shields, protectors, guardians, caretakers, and any other attributes providing children with safety and a sense of belonging. Despite al-Ma’arri’s morbid view, for many years I looked to him in respect and contemplation. I held the view that bringing children into the world presents a profound ethical dilemma, a decision that is not to be made lightly or in surrender to some instinct.

I have always been, and still am, taken with the idea of family. I adore children. While it might be the morally merciful choice to not have kids in a place as monstrous as this, possibly driven by that same instinct, I got swept up. I created a family and had children. I admit I enjoyed it all; but it was costly at the same time.

A few years into marriage, I found myself a father to three children. I tried my best to be a father who embodied all the meanings of fatherhood, exactly like people the world over. This seemed possible and effective, up until the current war arrived, destroying all the beautiful metaphors I had clung to.

The war redefined fatherhood for me and my children, creating a significant rift with traditional roles, leaving us all to confront a new and bitter meaning…

This excerpt is taken from Translator Issue #2, out on 20 November. To read on, pre-order a copy of the magazine here.

Original article ‘أن تكون أبًا في زمن الإبادة’ by Muhammed al-Zaqzouq was published in Arabic by 7iber on 22 May 2025.

It is available here.

7iber is an Amman-based media organisation and online magazine publishing in-depth multimedia journalism, critical analysis and public conversation.

Translator Issue #2 expands our journey beyond the Anglosphere, bringing together an even wider network of contributors from around the world and wonderful art direction and design by magCulture Studio. Inside, you’ll find:

STREET TALK: Hyperlocal stories from Belfast, Dublin, Jakarta, Hanoi, Guadalajara and Yakutsk, by Séamus Branch, Ana Kinsella, Sabrina Citra, Kiều-Anh Nguyễn, Nicolás Kouzouyan and Natalya Khokholova. Illustrated by Elio Ferrario.

ESSAY: From 7iber, Palestinian writer and editor Muhammad al Zaqzouq on fatherhood under siege in Gaza. Translated by Nour Jaljuli. Illustrated by Abdulrahman Hashlamon.

FEATURE: From NRC, Dutch reporters Esther Rosenberg, Nina Stefanovski, Ilse Eshuis and Bram Endedijk trace the trade in laughing gas. Translated by Brendan Monaghan.

FEATURE: From Repórter Brasil, Diego Junquiera investigates the landmark case accusing Volkswagen of enslaving hundreds of rural workers in the Amazon. Translated by Julia Sanches.

REPORT: From Svenska Dagbladet, Henning Eklund uncovers the bitter power struggles behind the soaring profits of Sweden’s publishing giants. Translated by Kate Lambert. Illustrated by Tori McGuire.

PHOTO ESSAY: In ‘Six Days in September’, Indian photojournalist Ishan Tankha reports from Kathmandu in the wake of the Gen Z protests.

ESSAY: From L’Indiscreto, Rosalba Nodari’s article explores how language determines truth and power in Italian law. Translated by Antonella Lettieri. Illustrated by Marina Songserm.

REPORT: From Nawaat, Najla Ben Salah on how waste from Tunisia’s fertiliser industry has poisoned the southern coastline – and the movement fighting back. Translated by Fatima Zohra Krimou. Illustrated by Daria Chernyshova.

FEATURE: From Píaui, José Henrique Bortoluci interviews an evangelical preacher on his journey from the world of crime to the kingdom of Jesus. Translated by Rahul Bery.

FEATURE: From Chihei, Misa Koyama traces atomic legacies from Hiroshima to Kazakhstan. Translated by Allison Markin Powell. Illustrated by Yaya.

FEATURE: From Médor, Chloé Andries searches Belgium’s secondhand shops for forgotten treasures. Translated by Charles Emmerson. Photography by Thomas Fretuer.

REVIEW: Fairuza Hanun reads Annah, Infinite by Khairani Barokka, a translation of a famous painting – into a book.

ANALYSIS: In Read Between the Lines, writer, journalist and Translator contributing editor Jessie Lau explores local coverage of the ‘Mask Park incident’ and state narratives in China.

CROSSWORD: Translator’s second multilingual crossword, put together by Beatrice Barr. If you’re first to complete it, we’ll give you a free subscription to Translator for a year!

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

Hello and welcome to Translator’s weekly Dispatch.

This week, we’re running our second in a new format of Dispatch that we’re calling Read Between the Lines, where we commission a journalist or commentator from beyond the Anglosphere to interpret a recent article they have found interesting or important from their local media landscape: 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 Read Between the Lines, we asked Moroccan journalist “Nadia” – not the person’s real name – to write about the current GenZ 212 protests in Morocco and how they are being reported (or not).

Morocco’s GenZ 212 protests

As Morocco prepares to host the Africa Cup of Nations later this year and cohost the 2030 World Cup, the football-loving nation that cheered its national team to the 2022 World Cup semi-finals in Qatar is now questioning the costs and benefits of being a host itself.

On 27 and 28 September, thousands of Moroccan youth took to the streets in peaceful nationwide protests against the construction of stadiums costing billions of dirhams, while vital sectors like healthcare and education remain underfunded.

An article by France24, entitled “GenZ 212 protests: social anger reveals flaws in Morocco’s development approach” reports:

كشفت موجة الاحتجاجات التي اجتاحت مدن المغرب منذ 27 سبتمبر / أيلول الماضي، عن عمق التوتر الاجتماعي الذي يختبئ خلف الواجهة اللامعة لمشاريع البنية التحتية والملاعب الرياضية الحديثة.

The wave of protests that has swept across Moroccan cities since 27 September has exposed the depth of social tensions lurking behind the glittering facade of infrastructure projects and modern stadiums.

While major cities like Rabat and Casablanca have completely transformed their landscape in the past few years with new infrastructure projects, including stadiums, skyscrapers, theatres and hotels, like the Moulay Abdellah Sports Complex, Mohammed VI Tower and the Grand Theatre of Rabat, there are many cities, towns and villages in Morocco that are not getting the same treatment. As someone who grew up in the Southeast of Morocco, I am all too familiar with what it’s like to live in the forgotten parts of this country. Basic facilities like public schools and hospitals remain severely underfunded, with the population suffering from lack of medical facilities coupled with a high drop-out and unemployment rates especially among the youth.

فالمطلب المشترك بين المتظاهرين يتمثل في تحسين الخدمات الصحية والتعليمية، حيث رُفع شعار “لا نريد كأس العالم.. الصحة أولاً” عقب وفاة ثماني نساء أثناء الولادة بمستشفى أكادير.

The common demand among the demonstrators is to improve health and education services, with the slogan “We don’t want the World Cup… health first” being raised following the deaths of eight women during childbirth at Agadir’s hospital.

The GenZ 212 protests were announced on Instagram and Discord by Gen Z youth, “highlighting a new role for digital space”, after the death of eight pregnant women in Hassan II Regional Hospital in Agadir, a city in Southwestern Morocco. (The GenZ 212 name given to the protests is a combination of Generation Z with Morocco’s international +212 dialling code). These tragic deaths were followed by protests in Agadir on 14 September, and a visit by the Morocco’s Health Minister, Amine Tahraoui, two days later. However, this visit and the following administrative procedures did not reassure the locals nor the rest of the nation.

ويعتبر هذا الحراك الأوسع منذ احتجاجات 2011 التي أعقبت الربيع العربي

This movement is considered the largest since the 2011 protests that followed the Arab Spring.

When the GenZ 212 protests began, I felt a strange familiarity, as if history was repeating itself. In 2011, I visited Casablanca for the first time. I was 10 years old. I vividly remember a group of young people marching down the street, holding banners. I was standing with my dad among onlookers on the sidewalk, unsure what the young protesters were demanding. At the street intersection, police in heavy gear prepared to block the march. Before anything escalated, we left.

I only understood what I had witnessed later, when I learned about the Arab Spring and Morocco’s 20 February 2011 protests. These demonstrations prompted constitutional reforms, promising to guarantee basic right like healthcare, education, employment, freedom of speech and to hold corrupt officials accountable.

Fast forward to today, a new generation is protesting, demanding the same rights as their predecessors and facing the same authoritarian repression. I realised the Arab Spring never truly ended. It lay dormant. Government after government deceived themselves and their citizens, portraying Morocco as perfect, peaceful and prosperous, while most people struggled with harsh living conditions.

Gen Zers have had enough. They filled the streets with chants like “We don’t want the World Cup, healthcare first” and “Freedom, dignity and social equality”. Their slogans echoed across Morocco, from major cities like Rabat, Casablanca, Marrakech and Tangier to smaller, long-neglected towns.

وأسفرت عن مقتل ثلاثة أشخاص واعتقال أكثر من 400 آخرين، قبل أن تهدأ وتيرة العنف تدريجيًا.

Three people were killed and more than 400 others arrested, before the violence gradually subsided.

To the protesters’ dismay, Moroccan police responded with dispersal orders and unlawful arrests. Hundreds, including minors and journalists, were detained nationwide. Some were released without charges, while others faced fines or are still awaiting court dates.

Many of the youth who were detained while exercising their right to peaceful protest, as granted by the Moroccan constitution, took to social media afterwards to denounce the mistreatment they were subjected to by the Moroccan police. In a tearful Instagram video, one girl states that they were left standing in cramped spaces, not allowed to use the bathroom, and left without any food or water for 12 hours.

Despite being arrested and barred from filming, the protestors continuously shared updates on social media. In a viral selfie, a group of protestors are shown inside a police van, smiling as a sign of resistance. In another heartbreaking video, a father is thrown into a police van with his toddler strapped to his chest. Activists were also subject to arrest and blatant censorship. While giving a press statement denouncing police brutality against minors, president of the NGO Touche pas à mon enfant ماتقيش ولدي (Don’t Touch My Child), Najat Anwar, was accosted by the police mid-speech.

As the protests continued through Monday and Tuesday, the protestors were met with more violence and extreme measures to disperse them. In Oujda, a city in Northeast Morocco, a police vehicle ran over two protestors, causing severe injuries. Amin, one of the victims, had to be flown by helicopter to Rabat to undergo surgery, an event many citizens found ironic since one of motives for the protests was how quality healthcare is only found in Rabat and Casablanca. The other victim, Wassim, remains in critical condition in the ICU of regional Oujda’s hospital.

What started as peaceful protests erupted into riots and acts of vandalism in many cities and small towns including southern cities of Tiznit, Inzegane and Ait Amira, as well as Oujda, and Temara and Sla near the capital. In the late hours of 30 September – the fourth day of the protest – stores, banks and administrations were broken into, public and private properties were destroyed, and police officers were stoned, while some of the vehicles were smashed or set on fire by the looters. According to the Interior Ministry, 260 police officers and 23 protesters sustained injuries of varying gravity, while 142 police vehicles were set ablaze; 409 individuals were taken into police custody.

The GenZ 212 Instagram page condemned the violence and vandalism stating that they have no place in the movement. They even urged young people to take part in cleaning campaigns on Saturday to make up for the damage.

On 1 October, three young men were shot dead in Lqliaa, a city near Agadir, as they attempted to break into a gendarmerie. Police stated that they were acting in self-defence with many Moroccans doubting that statement’s veracity. One of the deceased, Abdessamade Oubalat, a recent graduate from the Institute of Professional Training in Cinema Professions in Ouarzazate, was shot while trying to document the protest.

رئيس الحكومة عزيز أخنوش إلى “الحوار كسبيل للمضي قدما”

Head of Government Aziz Akhannouch calls for “dialogue as a way forward.”

On the morning of 2 October, the head of the government, the controversial billionaire, Aziz Akhannouch, broke his silence in an official statement: “The developments that have taken place over the past two days in a number of cities in the Kingdom, which have witnessed a dangerous escalation that has undermined public security and order, led to the injury of hundreds of members of the public forces and damage to public and private property,” he said, noting that “three deaths have been recorded, may they rest in peace.” He also emphasised the government’s readiness to respond to the youth’s demands and to open dialogue and discussion within institutions and public spaces. Listening to the head of the government’s statement and to other similarly worded communications by ministers and officials, I couldn’t help but note the lack of remorse and accountability and the use of language was generic and disconnected from the language of the people.

According to the France24 article: “a poll showed that trust in political parties fell to 33% in 2023, compared to 50% the previous year.” With elections on the horizon in 2026, public opinion does not favour Akhnouch’s government, nor the other parties that dominate the Moroccan political scene. In fact, GenZ 212 now demands that the current government resign or be dismissed by King Mohammed VI.

المثير أن المجموعة الشبابية “جيل زد 212” اقتبست في بيان لها مقولة للملك من خطاب عام 2017 جاء فيها:

“إما أن تقوموا بمهامكم كاملة، أو أن تنسحبوا.”

Interestingly, the youth group “GenZ 212” quoted the King’s 2017 speech in a statement: “Either you fulfil your duties fully, or you withdraw.”

As the GenZ 212 protests now enter their second week, the government’s response has been deemed unsatisfactory by the majority of the populace, and police violence remains a reality that threatens the protestors.

I am ashamed to admit that I didn’t participate in the protests. Like many, I was paralysed by fear, not only of the abuse I might face, but of the consequences for my personal, academic and professional life, and for my family, who could be investigated or harassed by the Moroccan police. As a member of an already marginalised group, the Moroccan LGBT community, I couldn’t risk being outed. Perhaps it was cowardice or perhaps caution. I can’t tell. I stayed at home, refreshing my feed hourly, witnessing the bravery of my generation, queer and otherwise, who took to the streets, a bravery I have yet to summon.

Walking through Rabat both pains me and fills me with hope. Millions are spent on tourist projects while other regions languish in neglect. Police vans loom everywhere, turning the city into a panopticon. Yet I see my generation, fuelled by hope and anger, refusing to settle for less than what is rightfully ours, rallying both in person and online to show what it truly means to love this country.

Original article (“احتجاجات “جيل زد 212”... غضب اجتماعي يكشف خللا في المقاربة التنموية بالمغرب”) by France24 was published in Arabic on 6 October 2025.

It’s available here.

“Read Between the Lines #2: Morocco’s GenZ 212 protests” was written by Nadia*

*Name has been changed to protect the individual’s identity and ensure their safety.

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

From this week, Translator is trialling a new kind of Dispatch alongside our usual weekly summaries of articles from around the world.

In Read Between the Lines we commission a journalist or commentator from beyond the Anglosphere to interpret a recent article they have found interesting or important from their local media landscape: 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).

How is an article being received? What’s the backstory? What is being really said – and what is left unsaid?

Sometimes, a deeper understanding an article isn’t a case of translating or summarising it. Sometimes, we need to read between the lines.

In our first Read Between the Lines online, our Karachi-based contributing editor and journalist Sanam Maher, looks at BBC Urdu’s coverage of recent flooding in Pakistan, and the emphasis on not just the physical but the psychological devastation left in its wake.

After the August floods in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa

With every monsoon season in Pakistan since 2022 comes a grim new measure of the devastation: in 2022, when Sindh province, where I live, received eight times its average rainfall, United Nations Secretary General Antonio Guterres described the rains as “monsoon on steroids” that left 1,000 dead; in 2023, “record-breaking” rainfall turned roads to rivers in Lahore, Pakistan’s second-largest city; in last year’s “unprecedented deluge”, we received 51 percent more rainfall than the average. Every year, we become more vulnerable to the effects of climate change, and this year’s monsoon has brought on “the worst floods on record” in the country’s history. According to the World Bank, Pakistan still needs $16 billion to recover from the 2022 floods. We’re playing catch-up to a goal that feels increasingly out of our reach, and in the meantime, as a report in BBC Urdu this August showed, those who have survived haven’t just lost their livelihoods, homes and family members – they’re struggling with the trauma of this annual battering.

In the piece, “Graves of missing persons and mental stress after floods in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa: ‘Dark clouds and heavy rain have now become a symbol of fear in this village’”, reporters Azizullah Khan and Bilal Ahmed write from Buner district, in the northern province of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa, where flash floods on 15 August 2025 killed 400. They follow psychiatrist Dr Muhammad Israr and his team as they meet survivors from different villages in the district. Dr Israr surmises that “When the clouds rolled in and the rain started in front of us in the village of Bishonai, people were panicking. We have never seen such a situation in our lives. People seem to suffer from an undiagnosed psychological problem.”

Buner suffered the highest loss of life, while floods in other districts such as Swat, Bajaur, Shangla, Battagram and Swabi have also caused extensive damage to property, livestock and agriculture. According to the Provincial Disaster Management Agency (PDMA), the death toll in the flash floods has exceeded 390.

Dr Muhammad Israr, assistant professor of psychiatry at Lady Reading Hospital Peshawar, told the BBC that the people in these areas have become psychologically fragile. “They don’t know what they are doing and what is happening to them.” One patient, he said, is around 40 to 45 years old. Dr Israr said that Hamid (name changed) lost 18 people in his family and he was the only survivor. Some members of the family are still missing, and a search is on for them. Hamid was sitting in a mosque, and people came to him to express their sorrow and condolences for his loss, but he was completely lost in thought.

Dr Israr said that other families in the area are desperately trying to find missing family members or hoping “at least their bodies will be found”. Graves have already been dug for some missing people in this area.

Dr Israr gives the example of a patient who has now lost both his legs due to injuries sustained during the floods. “His entire family was swept away,” Dr Israr says. “Treatment is ongoing, but the patient is unable to communicate. They cannot understand what is happening.” They just stare at people, and if they try to talk to someone, ‘‘they start crying”.

Dr Israr explains how anxiety is manifesting itself among the patients he has seen:

There was such a sense of fear among the people, that when a corner of one person’s umbrella hit another’s shoulder, that person started trembling. He said, “You almost killed me. I thought something terrible happened.”

At another point in the article, the authors tell the harrowing story of Zeb, who lived and worked in Saudi Arabia. He had a return ticket booked for 12 August, but postponed his return as there was a mukha (archery) match to be held in his village.

“If only he hadn’t delayed his ticket to return to Saudi Arabia because of the match, he would be alive today. Maybe death was holding him back.” Muhammad Idrees was crying bitterly while he said this. Thirty-seven people were killed in a cloudburst in the Dalori Bala area of Swabi, and one of them was Idrees’s childhood friend Anwar Zeb. Zeb, his wife, children, mother, and sister-in-law, along with 14 other family members were killed in the floods. Only two members of the family have survived.

The article relates that, the night before his death, Zeb had lost the archery match by one point and had spoken about the next one, expressing the hope that it would be held by the riverbank. He was found with the bodies of his children in his arms.

I feel like I read the same story every year about the trauma that survivors endure, and with every monsoon, I am reminded that we do not have the resources to help them. In 2022, I travelled to a village in Balochistan where an international aid agency had partnered with local mental health professionals to offer counselling to flood survivors. The counsellors shepherded a group of women into a one-room home. The women sat on the floor and looked up at the counsellors – a man and a woman – who asked them to share what was on their mind. Some of the women stared listlessly at the walls or fidgeted, preoccupied. The ones who did share talked about anxiety about the coming days and how they would start afresh when they had lost everything. The counsellors prescribed being grateful to be alive, and to give thanks to Allah that their lives had been spared, when others had not. Anxiety could be kept at bay, they suggested, by remembering that Allah provides for us, and we must never lose hope or be ungrateful, for we always have blessings that we can count.

Separately, when I spoke to these women, their stories were devastating. One woman in her 70s told me about her granddaughter, who died during the rains. As the village cemetery was flooded, they wrapped the body in a cloth, put it inside a water drum, and carried it to the neighbouring village to find a place to bury her. Another woman told me about how the villagers tied strips of cloth to the tallest trees and lifted their children onto the branches, telling them to hold tight to the cloth as the waters swept through the village. These women were now meeting with people who advised them to be grateful they were alive, but no one was telling them how to survive while holding the memories of what had happened to their children.

I thought about this village and the women when I read the BBC Urdu article, and especially this month when Punjab’s chief minister Maryam Nawaz Sharif has come under fire for tweeting a video of plastic boxes of fruit for children in relief camps in Punjab, where floods have affected 2 million people. Each small box is covered in a photograph of the chief minister smiling serenely. At a time when people have lost everything, the chief minister would like them to remember who has given them the barest minimum. Our politicians have yet to acknowledge – or perhaps even understand – the effects of trauma and loss among survivors.

I wonder if this is because we think the less privileged among us should thank Allah that things are not worse. To acknowledge their loss and fear would be to admit that they deserved better – the floods did not sweep away decades-old efficient infrastructure, well-maintained roads, stable networks, early warning systems, good schools and hospitals. They only revealed how vulnerable some Pakistanis have always been, and how underdeveloped their villages and districts have remained. I think about Anwar Zeb from the BBC Urdu piece, who likely worked in Saudi Arabia because a job there allows him to adequately provide for his family in Pakistan, and whose body was dug out from under rubble by his friends. Who will give an answer to those friends if they ask, “Who will be there to find our bodies next year, and the year after that?”

Original article (“Graves of missing persons and mental stress after floods in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa: ‘Dark clouds and heavy rain have now become a symbol of fear in this village’”) by Azizullah Khan and Bilal Ahmed was published in Urdu on 23 August 2025.

It’s available here.

Read Between the Lines #1: After the August floods in Khyber Pakhtunkhwa was written by Sanam Maher.

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