Dispatch #37

Read about Saudi Arabia’s entertainment boom, Kosovo’s overlooked Ashkali community, and a South Korean city’s quiet struggle for identity after merging with its neighbours

Hello and welcome to Translator’s weekly Dispatch, where we bring you summaries of compelling stories written beyond the Anglosphere.

This week, from Kosovo, a deeply personal essay reflects on the Ashkali community’s long struggle for recognition. Through memories of a grandfather’s hesitant answers, it traces how generations have lived between silence and belonging, searching for a name and a history that feels entirely their own.

Then from Saudi Arabia, a long-form investigation asks whether the Kingdom’s dazzling entertainment boom under Vision 2030 represents a true cultural awakening or merely a glittering facade masking the absence of artistic freedom.

And finally, from South Korea, a report revisits the aftermath of the Masan-Changwon-Jinhae merger, revealing how promises of economic growth gave way to disillusionment. Residents speak of identity loss, urban neglect and the quiet erosion of civic life in a city built by administrative decree rather than community will.

P.S.: In the meantime, tell us what you like and dislike, themes you’d like to see explored from the perspective of different linguistic media landscapes. And, as ever, feel free to recommend specific pieces we should summarise for our Dispatches, or translate in full for the magazine.

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Between silence and belonging

The struggle of Kosovo’s Ashkali community to name themselves in a country that rarely asks who they are

In “Šta smo mi, deda?”, Bajram Ilazi traces the quiet, complex search for Ashkali identity in Kosovo – a search that has been muffled by politics, silence and erasure. The essay opens with an intimate exchange between the author and his late grandfather, who answers the child’s innocent question, “What are we?”, with hesitation: “Ashkali, that’s what they say… but before the war we declared ourselves Albanians.” This small, trembling admission sets the tone for the piece, where identity is not a declaration but a negotiation, shaped by fear, loyalty and historical circumstance.

Ilazi shows how the Ashkali, one of Kosovo’s least understood ethnic groups, have long been caught between imposed labels and self-chosen names. His family’s responses – where some call themselves Albanians and others identify primarily by religious affiliation as Muslims – reflects the fluid, often defensive ways in which the community has positioned itself within the country’s shifting political terrain. In public discourse, Ashkali are rarely seen as a distinct people. They are typically grouped with Roma and “Egyptians” (two other self-identifying groups in Kosovo), their story dissolved into a homogenised minority narrative of poverty and discrimination.

While the Kosovo Constitution recognises Ashkali as a community with special rights and reserved parliamentary seats, Ilazi exposes how this recognition is largely symbolic. In practice, representation is determined not by population but by electoral results within a joint category grouping Roma, Egyptians and Ashkali together, effectively denying Ashkali the political visibility they are promised. Even cultural representation mirrors this bureaucratic flattening: school textbooks, strategic state documents and international reports routinely erase the community’s distinct history. Ashkali are reduced to a single star on the Kosovo flag, and in UN and NGO reports, they often appear only in footnotes, mislabelled as Roma.

The essay moves between personal reflection and political critique. Ilazi laments that, despite constitutional guarantees, no state institution, university or media outlet has initiated a serious public discussion about the Ashkali. The silence, he argues, stems from fear: of disrupting the fragile balance among Kosovo’s minority groups, or of exposing uncomfortable truths about how national identity has been built on hierarchies of belonging. The absence of scholarship has left the Ashkali reliant on oral histories, myths of origin and unverified narratives. The result is a discursive vacuum: a people recognised in law but invisible in knowledge.

Ilazi’s voice remains tender even as it indicts. He remembers his grandfather’s uncertainty not as ignorance but as survival, a kind of learned quietness in a system that discouraged difference. What haunts him now is the prospect of passing that same silence to his own children. When they one day ask, “Dad, what are we?”, he fears he will not have the books or studies to answer them, only inherited fragments of story.

Original article (“Šta smo mi, deda?”) by Bajram Ilazi was published in Albanian on 30 July 2025.

It is available here.

Kosovo 2.0 is an independent, bilingual media platform based in Pristina. Founded in 2010, it publishes in Albanian, Serbian and English, covering politics, culture, and society across the Balkans. Known for its long-form journalism and critical engagement with identity, justice and democracy, the magazine is widely regarded as one of the region’s most progressive and inclusive voices.

Summary by ZN

Entertainment for sale? Saudi Arabia’s glittering vision and its cultural contradictions

As Riyadh’s entertainment empire expands under Vision 2030, questions grow about whether Saudi Arabia is fostering real art or merely spectacle in service of the state

When Saudi Arabia announced the “Saudisation” of its massive Riyadh Season festival, it was framed as an artistic correction: a turn toward empowering Gulf talent and reducing dependence on Egypt’s long-dominant cultural influence. But as Abdullah Bakr’s analysis makes clear in this article for Beirut-based Daraj Media, the decision was less about artistic renewal than about political control and image management. It reflected a deeper shift in the Kingdom’s new entertainment economy, one that prizes spectacle, profitability and soft power over creativity, dissent and cultural freedom.

The architect of this transformation is Turki Al-Sheikh, head of the General Entertainment Authority and a close adviser to Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman. In just a few years, he has turned Riyadh into a global hub for concerts, festivals and sports extravaganzas, featuring everyone from Shakira to Tyson Fury. His ambition is to rebrand Saudi Arabia as a land of leisure and modernity, recasting its global image after years of notoriety over human rights abuses and repression.

But beneath the fireworks, the contradictions are glaring, the article notes. The 2025 “Riyadh Season” announcement, pledging an almost exclusive focus on Saudi and Gulf performers, came after years of tension between Al-Sheikh and Egyptian artists, who had long dominated Arab popular culture. It was, critics argued, a symbolic act of “punishment”, a way of asserting Saudi cultural sovereignty and sidelining Egyptian soft power.

The politics of spectacle has also collided with the politics of conscience. When Egyptian actor Mohammed Salam withdrew from a Riyadh play in 2023 – citing the ongoing Israeli bombardment of Gaza and stating: “I cannot joke and dance while our brothers are dying” – his decision sparked admiration across the Arab world and outrage among Saudi officials. The Riyadh Season went ahead as planned, its opening night featuring international pop stars and a boxing match, even as Gaza burned. For some, it became a metaphor for a kingdom “dancing on wounds.”

This tension between entertainment and empathy, art and obedience, runs through the Saudi cultural project, the article writes. Under Vision 2030, the state has invested billions to diversify the economy and polish its image. Cinemas reopened after decades of prohibition; massive festivals and world-class sporting events are now routine. Yet, as the article shows, this expansion is tightly choreographed. The entertainment industry is built to dazzle, not to provoke.

The state’s hand is everywhere: from funding epic historical films about Islamic victories to producing dramas that celebrate state institutions like the army and police. The themes are safe, patriotic and grand. What’s missing, the piece argues, is the freedom that gives art its pulse, which is the capacity to question, disturb or dissent.

That absence is not incidental. Saudi Arabia’s cultural modernisation remains tethered to an authoritarian political reality where freedom of expression is sharply curtailed. Theatres and studios thrive; prison cells remain full. The same government that invites Maroon 5 and BTS to perform still imprisons writers, feminists and reformists who push beyond the sanctioned line. It appears that Saudi Arabia allows people to dance, the article notes, but not to think or speak freely.

There is no denying the Kingdom’s achievements. Riyadh now competes with Dubai as a regional cultural hub. Festivals generate jobs, tourism and national pride. For a young population long starved of leisure, the transformation feels exhilarating. Yet, as the article cautions, “a joyful edifice without a solid foundation of freedom of expression and cultural pluralism” cannot last. Spectacle may sustain popularity, but it cannot replace authenticity or critical thought.

The question that lingers in the article is whether Saudi Arabia can move from a model of “entertainment for sale”, to genuine cultural creation. True art, after all, emerges not from directives or billion-dollar budgets, but from the freedom to imagine, resist and reveal. Until that freedom exists, the Kingdom’s cultural renaissance will remain dazzling but hollow.

Original article (“سعودة الفنّ” أم ترفيه للبيع؟”) by Abdullah Bakr was published in Arabic on 14 Aug 2025.

It is available here.

Daraj Media is an independent pan-Arab digital media platform founded in Beirut in 2017 by journalists Diana Moukalled, Hazem al-Amin and Samar Yazbek. It was created in response to the decline of press freedom and the dominance of state- and Gulf-funded outlets in the Arab world. The outlet defines itself as a space for independent, feminist and anti-authoritarian storytelling, aiming to “disrupt the mainstream Arab narrative” by foregrounding marginalised voices and promoting critical debate beyond sectarian or nationalist lines.

Summary by ZN

When a city loses its name

Fifteen years after Masan, Jinhae and Changwon were merged into a single “megacity”, residents still grapple with the loss of their local identities and autonomy

“Everything was taken away, even my name.” These are the words of Heo Jeong-do, an architect and longtime resident of Masan, one of the cities alongside Jinhae and Changwon that were merged to form Changwon Special City 15 years ago. He’s one of many interviewed in this recent investigative report by Korean media outlet Hankyoreh 21, showing how a top-down decision that promised unity and modernisation has left lasting wounds.

Heo Jeong-do’s words reflect a sentiment shared widely among residents of the former cities. “It felt like Changwon had simply swallowed up Masan, like a successful company had merged with another,” he tells Hankyoreh 21. The merger erased not only administrative boundaries but also the identities and voices of local residents. Masan and Jinhae lost their names, their governments and their ability to shape their own futures, while Changwon, designated the central hub, benefited from consolidation. Fifteen years on, the region’s chronic decline exposes the human costs of centralised planning and the fragility of local identity.

The first casualties were symbolic yet profound. As the names Masan and Jinhae disappeared from official usage, civic organisations like the Masan YMCA became amongst the few reminders of the city. Promises that city hall would now be located in once-Masan and a unifying symbol built in Jinhae fell flat; both went to old Changwon, leaving residents elsewhere feeling betrayed. Local governance structures were dismantled: Masan and Jinhae became administrative districts without elected mayors or budgets, staffed only by appointees from Changwon. The disappearance of infrastructure – from banks and courts to cultural spaces – followed naturally, hollowing out the downtowns and leaving few reasons for residents or visitors to engage with these areas.

Shin Da-eun and Kim Yang-jin’s reporting for Hankyoreh 21 shows how the merger’s political origins reveal the fragility of democracy in top-down urban planning. The decision was made by politicians, including then-President Lee Myung-bak and local mayors, without a referendum. Leaflets circulated proclaiming that merging was the only path to survival, and the Masan City Council voted in favour despite widespread popular unhappiness. As local political leader Lee Yoon-ki notes, the absence of public participation in such a consequential decision has left residents feeling powerless in its wake. Yet this hasn’t stopped similar proposals in other cities in Korea – Jeonju-Wanju and Daejeon-South Chungcheong – from advancing despite opposition, showing that the voices of ordinary citizens are often secondary in regional planning.

The urban planning rationale behind the mergers was to create metropolitan hubs to prevent young people from leaving – but it isn’t working. Masan’s population is aging; and 20,000 young people moved to Seoul from Gyeongnam Province in 2023 alone. Centralised approaches assume that consolidating resources will mimic Seoul’s “top-tier ecosystem”, but Seoul’s success depends on unique infrastructure, innovation and history that cannot be replicated by mere aggregation. Professor Hwang Jong-gyu of Dongyang University emphasises that local solutions must leverage the unique strengths of each city rather than copying centralist models. For Masan, that could mean developing senior-friendly infrastructure, revitalising local industries and creating spaces that encourage residents to return or stay, a far cry from the current youth-centric, Seoul-focused planning.

In the meantime, Masan’s once-thriving downtown has become a shadow of its former self, with abandoned land, declining commercial spaces and minimal public amenities. Residents such as Park Seung-gyu, CEO of the clothing brand Masanai, cling to symbols of their lost identity, using fashion to preserve and celebrate the city’s legacy. Masan is “rife with resident’s dissatisfaction”, Hankyoreh 21 reports. Local leaders and former city council members call the promises made during the merger to be properly fulfilled; or for re-separation be considered as a means to restore local pride.

The Masan-Changwon-Jinhae case offers a lens into universal questions about governance, identity and urban planning. Cities worldwide face pressures to consolidate for economic efficiency, but at what cost to democracy and social cohesion? The story highlights the tension between centralisation and local autonomy, illustrating how political expediency can erode community trust and long-term sustainability. It challenges assumptions that bigger is always better and shows the human consequences of policies conceived far from the people they affect. “What is the purpose of integration?” the article asks.

The cautionary tale suggests the need for urban transformation to be co-created rather than imposed. Infrastructure is not only about buildings or roads, it is deeply tied to culture, memory and civic pride. Masan’s struggle illustrates that without attention to these elements, even well-intentioned megacity projects can fail, producing economic and social stagnation alongside demographic decline.

Original article (“다 빼앗기고 이름까지 먹혔다”…통합 15년, 골병 든 마창진”) by Shin Da-eun and Kim Yang-jin was published in Korean on 11 August 2025.

It is available here.

Hankyoreh 21 is a Korean weekly news magazine that is part of the Hankyoreh Media Group. Known for its high-quality, in-depth and investigative journalism, it covers a wide range of topics with a focus on the economy, politics and social issues in Korea and globally.

Summary by TMH

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