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From Our Own Correspondent
Afghanistan’s Secret Schools for Women
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Private classes have sprung up in Afghanistan to counter the ban on education for girls.
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Hello. Eight months after Hurricane Melissa hit Jamaica, we hear how locals and the land are recovering. In Thailand, we meet the people working to counter one of the country's biggest public health snake bites. And finally, we venture into Moscow's comedy clubs, where political satire has become a careful balancing act. But first, to Afghanistan, where women are facing ever tighter restrictions in almost every aspect of public life. Just a few weeks ago, in the country's third largest city, Herat, several women were detained by Taliban morality police for alleged improper wearing of the hijab. A rare protest followed, but these were quickly squashed, leaving at least two people dead, according to reports, with many more injured. With this increasing encroachment on freedoms, it's become more and more difficult for women across the country to pursue a career or an education. Yogitha Limaya has been in Afghanistan, where she spoke to a young woman determined to keep her dreams alive.
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When I met her In Kabul, the 19 year old woman, who we are calling Alia, was clutching an English grammar textbook, memorizing lines from it. I can't tell you her real name because she fears reprisal from the Taliban government for speaking out against their ban on female education. We had to meet Alia at a discreet location because going to her home might have attracted unwanted attention. Alia is enrolled in a short term English language course in Kabul. Private classes like this still continue for women and girls slipping through the cracks of Taliban diktats. For her, the course was both a fragile link to the life she led before the Taliban seized power five years ago and an excuse to stay away from home, where she fears being pressurized into marriage by her family. Before the ban, my parents passionately encouraged me to study. They believed in me and told me I could definitely achieve my dream of becoming a pilot, she said. But now they say the best way for me is to get married because I can't go to university and I can't even work, she went on. And so eight months ago, Alia got into a taxi along with a female cousin, saying she was going to Kabul to meet her former classmates and friends. That was a lie. My classmates have either left the country or have got married. When I arrived in Kabul, I enrolled onto a course and convinced my family to let me stay here to complete it. She said that simple act of traveling hundreds of miles to Kabul from her home in the remote Daikundi Province was extraordinary because in Afghanistan, women are not allowed to travel long distances without a male relative. I was constantly scared that we would be stopped and questioned, but luckily nothing happened and we reached Kabul, she said. I asked where she had found the courage to make the journey. There was no question of courage, she shot back. It was the only way for me. I want a bright future. What if the family I'm married into is conservative and does not allow me to pursue my dreams? I will resist until I cannot breathe, she told me. Steely resolve. But holding on to this dream in Afghanistan means withstanding a continuous onslaught of blows dealt by the Taliban's top leadership. After I left the country, Alia's story took a turn. When I recently spoke to her again over the phone. She was back home in Daikundi, she explained. She was standing on the roof of her house so the signal would be strong enough for her to speak to me. I came to Daikundi a few weeks ago to visit my mother, who'd taken ill. I had plans to return to Kabul, but then we saw what happened in Herat, she said. She was referring to a recent incident in the western city when Taliban police fired at people who'd gathered to protest after local officials had detained some women for allegedly violating the dress code imposed by the Taliban's supreme leader. Two people were reported to have been killed, a charge the Taliban police deny. Far away in Daikundi, news of the incident had reached Alia and her family through social media. It was really painful to see the videos. I felt upset and I cried a lot, said Alia. But now her family is too scared to send her back to Kabul. My mother says she would be extremely worried if I went back, alia told me. I'm also scared, of course, when what if officials stop me and take me to an unknown place, and even my family and friends don't know where I am. But on the other hand, I'm also scared about my future, she said. While in Kabul, Alia told me she had already encountered the Taliban's morality police. The first time, they stopped me, they ordered me to cover my face. The second time, they told me to button up my overcoat properly, even though I was fully covered. The third time, they asked me not to look around while walking and to only keep my eyes on the path ahead, she said. I felt so scared, my legs began to feel wobbly. I couldn't utter a word, so I just nodded and quickly walked away. And yet Alia insists she would choose to return if her family allows her to, as she's more worried about what might await her if she stays in Daikundi. When I was in the kitchen making tea, I overheard my parents talking about whether I should get married, she said. The future Alia wants for herself, the one she's fought so hard for, feels more out of reach with every passing day.
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Yogit el Nimaya the Al Aqsa Mosque compound in Jerusalem is the third holiest place in the world for Muslims. And Even though the 36 acre site in Jerusalem's Old City was captured by Israeli forces in 1967, a decades old agreement called the status quo ensures that the administration of Al Aq stays under Jordanian Islamic control. The site is also the holiest place in Judaism, known to Jews as the Temple Mount. And at its supporting Western Wall, they pray and mourn the destruction of their temple almost 2000 years ago. As Wira Davis reports from Jerusalem, the status quo is a fragile arrangement that's coming under increasing strain.
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There is a wealth of literature and art that puts physically or symbolically Jerusalem at the center of the earth, a spiritual place almost unmatched in its importance to many of the world's great faiths. At the heart of the Old City in Jerusalem is the Al Aqsa compound, dominated by the gold covered Dome of the Rock that can be seen for miles around. For around 1400 years, almost unbroken, this has been a place of exclusively Muslim prayer. The site, if not the city, is mentioned in the Quran and it is from where Muslims believe the Prophet Muhammad ascended to heaven. Non Muslims can visit Al Aqsa, but they are not allowed to pray or carry out religious rites there. I am not a person of faith, but whenever I'm in Jerusalem I always try to find time to visit the compound, walk through its tree lined grounds and circle around the stunning eight sided gilded dome. With its exquisite green, blue and white tiling, the site is known to Jews as the Temple Mount and it is the most important place in Judaism. Below the compound, alongside its supporting Western Wall, they pray and mourn the destruction of the second Jewish Temple by the Romans on the platform above almost 2,000 years ago. That loss is still deeply felt by many Jews. In a Jewish wedding ceremony, the groom breaks a glass under his foot and recites a passage from the Book of Psalms to remember the destruction of both ancient temples. But most Jews adhere to guidance from senior rabbis that prohibits Jewish prayer on the Temple Mount until the return of the Messiah when, according to scripture, the Holy Temple in Jerusalem will be rebuilt. What also maintains the current order is the status quo, a decades old agreement that defers the custody and maintenance of Al Aqsa to the Jordanian run waqf, or Islamic endowment. But the status quo is Something that an increasing number of right wing nationalist Israelis are no longer prepared to accept. In September 2000, the then leader of the right wing opposition Likud Party, Ariel Sharon, did what was then unthinkable. Accompanied by hundreds of armed Israeli police officers, he walked through the Old City and up onto the Al Aqsa compound. It was seen as a deliberately inflammatory act that in part led to the second Palestinian Intifada, or uprising, resulting in thousands of deaths and years of violence across Israel and the occupied Palestinian territories. Sharon's actions 26 years ago are now emulated almost weekly by his political successors. On a recent visit to Al Aqsa, I noticed a small group of armed Israeli policemen accompanying about 30 visitors to the site. Most of the group began singing songs and reciting prayers in Hebrew, quietly at first, but louder and more confidently as they walked around the compound. Some openly prayed, lying prostrate on the ground as they faced the Dome, underneath which according to Jewish tradition is the holy of holies and where Abraham was prepared to sacrifice his son Isaac. At the head of the group was the prominent and often outspoken religious politician. Moshe Feiglin. The leader of the nationalist Zehud Party explained to me the inevitability of, as he saw it, that a new Jewish temple would eventually be built on the site currently occupied by the Islamic Dome of the Rock. Forget about this nonsense, let's go further, answered Feiglin when I asked him about the future of the status quo. The Third Temple will be built here forever. It's going to happen and nothing is going to stop it, he continued. Those views are no longer considered fringe. Israel's even more outspoken National Security Minister Itamar Ben GVIR regularly comes to the compound, recently unfurling an Israeli flag there and declaring Israeli ownership of the site. He has unilaterally breached the terms of the status quo, permitting Jewish prayer on the site, even though the official Israeli government position is that nothing has changed. A takeover of Al Aqsa by stealth is what many people here and in the wider world perhaps fear most. With well sourced media reports of a joint U. S. Israeli proposal that to wrest control of Al Aqsa from the Islamic Waqf and perhaps initially turning it into a multi faith venue, a reported plan that the US Secretary of State Marco Rubio recently said he knew nothing of. It will not happen, warns Dr. Mustafa Abusui, the deputy head of the Islamic Waqf Council, as we look over Al Aqsa from a rooftop vantage point elsewhere in the old city. Dr. Abusue fears that any attempt to change the status quo would inevitably result in another explosion of violence between Jews and Muslims. It's simply opening another Pandora's box, he says. It would pitch everyone against everyone else. Religion and politics are rarely a good mix, and despite their beguiling beauty, it's an old adage that is particularly relevant to Jerusalem's holiest sites.
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Weira Davis Last October, Hurricane Melissa, one of the most intense Atlantic hurricanes on record, hit the Caribbean, with Haiti, Bermuda and Colombia among the countries affected. In jamaica, at least 45 people were killed, and there was widespread devastation across the west of the island. Around one and a half million people were affected, as were the agriculture and tourism industries they rely on. Eight months on Communities are rebuilding and recovering. Antonia Windsor went to visit them.
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Look at that one. It's in depression, says farmer Rodney Maxon, pointing to a mango tree. It's still stressed, he goes on matter of factly, then turns his attention back to the young cucumber plants that snake around our feet. We're standing in a field in St. Elizabeth, an area known as the breadbasket of Jamaica. This is where Hurricane Melissa plowed through back in October, the strongest ever recorded to directly hit the island. Rodney wakes at 5:00 clock each morning to tend his leased fields not far inland from the fishing villages of Jamaica's south coast. Melissa destroyed all his crops watermelon, cucumber, tomato, cantaloupe, everything, he says. On my way here from the all inclusive resorts of Negril, where little trace of the hurricane can be seen now, I drove through New Hope in Westmoreland, on Jamaica's exposed south coast where the storm made landfall. Tree trunks and debris still line the road here, buildings remain patched with blue tarpaulin, and a church is now open to the sky. Close to the shoreline, the vegetation has turned a ghostly grey. And here in this field, you can still read the direction of the wind as it ripped through the landscape. You can see the side of the tree here. This is where the hurricane hit it, rodney explains. On one side of the tree, bright orange fruits are beginning to form again, and on the other side, the branches remain bare. What the hurricane didn't flatten, the salt finished off sea spray carried deep inland by the storm burned leaves and poisoned roots. 95% of the island's plantain and banana plants were destroyed. Bananas take nine months to recover, mangoes longer still. Perhaps it'll take another year for them to feel comfortable again, Rodney says, signalling the trees. But that there are any mangoes at all is a good Thing. Government figures suggest that over 32,000 hectares of domestic crops were destroyed or heavily damaged in the storm, affecting more than 47,000 farmers. Yet now, out of the straw mulched soil of this field, green shoots are emerging alongside the cucumbers. Tiny watermelons are beginning to swell beneath broad leaves. Rodney cuts open an immature melon for me to taste. This year will be fantastic, he says. I made my way to this field on a bike and on my cycle back to Treasure Beach. I pass a roadside stall heaving with locally grown green coconuts, sweet potatoes, dasheen cabbages, cucumbers and melons. Hanging in plastic bags are yellow, green and red Scotch bonnet peppers. For months, many of these stalls stood empty. Until very recently. You couldn't get a Scotch bonnet for love nor money. Hotel owner Jason Hensell tells me later over dinner. It was crazy. All these ingredients we'd taken for granted were suddenly gone. Jason says his hotel, Jake's, and its charitable organisation, Breads, effectively became a relief hub after the hurricane. Phase one is chaos, he tells me, referring to those first few weeks of the aftermath. It's water, food, tarpaulin, small generators and Starlink. While his wife focused on reopening the hotel, Jason focused on helping the wider community rebuild. Breads raised money from previous guests and distributed vouchers to farmers and fishermen for fertiliser equipment and supplies. We got hit really bad, he says, but we have insurance. Other people didn't have insurance. Rodney was one of the farmers who received support. I have to pay the lease whether the crops grow or not, he told me earlier in the field. Without the vouchers, he says, his business would probably have collapsed. The next day, I head north to Ocherios for a chocolate making workshop at a place called Pure in Island Village. The owner, Rene, is in a celebratory mood. We lost all the cocoa crop for last winter due to our nice Melissa, she says with sarcasm, but then smiles. But now we are back in harvest. She explains that to help the farmers get back into production, they had to introduce fertilisers and some of the trees
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just needed propping up.
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She laughs. In her small artisanal factory, she and a team of six women turn the cocoa into luxury chocolate bars flavoured with cinnamon, vanilla, lemongrass and unusually more savoury jerk seasoning. And there is something else that's making Renee smile today. She has just discovered that local plantains are back in the shops. We haven't had plantains on the island for a very long time, so we're all very excited and Overspending on plantains. It will be a few more months before the full range of local crops return to the market. But now the roadside stalls are filling again. And in Jamaica, that is the kind of recovery that matters.
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Antonia Windsor. In Thailand's capital Bangkok, emergency services receive a snake related call roughly every 15 minutes. If non venomous, they're relocated nearby, but but if venomous, they're dropped off at the city's snake farm. Here, scientists have been breeding snakes for over 100 years in a mission to create antivenoms that can save people's lives. Rebecca Root spent time with experts exploring the rise of human snake encounters and why their work on antivenom production is vital.
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What on earth am I doing? That's what runs through my mind repeatedly as I spend an evening in Bangkok looking for deadly snakes with reptile enthusiast Daniel Hastad. Every day around the world, someone dies or develops a critical illness from a snakebite. And here I am, actively seeking them out. Daniel wants to show me just how close we live to these serpents, even in a city. And so we are doing laps of a desolate strip of land that runs alongside one of Bangkok's sky train stations. The darkness is all consuming except for the pinpricks of light coming from Daniel's pocket torch. In the space of an hour, he uses it to point out 10 green pit vipers on top of the many piles of rubbish that have been dumped here. And each one is lying zigzagged in what Daniel tells me is their defensive position. They're waiting for the lizards or small rodents that will inevitably pass by. Most snakebites occur out in rural areas, but Daniel estimates that Bangkokians are only ever a few meters away from the likes of a reticulated python, monocled cobra or or pit viper. That proximity means bites aren't uncommon, but as in many countries, there is little data tracking the issue. There is a failure to monitor how many snakebites happen and a lack of investment into creating new antivenoms. Dr. Yagesh Jain tells me he is a member of the Global Snakebite Task Force and a doctor working on the problem in India. It costs money, he says, to set up serpentariums where you can keep snakes and then extract their venom. Private pharmaceutical giants don't see the value in the investment, while governments don't necessarily have the money, he tells me. The World Health Organization describes a vicious cycle. Low investment leads to poor quality of antivenoms, which drives down sales, which lowers profitability. This increases prices and makes antivenoms simply inaccessible for many countries. Thailand is home to the Queen Saopa Memorial Institute, the world's second largest snake farm and one of the most renowned antivenom research centers. Here, members of the public can wander around multiple snake pits that I'm told hold around a thousand snakes. They are occasionally removed from their enclosures to either educate the public or to be bred and milked so that the properties of their venom can be analysed. So far, the team has created seven different antivenoms. These are distributed to hospitals across the country and to neighbouring countries at a subsidised price. One of the antivenoms saved head of the farm, Taxa Vasurushapong, sitting in his air conditioned office, which overlooks the snake pits and the snake handling demonstration. Happening as we talk, he tells me he's been bitten three times. The first, the worst, left him unable to fully move one of the fingers on his right hand. A mottled pink scar covers most of his forearm. A cobra gave him what he calls a welcome kiss during his early days at the centre. The other two bites from pit vipers weren't as bad, he says. Back in the public section of the farm, staff offer visitors the chance to hold and pose for a photo with a non venomous Burmese python more than 5 meters long. I think of Taxa and of Daniel, who has also felt the fangs of a viper sink into his hand. And despite knowing this snake is a different species, I opt out. The institute's work is critical for the region, Taxa tells me it's one of the few antivenom producers in Southeast Asia with WHO quality approval. But it's not enough. The world needs more antivenoms, and fast. The WHO predicts that climate change and growing human contact will mean even more snakebites, as snakes seek shelter in people's homes and gardens. Despite the obvious occupational hazards, several scientists remain committed to researching more about the reptiles, creating more antivenoms and alternative treatments to help more people. So passionate is Taxa. He even sports a silver ring with a snake motif that wraps itself around his finger, a visual reminder of the cause he's committed to.
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Rebecca Root. And finally, after Russia launched its full scale invasion of Ukraine, Moscow enacted new laws that made public criticism of the army, particularly of the war, a potential imprisonable offence. Street protests are now vanishingly rare, as is open criticism of Vladimir Putin. For the country's comedians, for whom political satire has long been a staple of their performance, there's now a tricky tightrope to tread, reports Ben Tavener in Moscow.
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How do you land a joke and not land yourself in hot water? When I moved to Moscow in early 2024, a lot had changed since my previous visit. Four years earlier, Russia had launched its so called special military operation, its war on Ukraine, and a slew of repressive laws had been passed to stifle domestic dissen. It felt as if an errant toe could easily stray over recently imposed red lines if you said the wrong thing in public, I found myself craving some clarity. One place I thought still might be pushing the boundaries was Moscow's comedy clubs. I knew comedians could normally be relied upon to give insight into what was on people's minds, what frustrations they were experiencing. And as public performers, they knew the risks associated with speaking out. I've just spent several weeks flying back from Italy, one comic proclaims in perfect deadpan, a jab at the gruelling journey now necessary to travel between Russia and Europe. Thailand next time. That's basically Moscow in comparison, he jokes. It might be a 10 hour flight between Moscow and Thailand, but no connection and no visa for Russians. By contrast, flying to Italy is at least two flights can easily take 14 hours and a visa is required for Russian citizens. Restrictions to certain travel destinations and payment systems are real recurring bugbears for many people in Russia, as are rising household bills and prices in the supermarket. These topics appear to be safe territory, but for all the jokes about everyday life, the elephant in the room always seems to remain unmentioned. Joining the dots back to the war and identifying its role in Russia's woes is risky. You can argue justifiably that Russians here already know that the war is a factor. But as the audience of all ages is filling the darkened hall with laughter, the public's silence is both telling and instructive. One thing I notice, if a Russian comedian thinks they've gone too far with a joke, something interesting, often a post punchline retreat. Two years into the war, back in 2024, anxiety was palpable amongst some Russians worried they could get an electronic notification drafting them into the army. I remember one comic joking, I haven't seen my phone for a few days. Bit inconvenient, but you know, oh, they knew. There was a brief prickle of tension in the room, but the climb down was swift. Kidding. I support our lads, he reassured the audience. It was as if the audience understood, and maybe some even shared his concern, but also knew criticizing the war in public was not an option. Far safer territory, I notice, are familiar grumbles about home life, cliches about mothers in law getting old and romantic misadventures. But the political landmines lurk even here. I've been with my other half for 10 years now and it's still the best sex I've ever had, a comedian declares someone in the audience. Whoops. Oh, Anton's been amazing, he says, revealing a man's name. No more whooping. The so called promotion of non traditional relations has been outlawed for years in Russia and a non existent organization, the so called international LGBT community, has now been prescribed as extremist. After an awkward but brief pause, once again the comic retreats, joking, I have a wife and three kids. I find myself wondering whether it's worth the risk. These obligatory footnotes make the gag, poor as it is, fall even flatter. But the red lines are clear. That's not to say that comedy in Russia has been completely gutted. There is still room for some objection to the authorities actions. And recently problems with the Internet in Russia have been on top of people's list of gripes. Went onto YouTube the other day, didn't see much, one comedian joked. The platform is just one of a string of Western online services to be restricted here. My phone currently says I'm somewhere between Novosibirsk and the moon, says another, bemoaning constant issues with GPS services in Moscow. Several comedians have also made known their frustrations, shared privately by many Russians are being forced onto government backed apps. Soon you won't be able to go to the loo without confirming your identity on Macs. One female comic joked about the new Kremlin backed messaging platform that many Russians are deeply distrustful of. And what's this no post punchline disclaimer here? No mention of the Kremlin's justification that these restrictions are all rooted in security concerns. There is, I conclude, still some space for criticism, as long as you ignore the breadcrumb trail back to the war or the man in charge. For some, the creeping self censorship proved too much. At one gig I get chatting with a comedian who made the decision to shun the stage when the war started. The group chats went wild, he tells me, never ending discussions with fellow comedians about what we could and couldn't joke about. It was horrible. I didn't want to be constantly second guessing myself looking over my shoulder. It took all the fun out of it. I meant to be making a point on stage, making people think, he said. But others have chosen to stay in the spotlight and carry on the best they can, feeling their way past the red lines. And I keep watching because those red lines can shift.
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Ben Tavener. And that's all for TODAY from our own correspondent was produced by Serena Tarling and Polly Hope. The editor was Richard Fenton Smith. I'm Kate Ady and you can hear more stories from around the world on from our own correspondent on BBC Sounds, including a dispatch on South Korea's female literary circles on what's behind rising xenophobia in South Africa. We'll be back with a new episode next Saturday, silence in court. I'm Lucy Worsley and in my brand
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new series, I'll be hearing about the women involved in some of history's most infamous legal battles.
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Women accused of murder, bigamy and adultery through to the shocking offense of not knowing their place.
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With a team of all female detectives, I'll explore the lives at the center of some extraordinary courtroom dramas asking has
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the justice system truly changed? Lady on Trial with Lucy Worsley from BBC Radio 4.
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Listen now on BBC Sounds.