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From Our Own Correspondent
Disappeared in Ukraine
00:28:17
The war has killed thousands of Ukrainians,but many have simply disappeared without trace
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Ray Winstone
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BBC Sounds Announcer
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Nick Robinson
Today we're in the US where President Trump's sweeping cuts are hitting home for the country's research scientists. In the Gambia, a son reunites with his mother after dreams of a new life in Europe disintegrate. And in Uzbekistan, we hear how Muslim and Jewish communities have shared a blended culture shaped over centuries. But first to Ukraine. This Monday will mark three years since Russia began its full scale invasion, and while a potential end to the conflict is on the horizon, the terms on which that's agreed remain deeply uncertain. While Saudi Arabia hosted talks between American and Russian representatives this week, there was a notable absence after Ukraine was excluded from the meeting. The conflict has been devastating for many towns and cities across Ukraine, with millions of civilians forced to leave their homes. Hundreds of thousands of people have been killed or injured too, but there are also many who have simply disappeared. Our correspondent Sarah Rainsford traveled to Ukraine where she met families left wondering what has happened to their loved ones.
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BBC Sounds Announcer
As Russia's full scale war on Ukraine stretched towards three years of fighting, a young woman called Lyudmila gave a DNA sample to investigators. It's meant to help identify her father if a body is ever found. His name is Oleg plackov and in September 2023 he and his wife Tatiana were detained by Russian security forces and disappeared. This was in Melitopol in southeastern Ukraine, an area occupied by Russia at the start of its Full scale invasion and fully under its control. Lyudmila now knows her mother died in custody, but there's still no trace of her father. The Plachkov story is one of pain and loss, something Ukrainians have come to know well, as their country has been forced to defend itself. But it is also a story of strength and determination, as Lyudmila battles to find out what happened to her mother and refuses to give up searching for her father. When the Russians rolled Into Melitopol in 2022, Lyudmila joined the crowds who came out in protest. I remember the videos filmed then on mobile phones. Ukrainians surrounding Russian tanks and troops, waving blue and yellow flags and singing their anthem. The Russian soldiers had been told these people needed liberating, but the crowd yelled at them to go home. Then the Russians began rounding people up. Lyudmila soon fled abroad with her husband for safety, but her mum and dad didn't want to leave. Their own elderly parents. And like many back then, they couldn't believe Russia's occupation would last. Tatiana would send daily messages from Melitopol to her daughter for reassurance. Morning, daughter. Just checking in, I see her announce in one of them. She then swings the camera round to Aliag, who waves and grins in his dressing gown. There are pictures from before the war too, of the couple laughing on a beach and dancing at a disco. They look full of energy and of life. Lyudmila kept on urging her mother to leave, but she says Tatiana was a fierce optimist, waiting for Ukrainian troops to liberate their town. Instead, it was the Russians who came for her. Late one night, armed men burst into the couple's home and they led Tatiana and Aleg away in handcuffs. Lyudmila's parents then disappeared. This is not an isolated story. Since the start of Russia's all out war on Ukraine, the authorities in Kyiv have listed more than 61,000 people as missing. That includes both soldiers and civilians. But when troops go missing in action, there is a chance they could be included in a prisoner of war exchange. The civilians are hardly ever returned. International law obliges all states to report every detainee during an armed conflict, but Russia simply ignores that. One activist I spoke to from Melitopol has recorded 350 cases of abduction in that city alone. They took anyone involved in the protests. People with pro Ukrainian views, Natalia says, and she's sure there are more cases that were never reported, because most Ukrainians still living under occupation are too scared to speak out. When Lyudmila's parents were taken, she wrote to every official Russian body she could find, even the FSB security service. Back in Melitopol, her grandmother began touring police stations and prisons. For four months, there was nothing at all. Then came a call out of the blue. Russian soldiers had dumped Tatyana at a city hospital in a coma, but with no medical papers and no explanation. Lyudmila's grandmother was eventually allowed to visit, but only after she'd been interrogated by the fsb. That's how the family discovered that Tatyana had been accused of espionage. The FSB claimed she'd been sharing information with Ukrainian intelligence. She never regained consciousness. Lube Miller is very clear to me. My mother is a warrior. She says she had to help Ukraine, but she knew the risk. Through sheer persistence, she has gathered a thick file of documents on her parents disappearance. It's the replies to all her questions to the Russian side. But the words on the pages with their big official stamps make no sense at all. The FSB claims it only opened a criminal case against Tatiana after she was brought to hospital already in a coma. And it professes to know nothing about where she'd been before that. The records say the couple were taken away that day by unknown persons in military uniform. But in Russia, it is only the FSB that deals with espionage. One of the hardest things for Lyudmila is imagining what her mother's captors might have done to her. I'd like to believe her health deteriorated because of the poor conditions and the lack of proper care, she says. But deep down I understand they probably tortured her. The Russian government always denies allegations of mistreatment, but in occupied areas it refuses access to detention facilities, to outside bodies like the Red Cross. And I have heard clear and credible testimony of torture from civilians in Melitopol, dragged from their cars at checkpoints or scooped off the streets into dank underground cells. The luckiest were held for just one night, beaten and terrified. Others disappeared for many months. I have heard of electric shock and mock executions, and I've seen photographs of a young man called Leonid, held incommunicado for months and then brought to hospital, emaciated and severely dehydrated. They were all Ukrainians like Tatiana, who never wanted to be ruled by Russia and who tried to resist. She was a radiant person, Lyudmila remembers. Then everything was cut short. She tells me, if something has happened to her father too, that will kill her. But it is stories like that of Leonid, however terrible, that give Lyudmilla some hope. When he was Brought to hospital, he told his parents he'd been in hell. He is now back there in Russian custody, awaiting trial. His family are distraught, but at least they've seen him alive. Lubbmuller doesn't even have that. She tells me she hasn't chosen a photo for her mother's grave yet, as if she's stalling her grieving until she can find her dad. But she's run out of places to turn, and now Donald Trump is pushing Ukraine to sign a peace deal. In just over a week, the US President has turned his country's Ukraine policy on its head. He has begun to echo Vladimir Putin's false claims on this war, and that scares, and it angers Ukrainians. Trump's vision for peace would likely leave all the occupied territories under Russian control. For the families of the disappeared, that would make it even harder to find answers. Lyudmila tries to look on the bright side. Maybe the Russians will release the civilians if they think they've won, she wonders. Or maybe we'll hit a dead end either way. Accepting that this land is no longer Ukraine would be very hard, she says, because it is the land her parents defended. It's where they met and fell in love. And it is also where even now, Lyudmila believes Alij could be held in a cold basement or a prison cell still waiting to be found. I couldn't save my mum, even though I tried so hard, lyudmila tells me. So now I need to save my dad.
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Nick Robinson
Sarah Rainsford as promised during his election campaign, US President Donald Trump has moved swiftly to slash spending and cut the federal workforce. Mr. Trump has said he want to curb government waste, and his review includes billions of dollars set aside for grants made available to universities and research institutions. Substantial cuts to that sizeable pot of money could destabilise a funding system that has underpinned America's world class research for decades. The subject dampened the mood at the annual gathering of one of the country's oldest scientific societies in Boston last week. As our correspond, Sandra Kantal discovered I.
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Sandra Kantal
Was sitting underneath the earth when I started to think of Rome and fiddles and fire. Boston's Museum of Science has a huge inflatable model of the planet hanging from the ceiling. It was a useful reference point when Sudip Parikh, head of the American association for the Advancement of Science, called out to the room that he was speaking from a microphone situated under Antarctica. The crowd turned and located him immediately. This was the closing party of the AAAS annual conference, one of America's premier gatherings of the scientific community's great and good. As an observer, to me, the event seemed to be hovering outside of time and space, because as thousands gathered for the conference, Donald Trump's administration, through its proxies in Elon Musk's Department of Government Efficiency, or DOGE for short, were hurling a wrecking ball at the nation's scientific institutions. Though Mr. Musk says his aim is to save US taxpayer money and make the government more efficient. The Heinz Convention center, where this year's meeting took place, is a vast building spread out over three floors. Inside the cavernous expo hall, associations, institutions, and universities tried to attract the crowd to their stands and tables, while in the dozens of conference rooms you could listen in on seminars ranging from how to protect the Moon to ways to Feed future megacities. But amid all this, what I didn't immediately notice was a palpable sense of urgency, which I thought was odd, given that so much government money allocated for science was under threat. In the week I arrived, research institutions had to turn to the courts to stave off the withdrawal of billions of dollars in grants used to keep labs running in blue and red states across the country. And the headlines kept coming. Robert Kennedy Jr. A man who's been openly skeptical of the institutions which underpin the nation's well being, was sworn in as the new secretary of Health. There were reports of hundreds of government employees being fired from agencies such as the Centers for Disease Control and the National Nuclear Security Administration, though many of those terminations were quickly rescinded when someone realized these are the people responsible for safeguarding the country's nuclear stockpile. The blizzard of cuts was so unpredictable that no one was sure what was coming next. Some of the scientists I spoke with were subdued and despondent, others simply dazed. In one sense, this was entirely understandable. Scientists are not politicians, and they often strive to be as apolitical as possible. Usually when I attend gatherings like this, people are delighted to speak with the media. This time I could see visible relief when I said the words off the record. One attendee told me how their organization and others they'd heard about were affected. After a visit from Doge, they detailed the way programs were cut indiscriminately and how human capital was being tossed away, firing anyone hired in the last two years. They were clearly very worried about the future and what, if anything, could be done about it. In a conference of this size and scope, there's hundreds of speakers on so many different topics, it's impossible to see more than a handful. But I was struck by a session on politics, partisanship and public health. The panelists spoke with urgency about their efforts to try and preserve data that was being taken down from public archives. They seemed to me a small band of determined soldiers fighting a war against a much bigger opponent. At the stand for the Union of Concerned Scientists, three enthusiastic young women were keen to tell me about the fight back they were mounting, though their strategy seemed heavily focused around a letter writing campaign to Congress. I couldn't help thinking that strongly worded missives may be insufficient for this moment. But others told me resistance is coming and moves are underway in Washington to stop the assault. The details, I was assured, would be revealed in time. A former director of the National Institutes of Health, the largest public funder of biomedical research and one of the organizations absorbing the force of the Trump administration's purge, tried to reassure an assembled audience that science was magic that worked. But wands and potions aren't going to hold back the onslaught facing America's scientists. At the moment, all they have are the courts, and that just doesn't feel like a foolproof formula.
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Nick Robinson
Sandra Kantal.
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Nick Robinson
Each year, thousands of people living in sub Saharan Africa travel north in the hope of reaching Europe, some fleeing war, some fleeing poverty. For many, it's a dangerous, arduous and expensive journey. In turn, they may face violence, detention and abuse from the people they've paid to ensure them safe passage. Many die in their efforts to establish a new life, while others decide the challenge is just too much and choose to return home. So what happens next for those who decide to go back? Alex Last has been to one of Africa's smallest nations, the Gambia.
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Ray Winstone
To find out, they walked single file in silence out of the airport terminal into the warm West African night, greeted only by the chirp of cicadas and a small team of local UN staff. They were a group of 47 young men and boys from the Gambia who tried to reach Europe and they'd got as far as Tunisia. But there they'd been prevented from crossing the Mediterranean and instead languished for months, sometimes years. Eventually, they'd decided they had no choice but to come home. In the past year alone, the UN has helped more than 3,000 Gambians return this way. They don't like migrants like us, said one 20 year old Alaji, who looked exhausted, holding just a rucksack. Tunisia is not a safe country for black people. In recent years, the EU has done deals with a number of North African nations, including Tunisia, giving millions in aid to stop undocumented migrants reaching Europe. Many human rights groups say the treatment of migrants in North Africa is often brutal, allegations the authorities there deny. We caught up again with Elaji a couple of days later. His family lived far out in the countryside, so. So he was staying at a friend's family compound down a sandy street near the Gambian capital, Banjul. He was tall, but looked young in T shirt and tracksuit bottoms. His father had died when he was a boy. He was from a poor family, he said, and couldn't afford to finish high school. So at the age of just 18, without telling his mum, he set off with his best friend to reach Europe via the back way, as it's known locally. He made the dangerous journey across the Sahara to reach Tunisia, and from there he tried to cross the Mediterranean. But his small boat was intercepted by the Tunisian authorities. They took away the engine, he told me. We even showed them we had a pregnant woman on board, children too. We said, please, can you help us? Aladji claims they were told, no, you will die here. And then they left. He says it took them six hours to get back to the shore. Tunisia has denied it mistreats migrants on land too. Aladji described a litany of hardship, violence, police raids, stories of illness and death. After two years away and many failed attempts to cross, he decided he had to go home. This was not my aim, said Aladji. It's not easy. It's not easy at all. He bowed his head and began to cry. The Gambia is a democracy. Now, with its beautiful beaches and winter sun, it's a popular destination for tourists from the UK and Europe. But most of the population is young and incomes are low. So many dream of reaching Europe, and if they make it, they're expected to send money home for their families. That can be life changing. I felt a failure. Even some in the community point the finger at you, said Tejan, who'd returned from Libya a few years ago with his own horror stories. He now helps run a local group, Youth Against Irregular Migration, which has a radio show warning of the risks of taking the back way. Some who come back do okay, he told me, but some are traumatized by what they've experienced. Some feel guilt and shame. Tejan himself had first refused to take the back way, but when a friend made it to Europe, he felt he should follow. What he witnessed shocked him. In the Sahara, he described how one of his travelling companions was burnt alive by traffickers after he had tried to stop them raping a female migrant in Libya amid the civil war. He ended up in a migrant prison, enduring appalling conditions. So now, back home, he and fellow survivors travel the country, showing films, telling their stories to counsel others against it. But it's a tough sell. Some, he says, simply think they're exaggerating. Some still believe they'll be the lucky ones. We went to see Alaji one final time. His mum had travelled in from the countryside and it would be the first time he'd seen her in two years. Wearing a traditional patterned dress, she stepped quietly into the courtyard. Alaji turned, saw her and without a word, simply walked into her arms. And she just sobbed. Holding him tight for a long time, she wouldn't let him go. He began to cry too. She later explained to me that though she hadn't wanted him to make the trip, when he got into difficulty in Tunisia, she had borrowed money to send to him. Now in debt herself, she would just hide away in her hut and cry. She said that she had hoped he would make it to Europe because that was what he wanted. But she thanked God he was back. Listening to all this, Alaji sat looking at the floor. I didn't want to come back empty handed, he said quietly. I want to go back to school. I want to be a learned man, he added, but what worries me is how will I help my family?
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Nick Robinson
Alex Last the city of Bukhara in Uzbekistan in Central Asia, is located on the legendary Silk Road that linked east and West. It's an ancient centre of trade, culture and learning. In the Middle Ages, it became A major intellectual hub of the Islamic world, famed for its libraries. The old town of Bukhara, a UNESCO World Heritage site, with its large turquoise Bl ceramic domed mosques and minarets, has also been home to a vibrant Jewish community, probably since around the 5th century. Now, much smaller than it used to be, Monica Whitlock went to meet one of its remaining members.
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Monica Whitlock
Abram Borisovich Isakov never imagined he'd become a cantor, a hazan, he'd say. But life took him by surprise. And now he leads people in sacred song at the Mulamani synagogue in Bukhara in Uzbekistan. Bukhara is one of the holy places of Islam, a medieval city of mosques and madrassas. And right in the centre, a narrow lane opens onto Abram's synagogue, a courtyard with a small inner room. Abram is 74. He's tall and rangy, with a big booming voice. Our synagogue is 420 years old. He booms. Our Torah is a thousand years old, the oldest in Central Asia and rare even in the world. There's no pomp or fuss around this sacred scroll. It's kept in a wooden glass fronted cupboard at the back of the prayer room. Abraham only takes it out on special occasions. It's written on deerskin vellum and very delicate, enclosed in a box covered with velvet and embroidered with gold thread. Is it really as much as a thousand years old? Who knows? Does it matter? Not at all. It stands for the antiquity and importance of the Jewish community in Central Asia. Only a few hundred strong in Bukhara these days, yet essential and enduring. For as long as I live, the voice of the Torah will never cease to sound here, Abram says. Abram is proud of his singing. He's learned Hebrew for the liturgy, but he also sings in Persian, his mother tongue, and the main language of the city. He speaks Russian too, because when he grew up, Uzbekistan was part of the Soviet Union. For 40 years, Abram worked as a journalist on communist newspapers here in his hometown, Judaism, Islam, Communism, Abram knows them all and lives comfortably in these overlapping worlds. He uses the word Masjid mosque interchangeably with Khanisan synagogue. It's no big deal. It's just the way many people talk in Bukhara. It suits me. Here we have good relations with everyone, thank God, Abram says. For example, when I walk in the street, no one remarks on it. Everyone greets me. AKA Abram Asalaam alaikum. AKA means older brother. It's a mark of respect. There were synagogues like Abrams across Central Asia in living memory. Small community places that had stood since the Middle Ages. Many of them. Their cemeteries chronicle hundreds of years of life. You can spot the graves of musicians who are still household names in Jewish and Muslim homes alike. And the poignant graves of young soldiers killed fighting for the Soviet Union in the Second World War. Red Star and Star of David etched side by side. There are 483 of them in Bukhara alone. The great majority of Jews have now left, mainly to Israel and the United States, because when the Soviet Union crumbled, they could. Among them was Johann. He headed to New York as a young man back in the late 1980s. We spoke on the phone from his house in Queens. What did you know then about America? I asked. Everything. We'd seen Tarzan and that film with Jack Lemmon and Marilyn Monroe when I was 12 or 13. We were listening to Pink Floyd, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, you know, with big binoculars. We were watching the United States of America, England, the West. It was fascinating for us. And when I came to the United States, I said, that's the freedom, that's the power. People were open, you know, they were friendly. Eh, how you doing? How are you? It was a magic time when I came. It wasn't so clear cut for everyone. I lived in Central asia in the 1990s and I remember my neighbours trying to decide to stay or to go. They didn't really want to up sticks, leave their house, all their friends, the graves of their ancestors, for what? Israel was as strange as the moon to them. But they'd heard it would be better for the kids that they'd have computers in the schools. Eventually they took the plunge and arranged their modest worldly goods out in their newspaper kiosk to sell. I still have their little teapot painted with orange and blue flowers. And I hope everything worked out for them in Tel Aviv. Abram, at the synagogue in Bukhara, has toyed with the idea of leaving. If I had two lives, I might go over there to live my second life, he says. But a human being comes into this world only once. I have been Abram Borisovic here for 74 years. When would I become Abram Borisovic over there? How long would it take for them to know me?
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Nick Robinson
Monica Whitlock and that's all for today, but you can hear more stories on the from our own correspondent podcast on BBC Sounds, including a dispatch on why young German voters are turning to the far right. AfD we'll be back again next Saturday morning. Do join us. I was definitely too young when I.
- [29:52]
Ray Winstone
Was leader of the opposition and not.
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To do many of the other jobs.
- [29:55]
Nick Robinson
I did in government admissions and insights.
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From the people who shape how we think. I would say my family, well gave.
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Ray Winstone
Myself and my two siblings a critical eye.
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Nick Robinson
And because it's not just politicians who mould our lives, we also hear from economists, comedians and best selling authors.
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Monica Whitlock
It's the fastest way to change things.
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Ray Winstone
You do need politics, but if you.
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Monica Whitlock
Want to change something overnight, culture is the quickest way to do it.
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Nick Robinson
With me, nick Robinson from BBC Radio 4.
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Monica Whitlock
Listen now on BBC Sounds.
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Ray Winstone
Hello, it's Ray Winstone. I'm here to tell you about my podcast on BBC Radio 4. Histories Toughest Heroes I got stories about the pioneers, the rebels, the outcasts who define tough.
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Ray Winstone
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