Advertiser/Commercial Voice (2:21)

I'm a big handbag fan. It's the first thing I notice in an outfit. My Pinterest boards, Instagram saves and not very wise shopping sprees will attest to that. So when I clocked Sanae Takaichi's Black Grace Delight tote by Hamano, I thought yes, practical, no nonsense and in that very Japanese way. Elegant, understated and beautifully made. I admired it. But I didn't rush to look it up. And boy did I miss a trick. Japan's first female Prime Minister has single handedly turned a sensible domestic leather tote into the zeitgeist item. The $900 Japanese made bag, traditionally marketed to women in their 40s and 50s, is now a cross generational symbol of professional ambition. Students want it. 20 somethings want it. Career women want it. The Hamonote is now widely known as the Sanae bag. It went viral after Mr. Kechi was repeatedly photographed carrying it into the prime minister's office and in and out of Parliament. At official events, social media lit up. Classy, read one Instagram comment. Chanel is better, said another. I bought this bag over 10 years ago for work. Nothing else compares, wrote one loyal owner. Vindicated at last. Hamano is a 145-year-old leather goods maker based in the city of Nagano, renowned for crafting handbags and favored by Japan's imperial family. The company has now reported a flood of orders. And it's not just the handbag. The prime minister's light pink Jetstream pen, available in most convenience stores here, has also become hard to find. Not a limited edition, not luxury. Just the right pen in the right hand at the right political moment. Such is the buzz around Sanae Takaichi. The fandom is so real it has a name, Sanakatsu. And that may be her most unexpected political achievement yet. A Persona so far removed from the reserved and somewhat dull image of her predecessors, Sanae Takaichi has connected with younger voters in a way not seen here before. There's definitely an appeal, says Geoffrey hall, lecturer at Kanda University of International Studies. Young people tend to be the most disconnected from politics in Japan, he says. But Takaichi has taken on this kind of idol like status among some of the youth. That image has been amplified by a highly organized online base, viral video clips, a steady stream of choreographed celebratory posts throughout the campaign. Since taking office last October, when she was chosen to lead the governing Liberal Democratic Party, she's dominated headlines not only through policy but through performance, she declared in her acceptance speech to a roaring applause in Parliament. Work, work, work and work. A mantra that went on to win Japan's Buzzword of the year. Only a week into her premiership, she hosted President Trump in Tokyo. Images of the 2 aboard the USS George Washington in Yokosuka. The prime minister's fists, lightly raised, beamed around the world. And then, days before the recent election, Mr. Trump publicly endorsed her, calling her a strong, powerful and wise leader. Takaichi has also consolidated support within her own Liberal Democratic Party. She's positioned herself as the leader who brings the LDP back to its Conservative origins, says political analyst Rintaro Nishimura. And then there's the symbolism she rarely focuses on but cannot escape. Japan's first woman in the top job I wasn't really interested in politics before, tokyo resident Miki Tahara told me. I felt it didn't matter who got the job. But since Mitsakaichi took office, I've started thinking maybe I should take it more seriously, she went on. Another voter, Kanako Himura, said, we're both women. I have a huge expectation that she'll work hard. When women make up their minds, we get things done. 85 year old supporter Naoki Yuhara put it more she's a hawk, she's conservative. That's what I care about, he said. For him, national defense matters as much as the economy. Her election bet was simple but risky. Turned the vote into a referendum on herself. The result? A landslide that restored the LDP's dominance after years shadowed by a corruption scandal that cost it public trust and its majority in 2024. Notably, the scandal has not entirely disappeared. Some lawmakers embroiled in it have returned to Parliament. The structural questions remain. Takaichi is the difference. At home, voters are still grappling with stagnant wages and rising prices. I used to spend about 10,000 yen a week on groceries, kanako told me. Now it's always more. Ms. Takaichi has promised big government spending, tax relief, and inflation support. She's also pledged stronger defense, constitutional revision, and a firmer line on immigration abroad. Her comments about how Japan could get involved militarily if China attacked Taiwan infuriated Beijing, Japan's largest trading partner. The viral moments, the hashtags, the fandom they've carried her this far. Her real test, though, will be more about people's pocketbooks and less about expensive bags.

Main Presenter/Lead Reporter (7:14)

Shaima Khalil next the royal visit by the Prince of Wales to Saudi Arabia this week was among the most diplomatically sensitive of his official trips to date. Ostensibly, the focus of the trip was on energy transition and prospects for young people, as well as providing an opportunity for Prince William to meet Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman. While the kingdom is striving to grow its tourism industry, it's also been accused of trying to whitewash its often criticized human rights record by hosting a stream of glamorous sporting and cultural events. Daniela Relf followed Prince William's visit.

Reporter/Correspondent (7:54)

In many ways, the tone of this royal tour was set before it had even started. In the British Embassy in Riyadh, beneath a gold framed photo of King Charles III in military uniform, the Travelling pack of royal reporters from the uk, including me, listened intently to the UK Ambassador's briefing on modern Saudi Arabia. It was designed to make us question our perceptions and maybe prejudices about this vast, complicated country that is roughly the size of Western Europe. I felt as though I was back at university in a politics lecture as diplomats talked about the ambitious plans for Saudi Arabia's transformation Britain's role in it. Their language was careful. We heard that Saudi was being modernised, not westernised, that around 70% of the population was under 35 and needed opportunities, that you couldn't get a tourist visa until 2019 and that social liberalisation was progressing at what was described as warp speed. It was all fascinating stuff, but royal tours are exposing. They exist against the backdrop of whatever crisis or triumph is engulfing the royal family at home. They're not an escape from the problems. Instead they often become the focus of them. And this was no exception. As the briefing was being wound up, the official spokesman for the Prince and Princess of Wales announced he had a statement to make. It was, he said, about the Epstein files. The Prince and Princess have been deeply concerned by the continuing revelations, it reads. Their thoughts remain focused on the victims. Official royal statements of this nature are incredibly rare, especially at the start of a royal tour. Never explain, never complain has so often been the mantra from the royal household. Staying silent is a safe space for the royal family. But so intense was the glare from the Epstein fallout, it was clear Prince William felt he had to say something. The drip feed of Epstein's stories now provided the backdrop to this trip. It was already a tricky deployment. Saudi Arabia is an authoritarian regime with an absolute monarchy. There are no national elections. Homosexuality remains a crime. Political dissent is severely sanctioned. The freedom of women has improved significantly in recent years, but there are limitations. Personally, these are far removed from Prince William's own views. But his work for the UK government required him to put any reservations he had to one side. The big ask of William was to build a stronger relationship with one man, Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, the de facto leader of Saudi Arabia. He is a controversial figure, most notably over allegations he approved the murder of Saudi journalist Jamal Khashoggi in 2018. He has always denied any involvement. In the fading light of a Riyadh evening, the two princes visited al Sharaf, the 18th century mud brick capital of the first Saudi state, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The optics really mattered. These are two men in their 40s. They both see themselves as modernisers. And in a world where politicians come and go, there Is continuity in two future kings befriending each other. Forging a friendship in front of the cameras is not the easiest place to kick things off. But watching them both, there was no obvious awkwardness or reticence. After the visit, they had a private dinner. We were told in a press huddle. They had a warm and engaging evening. How far did Prince William go in raising issues that concerned him around human rights? The exact details of that will remain within the palace walls. But we do know Prince William gave the Crown Prince a gift and of an England football shirt signed by Captain Harry Kane. The Prince then took part in a training session in Riyadh with the Saudi Women's national youth team. One player asked why didn't you bring Princess Kate? Another questioned him about his 10 year old daughter, Princess Charlotte. The Prince was up against girl power, Saudi style. The last day of this official visit offered the visual spectacle in Alula, an ancient oasis city in the desert. The journey we all took across the steep sand dunes of the Charan nature reserve in a convoy of 4x4 vehicles was not for the faint hearted. Even the Prince squealed and had to hold on tight. He planted a tree, classic royal trip fodder. Although tree planting in a desert happens less frequently and despite being offered plastic gloves, the green fingered prints dug and planted with his bare hands. Ten years ago, this kind of trip couldn't have happened. A royal tour to Saudi Arabia that included the views of young women watching them play football and seeing a country opening up to the outside world would have been unthinkable. It was a challenging trip for Prince William and one where royal duty came before personally held views. Royal soft diplomacy can be delicate and compromising.

Main Presenter/Lead Reporter (12:59)

Daniela Ralph Next to Uganda, which has been feeling the bite of international aid cuts, the United States has historically been the world's biggest international aid donor, spending upwards of $60 billion a year. But the closure of the US government aid agency has disrupted an array of relief projects including those providing treatment for hiv. Countries like Uganda have become heavily dependent on foreign aid to provide life saving drugs and now clinics are struggling. Belle True met some of the people directly affected.

Podcast Host (13:38)

James knows he's going to die soon. The father of four is writhing on a mattress on the floor of this mud hut. We're in the remote Namakkakali village set in the farming heartland some 12 miles north of Lake Victoria. In the simmering heat of the afternoon, his niece Beatrice sits cross legged beside him. She explains that James has HIV and has not had his life sustaining medication for nearly two months. She too, has HIV and is off her meds, as is her teenage daughter. Holding back tears, Beatrice says that the charity that once ran mobile clinics has stopped coming to her village. Now her daughter's immune system is breaking down. Her body itches. Beatrice whispers, sometimes we cannot see properly. She has terrible headaches. She asks me, how are we going to survive, Mum? We are in this sweltering sick room because we're shadowing Grace, a volunteer health worker, as he does his rounds of the villages. For years his main role has been to make sure his patients are taking their antiretroviral drugs, which keep HIV under control. Now he can do nothing. There are no drugs. I am helpless, he tells me, his face a statue of grief. From hut to hut, room to room, the story is repeated. Mothers, teenagers, grandfathers, pregnant women terrified for their unborn babies. All of them are off their life sustaining medication, all unable to afford it privately. Most have limbs studded with telltale lesions. During my trip to Uganda, which was part funded by the Gates Foundation, I visit an HIV clinic in the bustling city of Jinjur, where staff are working for free with dwindling supplies. There, Alex, a teenager, sums it up with a quiet desperation. Born with hiv, the softly spoken secondary school student says the stigma is so intense he has repeatedly been called the walking dead, something he now fears is prophetic. No funding means no medicine, which means no future, he tells me. Last year, President Donald Trump made the dramatic decision to freeze billions in usaid, interrupting funding to HIV programs across the world. The cuts hit the US PEPFA program hard. It's saved tens of millions of lives since it was launched by Republican President George W. Bush in 2003. And although it will continue in some way under a new name, the the details and the scope remain unclear. The UN says the disruptions have already caused a surge in infections. This has been made worse by other countries cutting aid, including the uk, Germany and Italy. Since I left Uganda, health volunteer Grace messaged me to let me know that three of the people we met, including James, have died. From Uganda, I traveled to the rugged mountains of Tchimanimani along the Zimbabwe Mozambique border to see how the cuts have affected local communities. There are, we shadow, another volunteer health worker, Precious. Dressed in a crisp gingham nurse's uniform, her hair drawn back in a bun, she takes us on a hike through towering maize plants. There, she tells me, the people she sees who are living with HIV have also lost access to their medication following aid cuts. Warning we are again living in a world where babies are born with HIV and where children like the 11 year old she's clutching are being orphaned. The boy, neatly dressed in a button up shirt, lost both his parents recently after they lost access to treatment. His name is hard life. My grandparents are doing their best for me, but it's hard, he says with a gravitas well beyond his 11 years. It hurts, it is painful, but we have to accept this is now part of our life, he goes on. Back in 2021, the UN assess a goal to end AIDS as a public health threat by 2030. We are within reach of achieving the goal, says Anjuli Ashokar, deputy head of unaids. We're seeing progress and achievement towards that goal, but now this is happening. It really takes us off track, she adds. But there is hope. A new drug called Lenacapavir is being rolled out. According to the un, it is the closest thing we have to a vaccine. Research has shown this twice a year long acting injection is nearly 100% effective in stopping transmission. It will now be delivered to some low income countries supported by ongoing foreign aid for the initial rollout this year, several hundred thousand people, mostly in sub Saharan Africa, will get access to the jab. But to help end this pandemic it needs to reach millions more people, especially where infections are rising. Without funding that won't be possible and this new deadly reality will only get worse.

Main Presenter/Lead Reporter (18:29)

Beltru now to Poland, where an exhibition in the city of Gdansk has ignited a row over the country's role in the Second World War. It reflects on how hundreds of thousands of Poles were co opted into the German Wehrmacht, a painful episode which curators say needs to be accepted for a more truthful reckoning with the past. This has been angrily rejected by conservative protesters who support a more nationalist narrative characterizing Poles as heroes and victims rather than collaborators. John Kampfner went along to see the project for himself.

Narrator (19:08)

I know you haven't come to look at the medieval furnishings, the man at the ticket office proffered as I showed my press card. He was right. I'd come to see the temporary exhibition called Our Boys in the most polarized city in polarized Poland. I'm in beautiful restored Gdansk on the Baltic coast, captured and terrorized by the Nazis, then bombed and occupied by the Soviets. It was here half a century ago where the Solidarity trade union was born and revolted against communism. It was here just a few years ago where the mayor was stabbed to death at a charity event live on TV by a man railing against his liberal values. GDASK is also the birthplace of Poland's current prime minister and president, two protagonists in a political struggle that's growing more volatile by the day. It is the wider global struggle between far right nationalism and liberal democracy in microcosm. Underlying the fraught present are contradictory interpretations of the past. For the hardline conservative president Carol Novrotsky, a former historian and amateur boxer, it's about portraying his compatriots as heroes and victims surrounded back then by malign Germany and malign Russia. Which is why this small installation to the side of the old Town hall, barely stretching into three rooms, has caused such fury. It's triggered street protests and vituperative attacks on social media. It's also attracted record visitors and been praised for challenging simple narratives. Inside the rooms, the exhibits are both low key and disorientating. You're first confronted with rows of sepia portraits lined up in military formation like playing cards assembled vertically. Neat young Polish men are wearing Wehrmacht uniforms. Some look shy, others wear smiles. The items on display show their everyday lives as soldiers. Not just their weaponry and other kit, but letters home to parents and girlfriends. The curators explain the context of Nazi occupation and annexation and conscription and punishment for disobedience. But they do it without outrage, which is what so outraged many present day nationalists. They also remind visitors that the grandfather of Donald Tusk, the current centrist prime minister, briefly served in the German forces. This revelation was seen as one of the key factors behind his defeat in the 2005 presidential election. It wasn't mentioned that Josef Tusk didn't have a choice about being enlisted and and later deserted to join the many Poles who fought against Hitler. Many people in this region of Pomerania have ancestors who were required to fight with the Germans. During communist times, it was taboo to talk about it. Nowadays, it's career damaging. Best leave sleeping dogs lie. Which is why this exhibition is painful. As well as being born in gdask, Donald Tusk and his nemesis Navrotsky studied history in the same university and still support the same football club. Novrotsky proudly models himself on Donald Trump. And last August, just four days after assuming the presidency after a close run election, he returned to Gdansk to the museum of the Second World War, a giant, impressive building of which he had been director for four years. During that time he tried to reframe history to conform to his party's patriotic depiction of heroic Poles and evil neighbors. He has expressed indignation that the leadership under the present government has largely restored the previous curatorial approach. A similar to and fro has taken place up the road over the legacy of Solidarity. The interactive displays inside the glitzy rust colored European Solidarity center tells the story of the trade union's revolt against communism. Its former leader and later state president Lechfar Wentze, has an office overlooking the cavernous atrium. The museum was dubbed by the far right as the European Solidarity Centre for Gays and Lesbians, and under the previous government saw its funding cut by 1 million euros. The money was more than replaced by subsequent crowdfunding. Barely 100 yards away is a much smaller bungalow style building called the BHP Hall. This is the other Solidarity, the union that now rails against woke and sees the revolution not as liberal democratic achievement, but as a sellout of workers rights and family values. Novrotsky made a point of visiting only this one. These fights are about more than rhetoric or positioning. History and art have been instrumentalized and weaponized in Gdansk, as they have in many places around the world. One city, three museums, one vicious culture war. Given everything else that's going on across the globe, something tells me this is not going to end well.

Main Presenter/Lead Reporter (24:02)

John Kampfna and finally, the skies above Lahore in Pakistan have been filled with thousands of kites as the festival of Besant returns. It's the first time in two decades the celebrations have been allowed to go ahead following a spate of deaths. Now, with new regulations in place, it's been allowed to go ahead for three days, much to the excitement of generations of Lahoris. Caroline Davies to the rooftops to join the celebrations.

Narrator/Reporter (24:33)

Through the winding streets of Lahore's walled city, everyone is on the search for a rooftop from dark narrow alleys, following the sound of drums up, up, up through winding staircases, then a ladder into the night and the city's party. The smell of barbecue from one rooftop mixes with the sweet smell of ras malai from another. At every party, a different sound system bouncing off the brown brick stone walls of the walled city. A cacophony of music beats that mixes with laughter and shouts. And above it all, lit with bright white spotlights. Hundreds, thousands of kites. Neon pink, sunshine yellow, orange, striped polka dotted purple with a fiery red tail, soaring, twitching, spiraling. This is the return of Besant after two decades. It's emotional and nostalgic for Lahori's For a whole generation, it's a festival they've only ever heard stories of or have hazy memories from childhood. Abu Bakr Ahmed was only six the last time he saw Besant. Now he has three days to get the hang of how to handle his kite. It's really difficult, he tells me all our generations here are very excited. The elders know how to fly a kite, but we gen zers don't know. Kasif Siddiqui, a born and bred Lahori, shows me pictures of his son at their last besant. He was three. Now he's here with his own children. It's special for Lahoris. This runs in our blood. It's not about kite and thread, it's about tradition. Karsif tells me my father and his father before him used to do it. This spring festival is centuries old, but kite flying has been banned completely since 2007. Each year there were deaths, people falling from roofs or even shot by stray bullets from guns fired in celebration. But more often people were killed because of the kite strings. Kite flying is competitive. The aim is to cut your opponent's string before they cut yours. Strengthened, sharpened string is an advantage. People began using metal string, glass coated string or string made from a chemical that stretches but doesn't break. These strings, which ended up draped across the city streets, were lethal for motorcyclists who would accidentally drive into them, often slicing their throats. These threads are now banned and motorcyclists in the city are all required to have a pole sticking up between their handlebars during the festival to stop the threads before they can reach the driver's neck. Kites are also being limited to smaller sizes. Bigger ones require stronger threads. The authorities argue nets have been placed over certain streets to catch kites, particularly any rogue metal threads which can short circuit the electrical cables if they fall onto them. The measures haven't stopped all deaths on the first day of this year's festival. The police tell us there was a report of someone who died after being electrocuted trying to retrieve a kite. But the hope is that the restrictions have made it safer. By Saturday night, Lahore's walled city streets are filled with music, families buying candy floss and ice cream, children tooting plastic horns. There is a unity in the festival. On every roof there are people, parties, silhouettes against the sky. We talk across the walls, pass food to our next door neighbours. Shout, pump our fists at competitors that are trying to cut our kites. Boo when power cuts send the neighbourhood into darkness. Cheer when the floodlights come back on. Malik Sangeen and his friends have come from Peshawar and Ralpindi to join the celebrations. The feeling you get when you fly, he says wistfully. You forget everything. You cut someone's kite and then all you can think of, you must cut another. The hours of flying show on his hands. His palms and fingers are blistered and bloodied. Some of his friends have what looks like a fine chainmail glove made from woven stainless steel. They tell me when the breeze is strong, there is a lot of pressure, malick says. It slashes your fingers. Would I like a go in preparation? He grabs a roll of tape and wraps my fingers. As promised, the spring winds are strong and while the kite all but disappears into the dark, a glint of white high above. I can feel it saw or drop through the thread. Then I'm suddenly the target. Our neighbours have me in their sights. They shout, we shout. I pull and release. Someone has grabbed my kite and suddenly it plunges. Our rooftop erupts. We have a win. As we leave in the early hours of the morning, the streets are still full, a city staring upwards at the skies. After two decades wait, many are not yet ready to say goodnight.

Main Presenter/Lead Reporter (28:56)

Caroline Davies and that's all for today. We'll be back again next Saturday morning. Do join us.

Advertiser/Commercial Voice (29:05)

How are weight loss drugs changing our world? In the span of just a few.

Narrator/Reporter (29:09)

Short years, weight loss jabs have become.

Reporter/Correspondent (29:12)

So prevalent in our culture that they've transformed the way we live, move and eat.

Narrator/Reporter (29:17)

Restaurants are serving smaller portions and there's more protein rich food in grocery stores. Does all of this speak to a.

Reporter/Correspondent (29:24)

Renewed obsession with skinniness? Listen to the global story on BBC.com.

Podcast Host (29:30)

Or wherever you get your podcasts.