BBC Podcast Host (3:38)

Dunya Pendeki struggles to hold back her tears as she recounts the day a rocket fell from the sky and killed her son. She was a mother of six, but as we speak in her small shelter built on the black volcanic rock of North Kivu, only five children are playing at our feet. Early in May last year, a salvo of 122millimeter rockets fired from M23 rebel positions landed on the outskirts of Goma, where camps had been built to house those displaced by fighting. The munitions exploded in one of these dense tent cities with a death toll of at least 16 civilians, one of whom was Dunya's boy, Bauma. Dunya and her family had waited until the last moment to flee from their hometown of Sake, where she was a farmer and her husband spent his days fishing the lake. They believed that the fighting would never reach them. The day seemed ordinary, recounts Dunya of the fateful morning. I left to go and look for some work. I told my eldest child that he had to look after the little ones and cook their rice for them. At noon, a loud boom echoed from the outskirts of the camp. A bomb had fallen, she explains. We rushed over to see if anyone needed help. No one was hurt. Dunya remembers saying a prayer of thanks. But as she walked away, her eyes caught the flash of a second projectile descending. I lay on the ground, she exclaims. There was a strong explosion and a lot of dust. I felt it could not have been far from my home. I ran like crazy to see if my babies were okay. The shelter was in pieces, and I saw three bodies on the ground. I thought I had lost them all, but it was only my eldest, Bauma, who had died. His body was so torn it was impossible to move him. I had arrived there that same day after the attack to see the dark crater in the middle of the honeycomb of white tents. Furious young men had showed me the twisted metal remnants of the rocket canisters, bigger than a child. Even after they had detonated. How is this happening to us? Was a common refrain. The world knows we are being killed, but they do nothing. This is the desperate reality for so many people here in the drc, but there are people doing their best to help. Several months later, and just before the rebels seized Goma, I visit the Shirika center, an international committee of the Red Cross clinic in the city's rocky back streets. Victims who have been maimed by the bullets and bombs come here in the hope of finding help and a second chance. In the past year of fighting alone, the center has built over 400 new prosthetic limbs and braces for patients. When I visit, the main hall is full of shouts of joy, the bustle of activity and the sound of sneakers squeaking across the floor. A group of patients were passing basketballs back and forth, practicing, balancing on their new metal artificial legs. But in the corner, near the balance rails, I noticed Naomi Kabuo. She was more withdrawn from the group and struggling through her exercises. 21 year old Naomi lost her left arm when she was caught in the blast of a mortar bomb. I felt like I was being strangled, says Naomi as she remembers the attack when M23 rebels had fired down at a nearby troop position in the town of Sake. I fell to the ground and I saw blood pouring out of my wounds. I saw my own bones on the ground in front of me, but I felt no pain, only a shiver, she says. Naomi had already been displaced but had little to eat at home, so she was making a dangerous trip back to the frontline areas in search of food when the bomb landed. As we meet, she has just finished her latest surgeries and is beginning a long program of rehabilitation. As the conflict worsens around us, Naomi will be working to regain some of her independence. The center will measure her and fit a prosthetic arm. Her legs were also peppered with shrapnel, so for now she can only walk when supported by nurses or her mother, Nadine, who is here with her, holding Naomi through each painstaking step of her first physiotherapy sessions. Naomi has been coming to the Shiraka center for two weeks now and has become close with a few of the other patients. They say the worst has already happened. We can't change anything, but we can face the recovery, naomi says. Military power and chaos remains the order of the day, but the families of East Congo, the most resilient people I have ever met, will rebuild brick by brick, town by town, limb by limb.

BBC Correspondent (8:16)

Hugh Kinsella Cunningham Donald Trump's proposal for the US to take over Gaza, resettle its population and turn it into the riviera of the Middle east drew sharp condemnation from both Palestinians and US allies this week. While Mr. Trump wrote back on some of his proposals, the region's leaders are continuing to focus their attention on the second stage of the ceasefire and the hostage and prisoner exchange between Israel and Hamas. The first phase has seen qualified progress, but some hardliners in the Knesset are demanding a resumption of the war. Families of the remaining hostages and prisoners must wrestle with the ongoing uncertainty and hold on to the hope that the second phase will go ahead. Wira Davis reports.

Wira Davis (9:07)

Do the math. Shouted a speaker from the stage in the Tel Aviv plaza that during the course of the war has become known as Hostages Square to a round of applause. The speaker was issuing a cry of support to those who are demanding an extension of the Israel Hamas ceasefire into a second phase. The math he was referring to was simple. The first phase of the deal, which is about halfway through its six week duration, has brought tangible benefits. By the end of this weekend, 21 hostages will have been exchanged for more than 500 Palestinian prisoners from Israeli jails. A significantly increased amount of humanitarian aid has crossed into Gaza, and after almost a year and a half of war, people forced to repeatedly flee the fighting have been allowed to return to their home areas in northern Gaza, although the experience is often distressing as they find those homes destroyed by one of the biggest bombing campaigns in military history on the Israeli side of the border. People, including some of those recently released hostages, have been going back to the kibbutzes from where they were abducted and where many of their friends were killed on October 7, 2023. They're slowly beginning to rebuild their lives. The scheduled days, usually Saturdays, when a small number of hostages are released into the warm embrace of their families, have become big events in Israel. The whole process is carried live on television. Hostages Square is always full of supporters and people seeking respite and some positivity after a deeply damaging wall. Amid the euphoria, there are bitter sweet moments like the release of 34 year old Yarden Bibas, who was hugged tightly by his father, mother and sister on his return. Absent were his wife Shiri and his two infant sons. They were also abducted from kibbutz near Oz, but Hamas claimed they were later killed in an Israeli airstrike. The Israeli military hasn't confirmed those reports other than to say it was extremely concerned about their welfare. But many Israelis, for who the Bibas family have become symbols of their collective pain, fear the worst. They are deeply angry that some hardliners want the war to resume because they say that Hamas has not yet been defeated. That would end the ceasefire and likely scupper any hope of getting more hostages back, alive or dead. I have mixed feelings. I'm thrilled, happy and I'm almost crying, but we want all the remaining hostages to return home, said Liat Castelnova, a friend of a former captive, Keith Siegel. Liat still returns to the square, adding her voice to those who say that time is running out. We're really worried that certain people in our government will block the continuation of the ceasefire and it will fail, liat told me as she held a large poster of her now free friend Keith. There are mixed emotions on the Palestinian side, too. Shortly after Keith Siegel and Yardembibas were leaving Gaza, having been handed over to the Red Cross heading in the opposite direction were more than 100 Palestinian prisoners released from Israeli jails. There were jubilant scenes in central Gaza as the men arrived home, albeit to the ruins of a territory where an estimated 60% of buildings have been destroyed or badly damaged. Israel described all of them as terrorists, but many of the people to be released in this first phase have not been convicted. Among them was Ahmad Dababesh, a nurse who was detained in a roundup of men during the war. It was a war that he survived, but not his family. I got out of prison and discovered that my wife, my daughter, my sister in law and my nephew were all killed, ahmad told the BBC, as he was literally held up by friends and prevented from collapsing in his grief. I used to tell my cellmates that when we get out of prison we should expect the worst news, he later said, insisting he was not affiliated to any armed group but spent 14 months in an Israeli jail without being charged. Among those Palestinians being released and treated as returning heroes are dozens of men who were convicted of serious crimes and and sentenced to long terms in prison for offenses including murder. Hamas's deliberate show of armed strength at every hostage handover in Gaza also angers some in Israel, who say it is proof they are not yet defeated and that the war should resume. This war has taken its toll on too many people. They are tired of conflict and have been given a small glimpse of what can be achieved when the fighting stops.

BBC Correspondent (14:01)

Wirra Davis Ecuador's president Daniel Noboa has made the fight against the country's drug gangs a central focus of his 18 months in power. The South American country became a vital conduit in the regional cocaine trade as cartels took advantage of lax border controls. That began to change last year when the newly elected president announced a state of emergency, ordering the police and military to embark on a programme of mass arrests. This weekend, the country goes to the polls in a vote which will be seen by many as a referendum on Mr. Noboa's decision to go to war with the gangs. Irony Wells reports from the city of Guayaquil.

BBC Sounds Announcer (14:47)

I pull up at the high fence of a gated community in Guayaquil, southern Ecuador. Security cameras surround the house I'm visiting. Inside, there is a huge television screen where the man I'm here to meet anxiously monitors them. And with good reason. The man, who I'm not naming for his own safety, shows me a text from a notorious drug I have your dad. How much will you pay for your family's life? Through tears, he tells me they sent a video of his father tied up while they cut off one of his fingers, demanding US$100,000. Despite scraping together $5,000, it wasn't enough. They left my father's body as a mockery, with his finger in a bottle tied to his hand, making fun of what they had done, he tells me. As we speak, he receives a call from an unknown number. It's the same gang that murdered his father. An app on his phone detects who it is. It's frequently used by people receiving similar threats. He tells me the gang calls every month. His experience is common in Ecuador. Most of the world's cocaine from Colombia and Peru passes through Ecuador's ports on the way to major markets like the uk, Europe and the usa, and drug gangs battle for control over the route. They kidnap ordinary people to extort for money, to finance their illicit activities and to buy weapons. Around seven people are reported kidnapped every day. Ecuador's incumbent president, Daniel Noboa, has responded with an iron fist since he took over in 2023, deploying the military with sweeping powers to crush the gangs. I see this in action one day, accompanying dozens of police armed with huge rifles as they raid a suspected gang member's house. As I follow them in, I notice a huge mountain of watches by the entrance, presumably stolen. The man they've detained sits topless on his sofa, a family member weeping behind him. On his wrist, a big crystal watch. On his chest, a tattoo that reads bm. It stands for Bob Marley, a powerful gang leader's alias. Searching through the suspect's phone, the security forces find a photo of a man recently seized by a gang with his mouth gagged and arms tied Suggesting this suspect was also involved in a recent kidnap. Arrests like this are the so called success stories. But what happens when this force is used indiscriminately? Days before, I was in the bedroom of two teenage boys, Ismael and Josue Arroyo. The walls are littered with a combination of football posters and school grammar guides. There are boxes of crisps and snacks. Their father, Luis tells me they were constantly eating, always hungry. After football training, the two boys were seized by the military last year over an alleged theft. Their bodies were later found mutilated and burned. Just a finger and a foot remained identifiable. We had to recognise them from that. They said they were our children. So we had to accept these bodies. But I didn't want to accept it on my part. I didn't have the certainty they were our children, he tells me. He says when authorities gave them the news, it was their children that had been found burned. They had said a DNA test could take 30 or 40 days, but in this case it took six. So he still holds many doubts. Louise clutches their old football boots. His grief manifests itself in sheer disbelief. These are their boots. He often slips into the present tense when talking about his sons. Instead of the military providing security to citizens, they murder us. They were children. They took them away and then just left to go home for dinner. He sobs. His wife behind lets out a piercing cry when he says they can no longer fulfil their dreams to be professional footballers and to buy a house for their mother. A cry that makes my blood run cold. As he seeks re election, President Noboa has faced scrutiny and protests over these boys deaths and whether innocent people are being caught up in his crackdown. Noboa at first didn't acknowledge the state's involvement in the case, but later said there should be zero impunity for those responsible for the boy's death. But he continues to defend his measures, saying that a new Ecuador is beginning. This father who lost his sons, the son who lost his father. They are both united in grief, but encapsulate attention at the heart of Ecuador's drug gang problem. I asked the man whose father was murdered what he would say to people around the world who use cocaine and fuel the demand behind this violence. To those who finance these things that are happening. Feel a little empty, he says. For a moment of your own pleasure. Our lives are destroyed. Do not contribute to the destruction of our world. That's all I can ask.

BBC Correspondent (19:18)

We've not done anything to you, Barney Wells.

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BBC Correspondent (20:57)

Malaysia has seen strong economic growth over the past few decades, which has in turn fueled an increased appetite for to spend money. So much so that a recent government survey revealed more than 70% of young Malaysians are in debt. Officials say this is down to a shopping addiction and the growth of flex culture on social media where people flaunt their apparent wealth and status. Hannah Gelbart went to Malaysia to find out more about its all consuming materialism.

Hannah Gelbart (21:31)

In a bright modern apartment set in the hills above Kuala Lumpur, I step into Brian Chin's shoe closet. It's the size of a small bedroom with shelves from floor to ceiling. They're crammed with over 200 pairs of sneakers. Brian is a fashion entrepreneur and a self confessed shopping addict, and he's obsessed with shoes squashed onto shelves piled several pairs high. There are fitness shoes, fashion shoes, and designs from his own collabs with major brands like Asics. He plucks a pair off the shelf that he designed himself, based on Malaysia's beloved national drink, Teh Tarik. It means pulled tea because of how the milky foam is poured steaming hot from one jug to another. The shoe has suede panels in earthy browns and beiges, a homage to the swirling blend of black tea and sweet condensed milk. Another pair is inspired by nasi lemak, the typical Malaysian breakfast. It's a parcel of sticky rice, boiled egg, sambal sauce, crunchy anchovies and peanuts wrapped in a banana leaf and brown paper. The shoes have red, green and yellow leather panels and if you turn them upside down, there's a yolk coloured insert built into the sole, just like an egg. Brian is clearly proud of his sneakers, but as he ponders his collection, he tells me it's become something of an addiction. In the past, he's spent entire paychecks on shoes, sometimes taking on extra work just to make ends meet. Part of his obsession, he says, comes from mall culture. Going to the local shopping mall is Malaysia's favourite pastime. There's one in almost every neighbourhood offering air conditioned respite from the sticky heat outside. So I head to one of Kuala Lumpur's newest shopping destinations to find out more about the Malaysian way of life. The Exchange is a sparkling marble floored maze with more than 400 shops and restaurants. It feels more like a self contained city than a shopping centre. In its cool foyer, I meet fashion influencer Lilo Lorcombe. Her bright red shoes and matching bag are nearly as striking as her million strong TikTok. Following her, followers look to her for advice on makeup, money saving and Malaysian fashion. Lilo's love of clothes and shopping, she tells me, goes back to her childhood. Malaysian families tend to do the weekly food shop in the mall and they drag their children with them. And while you're out buying groceries or having a bite to eat, you're easily dazzled by the latest fashion in shop windows. But now Lilo has what she calls an unhealthy relationship with shopping. During the pandemic, when those family trips to the mall shifted online, so too did her shopping habits. And the online world has its own temptations. Influencers flex their wealth and extravagant lifestyles. Targeted ads seem to know the exact product you've been talking about and buy now, pay later schemes are getting more and more popular in Malaysia. They're enticing young people to live beyond their means and tying them into heavy financial commitments, Lilo explains. Now, she says, she's trying to develop healthier habits. She's one of a growing number of Malaysian influencers talking about a more mindful approach to money. She recommends things like going window shopping instead of making a purchase, splitting income into savings and spending pots, or letting items linger in your online basket before making a decision. Lilo's story reflects a deeper reality for many young Malaysians. While the country has seen remarkable economic growth and is now on the cusp of achieving high income status, the cost of living has risen faster than wages. Education, healthcare and house prices are creeping higher, and the jobs that many aspire to in tech or the creative industries are often scarce. The growth in Chinese investment and plans to create a special economic zone between Malaysia and Singapore could bring better job prospects, but it's unlikely to temper social media's glossy portrayal of wealth and success. So as I sip a frothy cup of teteric, watching the clouds hang heavy above Kuala Lumpur's skyline, I skim through some of the shopping apps I've got on my own phone. The items in my cart stare back at me, and for now, just like Brian's next pair of sneakers or Lilo's next dress, they'll have to sit on the shelf a little longer.

BBC Correspondent (26:04)

Hannah Gelbart and finally, in an age of translation apse and Anglo centric global cities, achieving fluency in a foreign language can perhaps seem a futile exercise to some. Lucy Ausch recently moved to Berlin to learn German, but after making little progress, she decided to venture to the country's Baltic coast, where she volunteered as a farmhand and could finally escape the multitude of English speakers in the capital.

Lucy Ausch (26:35)

Dodging puddles and horses hind legs, I venture into the stable. Andy, the farm hand, is waiting for me. Des alles, he says, pointing at the fresh piles of manure. Gate here. All this goes in here. He jerks his thumb at the wheelbarrow. He hands me an implement I've never seen before, like a hoe with rounded edges to scoop the poop. Then we move on to the field. Every day is Easter, andy enthuses, sticking his shovel into a mound of droppings which resemble dark chocolate eggs. I struggle to steer the full wheelbarrow down a muddy track and through an electric fence to the compost heap. The labour is great for toning my biceps, but I really came here to work my linguistic muscles. In October, I moved to Berlin and started learning German. But it's tough in a city where English is, in many parts of town, the modern lingua franca. My poorly pronounced questions to people in bars and shops are rarely answered in German. Many foreigners living here gave up learning the language long ago, or didn't bother at all. One young Brit working in a restaurant took umbrage when my husband asked for a table in German. Can't you just speak English? She snapped. Total immersion, I decided. Somewhere far from Berlin was my Only hope of sounding more Teutonic. I scoured the Internet and found a website where volunteers can apply to work unpaid for five hours a day in exchange for bed and board. One farm in the north was prepared to take me. That's a crazy plan, said my German teacher Eva, sipping her chai latte in the bookline Berlin Cafe, where we meet for lessons. It's freezing up there now. A week later, I'm on a train to the Baltic coast. We roll across the flatlands of Mecklenburg Vorpommen, past ghostly frozen lakes and a string of small East German towns with deserted factories and apartment blocks with smash windows. Even the names of the passing stations sounded ominous to my Anglophone ear. Angermunde, Warnetz and my final stop, Grimmon, which was Angela Merkel's first constituency. I meet my host, Nicole, and squeeze into her car, which is crammed with broken saddles and sacks of animal feed. A full time nurse, she had told me she needed help caring for her five horses, six alpacas, two pigs, cat, as well as her 12 year old daughter. Please make her supper, Nicole had asked, because I usually finish work too late to cook. I was told I was sleeping in Nicole's caravan, but luckily there's space in the house because another volunteer cancelled last minute. I soon find there are plenty of jobs to do, mucking out, clearing leaves, sorting farm equipment and boxes of rusty nails. But it's a bit lonely. Andy, the farmhand, doesn't believe in small talk or tea breaks. There's little demand for my cooking. I brave an icy head wind to cycle to the nearest village and briefly lost for words. I ask the woman in the only shop there if she speaks English. Of course not, she replies briskly. She told me she learned Russian at school in the gdr, but she only remembers three bread, table and chair. That evening, Nicole finishes work early and we share a bottle of cider with my fish pie. I try asking her about the influence of the extreme right parties in the area, although it's stretching my German to its absolute limit. She tells me she moved to the region from Baden Wurtemberg in southwest Germany because land is cheaper and she could afford to keep her horses here. She can't understand, she says, why many local people seem so dissatisfied when most have jobs. There are beautiful forests and they live near the sea. On my last day, farmhand Andy drives me to the coast. I wander around the Hanseatic port of Stralsund, with its gabled houses, cobbled squares and magnificent cathedral. I didn't speak a lot of German during my week on the farm. Yet I feel something has shifted. Listening to snatches of conversations on the harbour front. Words which were just noises make some sort of sense. At least I can dimly perceive their outlines, like the buildings slowly emerging through the sea spray and the mist. Dare I say, ich fuller mich fast wie su Hauser. I almost feel at home.

BBC Correspondent (31:26)

Lucy Ashe 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 from our US Correspondent and Anthony Zircher as he traveled on Air Force One with President Trump. We'll be back again next Saturday morning. Do join us.

Greg Jenner (31:48)

Hello, Greg Jenner here. I am the host of youf're Dead to Me from BBC Radio 4. We are the comedy show that takes history seriously and then laughs at it. And we're back for a brand new series, Series nine, where we're covering all sorts of things, from Aristotle to the legends of King Arthur to the history of coffee to the reign of Catherine of Medici of France. We are looking at the Arts and Crafts movement and the life of Sojourner Truth and how cuneiform writing systems worked in the Bronze Age. Loads of different stuff. It's a fantastic series. It's funny. We get great historians, we get great comedians. So if you want to listen to youo're Dead to Me, listen first on BBC Sounds.

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