BBC Correspondent (7:59)

Steve Rosenberg as the first stage of the ceasefire between Hamas and Israel comes to an end and the terms for the second phase come under scrutiny, the Israel Defense Forces are in the midst of a major operation in the occupied west bank, with tanks deployed. Last Sunday, early in January, Israel launched Operation Iron Wall against Palestinian armed groups there, which has triggered an exodus of around 40,000 people from four refugee camps. Paul Adams has visited one of the camps to see what impact Israel's military action is having.

BBC Announcer (8:39)

The view up the road into the heart of Tulkarum camp is dismal. If you didn't know better, you'd assume a mudslide had come raging down between the houses, settling into undulating mountains of dirt and rubble. Along deeply gouged tracks, rivulets of water come trickling down, glinting in the sunlight, before collecting in great pools where the upside down images of empty houses are reflected. Off to one side, leaning against the wall of a deserted UN school, is a concrete sign that used to stand by the entran marking this place as one of 19 refugee camps run by the UN agency UNRWA, scattered throughout the West Bank. Camps that have been here since just after Palestinians fled or were driven from their homes more than 75 years ago during the creation of the State of Israel. Camps where 3/4 of a million Palestinian refugees live not in tents or shacks like their grandparents, but in tightly packed streets not unlike those of the adjacent towns. Not far from the entrance, we found Israeli soldiers milling about next to a line of armored vehicles, including two vast bulldozers. The machines used to churn up the camp streets, making it near impossible for anyone to get in or out. And from a hill overlooking the camp's eastern edge, we watched as soldiers patrolled inside along a freshly created muddy street where, until recently, houses had stood barely separated by narrow alleyways. When the army announced that it was going to blow up this line of houses, families were given a couple of hours to come and pick up whatever belongings they could. Israel is very clear about why it's doing all this. It says the camps are where groups of Palestinian militants store weapons and plan attacks on Israeli soldiers and civilians, including on targets inside Israel itself. And it says efforts by the Palestinian Authority to control the groups have failed, so it's decided to deal with the problem itself. The result? An operation unprecedented since Israel's occupation of the West bank in 1967. The camps have been evacuated. Palestinians speak of Israeli drones broadcasting messages instructing people to leave for their own safety. Some speak of escaping under fire. The UN says more than 50 people have been killed since the operation began. 40,000 have been forced to flee, seeking shelter with relatives in rented accommodation or in public buildings. Israel's Defense minister says the army should prepare for a long stay in the camps and that residents will not be allowed back, perhaps for as long as a year. Inevitably, it's causing misery. In the offices of Tulkaram's governor, we found camp residents wrestling with a host of problems. How to find and afford alternative places to live, what to do about shops and businesses abandoned inside the camp. And for people like Allah Ofi, whose wife is about to give birth, the the urgent need to get back home to collect important documents left behind in the rush to evacuate. We left everything at home. Allah told me if we can't go back for a year, it'll be a disaster. Tulkaram's governor, Abdullah Khmel, said Israel had declared war on the camps and was deliberately trying to break the financial and mental reserves of the refugees who lived there to create such a hostile environment that they decide to go and live somewhere else. It's not surprising that Palestinians harbor such suspicions. Israel finds the whole idea of Palestinian refugees sitting on its doorstep, brooding over the past and harbouring the belief that one day they will go home deeply troubling. It wants them fundamentally to stop thinking of themselves as refugees and abandon all thought of returning to homes in what has been for the past 75 years, Israel. But for Palestinians, the sight of abandoned, sealed off camps stirs the deepest fears. They worry that with Donald Trump's assistance, Israel plans to make drastic changes to the west bank, perhaps even to annex it, forcing all Palestinians, not just refugees, to accept a new reality. Israel insists that its actions are driven by the need for security, not by some sinister hidden agenda. But after the trauma of October 7th and the subsequent war in Gaza, Israelis and Palestinians are separated by ever wider oceans of grief and fury, both sides wondering, is the west bank next?

BBC Correspondent (13:09)

Paul Adams Bangladesh remains unstable six months after the violent student led uprising which brought down long term leader Sheikh Hasina. Student leaders are demanding fundamental reforms to the constitution before any fresh elections. But the country's main political parties are pushing for a quick return to the polls. In the absence of political stability, fundamentalist Islamic groups, previously sidelined in politics, have found fresh impetus. The BBC's former South Asia correspondent David Loyne, recently returned to the country amid.

David Loyne (13:48)

The melee of the narrow streets and alleys of the old Town in Dhaka in the south of the modern city, where cycle rickshaws jostle for space amid market stalls, there's a long established restaurant famous for one thing, mutton pie, a thick gravy made from slow cooked sheep trotters, a favourite haunt for Friday breakfast, where I went with two journalist friends. The restaurant does not serve beef, not for any cultural or ethical reasons, but mutton has been their brand, defining their image for many years. Until now, they've been warned by Islamic fundamentalists that they'll be attacked if they do not put beef on the menu in a warped distortion of dietary rules which customarily impose restrictions on what cannot be eaten, rather than demanding what should be. It's the opposite of the situation in neighbouring India, where the cow is revered and Muslims can be lynched for eating beef. Here in Bangladesh, beef has become a symbol of a newly aggressive Islamist force in society. After the two best selling newspapers in Bengali and English upset Islamist extremists, their offices were besieged by a mob who slaughtered cattle on their steps, hacking off beef to hand out to poor people. After 15 years of autocratic rule under Sheikha Cena and rigged elections. The language of politics has become debased. She condemned all opposition to her rule as Islamist or even Afghanized. On the other side, the elections run by the Awami League were condemned as fascist by resurgent Islamists. The student activists who led the protests that brought down Sheikha Sina are finding it hard to create political space. They what they call post ideological politics in their new offices. I was told that they're close to forming a national party with supporters from every district in the country. Their ability to organize had an unlikely origin. The network was built out of a road safety movement that began in 2018 after two children of a student were killed by a bus. Sheikh Hasina cracked down on the campaign led initially by school children and the leaders kept in contact. They're only too aware of recent historical precedent, such as in Tahrir Square in Egypt where activists brought down a government to be swept aside by military leaders in their turn, opening the way to fundamentalist Islamists as the activists failed to rise to the tough challenges of national political organization. On the face of it, Bangladesh's student politicians have a modest program for a better administration based on the rule of law, upholding rights, dignity and justice for the most deprived. But their demands to write a new secular constitution and overthrow the president have unnerved the traditional political establishment. The constitution has totemic status as it emerged from the hard fought war of independence against Pakistan in 1971. The freedom fighters from that war are old now. Khan Panna, a lawyer who walks with a stick because of an injury sustained in the fighting, told me the legacy of 1971 is under threat amid a general call for political freedom. The caretaker government has lifted the ban on Jamaat Islami, the country's largest Islamist party. And Khan Panna has watched as judges connected with the former administration have been removed to be replaced by judges from Jamaat. Women's football matches have recently been disrupted by Islamist activists. And a woman lawyer who overheard my conversation with the old freedom fighter said she fear that her freedom to wear Western dress would be banned if the Islamist influence grows. The consensus among political analysts is that the long standing opposition, the Bangladesh National Party, the bnp, will win whenever an election comes. And that's certainly the most desirable outcome for business. The production of clothing, Bangladesh's principal manufactured product, has been disrupted by the political events. The and one millionaire garment factory owner told me that he wanted the BNP to win to restore stability. The student movement who talked about crowdfunding their political campaign will not be able to compete with the financial muscle of the established parties. Meanwhile, Bangladesh is in the hands of a caretaker administration, an uneasy alliance of student activists and older technocrats headed by the Nobel Peace Prize winning economist Muhammad Yunus. His pick for vice chancellor of Dhaka University, Niaz Ahmed Khan, told me his job was a salvage operation bringing normality back to teaching after the disruption of the protests. But things are anything but normal. Sitting on the wide green lawns at the university, some students I spoke to said they'll come out on the streets again if the government does not deliver the reforms they want.

BBC Correspondent (18:47)

David Loyne.

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BBC Correspondent (19:54)

Next to Johannesburg in South Africa, long regarded as one of the most dangerous cities in the world due to its high rate of violent crime. Residents there have also had to deal with intermittent power cuts and a lackluster water supply. But amid the gloom, there are some budding signs of improvement. With previous no go areas in the city centre now being tentatively explored once more by locals and tourists alike, Ed Habershun has been finding out how Joe Burgers are trying to change their city's image.

Ed Habershon (20:29)

A strong wind blows through the concrete alleyways weaving around the base of the Ponty Tower, which stands almost 200 meters tall, puncturing the Johannesburg sky. I'm on a tour of the building and the surrounding suburbs, a sort of urban safari. Leading the way is Alvaro Shakapa, a young man who grew up here but born in the distant Democratic Republic of Congo. Like many Joburgers, he is an immigrant. He points out there are 54 floors in the Ponte Tower, one for every African country, he says. Alvaro is a tour guide with a charity called Nlalaje, which means just play in Zulu. The organization is trying to destigmatise the city and change people's perceptions about what many believe to be one of the most hostile places on earth. As we dive into the streets of Berea and Hillbrow, two of the more run down in a tourist city suburbs, there's an immediate reminder of the dangers. In a park nearby, we hear screaming and shouting and see a group of people chasing a man across the patchy grass. Oh, it seems there's a thief, says Alvaro. They're chasing him down. They'll end up beating him. That's mob justice. He shrugs. And we walk on. There's no denying Johannesburg has a lot of problems. There is plenty of crime, much of it violent. The national murder rate last year reached a 20 year high. There's also corruption and political mismanagement. Johannesburg has had seven mayors in the last three years. And the public services are terrible. Regular power cuts, known as load shedding, are creeping back in. And there's now talk of new rationing, this time water shedding. In 2023, almost 80 people died in a fire in a building rented out to them illegally by gangs. That same year, a huge gas explosion ripped through a main street, tossing taxis into the air like toys. But amid this tapestry of misery, if you pull a few threads, you soon discover people like Alvaro with his tour of the city who are trying to improve things. He and his colleagues tell me that tourists will often book their tour only for their hotel owners, to stop them from going because they think it's too dangerous. Despite this, the tour is now one of the most popular visitor activities in Johannesburg. So they are slowly but surely changing the perceptions of those not only from abroad, but at home, too. I meet BS Swanepoel on the terrace behind the glossy black glass headquarters of Anglo American, one of South Africa's corporate titans, in the leafy suburb of Rosebank, a far cry from the shabby streets downtown. From here, she runs Josie, My Josie, an organization also trying to improve the city. And while Alvaro pounds the streets, Bea works the boardrooms, drumming up support for projects from tackling homelessness to fixing potholes. Formed just two years ago, its flagship scheme so far has been to repair Nelson Mandela Bridge, a central feature of the city. It was mainly a case of fixing the lights that had gone out, but now illuminated again. People are using the bridge once more just by showing some visible, impactful projects, says Beer. People can see there's a way out of where the city is currently to a place people can thrive. But maintaining these projects is a major challenge. As Alvaro takes us back to the Ponte Tower after our tour of Barrea and Hillbrow, we pass the park where we witness the robbery. He points out two shiny new basketball courts that have just been installed by a grassroots sports organization called Giants of Africa to give locals somewhere to play. Hopefully it will work, says Alvaro rather downheartedly. Often with these projects, they work for a while, he explains. Then the place becomes neglected and anything of value is stolen. Then we're back to square one. His solution, he tells me, would be 24 hour security and using non recyclable metals to prevent theft. With that, we walk back to the Ponty Tower, where we part ways. While there is a genuine sense of hope building in Johannesburg, it's keeping up the momentum that's the hardest. And without much government help, Johannesburg will need more organizations like Ndlala J & Josie My Josie and more people like Alvarambi to maintain.

BBC Correspondent (24:40)

It. Ed Habershon and finally to the Indian state of Kerala, where each year between October and April, ancient folk rituals are held in family estates and around temples. These dramatic spectacles predate Hinduism but today weave in elements of Hindu mythology as the predominantly male performers dressed in elaborate costumes become living embodiments of deities. Sara Wheeler has been to watch.

BBC Presenter (25:10)

A man lay flat on the sandy ground, wrapped in a sheet up to the neck. He had been supine since the rising sun topped the back row of the Attai fig trees. At his head, another man, cross legged, bent forward to apply intricate make up with a slender brush. Both men were engaged in preparations for tayam, a Hindu ritual particular to the northern half of Kerala that spools like a ribbon down India's Malabar coast. In Teyam, people from the villages enact sacred stories through chanting, music and stylised dancing. Most have inherited the acting role. By 11 o' clock in the morning, pilgrims were drifting into the temple courtyard in Karivalur, a village in the shadow of the Western ghats. The actor's makeup was complete, his face painted a matte persimmon, orange, laterite red curlicute patterns dotted with glued on jewels. Eyes big black pools. Nearby, four young men assembled an elaborate multi tiered costume fringed with floor length coconut fronds and the woven leaves of areka palms. In a corner of the temple courtyard, three villagers sat in a booth accepting financial donations from a snaking queue of devotees, each contribution recorded three times in sumptuously barbed wire Malayalam script. Tayam is a propitiatory rite, a way of keeping the gods on side and of asking favours. The rituals take place over a season lasting several months. In Karivalur, they are gathering to worship Vishnamurti, an avatar of Lord Vishnu who began his life as an impoverished orphan. Payam stories mostly revolve around the dispossessed and are performed only by men deemed to be of lower caste. The whole performance is intended to reveal, in part, the fundamental equality between all peoples, one that existed in the misty lands of the ancient Vedas, beyond the bondage of caste. As the sun began to stare with tropical intent, six drummers appeared, bare chested with mundu cloths wrapped around their waists, the Malayali equivalent of garments known in the rest of India India as doty sarong or lungi. They began playing their music, soft at first, on cylindrical chenda drums made from the wood of the chaka tree, a Malayalam word that has crossed into English as jackfruit. Rocking on their heels in time with their own rhythm, the drummers slipped into a kind of trance. More assistant sat on a blanket, stitching component parts of a teeteringly high Vishnu Murti headdress, eventually fixing them all on a bamboo frame. Several hundred people had arrived meanwhile, women in their best saris, men in starched mundu let down to the floor, children combed and shiny. The wings of a Brahmini kite described small circles in the tender blue Malabar sky. Beyond the temple compound, itself the size of two tennis courts, a long row of stalls displayed plastic toys to placate not Hindu deities but the pilgrim's children, carefully divided into two sections, guns for the boys, miniature kitchen sets for the girls. Back inside, the pounding beat intensified as the sun reached its zenith. Even the writhing drummers absorbed their own shadows. The actor playing Vishnu Murti burst from behind the main shrine, fully formed now, arms windmilling with tasseled sleeves, bracelets and flower garlands, and hands adorned with talon like plastic silver nails. Around his waist he wore a hoop a metre and a half in diameter, itself draped with swagged skirts of saffron yellow and orange, the whole artifice wobbling perilously as the actor, although he wasn't an actor now, the spirit of Vishnu Murti had entered him, strode around, swaying and bowing. A sweet, spicy scent of myrrh filled the hot air. The sweating drummers closed their eyes as they worked themselves to a frenzied crescendo Vishnu Murti seized fistfuls of rice from baskets carried by his assistants, tossing grains to the pilgrims as blessings. As the throb of drums shook even the hard figs on the Attai trees, Vishnu Murti's possessed representative sliced the thrumming air with a ceremonial sword, proclaiming for this one moment the redemption of the so called untouchables, denoting the lowest rank of India's caste system, his own people. And when he bent an arm towards the rapt crowd, the people reached out to feel the.

BBC Correspondent (29:59)

Transcendent. Sarah Wheeler and that's all for today. But you can hear more stories on the from our own correspondent podcast on BBC Sounds, including the story of one daughter's search for her parents in Ukraine after they simply disappeared. We'll be back again next Saturday morning. Do join.

Ben Lewis (30:19)

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