It’s possible that I shall make an ass of myself. But in that case one can always get out of it with a little dialectic. I have, of course, so worded my proposition as to be right either way (K.Marx, Letter to F.Engels on the Indian Mutiny)
Monday, March 20, 2023
Afghan judge finds new beginning in B.C. after fleeing Taliban-ruled country
UBC's law school has launched a first-of-its-kind-in-Canada program aimed at helping Afghan women judges who were forced to flee their country. (CTV)
Kevin Charach CTV News Vancouver Multi-Media Journalist March 18, 2023
UBC's law school has launched a first-of-its-kind-in-Canada program aimed at helping Afghan women judges who were forced to flee their country.
In 2021, the Taliban regained control over Afghanistan, putting the future of many law-focused Afghan women in doubt.
“I feared for my life," said former Afghan judge Bibi Wahida Rahimi.
"But the most important was the fear for our freedom, fear for my dignity and the right to work.”
Humanitarian efforts led by members of the international legal community helped Rahimi and other Afghan women judges successfully evacuate the country.
Despite losing her career and being forced to leave loved-ones behind, Rahimi always kept hope alive.
“There’s always something good happening and we have to look for it," said the mother of three young boys.
A few months ago, that opportunity arrived for Rahimi at UBC's law school in the Afghan Women Judges Program.
“We wanted to create an opportunity for judges, women judges from Afghanistan who were forced to flee when the Taliban returned to power," said UBC law professor Graham Reynolds.
He says the program, largely funded by donations, focuses on English language training and the Canadian legal system.
"They can, should they wish, be able to transition into a number of different legal roles in Canada," said Reynolds.
There are currently three women enrolled in the program, but the school plans to expand enrollment in the future.
Rahimi, who lives with her husband and three sons in Burnaby, says she's excited for the journey ahead and looks forward to the future of her children growing up in Canada.
“I always tell them life is about exploring," said Rahimi. "It’s about changes. So trying to figure out how to survive, how to live and how to enjoy life in every different geographical place you are.”
The shooting in the head of a motionless Palestinian militant during an Israeli raid on Jenin in which three other people were killed has enraged Palestinians as images of the incident spread across social media.
Ahmad Majdalani, a member of the PLO executive committee, condemned the shooting on Thursday of Nidal Hazem, who was face down at the time. “This is a crime in the full sense of the word,” he said.
The Israeli army said its raid, the latest on Jenin and its refugee camp in recent months, was “an intelligence-based counter-terrorism activity” and had “neutralised” two suspected militants.
The Palestinian health ministry identified those killed as a teenage boy Omar Awadin, 16, Luay al-Zughair, 37, Nidal Hazem, 28 and Youssef Shreem, 29. Hamas’s armed wing, the al-Qassam Brigades, said Shreem belonged to its group and Islamic Jihad claimed Hazem as one of its members.
The Israeli army statement did not offer any immediate explanation for why Hazem was shot in the head in what the Israeli group of military veterans against the occupation, Breaking the Silence, called an “extrajudicial execution”.
Avner Gvaryahu, the head of the group, claimed the shooting was an example of a practice known as “verification of killing” that is part of Israeli defence force training for special operations units. “What we saw is very telling in terms of an unspoken practice in the army,” he said. The IDF denies any such practice exists.
The raid, which witnesses described as an undercover operation into a crowded market area, came days before a meeting between Palestinian and Israeli officials on Sunday in the Egyptian city Sharm el-Sheikh aimed at reducing tensions before Ramadan.
04:15Why the Israeli-Palestinian conflict is so complicated – video explainer
“The international community must abandon its silence and hold Israel responsible for its organised state terrorism,” said Majdalani, an ally of the Palestinian president, Mahmoud Abbas. He said that not only must the security force member who pulled the trigger on Hazem be held to account, but also his commanders.
Ghassan Khatib, a former minister of Labour in the Palestinian Authority who teaches at Birzeit University, added that the “inhuman” shooting “only incites Palestinian youth for revenge”.
An Israeli army spokesperson, Richard Hecht, did not give a clear answer when asked if an investigation would be opened. “I know the visual is problematic. I’ll know more next week. It’s a special police force officer,” he said.
The raid was the latest instalment of Operation Break the Wave, which consists of repeated incursions into West Bank towns and refugee camps with the stated goal of thwarting Palestinian attacks.
It was launched a year ago after a string of Palestinian attacks, including one that killed three Israelis in a Tel Aviv pub. The army said one of Hazem’s relatives was the perpetrator.
Twenty other Palestinians were wounded in Thursday’s raid, four critically, according to the Palestinian ministry of health.
Gvaryahu said that only a few of the cases of “verification of killing” are captured on video. “Even though this is illegal under Israeli law, there is no pushback, no accountability, no teeth in military courts and the supreme court sides with the security establishment.”
Eco-friendly glass exists but it’s complex to make, researchers say
Traditional glass is made from non-biodegradable materials like methyl methacrylate.(Pexels/ Nguyễn Thanh Ngọc) Natasha O'Neill CTVNews.ca Writer Published March 18, 2023
Researchers have figured out a new way to make glass that will decompose on its own and not harm the planet.
Using a "heating-quenching" technique, researchers were able to chemically modify amino acids to form a similar glass product. Further testing was done on the glass' kinetic and thermodynamic abilities.
Although the research has demonstrated the ability to create biodegradable glass, researchers say mass production will not happen anytime soon.
Schematic diagram of the construction of biomolecular glass and its unique properties. (XING Ruirui)
"The concept of biomolecular glass, beyond the commercially-used glasses or plastics, may underlie a green-life technology for a sustainable future," YAN Xuehai, a professor from the Institute of Process Engineering of the Chinese Academy of Sciences, said in the press release accompanying the study. "However, the biomolecular glass is currently in the laboratory stage, and far from large-scale commercialization."
More testing is needed to ensure the eco-friendly glass does not decompose at high temperatures.
Why Somali Canadians are footing more of the bill for the climate crisis in Africa
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As Somalia's worst drought in decades increases economic turmoil, the diaspora is sending more money
Extreme drought in the Horn of Africa has led to severe hardship for many people in Somalia. ((AP Photo/Mohamed Sheikh Nor)
People in Somalia have long relied on money from family members abroad to build hope for the future. These contributions — also known as remittances — have been essential during the last three decades of civil conflict in the east African country.
Just ask Hassan Mowlid Yasin. Relatives who immigrated to the U.S. regularly sent remittances to his grandmother. Those paid for Yasin's education in public health at Jobkey University in Somalia's capital, Mogadishu.
"The Somalia diaspora has been very supportive for the past 30 years … feeding many millions of households," said Yasin, 31. Remittances account for a quarter to 40 per cent of Somalia's GDP, according to a 2019 report from the Munk School of Global Affairs at the University of Toronto.
Today, Yasin is executive director of Somalia's Greenpeace Association. He's on the front line promoting education and environmental policy in a country that is feeling climate change acutely.
Hibaq Warsame, a project co-ordinator with Midaynta Community Services for Somali Canadians in Toronto, says there's a stark difference in the tone of her relatives overseas in light of the ongoing drought. (Hibaq Warsame)
Somalia's ongoing drought has widened pre-existing gaps in the country's economy. Four partial rainy seasons throughout the past two years — generally thought to be a direct result of climate change — have brought the most persistent drought in four decades to the Horn of Africa.
And Somalis as far away as Canada are helping foot the bill.
Hibaq Warsame, a project co-ordinator at Toronto's Midaynta Community Services for Somali Canadians, said she can hear the burden of the ongoing drought in the voices of relatives on the phone.
"Especially with elderly members of my family," she said.
Life in Somalia 'very expensive'
Since the drought began two years ago, Yasin said an estimated 600,000 of Somalia's livestock have perished. Not only do livestock like goats and cattle provide Somalis with diet staples of meat and milk, but up until recently they accounted for half of Somalia's export earnings and another 40 per cent of its GDP.
Due to this, the number of Somalis facing an "unprecedented level of need" for food doubled last October to nearly eight million, according to a December report from the UN.
"A lot of [Somali Canadians] are being contacted by family back home, saying, 'We're not able to afford food,'" said Warsame. "It's not even on a month-to-month basis. It's a day-to-day basis."
What used to be $150 US a month for Warsame's family has increased to $350. Four others working at Midaynta said they've made an identical increase in their monthly remittance spending to Somali relatives.
Jibril Ibrahim, president of the Somali Canadian Cultural Society of Edmonton, said his remittance spending rose from $100 to between $300 and $500 a month. That's separate from what his wife sends her own family, he said.
Ibrahim said the budgeting difficulties for Somali Canadians are compounded by Canada's own inflation pressures and the COVID-19 pandemic's effect on job security for recent immigrants.
Jibril Ibrahim, president of the Somali Canadian Cultural Society of Edmonton, said his remittance spending rose from $100 to between $300 and $500 a month. That's separate from what his wife sends her own family, he said. (Scott Neufeld/CBC)
"But still they have to send money. Because unless they do so, more and more people would be lost to the drought."
Living in Mogadishu, Yasin said he hasn't had to flee the famine, which has been mostly contained in the country's rural areas. But many farmers and their families, as well as those they fed in refugee camps, have made a mass movement to Somalia's cities.
This, in turn, has led to rising costs in the country's capital, including record food inflation (17.5 per cent) and rental rates, said Yasin, who has a three-year-old daughter.
"Things are very expensive now in Somalia," he said.
'Loss and damage' funding
The Somalia Greenpeace Association, one of the few organizations advocating for climate resilience policies in Somalia (and not affiliated with Greenpeace International), attended the COP27 climate summit in Egypt last November.
The summit's hallmark was "loss and damage" funding from richer countries for developing ones, like Somalia, which bear the brunt of the climate crisis. To date, Canada has committed $5.3 billion to climate financing worldwide.
The millions of dollars the United Nations currently sends to Somalia are designated for emergencies only, such as internationally displaced people or food assistance, said Yasin. Little is left over to fund long-term infrastructure.
To have any long-term impact, Yasin said loss and damage funds must be earmarked for technology like new irrigation systems, solar-powered wells, modern tractors and other agricultural equipment.
"If we prevent [internally displaced people], if we build resilience, we will be able to carry the whole community. That's the biggest thing we need to focus on on the ground, other than emergency responses," said Yasin.
Ibrahim is skeptical, however, that institutional funding can offer more to Somalia's drought resilience than diaspora remittances, given the latter's outsized role in the country's economy.
For Somali Canadian remittances to go even further, Ibrahim said legal methods for money transfers in Canada should be made cheaper and more accessible.
Today, money-transfer businesses registered with the Financial Transactions and Reports Analysis Centre of Canada (FINTRAC) are the only method for legally sending funds abroad.
Some MSB transfers can be made through a phone call, but they typically require an in-person visit — the timing of which is especially critical if the overseas recipient is facing an emergency, said Yasmine Aul, an outreach worker at Midaynta.
Most MSBs with routes from Canada to Somalia operate out of the United Arab Emirates, are fixed to investments in gold or jewellery and involve substantial additional fees, said Ibrahim.
An effective method to save time and cost is hawala, he said. A sender provides remittances, their recipient's name and location to a local hawala broker, who contacts a hawala broker at the recipient's location to provide the recipient with the amount given to the first broker.
Hassan Mowlid Yasin, right, speaks on a panel about youth action and climate change at COP27 in Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, in November 2022. (Hassan Mowlid Yasin/Facebook)
Hawala has been used throughout South Asia and North Africa since the eighth century, and unlike typical systems based on promissory notes or other debt instruments, is based solely on an honour system between brokers. The system relied on written correspondence in the Middle Ages, but today can be taken care of over the phone in a matter of minutes, said Ibrahim.
However, since it doesn't require the physical movement of money or a paper trail, hawala has faced regular controversy as a vehicle to fund extremist groups, like al-Shabaab in Somalia, and illegal markets.
During the pandemic, several MSBs and bank accounts based in Edmonton used for sending remittances to Somalia were closed because of their affiliations with hawala vendors, despite having undergone and passed audits by FINTRAC, Ibrahim said.
When Edmonton-area MP Randy Boissonault, the assistant finance minister, was asked for comment, a press secretary said financial institutions have "the discretion to close accounts or refuse to do business with MSBs." He also said the Proceeds of Crime (Money Laundering) and Terrorist Financing Act requires client identities and certain transaction records, which are not required for the hawala system.
Government policy creating 'additional cost'
Ibrahim says he understands the government's position, but questions the blanket illegality of hawala in Canada.
"We're not sending $10,000 or $20,000 [individually]. We're talking about $100 from individuals to their loved ones," he said. "How is that going to help terrorist groups?"
Ibrahim said registered MSBs still deliver remittances to the right place. But thanks to their substantial fees and Canada's own cost of living increases, "there's an additional cost that we [Somali Canadians] have to sustain as a result of government policy."
The Somali Canadian Cultural Society of Edmonton collected $150,000 across Edmonton's Somali community last year, said Ibrahim. Their focus was primarily the Jubaland region of southern Somalia, where the rebel group al-Shabaab took control of charcoal production.
Left unregulated, the tree-cutting required to produce charcoal has led to rapid deforestation, worsening Somalia's drought conditions. As a result, 80 per cent of Jubaland's livestock perished in 2021, according to the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs.
Midaynta raised $7,000 through two events since September. This year, one of the organization's goals is to bring the issue to local politicians and Toronto's immigrant community at large.
"We're constantly in contact with our family and friends back home. We're getting first-hand information," said Warsame. But she said awareness of the severity of Somalia's drought, its impact on so many facets of life and the resulting onus on the diaspora community "isn't as widespread in Canada as we'd like it to be."
'Who, if not us, should stop them?': The stories of Ukrainian women on the front lines
For over a year, women fighting on the front lines of the war in Ukraine have done so without proper equipment, a Ukrainian charity says.
Since Feb. 24, 2022, about 60,000 women have joined the fight against Russia’s illegal invasion of Ukraine, the founders of Zemliachky, a charity aiding female soldiers on the front lines, told CTVNews.ca.
Their military uniforms do not fit properly, their helmets cover their eyes as they slide off their heads, and their boots are too big.
"The most important thing is a military uniform," Karina, a deputy commander on Ukraine's front lines, said in an email to CTVNews.ca. "The uniform that is issued is not always of the right size and as it gets colder, you need to dress in warm and high-quality clothes."
Access to menstruation products are another difficulty these women are facing. Pads and tampons are hard to come by and even more difficult to change when the bathroom is a hole dug in the ground. Here's what Canada is doing to help Ukraine
For three women who emailed CTVNews.ca, the honour of serving their country in its time of need far outweighs the difficulties of daily life on the front lines.
To protect their families, CTVNews.ca has agreed to keep the women's last names private. The quotes below were taken from emails to CTVNews.ca, edited for clarity and translated from Ukrainian.
VERONIKA: 'FIND HAPPINESS IN THE LITTLE THINGS'
'I got here by accident, but now I can't even imagine myself anywhere else', Veronika told CTVNews.ca (Contributed)
The moment when the war felt real for Veronika was when she was handed a grenade after the Russians made a breakthrough in the Ukrainian defensive line.
"This is instead of captivity," she was told.
The 26-year-old was born in Dnipro and lived in Kyiv when the war broke out. She had just completed an internship and was preparing to become an anesthesiologist.
Each morning she started her day with a cappuccino in a "beautiful cafe" she told CTVNews.ca. However, working on the front lines as a combat medic, Veronika’s morning ritual looks very different.
"Instead of a cappuccino from a cafe in a beautiful cup, I have instant coffee, if I'm lucky, even with cream or milk," she said.
Veronika works in the Azov Division of an artillery unit on the eastern side of Ukraine.
"I provide assistance to soldiers in the field and send them to the hospital if necessary, and teach the basics of tactical medicine," she said. "That's why I went to study to be an anesthesiologist because I like situations where you need to make a quick decision."
Her decision-making skills were needed when she was called to the battlefield to help an injured soldier with a suspected fracture in his neck.
"I ran to him with a stretcher, put on a collar (neck brace), and he was quickly taken to the hospital," Veronika said. "I talked to him all the way. He asked if he was moving his hand, and I said: 'There is a little, come on, you can do it,' although there were no movements at all."
Each day is different for Veronika, but she says she tries to "find happiness in the little things."
The young Ukrainian soldier is stationed outside of the battlefield waiting to be called on for assistance in evacuation and treatment. She is lucky to have an outdoor shower and a hot meal cooked by nearby volunteers.
KARINA: 'I WAS SCARED, BUT I MANAGED'
'The war in (Crimea in) 2014 motivated me to join the ranks of the Armed Forces, as my home was on the demarcation line,' Karina said. (Contributed)
"I've been here for a year without a rotation, I miss hot water and a normal toilet more than anything," she told CTVNews.ca in an email.
Karina, 26, is a deputy commander for her unit which moves around a lot in the war. The battery, made up of 48 men and two women, build everything: Showers, toilets and structures to sleep in.
Each time the group moves, they abandon the structures and start over.
Karina said she has gotten used to her new reality, but still struggles with taking care of herself. Cystitis, the inflammation of the bladder often caused by a bladder infection or an untreated urinary tract infection, is common among her comrades, she says.
The helmets given to the women are "3 sizes bigger" she said, and the underwear they use are for men.
Karina joined the division when she was 23 years old. The commander of the unit left shortly after, leaving her with about 50 men as her responsibility.
"I was scared, but I managed. I am respected and obeyed," she said.
Her main job is to tell soldiers' loved ones when they have been killed.
"It is tough, and I have to find strength, compassion, and sensitivity," she said.
In August, Karina had to make a difficult phone call to the family of a 23-year-old soldier.
"I called his dad — he didn’t believe me at first," Karina said. "There is a deep pause and it hurts a lot, it's scary. Because you understand what the person on the other end feels."
Karina finds motivation from her unit who she calls her second family. The soldiers working with her are all very different, she says, but still sincere, friendly, bright and cheerful.
She looks towards the future and imagines after the war how she will buy a new home since hers was destroyed on March 15, 2022.
LISA: 'MANY OF THEM DIED DEFENDING MY HOMETOWN'
'I worked, studied, walked around the city with friends and enjoyed life. And from February 24 (2022), I immediately began to help, first to civilians in her area, looked in basements, and bought food,' Lisa said. (Contributed)
In a different unit, Lisa, a 21-year-old artillerist, says she is fortunate when she has warm water.
"(There is a) lack of light, water, heat, internet," Lisa told CTVNews.ca in an email. "The toilet is a dug hole, and the shower is water heated over a fire. Often there is no place to wash."
When she is out in the field she packs pads, tampons and pain relief medication in case she is away from camp for a while.
"At first, my fellow soldiers offered me something sweet during my periods, but I said I don’t eat sweets, so now they bring me pickles and tomatoes," she said.
The winter has been bitterly cold. Lisa wears four pairs of socks and sleeps under four summer sleeping bags at night.
She lived in the eastern district of Mariupol, one of the first areas in Ukraine to be shelled. On Feb. 24, 2022, Lisa was woken up at 5 a.m. local time by an explosion and immediately contacted her boyfriend who works in the military.
By April, she had joined the force and knew she wanted to work with mortars, following in her boyfriend's footsteps. She finds motivation from her friends in Azov (a small town north of Mariupol), who instilled in her a love for their country and books.
"Now, many of them died defending my hometown," Lisa said. "Russians destroyed my hometown, killed many civilians, ruined my life so far. Every day, they kill children, women (and) make genocide of my nation."
"And who, if not us, should stop them?" she said.
'THAT'S WHY WE EXIST': HOW ZEMLIACHY IS HELPING
Zemliachky formed a month after the war broke out and posted its first Instagram story showcasing a female soldier.
"Mental health is actually so important, because we communicate with 7000 female soldiers, and it was pretty clear for us that all of them, they need this mental support," Andrey Kolesnyk, co-founder of Zemliachky said. "It's not like you join the army, and you are training somewhere. It's actually war, and all the tragic and awful things that you will surely meet, you will feel and all these deaths, all these murders… It gives you a scar on your mental health."
The organization was created by Kolesnyk and Ksenia Draganyuk who both have ties to aiding women—specifically in the military. Kolesnyk's younger sister and her husband signed up for the military just before the war broke out.
Draganyuk used to be a TV journalist who covered stories of women across Ukraine who held employment in male-dominated fields such as firefighters, police or pilots.
"So we decided to combine the idea of helping and the idea of her (Draganyuk's) show before the war, and we wanted to tell stories about women at the front," Kolesnyk said.
Through short questionnaires, the pair were able to understand who the women at the front lines are and what they need. The organization started sending packages of items the soldiers needed like menstruation products, food and messages of encouragement.
At the start, Zelmiachky sent about 40 packages a month—now it has grown to 50 to 100 parcels a day.
"We do not send the equipment based on just our thoughts, in every box, there are specific items that we know that specific person needs," Draganyuk said in Ukrainian. "We also send them like small things to keep their moral spirit up so they know that back there, there are people that care about them."
As the charity grew so did the demand for female-specific equipment and uniforms. The organization is handling thousands of female soldiers and their needs with a team of 11 people. The demand is constant as the war continues to drag on.
With help from partners around the world, Zemliachky in July started sending female soldiers equipment that fits them.
"Not only (did) society not expect so many women to join the army (but) the government also did not expect that so many females would join the army, that's why it just did not have any possibility to get ready with the female uniforms, the smaller sizes of boots with like lighter equipment," Kolesnyk said. "That's why we exist."
(Left) Lisa, Veronika, Karina are all female soldiers fighting on Ukraine's front lines. (Contributed)
Are Russian transfers of Ukrainian children to re-education and adoption facilities a form of genocide?
Yvonne Breitwieser-Faria THE CONVERSATION
Published: March 18, 2023
Throughout Russia’s war against Ukraine, there have been countless reports of alleged war crimes and crimes against humanity. Now, there are also allegations of genocide involving the forced transfer of Ukrainian children to Russia.
The International Criminal Court has just issued two arrest warrants in connection with the transfer of Ukrainian children for Russian President Vladimir Putin and Maria Lvova-Belova, the Russian commissioner for children’s rights.
While this is a significant legal milestone, the warrants might not necessarily lead to an arrest – due to a lack of enforcement mechanisms and the likely reluctance of the Russian state and potentially other states to cooperate.
Re-education and forced adoptions
There have been many reports on the forced transfer of Ukrainian children, ranging in age from infants to teenagers, to various locations in Russia and Russian-occupied Crimea. These transfers date back to the beginning of February 2022; in the case of occupied Crimea, transfers of orphans and children without parental care commenced as early as 2014.
Russia is now believed to be operating a large-scale, systematic network of at least 40 “recreational” re-education camps for thousands of Ukrainian children. The primary purpose of most of these camps appears to consist of pro-Russian indoctrination and, in some instances, military training.
While Russia does not deny the evacuation of children or that they are now in Russia, the government claims it is part of a humanitarian project for war-traumatised orphans.
However, not all of these children are orphans. According to an investigation by Yale School of Public Health’s Humanitarian Research Lab, children with living relatives in Ukraine have been “recruited” to attend camps in Russia for ostensible holidays. Consent from families is given either under duress or routinely violated.
Once the children are in Russia or Crimea, their communication with family members is either restricted or nonexistent. Most children have been unable to return home.
Troublingly, Putin’s “patriotic patronage campaign” is also strongly encouraging Russian families to adopt purported Ukrainian orphans. There have been legislative changes to expedite the adoption of Ukrainian children and financial incentives for Russian families who do this.
The exact number of Ukrainian children being sent to Russia is unclear. The Ukrainian government has officially identified 16,221 deported children as of early March.
Other estimates suggest the real number may be as high as 400,000.
Is the forced transfer of children an act of genocide?
International law dictates what types of crimes constitute an act of genocide. These acts are exhaustively listed in the Genocide Convention, adopted in 1948. The legal definition of genocide has not changed in 75 years, and is accepted by and applicable to all states worldwide.
Article II of the Genocide Convention lists the forcible transfer of children of a group to another group as one of the acts which may amount to genocide if it is done with the intent to destroy a national, ethnic, racial or religious group.
Ukrainian children would be protected under this legal definition as a national group. The evidence, to date, also suggests the forcible transfer of Ukrainian children to Russia for the purposes of potentially “integrating”, or indoctrinating, them into pro-Russian culture has taken place.
While definite proof of this specialised intent is required, the removal of children from their families, homes and culture suggests the purpose of Russia’s “evacuation” of children may be to erase Ukraine’s identity.
Whether or not Russia succeeds is irrelevant; the attempt to commit genocide is also a crime.
the Ukraine-based Regional Centre for Human Rights, in cooperation with the Lemkin Institute for Genocide Prevention.
The arrest warrants just issued by the International Criminal Court are the first related to alleged crimes committed during the Ukraine war. The judges of the responsible chambers agreed there were “reasonable grounds” to believe Putin and Lvova-Belova bore responsibility for the “unlawful deportation” of Ukrainian children.
Why evidence is crucial
Successful criminal proceedings would require proof that the alleged perpetrators have committed genocide beyond a reasonable doubt. Conclusive evidence to this end will be crucial; the court will not be satisfied with a lesser standard.
The types of evidence that could support a prosecution could include everything from witness testimonies to satellite imagery or video recordings. Any evidence must meet international standards and protocols for criminal prosecutions.
Importantly, prosecutors would also have to demonstrate that not only did the transfer of Ukrainian children take place, but also that the perpetrators acted with the intent to destroy Ukrainians as a national group.
This evidence, in particular, will be difficult to collect – but not impossible with modern technology. This allows for the collection of evidence in real time and the preservation of otherwise perishable evidence through, for example, social media.
Sipping his tea at one of the few cafes still open in the battered Ukrainian frontline city of Kherson, Volodymyr Sagaydak shows a video of the day four thugs from the Russian FSB security services arrived at the city’s main orphanage, where he is a staff member. Kherson was liberated in November after eight months of occupation, but is pounded every day and night by Russian artillery from the visible left bank across a narrow stretch of the Dnieper River.
We meet just a few days before the international criminal court issued warrants for the arrest of Russian president Vladimir Putin and Maria Lvova-Belova, his commissioner for children’s rights, for directly supervising the atrocity of kidnapping Ukrainian children for “adoption” and “re-education” in Russia.
The armed Russians who arrived at the orphanage – two masked in camouflage, two in black – were captured on CCTV; once inside, the camera shows one keeping guard outside the room where records are kept, while the others go inside to search through files. This was 4 June 2022, and the orphanage was by now empty – thanks to a mixture of courage and ingenuity by the staff. But that was not the end of the story.
Vladimir Putin and Maria Lvova-Belova, his commissioner for children’s rights, have been issued with warrants by the international criminal court.
Photograph: Sputnik/Reuters
This is more than just a military frontline: this orphanage is one of many stories in this outrage – among the many in Russia’s invasion of Ukraine – and now an unprecedented matter at international law, reaching to a head of state. According to the Ukrainian government, 16,226 children have been deported to Russia, of whom 10,513 have been located, and 308 have returned.
A report last October by Yale University Human Rights Lab, citing a vast range of open sources in Russia and Ukraine, traces many reasons for their abduction: including so-called “evacuation” from state institutions such as that at Kherson, transfer of children to camps – often in Crimea – sometimes with parental consent, whether coerced or not.
Interviewed by the Observer in Kyiv, the government ombudswoman for abducted children, Daria Gerasimchuk, adds further “scenarios”: “They kill the parents, for whatever reason, and kidnap the child. In other cases, they just grab the child directly from the family, perhaps to punish that family. Others go through the appallingly named ‘filtration camps’ – collected, indoctrinated and prepared for ‘adoption’ of the kind that commissioner Lvova-Belova has herself boasted.”
When Kherson was occupied in February 2022, says Sagaydak, “we had 52 children here – 17 actual orphans, and others here for different reasons – troubled families or some such.
“We knew the Russians were taking children, and had to hide them, like conspirators running a clandestine operation. Even some of the neighbours didn’t know they were here.”
The children were fed by runners, some of whom were arrested, and allowed into the courtyard for 15 minutes a day.
“Staff hoped for three months that our army would somehow evacuate them,” Sagaydak continues, “but when it became apparent this would not happen, we made arrangements for those with living relatives to be slipped out to grandparents, friends or neighbours.” This left the 17 actual orphans, who were spirited out and taken home by staff. One lady, a teacher, took three, aged three, seven and eight. “It took all we had,” says Sagaydak. “We had to falsify documents and stories to go through the Russian checkpoints.”
The silent playground of the regional children’s home in Kherson, southern Ukraine. Russian authorities have been accused of deporting Ukrainian children to Russia to raise as their own.
Photograph: Bernat Armangué/AP
It was tense, high drama: “Another woman here, aged only 30, took five, which could not possibly have been hers, so we made up a legend that she was helping her pregnant sister while she gave birth. We had to invent all the medical records, and worried when a driver turned up who was not the one we had planned. But when they were stopped, and the untrustworthy driver even told the true story, the kids managed to outwit the occupying soldiers.”
Our conversation is punctuated by shells landing in the city. Exhausted soldiers in heavy combat gear come into the cafe for a break and coffee.
When the Russians came to the orphanage, continues Sagaydak, “all the documentation leading to the children had been hidden”, though they took other materials. But then, on 15 July, the Russians returned, with 15 more children to be cared for, brought from the then ferocious frontlines between Kherson and Mikolaiv to the north. There were 11 boys and four girls, aged seven to 16, “with various mental disorders”, who were duly taken in.
Come 19 October, the Russians began preparing for their retreat from Kherson, “and the so-called evacuation of children. There was no way I could hide 15 children, under supervision.” Sagaydak protested: “If I don’t know their destination, I cannot let them go. They lied to me; they said they were going to Genichesk, on the Azov Sea. But when I asked the driver where he was going, he replied: ‘Crimea’.”
Some days later, contact was made with the director of a special school in occupied Novopetrivka, towards Mariupol, who had “accompanied the children for three days, and had traced them to the town of Anapa, in the Krasnodar region of Russia”. At that point, “volunteers” were called in to try to get the children returned.
The Ukrainians are understandably secretive about the networks helping to locate the children. Diplomatic sources suggest an ingenious involvement by some western government agencies, rival Ukrainian and Russian branches of the Orthodox church and evangelical missionaries and volunteers working astride the frontlines and Russo-Ukrainian border. So far, the International Committee of the Red Cross appears not to be directly involved. Gerasimchuk denies any cooperation with the ICRC.
Sagaydak inevitably declines to reveal who he dealt with, but says that the children were transferred to Tbilisi in Georgia, and “returned to Ukraine 10 days ago – they are back in Mikolaiv”. An undisclosed number of other children from Kherson, says Gerasimchuk, “are still being sought”.
Children on a train in Kyiv, Ukraine.
Photograph: Vadim Ghirdă/AP
In one case under investigation, the Observer learned that in Kherson, 28 children hidden in the crypt of a church were revealed by local collaborators and abducted.
Gerasimchuk’s office is in a former centre for deaf children surreally located behind a dinosaur theme park on the outskirts of Kyiv. There, she elaborates on the taking of children to supposed “camps for health and rest”, to which parents sometimes consent, whether coerced, or just to keep their children safe from relentless shelling. “They’re taken to occupied Crimea or Russia,” says Gerasimchuk, “sometimes passed from camp to camp, and the date for their return passes, with no sign of them being released.”
She adds: “We believe that some of them are not camps at all, but psychiatric institutions.”
As territory was ruthlessly occupied in February 2022, she explains, “The Ukrainian government was able to rapidly evacuate children from the east and south. But of course not everyone. This is an old story with Russia: all this was a chaotic situation, but they had a plan, to be executed – and they did so. We still do not know how many children were abducted from Donetsk and Luhansk during the occupations of 2014. ICC judges issue arrest warrant for Vladimir Putin over alleged war crimes
“The numbers are not final,” Gerasimchuk adds. “They are the best estimates we can make.” She plays a widely circulated video of a 12-year-old called Olesandr, abducted from Mariupol to a filtration camp to the east, who was told his mother did “not need” him, and that he would be placed with foster parents in Russia. For obvious reasons, she says, “the children themselves are not ready to talk to the press”. Now they are witnesses in an international criminal investigation.
After the warrant was issued, I returned to see Gerasimchuk, who said that she “had held one or two meetings” with representatives from the ICC, and that the government’s position was to push for the cases of abducted children to be “part of a case for genocide, though we are aware of the higher burden of proof”. The government and her agency were, she said, “working out how the configuration of co-operation with the ICC will proceed”.
It is notable that the ICC’s first warrants concern children and damage to civilian infrastructure, rather than massacres at, say, Bucha or Mariupol. Among the most effective independent experts investigating Russian war crimes, Nataliya Gumenyuk of the Public Interest Journalism Lab in Kyiv, says: “This is probably to do with establishing the chain of command. It’s harder to make the connections from this crime to that commander, up the ladder. But with children, there it is: ‘filtration’ camps – filtering who? The Russians have condemned themselves from their own mouths on this.” But on genocide, she cautions: “As any good lawyer knows, that is the high bar.”
Trump’s Faltering Cash Machine Can’t Rely on Facebook for a Fix
Bill Allison and Madeline Campbell, Bloomberg News
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(Bloomberg) -- Donald Trump’s back on Facebook, but the technology giant’s data changes are hobbling his ability to wring cash from its users as effectively as he did during his astonishing rise to the White House.
Trump, who has raised more money online than any other politician, no longer can directly target his tens of millions of Facebook followers with fundraising appeals, nor can he find users who have similar political views, making it harder and more expensive to prospect for contributors. While these changes affect every grassroots campaign that relies on Facebook to raise money — including progressives like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who in 2018 upset a veteran New York congressman — the former president needs to grow his army of small-dollar donors more than ever.
On Friday, Trump’s “I’M BACK” post on the platform was his first since 2021 and followed the lifting of his suspension in January. Facebook’s parent, Meta Platforms Inc., had barred him from his accounts for two years for encouraging his supporters to march on the US Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021. It's a sign that he's reaching for a familiar and once-potent tool as he plans his 2024 comeback.
But the terrain has changed, and the 2024 race will be the first time presidential campaigns will grapple with the loss of Facebook’s political data. Trump, who’s also facing a possible indictment by New York prosecutors over hush payments to actress Stormy Daniels, spent 91 cents to raise each dollar in the roughly six weeks after he declared his third presidential run, an unsustainable return on investment. And he needs to find millions more contributors who give $10 or $20 at a time, since many deep-pocketed GOP donors, including Interactive Brokers Group Inc. founder Thomas Peterffy and Blackstone’s Steve Schwarzman, have said they won’t support him this time.
Other once-loyal donors, like billionaire Miriam Adelson, said they plan to sit out the nomination battle, where Trump faces several likely challengers, including Florida Governor Ron DeSantis as well as his former vice president, Mike Pence, who enjoy the support of wealthy benefactors.
The ad-targeting options, which first began to disappear in January 2022, were gone by April. Already as a result of the changes, partisan ad spending on Facebook has plummeted, a Bloomberg News analysis of NYU Ad Observatory data shows. Spending by incumbent House candidates decreased by 40% in 2022 from 2020, and there was less political ad spending on Facebook at the start of this year than any other on record.
“Campaigns and the industry associated with it got very dependent on Facebook ads,” said Eric Wilson, a Republican digital strategist. “Those times are gone, just like 0% interest rates.”
The elimination of these options to locate ideal targets is particularly stinging for Trump, who since 2015 has raised more than $1.2 billion from small-dollar donors, much of it with the help of the social media platform. Many of those donors give only once, and of those who give multiple times, more than half stop giving within 90 days of their first contribution, a Bloomberg analysis of Federal Election Commission data shows.The Trump campaign didn’t comment for this article.
The predicament for candidates underscores the immense power Facebook — which 52% of US voters log into daily— can wield through the trove of data it collects on its users and how it chooses to share it. Because political ad revenue makes up only a tiny fraction of Facebook’s overall take, campaigns aren’t a key market segment for the tech giant.
“They don’t react to the small, almost granular needs of any kind of campaign, and especially a grassroots campaign,” said Chris Nolan, founder of Spot-On, a bipartisan ad-buying firm.
A spokesman for Meta Platforms Inc. declined to comment. In November 2021, a company blog post announced the changes, citing user expectations as well as concerns raised by civil rights experts, policymakers and others on “preventing advertisers from abusing the targeting options we make available.”
A win for privacy advocates is raising the costs for those hoping to be the next Ocasio-Cortez, who built a grassroots movement online and trounced a 10-term member of the Democratic leadership. In her 2018 primary challenge, Ocasio-Cortez raised more than $568,000 while spending just $76,750 on Facebook ads— her only fundraising expenditure, an analysis of federal records shows. It cost her less than 14 cents to raise a dollar.
The Squad Victory Fund, which frequently runs ads on Facebook and raises money for Ocasio-Cortez and her progressive colleagues, saw its fundraising cost increase by a third, to 50 cents a dollar in 2022 from 2020. Representatives for the fund didn’t return a request for comment, and Ocasio-Cortez’s campaign declined to comment.The loss of political targeting information will make it harder for political campaigns, including Trump's, to raise money, said a person familiar with the former president's fundraising operation.
Trump’s campaign has been trying out alternatives such as YouTube and even Snapchat, the app known for disappearing photo messages, federal records show. The campaign is also focusing more on email and text messages as it retools its voter outreach, said the person close to the campaign, who asked not to be named when discussing internal matters.
Before the Facebook changes, campaigners could target users based on their interactions with political and social issues, and then show them ads in line with their leanings, digital fundraisers said. And they could reach people who were more politically engaged than the average Facebook user. They could also direct appeals to, say, supporters of the National Rifle Association, or of Planned Parenthood. It’s why campaigns spent $885 million on the platform in 2020.
Having lost access to political data, campaigns can only tap less pertinent metrics on users, such as age, location, gender and general interests, fundraisers said. But most are unlikely to be sufficiently passionate about politics to donate to any candidate.
With targeting now more akin to broadcast television ads, prospecting for donors on Facebook is much less efficient, said Kari Chisholm, founder and president of Mandate Media, a Democratic online advertising and fundraising firm.
“We’re wasting our money on people who don’t care about politics and don’t want to see these ads,” Chisholm said.
Other factors have contributed to the declining effectiveness of finding donors on Facebook, digital ad buyers said. The company imposed a temporary ban on almost all political advertising in the aftermath of the 2020 election. That was later extended to March 2021 following the Jan. 6 attack on the US Capitol by Trump supporters whipped up by his false claims of election fraud. And in the wake of the 2016 election, Facebook, which was accused of letting disinformation foment on its platform, downplayed political posts in users’ timelines.
On Friday, Trump tried to rekindle the feelings of that campaign, when Facebook provided most of the $250 million he raised online. In the 12-second video he posted on the platform from his 2016 election night victory speech, he said, "Sorry to keep you waiting, complicated business.”
