Sulli Deals: Police arrest man for making app to auction Muslim women

"Sulli" is a derogatory Hindi slang term right-wing Hindu trolls use for Muslim women, and "bulli" is also pejorative.

Mon, January 10, 2022

Aumkareshwar Thakur was arrested in Madhya Pradesh state

Police in India have arrested a man suspected of creating an app that put up photos of more than 80 Muslim women for "sale" online last year.

The open source app - Sulli Deals - had been hosted on web platform GitHub in July 2021.

The 25-year-old was arrested days after a similar app - Bulli Bai - uploaded photos of more than 100 Muslim women.


Four students, including a 21-year-old student who allegedly created the second app, were arrested.


Fourth man held over app to auction Muslim women

In both cases, there was no actual sale, but the purpose was to degrade and humiliate Muslim women, many of whom have been outspoken about the rising tide of Hindu nationalism under Prime Minister Narendra Modi.

"Sulli" is a derogatory Hindi slang term right-wing Hindu trolls use for Muslim women, and "bulli" is also pejorative.

After the Bulli Bai app generated outrage online, one of the women who had filed a police complaint in July alleged that police in the capital Delhi had not taken any action yet.

On Sunday, police arrested Aumkareshwar Thakur from Indore city in the central state of Madhya Pradesh.

Police told BBC Marathi that Mr Thakur's name came up while Neeraj Bishnoi, the alleged creator of the Bulli Bai app, was being questioned.

Mr Thakur's devices are being analysed, KPS Malhotra, the deputy commissioner of Delhi Police's cyber crime team, told the BBC.

The Sulli Deals app had taken publicly available pictures of women and created profiles, describing the women as "deals of the day".


'I was put on sale online because I’m Muslim'

Those featured on the app were all vocal Muslims, including journalists, activists, artists or researchers.

One of the women, a commercial pilot, told the BBC in July that she felt "chills" go down her spine when she heard about the app.

The Bulli Bai app also generated similar reactions from the women whose photos were uploaded without their permission - this included several journalists, a Bollywood actor and the 65-year-old mother of a disappeared Indian student.

A 2018 Amnesty International report on online harassment in India showed that the more vocal a woman was, the more likely she was to be targeted - the scale of this increased for women from religious minorities and disadvantaged castes.

Critics say trolling against Muslim women has worsened in recent years in India's polarised political climate.

USA

Trauma lingers for FCPS students who experienced repeated seclusion and restraint

IS TORTURE

Jillian Atelsek, 
The Frederick News-Post, Md.
Sat, January 8, 2022, 

Jan. 8—It was the first day of third grade, and James had been in school for 19 minutes.

By 9:20 a.m., the 8-year-old was locked in a padded, closet-sized room. He'd remain there, alone, for nearly three hours.

Though Maryland law is clear that no child may be kept in seclusion for more than 30 minutes, Frederick County Public Schools seemed to have found a loophole. In their logbook, staff recorded James' seclusion time that day in half-hour chunks, according to discipline records provided by his mother and examined by The Frederick News-Post: 9:20 to 9:50. Then 9:51 to 10:21. Then 10:22 to 10:52. On and on until 12:08 p.m.

"From what he explained, sometimes they would pull him out and then shove him back in," said James' mom, Beth. "Sometimes they would open the door and then just close it again."

The News-Post is identifying James and Beth by pseudonyms and omitting the name of the school James attended to protect the child's privacy.

James has a learning disability and a nervous system disorder that can cause him to act out in class. Beth acknowledged he could be a handful — talking during lessons, kicking his feet into his aide's. By that first day of third grade, he was no stranger to seclusion. He'd return there on the second day. And the third. And the fourth.

By the time Beth pulled him from the school just a few weeks later, James had been secluded more than 80 times — all between April of his second-grade year and October of his third. Often, the incidents lasted far more than 30 minutes.

James was traumatized, Beth said. Since his first seclusion, he'd become violent and prone to meltdowns in a way she'd never seen. And the wounds were lasting: Years later, James still struggles to make it through a school day without a flashback or a meltdown. As it came time for him to start middle school — new teachers, new classrooms, new rules — he was terrified of all the unknowns.

"I can remember sitting with him as he's rocking back and forth screaming," Beth said. "And he said, 'How do I know they're not going to hurt me?'"

----

In October 2020, the U.S. Department of Justice informed FCPS it was investigating the district's use of seclusion and restraint. The practices — during which staff physically immobilize students and lock them into empty rooms — are legal when they're used to protect against "imminent, serious physical harm."

But FCPS regularly turned to seclusion and restraint in non-emergency situations, particularly when it came to students with disabilities, the DOJ found. State data shows FCPS led the state by a wide margin in its use of seclusion and restraint between 2017 and 2019.

In the weeks since the DOJ investigation was announced Dec. 1, the News-Post spoke to more than a dozen people about the potentially devastating impact of these practices, including parents, students, staff members, advocates and experts.

Across Frederick County, kids who have experienced repeated restraints and seclusions are unquestionably changed, their parents said: They're angrier, sadder and more afraid.

The district maintains it was aware of the problem before the federal government stepped in, and that it's made significant strides in addressing it since. In a statement, FCPS spokesperson Eric Louérs-Phillips said the system was "dedicated to serving the whole child; academically, socially and emotionally." He declined to address the specifics of James' case or those of any other student.

James' was one of four specific situations the DOJ examined as part of its review, said Beth's attorney, Ashley VanCleef. What happened to him wasn't a one-off incident, she said.

VanCleef, who runs a Frederick-based practice representing families in special education lawsuits, has worked with a "large number" of other Frederick County parents who have levied complaints regarding the use of restraint and seclusion against their children in recent years, she said. Typically, she'd end up in mediation sessions between the family and the district. Sometimes, she'd file claims with the state education department.

As a former special education teacher who has worked for the Texas and Oklahoma state education departments, VanCleef is familiar with the difficult position educators can find themselves in when a child is out of control. But in Frederick County, she believes the laws governing seclusion and restraint were too often bent or outright broken. Children were subjected to the practices for more than the legally allowable time, she said, and for behaviors that didn't meet the necessary threshold.

"We're using it in times where a kid is throwing their shoe or throwing their crayons," she said. "That's not a risk of serious bodily injury."

Across these most severe cases, VanCleef said, the common thread is lasting psychological damage.

Under the terms of a settlement with the DOJ, FCPS must offer three months of weekly therapy sessions to every student it secluded or restrained between the fall of 2017 and the spring of 2021.

"I can tell you right now," VanCleef said, "it's not going to be enough."

'A terrible nightmare'

Before 2018, Zeke Boddicker's eyes would be bright in the mornings. He'd eat his breakfast happily. Waiting for the bus, he'd make singsong noises.

But after he started sixth grade, his mom, Kristi Kimmel, said something changed. Zeke, who is autistic and nonverbal, started to self-abuse — a behavior he'd never shown before. He'd pinch his own arms, bite his hands and punch his sides and legs until they were painted with bruises.

His distress began as the school bus pulled up, Kimmel recalled, and resumed when he arrived home in the afternoons.

"Anytime we would even get his backpack," Kimmel said, "he would start hitting himself."

That year, Zeke was newly enrolled in Rock Creek School, FCPS's school for students with severe disabilities. When Kimmel toured the building, staff told her they hadn't used the seclusion room in two years, she recalled.

On Dec. 29, 2021, FCPS sent Kimmel the final tally. Her son was secluded 206 times and restrained 71 times in less than one school year.

Like Beth, Kimmel was interviewed by DOJ investigators. When she saw the government's findings, she felt validated in her belief that Zeke's self-abuse was a stress response related to his seclusions — not a result of the transition to a new school or a struggle with puberty, as some staff had suggested.

Seclusion and restraint can hurt children, said Ross Greene, a clinical child psychologist who taught at Harvard Medical School for more than 20 years and wrote four books on behavioral challenges in kids.

The practices are especially harmful because they happen at the hands of adults whom children have been taught to trust. Some students will lose trust in authority figures altogether, Greene said, or lose their desire to attend school. Others experience residual anguish long after the ordeal ends.

"The kids I've worked with who were most affected by it are still affected by it, even though no one's laid hands on them three or four years later," said Greene, who now runs a nonprofit called Lives in the Balance and travels to schools, psychiatry units and detention facilities around the world to promote alternative disciplinary approaches. "A lot of people would say that meets the diagnostic criteria for post traumatic stress disorder."

And the methods rarely improve behavior, Greene said. Sometimes, they make it worse.

Cole Longstaff, who was in the Pyramid program at Lewistown Elementary, recalled that staff would restrain or seclude a student in his class nearly every day. You could get locked away for arguing with a classmate or refusing to come in from recess, he said. The seclusion room wasn't far from the classroom, and he could hear secluded students' screams from his desk.

Lewistown is one of two elementary schools in the county that hosts the Pyramid program, which serves students with significant social and emotional needs.

The students hated seclusion, Cole said. The threat of it would immediately set them off.

"It would just make us angrier," he said.

In a letter sent to FCPS on the day they announced the settlement, DOJ officials wrote the district's use of restraint and seclusion "escalated students' behaviors and often heightened their distress."

For Sophia Warfield, whose son Shadin Goodin is autistic, that rang true. During one semester of his second-grade year at Lewistown Elementary School, Shadin was restrained 42 times and secluded six times, Warfield said.

Shadin's grandparents were the first to raise the alarm about the effects it was having on the little boy, Warfield said. "Something's not right," they'd tell her. Choking up at the memory, Warfield said she'd watch Shadin withdraw in the mornings as it came time to board the bus. Then, she'd watch him fall apart when he got home.

"It was just a terrible nightmare," Warfield said. "You'd say, 'Well, how was school today?' And he would just curl himself up in a ball and just cry."

Queen Wheeler saw similar changes in her son, Sulaiman. He began experiencing restraint around 2014, she said. He was a kindergartener at Spring Ridge Elementary then.

After a while, Wheeler could tell that her son's confidence was shot.

"He would have meltdowns at home a lot. He would ask me if he was ugly. He would ask me if he was dumb," Wheeler remembered. "Whenever I would try to compliment him, or tell him that I loved him, that he was sweet, that he was handsome, he would cry."

Shadin and Sulaiman checked a series of boxes that put them at risk for repeated seclusions and restraints: Black, autistic boys in elementary school experience those practices at a rate much higher than their peers. The trend is borne out in FCPS data and nationwide.

The DOJ found FCPS performed 7,253 seclusions and restraints on 125 students during the two and a half school years it examined the school system. Eighty-nine percent of the reported seclusions and restraints took place at three schools: Rock Creek, Lewistown and Spring Ridge.

Spring Ridge and Lewistown were the only elementary schools in FCPS to host the Pyramid program at the time.

Parents of kids like Zeke, James and others recognize the challenges their children pose to educators. Zeke, unable to speak, would pinch his aides' arms as a way to get their attention. It could be painful, Kimmel said.

James could be disrespectful, rambunctious, off-task. In incident reports, his teachers wrote that he would hit and kick them — but his mother is adamant that he was never violent before the pattern of seclusion began.

"I'm not going to pretend that he was the easiest kid in the world to educate," Beth, his mom, said. "I'm not going to pretend like, 'Oh, he was a model perfect student.' But he wasn't aggressive."

James was repeatedly kept in the seclusion room long after teachers recorded on their incident forms that he was entirely calm. He grew accustomed to eating lunch there, Beth said. That was documented on the forms, too. If he was regulated enough to sit in the corner and eat his cheeseburger, Beth wondered, why on Earth wouldn't they let him out?

When the issues started piling up, several parents told the News-Post, many felt intimidated by the complexities of a large school system. They didn't know where to start or who to turn to. And when they did find an avenue through which they could share their concerns, many said, they were made to feel that their children were just too difficult.

"They fought me. They made me feel like I didn't know what I was talking about," Wheeler said. "They were the professionals, and I was just his mother."

'All about training'

In January 2019, Kimmel approached her son's teachers. She was troubled by the steady stream of notes she had been receiving from the school saying Zeke was restrained or secluded.

FCPS officials said they'd send a behavioral specialist to observe Zeke for a day at Rock Creek. The specialist would make suggestions. They would find ways Zeke could do better.

After the visit, in an email to Zeke's teachers obtained by the News-Post, the specialist wrote: "It wasn't clear to me why he was brought [to seclusion] each time or how it was decided he was calm."

While seclusion and restraint are, on paper, governed by strict rules, experts say school staff often fall into a pattern of knee-jerk reactions and arbitrary decision-making — not out of incompetence or ill will toward their students, but out of a lack adequate training and resources.

That can lead to an overreliance on the heavy-handed tactics and can harm children and teachers alike.

Teachers want students to feel safe in the classrooms, said Missy Dirks, president of the Frederick County Teachers Association. They don't relish using seclusion or restraint. But special education staffers deserve to feel safe too, she said, which can be a challenge. Dirks hears about teachers being injured on the job "pretty consistently," she said.

Wendy Campbell, who recently retired after 25 years as a special education teacher for FCPS, recalled being hit, kicked, bitten and even urinated on. Sometimes, she said, she could tell that restraint or seclusion in these instances only further escalated a student's behavior. She wasn't sure what other options there were, and she felt her kids could have benefited from mental health support that she wasn't equipped to provide.

"It's emotionally draining, because you want to help the child," Campbell said. "It's very stressful."

As for the DOJ settlement, there's one thing Beth thought was missing: Therapy for teachers like Campbell.

"I don't think it comes from a place of malice," Greene said of seclusion and restraint. "I think this is all about mindset, and this is all about training."

While the challenges and dangers facing special education workers are real, the DOJ found FCPS used seclusion and restraint to address "noncompliant behavior that it should have anticipated and managed as part of educating students with emotional and behavioral disabilities."

Former superintendent Terry Alban, who led the district for more than a decade, left her position shortly after the investigation was announced. Board of Education members declined to provide a reason for the separation.

Speaking publicly about the issue for the first time Thursday, FCPS interim superintendent Mike Markoe acknowledged that teachers may have misunderstood the definition of "imminent serious physical harm" — the legal threshold a behavior must meet to warrant seclusion or restraint. It's not synonymous with a safety concern.

"Some interpretation may be a student's spitting, kicking, punching," Markoe said. "But by the pure definition of it, it means a life or death situation."

VanCleef, Beth's lawyer, said she frequently met with Frederick County parents whose kids were restrained or secluded for behaviors like those Markoe described.

Sometimes, her efforts would lead to some form of relief — a change in an Individualized Education Plan here, a voucher for counseling sessions there. But VanCleef didn't have the power to force what she felt was needed most: a paradigm shift in the district's approach to discipline.

"I feel like I empty the ocean a teaspoon at a time," VanCleef said. "It's very difficult to bring about that systemic change."

Brad Young, president of the Frederick County Board of Education, said the district's biggest hurdle in bringing about any sort of major change is funding.

According to an FCPS analysis, the district had the second-lowest per-pupil expenditures of any system in Maryland for the 2017-18 school year. In 2018-19, it ranked last, despite having a median income well above the state average. The district far surpassed all other counties for its number of restraint and seclusion incidents in both of those years.

"There's an absolute connection," Young said.

Funding formulas are complex, Young acknowledged, and there isn't a quick or simple answer for the district's problems. One factor, he said, was the residual effect of years of bare-minimum contributions from the previous county government. He's still trying to dig the system out of that hole. Every year, almost all of FCPS' new money goes toward staff salaries, Young said, and its staff are still among the lowest-paid in the state.

Being strapped for cash means the district is limited in the new initiatives it can pursue, Young added. He can't fund the amount of new mental health and counseling positions he'd like to see. Budgetary restrictions forced the board to cut central office positions that may have kept a closer eye on things like seclusion and restraint, he said.

In the wake of the DOJ report, Young said, teachers are "demoralized." He defended them resolutely: They were doing their jobs, he said, and now, "people think they're child abusers."

"When you are trying to get by on limited resources," Young said, "it's going to have consequences."

Moving forward

One week after news of the DOJ investigation broke, Angie Pisano sat weeping in the back of a school board meeting.

A few days before, Pisano's son, Thomas, had texted the couple a link to the News-Post story about FCPS's settlement with the DOJ. They knew the high school junior was trying to tell them something, and at their probing questions, he opened up.

During his time in the Pyramid program at Lewistown Elementary beginning in 2014, Pisano learned, her son was restrained and secluded repeatedly. She doesn't know how many times — she said the school never notified her — and Thomas can't say, either.

"I thought it was only for emergencies," Pisano said, looking at her son, who is now 16, on a recent afternoon. "But you said it felt like abuse."

Thomas nodded. His mother's eyes swam with tears.

Now that the DOJ's review is over and its findings have been widely publicized, schools are beginning the messy work of change, figuring out how to institute the myriad changes required by the settlement.

But as the district moves forward, some families, like the Pisanos, are just starting to understand the impact of what happened years ago.

Thomas and his family are beginning the messy work of healing.

Pisano is wracked with guilt, replaying the same painful thoughts on a loop in her mind. She wonders how she didn't know. She tells herself she should have.

She reflects now on the day when Thomas' teachers at Brunswick Elementary School called the police on him. That was in first grade, not long after he'd received his autism diagnosis.

She remembers the many times, before and after that, when she was called to the school to find his teachers at a loss, unsure what to do with the little boy who was crying and shouting and hiding under a table. She couldn't hold a job that year because she had to be on call for him. She thought the Pyramid program and the staff at Lewistown would make things better.

Now, she thinks about other kids, Pyramid classmates of Thomas' who transferred somewhere along the way. She wonders if they could communicate more clearly than her son could. Did they tell their parents what was happening? Is that why they changed schools?

"I'm supposed to protect him," Pisano said, her shoulders shaking. "That's my job."

"Do you feel angry?" she asked Thomas shortly after. "Or do you just feel hurt?"

"Both," he replied.

Thomas has a therapist at school now, someone his mom describes as "wonderful." It helps to talk about the seclusions and restraints with her and with his family, he said. The kids didn't really talk about it back then, even though — to the best of his recollection — someone was locked away almost every day.

Cole, the other former Lewistown student, remembered it the same way. Reading the word "seclusion" in recent news reports unlocked memories he'd buried. Even back when it was happening to him and to his peers, he tried not to think about it.

"It was just not really spoken about," he said. "It was just a thing that existed."

Thomas and Cole are both still enrolled in FCPS schools. Zeke, Shadin and Sulaiman have all left the district, either for private schools or at-home instruction. They're all doing much better, their mothers told the News-Post. Zeke's self-abuse has stopped. The boys no longer cry when it's time to get ready for school.

James is still struggling. He's still plagued by flashbacks, though they're not as frequent. His aggression has largely subsided. But to him, the classroom is still a terrifying place. He rides a bus for an hour each way to get to his new school.

While he excelled during the pandemic when he was able to avoid a physical school building, that's over now. And three years out from his last seclusion, each day he walks through the doors marks the beginning of a battle.

James' teachers celebrated a milestone moment for him on a recent afternoon. The occasion? He was able to stomach 25 whole minutes in his classroom.

Beth smiles when you ask about her son. She tells you things about him that have nothing to do with the dozens of hours he spent locked in a seclusion room as an 8-year-old — confused and alone and screaming to be let out — or with the resulting wounds he's still trying to heal.

He's brilliant, she says proudly. He's hilarious. He's a fiercely loyal friend, a lover of animals and a dedicated member of local science clubs. In his free time, the 12-year-old peruses college biology textbooks.

Stories flow out of Beth in waves, punctuated with laughter. James is always asking questions, she said, his curiosity remaining steadfast despite his fear of the classroom.

"So," he piped up once during a car ride with his mom, "how much of ancient Egyptian culture do you think medieval Europeans were aware of?"

This is the boy Beth wishes the school district had seen more clearly. Maybe then, she says, things would have been different.

"Frederick County has done a really good job of dehumanizing our children," Beth said. Her voice broke with emotion, and she paused. "Our children are valid and important.

"They're people."

Follow Jillian Atelsek on Twitter: @jillian_atelsek

I WEAR A PENTAGRAM

Christian nurse harassed by hospital for years over cross necklace wins lawsuit


Jon Brown
Sun, January 9, 2022

The Employment Tribunal in the United Kingdom ruled in favor last week of a Christian nurse who said she was forced into resigning from her job at a London hospital after being harassed over her cross necklace for years.

Mary Onuoha took legal action against Croydon Health Services NHS Trust after resigning in June 2020 following years of being targeted for wearing a small cross necklace that she was told posed "a health and safety risk."

After she refused to stop wearing her necklace, NHS management offered her a compromise by which she could wear it on a longer chain to keep the cross out of sight, which she also refused.

Onuoha, who grew up in Nigeria and worked for Croydon University Hospital for nearly 20 years after immigrating to the U.K. in 1988, said in a statement that the controversy over her necklace "has always been an attack on my faith."

"My cross has been with me for 40 years. It is part of me, and my faith, and it has never caused anyone any harm. Patients often say to me: ‘I really like your cross’, they always respond to it in a positive way and that gives me joy and makes me feel happy. I am proud to wear it as I know God loves me so much and went through this pain for me," she continued.

"From a young age I naturally always wanted to care for people – it was in my blood. All I have ever wanted is to be a nurse and to be true to my faith. I am a strong woman, but I have been treated like a criminal. I love my job, but I am not prepared to compromise my faith for it, and neither should other Christian NHS staff in this country," she also said.

In its ruling last Wednesday, the tribunal dismissed the hospital's claim about the health risk and mentioned how other employees are allowed to wear hijabs and jewelry.

"There is no evidence to show that the infection risk they posed was lower than the Cross-Necklace," the tribunal said. "There is no cogent explanation as to why these items are permitted but a fine necklace with a small pendant of religious devotional significance is not."

Onuoha was represented by the Christian Legal Centre, which praised the ruling in a statement.

"We are delighted that the Tribunal have ruled in Mary’s favor and delivered justice in this case," said Andrea Williams, who is chief executive of the Christian Legal Centre.

"From the beginning this case has been about the high-handed attack from the NHS bureaucracy on the right of a devoted and industrious nurse to wear a cross — the worldwide, recognized and cherished symbol of the Christian faith. It is very uplifting to see the Tribunal acknowledge this truth."

Onuoha's financial compensation will be decided at a later hearing.

Lithuania pays U.S. terror suspect $113,000 for enduring CIA agents' torture

By UPI Staff

It's been reported that some of the torture techniques the CIA used against Zubaydah included waterboarding, being confined in a box, being kept awake and having his head banged against a wall. He eventually lost an eye while in U.S. custody.

Photo by Michael R. Holzworth/U.S. Air Force/UPI | License Photo

Jan. 10 (UPI) -- The government in Lithuania has paid more than $100,000 in compensation to a Saudi terror suspect who officials say was held and tortured by the CIA in the Baltic country without ever facing formal charges.

The suspect, Abu Zubaydah, was first arrested by U.S. authorities a few months after the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks and was ultimately held at the prison in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, for more than 20 years without being charged. He remains imprisoned at the U.S. facility in Cuba.

During some of his incarceration, officials say Zubaydah was held and tortured at a secret site outside the Lithuanian capital Vilnius -- code-named "Violet" -- in 2005 and 2006.

A demonstrator is seen at a rally against torture and unlawful detentions at the U.S. detention facility in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. File Photo by Roger L. Wollenberg/UPI

Monday, the Lithuanian government authorized the payment of $113,000 to Zubaydah for the torture sessions at the Violet site.

Three years ago, the European Court of Human Rights ruled that Lithuania violated the European Convention on Human Rights by allowing the CIA to torture Zubaydah.

It's been reported that some of the torture techniques the CIA used against Zubaydah included waterboarding, being confined in a box, being kept awake and having his head banged against a wall. He eventually lost an eye while in U.S. custody.

Zubaydah, however, will not have access to the money -- as he's still being held at Guantanamo Bay and his assets have been frozen by the U.S. government.

U.S. officials initially accused Zubaydah of being involved in the Sept. 11 terrorist plot, but no evidence has ever been produced supporting that charge, or that he was ever a member of al Qaida. He is often referred to as the "forever prisoner."

Can science cheat death?

Achieving immortality or finding the veritable elixir of life can seem like something out of a fantasy novel. While medical research is prolonging health and lifespans, some billionaires in Silicon Valley are looking to wage a war against death itself. From predictive medicine to cell rejuvenation and cryogenics, can science cheat death?

 FRANCE 24's Julia Sieger tells us more.

Weather disaster deaths hit 10-year high in mainland US




Nearly 700 people died due to natural disasters in the contiguous United States in 2021 -- the most since 2011, said a federal weather agency in a report released Monday.

The year "was marked by extremes across the US, including exceptional warmth, devastating severe weather and the second-highest number of billion-dollar weather and climate disasters on record," said the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA).

The death toll for weather-related disasters in the 48 mainland states plus the District of Columbia totaled 688, more than twice 2020's tally of 262, the agency said.

Human activity has caused life-threatening climate change resulting in more severe weather events across the globe.

Twenty separate weather incidents cost the country $1 billion or more, the second-most billion-dollar events recorded in a calendar year behind 2020, which saw 22, the agency said.

The costly disasters included four hurricanes, three tornados, two floods, a cold wave, and western wildfires, droughts, and heat waves.

Rachel Cleetus, policy director and lead economist for the Climate and Energy Program at the Union of Concerned Scientists, called the statistics "sobering."

"The devastating toll and trauma imposed by extreme weather and climate disasters have, and continue to, hit some people harder than others with communities of color, low-income communities, and communities that have endured multiple disasters often bearing the brunt of its impacts," she said.

A bitter cold snap left millions of Americans without electricity in February, when a deadly winter storm system held its grip across huge swathes of the United States, even pushing as far south as Mexico.

Record-low temperatures wracked places ill-prepared for such conditions, overwhelming local utility companies and infuriating residents left to huddle under coats and blankets and fend for themselves. More than 20 storm-related deaths were registered.

Hurricane Ida struck the US Gulf Coast as a Category 4 hurricane in late August, bringing major flooding and knocking out power to large parts of the heavily populated region.

The final blast of the storm killed at least 47 people in the US Northeast as it turned streets into raging rivers, inundated basements and shut down the New York subway.

NOAA reported that 2021 ranked as the fourth-warmest year in a 127-year period of record, with average temperatures of 54.5 degrees Fahrenheit (12.5 degrees Celsius) in the contiguous US.

December 2021 was the warmest on record -- 6.7F above average.

The 2021 average temperature was 2.5F higher than the 20th century average.

US northeastern states Maine and New Hampshire had their second-warmest year on record, and 19 more experienced a top-five warmest year.

Alaska, however, saw a 0.4 degree drop in average yearly temperature and its coldest year since 2012.

cs/ia

 2022-01-04 

3:06 Risks of socio-economic disorganization due to Omicron variant -

 Dr. ARTHUR MINSAT

Qatari activist resurfaces on social media after speculation about her safety

A Qatari women's activist who had said she faced threats from her family and sought asylum in Britain has resurfaced on social media, four months after she disappeared from public view.

© Screen capture from Twitter

Noof al-Maadeed, who is in her early 20s, posted videos from an unknown location and on a new Twitter account, giving assurances she was safe and well.

"Noof is here. Noof is alive. Noof isn't dead," she said in one video, smiling and wearing a black hijab.

"I'm fine, I'm healthy and I'm safe. This video is to reassure everyone who showed their support," she added in another post, without explaining her absence.

The hashtag #WhereIsNoof started circulating after Maadeed stopped posting in October, following her return to Qatar after abandoning a bid for asylum in Britain.

Maadeed, who has criticised the treatment of women in her conservative Muslim homeland, had issued a series of tweets claiming her family tried to harm her.

Her case comes at a time of heightened focus on human rights in the gas-rich Gulf country, a year before it hosts football's World Cup.

Maadeed said she opened a new Twitter account because she had lost her password for the old one, which had more than 16,000 followers.

In one tweet, she posted a picture of balloons and birthday cakes – one of which said "Welcome home" – and thanked Qatar's social affairs and family minister, Mariam al-Misnad.

"I hope that this is a start of Qatari authorities taking steps to ensure that she can live an independent and free life," said Rothna Begum, senior women's rights researcher for Human Rights Watch.

"We are calling on the authorities to support her decisions about her safety and care, and respecting her freedom of association and expression."

Maadeed has used her social media accounts to denounce Qatar's guardianship laws, which require adult women to obtain male approval for everyday activities.

(AFP)

This will be South Sudan’s hungriest year ever, experts say

By SAM MEDNICK and DENG MACHO

1 of 12

Nyayiar Kuol holds her severely malnourished 1-year-old daughter Chuoder Wal in a hospital run by Medicines Sans Frontieres (Doctors Without Borders) in Old Fangak in Jonglei state, South Sudan Tuesday, Dec. 28, 2021. Aid groups say more people than ever in the country will face hunger this year, because of the worst floods in 60 years as well as conflict and the sluggish implementation of the peace agreement that has denied much of the country basic services. (AP Photo/Sam Mednick)


OLD FANGAK, South Sudan (AP) — Nyayiar Kuol cradled her severely malnourished 1-year-old daughter as they traveled for 16 hours on a crowded barge to the nearest hospital to their home in rural South Sudan. For months she had been feeding her four children just once a day, unable to cultivate because of disastrous flooding and without enough food assistance from the government or aid groups. She worries her daughter might die.

“I don’t want to think about what could happen,” she said.

Seated on her hospital bed in Old Fangak town in hard-hit Jonglei state, the 36-year-old Kuol tried to calm her daughter while blaming the government for not doing more. Nearly two years have passed since South Sudan formed a coalition government as part of a fragile peace deal to end a five-year civil war that plunged pockets of the country into famine, and yet Kuol said nothing has changed.

“If this country was really at peace, there wouldn’t be hunger like there is now,” she said.

More people will face hunger this year in South Sudan than ever, said aid groups. That’s because of the worst floods in 60 years, as well as conflict and the sluggish implementation of the peace agreement that has denied much of the country basic services.

“2021 was the worst year since independence in the 10 years of the life of this country and 2022 will be worse. Food insecurity is at horrific levels,” said Matthew Hollingworth, country representative for the World Food Program in South Sudan.

While the latest food security report by aid groups and the government has yet to be released, several aid officials familiar with the situation said preliminary data show that nearly 8.5 million people — out of the country’s 12 million — will face severe hunger, an 8% increase from last year. The officials spoke on condition of anonymity because they weren’t authorized to speak to the media.

Aid officials say worst affected Fangak county is now as bad as Pibor county was this time last year, when global food security experts said some 30,000 Pibor residents were likely in famine.

During trips to three South Sudan states in December, some civilians and government officials expressed concern to The Associated Press that people were beginning to starve to death.

In October, a mother and her child died in Pulpham village because they didn’t have food, said Jeremiah Gatmai, the humanitarian representative for the government in Old Fangak.

Nearly 1 million people across South Sudan have been affected by the floods, according to the United Nations, which last year had to reduce food aid by half in most places because of funding constraints, affecting some 3 million people.

Two years of floods have prevented people from farming and killed more than 250,000 livestock in Jonglei state alone, according to the U.N. Food and Agriculture Organization.

Some displaced families in Old Fangak said ground-up water lilies were their only daily meal. “We eat once a day in the morning and then sleep without food,” said Nyaluak Chuol. The 20-year-old like some others lost her fishing net in the floods. When she has enough money, she pays a boy to fish for her.

Many residents from Jonglei have fled to neighboring states for food and shelter but have found little respite. In Malakal town, some 3,000 displaced people were crammed into abandoned buildings or sheltered under trees with nothing to eat.

“We’re eating leaves and look like skeletons,” Tut Jaknyang told the AP. The 60-year-old has received food assistance just once since fleeing floods in Jonglei in July, he said. He and others said a sack of donated rice had to be shared among 20 people.

North of Malakal in the town of Wau Shilluk, health workers said the number of malnourished children coming into the medical center rose from 10 between January and July to 26 between August and December, according to Christina Dak, a health worker with the International Medical Corps.

While flooding is the main driver of hunger, it’s compounded by government deadlock as the country’s two main political parties try to share power.

Local officials in Malakal aligned with the opposition accused members of longtime President Salva Kiir’s party of undermining them by blocking political appointees and not letting them fire corrupt staff, making it hard to govern and provide services.

“We’re not working as one team. No one’s looking out for the people,” said Byinj Erngst, the health minister in Upper Nile state.

Adding to the political tensions is ongoing fighting between government and opposition-aligned militias in the country’s breadbasket in the southwest.

Government spokesman Michael Makuei said some relief such as medical services continues but there is only so much help that national authorities can give. “The floods have destroyed crops, what can the government do in that case?” he said.

Observers’ frustration is growing. In a speech to the U.N. Security Council in December, the head of the U.N. mission in South Sudan, Nicholas Haysom, warned of a collapse in the country’s peace deal if all parties didn’t renew their political will.

Jill Seaman, who works in Old Fangak with the South Sudan Medical Relief and has more than 30 years of local experience, concluded: “There are no resources, no harvest, and no cows, there’s no place to look for food.”

Islam, Sikhism and why immigration drives religion in Canada: ‘It’s the curriculum of our life’

Ashleigh Stewart 1 day ago

LONG READ

When Ushpreet Singh arrived in Whitehorse, Yukon, in late 2020, he was dismayed to find that the town of 33,000 people did not have a gurdwara — a place of worship for Sikhs like him.

At the time, there were about a dozen Sikh families in Whitehorse and a makeshift Sikh committee, but no meeting place.

So Singh set about trying to establish one himself.

“I asked where all the paperwork was and when I saw it, the total donation was $6,000 in 20 years,” the 23-year-old tells Global News.

“It was not enough to establish a temple, it was not enough for anything. I was really upset; this money couldn't help us. And no one wanted to help.”

One year and one monumental fundraising campaign later, Whitehorse is now home to a gurdwara for a Sikh community that now numbers between 300 and 400 people.

Singh is one of many new immigrants fuelling religious growth among minority groups in Canada.

As Christian religiosity falls to unprecedented levels (just 68 per cent reported a religious affiliation in Canada in 2019, according to new StatCan data), minority religions such as Sikhism, Islam, Buddhism and Hinduism continue to thrive, fuelled by immigration.

In fact, by 2036, StatCan predicts that the number of people affiliated with non-Christian religions could almost double.

In response, Global News has spent the past two months speaking to members of religious communities across the country and looking at historical data to determine why this is happening. This is the part two of that series.

Part One: Why some religions are declining in Canada faster than ever

Sikhism, which is both an ethnic group and religion, now represents 1.4 per cent of all Canadians. That number is up from 0.9 per cent in 2001 and 0.7 per cent in 1996. According to the World Sikh Organization of Canada, there are now approximately 500,000 Sikhs living in the country.

The religion, founded in the Punjab region of India in the 15th century, is built on three core tenets: devotion to God, truthful living and service to humanity. Men are identifiable by their turban, or dastar, worn to keep their hair, which should be unshaven, clean.

It is a “way of life,” Singh says. So when he moved to Whitehorse for work from Toronto due to spiralling living costs, not having a gurdwara was unthinkable.

Singh, helped by a workmate, set about talking to Punjabi news channels across the country to appeal for donations.

Eventually, with money raised from various communities across the country, the group had enough to rent a warehouse for $3,500 per month.

Singh flew to Vancouver to escort the Granth Sahib, the sacred scripture of Sikhism, on its 34-hour drive to its new home, and became the gurdwara’s new preacher.

By November 2021, the Whitehorse Sikh community had raised enough money to buy a permanent space for their gurdwara. Singh estimates they’ve spent close to $1 million on purchasing and renovating the building. It underlines the importance the community puts on maintaining their faith, despite being far from home.

“You cannot make a temple with just money, you need dedication. And without love or without dedication, religion is useless,” Singh says.

The Sikh community in Whitehorse is now growing “day by day,” he says. The gurdwara has become central to the community, where homeless people, of any religion, can come for a meal or for shelter. A Sikh service culminates in a shared meal.

The gurdwara is considered much more than just a place of worship, which is why COVID-19 hit the Sikh community hard.

On a Sunday afternoon in early December 2021, the Gursikh Sabha Canada in Scarborough, Toronto, is bustling. People move from room to room, listening to music performed by preachers flown in from India, while downstairs in the kitchen, small groups eat from metal plates on the floor.

“Whenever you have a crisis, it brings people together, it brings people back home,” says Gobinder Randhawa, a Sikh immigrant from India and former Ontario Sikhs and Gurdwara Council president.

Randhawa arrived in Toronto in 1972, when men wearing turbans were an uncommon sight. He applied for a job with the TTC, Toronto's public transit agency, and was met with confusion over its dress code.

“They asked me, ‘Well, what will you do with your turban?’ I said, ‘Well, I have kept it on for this long, I will keep it on,’” he recalls.

“I told them, ‘Listen, do you want to hire someone who you can trust?’ He said, ‘Yes.’ I said, ‘This is my religion. This is what I believe in. If I give up my religion, I give up my principles just to have a job. Would you trust me?’ He said, ‘No.’ I said, ‘Then, what's your problem?”

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Randhawa says the TTC changed the uniform code to accommodate him. He worked there for 31 years.

All the while, the gurdwara was his place of “strength” in a community where “people look at us like, ‘This guy looks different.’”

But Randhawa says it was important to understand that Sikhs were important contributors to society — and thus, their religion plays an important role in 2022. For instance, Sikhism dictates that 10 per cent of earnings should be given to philanthropy.

“Our community is like one family. But it also doesn’t matter what religion you are. We'll burn our house to give heat to our neighbour,” Randhawa says.

Balpreet Singh Boparai, of the World Sikh Organization, says the community in Canada is being bolstered by a steady influx of young international students. For Sikhs, he says, Canada is the “top choice” for immigration.

“And the first thing people do once they arrive in a community is go and find their nearest gurdwara,” he says.

Between 1971 and 2011, immigration exploded in Canada, after the revising of the Immigration Act in 1976.

According to historic StatsCan data, in those four decades, 711,400 Muslims moved to Canada, as did 243,740 Buddhists, 340,875 Hindus, 71,448 Jews and 274,955 Sikhs. At the same time, most Christian denominations were in a state of steady decline after peaking in the 1960s and 1970s.

Nowadays, these minority religions are at the point of surpassing once major religions in Canada (Muslims account for 3.7 per cent of Canadians, while the United and Anglican churches account for 3.8 per cent). And they’re predominantly made up of immigrants.

Video: Celebrating B.C.’s Sikh community

Those born outside Canada were more likely than those born in Canada to report being Muslim (12 per cent versus one per cent), Hindu (six per cent versus 0.3 per cent), Sikh (four per cent versus 0.6 per cent), according to StatsCan.

They were also more likely to participate in a group religious activity at least once a month (36 per cent versus 19 per cent) or on their own at least once a week (42 per cent versus 28 per cent).

Younger immigrants were also more likely to be religious. People born outside Canada between 1980 and 1999 were more likely (71 per cent) than those born in Canada (59 per cent) to report having a religious affiliation. Among people born between 1940 and 1959, there was little difference.

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But that hasn’t meant that safeguarding the future is easy.

Boparai says while affiliation may be high in younger generations, the second generation does not have the same interest in managing the gurdwaras.

“There hasn’t been a passing of the reins to the second generation as there has been in the past. They don’t have the same interest.

“One gurdwara tried to hand over to a younger youth group and that lasted a little while and that failed and they were asked to hand over control again.”

According to StatCan projections for Canada, by the year 2036, the number of people affiliated with non-Christian religions could almost double, to make up between 13 per cent and 16 per cent of Canada’s population, compared with nine per cent in 2011.

The Muslim, Sikh and Hindu faiths, in particular, “would see the number of their followers grow more quickly,” due to being “over-represented among immigrants compared to their demographic weight in the population as a whole.”

Abdie Kazemipur, a University of Calgary sociologist and the chair in ethnic studies, says the numbers reflect the fact that immigrants to Canada are coming from less developed, more religious countries. New immigrants then seek out places of worship as a way to connect with others.

“A lot of immigrants have gone to these religious communities in search of those lost connections that they had back in their countries of origin. And what is interesting here is that some of these, not very many, but some of these people are people that are not necessarily religious themselves,” Kazemipur says.

“Most of the studies that have been done recently, on Christianity even, show that most of the vitality in terms of religion is coming from the immigrant community, not necessarily the native-born population.”

He says this was particularly true for the Muslim community, who also had to deal with rising levels of Islamophobia and a “misperception” that Muslims have a stronger attachment to their faith.

“That perception has created an intellectual environment in which every time that someone wants to encounter a Muslim or wants to learn something, they think that they have to start from religion.

“All these other socio-demographic, socio-economic factors that are so powerfully present in everybody else’s lives, it seems in this perception that they are not relevant for Muslims.”

Because Muslim people were so frequently being asked about their faith, it also meant that those who were more loosely associated with it were more likely to go and learn about it, which also boosted religiosity, Kazemipur says.

Islam is now the largest non-Christian religious group and the fastest-growing religion in Canada, accounting for 3.7 per cent of Canadians. That’s up from 1.5 per cent in 2001 and 1.1 per cent in 1996.

Unlike churches nearby that sit nearly empty during weekend services, on a Friday at noon in mid-December 2021, Masjid Toronto is overflowing with people. Due to COVID-19 restrictions, people now have to book online for a space — which is especially important for Friday’s Jumah prayer, the most important of the week and the one men are required to attend.

Men in thobes and women in hijabs jostle for space in their respective rooms as the call to prayer sounds. The imam reiterates how important it is to book online, saying he’s turning people away when the mosque reaches capacity.

Afterwards, Rania Lawendy, national director of the Muslim Association of Canada, tells Global News there simply aren’t enough mosques to accommodate the city’s growing Muslim population. Religion “plays a huge role” in everyday life for Muslims, she says, and that hasn’t changed in the face of modern life.

“Islam is a way of life. And that's not just a statement, it really does encompass everything. It encompasses our resilience, our understanding of justice and our understanding of really being of benefit to others. It's not just worship, but it's your dealings, so your dealings with your neighbours and how you are at work,” Lawendy says.

“Religiosity doesn't just encompass going to the mosque and praying, but how are you in your everyday life? How are you with other people? What is your integrity? What do you feel your purpose is and are you a benefit, not only to Muslims, but to all of Canadian society.”

Tragedies such as the London attack, when a Muslim family was killed, have hit the community hard, she says. But faith has “kept us resilient.”

“When something bad happens, it’s perceived as a test and people are rewarded for it. So our viewpoint of things like the pandemic are very different,” she says.

“It's almost like if you didn't have your faith, what a miserable life you would have.”

Lawendy herself is a testament to that. She says her faith helped her through the toughest period of her life: when she was 25 and she lost her second child, her father and had a miscarriage all within six months.

“They brought me like a psychiatrist. And I'm like, ‘What is this for? And they're looking at my record saying, ‘You can't be OK. You're 25 years old.’ And I was like, ‘No, I'm OK.’ And I really was OK.”

That resilience, and the mosque community, helps new immigrants find their way in a new country, she says.

Video: Syrian immigrant talks about her experience as Muslim in Canada

Syrian immigrant Asmaa Ghadban, who moved to Vancouver Island from Jordan in late 2019 as a refugee, says when she and her family first arrived, their Christian sponsors accompanied them to the mosque and continued to do so for several weeks.

Her eldest daughter, who wears a hijab, was worried about attending school. But the school was accommodating.

“When I registered my kids, I told the principal and the office there my girls will pray. They told me, ‘OK, don’t worry, we will make them a special place or we will get them a room,’” Ghadban says.

Her three children now go to the mosque three times per week and learn Arabic.

“Religion is the curriculum of our life,” she says.

“I started growing those seeds in the heart of my kids, because maybe in the future, they will remember that.”

Kazemipur says because Islam provides a framework for how life should be lived, there’s “more room for religion” in Muslims’ everyday lives.

The community had also become more tight-knit than perhaps they would have been in their home countries due to a rise in Islamophobia after 9/11.

“(Muslims) have become more alert to the fact that religion is playing such a big role in their lives, and in the minds of people who are viewing them,” he says.

Tina Aseffa, from Ethiopia, converted to Islam while at university in Hamilton studying for a bachelor of science. She’d been raised Catholic, courtesy of her half-Italian mother, but her sister had grown interested in the key tenets of Islam and while initially against it, Aseffa then found herself identifying with it too.

“There came a time when I felt like I’d be living a lie. And you can lie to people, but how could you lie to yourself?”

The conversion caused ructions in her family and left her not speaking to her mother or father for two years. But the Muslim community stepped in to fill the void, teaching her Arabic, introducing her to friends and even helping to pay her rent.

Video: ‘It felt natural:’ Hamilton woman talks about converting to Islam

While she admits that she’s experienced plenty of Islamophobia — she’s been insulted on the street, yelled at to “go back to where you came from,” targeted for searches at airports, even insulted by a store worker while buying her very first skirt the weekend she converted — she says she’s never looked back.

“Is there discrimination? Yes. Is there Islamophobia? Yes. Do I feel targeted at times? Yes. But at the same time, there's the halal storage, there’s the schools, there's the mosques.

“Canada has allowed me to live my Islamic life.”