The forensic pathologist helping victims of Philippines’ ‘war on drugs’
Raquel Fortun is one of only two forensic pathologists in the Philippines. Earlier this year, I interviewed her about her mission to discover the truth, and hopefully win justice, for the victims of former president Rodrigo Duterte’s “war on drugs”.
Her crusade came about through unlikely circumstances. The victims of Duterte’s crackdowns were overwhelmingly from the poorest backgrounds, and many families could not afford to extend temporary leases on their graves. As families began to face eviction from cemeteries five years on from the killings, Fortun offered to carry out investigations to collect evidence about their deaths.
Known to many as just Doc, Fortun does the work for free, with very little budget (she first began the examinations in her university’s old stockroom, using wooden tables taken from a junkyard). She has a straight-talking, no-nonsense manner, and spoke frankly about the risks she faces by working on such politically sensitive cases.
She has found serious irregularities in how official postmortems were performed – including at least a dozen death certificates that wrongly cited natural causes, such as pneumonia or sepsis.
The killings, which estimates suggest led to between 12,000 and 30,000 deaths, are the subject of an investigation by the international criminal court. However, its investigators have been banned from the country, making the work of experts such as Fortun even more crucial.
Rebecca Ratcliffe, south-east Asia correspondent
The Indian father who rescued his daughter … with a fanfare
If only all Indian fathers could be like Prem Gupta, India would be a much happier place for young women.
When he heard that his newly married daughter, Sakshi, was being mistreated by her husband, Gupta took a different path from that trodden by millions of parents: they would have told her to tolerate the abuse to save her family the stigma of divorce, and urged her to adjust. Married women who are being abused or beaten by their husbands hear this exhortation from their parents all the time, leaving them with no escape route. Imagine knowing the door to your childhood home is firmly closed.
Not Gupta. He wasn’t going to turn up at Sakshi’s house in Ranchi in the state of Bihar to tell her to stay. He gathered his relatives, hired a band with drummers and trumpets, and led a noisy, smiling procession to Sakshi’s house to “bring her home with the same pride and sense of celebration with which I sent her on her wedding day”. He didn’t care what society would say. He let his heart decide.
Gupta had spent most of his savings from his brick kiln business on the wedding, and was now struggling with tongue cancer. He let neither get in the way of standing by his daughter and restoring her to a life of dignity.
Amrit Dhillon, New Dehli
The Zambian singer with albinism
Earlier this year, a Netflix drama based on the early life of John Chiti, a Zambian singer with albinism, was released. Can you see us? tells the story of a boy with albinism who is rejected by his father at birth. He is bullied, his mother dies and he is subjected to violent attacks. I was in tears for most of it.
I spoke to Chiti about the film and his life via video chat. We talked for an hour but I ended the conversation with so much more I wanted to ask him. He overcame so much hurt, rejection, violence and discrimination to become a household name in Zambia, and launched his own organisation fighting for the rights of people with albinism. He is married with two children.
He was so gentle, considerate and humble despite his many achievements. We spoke about how he had forgiven his father, despite all the hurt he caused. He seemed happy and content in himself. In my role as a global development reporter, I tend to come across far more women I find inspiring. So speaking to Chiti was such a treat.
Sarah Johnson
The palliative care nurse easing pain in Ethiopia
Ephrem Abathun runs Hospice Ethiopia, the only organisation dedicated to helping chronically and terminally ill people in Africa’s second-biggest country by population. These are mostly patients with HIV/Aids and cancer, who have been overlooked by their national health service.
At times, the task seems almost insurmountable. Limited funds, red tape and a lack of training among medical professionals means Ephrem and his nurses lack the one drug they most need to relieve their patients’ almost indescribable suffering: oral morphine. Without it, they make do with basic painkillers, while doing their best to counsel the patients through the pain.
Yet Ephrem’s determination is unflagging. With a shoestring budget, his organisation helps hundreds of people every year. He is searching for funds to set up a morphine production plant in partnership with Ethiopia’s health ministry. When that is up and running, it will ease the needless suffering of hundreds of thousands of Ethiopians.
Fred Harter in Ethiopia
The couple who quietly transformed Zimbabwe’s literary scene
In November, I got a heads-up from a scholar specialising in African politics of a story worth writing about: a couple in their mid-70s in Zimbabwe were planning to celebrate the 25th anniversary of a small publishing house they’d set up. It did not sound enticing at first. They had set up shop in their back garden and, in 25 years, their business had not moved to a bigger location. Their staff had rarely exceeded two.
It was only after I dug deeper that I realised there was an inspiring story to tell about Zimbabwean editor Irene Staunton and her husband Murray McCartney, the couple behind Weaver Press publishing house. In 2017, Tinashe Mushakavanhu, a Zimbabwean writer who is now a distinguished scholar at Oxford University, wrote how difficult it had been to persuade the couple to let him intern with Weaver; he ended up staying for a number of years. “I was soon to learn that Irene had been quietly shaping post-independence Zimbabwean literature, most of which [Weaver books] had been school texts I had studied.”
Staunton and McCartney were reserved and reluctant to talk about the impact their publishing endeavour has had. But at least a dozen writers first published by Weaver Press have since gained international recognition, and as one Zimbabwean author told me, “They have made an indelible mark on publishing in Zimbabwe.”
Saeed Kamali Dehghan
The young Namibian fighting for queer rights
At 27, Omar van Reenen (who uses they/them pronouns) is a leading campaigner in the fight for LGBTQ+ rights in Namibia. I interviewed them in their family home in the coastal town of Walvis Bay. The house used to host the country’s only hotel for non-white people, founded by van Reenan’s grandfather – the street is even named after him.
Wearing pearls and purple nail polish, van Reenan explained how they draw inspiration from their family history of resisting the segregationist apartheid regime. They view LGBTQ+ rights as the last remaining step to fully decolonise Namibia. Their eyes shone as they showed us the media clippings they collect in the hope of one day opening a queer museum in the country.
Van Reenan has continued campaigning since our interview. Even as LGBTQ+ Namibians face a violent backlash, they are still pushing for the queer community to remain visible and outspoken.
Julie Bourdin in South Africa
The Indigenous leader who broke barriers inside and outside Brazil
For a long time, Brazilian society coexisted with Indigenous people without giving them due attention. Raoni Metuktire, the Kayapo chieftain, was the exception that proved the rule.
In 2023, two Indigenous personalities reached the pinnacle of their careers and struggles in Brazil. One is the writer and philosopher Aílton Krenak, a member of the Krenak people, the first Indigenous writer to be chosen for the Brazilian Academy of Letters, the pantheon of the country’s finest living writers. The other is Sônia Guajajara, the first minister of Indigenous Peoples in the country’s history. Never, in 523 years since the Portuguese discovered the territory, had an Indigenous woman risen so high in officially representing the country’s native peoples.
We met in London in October when she represented the country at an international event 4,800 miles from the Arariboia Indigenous territory, where the Guajajara/Teneteara people live. She carried a headdress in her luggage, a mark of great respect in Indigenous symbolism and culture. “It took a long time for us to have the ministry,” she said. “How did we wait so long without reacting and having Indigenous people in charge?”
Andrei Netto
The Sudanese feminist helping survivors of rape
Enass Muzamel is a feminist activist from Sudan. She has been working for years for democracy and human rights. When I spoke to her in June she had been displaced from her home in Khartoum due to the ongoing conflict, but was still working, day and night, to secure healthcare access for survivors of rape.
Though reports of rape by troops against civilians were spreading around the world, only a few of the survivors were able to access vital medication – the HIV-prevention drug PrEP and emergency contraception that would protect them from potential disease or pregnancy.
International relief organisations were not able to access their own warehouses storing the medication, and shipments were stranded in ports. So Enass became the point of contact for desperate women and families. Through her own informal network, she linked doctors with survivors, ensuring that what little medication was available in depleted hospitals and pharmacies was reaching those in need.
Weronika Strzyżyńska
The South Sudanese refugee displaced by war – again
In May, I met Elizabeth Mayik in Renk, a town on the White Nile in north-eastern South Sudan. A month earlier, Mayik, 63, had fled Khartoum, the Sudanese capital, when violent confrontation between the army and the paramilitary erupted. Like tens of thousands of South Sudanese who had previously sought refuge in Sudan, she was hurrying back to her home country prematurely.
She was stranded at the port of this border town, hoping to get on a boat to Malakal. The heat was agonising. Food and water were scarce, and Mayik had spent the last of her money to get here.
For the second time in her life, war had forced her to leave everything behind. But she remained incredibly calm and hopeful as she contemplated what she would do when she reached Malakal. She would start all over again.
She is among more than 400,000 South Sudanese who have returned since the start of the Sudan conflict in April. Mayik’s grace, her freedom from fear and resentment, truly struck me. This South Sudanese woman in her 60s, smiling at a highly uncertain future, seemed more powerful than the men in arms who had just ruined her life.
Florence Miettaux in Juba
The Bangladeshi paramedic preventing cervical cancer
I first met Nagma Khatun on a floating hospital ship. She greeted me on deck wearing a white lab coat and matching white hijab, and exuding quiet confidence. Khatun is a paramedic for Friendship, a charity serving Bangladesh’s hardest-to-reach communities.
When she introduced herself, she said: “I’m Nagma – you know, like the song?” referring to a 70s Indian classic. Later, on our way to meet with local communities, she belted out the lyrics, spurring an impromptu karaoke singing session along the river.
Cervical cancer is a growing global health challenge, and Friendship has been working to screen and prevent it among women in northern Bangladesh. Reaching these isolated communities is no easy task. But every week, Khatun travels by boat, foot and horse under difficult conditions to go door-to-door speaking to village women about the importance of screening. Often, they don’t want to engage, but Khatun is persistent. She not only wants to increase uptake, but also seeks to combat the stigma around cervical cancer, and vaginas in general.
Thaslima Begum in Bangladesh
The Palestinian breakdancer helping Gaza’s children
Ahmed Alghariz’s return to Gaza was supposed to be a temporary one – to help put on a showcase for the new generation of young breakdancers who he had helped to train. But Gaza has been under constant Israeli bombardment over the past two months. That put an end to the show, and has also meant he can no longer leave Gaza and return to the life he has built in Germany.
Alghariz spent the first few days of the war hunkered down in the same refugee camp, al-Nuseirat, that he grew up in, but then decided to make use of his skills. He is one of the pioneers of Gaza’s hip-hop scene and has been teaching dancers for years, but he is also a qualified trauma counsellor. He went into the schools that are hosting hundreds of thousands of Gaza’s displaced to put on shows for the children. He and his friends not only entertain the children but take them through exercises designed to help them handle the trauma they’ve been left with by the war.
Alghariz and the team have tried to keep going, even as the war has intensified, putting on shows and helping out children in their neighbourhood. Sometimes, in the videos he shares, you can clearly hear the sounds of explosions nearby. He posts the simplest updates on social media whenever he has internet access: “still alive”.
Kaamil Ahmed
The Pakistani architect helping communities rebuild
Yasmeen Lari, the first woman architect of Pakistan, spent decades building shiny edifices for corporate clients. But today her clients are the marginalised poor and she has replaced concrete, steel and glass with earth, husk, lime and bamboo. Designing affordable post-disaster shelters feels like “atoning for her sins”, she says, after contributing to an industry that isresponsible for up to 40% of global climate emissions.
I met her several times during the year, while reporting on rebuilding homes destroyed during the floods of 2022, when a third of Pakistan remained submerged in water for months. At 82, she has oodles of energy and a passion for working with the poor, who, she said, are not victims, but her partners.
Lari’s NGO, the Heritage Foundation of Pakistan, has helped build 10,000 climate-friendly, one-room octagonal shaped-homes since September 2022, each costing just 25,000 rupees (£70). That’s the highest number that an NGO, or even the government, has been able to build to date.
Zofeen Ebrahim in Karachi
The Indigenous journalist fighting on in the Amazon
When I first saw Marco Antônio Silva Batista, he was careening down a dirt track towards Brazil’s remote border with Guyana on his motorbike – and towards one of the frontlines of an Indigenous battle to survive.
“If I die, it will be for a good cause,” the 20-year-old Indigenous journalist told me during a reporting trip to his home in the Raposa Serra do Sol Indigenous territory in the northern fringes of the Amazon.
Batista is one of the youngest members of an Indigenous patrol group called GPVTI and uses his drone to spy on the illegal diamond and gold miners and smugglers wreaking havoc on the territory where his people, the Macuxi, have lived for generations.
It is dangerous work. In 2022, the British journalist Dom Phillips and the Indigenous activist Bruno Pereira were killed while reporting on a similar patrol group in another corner of the Amazon. But Batista – who is part of a new generation of Indigenous reporters and photographers being trained by activist groups – vowed to fight on. “I’m showing the reality of our lives to the world,” he said.
Tom Phillips in Rio de Janeiro
