bbc--2019-01-30--Wanting to die at five to midnight - before dementia takes over

Wanting to die at 'five to midnight' - before dementia takes over

It's not unusual for Dutch patients with dementia to request euthanasia, but in the later stages of the disease they may be incapable of reconfirming their consent - one doctor is currently facing prosecution in such a case. But fear of being refused is pushing some to ask to die earlier than they would have liked.  Annie Zwijnenberg was never in any doubt.  "The neurologist said: 'I'm sorry, but there's no way we can mistake this - it's Alzheimer's," says Anneke Soute-Zwijnenberg, describing the moment her mother was first diagnosed.  "And she said: 'OK, then I know what I want.'"  Anneke's brother Frank chips in: "Maybe she hesitated for five seconds, and said: 'Now I know what to do.'"  They both knew she was referring to euthanasia.  You could say Annie's story is a textbook case of how euthanasia is supposed to happen in the Netherlands - with very consistent and clear consent. But there are other cases where the patient's consent is less consistent, and at the final moment, less clear.  Annie's story was featured in a film called Before It's Too Late by the Dutch director, Gerald van Bronkhorst. In the documentary viewers follow her journey through Alzheimer's, ending in her death by euthanasia at the age of 81.  They see a proud woman who brought up three children alone, who enjoyed mountain climbing and had a strong religious belief, laid low by dementia.  "I used to go climbing or skiing or whatever," says Annie in the film. "In the village they said, 'That Annie, she's always on the go.' I'd put my rucksack on in the morning and start hiking. I'd walk all day. Now I can't do anything. I get confused all the time."  Annie wanted people to understand her decision, so she allowed the camera to film on the day she died.  She is shown sitting on the sofa, looking relaxed and positive. Her three children are with her, joking with the two doctors who've arrived to carry out the euthanasia about a special meal they had the previous night.  "We went to a three/four-star restaurant," Frank tells me later.  "I asked her, 'What do you want to do before you die?' We had a beautiful meal, laughed and cried. There was no tomorrow that evening. It was so special.  "But then you go home. It was very hard to get any sleep the night before."  Anneke describes finding a letter that her mother wrote that night.  "She wrote a letter to God, asking him to take care of her children. She knew that if there was a God it would be a really warm forgiving God."  Frank adds: "She said, 'It's a pity I can't send an email back to my children to tell them what it's like.'"  The film shows the doctor taking great care to make sure that Annie is fully aware that she is choosing to die by euthanasia. He asks her several times if she is sure she knows what she is doing.  "You're sure you want to drink the mixture I'll give you?" the doctor asks. "You know it will put you to sleep and you won't wake up again?"  Annie says: "I thought it through once again last night, from start to finish and back, and in the end this is what I want. Purely for myself. This is what's best for me."  She does not hesitate when she is handed a glass of clear liquid, containing a lethal dose of sedative. She drinks it, complaining only about the bitter taste.  Her family is shown hugging her as she goes to sleep for the last time.  "She drank the cup," remembers Frank later. "But it took a while."  "The sleep was getting deeper and deeper," adds Anneke. "It was very gentle."  But a couple of hours went by and Annie was still sleeping. This led to a surreal scene, described to me by Gerald van Bronkhorst, who was filming.  "She was asleep on the couch, and then she started snoring. And the family started to say: 'I'm hungry, shall we have a sandwich?' So we're all chewing around this lady, who's sleeping on the couch, and dying. But this shows how normal life takes over, even in a situation like this."  Worried that Annie might actually wake up, the doctors eventually gave her a lethal injection.  "It was 20 seconds, and then she was gone," says Frank.  Frank and Anneke say they always supported their mother in her decision, despite any reservations they felt about it.  "It's hard to see your mother die from euthanasia, but it was not our decision - it was her decision," says Anneke.  "There is no right or wrong decision. It's hard to decide you want to die but it's as hard to decide, I think, that you want to live. She hated it when someone said: 'It's so brave that you made this decision.' She said choosing to live with dementia is just as brave."  Frank adds: "A good friend of mine said, 'You have to stop your mother - as a son you have to stop her.' I said, 'No I'm not going to, I support her.' His mother said [to me], 'You're killing your mother, you're murdering your mother if you go on with this…' It's hard to hear."  Arguments like this are common among families and friends and reflect the wider debate which began in the Netherlands in the 1970s, when doctors first started carrying out so-called "mercy killing" fairly openly. The arguments continued in the run-up to the legalisation of euthanasia in 2002, and have never really stopped.  The number of those opting for euthanasia has grown steadily, particularly in the past 10 years. In 2002, the Dutch authorities were notified of 1,882 cases; 15 years later the figure was 6,585.  In order to satisfy the law on euthanasia, patients must convince a doctor that their decision is completely voluntary, that their life has become, or will become, one of "unbearable suffering without prospect of improvement", and that there is "no reasonable alternative". An independent assessment must then be made by another doctor.  The first recorded case of a patient with dementia being given euthanasia came about in 2004, two years after the law changed.  But euthanasia cases involving dementia patients almost always take place in the earlier stages of the disease, because it's hard to convince a doctor that the patient has the capacity to understand their decision to die in the later stages.  In 2017, 166 early-stage dementia patients died by euthanasia, and only three with late-stage dementia.  Despite this, medical ethicist Berna van Baarsen believes that a shift is under way and that in future there will be more.  She used to sit on a committee that reviewed every case of euthanasia in one region of the Netherlands but resigned, saying that troubling cases were being approved too easily.  "I have seen the shift," she says. "The problem is that the shift is very difficult to catch. But it is happening. It's happening under your nose, and in the end you realise there has been a shift."  She thinks there is an over-reliance on written declarations, or living wills, which patients who might want euthanasia often give to their doctor in the early stages of a disease.  "You can write down what your fears are. What you don't want to experience. But it is a wish. It is an expression of fear, and as we know, people change.  "In the beginning they say: 'Oh no, I don't want to live in an old people's home.' Or, 'I don't want to be put in a wheelchair,' and it happens. People always find ways to cope. That's a beautiful thing about being human."  So she argues that before helping someone to die, doctors must always check that this is still the patient's wish. And with late-stage dementia patients, this is not always possible.  "If you can't talk to a patient, you don't know what the patient wants," she says.  But if Berna van Baarsen is right that the pendulum has been swinging in favour of euthanasia for patients with late-stage dementia, the prosecution of a doctor involved in one such case may push it back in the opposite direction.  The case involved a 74-year-old woman who had signed a written declaration saying she wanted euthanasia, but only when she said she was ready. And she had also said, at other times, that she did not want to die by euthanasia.  The doctor, who worked in a nursing home, put a sedative into the woman's coffee without telling her. Then the woman woke up while the doctor attempted to give her a lethal injection.  She had to be restrained by relatives while the euthanasia was completed, although the level of restraint used is disputed.  Listen to Andrew Bomford's documentary Living and Dying with Alzheimer's on BBC Sounds  Jacob Kohnstamm, co-ordinating chairman of the Dutch review committees, which examine every euthanasia case, says it is clear the doctor overstepped the mark.  "The commission said the written declaration wasn't good enough, and the doctor should have stopped the procedure the moment the patient got up," he says.  The committee ruled that the doctor had not acted with due care, and referred the case to prosecutors.  The case will be watched closely when it comes to trial because it may help to clarify the circumstances when dementia patients can die by euthanasia.  But while for many doctors this will be welcome, it is an unnerving prospect for those who are prepared to carry out euthanasia even on people with advanced dementia - such as Annie Zwijnenberg's doctor, Constance de Vries.  She is content to end the lives of patients who may find it difficult to express their wishes, as long as they were always very clear about their wishes when they could express them.  It's important to have a long-term relationship with the patients and their families, she says, to enable her to talk to them about their written declaration, and observe over a long period of time an unwavering desire for euthanasia.  She tells me about one such case.  "The lady was very unhappy; she was crying, and yelling, and not eating, and not sleeping, and aggressive to other people. When you saw her, you saw how unhappy she was. And she always had it in the statement: 'When I don't recognise my grandchildren any more, then I want to die.'"  As the moment when she could no longer recognise her grandchildren had arrived, Constance de Vries proceeded with euthanasia, with the support of the woman's family.  "When I gave her a glass of fruit juice, I said, 'When you take it, you will sleep forever.' She looked at her daughter, and the daughter said, 'It's OK mum.' And she took it. I don't know if she did understand fully, but I know what we did was OK, so unhappy was she."  I ask her if the first prosecution of a doctor for ending a patient's life by euthanasia makes her worried about being involved in such cases?  "This is making me worried, yes," she says. "I'm a little bit afraid of the judgement afterwards. So I try to be very, very, very sure about what I'm doing."  But does she have any intention of stopping?  "No," she says, adamantly.  She does concede, though, that the case may make it harder for patients with late-stage dementia to get euthanasia in future. And if this happens, it could also have a knock-on effect for those with early-stage dementia who want euthanasia at some point in the future.  Many of them already worry that if they wait too long they'll be denied it.  The fear has become so commonplace that a shorthand phrase has been adopted for the perfect time to have euthanasia - "five to midnight". Just like Cinderella, everyone wants to wait until the last possible moment before they leave the party - until five to midnight - but many feel that it's too risky to leave it that long.  It's the one regret Anneke and Frank express about the death of their mother, Annie.  "She was very afraid that even when she had the law on her side, or she had the doctors on her side that there would be a point that somebody would say: 'OK, but sorry you're too far gone now, you can't make this decision any more, so sorry you're too late,'" Anneke says.  Annie herself talks about it in Gerald van Bronkhorst's film, which alludes to her fear in its title, Before It's Too Late.  "Yesterday I spoke to a former neighbour on the phone," Annie says. "She said, 'But I don't understand. You can still do everything can't you?' I said, 'Well the point is, first of all I can't. And second, if I wait until the moment has come to stop it'll be too late. I won't be allowed to do euthanasia any more.'"  Images from Before It's Too Late courtesy of Gerald van Bronkhorst  In January 2018 a young Dutch woman drank poison supplied by a doctor and lay down to die. Euthanasia and doctor-assisted suicide are legal in the Netherlands, so hers was a death sanctioned by the state. But Aurelia Brouwers was not terminally ill - she was allowed to end her life on account of her psychiatric illness.  Read: The troubled 29-year-old helped to die by Dutch doctors  Join the conversation - find us on Facebook, Instagram, YouTube and Twitter.


bbc--2019-02-07--US court stays Muslim inmates execution over denial of imam request

US court stays Muslim inmate's execution over denial of imam request

A federal appeals court has blocked the execution of a Muslim inmate in Alabama after the state refused to allow his imam to be present at his death.  Domineque Ray, convicted of murdering a 15-year-old girl in 1995, was scheduled for execution on Thursday.  But his lawyers argued that the state infringed on his religious rights by denying his request for an imam over a chaplain during the execution.  The state has now appealed the stay to the US Supreme Court.  A three-judge panel reversed an earlier court ruling and delayed Ray's death by lethal injection, writing in an opinion that Ray had a "powerful" claim against the state.  "The central constitutional problem here is that the state has regularly placed a Christian cleric in the execution room to minister to the needs of Christian inmates, but has refused to provide the same benefit to a devout Muslim and all other non-Christians."  According to the Alabama Department of Corrections (ADOC), Christian chaplain Chris Summers has witnessed nearly every execution since 1997.  Ray's complaint requests the court to not mandate the chaplain's presence in his execution chamber and to allow his imam instead, "so that he may receive spiritual guidance and comfort from a cleric of his own faith" at the time of his death.  The federal judges also noted that Ray has been a committed Muslim since 2006, and even the ADOC is not disputing the "sincerity of Ray's religious beliefs".  In addition, his imam, Yusef Maisonet, has been providing religious services to prisoners in the ADOC since 2015.  The ADOC insists, however, that it will not allow a non-employee to be in the chamber in place of the chaplain. The imam could be present in the witness room and meet Ray ahead of the execution.  An earlier District Court ruling said Ray had taken too long to raise the legal issues against the ADOC, "waiting until the eleventh hour" to seek a religious exemption.  Ray has been an inmate for close to 20 years, the New York Times reported.  The prison warden had informed Ray of the death penalty practices on 23 January, and Ray's lawyer contends he was unaware of the religious policies until then, US media reported.  Ray's counsel had then suggested that the state train and screen his imam, who is already familiar with prison visitations, but the state responded by saying "it could not do so".  Judge Stanley Marcus, writing for the federal appeals panel, said the state cannot appear to favour Christianity over Islam and then say it cannot provide the same rights to both.  "Quite simply, the power, prestige, and support of the state may not be placed behind a particular religious belief."  "Alabama appears to have set up precisely the sort of denominational preference that the Framers of the First Amendment forbade."  The First Amendment states that the US government cannot make any laws regarding establishment of religion or prohibiting the exercise religious beliefs.  The Alabama Council of Islamic Relations (CAIR) said they welcomed the appeals decision and "hope Mr Ray will ultimately be provided equal access to spiritual guidance".


bbc--2019-03-19--Dutch shooting Letter may suggest terror motive in Utrecht

Dutch shooting: Letter may suggest terror motive in Utrecht

Dutch prosecutors investigating the murder of three people on a tram said a letter found in the gunman's getaway car was among the reasons why a terrorist motive was being seriously considered.  Three people were killed and three others seriously wounded in the attack in the central city of Utrecht.  No connection has been found between Mr Tanis and the victims of the attack.  Police said on Tuesday that armed officers had arrested another suspect, a 40-year-old man, in Utrecht. A statement said he was "suspected of involvement" and his role was under investigation.  Two other men arrested on Monday were released and were no longer suspects, police said.  Prime Minister Mark Rutte laid flowers at the scene of the attack on Tuesday afternoon. In a statement he paid tribute to the people of Utrecht who had "remained calm despite the great threat".  "So far a terrorist motive is being seriously taken into account. Among other things a letter found in the getaway car and the nature of the facts give rise to that," a statement said (in Dutch), without detailing the contents of the letter.  Prosecutors say a firearm was found when Tanis was detained. They say other motives have not been ruled out.  The red Renault Clio getaway car was stolen from the scene of the attack and later found in Utrecht's Tichelaarslaan close to where the suspect was arrested.  Owner Frans Hoogendijk said he had abandoned the car with the engine running when he saw people fleeing the tram and one shouted at him to run for his life.  "I thought it was a bomb and leapt out of my car," he told the AD website.  Neighbours had earlier described the suspected gunman as a "loser" and a petty criminal rather than a terrorist.  Dutch justice officials confirmed on Tuesday that he had been released from custody recently in a rape case, which was due to go to court in July. He was freed after promising to co-operate with authorities. He has been convicted of crimes this month as well as in the past.  According to Dutch law Tanis must appear in court by Thursday.  Two of the three people who died have been named:  Three of the wounded are in a serious condition and Mayor Jan van Zanen visited one of them in hospital on Tuesday. Two are women in their early 20s and a man in his 70s.  Flags were flying at half-mast on public buildings in the Netherlands on Tuesday and flowers were laid at the site of the attack in Utrecht's 24 Oktoberplein.  Sarah cycled to the scene to lay a fresh bouquet of tulips, her 13-month-old toddler, Jet, harnessed in a seat on the front of the bike.  "I felt afraid to come out," she told me. "But I had to show my daughter that we have to be strong, to keep living."  A note pinned to a bunch of roses read, "It hit right through the heart."  A Muslim man fell to his knees, his head bowed and hands cupped in silent prayer.  The victims appear to have been targeted at random. Among the tears and shows of solidarity, the overwhelming sense among the people is, it could have been one of us.  Police released Gokmen Tanis's name after the shooting as they searched his home and other addresses.  Prosecutors said he was known to police while friends told Dutch media that he had been in trouble on a number of occasions.  Turkey's President Recep Tayyip Erdogan said his country's intelligence service was "looking into" the attack.  Gokmen Tanis was not known for extreme religious beliefs, although he was once captured on video criticising a female reporter's clothing.  A 47-year-old woman called Angelique told Algemeen Dagblad that Tanis was a drug user with a criminal record who was facing trial for raping her in 2017. She said he had recently been freed from custody after violating the conditions of an earlier release.  "He's not a terrorist but a psychopath," she said.  The case is due to return to court during the summer.  Earlier this month he was given jail terms for shoplifting as well as burglary. In 2014 he was cleared of attempted manslaughter but given a jail term for illegal arms possession.  Several reports said his marriage had fallen apart. A neighbour who grew up with the suspect told De Volkskrant newspaper that he did not go the mosque and the case had nothing to do with religion. "He's a lost boy with the IQ of a shrimp."  At about 10:45 local time (09:45 GMT), police were called to reports of a shooting on board one of the city's trams at the 24 Oktoberplein junction.  Another witness told Dutch public broadcaster NOS that he had helped an injured woman when the tram came to an emergency stop.  "I looked behind me and saw someone lying there behind the tram," he said. "People got out of their cars... and they started to lift her up.  "I helped to pull her out and then I saw a gunman run towards us, with his gun raised," he said. "I heard people yell 'Shooter! Shooter!' and I started to run."  The gunman then fled the scene, leading to the manhunt which lasted for much of Monday.  A number of raids were reportedly carried out and counter-terrorism officers were pictured patrolling the streets near to where the attack happened. Police surrounded a building not far from the scene of the attack and arrested Mr Tanis on Monday evening.


bbc--2019-04-03--Unvaccinated Kentucky teen loses lawsuit over school ban

An unvaccinated Kentucky teenager has lost his legal effort to force health officials to allow him to play basketball amid a disease outbreak.  Jerome Kunkel sued after students without chickenpox immunity were banned from playing sports or attending school, where 32 people were sickened.  A Kentucky judge sided with the health department, saying the 18-year-old does not have a right to play sports.  In a statement health officials said the decision is best for the community.  The Northern Kentucky Health Department said in a statement the ruling "underscores the critical need for Public Health Departments to preserve the safety of the entire community, and in particular the safety of those members of our community who are most susceptible to the dire consequences when a serious, infectious disease such as varicella [chickenpox], is left unabated and uncontrolled".  Through a lawyer, Mr Kunkel said he was "devastated" by the ruling.  Mr Kunkel sued after health officials banned unvaccinated students from attending Our Lady of the Sacred Heart/Assumption Academy in Walton, Kentucky after at least 32 pupils were sickened there.  The teen argued that this particular vaccination goes against his religious beliefs, because aborted cells were used to derive the vaccine.  Some viruses used to make vaccines are grown with cells descended from matter that was sourced from two human foetuses electively aborted in the 1960s.  But no new human cells have been used since then to produce vaccines, according to health authorities and drug manufacturers.  The Catholic Church has told its members it is morally justifiable to use these vaccines, though it wants alternative treatments developed without "using cell lines of illicit origin".  At the conclusion of the five-hour trial, the judge cited a document signed by the plaintiff's family when they initially invoked their religious exemption.  The form contained a warning: "This person may be subject to exclusion from school, group facilities or other programmes if the local and/or state public health authority advises exclusion as a disease control measure."  During the case, it was revealed that only about 18% of the student body at Our Lady of the Sacred Heart/Assumption Academy had been vaccinated against childhood illnesses such as chickenpox.  The statewide vaccination rate for chickenpox is 90%, according to the Cincinnati Enquirer.  The ban, which was initiated on 14 March, came just as the school's basketball team was about to play in a statewide basketball playoff tournament.


bbc--2019-04-18--Evidence of rabbits in UK in Roman times say academics

Evidence of rabbits in UK in Roman times, say academics

Rabbits have been hopping around the UK since the Roman period, experts have been able to scientifically prove for the first time.  Tests on a rabbit bone, found at Fishbourne Roman Palace in West Sussex, have shown the animal was alive in 1AD.  The 1.6in (4cm) piece of a tibia bone was found in 1964 but it remained in a box until 2017, when a zooarchaeologist realised that it came from a rabbit.  Academics believe the animal could have been kept as an exotic pet.  Analysis, including radiocarbon dating, was carried out by researchers at the universities of Exeter, Oxford and Leicester.  Rabbits are native to Spain and France and it had been thought they were introduced to Britain during the medieval period.  Prof Naomi Sykes, from the University of Exeter, said there have been many previous claims of discoveries of Roman rabbits, and even some from the Bronze Age, but they had not been backed up by evidence.  "The bone fragment was very small, meaning it was overlooked for decades, and modern research techniques mean we can learn about its date and genetic background as well," she said.  Researchers say they believe the rabbit was kept as a pet, as the signature in its bones suggests it ate its own faecal pellets.  "When they are in a hutch they tend to eat their own poo, and that gives them a really interesting signature in their bones, wild rabbits don't do that to the same extent," said Prof Sykes.  She added: "This is a tremendously exciting discovery and this very early rabbit is already revealing new insights into the history of the Easter traditions."  It is not clear when, why or how the rabbit became linked to Easter.  Rabbits usually give birth to a big litter of babies (called kittens), and so they became a symbol of new life.  The first historical mention of an "Easter Bunny" is actually an Easter hare, and was found in a German text from 1682.  Some believe the association is due to the spread of Christian religious beliefs and Paganism, when Emperor Constantine merged Pagan rituals with Christian festivals.  The story of the Easter Bunny is thought to have become common in the 19th Century.  Prof Sykes says that during the Victorian period hare proportions were really low, whereas the rabbit proportions were "really really high", which could explain how the hare was ditched for rabbits.  Rabbits are the third most popular pet choice, behind cats and dogs, according to PDSA Animal Wellbeing Report 2018.  It estimates one million are kept as pets in the country. They typically live for eight to 12 years, the RSPCA says.  However, the Rabbit Welfare Association and Fund says rabbits are among the most abused and neglected pets in the country because some owners don't realise what's involved before taking them on.  Jane Bramley, 64, from Pontefract, west Yorkshire, has been breeding rabbits for more than 30 years and says the animals played a big part in helping her overcome two serious illnesses.  She was diagnosed with cancer aged 30, shortly after the birth of her son, and it was during her recovery from life-saving surgery that her interest in rabbits started.  After taking over a pet shop, she thought she could make some extra money by breeding and selling rabbits.  "Having such a positive hobby to focus my energy on really boosted my recovery," she said.  Ten years later when she was diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome, she says her rabbits once again aided her recovery.  "Rabbits gave me a reason to live," she said. "I had to get out of bed every day to go and see them.  "I feel very strongly that my rabbits are therapy and I have devoted my life to them."  Jane currently owns 72 rabbits with her husband Douglas - she has had over 240 in the past - and it takes them two hours a day to feed and water them.


bbc--2019-04-28--Should these school clubs be kept secret from parents

Should these school clubs be kept secret from parents?

Should parents be told if their children are members of gay-straight alliances - student-run peer support groups for LGBT students and allies in their school? In one Canadian province, that question has sparked fierce debate.  Gay-straight alliances - or GSAs - were first established in the US in the 1980s.  The student-run clubs are meant to be a place where LGBT and other students can socialise and offer peer support. Research on GSAs suggests they create a "safe space" for students at a greater risk of mental health issues and discrimination, and can reduce bullying and harassment in schools where they're established.  Some 30 years after the first one was founded by a history teacher and a student at Concord Academy in Massachusetts in 1988, thousands of GSAs exist in middle and high schools across North America.  Despite their proliferation, these peer support groups have also faced resistance.  One protracted battle over GSAs has been playing out in the Canadian province of Alberta - an issue debated in the provincial legislature, in the courts, and in the media.  The latest flare up began during the recent provincial election in the province.  At issue was a policy proposed by United Conservative Party (UCP) leader Jason Kenney to undo some legal protections for the school clubs, notably one that bars school officials from telling parents if their child has joined such a group.  Critics of Kenney's plan say school staff could "out" LGBT students to parents who might not be supportive of, or might even be discriminatory of, their sexuality or gender identity - with potentially damaging consequence.  Kenney - whose UCP swept the election and who will soon be premier - argues his proposal is a compromise between supporting GSAs and respecting parental authority.  In his election night victory speech, he said that "parents know better than politicians what is best for their kids".  Alberta is not the only place GSAs have caused social friction.  In the United States, where the federal Equal Access Act guarantees that public school students have a right to form GSAs, the American Civil Liberties Union says the groups have prevailed in at least 17 federal lawsuits under the act between 1998 and 2015.  Most of the US lawsuits were over obstacles put in place by school officials opposed to the clubs, like making last minute changes to school rules to prevent a GSA from being established.  Concerns about the activities in GSAs has also cropped up in the US, with one California student battling his school telling the BBC in 2000: "This whole thing has stopped being about my club. It's become this debate about sex".  Albertan Dylan Chevalier, executive director of Sexual and Gender Acceptance Edmonton, says GSAs are about "having a place where you can be safe, relax, and take your walls down for half an hour".  Chevalier was the president of a GSA at his former high school, and he said the club hosted discussions and pizza parties, held bake sales to fund LGBT awareness campaigns and once organised a "drag and dance show".  Local skirmishes over the clubs have also been seen in the UK and in the Canadian provinces of Ontario and Manitoba, which also protect a student's right to start a GSA.  University of Calgary's Darren Lund, who teaches social justice education, says that the issue has always had "the potential to be polarising".  He says there's been a rapid cultural shift towards a greater acceptance of LGBT issues in the last 15 years or so - one that makes some people feel "discomfort".  "And then politicians are quick to jump on that fear and use that fear to play into people's insecurities about these issues," he says.  In 2014, legislation was first proposed to require all the province's public schools to establish a GSA on the request of a student.  The right-leaning provincial government at the time eventually passed a law - Bill 10 - establishing that protection. It received support from all the provincial political parties.  Some cheered the move, but it also led to protests.  Advocates argued the law didn't do enough to protect LGBT students. Others called it an infringement on freedom of religion and parental rights.  In 2015, the left-leaning NDP swept to power in Alberta and added more protections for GSAs.  It passed Bill 24, which required schools, both public and private, to have a policy in place to allow for it to comply "immediately" with a student's GSA request.  Further, school officials would not be allowed to disclose a student's involvement such a club.  "No students will be outed for joining a GSA or a QSA [queer-straight alliance] in the province - it's against the law," the provincial education minister said at the time.  Schools were put on notice - if they don't follow the law they risk having accreditation and funding stripped.  Lindsay Peace, who has a son who is transgender and who is an advocate for trans youth in the province, has been a vocal supporter of protecting GSAs.  "I think it's important for kids to know that they belong," she says "And sometimes it's the only place [where they do]."  And as for parents who want to know what their children are up to at school: "they should ask them", she says.  In Alberta, the second GSA law was contentious from the get-go.  "This legislation would create a void of care for our children, into which anyone can set up shop, without proper oversight or accountability," one parents rights group stated in an op-ed.  The Calgary-based Justice Centre for Constitutional Freedoms (JCCF) filed a court challenge on behalf of a coalition of parents and 26 faith-based independent schools, arguing bills 10 and 24 breach multiple constitutional rights, including by failing to protect a parent's right to educate based on his or her own conscience and religious beliefs.  It says the law further "undermines parental rights by prohibiting parents from knowing if their child is being exposed to sexual content through a GSA".  Court documents filed by the legal group warn that "the parents are alarmed and frightened at the climate of secrecy that the School Act has created around ideological sexual clubs and related activities".  JCCF president John Carpay summed up the tension up way: "The fuss is about making these clubs mandatory in schools where the parents disagree completely with the perspective or the belief system that is being advocated by these clubs".  "It's the difference between voluntary versus coercive."  Kenney's proposed policy - to roll back some GSA protections but to keep Bill 10 in place - looks unlikely to satisfy either side.  Says Chevalier: "He's playing a game. He's pandering to the social conservative side of his base and playing a fast one [with everyone else]."  The JCCF is waiting for a court decision on whether an interim injunction it's seeking on Bill 24 will be granted.  Carpay told the BBC he's uncertain whether the schools his organisation represents will want to continue with the court challenge and fight the 2015 GSA protections that would remain in place if Kenney's government does roll back Bill 24.  Meanwhile, campaigners like Peace and Chevalier say they'll continue to fight for GSA protections in all Alberta schools.  Peace says she thinks it's students themselves who will end up creating more inclusive schools, regardless of how fierce the GSA fight might get between parents and politicians.  Calgary high school students are now organising a province-wide school walkout next month - a few days after Kenney is to take office - to protest his party's GSA plans.


bbc--2019-05-08--Kentucky teen who sued over vaccine gets chickenpox

A US teenager who took legal action against his school after he was banned for refusing the chickenpox vaccination now has the virus, his lawyer says.  Jerome Kunkel, 18, made headlines last month after he unsuccessfully sued his Kentucky school for barring unimmunised students amid an outbreak.  His lawyer, Christopher Weist, told US media that the teen's symptoms developed last week.  The student had opposed the vaccine on religious grounds.  His lawsuit argued the vaccine is "immoral, illegal and sinful" and that his rights had been violated.  The ban from his school, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart/Assumption Academy in Walton, came during an outbreak that sickened at least 32 pupils.  Mr Weist told NBC News his young client did not regret his decision to remain unvaccinated.  "These are deeply held religious beliefs, they're sincerely held beliefs," Mr Wiest said.  "From their perspective, they always recognised they were running the risk of getting it, and they were OK with it."  The Northern Kentucky Health Department excluded unvaccinated students from classes and extracurricular activities from 14 March.  A Kentucky judge sided with the health department in April, saying the 18-year-old did not have a right to play sports.  The teenager's father, Bill Kunkel, said the vaccines were derived from aborted foetuses, which went against his family's religious beliefs.  Some viruses used to make vaccines are grown with cells descended from matter that was sourced from two human foetuses electively aborted in the 1960s.  But no new human cells have been used since then to produce vaccines, according to health authorities and drug manufacturers.  The Catholic Church has told its members it is morally justifiable to use these vaccines, though it wants alternative treatments developed without "using cell lines of illicit origin".  Chickenpox is a highly contagious virus that causes blisters, itching and fever, though it is generally not fatal.  Before a vaccine was created, about four millions Americans caught the disease each year, according to the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia.  Now only around 12,000 people catch it each year.


bbc--2019-05-16--The rapes haunting a community that shuns the 21st Century

In Manitoba, an insular Mennonite colony in Bolivia whose residents eschew modernity, a group of men were rounded up in 2009. Later, they were convicted of the rape and sexual assault of 151 women and girls - including small children - within this small Christian community. So why are Manitoba's leaders now lobbying to free the men from prison?  Unpaved dirt roads run alongside fields of soya and sunflowers and connect the far-flung houses of Manitoba, home to 1,800 people. Treads from the iron wheels of tractors are sunk deep into the mud - rubber tyres are prohibited on motorised vehicles, deemed too modern.  The hot, still air is occasionally stirred by the passing of a trotting horse pulling a buggy laden with women in wide straw hats and men in dark dungarees.  This is the principal form of transport in Manitoba. For members of the colony, driving a car or motorcycle is banned and punishable by excommunication by the bishop and ministers.  To outsiders, it looked like a peaceful, if mysterious, haven from the modern world. Then in June 2009 the prosecutor for the district of Santa Cruz received a call from a police officer in the eastern Bolivian town of Cotoca.  "He told me, 'Doctor, some Mennonites have brought men here who they're saying are rapists,'" remembers Fredy Perez, the prosecutor who investigated the case.  "The image we have of Mennonites in Bolivia is that they work from six in the morning until nine at night, they're very religious, and they don't dance or get drunk. So when I got that call from the officer, I just couldn't believe it."  But in Manitoba, many people had for months - years even - lived with the knowledge that something was deeply amiss.  "In the night we heard the dogs bark, but when I went out, I couldn't see anything," says Abraham (not his real name), who was the father of teenaged daughters back in 2009.  "In the morning we couldn't get up because we were half anaesthetised," he recalls. "We couldn't move… We didn't know what happened, but we knew something had happened.  "And it wasn't just once - they were here twice those men."  While the whole family was drugged and incapacitated, all his daughters were attacked by men who broke into their home. At the time, shame prevented the girls from telling their parents.  Listen to Bolivia's Mennonites, Justice and Renewal on BBC Radio 4's Crossing Continents at 11:00 on Thursday 16 May  Or catch up later online  "Due to their religious beliefs, they thought something bad, something evil was happening in the colony," says Perez.  "In the morning they had headaches… Women woke with semen on them, and wondered why they were without underwear. And they didn't discuss it with neighbours in case someone said, 'That house has the devil in it.'"  Eventually, some women began to speak out. And the stories multiplied.  "Every day we talked about it, but we were worried about telling the authorities. We just didn't know how to resolve things," says Abraham.  Although the 90 Mennonite colonies are a powerhouse of Bolivian agricultural production, most are self-governing. Mennonites have their roots in 16th-Century Germany and Holland. They are pacifists, practise adult baptism and believe they must live a simple life. They came to Bolivia seeking religious freedom, land and isolation, and arrived via Russia, Canada and Mexico - always moving on when their autonomy was threatened.  But with numerous reports of sexual assault among such a tiny population, the people of Manitoba were confronted with a level of criminality so shocking that it could not be ignored.  In the end, events overtook the colony. One June night a decade ago, a young man was caught inside someone's home. He was taken and held by some of the local men, and then implicated eight others - all Mennonite, all from Manitoba except one.  Abraham says that before they were handed over to the Bolivian police, the men confessed and gave detailed accounts of the attacks.  "They told me they'd broken in to my house and done whatever they wanted to. There were four of them."  Once the story was out, his girls finally confided in their parents, confirming what the men had said.  "My daughters remembered something had occurred, but they didn't know what. And they told us about pain they had had in their vaginal area and their legs," remembers Abraham.  In court documents, these stories are amplified by other victims. Women and girls talk of being raped by different men one after the other; of finding a bloody rag that didn't belong to them; of trying to scream, but being unable to.  So how had it happened? And why had Abraham and his children been almost unaware at the time?  The substance identified in the criminal rape case and allegedly used by the attackers to immobilise victims and their families comes from tropical plants. It is well-known in Latin America, and some Mennonite farmers on the continent apparently use it to anaesthetise bulls before they are castrated.  In Manitoba the men sprayed it through bedroom windows before they broke in. Its effect is dramatic, especially on memory. Someone might know something terrible has happened but be unable to recall it. Or it can render a person compliant, impotent to fight back.  Margarethe (not her real name), a grandmother, sits on the terrace of her home in Manitoba. The windows are obscured by security bars, a legacy of the rapes. Margarethe's scrubbed, workers' hands are crossed on her lap, her ankles crossed beneath her chair.  She speaks softly in her native Low German - a dialect hundreds of years old. Most Mennonite women and girls do not speak Spanish. Often confined to work in the home and on the farm from the age of 12 or 13, they have little contact with Bolivians, and are not taught Spanish during their few years of schooling.  "I can't even put into words how terrible it was," Margarethe says, recalling that period ten years ago, when life in Manitoba was dominated by the sex attacks.  "They told us it happened more than once at my house - about five women were affected. I saw some people in the dark and I shone my flashlight at them, but I didn't recognise them."  After the story emerged, psychological support was offered to the rape survivors by Mennonite missionaries, among others. But the Bishop of Manitoba rejected help on the victims' behalf and was quoted in the press saying, "Why would they need counselling if they weren't even awake when it happened?"  Meanwhile, the prosecutor was working to get survivors to co-operate in the forthcoming trial.  "It was very difficult to get them to testify," says Perez. "Many times the women said, 'No we don't want to,' and they'd start to cry. And I would say to them, 'But if you don't co-operate, I won't have any witnesses. So the men will be acquitted, and they'll return to the colony.' That would make the women and girls cry even more.  "Mennonite culture is pretty sexist. And apart from that, the women are shy, and don't want contact with the outside world."  But they overcame their upset, and in 2011 the trial began.  The power of the testimony she heard in the court room has stayed with Gladys Alba, one of the judges in the case: "They had the courage to confront their abusers and accuse them face to face. That's what impressed me."  And she believes there may have been many more victims.  "In spite of the fact there were so many in the case, there were other stories that weren't part of the process, and there was talk about men who were victims as well."  Perez agrees that the numbers affected - especially related to women and girls - could be much higher.  "It could be more than 200," he says. "But some of those victims remained hidden because of cultural factors. They didn't go, or weren't taken by their parents, for a forensic examination. It's hard for a Mennonite woman to get married if she's had sexual relations. So, many parents preferred to keep quiet and say, 'Nothing happened in this house.'"  One of the accused escaped soon after being arrested, so eight men stood trial. In August 2011, seven were sentenced to 25 years in prison for rape. The other one - who has since been conditionally released - got 12 years for supplying the drug used to debilitate the victims.  A further two men were tried and convicted in connected trials. After one of the men died, eight remain incarcerated on the outskirts of the city of Santa Cruz.  In that sprawling prison complex called Palmasola, 7,000 Bolivian men are locked up behind high concrete walls. Conjugal visits are allowed, and at least two of the Mennonite convicts have found partners and started families since they were incarcerated. All of the Manitoba men continue to deny they are rapists.  So why would the women and girls lie?  "Simply because they were obliged to accuse us by their parents," says Franz Dyck, one of those convicted, who is 31 now. "They even took them to a school to teach them Spanish so they could accuse us directly in court.  "I think we were accused because we're poor - we couldn't defend ourselves. When I was taken prisoner in Manitoba I was a virgin. I told them all the allegations were lies but they locked me inside a container, without any evidence. They threatened me, and kept me for almost a week in the colony until I was taken to a police cell."  It is not unusual for prisoners to deny they committed a crime. But what is rare about this case is that Mennonites from many different sections of the community - the most liberal and the most conservative, in Bolivia and in North America - continue to air doubts about the convictions of the Manitoba men.  There are different narratives. Some say the accused men were unpopular in Manitoba, and the colony paid off the Bolivian judiciary to keep them in prison. Others believe the men were fall-guys - cover for a wider culture of familial sexual abuse. Many doubt the use of that powerful narcotic spray.  Perez bats off the theories and he dismisses claims the men were forced to confess to rape under threat of torture.  "That was their version," says the prosecutor. "But they wrote those confessions in their own language stating which houses they broke into and who they'd raped. And what they wrote coincided with the results of forensic examinations of the victims - those same girls and women were found to have been raped in the homes the men identified."  Gladys Alba has no doubts about the case she tried.  "What we did was right," says the judge. "Justice was done."  Today in Manitoba, on the surface at least, life remains the same.  At the end of gravel drives, in front of simple homes, milk churns await collection by the colony's dairy co-operative. Men and boys work out in the fields, women and girls spend their days cooking, washing, cleaning and making the clothes prescribed by the colony's leaders.  Mennonites believe it is hard work that will open the gates of heaven for them. The rules in Bolivia's old colonies are harsh. Mobile phones are burnt if they are discovered and young people may be beaten savagely for transgressions like listening to music.  Even so, wrong-doing can be forgiven. This is why Manitobans like Bernard Dyck, a farmer in his 50s, would like to see the men released from prison in Palmasola.  "We would welcome them back with great pleasure," he says. "And if they need anything, we'd like to help them. Our ministers always say we have to forgive, even if someone's committed a crime, that's why they've sent people to find out if the men can be freed."  Unsurprisingly, the lobbying by Manitoba's leaders is creating tension within the colony. Aganetha (not her real name) is very upset, her eyes watery behind steel-rimmed glasses. And she is frightened.  "A lot of people support the men in Palmasola. And if we - the victims - talk, those men in prison will hear, and families will be threatened."  Mobile phones might be banned for conservative Mennonites, but inside Bolivia and internationally, this is a community that is very connected, with stories appearing on WhatsApp quickly becoming common currency.  Abraham, the father of teenaged girls who were raped, is also rattled by moves to free the men.  "A little while ago the men were threatening people from jail, saying what they would do when they got out," Abraham says. "The authorities of the colony want them released, and I say no, because they're continuing to make threats."  Critics claim conservative Mennonite colonies often fail to distinguish between a sin and a crime, so that in instances of sexual abuse, perpetrators are forgiven if they say they are sorry.  Johann Fehr, one of Manitoba's ministers, denies this.  "Rape is one of the biggest sins," he says. "And it is a crime - it is not something we can resolve within the colony."  But ministers are not just pushing for the release of the men from Palmasola because they believe 10 years in prison is punishment enough. Johann Fehr says some of the victims' testimony may be false.  "Some of those who've come here have mentioned that many of the girls who're now adults are willing to testify in favour of the men", says Manuel Baptista, the sentencing judge for the district of Santa Cruz, who has received a steady stream of those advocating on the men's behalf.  "Their sentences could be revoked if it were proven scientifically or through new evidence that the men didn't commit those crimes. But that would have to happen through a new legal case."  To date, he says, there have only been inquiries - no new judicial process has begun. But is he worried women living in a very patriarchal set-up might be coerced into changing their testimonies?  "We can't assume women are being pressured. This question would be better put to the judge if a new case is opened."  As it stands, the men serving 25 years cannot be considered for conditional release until they have served two-thirds of their sentence - that is 16 years and eight months.  Forgiveness is at the heart of Mennonite religious belief. But for some of the women of Manitoba, the colony's determination to free the men jailed a decade ago, may already represent a profound test of faith.  Norwegian police have documented 151 cases of sexual abuse, including child rape, in one small community of 2,000 people, north of the Arctic circle. The offences occurred over decades - between the 1950s and 2017 - but were only recently uncovered. How could such serious sex crimes go unchecked for so long?  The community of 2,000 people with 151 cases of sex crime


bbc--2019-05-28--Is the world becoming more gay-friendly

Is the world becoming more gay-friendly?

When Taiwan became the first place in Asia to legalise same-sex unions, hundreds of gay people marked the occasion by registering to marry.  It marked a significant change on the island, where the majority of people only relatively recently became supportive of same-sex relationships.  In many other places there has also been a shift - often a rapid one - towards more liberal attitudes.  For example, in 2007, one in five South Koreans said homosexuality should be accepted, -but, by 2013, that figure had doubled.  Attitudes among the public also appear to have softened in other places including Argentina, Chile, the US, Australia, India and many in Western Europe.  But these changes do not always mean full equality. In Taiwan, for example, the government stopped short of granting full adoption rights.  Elsewhere, some nations are bringing in stricter anti-gay laws and same-sex relationships remain illegal in about 69 countries. On Friday, Kenya's High Court upheld a law banning gay sex.  In some countries, opposition towards gay relationships is deeply entrenched and may be growing.  For example, in Ghana, where gay sex can be punished with a prison sentence, attitudes have become even less accepting.  In 2013, a poll suggested 96% of Ghanaians believe society should not accept homosexuality.  Elsewhere, official punishments for gay sex may provide insights into how residents, or at least their leaders, view homosexuality.  For example, Brunei recently made sex between men punishable with death through stoning, although it has since backtracked on this.  Another issue is that while laws and perceived attitudes may appear to have become more relaxed in some countries, the reality may be very different for the LGBT community there. For example, while Brazil's Supreme Court has recently voted in favour of making homophobia and transphobia crimes illegal, it did so in response to a large number of killings of LGBT people.  So, why does support for gay and lesbian people vary so much around the world?  Studies suggest the reasons are often linked to three factors - economic development, democracy and religion.  One theory is that a nation's economy shapes the attitudes of its people - including how they feel about LGBT rights.  Often, poorer nations tend to be less supportive, partly because cultural values tend to focus more on basic survival.  When people are concerned about things like clean water, food, shelter and safety, they can become more reliant on others.  This dependency tends to promote strong group loyalty - increasing support for its norms, including "traditional" heterosexual family structures.  People living in richer nations, by contrast, tend to have a lot more security.  As a result, they are more likely to have freedom to make the decisions that suit them, and to believe in self-expression.  Not everyone in richer countries is more tolerant of gay relationships, but the data we have indicates they tend to be more supportive.  Democracy is also thought to play a role.  In democracies, principles like equality, fairness, and the right to protest are more likely to form part of the actions of government and residents.  As a result, people who are sometimes seen as different, like gay and lesbian individuals, may be more likely to gain acceptance.  But people can need time to adapt to democracy.  Compared with longer-term democracies, former communist nations such as Slovenia and Russia appear to have been slower to develop more tolerant attitudes.  Another factor is the role of religion.  Western Europe, with its relatively low levels of religious belief, has been at the forefront of legalising same-sex marriage. Denmark, Belgium, Norway, Spain and Sweden were among the first countries to do so.  Some Middle Eastern and African nations, where Islam or conservative Protestant religious faiths are most commonly practised, have some of the least tolerant attitudes.  Gay sex is illegal in almost half of the countries in Africa and Asia, with between 60% and 98% of people there saying that religion is "always important". This is much higher than in Europe, where gay sex is legal in all countries.  But while richer, more democratic and less religious nations tend to be more tolerant, there are many exceptions.  China, for example, has low levels of religious beliefs, but polls suggest its people are a lot less supportive of gay rights than their Taiwanese neighbours.  Nations have always differed in terms of economic development, democracy and religion. So, why have attitudes and policies changed so much over the last 20 years?  One suggestion is that attitudes change as older generations pass away and are replaced by younger, more liberal people.  Another is that people of all different age groups may change their views and some research does suggest this has been the case.  In the US and many other nations, popular culture and the media appear to have played a role in the rapid liberalisation of attitudes.  From the 1990s onwards, some highly likeable gay and lesbian television characters - such as Will from Will and Grace - and TV personalities like Ellen DeGeneres began to appear. Popular culture makes it possible for people who would not necessarily know an openly gay individual to know one in a virtual sense.  Real life contact is also important, as it's more difficult to dislike a gay or lesbian person who is a friend or family member.  In the US, 22% of people in 1993 said they had a close friend or family member who was gay or lesbian. By 2013, 65% said that they did.  In this way the "coming out" movement, which encourages people to self-disclose their sexual or gender identity, has been highly successful.  More like this  Nevertheless, it cannot be assumed that all countries will, sooner or later, introduce laws that are more gay-friendly.  Some view being gay as a Western import, and may feel that the US and Europe are using economic power to impose their will on them.  For example, in 2009 Uganda considered a bill which would have made gay sex punishable with death in some circumstances. In response, several nations threatened to cut their funding, and the World Bank postponed a $90m (£70.7m) loan.  Similarly, Turkey has struggled to walk a thin line between supporting conservative Islamic views and maintaining policies that the EU would support.  There is also an argument that Brunei's initial decision to introduce the death penalty for gay sex may be an attempt to appeal to Muslim tourists and investors.  Elsewhere, political candidates may back harsh laws as a way to generate publicity and gain public support.  Attitudes and policies in many nations have clearly been shifting.  But the suggestion that more will follow in their footsteps is not a foregone conclusion.  This analysis piece was commissioned by the BBC from an expert working for an outside organisation.  Amy Adamczyk is Professor of Sociology at John Jay College of Criminal Justice and the Programs of Doctoral Study in Sociology and Criminal Justice at The Graduate Center, City University of New York.


bbc--2019-05-28--Pakistan vet charged with blasphemy over medicine wrapped in religious text

Pakistan vet charged with blasphemy over medicine 'wrapped in religious text'

A Hindu veterinary doctor in south-east Pakistan has been charged under the country's strict blasphemy laws after allegedly selling medicine wrapped in paper bearing Islamic religious text.  An angry crowd set fire to his clinic near Mirpur Khas, Sindh province, and other Hindu-owned shops were looted.  The vet said his use of the paper, apparently torn from an Islamic studies school textbook, was a mistake.  If he is convicted he could be sentenced to life in prison.  Pakistan's blasphemy laws carry harsh penalties for anyone who insults Islam. Critics say they target a disproportionate number of people from religious minorities.  According to reports, the vet had used pages from the school textbook to wrap up medicines for a customer with sick livestock. But the customer saw Islamic religious content on the pages and went to a local cleric who informed police.  Maulana Hafeez-ur-Rehman, a local leader of the religious political party Jamiat Ulema-e-Islami, told BBC Urdu that the doctor had done it deliberately.  According to police, the vet has insisted that his use of the paper was a mistake.  He has since been charged with insulting religious beliefs and defiling the Koran and faces life in prison.  Four shops, including the vet's clinic and a medical store, were ransacked and then set alight, local journalists reported.  Mirpur Khas police officer Javed Iqbal told the BBC that those involved in the attacks would be arrested. He said they had "neither love for Islam nor for their neighbours".  Islam is Pakistan's national religion and public support for the strict blasphemy laws is strong.  Correspondents say hardline politicians have often backed severe punishments, partly as a way of shoring up their support base.  Hundreds of Pakistani citizens have been charged with blasphemy over the past few decades and some cases have triggered an international outcry.  Pakistani Christian Asia Bibi was sentenced to death in 2010 after being accused of insulting the Prophet Muhammad in a row with her neighbours.  She spent years on death row until her conviction was overturned in 2018 by the Supreme Court. She has since left the country.


bbc--2019-05-28--The preachers getting rich from poor Americans

Televangelist Todd Coontz has a well-worn routine: he dresses in a suit, pulls out a Bible and urges viewers to pledge a very specific amount of money. "Don't delay, don't delay," he urges, calmly but emphatically.  It sounds simple, absurdly so, but Coontz knows his audience extremely well. He broadcasts on Christian cable channels, often late into the night, drawing in viewers who lack financial literacy and are desperate for change.  "I understand the laws that govern insurance, stocks and bonds and all that is involved with Wall Street," he once said, looking directly into the camera. "God has called me… as a financial deliverer."  Crucially, he always refers to the money as a "seed" - a $273 seed, a $333 seed, a "turnaround" seed, depending on the broadcast. If viewers "plant" one, the amount will come back to them, multiplied, he says. It is an investment in their faith and their future.  In 2011, one of those desperate viewers was Larry Fardette, then based in California. Larry watched a lot of similar televangelists, known as prosperity preachers, who explicitly link wealth and religion. But he found Coontz particularly compelling. He assured quick returns. He seemed like a results man.  The Fardette family was going through a tough time. Larry's daughter was seriously ill and he had health problems of his own. His construction business was struggling, and to make matters worse both his van and his car broke down irreparably within the same week. When a local junkyard offered him $600 for the van, he thumbed the bills thoughtfully and remembered Coontz's rousing speech.  Maybe he should invest the sum as a "seed"?  He instantly recalled the specific number that Coontz had repeated again and again: $273. It was a figure the preacher often used. "God gave me the single greatest miracle of my lifetime in one day, and the numbers two, seven and three were involved," he once said. It is also - perhaps not coincidentally - the number of Coontz's $1.38m condo in South Carolina, paid for by his church, Rockwealth, according to local TV channel WSOC-TV.  Larry has now come to realise there was no foundation to Coontz's promises that donated cash would multiply, but at the time the stirring speeches gave him hope. He did not see any other way out.  He sent off two cheques: one for $273 and another for $333, as requested. Then he waited for his miracle.  Televangelists are not as talked about today as they were in the 1980s and 1990s, when many rose to fame and fortune through mushrooming cable channels.  But they have never gone away. Even after numerous press exposés, the rogue elements have often bounced back. Some have got even richer. Many have taken their appeals on to social media.  A number of those making the most persistent pleas for money tap into something called the prosperity gospel, which hinges on a belief that your health and wealth are controlled by God, and God is willing you to be prosperous. Believers are encouraged to show their faith through payments, which they understand will be repaid - many times over - either in the form of wealth or healing.  For followers, it is a way to make sense of sickness and poverty. It can feel empowering and inspiring amid despair. The hard-up donors are often not oblivious to the preachers' personal wealth - though they may not know the extent of it - but they take the riches as a sign of a direct connection with God. If seed payments have worked for them, maybe they can work for you too?  And if the seeds never flourish? Some are told their faith is not strong enough, or they have hidden sin. In Larry's case, he often interpreted small pieces of good fortune - a gift of groceries from a neighbour, or the promise of a few extra hours of work for his wife, Darcy - as evidence of fruition.  He estimates he gave about $20,000 to these operators over the years. A little here, a little there. A few years ago, he started tallying it all up. The list is like a who's who of all the established players, including those who have made headlines for their lavish lifestyles - those such as Kenneth Copeland and Creflo Dollar, who have asked followers to fund their private jets.  Larry's own life could not stand in greater contrast. These days he and Darcy live in the small town of Cullman, Alabama, about an hour's drive north of Birmingham. Their spartan living room is furnished with just a desk and four dining-room chairs. The monotony of the wall's bare magnolia paint is broken only by a couple of mounted crosses and a small, framed Biblical verse. "Be anxious for nothing," it reads (Philippians 4:6).  "Life is not easy but we are blessed," says Larry, in a rasping, lived-in voice. "We have food in the refrigerator, we have two cats that love us. My wife's got part-time work in a store and I get disability benefits."  Larry's painting and remodelling business fell apart when scoliosis started twisting his spine about eight years ago - roughly the same time he scrapped his van and car and made his donation to Todd Coontz. He and Darcy still lived then in his home state, California, and employed former drug users as workers. He was an ex-addict himself, and his Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous sessions had strengthened his religious beliefs.  After deciding to "follow Christ's path", he became an avid viewer of religious channels and specifically "praisathons" - fundraising events with multiple guest speakers. He became, in his words, "hypnotised" by the hosts. He was not just a passive spectator, he felt like he knew them.  Many of these pastors also ran prayer lines - where callers would speak one-on-one with an operator and they would pray together. If a request for money followed, Larry was happy to contribute - even if he did not have much to give. He was under the impression that the money was going to worthy projects at home and abroad, and he hoped that if he were ever in a desperate position, he would be helped too.  In 2013, that moment came.  His daughter's health, which had long been poor, had become critical. Larry had promised to help her financially, but his "seeds" had not flourished. He wrote a heart-wrenching, five-page letter to several ministries he had contributed to over the years, pleading for help.  "We had been faithful to these ministries. They called us partners, friends, family," he explains today. "We thought they'd be there for us."  In the letter, he detailed how his daughter's health insurance would not cover the extensive and costly treatment she needed. One doctor had suggested they waited for her organs to fail, as only then would he be able to intervene.  "As a father, I am presently helpless," he wrote. "Would you please consider sponsorship to save our daughter's life?"  The replies drifted in. Some were instant email responses, others came through the post after prompting. All were rejections. "They said things like, 'Our ministry mandate prevents us from helping you,'" he recalls. He remembers the reaction of one specific office manager, from a ministry that had publicised its funding of medical treatments in the US: "In a haughty voice, she took a deep breath and said: 'You know we get six or seven of these calls a week and if we help you, we are going to have to help everyone.'"  By summer 2014, Larry and Darcy had exhausted all their funds. They had sold all their belongings to travel from California to Florida to be with their daughter, and ended up homeless. Wracked with guilt for having failed to provide the promised help to his daughter, Larry couldn't understand why he had been let down.  It took another year for things to become clear. In August 2015, the couple were channel-hopping in a Jacksonville motel room, when they caught an episode of John Oliver's satirical news show, Last Week Tonight.  "I never watched John Oliver. I had never even heard of the guy," says Larry. But his attention was immediately caught by a skit that ripped into money-grabbing televangelists. Larry and Darcy sat up in shock, recognising all the names.  They say they felt as though God was lifting a veil. "We had been so ignorant," Larry says, shaking his head.  The next morning they went to a local library to find out more online. In just a few clicks, they came across the Texas-based Trinity Foundation, which had assisted Last Week Tonight with its research.  Larry called the phone number, slightly apprehensively, not sure whether a friendly voice would pick up.  The man on the other end listened patiently as Larry reeled off the names of the preachers he had come to know.  He told him they knew every single one of them. Not only that, they kept files on most of them, detailing what was known of their estimated fortunes.  Stunned, Larry stayed on the line talking through his experiences, relieved to find someone who understood.  In its early days, in the 1970s, the Trinity Foundation was a wild place.  It was a home church but far from the twee set-up you might imagine. Here Bible classes were so fiery they could end in fist fights.  The dominant figure was the foundation's extraordinary creator, Ole Anthony (pronounced Oh-lee). At 6ft 4in, with penetrating blue eyes, he was a former teenage delinquent who had dabbled in arson and taken heroin - and had gone on to become an Air Force intelligence officer, a failed Republican election candidate and the owner of a PR firm, all before the age of 33. Then he underwent a sudden religious conversion, renounced wealth and devoted his life to Christ.  A friend, John Bloom, later wrote that Ole had assumed old business colleagues would join his Bible study groups. "But Ole was a little too 'out there' for most three-piece-suit North Dallas Protestants," Bloom explained. He was also based in a "fleabag office" in a rough part of town. Consequently, he mostly attracted troubled characters with nowhere else to go.  It was during these sessions that Ole started to note a common thread. When people were on the verge of homelessness in the heart of the Bible belt, a surprising number offered the last of their cash to televangelists who promised them financial salvation.  Ole, who always had a have-a-go approach to problem-solving, felt an urge to step in. First, he tried approaching the ministries on behalf of the penniless donors, thinking he could explain the circumstances and get the money refunded. However, like Larry, he found no-one willing to talk.  So he took it to a Christian broadcasting association - but it didn't want to get involved. Then he approached local district attorneys, who explained that many preachers were protected by the First Amendment (guaranteeing freedom of religion and free speech), so there was nothing they could do. So he turned back to the media, this time major networks and publications, which said investigations would be too time-consuming.  Ole was faced with a multibillion-dollar industry built, as he saw it, on exploiting the poor - and it was completely untouchable.  And this is how a community church became an investigations office. The Trinity Foundation felt compelled to tackle the prosperity preachers because no-one else would.  It is hard to imagine brawls at the foundation these days. Most of its members are at retirement age - Ole himself is 80, and in failing health - and the operation has moved from its "fleabag" office to two adjacent houses in a sleepy part of east Dallas. On one side is the gentrifying Junius Heights neighbourhood, on the other rows of slightly run-down bungalows.  Every day there is an early-morning Bible study session, a group dinner at 5pm, and more theology in the evening, including prayers with guitar-led hymns. The mixed bunch of devotees now includes a Mexican economist and a veteran of Desert Storm.  "Our members have taken over a whole block," says Ole incredulously, as he smokes a pipe on the front porch. Their semi-communal way of living has led to allegations that they are a cult, but he dismisses this as nonsense. "A lot of people don't like me, you know," he says, more than once.  Ole's dogged work has steered the foundation into an unusual niche, forming a bridge between the Christian world and the media. Though journalists originally pushed him away, they later found his foundation could provide the springboard for their investigations. Gradually it morphed into a watchdog, maintaining detailed files on wealthy evangelists.  "We have done a lot of weird things," Ole concedes, between hacking coughs.  Over the years, they have gained a reputation for their gung-ho approach - diving into dumpsters outside ministry offices, in search of potentially incriminating paperwork, and going undercover.  Collaborating with ABC News in the early 1990s, Ole posed as a small-scale pastor trying to learn how big-money ministries work. Accompanied by a producer with hidden cameras, he went to a mailing company working for televangelist Robert Tilton and was told how posting gimmicky gifts to potential donors had boosted returns.  It was a well-known technique - sending things such as "vial of holy water" or even dollar bills to prompt people to send a financial gift back - but it was rare to hear someone admitting it.  When the TV reports aired on Diane Sawyer's Primetime Live show in 1991, Tilton denied wrongdoing and attempted to sue the network - but he failed and his TV shows were eventually cancelled.  A couple of years later, the Federal Communications Commission reportedly came close to introducing a "truth-in-advertising" clause for religious solicitations. This would have meant that any claims of boosting finances or curing disease would have to be verifiable, and Ole took various trips to Washington to lobby for it.  Ultimately the idea was dropped, which Ole puts down to the fact that the Republicans won the House of Representatives in 1994, with the help of votes from the religious right.  "We've tried a lot of things, but we haven't been very successful," he says, ruefully.  He doesn't think much will ever change, but asked if this makes him frustrated or angry, he laughs. "Why would I make myself angry? That is all there is in this world, injustice."  Pete Evans - a bespectacled believer with a gentle, apologetic manner - is now the foundation's lead investigator. One of his specialities is tracking the movements of private jets, aiming to discover when pastors are using them recreationally, instead of for church business.  Pete took Larry's first phone call. He remembers being moved by it, and starting a crowdfunding page for him. It raised about $2,000. "Less than what we had hoped for, but enough to tide them over," he wrote on the website at the time.  Pete says that just over a decade ago there was great excitement within the foundation, when the US Senate's Finance Committee began to question whether evangelists were taking advantage of their tax-exempt status to break Internal Revenue Service (IRS) guidelines.  While other tax-exempt organisations - notably charities - must at least fill in a basic form, known as the 990, churches don't have to. This means they are not required to detail their top employees' earnings or list how much is spent on philanthropic projects. Their inner workings can be entirely unknown.  But in 2007 the Senate committee appeared to think that some ministries were abusing this privilege and violating an IRS rule that church earnings may not "unreasonably benefit" an individual.  The Trinity Foundation shared all its research with the committee, and attended meetings with its officials.  The group - led by Iowa Senator Chuck Grassley - decided to focus on six well-known figures: Joyce Meyer, Creflo Dollar, Eddie Long, Kenneth Copeland, Benny Hinn and Paula White - who is now President Trump's spiritual adviser.  All six denied wrongdoing. Four failed to co-operate satisfactorily, according to the committee (White, Copeland, Dollar and Long). Larry had donated to three of them.  "We really thought it was going to come to something," says Pete.  Yet by 2011, the investigation had lost steam. Senator Grassley drew no specific conclusions. Instead he asked an evangelical group - the Evangelical Council for Financial Accountability (ECFA) - to study ways to spur "self-reform" among ministries.  "The whole thing frittered away," says Pete. He believes the 2008 economic crash played a part; the financial world suddenly had much bigger issues to deal with. "But we were extremely disappointed. After years of hanging on, it felt like they just punted the ball."  The ECFA refused a BBC request for an interview, but said it stood by past statements on its website. In 2009, it told Senator Grassley that filing full tax returns would be an "intrusion on the most intimate recesses of church administration".  The Senate committee has shown no sign of taking up the subject again, and no government agency has taken a strong interest in it.  Paid-for television channels also fall outside the remit of the national regulator, the Federal Communications Commission - unlike in the UK, where Ofcom might step in.  Meanwhile, an anonymous source at the IRS told the BBC that the service feels its hands are often tied. "We can't knock on doors because then it is 'government overreach'," he said. "And if you think someone is going to thank you for closing down their church..."  But, although it is rare, sometimes a pastor does come within the IRS's sights.  In 2013, one of Todd Coontz's neighbours called a local TV channel to complain that he was taking up too many spaces in the car park outside his luxury South Carolina apartment block.  "He was not a known name around here," says Kim Holt, who runs the investigations unit at WSOC-TV in Charlotte, North Carolina. "But the caller then started mentioning Coontz's church and the 'seed' giving. And that's when we got interested."  The channel got in touch with the Trinity Foundation, which provided background on Coontz and the prosperity gospel. The foundation also shared recordings of his TV appearances - it keeps an archive of televangelist broadcasts, taking notes on the programmes to monitor new techniques.  "There is a peculiar thing about people turning the TV on in the middle of the night," says Pete, adding that this is when many pastors broadcast their pleas for seed donations. "They are lonely or hurting. They might have medical condition or be unemployed."  When WSOC-TV's report on Coontz aired, it went far beyond the parking dispute, detailing his personal wealth and casting doubt on the legitimacy of his fundraising tactics.  Todd Coontz is not in the same league as some of the other prosperity preachers. He does not have a megachurch, a private airfield or even his own jet. He preaches at other people's live events, rather than holding them under his own name.  But his lifestyle is certainly opulent. He has posted photos on Facebook of his stays in hotel rooms overlooking Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. He has spent tens of thousands on jewellery and diamonds. He also has, or at least had, a fleet of luxury cars, including three BMWs, two Ferraris, a Maserati and a Land Rover, plus a speed boat.  Meanwhile, he has continued to target his operations at those on the breadline. Under the title Dr Todd Coontz, he has written a series of books: Please Don't Repo My Car, Supernatural Debt Calculation, There Is Life After Debt.  In the same year as the TV report aired, a federal probe led by the IRS criminal investigation unit also began.  "That certainly does not seem like a coincidence," says Pete. "I think someone saw the report and thought, 'This is crazy. We can't let this go.' It was such a public display of the misuse of donor money."  The IRS did not delve into his "seed" operations or his tax-exempt church, Rockwealth, but into his taxes for various personal side projects.  He was making large profits from freelancing as a speaker for other ministries and his two for-profit businesses, selling his books, CDs and DVDs. For these, he had needed to file accurate tax returns.  During a four-year investigation, prosecutors dug up all sorts of irregularities, ruling that Coontz had been underreporting his income and exploiting expenses claims.  He had developed various ploys, such as flying economy but sending fake first-class invoices to the ministries he was freelancing for, so he could pocket the difference. He would also claim expenses twice, once from his own ministry and once from his client. He claimed for thousands of dollars spent on clothes (suits are not a permitted business expense) and for 400 cinema tickets, which the IRS also considered unreasonable.  On 26 January 2019, Coontz was sentenced to five years in prison for failing to pay taxes and assisting in the filing of false tax returns. He was also ordered to pay $755,669 in restitution.  He reported to jail in early April, but was freed by the judges, pending appeal.  Coontz did not respond to the BBC's request for comment, but he has previously denied wrongdoing. On his website, he also claims to have given more than $1m to charity.  His Twitter account is still posting daily (with no reference to his jail sentence) and he has taken to preaching - via the Periscope app - from the front seat of his Maserati.  "Are you calling to sow your $219 seed today?" was the immediate response when the BBC called Rockwealth's hotline. The operator was not able to share the significance of that figure and would not answer questions about how many people had called to pledge. "Not so many today, but there are several of us answering calls," she said. It is not clear whether the switchboard was serving only Rockwealth or other churches too.  The Trinity Foundation has recently filed a long report to the IRS, calling for Rockwealth to lose its status as a tax-exempt church. As always, it feels like a shot in the dark and it does not expect to hear back.  Both Ole and Pete says the work they do often falls flat - and not through a lack of effort at their end. They once helped a woman get her $1,000 donation back from a ministry, only for her to donate it all over again. "She called us afterwards, asking to get it back again," recalls Pete, saying they had to decline the second time. "My feeling is she was addicted. She just got hooked back on to the TV and believing what they said."  Ole remains disappointed that the authorities still allow the vulnerable to fall into these traps.  "We hoped for change," says Ole. "But it didn't work. I guess they didn't want change."  As for Larry and Darcy, they are also still donating, despite their meagre income, but only to their local church.  "Plant your investment of your time, talent and money into the local community and you are going to find people who need help," says Larry, adding that he knows his neighbourhood pastor personally.  Their daughter is alive, but, after Larry was unable to pay for her medical treatment, a rift arose between them and they now rarely talk.  The couple say they want to share their story with others to make them think twice about where their money could be going.  "We found out the hard way. These are money-making industries," says Larry vehemently.  Darcy, sitting on one of the dining room chairs in the middle of the empty room, nods in agreement. "You have got to see some of the houses they live in," she adds, pursing her lips together. "Must be nice."


bbc--2019-07-04--China Muslims Xinjiang schools used to separate children from families

China Muslims: Xinjiang schools used to separate children from families

China is deliberately separating Muslim children from their families, faith and language in its far western region of Xinjiang, according to new research.  At the same time as hundreds of thousands of adults are being detained in giant camps, a rapid, large-scale campaign to build boarding schools is under way.  Based on publicly available documents, and backed up by dozens of interviews with family members overseas, the BBC has gathered some of the most comprehensive evidence to date about what is happening to children in the region.  Records show that in one township alone more than 400 children have lost not just one but both parents to some form of internment, either in the camps or in prison.  Formal assessments are carried out to determine whether the children are in need of "centralised care".  Alongside the efforts to transform the identity of Xinjiang's adults, the evidence points to a parallel campaign to systematically remove children from their roots.  China's tight surveillance and control in Xinjiang, where foreign journalists are followed 24 hours a day, make it impossible to gather testimony there. But it can be found in Turkey.  In a large hall in Istanbul, dozens of people queue to tell their stories, many of them clutching photographs of children, all now missing back home in Xinjiang.  "I don't know who is looking after them," one mother says, pointing to a picture of her three young daughters, "there is no contact at all."  Another mother, holding a photo of three sons and a daughter, wipes away her tears. "I heard that they've been taken to an orphanage," she says.  In 60 separate interviews, in wave after wave of anxious, grief-ridden testimony, parents and other relatives give details of the disappearance in Xinjiang of more than 100 children.  They are all Uighurs - members of Xinjiang's largest, predominantly Muslim ethnic group that has long had ties of language and faith to Turkey. Thousands have come to study or to do business, to visit family, or to escape China's birth control limits and the increasing religious repression.  But over the past three years, they have found themselves trapped after China began detaining hundreds of thousands of Uighurs and other minorities in giant camps.  The Chinese authorities say the Uighurs are being educated in "vocational training centres" in order to combat violent religious extremism. But evidence shows that many are being detained for simply expressing their faith - praying or wearing a veil - or for having overseas connections to places like Turkey.  For these Uighurs, going back means almost certain detention. Phone contact has been severed - even speaking to relatives overseas is now too dangerous for those in Xinjiang.  With his wife detained back home, one father tells me he fears some of his eight children may now be in the care of the Chinese state.  "I think they've been taken to child education camps," he says.  New research commissioned by the BBC sheds light on what is really happening to these children and many thousands of others.  Dr Adrian Zenz is a German researcher widely credited with exposing the full extent of China's mass detentions of adult Muslims in Xinjiang. Based on publicly available official documents, his report paints a picture of an unprecedented school expansion drive in Xinjiang.  Campuses have been enlarged, new dormitories built and capacity increased on a massive scale. Significantly, the state has been growing its ability to care full-time for large numbers of children at precisely the same time as it has been building the detention camps.  And it appears to be targeted at precisely the same ethnic groups.  In just one year, 2017, the total number of children enrolled in kindergartens in Xinjiang increased by more than half a million. And Uighur and other Muslim minority children, government figures show, made up more than 90% of that increase.  As a result, Xinjiang's pre-school enrolment level has gone from below the national average to the highest in China by far.  In the south of Xinjiang alone, an area with the highest concentration of Uighur populations, the authorities have spent an eye watering $1.2bn on the building and upgrading of kindergartens.  Mr Zenz's analysis suggests that this construction boom has included the addition of large amounts of dormitory space.  Xinjiang's education expansion is driven, it appears, by the same ethos as underlies the mass incarceration of adults. And it is clearly affecting almost all Uighur and other minority children, whether their parents are in the camps or not.  In 2018 work began on a site for two new boarding schools in Xinjiang's southern city of Yecheng (known as Kargilik in Uighur).  Dragging the slider reveals the pace of construction - the two middle schools, separated by a shared sports field, are each three times larger than the national average and were built in little more than a year.  In April last year, the county authorities relocated 2,000 children from the surrounding villages into yet another giant boarding middle school, Yecheng County Number 4.  Government propaganda extols the virtues of boarding schools as helping to "maintain social stability and peace" with the "school taking the place of the parents." And Mr Zenz suggests there is a deeper purpose.  "Boarding schools provide the ideal context for a sustained cultural re-engineering of minority societies," he argues.  Just as with the camps, his research shows that there is now a concerted drive to all but eliminate the use of Uighur and other local languages from school premises. Individual school regulations outline strict, points-based punishments for both students and teachers if they speak anything other than Chinese while in school.  And this aligns with other official statements claiming that Xinjiang has already achieved full Chinese language teaching in all of its schools.  Speaking to the BBC, Xu Guixiang, a senior official with Xinjiang's Propaganda Department, denies that the state is having to care for large numbers of children left parentless as a result.  "If all family members have been sent to vocational training then that family must have a severe problem," he says, laughing. "I've never seen such a case."  But perhaps the most significant part of Mr Zenz's work is his evidence that shows that the children of detainees are indeed being channelled into the boarding school system in large numbers.  There are the detailed forms used by local authorities to log the situations of children with parents in vocational training or in prison, and to determine whether they need centralised care.  Mr Zenz found one government document that details various subsidies available to "needy groups", including those families where "both a husband and a wife are in vocational training". And a directive issued to education bureaus by the city of Kashgar that mandates them to look after the needs of students with parents in the camps as a matter of urgency.  Schools should "strengthen psychological counselling", the directive says, and "strengthen students' thought education" - a phrase that finds echoes in the camps holding their parents.  It is clear that the effect of the mass internments on children is now viewed as a significant societal issue, and that some effort is going into dealing with it, although it is not something the authorities are keen to publicise.  Some of the relevant government documents appear to have been deliberately hidden from search engines by using obscure symbols in place of the term "vocational training". That said, in some instances the adult detention camps have kindergartens built close by, and, when visiting, Chinese state media reporters have extolled their virtues.  These boarding schools, they say, allow minority children to learn "better life habits" and better personal hygiene than they would at home. Some children have begun referring to their teachers as "mummy".  We telephoned a number of local Education Bureaus in Xinjiang to try to find out about the official policy in such cases. Most refused to speak to us, but some gave brief insights into the system.  We asked one official what happens to the children of those parents who have been taken to the camps.  "They're in boarding schools," she replied. "We provide accommodation, food and clothes… and we've been told by the senior level that we must look after them well."  In the hall in Istanbul, as the stories of broken families come tumbling out, there is raw despair and deep resentment too.  "Thousands of innocent children are being separated from their parents and we are giving our testimonies constantly," one mother tells me. "Why does the world keep silent when knowing these facts?"  Back in Xinjiang, the research shows that all children now find themselves in schools that are secured with "hard isolation closed management measures." Many of the schools bristle with full-coverage surveillance systems, perimeter alarms and 10,000 Volt electric fences, with some school security spending surpassing that of the camps.  The policy was issued in early 2017, at a time when the detentions began to be dramatically stepped up. Was the state, Mr Zenz wonders, seeking to pre-empt any possibility on the part of Uighur parents to forcibly recover their children?  "I think the evidence for systematically keeping parents and children apart is a clear indication that Xinjiang's government is attempting to raise a new generation cut off from original roots, religious beliefs and their own language," he tells me.  "I believe the evidence points to what we must call cultural genocide."