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The long wait

Persecuted and oppressed in Burma, Rohingya Muslims are fleeing across the border into Bangladesh. S

It is dawn at the Kutupalong refugee camp and men, women and children are filing into a hastily erected bamboo structure resembling a covered cattle market. On all sides are tables manned by volunteer doctors armed with polio drops and measles injections; once treated, children are handed vaccination cards and have their ears blackened with marker pens. At the exit, entrepreneurial refu­gees wait with ice-cream bikes rented for the occasion, selling coloured ice lollies to those with spare change.

Not all who join the queue know what they are lining up for, but they are reassured when they see the Médecins Sans Frontières workers in sunhats and stained T-shirts. The Muslim Rohingya people have fled a culture of oppression in Burma to find themselves starving and stateless in Bangla­desh, and the kindness of strangers isn't something they are in a position to turn down.

The discrimination and violence against the Rohingyas began in Burma's western Rakhine State following the 1962 coup, when the military junta that still reigns first seized power. Marriages became subject to costly and time-consuming applications for licences; similar permissions were required for travel, so that many Rohingyas never left their villages until the day they fled their country. Land rights were revoked, leaving farmers helpless as government officials occupied fields and repossessed livestock. Boys and men were routinely rounded up and forced to work on government projects from construction to jungle clearing; many of the mothers, wives and daughters they left behind were raped by soldiers. Those who refused to work were sent to prison, where they were beaten or tortured.

Many thousands of Rohingyas fled to Bangla­desh over the decades, but in 1991 the trickle of Burmese Muslims crossing the Naf River swelled and flooded a pencil-thin peninsula with more than 250,000 refugees. The Bangladeshi government registered newcomers at 20 camps in the hills surrounding Cox's Bazar - a Dubai-style pleasure palace teeming with five-star hotels and upmarket beach cafés - where they remained while the two nations wrestled over the fine print of a repatriation agreement. Between 1992 and 1997, 236,000 refugees were sent back to Burma, the vast majority against their will. Of the 20 camps, Kutupalong is one of only two that remain, both operated by the UNHCR. Between them, they hold 26,000 Rohingyas who are registered as residing in Bangladesh.

The unofficial number of refugees is, however, far higher thanks to a second wave of border crossings in the past two years. It is hard to put even a rough figure on the scale of the influx: Bangladesh's refusal to accede to the 1951 Refugee Convention gives it no legal obligation to guarantee the status or safety of refugees, and no Rohingya has been formally registered since 1992. Moreover, the similarities between the Rohin­gyas and the Chittagonian-speaking natives of Cox's Bazar make it hard to distinguish asylum-seekers from local people. But the numbers are growing. The official Kutupalong camp is now surrounded by a nebulous shanty town, whose mud and thatch homes make the original wicker and galvanised steel houses look luxurious by comparison. The 200 refugees arriving at the camp in 2007 were followed by 2,000 more in 2008; by March 2009, more than 20,000 unofficial settlers were ranged around Kutupalong, and hundreds more are turning up every week.

Conservative estimates now put the total number of Rohingyas in Bangladesh back at around 250,000. This is a grave problem for the world's eighth most densely populated country, in which roughly a quarter of the people live in extreme poverty. In May, the Bangladeshi foreign minister travelled to Burma to begin rewording a repatriation deal proposed by the military government in late 2008, but failed to secure formal assurances that those resettled would be treated any better than before.

Meanwhile, the squalor at Kutupalong deepens. The open doorways of the low-slung mud huts offer glimpses of emaciated old men collapsed corpse-like in corners, or women rocking wailing babies in makeshift hammocks. An elderly man approaches with his young son. The boy is weeping: his arm is badly swollen, his lip bloodied, and one eyebrow is opened in an angry cut peppered with grit. "He was out collecting firewood this morning when a group of men from the village attacked him," the father says. "Others just watched."

Sarah, an MSF worker from Somerset, confirms that mobs of locals are now frequently attacking refugees. "It's not hard to see why: these people are living on government land, creating cultural tensions and draining resources in an already poor community. They are rejected by Burma and ignored by Bangladesh, and every time they stand up for themselves they get pushed back down."

Every day refugees arrive with severe disabilities that have gone untreated for years. Eleven-year-old Mahabieh rarely leaves her father's hut due to a tumour that has swollen one side of her face to the size of a football. Thirty-year-old Fir Ahamad is so incapacitated by a muscle-wasting disease that his elder brother Noor carries him slung over his shoulder like a sack. "In Burma I worked as a forced labourer," he says, "and every time I fell down they beat me."

For the MSF doctors, working in collaboration with Unicef, such individual ailments must take a back seat to the wider threat of humanitarian disaster. Space is now so short at Kutupalong that newcomers are being forced to erect flimsy shacks on what is essentially floodplain. Even more worrying is the water supply; the unofficial refugees are drinking from 12 hand-drawn bucket wells in which the water was milky with stagnation and chronically high in bacteria long before the monsoon began to wash human waste down the hill. "Right now the clinic is dealing mainly with malnutrition, skin diseases and respiratory infections," says Sarah, "but if the water supplies are contaminated we're likely to see a huge surge in sickness and mortality that we're going to struggle to cope with."

The Bangladeshi government constantly monitors those working to help the Rohingya people, determined to prevent too rosy a picture of refugee life being painted, lest it encourage others to cross the border. Yet many are ready to risk death to escape living under the Burmese regime. "In Burma we were less than animals," says Juhura Begum. "We were like ghosts, living lives that had already ended. At least here we can act like human beings and go about our business with a small measure of freedom."

Kamal Hussein, 35, is forced to hobble around on a wooden crutch, one leg shattered in a beating and trailing uselessly in the dust, but he says that life here is a "paradise" thanks to his new-found freedom to pray at a handful of improvised mosques.

Hossein Hag, who watched his business collapse due to travel restrictions inside Burma, feels a similar sense of hope. "I used to dream of escaping poverty by making a success of my business," he says. "Now I know there are worse things than poverty, and more important things than financial success. In Burma we lived constantly in the shadow of death. Bangladesh feels like a place where life can begin again."

This article first appeared in the 24 August 2009 issue of the New Statesman, Is Google Evil?

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Puffins in peril

Britain’s best-loved seabird is vulnerable to global extinction.

The boatmen helped us scramble ashore and soon there were 50 people wandering on an uninhab­ited slab of sea-battered dolerite called Staple Island. It is one of the National Trust-owned Farne Islands in Northumberland and among England’s most spectacular wildlife locations. There are 100,000 pairs of breeding seabirds here and they were everywhere: at our feet, overhead, across every rock face. The stench of guano was overwhelming.

While the birds seemed to be boundless, the human beings converged on the grassy knoll where the local star attraction resides. It’s the creature that adorns the boat company’s publicity and is emblazoned on the National Trust’s website for the island, the bird that possesses what the poet Norman MacCaig called the “mad, clever clown’s beak”: the pint-sized, parrot-faced puffin.

The British love for this creature is so intense that it is, in essence, the robin redbreast of the sea. Nearly all of its breeding colonies around our coast are tourist attractions. Just across the water, along the shore from Staple Island, is the town of Amble, which holds an annual festival devoted to the puffin. From Lundy in Devon and Skomer in Pembrokeshire to the Isle of May off the Fife coast, or Fair Isle in the Shetlands, trips to puffin colonies are frequent, sometimes daily, events.

“Every tourist shop on these islands sells puffin merchandise – knitwear patterns, tumblers, carvings, coasters, cuddly toys, clothes and, of course, puffin hats,” Helen Moncrieff, the area manager in Shetland for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB), told me.

While the love affair is unquestionable, what seems in doubt is our ability to help the bird now that it is in trouble. Fair Isle once supported a puffin colony of 20,000 birds. In less than three decades, that number has halved. Similar declines have been reported at Britain’s most important puffin site on St Kilda, Scotland, where millions are said to have bred. Now there are fewer than 130,000 pairs, half the total recorded as recently as the 1970s.

The national picture is alarming but the news from elsewhere is even worse. Continental Europe holds more than 90 per cent – five million pairs – of the global total of Atlantic puffins but they are shared primarily between three countries: Denmark (the Faroe Islands), Iceland and Norway. Across this subarctic region, losses have been estimated at 33 per cent since 1979, when monitoring began. But the most striking figure comes from a colony on Røst, Norway, where there has been a fall over this period from nearly 1.5 million pairs to 285,000.

The Westman Islands off the south coast of Iceland hold a substantial proportion of the country’s puffins. Since 2005, breeding success there has been almost nil, and a similar failure has recurred on the Faroe Islands for more than a decade. In both places, where hunting puffins was once a staple of cultural life, catchers today have initiated a self-imposed moratorium.

Puffins are long-lived species and a life­span of between 20 and 30 years is not unusual, yet Euan Dunn, principal marine adviser to the RSPB, explains the implications of persistent breeding failure. “Puffins on Shetland or the Westmans may go on attempting to breed for years, even decades, but eventually all those old adult birds will die off and, if they haven’t reproduced, then the numbers will start to plunge.”

BirdLife International, a conservation network that classifies the status of birds worldwide, has reached the same conclusion. It judges that the Atlantic puffin is likely to decline by between 50 and 79 per cent by 2065. The nation’s most beloved seabird has been declared a species that is vulnerable to global extinction.

To unpick the story of puffin losses, marine ecologists have examined the bird’s oceanic ecosystem and looked particularly at changes in the status of a cold-water zooplankton called Calanus finmarchicus. This seemingly insignificant, shrimp-like organism plays a crucial role in North Atlantic biodiversity and has experienced a huge decline as sea temperatures have risen steadily since the 1980s. While the decline of the finmarchicus coincided with swelling numbers of a close relative, this other zooplankton species is less abundant and nutritious.

As the finmarchicus has suffered, so, too, has one of its main predators, the lesser sand eel. And it is this formerly superabundant fish that is the staple food of puffins in many areas of the Atlantic. At the root of the disruption to marine life are the hydra-headed effects of climate change.

Though no one disputes that an important shift is under way in the sea areas of northern Britain and beyond, not everyone agrees that the present puffin situation is a crisis. A leading British expert, Mike Harris, thinks it is premature to designate the bird an endangered species. There are still millions of puffins and, he says, “We need numbers to plummet before we even start to assume that things are terminal.”

Similarly, Bergur Olsen, one of the foremost biologists studying puffins in the Faroe Islands, believes that the talk of extinction is over the top. “The food situation may change and puffins may well adapt to new prey, and then their numbers will stabilise and perhaps increase,” he says.

***

On Staple Island, the extinction designation does appear bizarre. The Farne Island puffin population has increased by 8 per cent since 2008 and there are now 40,000 pairs. This success mirrors a wider stability among puffin colonies of the North and Irish Seas. The distinction in feeding ecology which may explain the birds’ varying fortunes is that, in the southern parts of the range, puffins can prey on sprats when sand eels are scarce. Sprats appear to have suffered none of the disruption that assails the other fish.

But Dunn says it is important to look at the whole picture. “It’s fantastic that puffins are doing well in places like the Farnes, but remember: Britain holds less than 10 per cent of the world total. Also, the declines that have beset puffins in Shetland and St Kilda are even worse for other seabirds.”

The numbers of a silver-winged gull called the kittiwake have fallen by 90 per cent in Shetland and St Kilda since 2000 and by 80 per cent in the Orkneys in just ten years. Shetland’s guillemot numbers have also halved, and the shag, a relative of the cormorant, has experienced falls of over 80 per cent on many islands since the 1970s – 98 per cent, on Foula. Most troubling is the fate of the Arctic skua, which feeds mainly on fish it steals from other seabirds and is reliant on their successes. Its declines are so severe that Dunn fears its eventual loss as a breeding species in Britain.

While there is disagreement about what to call the puffin predicament, there is unanimity on one issue: much of the data that informs the discussion in Britain is out of date. All of these seabirds, which are of global importance, have been monitored decade by decade since the 1970s. Yet the most recent big audit of our cliffs and offshore islands was concluded in 2000. The full census data is now 16 years old. The organisation that underwrites this work is the Joint Nature Conservation Committee; it is sponsored by the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, which has suffered deep budget cuts since the 2008 financial crisis. There is no certainty that another comprehensive census will be mounted any time soon.

“Much is made on wildlife television of how special these islands are for wildlife and how much we care about it,” Dunn says. “In the case of our seabirds, one of those claims is indisputably true. Britain holds populations of some species that are of worldwide significance. But if we lack even basic information on those birds and how they’re faring, especially at a time when our seas are in such flux, what message does that send about how much this country cares? And how can we ever act effectively?”

The plight of the puffin is shedding light on the fortunes of our marine wildlife generally and the shifting condition of our oceans as a result of rising carbon-dioxide levels. Now, puffin politics is also starting to show
this government’s indifference to nature.

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue