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Assam, India – Under the sweltering April sun, Akram Ali stood amid the rubble of his four‑room house, a home he had built over 45 years ago. The demolition, part of a government‑led bulldozing operation on March 14, turned his residence into a pile of debris.Bulldozers descended on Islampur, a Muslim‑majority neighbourhood on the outskirts of Guwahati, and for four hours razed homes across 177 hectares (437 acres). The sweep rendered 400 families homeless, including Ali, who now lives in a tarpaulin shanty a few kilometres from his former home.Ali, a daily‑wage worker, told Al Jazeera that despite identifying as Goriya – “son of the soil” – his house was destroyed. The Goriyas are an Assamese‑speaking Muslim community traditionally settled in the tea‑belt region. In 2022, the ruling Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) officially recognised the Goriya, along with four other Muslim sub‑groups, as “Indigenous” to Assam.While this designation has afforded the Indigenous Muslims a degree of cultural safety, it has not shielded them from the state’s aggressive land‑clearance drives. Ali questioned the distinction, asking, “Weren’t our homes demolished because we are Muslims?”Muslims make up more than a third of Assam’s 31 million residents, according to the 2011 census. Of these, roughly 6.3 million are Bengali‑speaking “miyas,” often labelled “outsiders,” while about 4 million belong to Indigenous groups like the Goriya.The BJP, led nationally by Prime Minister Narendra Modi, has been courting the Indigenous Muslim vote ahead of the April 2026 state elections, where it seeks a third consecutive term after governing since 2016. Chief Minister Himanta Biswa Sarma, who has spearheaded the party’s crackdown on “miyas” since 2021, claims the government will “never target” Indigenous Muslims.Political analyst Bonojit Hussain explains that the BJP’s outreach serves two purposes: softening its communal image and capturing decisive vote blocks in constituencies where Indigenous Muslims and Hindus together decide the outcome. In seats such as Nalbari, where Indigenous Muslims account for over 25 % of the electorate, and Barkhetri, with roughly 80,000 Muslim voters, the community’s support can swing the result.Upper Assam, a region with a strong Assamese‑speaking identity, is especially critical. Journalist Firoz Khan notes that Indigenous Muslims influence the outcome in seven or eight of the 39 seats there, prompting the BJP to temper its overtly anti‑Muslim rhetoric in the area.Despite the party’s overtures, many Indigenous Muslims remain skeptical. Moinul Islam, spokesperson for the rights group Sadou Asom Goria Jatiya Parishad, warned that the BJP’s broader anti‑Muslim policies—evictions, voter‑list objections, and alleged deportations—are unlikely to win their votes.Earlier in 2025, similar demolition drives displaced hundreds of Goriya families in Lakhimpur and Golaghat districts, and a systematic campaign to challenge Muslim names on electoral rolls further strained relations.BJP spokesman Kishore Upadhyay dismissed the allegations as “malicious, biased and politically motivated,” but Indigenous groups argue the pattern signals an attempt to erase their cultural legacy.Recent actions by the state government reinforce this perception. Chief Minister Sarma renamed the only medical college in Barpeta—previously bearing the name of Goriya freedom fighter Fakhruddin Ali Ahmed—arguing that institutions should reflect their geographic location. Critics view the move as symbolic of a broader effort to marginalise Muslim contributions to Assam’s history.In December 2025, Sarma also proposed dropping the hyphen in “Sankar‑Azan,” a name that celebrated the syncretic legacy of 15th‑century polymath Srimanta Sankardev and 17th‑century Sufi saint Azan Peer. Communist Party member Isfaqur Rahman warned that such revisions reflect a “slow erasure of Assamese Muslim heritage.”For Ali, the demolition has hardened his political stance. “After being evicted, the chief minister called us illegal immigrants and broke our backs by destroying our homes,” he said. “We are the new miyas.”

Chinese swimming authorities have initiated an investigation into cyberbullying targeting Quan Hongchan, the 19-year-old diving champion who has won three Olympic gold medals. The General Administration of Sport's swimming management centre announced the probe on Wednesday, stating that it is working with officials in Quan's home province of Guangdong to address the issue.Quan, who won her first gold at the Tokyo 2020 Olympics at just 14 years old and added two more golds at the Paris 2024 Olympics, has faced intense scrutiny and pressure. She has spoken publicly about the toxic online commentary she has faced, particularly regarding her weight and diet.The cyberbullying has been described as 'malicious' and has included false information and abnormal fan culture. Chinese authorities have pledged to crack down on such behavior, which has been termed 'toxic fandom'. Quan's swimming club has also reported the case to police, emphasizing that athletes are a valuable national asset and that such acts of slander and insult are unacceptable.Quan's success has made her a popular figure in China, with her hometown becoming a tourist destination. However, this has also led to intense media scrutiny and pressure to conform to certain standards. The investigation aims to address these issues and ensure a safer online environment for athletes.

In a revealing glimpse of the club’s ironclad exclusivity, a 2019 iMessage exchange shows Jeffrey Epstein pleading with Steve Bannon to secure a membership for Paul, Weiss partner Brad Karp. Bannon dismissed the request, describing Augusta’s governing families as "crackers" from the Old South who distrust lawyers and bankers, underscoring the club’s cultural gatekeeping. That anecdote illustrates a broader truth: money alone cannot buy entry to the Masters. Even former President Donald Trump has never been able to force his way onto the Augusta grounds, a rarity among high‑profile U.S. sporting events. Traditionally, most tickets are allocated to lifelong local patrons, a practice that has been frozen since the 1970s. The only official avenue for the public is an annual lottery, where the odds are so slim they make Tiger Woods’ chances of a sixth Green Jacket look generous. In practice, however, a lucrative secondary market emerged, with scalpers selling tickets for up to 50 times face value and operating just outside the 2,700‑foot anti‑scalping boundary mandated by Georgia law. Last year’s Masters turned into a "bloodbath" for the resale industry. An executive from a local hospitality firm reported that around 200 ticket holders were denied entry after the club began rigorously enforcing its anti‑scalping policy. Patrons were sometimes escorted to a room, asked for identification, and interrogated about how they obtained their tickets – a process likened to a police stop. According to insiders, the club’s four‑day tickets now contain RFID chips that allow staff to track each badge’s location nightly. The embedded barcodes allegedly store the buyer’s address, enabling staff to pinpoint resale activity. Some reports claim the club is even purchasing resale tickets en masse to uncover the identities of sellers, then sending a politely worded letter that permanently bans the recipient from the grounds. Ticket platforms have felt the impact. StubHub has introduced a new contract that makes sellers fully liable for any fees or charges if a buyer is turned away, while SeatGeek has ceased offering Masters tickets altogether. This decisive move by Augusta National signals a broader shift in how elite sports events manage secondary markets. Ultimately, the crackdown serves a dual purpose: protecting the club’s brand integrity and reinforcing its reputation as an institution that remains untouched by even the most powerful political figures. As the Masters approaches, the message is clear – the only way onto Augusta’s hallowed fairways is through its own tightly‑controlled channels, not through the influence of money, politics, or the resale trade.

The documentary series 'Trust Me: The False Prophet' has shed light on the sinister activities of a polygamous Mormon cult led by Samuel Bateman, who is currently serving a 50-year sentence for luring minors into criminal sex acts.Director Rachel Dretzin, a former investigative journalist for Frontline, worked on the series, which follows a pair of documentary filmmakers, Christine Marie and Tolga Katas, who embedded themselves in Utah's Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (FLDS) community. They earned the trust of the cult members and were invited into Bateman's home, where he presided over 20 'wives', many of them underage.The filmmakers' incriminating footage and witness testimony were essential to the FBI's case against Bateman and other men charged with crimes. The series transcends the true crime genre's typical sensationalism, presenting its revelations thoughtfully and honestly.Dretzin notes that documentary filmmaking can be more effective than the legal system in effecting change, particularly in cases like this where the community is fiercely insular. The series raises questions about the ethics of documentary filmmaking and the blurred lines between observer and participant.The story also highlights the manipulation and indoctrination of young women within the cult, including Naomi, a young woman who becomes a pivotal witness. Her aunt Carole, who defected from the FLDS, shares her insights on how the cult grooms girls for exploitation.Dretzin believes that the story has echoes in our ordinary lives and political landscape, particularly in the era of 'fake news' and echo chambers. The series serves as a reminder of the dangers of closed systems and the importance of critical thinking.

BBC Two’s three‑part series ‘Michael Jackson: An American Tragedy’ attempts to map the arc of the King of Pop from a Midwestern child prodigy to a global phenomenon whose legacy is still contested. Released ahead of the family‑approved biopic Michael, the documentary does not promise fresh revelations; instead, it seeks to place the singer’s meteoric fame, legal controversies and post‑mortem financial empire within a single narrative. The first episode, titled Fame, foregrounds Jackson’s musical genius while also exposing the fraught dynamics of his family life. Interviews with siblings and childhood acquaintances depict a household where “six bunk beds in one room” were the norm, and where fear of their father, Joe Jackson, loomed large. La Toyia Jackson’s recollection that “Michael had a fear of my father – we all did” underscores the pressure that shaped his early years. In The Reckoning, the series shifts to the period of criminal investigations and media scrutiny. Former spiritual adviser Rabbi Shmuley Boteach describes the tragedy as a man who, despite unparalleled attention, remained “utterly lonely.” Prosecutor Ron Zonen argues that the sheer scale of the Jackson enterprise eclipsed the pursuit of justice, noting the obviousness of the abuse allegations in his view. The episode also revisits the 2003 Martin Bashir documentary, which Boteach recalls as a “shock” that contributed to the star’s eventual downfall. The final installment, The Resurrection, examines the attempts to revive Jackson’s career, his sudden death, and the ripple effects of the 2019 Leaving Neverland documentary. The review notes that the allegations have reshaped public perception to the point where many, including the reviewer, find it difficult to engage with his music. The series concludes that the ongoing legal battles—seven alleged victims are currently suing the estate—represent “the most extraordinary effort to uncancel someone in history.” While the documentary assembles an extensive roster of interviewees—family members, former managers, record executives, and even Donald Trump—it occasionally suffers from an overly broad brushstroke that blurs moral clarity. The reviewer acknowledges the valiant effort to strike a middle ground but questions whether such balance is sufficient for a story marked by “wild extremes.” Overall, the series provides a comprehensive, if not groundbreaking, overview of Jackson’s complex narrative, serving as a timely companion piece to the upcoming biopic and a reminder that the conversation around his legacy remains far from settled. Michael Jackson: An American Tragedy is currently streaming on iPlayer.

Stephen Fry opened his appearance on ITV’s The Assembly with a startling question: “You tried to kill yourself a couple of times. Are you happy to be alive now?” The boldness set the tone for a conversation that veered far from the usual celebrity‑friendly script.The programme distinguishes itself by placing a well‑known guest in front of a panel of young adults with neurodivergence or learning disabilities. Free from the conventional safeguards of mainstream talk shows, the panel asks questions that are simultaneously unconventional and deeply human, prompting guests to respond without the usual rehearsed veneer.For Fry, the format proved liberating. Known for translating complex ideas into accessible language, he used the platform to discuss suicidal ideation, likening the experience to the lingering memory of a broken limb—painful yet now distant. This candidness allowed him to reaffirm why he remains a cultural touchstone.One of the most memorable moments came when a participant asked, “I read that you are bipolar. One of my family has that. How can I help them?” Fry responded with a vivid analogy, describing bipolar disorder as a “rainstorm raging inside you—eventually the sun returns, and it’s the weather, not the person, that changes.” This explanation resonated as both compassionate and educational.The interview oscillated between gravitas and levity. Fry fielded whimsical queries such as “Can you help me meet Céline Dion?” and “How much have you spent on cocaine?” alongside the probing “Are you a top or a bottom?” The juxtaposition amplified the emotional weight of the serious topics.At one point, a young panelist named Luca chose not to ask a question, instead performing William Wordsworth’s poem “The World Is Too Much With Us” with theatrical flair—a rare blend of poetry and performance that underscored the show’s experimental spirit.Another highlight involved Jacob, a panel member who brandished a list of Fry’s past advertising gigs—Heineken, Twinings, Honda, and more—before delivering the punchline, “Is there anything you wouldn’t do for money?” The extended joke built a collective laugh that softened the subsequent, more probing inquiries.Critics have likened the show’s tone to a hybrid of Radio 4’s In the Psychiatrist’s Chair and the cheeky, irreverent style of classic British comedy interviews such as those with Dame Edna Everage or Mrs Merton, creating a unique space where vulnerability and humor coexist.The episode concluded with Nina Simone’s “I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free” playing as Fry reflected on his experiences with antisemitism and bipolar disorder. Moved by the music, he rose and danced, offering a visual testament to the therapeutic power of the format.The Assembly aired on ITV1 and is now available for streaming on ITVX.

In the spring of 2002, the modest Free Butt pub on Brighton’s seafront buzzed with a restless energy. Future stars such as Natasha Khan, then a university art student, danced atop the bar while the Yeah Yeah Yeahs thundered through their first UK dates. Behind the scenes, band frontmen like Guy McKnight of Eighties Matchbox B‑Line Disaster served pints, and budding engineers like Steve Ansell of Cat on Form fine‑tuned the sound. The atmosphere felt like a rite of passage, where any performer could slip from a cramped stage to national attention.Unlike the neatly branded scenes of New York’s garage‑rock revival or London’s Libertines‑driven hype, Brighton’s early‑2000s scene resisted a single aesthetic. Rock groups emerged from rehearsal rooms and tiny clubs with wildly different looks and sounds, creating a cultural mosaic rather than a monolithic movement.Electrelane’s guitarist recalls recording their debut Rock It to the Moon in a studio once owned by the Levellers, and crafting their sophomore effort inside a former public toilet. These unconventional spaces proved surprisingly fertile, underscoring the city’s DIY spirit.By the turn of the millennium, the big‑beat dominance of Fatboy Slim and Skint Records had faded, making way for a grassroots rock surge. Sea Power relocated from Reading to Brighton, drawn by the city’s “dilapidated charm and fresh sea air”. Their self‑organized Club Sea Power nights at the Lift offered a chaotic yet liberating platform that eventually caught Rough Trade’s attention.Women played a pivotal role in shaping the scene’s infrastructure. Promoters Lisa Lout and Anna Moulson, both still active, booked seminal shows—including the Strokes’ first UK gig at the Lift in 2001—and helped launch the Great Escape festival. Their efforts ensured that bands such as the Pipettes, Electrelane and Bat for Lashes could share stages and media coverage.Artists recall the city’s palpable sense of belonging. Rose Dougall of the Pipettes describes a landscape where “alternative culture was on every street, from vintage shops to the colour of the houses,” and where “small venues made it feel attainable to launch a project.” Similarly, Brakes frontman Eamon Hamilton contrasts Brighton’s walk‑able, collaborative vibe with London’s darker, more competitive energy.Music journalism mirrored the scene’s intensity. Everett True and photographer Steve Gullick launched Careless Talk Costs Lives in 2002, a deliberately short‑run magazine that championed female writers and bands at a time when the industry was still heavily male‑dominated.As rents surged through the 2010s, many of the cheap flats, rehearsal rooms and iconic venues that underpinned the scene vanished. The Free Butt closed, independent record stores shuttered, and the once‑abundant low‑cost infrastructure dwindled, prompting a migration of creative energy down the coast to places like Margate, Ramsgate, Folkestone and Shoreham.Nevertheless, the remnants of Brighton’s network continue to nurture new talent, from the Kooks to Dream Wife and Gazelle Twin. The city’s strength lies not in a singular sound but in its capacity to host a “constant collision of wildly dissimilar bands,” allowing artists to develop authentically and fearlessly.

Cornish film-maker Mark Jenkin has brought his latest film, Rose of Nevada, to his hometown of Newlyn in Cornwall. The film, a ghostly time travel tale, has received excellent early reviews and features Jenkin's signature authentic storytelling.Jenkin, who is from Newlyn, expressed his pride in Cornwall, stating, “This is the greatest town in the world. I see Cornwall as being at the centre of the world.” He emphasized the importance of showcasing Cornwall's culture and community in his films.The film was shot entirely in Cornwall, using a clockwork Bolex camera and featuring a working fishing boat. Jenkin's vision for his homeland is central to the film, rather than using it as a backdrop.Jenkin's success has put a spotlight on Cornwall, with other filmmakers, such as Brett Harvey and Dan Simpkins, highlighting the growing recognition of regional film-making. Laura Giles of Screen Cornwall noted that Jenkin is a “talisman for Cornish film-making” and that there are other emerging filmmakers in the region.The film's producer, Denzil Monk, emphasized the importance of sustainability and inclusivity in the production, stating, “We try to step very lightly” in terms of impact on the environment and community.

Ben Delo, a British billionaire convicted in the US for failing to implement adequate anti-money-laundering controls in his cryptocurrency business, has donated £4m to Reform UK, the party founded by Nigel Farage. Delo, who is now based in Hong Kong, made the donation since the start of the year, before the government's cap on donations to political parties by British citizens living abroad.Delo, 42, who was pardoned by Donald Trump last year, is moving back to the UK and therefore will not in future be subject to the new rules for donors. He explained his motivations for turning to Reform UK, saying England was his home and that “the biggest obstacle to national recovery is the entrenched self-deception of our elites”.In his article for the Telegraph, Delo wrote that he had donated £4m to help Nigel Farage build Reform UK into a “genuine alternative party of government”. He cited his dissatisfaction with the current political culture, stating that “the official culture of government now forces everyone to be chronically dishonest”, citing expression of views on transgender people.Delo was convicted in the US in 2022 after pleading guilty to violating the Bank Secrecy Act by failing to implement adequate anti-money-laundering controls at BitMEX, the trillion-dollar cryptocurrency exchange he co-founded. He has poured more than £100m into philanthropy and supports more than 50 organisations ranging across the political spectrum and public life.Nigel Farage welcomed Delo's support, saying it would help Reform attract more of the skills and talents needed to get ready for government. “Ben’s support will help Reform attract more of the skills and talents we need to get ready for government,” Farage told the Telegraph.