In Chile, a 14-year-old girl suffering from cystic fibrosis has posted an online video asking the country's president to allow her to die. The case prompted a raging discussion on assisted suicide.
http://www.npr.org/2015/03/02/390119307/euthanasia-is-illegal-in-chile-young-patient-wants-right-to-die
In Chile, a 14-year-old girl suffering from cystic fibrosis has posted an online video asking the country's president to allow her to die. The case prompted a raging discussion on assisted suicide. As a Syrian refugee fled from the police in Hungary last week, a local journalist stopped filming and tripped him, changing both of their lives http://www.elmundo.es/internacional/2015/09/08/55ef291cca47410e1e8b45a9.html A Syrian refugee who was tripped last week by a Hungarian journalist,prompting a wave of outrage at the reporter, arrived late Wednesday in Spain, where he has been offered accommodations and a job by a soccer school in Madrid. After he was knocked to the ground near Hungary’s border with Serbia last week by Petra Laszlo, a camerawoman covering the migrant crisis for a right-wing news site, Syrians identified the man as Osama Abdul Mohsen,a professional soccer coach from the eastern province of Deir al-Zour fleeing war and repression. Continue reading the main storyLearning of the man’s plight from news reports that showed him tumbling to the ground with his young son, Zaid, the president of Spain’s National Soccer Coach Training Center, Miguel Ángel Galán, arranged to take him to Spain. The school used its annual budget for publicity to rent an apartment for the family in the Madrid suburb of Getafe. Mr. Mohsen was accompanied on the train journey to Spain by two of his sons — Zaid, 7, and Mohmmad, 18 — as well as a reporter for El Mundo,Martín Mucha, and a student at the training center who speaks Arabic. The case has attracted so much attention that Spanish television broadcast live images of the group’s arrival in Barcelona, where they changed trains, and then in Madrid just after midnight. Luis Miguel Pedraza, a former referee who works at the training center,told The Associated Press that the school would help Mr. Mohsen apply for asylum and get permission to bring his wife and two more children from Turkey. “As soon as he learns Spanish,” Mr. Galán told El País, “we plan to offer him a job at our organization.” In a video interview posted on El Mundo’s website, Mr. Mohsen expressed his gratitude and said, in English, “I see a future for my family in Spain.” Osama y su hijo pequeño, a su llegada a Barcelona esta noche. ALBERTO DI LOLLI"Estoy muy feliz por la llamada del señor Miguel [Miguel Ángel Galán, presidente de CENAFE] para venir a España", cuenta Osama en el tren que partió que ya atraviesa España hasta llegar a Madrid. Osama da las gracias varias veces y recuerda: "Vinieron a por mí a Múnich y me dijeron 'Ven a España". "El futuro va a ser muy bueno para mi hijo en España", dice, emocionado.
Spain's Princess Cristina and husband, Inaki Urdangarin (right), leave a makeshift courtroom on Monday, the first day of a corruption trial. She is accused of tax fraud and is the first member of Spain's royal family to face criminal charges. Emilio Morenatti/APSpain's hilltop Royal Palace towers over working class barrios across the Manzanares River, on the west side of Madrid. The area is home to Magdalena and Margarita Rodriguez Prado, two sisters in their late 60s, who huddled under a wall-mounted TV on Monday in their local chocolate and churros shop, glued to footage of Princess Cristina's trial. Infanta Cristina de Borbón, 50, is one of King Felipe VI's two older sisters. She went on trial Monday accused of tax fraud. "It's such a shame!" Magdalena chimes in. "I'd like to think she's not guilty, because I love the royals and I love Spain. And we remember their beautiful wedding."In 1997, Cristina married a dashing athlete — Iñaki Urdangarín, an Olympic bronze medalist in handball in 1996 and 2000 — whom she'd met at the Summer Games in Atlanta a year earlier. The groom caressed the princess's face at the altar of Barcelona's cathedral. Spanish señoras of a certain age, like the Rodriguez Prado sisters, still swoon. But fast-forward nearly two decades and Cristina sits not on a throne but on a wooden bench in the defendant's dock at a makeshift court. She and her husband are on trial with 16 other people, all accused of helping to embezzle $6.5 million in public funds through a supposedly nonprofit sports foundation run by Urdangarín. The princess is charged with two counts of tax fraud and faces up to eight years in prison if convicted. For Urdangarín, it's worse. He's charged with more serious offenses, including money-laundering and forgery, and could go to prison for nearly 20 years. Anti-monarchy protesters gather Monday outside a makeshift courtroom after the arrival of Spain's Princess Cristina, in Palma de Mallorca. Emilio Morenatti/AP"Normally, it's very difficult to defend against a tax offense in Spain, and when it gets to this level [a trial], it's because the case is difficult. They normally end up in convictions," says attorney Ignacio Sanchez, a white-collar crime expert at Hogan Lovells, a law firm with offices in Madrid. "But there are a lot of settlements out of court — with the defendant admitting guilt, paying a fine, but avoiding prison time." Cristina's defense appears to be two-pronged: She denies knowledge of her husband's business dealings and repeated the phrase "I don't know" 182 times in response to a judge's questions at a February 2014 pretrial hearing, according to a transcript. Her lawyers also want her case dismissed because charges were brought by a private anti-corruption group, not Spanish authorities. (A quirk of Spanish law allows this.) In fact, Spain's tax authorities have sided with the princess, arguing for an administrative fine rather than criminal charges. But a lawyer for the private group, called Manos Limpias ("Clean Hands"), said Monday that letting Cristina off would "prejudice Spanish justice and prejudice the crown." Judges allowed the case to be brought to trial. The couple spent 13 hours in court Monday, the trial's opening day. They sat apart from one another in the defendants' section and did not address the proceedings. They smiled politely at a handful of anti-monarchy protesters chanting as they passed through a police cordon on their way out. Cristina's lawyers asked the judge to eliminate her from the list of defendants. Another lawyer asked that King Felipe and his elderly father, Juan Carlos, be called to testify as witnesses. But another lawyer said that would turn the trial into a "reality show." Rulings are expected on those motions in February, when the trial resumes. Cristina is the first member of the Spanish royal family ever to face trial. Her fall from grace coincided with the economic crisis, and the rise of public resentment against the monarchy. "My country is broke. Millions of people in the past years became jobless," says Julia Mampaso, who lives in the shadow of the Royal Palace and is among the more than one in five Spaniards who's still unemployed. She says the monarchy embodies the lavish lifestyle Spaniards romanticized during the economic boom years — but then found repugnant when they lost their jobs. "I really think [the monarchy] is a joke. The image this gives!" Mampaso says. "The law should be for all — and absolutely strict. It doesn't matter who you are — a king or a princess. You're still a human being, doing something wrong." Cristina's trial could be the biggest challenge to the Spanish monarchy's legitimacy — even worse than her father Juan Carlos' 2012 jaunt to shoot elephants in Africa, a luxury trip he took at a time when his subjects were suffering the worst economic crisis in a generation. His popularity plummeted, and he abdicated two years later. Spain's economic crisis prompted tax authorities to redouble their efforts to go after fraudsters. There was so much public anger — and the government needed the money. "The tax agency started to be more aggressive, prosecuting cases against soccer players and people who hid money in Swiss bank accounts," says Sanchez, the white-collar crime expert. "There was a political decision to fight tax fraud." And that's what ensnared Cristina. Her trial is being held on the Spanish island of Mallorca — the source of some of the public funds that disappeared. The makeshift court, at a civil servants' training center, sits a stone's throw from one of the royal palaces where Cristina used to vacation — and from the local prison, where she could end up if convicted. Tortillas being made at the El Milagro plant in San Marcos, Texas. The FDA is weighing whether to allow fortifying corn masa flour with folic acid, aka vitamin B9. The FDA currently bans the practice, but researchers say adding the vitamin to corn masa could help battle higher rates of severe neural tube defects among Hispanics. One of the great public-health success stories of the past couple of decades can be found in your cereal bowl. Since 1998, the Food and Drug Administration has required that breakfast cereals, breads, rice, pasta and other grain products made with enriched flour come fortified with folic acid. When consumed by women before and during early pregnancy, this B vitamin plays a critical role in preventing severe brain and spinal cord defects. Thanks to mandatory fortification, the number of babies born in the U.S. with neural tube defects has dropped by roughly 35 percent — or about 1,300 babies a year — since the 1990s. "The story of folic acid is one of the great public health stories of — ever," says Dr. R.J. Berry, who works with the Division of Birth Defects and Developmental Disabilities of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta. But there's one notable exception to this success story — Hispanic women — and researchers think the reason may lie in a staple of their diet: tortillas. Under current FDA rules, tortillas, corn chips and other foods made with corn masa flour can't be fortified with folic acid. So a coalition of groups including the March of Dimes Foundation and the National Council of La Raza has petitioned the FDA to change its stance and allow corn masa flour to be fortified with folic acid. According to the March of Dimes, about 3,000 pregnancies in the U.S. are affected by neural tube defects each year. The rates are highest among Hispanics: Latina women are roughly 20 percent more likely to have a baby with a neural tube defect compared to non-Latina white women. The exact cause of this discrepancy isn't known. Researchers say there may be genetic factors that predispose the children of some Hispanic women to neural tube defects. But they suspect diet is also a factor: "Part of the reason was that these groups just weren't consuming the same level of wheat flour products. Instead, they were consuming corn masa flour products, because that was the staple grain in that diet," says Cynthia Pellegrini, senior vice president of public policy and government affairs at the March of Dimes. The FDA worries that the same alkaline treatment that gives corn masa its distinctive aroma and flavor might also prevent folic acid from remaining stable in masa. The agency is currently reviewing test results looking at the question of stability. Verónica Zaragovia for NPRResearch has shown that women who consume at least 400 micrograms of folic acid daily have a significantly reduced risk of having a pregnancy affected by neural tube defects — including spina bifida, which can involve paralysis, and anencephaly, in which large parts of the brain are missing. The catch: Folic acid is only protective if consumed in the earliest weeks of pregnancy. "Most women, by the time they know they're pregnant, they've already passed that critical window," says Dean Appling, a biochemistry professor at the University of Texas at Austin. "If they had a problem with folic acid, it would be too late at that point to prevent the birth defect." Mandating fortification helps ensure that women are getting enough folic acid even before they know they need it. And studies suggest that fortifying corn masa with folic acid could prevent an additional 40 to 120 cases of neural tube defects among babies born to Hispanic mothers each year. So why does the FDA currently ban dosing corn masa flour with folic acid? It all has to do with nixtamalization, the process by which tough corn kernels are softened by soaking in an alkaline solution, usually of slaked lime. The process, which hails from ancient Mesoamerica — what's now Mexico and Central America — dates back thousands of years. It renders the corn more pliable for grinding into masa flour and gives the masa its distinctive aroma and flavor. But the FDA worries that this alkaline treatment could also "affect the stability of added folic acid," the agency told The Salt in a statement. "The FDA is concerned that the breakdown of folic acid in corn masa flour could yield a substance that raises concerns about safety." The March of Dimes and others first petitioned the FDA to allow added folic acid in corn flour masa in 2012. As part of its review, the FDA asked the petitioning groups to study whether folic acid would stay stable in corn masa flour. The petitioners filed the results of that study in October. Michael Dunn, the Brigham Young University food scientist who led the study, cannot comment on the test results while they're under FDA review, but he has previously called them encouraging. AsThe Seattle Times has reported, Dunn's early results suggested no loss of folic acid in fortified masa after three months of storage. The March of Dimes' Pellegrini says she believes the FDA will respond to the results of Dunn's study later this month. But the FDA might have more questions related to the study before making a final ruling. Carlos Aguilera recently discussed how he played the saxophone during surgery to remove a brain tumor at Regional Hospital of Malaga, in Andalusia, Spain. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w3YEcOY13_0 Jorge Zapata/EPA /LANDOV The team of doctors who recently operated on Spanish musician Carlos Aguilera's brain wanted to be sure they didn't affect his ability to play the saxophone – so they had him play songs during a 12-hour surgery. A partially sedated Aguilera obliged, playing "Misty" and other songs, in addition to reading sheet music. In a video of the procedure, the mellow tones of Aguilera's saxophone blend in with the normal sounds of an operating room. From Madrid, Lauren Frayer reports: "The 27-year-old was sedated, on painkillers, but remained conscious during the entire multi-hour operation. "Doctors were removing a brain tumor, and wanted to ensure the surgery wouldn't damage Aguilera's musical ability. It was the first such surgery of its kind in Europe. "The operation took place in October, and Aguilera recently went public to say he's been cured — and continues playing his sax with an orchestra in the southern city of Malaga." At a news conference this week, Aguilera's father told journalists that when his son was diagnosed with a brain tumor earlier this year, he feared the worst – including the possibility that he might never play music again. "Two months ago I was on the table, and now I have a life in front of me," Aguilera said, according to La Opinion of Malaga. "I've been reborn." Such procedures are meant to protect musicians' primary audio cortex and other parts of the brain that can affect their ability to play. (A story on NPR's Shots blog today looks at The Neuroscience Of Musical Perception, Bass Guitars And Drake.) It's the first time such a case has been reported in Spain; similar measures were taken during recent brain surgeries in the U.S. and elsewhere — including last summer, when Slovenian opera singer Ambroz Bajec-Lapajne sang portions of Franz Schubert's Gute Nacht during surgery for a brain tumor. More than 500 Cuban immigrants hoping to reach the United States live at this school turned shelter in northern Costa Rica after Nicaragua, a Cuban ally, closed its border to them. Carrie Kahn/NPRIn one of the largest waves of Cuban migration in decades, more than 70,000 have fled the island this year, rushing to the U.S. out of fear that its preferential policy toward those escaping the Castro regime might change. This time though, the majority aren't braving the Florida straits in rickety rafts, as in 1980 — they're flying to South America, then taking a treacherous land journey all the way to the Southern U.S. border. Recently that route has been cut off by local allies of Cuban leader Raul Castro, leaving thousands of Cubans stranded along the way, most in Central America. iAn American flag towel dries at the shelter for Cuban migrants in La Cruz, Costa Rica. U.S. officials say they have no intention of changing laws that generally allow Cubans who reach American soil to stay, but those fleeing the island are doubtful. Carrie Kahn/NPRLiannis Rodriguez rests in a corner on the concrete patio of the dusty Costa Rican border station with Nicaragua. Like the dozens of other Cubans here at the station, she's been sleeping on flattened cardboard boxes under metal awnings or a cover of plastic bags. Rodriguez left her small town in eastern Cuba late last month and flew to Ecuador, the nation closest to the United States that doesn't require a Cubans to have a visa. She says that nearly everyone on her plane was Cuban, and that once on the ground, all headed north using every kind of transportation possible. "We took buses, cars, boats, you name it," she says. She paid bribes to Colombian police, hundreds of dollars for a clandestine boat ride to Panama, then still more payoffs until she arrived here at the Nicaraguan border. Rodriguez, a fourth-year engineering student, says she has no future in Cuba. "I was about to graduate, and I would get a job, but I'd be forced into one that pays 12 dollars a month," Rodriguez says. "What kind of a life is that?" PARALLELSWith A New Trade Zone, Cuba Reaches Out To Investors IT'S ALL POLITICSAs U.S.-Cuba Relations Thaw, Here's What You Can And Can't DoSince the 1960s nearly all Cubans who make it to U.S. soil are granted residency, but many fear — despite denials from American officials — that the recent thaw in U.S.-Cuban relations could close those doors. Cuba says the policy entices illegal migration. Last month, Nicaragua's president, a close ally of Cuba's Castro, closed the border it shares with its neighbor to the south, Costa Rica, shutting down the path to the United States. In the northwest border town of La Cruz, Costa Rica, local churches, the Red Cross and the country's national Emergency Commission have set up shelters for the growing number of Cubans stuck here, who now number about 2,000. At one of the largest shelters, more than 500 sleep in a school's tiny classrooms and fill the outdoor basketball court. Women wash clothes in outdoor sinks. Men play dominoes, while others watch television. Fernando Pacheco, an orthopedic surgeon, was paid $65 a month in Cuba, one of the highest salaries on the island, but he says it wasn't enough to support his family.Fernando Pacheco, an orthopedic surgeon, says he had to leave Cuba. "You can't say what's on your mind, go where you want or do anything freely," he says. As a doctor, Pacheco earned one of the highest salaries on the island — still only $65 a month. He says he can't provide for his wife and two small children at that meager wage. Last week, Cuba reinstated rules prohibiting doctors from leaving the island without permission. Julio Vargas of Costa Rica's National Emergency Commission says his agency is running out of money. What's going to happen to all the Cubans is "the million-dollar question," he says. With an estimated 200 Cubans arriving in Costa Rica every day, he says he hopes a solution is worked out soon. When Rosa Coj Bocel was in sixth grade, her parents told her she had to drop out of school so she could help take care of her four brothers. Rosa didn't put up a fight.
"What else can be said? No woman was studying at the middle school level," she told Goats and Soda in an interview translated from Spanish. "So I took it as if it were normal." But it's what happened in the years after that put Bocel on an extraordinary path — a story that's told in an 11-minute documentary called Rosa — These Storms. The filmmakers met Bocel when they were working onLiving On One Dollar, a 2013 film about four American young adults who try to live on less than a dollar a day in her village, Pena Blanca, in Guatemala. She was friendly, eager to talk in front of the camera for their film and willing to show them around. The filmmakers were also intrigued that this woman in her 20s was trying to get her high school diploma. They kept in touch with her via Skype and Facebook and little by little came to know her story. The power of her experience drew them back to Guatemala to make a movie about her — and narrated by her. "We told her, you say what you want to say," says the film's co-director Hannah Gregg. "None of it is told by us. It was all told by her." Starting at age 10, Bocel worked in the fields, picking and planting crops, often onions or corn. She earned enough money to give a small amount to her family and buy a few pleasures, like a pair of earrings or shoes. GOATS AND SODAThe Girl Who Broke Free: Building A New Life In America #15GirlsAt 14, she moved to Guatemala City, hoping to make a little more money. She stayed with distant relatives in one of the city's most dangerous barrios and worked at a store. She doesn't like talking about this time in her life. That's where she became pregnant by someone she thought was a friend. He disappeared, so she returned home. When she told her parents, they kicked her out of the house. Her daughter, Heidi, was born with hydrocephalus, a disease that creates a buildup of water in the brain. Doctors in nearby clinics operated three times but to no avail. Heidi died in her mother's arms at age 2 years, 9 months. Of all the obstacles she faced, that was the hardest, says Bocel. But she turned it into a source of strength. "I said to myself: I'm not going to give up even if I don't have support. I have to continue forward," she says. "I need to fight." Last year, Bocel, a petite, plainspoken women who prefers Mayan dress to Western styles, graduated from high school. Now 27, she is the first person from Pena Blanca to go to college, attending nursing school at a nearby university on the weekends. Five days a week, she works as a medical coordinator at Mayan Families, a nonprofit that provides aid to rural Guatemalan families. Her dream is to open a pharmacy in her village. She hopes her career will let her help the other girls in Pena Blanca. And she certainly serves as a role model. "There is a lot of machismo," Bocel says of men in her community. "They don't value us. They don't give us the space that we women deserve." Living On One, the film production company, has pitched in, raising more than $11,000 for school fees, tuition and even a laptop. Rosa — These Storms is currently being shown on the festival circuit, including a screening in Washington, D.C., that brought Bocel out of Guatemala for the first time. "Everything is possible in this life," says Bocel. "We can have a child, be a single mom. The world does not end." Antonio Banderas plays Chilean miner Mario Sepulveda in The 33.
Beatrice Aguirre/Courtesy of Alcon Entertainment and Warner Bros. PicturesFive years ago, the world was riveted by the plight of 33 miners trapped deep underground in Chile. For 69 days, we waited to see if the men would survive the collapse of a gold and copper mine. Then came a miraculous ending: All the miners were carried to safety in a tiny capsule called The Phoenix. Now that real-life story has been made into a movie called The 33. The intense, action-packed drama was directed by Mexican filmmaker Patricia Riggen. Riggen's handful of previous films were small — a documentary and a couple of intimate features — but the emotions of The 33 are on a grand scale. To help capture those emotions, Riggen flew to Chile to talk to the original miners and hear their stories. "I spent a lot of time with them," she tells NPR's Renee Montagne. "I met with each of them privately to really hear their experiences." Interview HighlightsOn going from making small films to a much larger production Let's say my experience making little, independent movies came in very handy. We didn't have a studio when we were making it. Nobody wanted to make this movie because it's a drama about 33 Latin men, and that doesn't get made anymore. It took, you know, real effort. And we ended up shooting 35 days, six days a week, 14 hours every day in the mine. On shooting the film in a real mine We shot in two real mines in Colombia. And we went to Colombia because their mines ... are not as deep and as dangerous as the Chilean mines. Every single moment, we had the head of the mine with us. ... So sometimes he would come in and say, "Everyone step away," and they would put up a ladder and they would detach a big rock that was going to fall. And it would fall, they would clean it up, and then we would continue shooting. iPatricia Riggen filmed The 33inside two Colombian mines. She says, "We went to Colombia because their mines ... are not as deep and as dangerous as the Chilean mines." On whether people were shocked when they heard she — a young, female, indie filmmaker — was making an action film about 33 men stuck underground Shocked every single day. You know, they can't believe I did this. They see the [mine] collapse sequence and it's like, "How did you do this? You're a woman." And I have to tell you, [it wasn't about] making an action movie, but really being able to portray the heart of these guys and what they went through emotionally. And that's what I brought to the movie besides the big action sequences. On the magic realism of a scene toward the end of the film where the 33 miners imagine themselves at a feast with their loved ones I have a scene in which they come down to their last tuna can. So it's the end — it's one tuna can, there's 33 of them — and they're going to say their goodbyes. And they decide to share it together in a last supper scene. And then the magic realism happened because I asked them one day, "How did you guys survive hunger?" And they answered, "We ate. We ate all the time, Patricia. We talked about food: a giant empanada; the other guy brought the quinoa; we did a roast." And I thought: This is incredible, you know, because normally men in these circumstances don't survive. But they came back to tell us. So I thought: This is me; this is Mexico; this is magic realism. I'm going for it. ... And then they go back to the reality of their little tuna can. Related NPR Stories 'On the real miners making an appearance at the end of the film At the end, I wanted to have them in the movie. So I called them up and said, "You gotta show up. It's a Sunday." And I got a place on the beach and they all came. They sat at a big table and they ate, all of them together, and laughed. And you can see those faces of really hardworking men that have suffered so much. They are not doing well, Renee. They have PTSD; they didn't get compensated by the mine owners — nothing. So, you know, we're all working really hard to be able to give them something back. They deserve it. On whether, as a kid in Guadalajara, she thought she'd grow up to be a director It never crossed my mind to be a director, and I'll tell you why: because I'm a woman. It just didn't occur to me, but I knew I had to be in film. I finally, you know, moved to Mexico City, where the film industry is. I started working there as a producer, which is a very, very valid thing for women to do, because we always produce for men, right? ... I was pretty successful but I was really unhappy, so I thought, "I'm going to go back to school; I'm going to pay for a master's degree." So I went to New York City to Columbia University, and with the first directing exercise I knew I was a director. I wish I had seen some women directing before — that would have given me the idea of who I was. Will US ever be able to clean up the H-bomb material scattered on Spanish coast?PRI's The World13/11/2015
http://www.pri.org/stories/2015-10-21/will-us-ever-be-able-clean-h-bomb-material-scattered-spanish-coastThe casings of two B28 nuclear bombs involved in the Palomares incident are on display at the National Museum of Nuclear Science and History in Albuquerque, N.M.
On January 17, 1966, at the height of the Cold War, a United States bomber and a tanker collided above the small farming village of Palomares, Spain, during a routine midair refueling. The explosion killed seven airmen and scattered the bomber’s payload — four unarmed thermonuclear bombs—across miles of coastline. One bomb fell into the Mediterranean, where the US Navy found it two and a half months later. The other three crashed onto land; two cracked open and dispersed plutonium with the wind. The contaminated land was partially cleaned, and the United States shipped radioactive dirt and debris to America for disposal. The accident at Palomares remains the worst nuclear weapons accident in history. I told the story in my 2009 book, "The Day We Lost the H-Bomb." When I finished my book, a few threads were still hanging. While the United States and Spanish governments had officially declared the cleanup job complete, it eventually became clear that it was not. In the decades that followed, scientists, journalists and dogged activists found two buried trenches of radioactive debris near Palomares, and discovered that about 100 acres of land remained contaminated with plutonium. Grassroots activists petitioned the US government to finish the cleanup job. I played a bit role in the effort, sponsoring a petition on change.org. The cause was good but fruitless, I thought. Don Quixote de Palomares. I was surprised, then, when my e-mail and Twitter lit up on October 19 with the news that US Secretary of State John Kerry and Spanish Foreign Minister José Manuel García-Margallo had agreed to "negotiate an agreement" to clean up Palomares — again — and dispose of the contaminated soil at a facility in Nevada. The news of the agreement came as I was covering a mammoth neuroscience conference in Chicago, and reflecting on the clash of technology and society. At the conference I had purchased the book "Do No Harm," a memoir by British neurosurgeon Henry Marsh, who writes in the preface that he adores working with Americans: “I love their optimism, their faith that any problem can be solved if enough hard work and money is thrown at it.” His words were borne out at the neuroscience conference, where thousands of scientists bombarded each other — and us journalists — with optimism, promises of future therapies to halt Alzheimer’s, thwart addiction, cure eating disorders, treat Down syndrome babies in their mother’s womb. The conference was heady and alluring, and yet I’ve been reporting on science long enough to be wary of the technological fix. Marsh, near retirement when he wrote his memoir, was wary as well. “When I visit American hospitals and see the extremes to which treatment can sometimes be pushed,” he wrote, “I wonder whether the doctors and the patients there have yet to understand that the famous dictum that in America death is optional, was meant as a joke.” The US agreement with Spain made me feel like Marsh, filled at once with great admiration and melancholy. Admiration because the agreement represents America’s can-do spirit and sense of justice: We made the mess; we’ll clean it up. Melancholy because, well, how? While researching my book, I interviewed many American servicemen involved with the cleanup. I questioned them closely, and came away thinking that most of them — most, not all — sincerely believed that they decontaminated the land and had done right by Spain. They used the best technology they had, and worked diligently. I am optimistic, perhaps naively so, that the next cleanup crew will do the same. But I’m not sure that it’s possible to completely decontaminate 100 acres of land near a populated coastline. I’m no neurosurgeon, but I’m not sure this patient can be made whole. This may sound un-American, but perhaps Palomares offers us an opportunity to face the limits of technology and make peace with them. If the US can decontaminate the land in Spain completely, we should. If we can’t, we should admit our shortcomings and make amends. And maybe, just maybe, we should consider applying this philosophy to more aspects of our culture. Science and technology can give us new knees and safer cars, vaccines against disease and iPhones that take awesome photos. But it can’t keep us eternally young, it can’t cure all our grief, it can’t stave off death forever. We can use technology best by knowing its limits — and learning to embrace them. http://www.pri.org/stories/2015-10-20/16th-century-church-and-its-dark-history-re-emerge-lake-southern-mexico The remains of a 16th century church known as the Temple of Quechula have been exposed due to a drought that's affecting water levels of the Grijalva River, which feeds the Nezahualcoyotl reservoir in the Mexican state of Chiapas. The lake is the Nezahualcoyotl reservoir, created when the local Grijalva River was dammed back in 1966. The church ended up submerged under water. But now it's visible again, as the reservoir's waters have receded. The reservoir's level has dropped by more than 80 feet because of a long drought. "The church in the Quechula locality was built by a group of monks headed by Friar Bartolome de las Casas, who arrived in the region inhabited by the Zoque people in the mid-16th century,” says Associated Press reporter Alberto Arce, “so this is the first wave of Spanish conquerors who arrived to Mexico, and the first wave of colonization of southern Mexico.” It’s a grim chapter of history. The Spanish conquistadors were there to conquer Mexico and impose their European religious culture, and they went about doing it in the name of the King of Spain and in the name of God. Along the King’s Highway, the monks were tasked with converting the indigenous people to Catholicism. “They were going to be slaves or dead,” says Arce. “Basically they had no option. The indigenous Zogue people could either become a Catholic servant of the Spanish king or you were going to be killed.” “At first arriving at the lake, I was a little disappointed because the plan was to have the beautiful morning light to give the church a warm light, “says the documentary photographer David von Blohn, who travelled to the site on assignment for the AP to photograph it. But instead the morning turned out very cloudy and foggy. With the help of a local fisherman, von Blohn was able to venture out onto the lake and shoot photographs from different perspectives, and he says the photos capture the church emerging from the lake as a kind of sacred space. “So the church is very beautiful, mystical and maybe spiritual, but it also reflects the violence and drama that took place when the Europeans, the Spanish people, arrived here in Latin America,” says von Blohn. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oB2kJoO781k
Rhyan Lowery is a 19-year-old African American from Compton, but he grew up listening to Mexican regional music — corridos, banda and cumbia. So it’s no surprise he loves some of those signature sounds. The accordion — it’s amazing what they can do with the accordion, and what sounds you can get from it. Also, the tuba and the Charchetta, it’s awesome! I guess that’s what draws me to it,” he says. But the music wasn’t the only draw. “I love Mexican women,” he says. “And Mexican women, they dance banda and cumbias and Norteñas. Music is the key to the heart so if I’m going to win the heart of a Latina, I have to do my homework.” But Lowery says when he was growing up, his African American friends didn’t understand his love of all things Mexican. They’d say “what are you doing? You’re supposed to be singing rap and hip-hop. Why are you hanging out with the Mexicans, those are the enemies," he recalls. Lowery says he’d tell them, they’re not enemies — they’re my friends. “Because of that, in 9th and 10th grade year, I had like no black friends. No one wanted to hang out with me, because they were embarrassed that I would sing and hang out and speak Spanish.” A couple years ago, one of his high school friends started calling him “El Compa Negro,” which means “my black friend.” And it stuck. El Compa Negro got discovered the way a lot of young talent gets discovered these days. His manager, Antonio Lopez, saw a video of a 16-year-old Lowery singing a capella on YouTube. That was three years ago. This past May, El Compa Negro appeared on the LA-based TV show, “Tengo Talento Mucho Talento,” (I have Talent, A lot of Talent). He came in third. He sings a tune, “Negro Claro,” written by his manager Lopez, with lyrics that translate as: “I’m black, of course, African American, heart and soul of a Mexican.” Lopez says while some of El Compa Negro’s old friends don’t get him, he also faces some discrimination in the Mexican community as well. Lopez says Latinos complain about Donald Trump’s attack on Mexicans, but some Mexicans are doing the same thing to El Compa Negro. He claims that a lot of doors are closed to Lowery, just because he’s black. “Here we are complaining that someone is stereotyping us, yet they’re stereotyping my singer. They’re saying, well you guys can’t play here,” Lopez explains. But El Compa Negro says he’s not discouraged. “Look what I’ve started. I’ve made something like Obama, he’s the first African American president. Well, I’m the first African American in the 'Regional Música Mexicana.'" Martin Machain isn’t eligible for health insurance under the Affordable Care Act. But a new health program in Los Angeles covers routine primary care check-ups for undocumented residents. When Martin Machain arrived to Los Angeles from Mexico years ago, he didn’t know where to turn for health care. Machain migrated to the US to escape poverty and change his life. But without insurance, it hasn’t been easy. He’s one of an estimated 400,000 immigrants living in Los Angeles County without legal status and uninsured.These days, Machain works seven hours a night as a janitor, cleaning industrial kitchens. It’s a tough job, but pays the rent. He worries, though, that his work may affect his health. “I think the liquids I handle at work may affect me because I use many chemicals,” he says. “It's dangerous, especially for someone like me who has asthma. I have to be very careful.” At a previous job in a recycling plant, he fell down hard while working on a conveyer belt. It left him with a lifelong back injury. Now, he’s 51 and has to deal with even more ailments, including diabetes, cholesterol, asthma and kidney problems. But in Los Angeles, there’s a new program that provides free, ongoing health care to undocumented immigrants. Under the county’s $61 million dollar program, My Health LA, Machain now gets free primary health care at a local clinic. There are 135,000 people enrolled in the program. But that’s still less than half of L.A,’s undocumented, uninsured population. Part of the problem: getting the word out to people who qualify. Also, the funding falls far short of including everyone who is eligible. Martin Machain, who has diabetes, makes lunch in his kitchen. He is undocumented and works nights as a janitor, cleaning industrial kitchens, but he isn’t eligible for health insurance under the Affordable Care Act. A new health program in LA is helping fill the gap for his primary health care needs. Machain’s clinic is only a five-minute walk from his home. He says the care he gets through the program is better than at the county hospital. That’s the only other place he can get no-cost treatment, but it’s not meant for regular health check-ups. “At the general hospital, the waiting room is packed with people, nothing like here at the clinic,” he says. “One time, when I was bleeding from my kidneys, they didn’t take care of me for three days, because there were people that were doing worse than me.” Martin Machain walks down the street to a health clinic that serves undocumented and uninsured residents in LA. It’s a five-minute walk from his home. My Health LA isn’t insurance, though. Rather, the program pays clinics a monthly fee to provide patients like Machain free primary care, prescription medicine, labs and tests. But, not everyone agrees taxpayer money should fund programs like this. A recentUniversity of Southern California/LA Times poll found that nearly half of the state’s voters are against subsidizing health care for undocumented immigrants. “Well, what makes you think you’re not paying for it already?” asks Mario Chavez, director of government affairs for St. John’s clinic in L.A. That’s because taxpayers are still responsible for covering county hospital emergency room costs. Health experts say programs that fund preventative health care are more cost-effective than treating people in the ER. “We could save more by giving people services up front, rather than waiting for conditions to appear and then dealing with it after the fact,” says Michael Rodriguez, a professor at the School of Medicine at the University of California, Los Angeles. My Health LA has become a model for other US cities and counties. But public health experts say that programs like this need to go beyond just basic care and include in-house specialists and mental health services. Back at the clinic, a group of middle-aged and elderly diabetic patients dance to catchy Zumba music in a group exercise class. Machain and the others also get nutrition advice about what foods to eat. “I feel like I'm around family when I go to the clinic,” he says. “Maybe it's because I'm alone here, because I have no family here. So, I feel like the clinic is my home.” . Fourteen-year-old Renata Flores is having an Internet moment. The indigenous Peruvian girl recently belted out a Michael Jackson song that went viral. But her ability to sing wasn't the only draw behind the video's popularity. Flores also gained praise because of how she sang MJ's lyrics — entirely in her native tongue: Quechua.
The ancient dialect has long-suffered a social stigma in Peru, where speaking it has been seen as uncool. Quechua is one of 47 surviving indigenous languages in Peru. It's also one of the country's oldest dialects, descended from the Inca more than 800 years ago. Next to Spanish, Quechua is Peru's second-most spoken language, with an estimated 4.5 million speakers. But it's not taught in schools. And those fluent in it are mostly older people of the rural Andes whose sons and daughters have grown up largely rejecting Quechua. "I think that's what they think, Quechua equals poverty, and they don't put value into it. But that's not right,” says Flores, who’s only now beginning to learn Quechua. Back in August, Renata struck a chord after posting a music video on YouTube. It seems a lot of people around the world could relate to a girl going back to her roots. She sang in Quechua to Michael Jackson's "The Way You Make Me Feel,” set against the backdrop of ancient Inca ruins. The video has since been viewed more than a million times — and you can see why. At school, Renata's basically a celebrity. In her home city of Ayacucho, in the Peruvian Andes, a group of elementary students showered her with colorful confetti and white roses. Others held signs that read things like "Renata, you make us proud." Renata's teacher, Ruddier Rojas, says a lot of the kids want to be like her. Her singing has even led Rojas to rethink his own indigenous identity. "I'm going to be honest,” says Rojas. “When I went to the capital city I was ashamed there about my parents speaking Quechua. I would say no, I denied it. And now I'm embarrassed because I don't speak Quechua, the origin of my family and the door to my past.” Peruvians have struggled for years to accept their indigenous heritage. Ethnic discrimination in the country has gotten so bad that the Ministry of Culture launched a racism hotline in 2013. Renata's mother, Patricia feared for the worst for her daughter. But even so, she's been behind the Quechua campaign from the very beginning. Just last month, she and a network of family and friends threw Renata her first concert at a theater in Ayacucho. It was put together in just three weeks — amidst all that social media buzz. The show stopper was Renata's performance of "Fallin" by Alicia Keys, sung in both English and Quechua. But there was something else that stood out on stage that night: Renata's pink and purple wool hat, known as a chullo, with dangling earflaps that hung down to her waist. It's a style of hat that indigenous Andeans have been wearing for centuries. "Yeah, it's part of adding value to our culture from the Andes — Andinos,” said Renata. “I wanted a symbol for me, that identifies me." It's a symbol of both indigenous pride and awareness — starting with a new generation in Peru. Osama Abdul Mohsen (left) has the promise of a new job in Spain, where soccer officials invited him to come live. He's seen here with his son Zaid as they arrive at the Barcelona train station Wednesday. Manu Fernandez/AP The Syrian man who became part of an international story after he was tripped by a camerawoman in Hungary is now in Spain, where a sports organization plans to offer him work. Osama Abdul Mohsen was tripped by a camerawoman as he ran from police, holding his young son. Arriving in Spain late Wednesday, Mohsen said, "I love you all. Thank you for all. Thank you for España." Mohsen was part of a crowd of refugees and migrants who were trying to enter Hungary last week, when a videographer put her foot out and tripped him, sending him and his son to the turf. Camerawoman Petra Laszlo was fired after tripping a fleeing man as he held a young boy in Hungary last week. That man, Syrian Osama Abdul Mohsen, is now in Spain with the promise of a job offer.
Stephan Richter/Twitter The camerawoman, Petra Laszlo, was fired for her actions by her network, which said she acted inappropriately. She later apologized. After learning that Mohsen had been a first-division soccer coach in Syria, Miguel Angel Galan, the director of a soccer academy in Getafe, near Madrid, invited him to come to the school. From Hungary, Mohsen and 7-year-old Zaid reached Munich, where they were contacted by Galan earlier this week. In Munich, he was also reunited with his older son, Mohammed. "I see a future for my family in Spain," Mohsen tells El Mundo, which has followed his case closely. All three are now in Spain — the reception committee that met them at the train station included the mayor of Getafe, Sara Hernández, according to El Pais. The newspaper says they're now hoping to reunite the whole family: "Meanwhile, Mohsen's wife and two other children are back in Mersin, a Turkish city on the Mediterranean near the Syrian border. " 'They've been there for two weeks, but I hope that soon they will be able to join us. [Cenafe chief] Miguel Ángel has told me that we will all be together again. We are happy, but worried about my wife and children, because I don't want them to remain there,' said Mohsen." i A plane sprays coca fields in San Miguel, Colombia, in 2006. The Colombian government announced this week that it is phasing out the U.S.-backed aerial coca-eradication program over health concerns. William Fernando Martinez/AP hide caption
itoggle caption William Fernando Martinez/AP A plane sprays coca fields in San Miguel, Colombia, in 2006. The Colombian government announced this week that it is phasing out the U.S.-backed aerial coca-eradication program over health concerns. William Fernando Martinez/AP It's harvest time in the coca fields of southern Colombia. Using his bare hands, Franklin Canacuan expertly strips the bright green leaves from his 5-foot-tall coca bushes. Over the years, Colombian police planes have sprayed his fields with a powerful weed killer. It's part of a government program to destroy coca leaves, which are used to make cocaine. Since it began in 1994, the program has received more than $2 billion in U.S. funding. i Franklin Canacuan strips the leaves from his coca bushes in southern Colombia. He says his daughter became ill after she was doused with weed killer while playing outside. John Otis for NPR hide caption itoggle caption John Otis for NPR Franklin Canacuan strips the leaves from his coca bushes in southern Colombia. He says his daughter became ill after she was doused with weed killer while playing outside. John Otis for NPR Now, due to health concerns, the Colombian government has decided to ground the spray planes. Canacuan, the coca farmer, says his 8-year-old daughter became ill briefly after being doused by the rain of defoliant while playing outside. "It makes people sick. It gives them a fever and skin rashes on their arms," he tells me. "It happens right after the planes pass over." It's impossible to verify Canacuan's claims. However, misgivings about glyphosate, the active ingredient in the herbicide used to kill coca, are growing. Daniel Mejia directs the Drug and Security Research Center in Bogota. He conducted a four-year study of coca-growing regions and found that such health problems increased immediately after these areas were fumigated. "In our own study we find that exposure to glyphosate used in the spraying campaigns in Colombia causes respiratory, dermatological problems and miscarriages," he says. The World Health Organization has raised an even bigger red flag. In March, its cancer research arm concluded that glyphosate "is probably carcinogenic to humans." That prompted the Colombian government on Thursday to order a phasing out of the program. Justice Minister Yesid Reyes said the crop-dusting flights will probably end by October. i Janeth Cuaran picks coca leaves in her 2-acre field in southern Colombia. Most coca growers sell their crops to FARC guerrillas. John Otis for NPR hide caption itoggle caption John Otis for NPR Janeth Cuaran picks coca leaves in her 2-acre field in southern Colombia. Most coca growers sell their crops to FARC guerrillas. John Otis for NPR Still, it's an awkward time for Colombia to holster a key weapon in its war on drugs. "For the first time in more than eight years, the United States government concluded that coca cultivation and cocaine production in Colombia has increased and increased rather dramatically," says William Brownfield, the U.S. State Department's top anti-drug official. Colombia's coca crop expanded by 39 percent last year, he says. That means cocaine production may have jumped from 185 tons to 245 tons. Brownfield said a more aggressive spray campaign might have reduced those numbers. The program is dear to the hearts of U.S. officials because they helped invent it. FARC guerrillas control many of the coca fields and frequently attack ground-based eradication teams. So Colombia opted for aerial eradication with American crop-dusters and glyphosate, which is used by agro-industry all across the globe. "To the best of our knowledge there is not one single verified case of cancer being caused by glyphosate," Brownfield says. Monsanto, which manufactures glyphosate, points to many scientific studies showing that the herbicide poses no risk to humans. It claims that the World Health Organization report ignored this research. Related NPR Stories Goats and Soda The Second Most Dangerous Country For Land Mines Begins To De-Mine Parallels In Colombia, A Town Badly Scarred By Wartime Rape As it turns out, coca farmers routinely handle toxic chemicals. Near the town of La Hormiga, I meet Sandra Trejo, a former coca farmer who has switched to growing black pepper. She got out of the drug trade, in part, because turning coca leaves into cocaine requires mixing powerful solvents, like acetone and sulfuric acid. "People use very strong chemicals without protection, like goggles, overalls or face masks," Trejo says. "So we can't blame all the problems on glyphosate." But Colombian President Juan Manuel Santos says there are other reasons for scrapping the spray program. He says that going after big-time smugglers rather than peasant coca farmers can be a more effective way to fight drugs. Why Everyone's Talking About Israel's New Justice MinisterMay 14, 2015Will Israel Charge Soldiers In Gaza Civilian Deaths?May 16, 2015 Comments You must be signed in to leave a comment. Sign In / RegisterPlease keep your community civil. All comments must follow the NPR.org Community rules and terms of use, and will be moderated prior to posting. NPR reserves the right to use the comments we receive, in whole or in part, and to use the commenter's name and location, in any medium. See also the Terms of Use, Privacy Policy and Community FAQ. Please enable JavaScript to view the <a href="http://disqus.com/?ref_noscript">comments powered by Disqus.</a> ParallelsMany Stories, One World Parallels Many Stories, One World AboutIt's a big, confusing, messy world, and Parallels draws on NPR correspondents around the globe to connect the dots and make sense of it all. Want to know more? Check out our "About" page. Questions? You can connect with host Greg Myre and the rest of the Parallels team by email. Subscribe Foreign Dispatch Podcast A weekly podcast of the biggest news and best stories from NPR's foreign correspondents from around the world. Subscribe "" frameborder="0" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" style="border: 0px currentColor; border-image: none; vertical-align: bottom;">"" frameborder="0" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" style="border: 0px currentColor; border-image: none; vertical-align: bottom; display: none; visibility: hidden;">NPR thanks our sponsors Become an NPR sponsor More From ParallelsNational SecurityWho Are America's Suspected ISIS Followers?Latin AmericaFIFA's Soccer 'Embassy' In Paraguay, Complete With Legal ImmunityEuropeA Raft Capsizes; Can Spanish Rescuers Reach Everyone In Time? 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