World Culture Mosaic

El Dorado (Venezuela) (AFP) – In the Venezuelan mining community of El Dorado, the majority of residents carry around gold instead of cards or cash to pay for groceries.

They live in a town named after the mythical City of Gold and untold riches -- but most of them are poor.

Merchants use scales to carefully weigh the flecks people guard in plastic pill bottles or wrapped in pieces of paper, and market goods are priced in weight of gold.

For 0.02 grams, you can get a small packet of maize meal, for one gram a pre-packaged bag of groceries that includes flour, pasta, oil, margarine, ketchup and milk powder.

A gram of gold can purchase between $85 and $100 worth of goods, but takes hours of back-breaking work to amass. If you're in luck.

"Gold is a blessing given to us so we can buy what we want, but you have to work hard," 48-year-old Jose Tobias Tranquini told AFP in the town of 5,000 residents mostly employed in mining -- legal and illegal.

"One day at the mine you might find nothing; there are lucky people who have gotten up to a kilo (2.2 pounds), but... I haven't had that kind of blessing. I've only gotten a little bit," said Tranquini.

El Dorado's residents have limited access to banking services.

They could sell their gold at one of the dozens of dealers that dot the streets, but most prefer not to. Gold -- unlike the battered Venezuelan currency that has lost 50 percent of its value this year -- does not depreciate.

El Dorado arose as a military fort as Britain and Venezuela squared off in 1895 over the mineral- and oil-rich region of Essequibo now at the center of an increasingly heated territorial dispute with Guyana, which has administered it for decades.

The oldest inhabitants of the town remember that when it rained, particles of gold emerged from the town's clay streets.

Nowadays, the streets are tarred, though potholed, and the population rely for transport mainly on motorcycles that zoom noisily to and fro.

Hilda Carrero, a 73-year-old merchant, arrived in Eldorado 50 years go in the midst of a gold rush. The town, she recalls, was just "jungle and snakes... It was ugly."

Carrero sells cans of water for 0.03 grams of gold apiece -- about $1.50 -- but business, like mining hauls, is erratic. Some days she sells nothing.

"If I don't have gold I have no life," Carrero sighed.

It can be hard to make a living in a place where abundant reserves of gold, diamonds, iron, bauxite, quartz and coltan have attracted organized crime and guerrilla groups that mine illegally, and sow violence.

Extortion of small business owners is rife, and 217 people were killed in the four years to 2020 in clashes between rival criminal gangs.

Environmentalists also denounce an "ecocide" in the heavily-exploited area, and mine collapses have claimed dozens of lives.

Around El Dorado, there are numerous camps processing the gold-laden sand that miners dig up daily.

In tall sheds with zinc roofs, mountains of sand are milled in machines that work with modified car engines, then washed in water and toxic mercury to separate the gold from other metals.

Tiny particles almost imperceptible to the naked eye are trapped in a green mat which is shaken out to collect them.

The granules are finally heated with a blowtorch to remove impurities before the gold can be traded or sold.

It is hard work, and hazardous.

"The danger of this is the smoke" produced by the mercury burning off, a mill owner explained while smoking a cigarette.

A family of five working at a mine visited by AFP spent four hours that day processing a ton of sand.

For their efforts: one gram of gold.

"We'll use it to buy food and whatever is needed at the mill," a worker who asked not to be named told AFP as he cupped a tiny grain of gold in coarse hands.

It was a good day.

Islamabad (AFP) – Since seeing thousands of comments justifying the recent murder of a teenage TikTok star in Pakistan, Sunaina Bukhari is considering abandoning her 88,000 followers.

"In my family, it wasn't an accepted profession at all, but I'd managed to convince them, and even ended up setting up my own business," she said.

Then last week, Sana Yousaf was shot dead outside her house in the capital Islamabad by a man whose advances she had repeatedly rejected, police said.

News of the murder led to an outpouring of comments under her final post -- her 17th birthday celebration where she blew out the candles on a cake.

In between condolence messages, some blamed her for her own death: "You reap what you sow" or "it's deserved, she was tarnishing Islam".

Yousaf had racked up more than a million followers on social media, where she shared her favourite cafes, skincare products and traditional shalwar kameez outfits.

TikTok is wildly popular in Pakistan, in part because of its accessibility to a population with low literacy levels. On it, women have found both audience and income, rare in a country where fewer than a quarter of the women participate in the formal economy.

But as TikTok's views have surged, so have efforts to police the platform.

Pakistani telecommunications authorities have repeatedly blocked or threatened to block the app over what it calls "immoral behaviour", amid backlash against LGBTQ and sexual content.

TikTok has pledged to better moderate content and blocked millions of videos that do not meet its community guidelines as well as at the request of Pakistan authorities.

After Yousaf's murder, Bukhari, 28, said her family no longer backs her involvement in the industry.

"I'm the first influencer in my family, and maybe the last," she told AFP.

Only 30 percent of women in Pakistan own a smartphone compared to twice as many men (58 percent), the largest gap in the world, according to the Mobile Gender Gap Report of 2025.

"Friends and family often discourage them from using social media for fear of being judged," said a statement from the Digital Rights Foundation (DRF).

In southwestern Balochistan, where tribal law governs many rural areas, a man confessed to orchestrating the murder of his 14-year-old daughter earlier this year over TikTok videos that he said compromised her honour.

In October, police in Karachi, in the south, announced the arrest of a man who had killed four women relatives over "indecent" TikTok videos.

These murders each revive memories of Qandeel Baloch, dubbed Pakistan's Kim Kardashian and one of the country's first breakout social media stars whose videos shot her to fame.

After years in the spotlight, she was suffocated by her brother.

Violence against women is pervasive in Pakistan, according to the country's Human Rights Commission, and cases of women being attacked after rejecting men are not uncommon.

"This isn't one crazy man, this is a culture," said Kanwal Ahmed, who leads a closed Facebook group of 300,000 women to share advice.

"Every woman in Pakistan knows this fear. Whether she's on TikTok or has a private Instagram with 50 followers, men show up. In her DMs. In her comments. On her street," she wrote in a post.

"The misogyny and the patriarchy that is prevalent in this society is reflected on the online spaces," he added.

A 22-year-old man was arrested over Yousaf's murder and is due to appear in court next week.

At a vigil in the capital last week, around 80 men and women gathered, holding placards that read "no means no".

"Social media has given us a voice, but the opposing voices are louder," said Hira, a young woman who joined the gathering.

The capital's police chief, Syed Ali Nasir Rizvi, used a press conference to send a "clear message" to the public.

"If our sisters or daughters want to become influencers, professionally or as amateurs, we must encourage them," he said.

Kenya – A new initiative is using AI-powered drones to identify and eliminate mosquito breeding grounds in Ghana and Sierra Leone, in a bid to prevent malaria outbreaks.

At dawn in Busia County, western Kenya, 10-year-old Angela Wanjiru lies motionless on a wooden bench in front of a rural dispensary. Her fever is high, and her mother anxiously fans her with a creased piece of cardboard. This is Angela's third malaria attack in three months, a deadly cycle that is well known to families in this mosquito-infested region.

Kenya sees more than 5 million malaria cases per year – and 12,000 deaths from the disease. Malaria continues to be one of the biggest obstacles to child survival and economic productivity in sub-Saharan Africa.

But in some parts of the region, a quiet revolution is in the air – quite literally.

In Ghana and Sierra Leone, drone technology is being used to identify and eliminate mosquito breeding grounds before outbreaks erupt.

These drones, powered by artificial intelligence-enabled cameras, patrol fields, wetlands and riverbanks. They scan for standing water where mosquitoes lay eggs.

When an infestation location is found, the drones deposit larvicide at the infestation point before the insects even hatch.

This initiative, introduced by governments and local partners with support from Japanese start-up SORA Technology, is already showing good results.

SORA Technology co-founder and CEO Yosuke Kaneko says the idea came out of his own experiences in Africa. "I was shocked at how many children still die from malaria, which can be prevented and cured. We thought that if we could add AI and aerial monitoring to the mix, we could end the cycle."

He added: "Drones allow us to access areas that health personnel often have difficulty reaching in a timely manner, safely and with accuracy that does make a real difference."

Kaneko says his team works in close proximity with ministries of health, community leadership and local drone pilots. "The technology only works if the people it's supposed to help trust it. That's why training locals and building capacity in-country is at the core of what we do."

Dr. Margaret Njeri, an epidemiologist in Nairobi, sees this initiative as a breakthrough. "We've relied on bed nets and medication for decades. Those are still important, but they're not enough. This kind technology is what we've been seeking."

Africa accounts for more than 90 percent of global malaria deaths, with young children the most vulnerable. Despite progress in reducing transmission over the past two decades, rising resistance to drugs and insecticides is forcing a rethink in strategy.

Malaria policy advisor Dr. Peter Okeke, who is based in Abuja, believes the drone model can be replicated across the African continent. "It's smart prevention – cheaper than treatment, more humane than reacting to outbreaks and, ultimately, more sustainable."

Faith Atieno, a community health volunteer in Homa Bay County, western Kenya, has witnessed the devastating impact of malaria on children in her community – like Angela.

"We've heard how valuable these drones are proving in other African countries. If we had them here, I am sure that we could save many lives," she says. "It's not just about technology. It's about giving our children a better chance."

La Paz (AFP) – Waiting in line for hours, often in vain, for basics such as cooking oil has become a way of life in Bolivia, where anger over shortages and skyrocketing prices has exploded into violence.

Making matters worse: a campaign of roadblocks to protest the crisis has blocked major routes used for the delivery of food and medicine, fueling the scarcity.

"We never thought this situation would reach such an extreme, where we would have to stand in line for food or toilet paper," Rocio Perez, a 65-year-old pensioner told AFP at her home in La Paz.

She lives with her children and grandchildren, and the family has taken to rationing what they eat.

"We are staring into the abyss," said Perez.

At a nearby warehouse selling state-subsidized groceries, 40-year-old Sonia, who did not want to give her surname, queued in extreme cold from 5 am for cooking oil, only to leave empty-handed when stocks ran out some two hours later.

Only those who arrived at 4 am were in luck.

"I am a single mother, I have to work to support my six children... and on top of that, come and stand in this line," Sonia told AFP, clearly angry.

"I don't sleep well anymore."

Other irate customers banged on the store's metal doors and shouted at the state employees inside.

"There's no rice, no sugar, no eggs, there's nothing left," exclaimed 30-year-old Gisela Vargas, who also left with nothing.

Bolivia, home to 12 million people and an Indigenous majority, is one of the poorest countries in South America despite sitting on vast mineral resources such as gas and lithium.

In 2023, state oil company YPFB said Bolivia was running out of natural gas -- a crucial export product -- due to a lack of investment in new exploration.

A dramatic drop in gas exports led foreign currency reserves to plummet, making Bolivia unable to import sufficient fuel for its needs.

Inflation in May was 18.4 percent year-on-year, the highest in nearly two decades, and the local currency, the Boliviano, continues to lose value.

The crisis, which many Bolivians blame on President Luis Arce, has been compounded by a showdown between Arce and ex-leader Evo Morales, who retains a strong support base, especially among Indigenous people.

Morales supporters have been blockading roads since June 2.

At least four officers and one protester have been killed in clashes just weeks before elections in which Morales wants to seek a fourth term despite a two-term constitutional limit.

A survey by the Panterra consultancy in March found 89 percent of Bolivians want the country to take a "very different direction," with the rising cost of living by far the main concern.

"In terms of purchasing power, wages are deteriorating very strongly" with rising inflation, said economist Jose Luis Evia, a former member of the board of the Central Bank of Bolivia.

Francisca Flores, a 69-year-old street vendor, said she has had to cut back on chicken, formerly an affordable source of protein, after the price per kilogram doubled in just a few months.

She now eats omelets and other egg-based dishes instead.

"I feel helpless," Flores told AFP at La Garita de Lima, a busy commercial area of La Paz where hundreds of people formed a long queue as a truck started unloading chickens for sale.

"I go out with my little money... and if I can't buy anything, well, I just go home and endure it," she said.

Medicines, too, have become scarcer and more expensive.

Bolivia saw what has been described as a short-lived "economic miracle" under the 2006-2019 presidency of Morales, with Arce as his economy minister.

Morales, Bolivia's first Indigenous president, nationalized hydrocarbons and invested the income in infrastructure and social programs.

The country experienced more than 4 percent annual growth while poverty rates tumbled from 60 percent to 37 percent, according to official figures at the time.

But critics say Morales' failure to implement structural economic reforms meant the growth was unsustainable.

Evia believes the resultant social unrest could be the undoing of the left, which has governed Bolivia for nearly two decades, in the August elections.

"There is growing consensus for change," he said.

Baltimore (AFP) – Carrying a bag filled with the overdose-reversing drug naloxone, Adam Trionfo roams the brick-lined streets of one of America's oldest port cities, Baltimore.

The 40-year-old and his small team visit neighborhoods considered "hot spots" for drug trafficking to hand out the precious antidote, sold under the brand name Narcan.

The easy-to-use nasal spray has become a key tool in the fight against the deadly US opioid crisis, claiming 750,000 lives between the late 1990s and 2022.

"Just over the past week, we distributed 200 Narcan kits," Trionfo, who oversees an addiction assistance program with the local branch of Catholic Charities, told AFP.

On their route, the team spots a man sprawled out amid a pile of rubbish in the corner of a stairwell. They hand him a box of Narcan and a brochure about their organization.

The man takes it with one hand, as he awkwardly hides a syringe behind his back.

Their last Narcan kit goes to another man, legs covered in brown scars, who is waiting near a dilapidated building.

These scenes are not uncommon in this East Coast city, which is located about 50 kilometers (31 miles) from Washington and is renowned for endemic crime.

Baltimore was the setting of the hit television series "The Wire" in the early 2000s, depicting its burgeoning drug scene from a variety of angles.

And last year, the New York Times dubbed the city the "American overdose capital."

Between 2018 and 2022, the drug-related mortality rate was nearly twice as high as in any other major American city. The leading killer: fentanyl.

Since the height of the opioid crisis in 2021, the outlook has improved in much of the country, including in Baltimore.

The number of fatal overdoses in the city plummeted by 35 percent last year, to 680 down from 1,043 in 2023.

The city's proactive policies, coupled with preventative work done by Catholic charities in Baltimore's communities have helped make a dent in the problem.

"We've had tremendous efforts throughout the city to get people into treatment, and then we've also had tremendous efforts in getting Naloxone out there," said Michael Fingerhood, head of addiction medicine at Johns Hopkins Bayview Medical Center.

Distributed broadly for about a decade, Narcan has worked like a "fire extinguisher," Fingerhood said.

In Baltimore, Narcan is now available everywhere: pharmacies, vending machines throughout the city, even in libraries.

The drop in mortality in Baltimore is also linked to the composition of the fentanyl being sold there, Fingerhood said.

"The drug supply has less potent fentanyl and has additives that are less likely to cause overdose."

Awareness of the risks associated with the powerful synthetic opioid has also grown among users, pushing them to be more "cautious," said Bakari Atiba, community engagement director at Charm City Care Connection.

The nonprofit assists addicts in Baltimore -- known as Charm City -- and recently received funding from a restitution program fueled by lawsuits against opioid manufacturers and distributors.

"I'm not saying people are going to stop using," Atiba said. "That's not even our goal."

"It's about meeting people where they are, making sure they're safe, making sure they're supported, and making sure they have pathways to recovery if they want it."

Karimabad, Pakistan (Pakistan) (AFP) – In a sawdust-filled workshop nestled in the Karakoram Mountains, a team of women carpenters chisel away at cabinets -- and forge an unlikely career for themselves in Pakistan.

Women make up just a fraction of Pakistan's formal workforce. But in a collection of villages sprinkled along the old Silk Road between China and Afghanistan, a group of women-led businesses is defying expectations.

"We have 22 employees and have trained around 100 women," said Bibi Amina, who launched her carpentry workshop in 2008 at the age of 30.

Hunza Valley's population of around 50,000, spread across mountains abounding with apricot, cherry, walnut and mulberry orchards, follow the Ismaili branch of Shiite Islam.

Ismailis are led by the Aga Khan, a hereditary position held by a family with Pakistani roots now living in Europe.

As a result, attitudes have shifted, and women like Amina are taking expanded roles.

"People thought women were there to wash dishes and do laundry," Amina said of the generation before her.

Trained by the Aga Khan Foundation to help renovate the ancient Altit Fort, Amina later used her skills to start her own business. Her carpenters are currently at work on a commission from a luxury hotel.

Only 23 percent of the women in Pakistan were officially part of the labour force as of 2024, according to data from the World Bank.

In rural areas, women rarely take on formal employment but often toil in the fields to support the family's farming income.

In a Gallup poll published last year, a third of women respondents said their father or husband forbade them from taking a job, while 43.5 percent said they had given up work to devote themselves to domestic tasks.

Cafe owner Lal Shehzadi spearheaded women's restaurant entrepreneurship in Hunza.

She opened her cafe at the top of a winding high street to supplement her husband's small army pension.

Sixteen years later, her simple set-up overlooking the valley has become a popular night-time tourist attraction. She serves visitors traditional cuisine, including yak meat, apricot oil and rich mountain cheese.

"At the start, I used to work alone," she said. "Now, 11 people work here and most of them are women. And my children are also working here."

Following in Shehzadi's footsteps, Safina quit her job to start her own restaurant around a decade ago.

"No one wanted to help me," she said. Eventually, she convinced family members to sell two cows and a few goats for the money she needed to launch her business.

Now, she earns the equivalent of around $170 a month, more than 15 times her previous income.

The socio-economic progress of women in Hunza compared to other rural areas of Pakistan has been driven by three factors, according to Sultan Madan, the head of the Karakoram Area Development Organisation and a local historian.

"The main reason is the very high literacy rate," he told AFP, largely crediting the Aga Khan Foundation for funding training programmes for women.

"Secondly, agriculture was the backbone of the economy in the region, but in Hunza the landholding was meagre and that was why women had to work in other sectors."

Women's increased economic participation has spilled into other areas of life, like sports fields.

"Every village in the valley has a women's soccer team: Gojal, Gulmit, Passu, Khyber, Shimsal," said Nadia Shams, 17.

On a synthetic pitch, she trains with her teammates in jogging pants or shorts, forbidden elsewhere by Pakistan's dress code.

Here, one name is on everyone's lips: Malika-e-Noor, the former vice-captain of the national team who scored the winning penalty against the Maldives in the 2010 South Asian Women's Football Championship.

Fahima Qayyum was six years old when she witnessed the killer kick.

Today, after several international matches, she is recruiting the next generation.

"As a girl, I stress to others the importance of playing, as sport is very good for health," she told AFP.

"If they play well, they can also get scholarships."

Kharkiv (Ukraine) (AFP) – When Lisa, 20, laces into her ultra-high heels for her shift at a strip club in Ukraine's Kharkiv, she knows that aside from dancing, she will have to comfort traumatised soldiers.

Since Russia's 2022 invasion, exhausted troops are the main clientele of the Flash Dancers club in the centre of the northeastern city, just 20 kilometres (12 miles) from Russian forces.

For some customers, it provides an "escape" from the war, said Valerya Zavatska -- a 25-year-old law graduate who runs the club with her mother, an ex-dancer.

But many are not there just for the show. They "want to talk about what hurts," she said.

The dancers act as confidantes to soldiers bruised -- mentally and physically -- by a three-year war with no end in sight.

"Very often" they want to discuss their experiences and feelings, Lisa told AFP in a fitness centre, where the dancers practised choreography to an electro remix of the "Carmen" opera ahead of that night's show.

"The problem is that they come in sober, normal, fine. Then they drink, and that's when the darkness begins," said Zhenia, a 21-year-old dancer.

Instead of watching the performance, soldiers sometimes sit alone at the bar, crying.

Some even show the women videos from the battlefield -- including wounded comrades or the corpses of Russian soldiers.

"It can be very, very difficult, so I personally ask them not to show me, because I take it to heart too much," Lisa said.

But Zhenia -- who used to study veterinary medicine -- said she watches the footage with something a professional interest, trying to understand how a soldier could have been saved.

When performance time arrived, they put on red underwear, strapped into 20-centimetre (eight inch) platform shoes and covered their bodies with glitter -- a trick to stop married men getting too close, as the shiny specks would stick to them.

The music started. One dancer twirled around a pole, another listened attentively to a customer, while a third sat on a man's lap.

The Flash Dancers describe themselves as more "Moulin Rouge" than a strip club, and say the dancers do not enter sexual relations for money.

Prostitution -- illegal in Ukraine -- is not uncommon in areas near the frontline.

Most soldiers -- though not all -- respect the boundaries.

Sometimes friendships have been struck up.

Zhenia recalled how one soldier wrote a postcard to her, picked out by his mother -- a "wonderful woman" who now follows Zhenia on social media and sometimes sends her messages.

"I know their children, their mothers," she told AFP.

Some tell stories from their vacations, talk about their lives before the war and even come back with their wives.

"It's like a family gathering," said Nana, a 21-year-old dancer with jet-black hair.

A Colombian soldier fighting for Ukraine sipped sparkling wine on a red bench having paid almost $10 to get into the club.

Coming here "clears your mind," the 37-year-old ex-policeman -- known as "Puma" -- told AFP.

"It entertains us a little. It takes our minds off the war."

But even in the club's darkened basement, the war has a way of creeping inside.

Many of the regulars have been wounded and the dancers sometimes take gifts to hospitals.

And "an awful lot of guys who have come to us" have been killed, said Zavatska.

"Just this month alone, two died, and that's just the ones we know," she said, adding that one left behind a one-year-old infant.

A Russian strike in 2022 killed one of the group's dancers -- Lyudmila -- as well as her husband, also a former employee of the club.

She was pregnant at the time. Miraculously, her child survived.

The club closes at 10.00pm, an hour before a curfew starts.

Air raid alerts sometimes force them to stay longer, until they can head home in a brief period of relative safety.

But in Kharkiv that never lasts long.

The dancers, like everybody else, are often woken by Russia's overnight drone and missile barrages.

Even after a sleepless night, the women head back, determined to put on a performance.

"The show must go on," Zavatska said.

"We have to smile."

Havana (AFP) – It took a steep hike in mobile internet tariffs to unleash a rebellion among Cuban students on a scale unseen since the 1959 revolution that brought Fidel Castro to power.

The new pricing structure, which came into effect on May 30, punished people who exceeded their meager monthly data limit of six gigabytes with steep fees.

On top of that, it made rates cheaper to top up in dollars than in Cuba's own currency, the peso.

State telecommunications company Etecsa said the increases were necessary to fund investments in the mobile network.

But it was also seen as a ploy by the cash-strapped communist government to bring in much-needed foreign currency.

Students in particular reacted angrily to the measure, which not only makes it harder for them to stay connected, but deepens the chasm on the island between dollar-toting haves and peso-using have-nots.

In rare scenes throughout the one-party state, students at several universities organized a boycott of classes, and students' unions issued statements rejecting the reform.

Anxious to avoid a repeat of the protests that rocked the island in July 2021, when thousands of people demonstrated over shortages of basic goods, the government has taken a conciliatory approach.

The Havana students' union this week announced the creation of a discussion group with students, teaching staff from a dozen university faculties in Havana, and Etecsa's representatives.

But on social media, students say they have come under pressure from security forces to fall in line.

In a video shared on social media, which AFP was unable to verify, a medical student claims she was threatened by a state security agent on campus with being taken to "an official place where you won't be able to use your phone."

The protests have ballooned into a wider mobilization over the subtle dollarization of the Cuban economy.

Students at the University of Holguin's law faculty in eastern Cuba issued a statement denouncing the new mobile tariffs as "elitist and classist" and said the growing shift towards dollars was an affront to the principle of equal rights.

In another viral video, a medical student at the University of Havana warned that the currency of the United States was becoming the country's "flagship currency."

For opposition activist Manuel Cuesta Morua, the protests mark a return to the kind of activism last seen on campuses in the 1950s, which forged the revolutionary careers of Castro and others.

Today's students are spearheading "a revolution within the revolution," Cuesta Morua said, adding that their tirades against inequality marked a return to the "original discourse of a revolution that became militarized and more conservative" over time.

The row over the internet fees comes amid the emergence of a two-speed society on the communist island, which is mired in its worst economic crisis in 30 years.

Inflation rose by 190 percent between 2018 and 2023, according to official figures, eroding the value of the peso against the dollar.

Food, fuel and medicine are all in short supply.

Cubans who receive dollar remittances from relatives abroad fare better, with well-stocked dollar payment grocery stores and gas stations only too happy to serve them.

In January, the government announced a partial dollarization of the economy, claiming it wanted to get its hands on some of the greenbacks.

But mobile top-ups in dollars were "the last straw" for many, according to Tamarys Bahamonde, a Cuban economist at American University in Washington.

In a joint manifesto, students from various faculties in Havana made it clear they were not "opposed to the government nor the revolution but to specific policies that betray its (egalitarian) ideal."

For Bahamonde, the crisis underscores the widening gulf between Cuba's decision-makers and its citizens.

To win over the students, Etecsa last week announced that they would be allowed two monthly top-ups at the basic rate of 360 pesos ($3), compared with one for the rest of the population.

But the students rejected the offer, saying they wanted everyone to benefit.

For activist Cuesta Morua, their reaction was proof that young Cubans, rather than the government, have become the voice of the people.

"It is the students... who are representing the country's concerns."

Sanjō (Japan) (AFP) – All is calm at Satoshi Yamazaki's rice farm, with its freshly planted rows of vivid-green seedlings, but a row over the cost of the staple in Japan is threatening to deal the government a blow at the ballot box.

Shortages of the grain caused by a supply chain snarl-up have seen prices almost double in a year, fuelling frustration over inflation -- and voters could let their anger be known in upper house elections due next month.

To help ease the pain for consumers and restaurants, the government started tapping emergency stockpiles in March, having only previously done so during disasters.

Yamazaki, who grows about 10 percent of his rice organically using ducks to eat pests, said he understands high prices are "troubling" for ordinary people.

But he stressed that thin profits are a concern for many of those who produce it.

"There's a gap between shop prices and what farmers sell rice for to traders and the like," he told AFP in the northern Niigata region.

"Not all the money paid at shops becomes our income," said Yamazaki, a 42-year-old father of seven.

A mosaic of factors lies behind the shortages, including an intensely hot and dry summer two years ago that damaged harvests nationwide.

Since then some traders have been hoarding rice in a bid to boost their profits down the line, experts say.

The issue was made worse by panic-buying last year prompted by a government warning about a potential "megaquake" that did not strike.

Meanwhile, the rising price of imported food has boosted the popularity of domestic rice, while record numbers of tourists are also blamed for a spike in consumption.

Farm minister Shinjiro Koizumi has pledged to cut prices quicker by selling stockpiled rice directly to retailers -- attracting long queues to some shops.

It appears to be working: the average retail price has edged down for a second week to 4,223 yen ($29) for five kilograms (11 pounds), down from a high of 4,285 yen in May.

That hasn't stopped opposition politicians -- with an eye on the elections -- and online critics branding the reserve rice "old", with some likening it to animal feed.

But analysts also blame Japan's decades-old policy of cutting rice-farming land. The policy was introduced to support prices that were being hit by falling demand brought about by changes in the Japanese diet.

Under the 1971 policy, farmers were told to reduce the amount of space used to grow the grain in favour of other crops.

That saw the amount of land used for rice paddies -- not including for livestock feed -- plunge below 1.4 million hectares (3.5 million acres) in 2024, from a peak of 3.3 million hectares in 1960.

While the policy was officially abolished in 2018, it has continued in a form of incentives pushing farmers towards other commodities like soybeans.

Adding to the crisis is Japan's ageing population. Many rice farmers are old and their children have no interest in taking over.

Eighty percent of rice farmers are part-time with less than two hectares of fields but they account for only 20 percent of production, said agronomy expert Kazunuki Oizumi, professor emeritus of Miyagi University.

Their main revenue comes from other jobs or pensions, he added.

Toru Wakui, chairman of a large-scale farm in the northern Akita region who has for decades fought against the acreage reduction, said Japan should "seek an increase in rice production and exports to foreign markets".

"If you only think about the domestic market while increasing output, of course prices will fall," he told AFP. "We need to look for markets abroad."

"The 55 years of acreage reduction destroyed Japan's agriculture," said Wakui, 76, who urged Koizumi in a letter last month to "declare an expansion in rice production".

He also said Japan should consider a scheme to help young people start agriculture businesses without the burden of initial investment in fields and machinery, by involving other sectors including banks and trading companies.

Public support for Prime Minister Shigeru Ishiba's government has tumbled to its lowest level since he took office in October, which local media say was partly caused by the surge in inflation and soaring rice costs.

He has told parliament that increasing production is "an option" to temper prices, but said food security and the livelihood of producers was also important.

For the farmer Yamazaki, "wanting cheap rice with high quality" is a pipe dream.

"We farmers are a little baffled by the limelight that suddenly shifted to us," he said.

"But I think it's a good opportunity for the public to think about how rice is produced."

Cairo (AFP) – After nearly a century in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, King Tutankhamun's iconic gold mask and remaining treasures are set to move to the new Grand Egyptian Museum near the Giza Pyramids.

Visitors have just days left to see the boy king's world-famous gold funerary mask before it joins more than 5,000 artefacts from his tomb at the GEM, a $1-billion megaproject opening on July 3.

"Only 26 objects from the Tutankhamun collection, including the golden mask and two coffins, remain here in Tahrir," said museum director Ali Abdel Halim.

"All are set to be moved soon," he told AFP, without confirming a specific date for the transfer.

The government has yet to officially announce when or how the last artefacts will be relocated.

Still on display are the innermost gold coffin, a gilded coffin, a gold dagger, cosmetic box, miniature coffins, royal diadem and pectorals.

Tutankhamun's treasures, registered at the Egyptian Museum on Cairo's Tahrir square in 1934, have long been its crown jewels.

But the neoclassical building -- with faded cases, no climate control and ageing infrastructure -- now contrasts with the high-tech GEM.

Once open, the GEM is believed to be the largest in the world devoted to a single civilisation, housing more than 100,000 artefacts -- with over half on public display.

In a dedicated wing, most of King Tut's treasures will be exhibited together for the first time in history since British archeologist Howard Carter discovered the young pharaoh's intact tomb in 1922.

His mummy will remain in its original resting place in Luxor's Valley of the Kings as it is "a vital part of the archeological site", Egyptian officials have said.

A virtual replica, however, will be displayed at the GEM using virtual reality technology.

The Egyptian Museum in Tahrir, long the historic heart of Egyptology, has lost in 2021 other star exhibits: 22 royal mummies including Ramses II and Queen Hatshepsut that were relocated in a widely watched state procession to the National Museum of Egyptian Civilization in Old Cairo.

Still, it is home to around 170,000 artefacts, according to the museum director, including treasures from Yuya and Thuya - Tutankhamun's ancestors -- and items from ancient Tanis, such as the golden funerary mask of King Amenemope.

A total of 32,000 artefacts have already been relocated from storage and display halls at the Tahrir museum to the GEM.

The museum's director said the space left behind by Tutankhamun's collection will eventually be filled by a new exhibition "on par with the significance of Tut’s treasures".

Paris (AFP) – Misidentified bones that languished in the drawers of a Mongolian institute for 50 years belong to a new species of tyrannosaur that rewrites the family history of the mighty T-Rex, scientists said Wednesday.

This slender ancestor of the massive Tyrannosaurus Rex was around four metres (13 feet) long and weighed three quarters of a tonne, according to a new study in the journal Nature.

"It would have been the size of a very large horse," study co-author Darla Zelenitsky of Canada's University of Calgary told AFP.

The fossils were first dug up in southeastern Mongolia in the early 1970s but at the time were identified as belonging to a different tyrannosaur, Alectrosaurus.

For half a century, the fossils sat in the drawers at the Institute of Paleontology of the Mongolian Academy of Sciences in the capital Ulaanbaatar.

Then PhD student Jared Voris, who was on a trip to Mongolia, started looking through the drawers and noticed something was wrong, Zelenitsky said.

It turned out the fossils were well-preserved, partial skeletons of two different individuals of a completely new species.

"It is quite possible that discoveries like this are sitting in other museums that just have not been recognised," Zelenitsky added.

They named the new species Khankhuuluu mongoliensis, which roughly means the dragon prince of Mongolia because it is smaller than the "king" T-Rex.

Zelenitsky said the discovery "helped us clarify a lot about the family history of the tyrannosaur group because it was really messy previously".

The T-Rex represented the end of the family line.

It was the apex predator in North America until 66 million years ago, when an asteroid bigger than Mount Everest slammed into the Gulf of Mexico.

Three quarters of life on Earth was wiped out, including all the dinosaurs that did not evolve into birds.

Around 20 million years earlier, Khankhuuluu -- or another closely related family member -- is now believed to have migrated from Asia to North America using the land bridge that once connected Siberia and Alaska.

This led to tyrannosaurs evolving across North America.

Then one of these species is thought to have crossed back over to Asia, where two tyrannosaur subgroups emerged.

One was much smaller, weighing under a tonne, and was nicknamed Pinocchio rex for its long snout.

The other subgroup was huge and included behemoths like the Tarbosaurus, which was only a little smaller than the T-rex.

One of the gigantic dinosaurs then left Asia again for North America, eventually giving rise to the T-Rex, which dominated for just two million years -- until the asteroid struck.

Birr (Ireland) (AFP) – Mapping more accurately than ever Ireland's peatlands, which are vital as carbon sinks but whose boundaries can be hard to determine, could help fight global warming, researchers say.

Ireland is pockmarked with patches of dark brown peat soil that make up at least 20 percent of the land cover, according to Eve Daly, a geophysicist at the University of Galway, who co-led a groundbreaking project on finding peat.

"Peatland soils contain comparable amounts of carbon to the likes of rainforests so a more accurate map can lead to better land management decisions and mitigate against greenhouse gas emissions," Daly told AFP.

Her research team developed a new mapping approach using gamma radiation measurements to identify for the first time "transition zones" -- typically hidden under forests and grasslands -- where the soil changes from being peat to mineral-based.

Daly says the area of soil in Ireland considered "peaty" has increased thanks to a new colour-coded "peat/non-peat" map produced by the researchers.

"Improved mapping at higher resolution and locating where hidden organic peat soils are and their extent are key inputs into working out carbon emission factors," she said.

Her project co-leader Dave O'Leary told AFP about 80 percent of Ireland had now been mapped out in patches of "peat" brown or "non-peat" green.

"Few countries have invested in such an incredible data set, which puts Ireland at the forefront of peatland mapping research," he said.

Land use, including farming and peatland draining, is a major source of Ireland's carbon emissions which could see the country failing to meet an EU-agreed climate target to cut emissions by over 50 percent by 2030.

A recent report said Ireland risks an EU fine of almost 30 billion euros if it fails to reach the target and recommended the restoring -- and rewetting -- of thousands of hectares of peatlands to help deliver "massive" cuts in emissions.

"We need to use more modern technologies or use old technologies with new lenses to try and find these hidden peat soils," Daly said.

Ireland's boggy areas are typically located in the middle of the bowl-shaped country which is ringed with hills and low mountains around the coastal areas.

Triven Koganti, an agroecology expert at Denmark's Aarhus University, told AFP that five percent of global greenhouse gas emissions came from cultivated peatlands.

"Historical agricultural draining of peatlands... or to use them as a fuel source has led to significant greenhouse gas emissions," he said.

So "an accurate accounting" of peatland boundaries is needed to achieve "current global initiatives to restore peatlands", he said, adding the Irish research "plays an important role in establishing this".

The mapping technique -- described as "bird's eye" by Daly -- is based on gamma-ray data measured by a sensor onboard a plane that has been flown low over Ireland for a decade in a state-funded geophysical survey.

"All rocks and different amounts of soils give off a certain amount of natural radiation but peat doesn't as it's full of organic material," Daly said.

Soils are usually a mixture of broken bits of rock, water and air, but peat soils are distinct from mineral soils as they are formed from decaying plant material, water and air, and contain a very high amount of carbon.

When waterlogged, this carbon is stored in the soil but when water is removed, for example via drainage, peat soils then emit carbon dioxide as the decay process restarts, Daly said.

The state-funded "Tellus" survey began in 2011 and is expected to be completed later this year.

Los Angeles (United States) (AFP) – When immigration officers leapt out of unmarked vans and ran towards undocumented men waiting by a Home Depot in Los Angeles, the day laborers scattered, terrified at the prospect of arrest and deportation.

"People were hiding under wood, in the trash, wherever they could find a little hole," said Oscar Mendia, a Guatemalan who estimated 25 people were arrested.

"It was like something out of a movie."

The raid was part of an anti-immigration crackdown ordered by President Donald Trump that has seen factories and work sites targeted since Friday, sparking days of angry protests in America's second biggest city.

"It all started here," Mendia said, pointing to the parking lot where around 20 workers had gathered on Wednesday.

Mendia, who has lived undocumented in the United States for 26 years, had never been involved in a raid before, not even during Trump's first term.

"It's one thing to see it on television," he said, "But it's another to experience it firsthand."

Stories of migrants being held in crowded cells, unable to speak to family or lawyers before being rapidly deported are frightening, said another man, aged 40, who did not provide a name.

But they are not enough to keep these workers away from the parking lot, where they gather in the hope of snagging off-the-books work in construction, farming or manual labor.

"It's difficult, but we have to work, we have families to support," said the man, who sends most of his money to Honduras to provide for his six children.

Mendia, who also used remittances to educate and raise his three children in Guatemala, says men like him have less to fear in this anti-immigration climate.

But for the new generation, the situation "is terrifying," he said.

"They come with hope, they come dreaming of a future."

Beside him, a 21-year-old nods nervously.

The young man was saved from Friday's raid because he had already been picked up for a construction project by the time the armed federal agents arrived.

On Monday, he almost didn't come back, but ultimately realized he had no choice.

"We need to do it," he told AFP.

The men's stories are echoed in parking lots, car washes and on construction sites all over Los Angeles and throughout the United States.

They fled countries devastated by economic and political crises, or by violence, in search of work to support their families.

After difficult and dangerous journeys, they work for low salaries, doing the kind of back-breaking jobs many Americans have long since abandoned -- and often pay taxes.

Undocumented migrants contributed nearly $90 billion to the public purse in 2023, according to an analysis by the American Immigration Council.

Trump returned to power this year after campaigning on a pledge to conduct the biggest deportation operation in US history.

The ramped-up raids this week appear to be part of a push to make do on that promise, and come after White House Deputy Chief of Staff Stephen Miller reportedly ordered ICE (Immigration Customs and Enforcement) bosses to make at least 3,000 arrests every day.

In Los Angeles, a city with large foreign-born and Latino populations, the idea of these masked men swooping has horrified people, many of whom personally know undocumented people.

"Why is Donald Trump doing this?" asked a Mexican man who arrived in the United States nearly three decades ago.

The man, who asked not to be identified, said it was unfair to go after hard-working people who are just trying to make a living.

"Why is he attacking Los Angeles? Because we are a power, because we are the ones who make the economy," he said,

"This country will fall without Latinos."

The migrants of the 21st century might be largely Latinos, but America's rich history is one of waves of different people coming to these shores.

"This is a country of immigrants," said Mendia, recalling Trump's own German roots.

"Everyone from the president to the person who sweeps the streets."

Sharjah (United Arab Emirates) (AFP) – After Muhammed Sajjad moved from India to the United Arab Emirates a decade ago, he missed his native Kerala's monsoon season, so he embarked on an unlikely quest: finding rain in the desert.

Using satellite imagery, weather data and other high-tech tools, the amateur meteorologist tracks potential rainfall spots across the desert country and, along with other Indians nostalgic for the monsoon season, chases the clouds in search of rain.

"When I came to UAE in 2015, in August, it... was peak monsoon time" in Kerala, the 35-year-old estate agent told AFP, adding that he had struggled to adjust to the change of climate.

"So I started to search about the rainy condition in UAE and I came to know that there is rain happening in UAE during peak summer," he said, adding: "I started to explore the possibility to chase the rain, enjoy the rain."

Each week, he forecasts when and where rain might fall and posts a suggested rendezvous to the 130,000 followers of his "UAE Weatherman" page on Instagram.

He regularly posts footage of his rain expeditions out into the desert, hoping to bring together "all rain lovers who miss rain".

Last weekend, he headed out into the desert from Sharjah at the head of a convoy of about 100 vehicles.

But nothing is certain. The rain "may happen, it may not happen," Sajjad said. But when it does, "it is an amazing moment".

After driving in the desert for hours, the group arrived at the designated spot just as a downpour started.

The rain lovers leapt out of their vehicles, their faces beaming as the rain droplets streamed down their cheeks in a rare reminder of home.

"They feel nostalgic," Sajjad said proudly.

Most UAE residents are foreigners, among them some 3.5 million Indians who make up the Gulf country's largest expatriate community.

Despite the use of advanced cloud-seeding technology, the UAE has an average yearly rainfall of just 50 to 100 millilitres.

Most of it falls during short but intense winter storms.

"While long-term averages remain low, the frequency and intensity of extreme weather events has been increasing and is due to global warming," said Diana Francis, a climate scientist who teaches at Khalifa University in Abu Dhabi.

In the summer, the country often gets less than five millilitres of rain, she said, usually falling away from the coastal areas where most of the population lives.

So rain-seekers must drive deep into the desert interior to have a chance of success.

An Indian expatriate, who gave her name only as Anagha and was on her first expedition into the desert last weekend, said she was "excited to see the rain".

"All of my family and friends are enjoying good rain and good climate and we are living here in the hot sun," she said.

The UAE endured its hottest April on record this year.

By contrast, April last year saw the UAE's heaviest rains in 75 years, which saw 259.5 mm of rainfall in a single day.

Four people died and the commercial hub of Dubai was paralysed for several days. Scientists of the World Weather Attribution network said the intense rains were "most likely" exacerbated by global warming.

"We couldn't enjoy it because it was flooded all over UAE," Anagha said. "This time we are going to see... rain coming to us in the desert."

Kastron Viotias (Greece) (AFP) – In a field in central Greece that once grew clover and corn, maintenance worker Nikos Zigomitros deftly drives a tractor between rows of solar panels, trimming weeds under a blazing sun.

"Letting them grow too high impairs the panel performance," the 52-year-old explains, wiping sweat from his brow.

Once a centre of agricultural production, the area around Kastron Viotias, some 110 kilometres (70 miles) northwest of Athens, has seen solar parks mushroom over the past 15 years, part of a major renewable energy push in the country.

Greece currently has 16 gigawatts of renewable energy installed, with solar power representing nearly 10 gigawatts, including 2.5 gigawatts that came on line last year.

The rapid growth of solar is similar to other countries in Europe, where it has overtaken coal for electricity production, according to climate think tank Ember.

It estimates renewables have risen to account for nearly half of the EU's electricity production.

Greece did even better: 55 percent of annual consumption was covered by renewables last year, with solar accounting for around 23 percent, according to SPEF, an association which unites local solar power producers.

In 2023, Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis predicted that Greece would "soon generate 80 percent of its electricity needs through renewables."

But getting there is proving complicated.

SPEF chairman Stelios Loumakis said that the solar sector has hit a wall because of a combination of factors, including Greece's small size, limited infrastructure and delays in building up energy storage capacity.

The Greek state approved too many photovoltaic projects over the last five years and the market is saturated, leading to a "severe production surplus" on sunny days, the 56-year-old chemical engineer and energy consultant said.

Greece's national grid operator in May repeatedly ordered thousands of medium-sized operators to shut down during the sunniest hours of the day to avoid overburdening the network and triggering a blackout.

"The trick is to balance supply and demand. If you don't do it well, you get a blackout," said Nikos Mantzaris, a senior policy analyst and partner at the independent civil organisation Green Tank.

In April, a huge blackout of unknown origin crippled the Iberian Peninsula. The Spanish government has said two major power fluctuations were recorded in the half-hour before the grid collapse, but the government insisted renewables were not to blame.

"It could be something as mundane as a faulty cable," Mantzaris said.

To manage the surplus, Greece is building battery storage capacity. But catching up to its solar electricity production will take years.

"The next three years will be crucial," said Stelios Psomas, a policy advisor at HELAPCO, a trade association for Greek companies producing and installing solar panels.

In the meantime, solar panel operators will have to ensure production does not outstrip capacity, thereby limiting their potential earnings.

"Managing high shares of renewables -- especially solar -- requires significant flexibility and storage solutions," said Francesca Andreolli, a senior researcher at ECCO, a climate change think tank in Italy, which faces a similar problem.

"Battery capacity has become a structural necessity for the electricity system, by absorbing excess renewable energy and releasing it when demand rises," she told AFP.

Mimis Tsakanikas, a 51-year-old farmer in Kastron, readily admits that solar has been good to his family.

The photovoltaic farm they built in 2012 at a cost of 210,000 euros clears at least 55,000 euros a year, far more than he could hope to earn by growing vegetables and watermelons.

"This park sustains my home," he said.

But the father of two also notes that the environmental balance has tipped in his area, with the spread of solar installations now causing concerns about the local microclimate.

Tsakanikas says the area has already experienced temperature rises of up to 4.0 degrees Celsius (7.2 Fahrenheit), which he blames on the abundance of heat-absorbing solar panel parks in the area.

"The microclimate has definitely changed, we haven't seen frost in two years," he told AFP.

"(At this rate) in five years, we'll be cultivating bananas here, like in Crete," he said.

United Nations (United States) (AFP) – The high seas treaty could be law by the end of the year, affording protection to marine life in the vast swathes of ocean that belong to no one.

The treaty was adopted by UN member states in June 2023. It has been ratified by 31 nations plus the European Union, and comes into force 120 days after its 60th ratification.

But at the UN Ocean Conference this week, hosts France said around 50 countries have ratified the pact, bringing it within reach of enactment.

The United States signed the treaty in 2023 under Joe Biden but is not expected to ratify it while Donald Trump is president.

Here are the key points of the treaty text:

International waters

The treaty covers international waters, which fall outside the jurisdiction of any single state, and account for more than 60 percent of the world's oceans.

Specifically, it applies to waters beyond countries' exclusive economic zones, which extend up to 200 nautical miles from the coast.

It also covers what is known as "the Area", shorthand for seabed and subsoil beyond the limits of national jurisdiction. The Area comprises just over half of the planet's seabed.

Once enacted, a decision-making body -- a Conference of the Parties (COP) -- would have to work with regional and global organizations that already oversee different aspects of the oceans.

These include regional fisheries bodies and the International Seabed Authority, the arena where nations are hotly contesting a proposed set of rules to govern deep-sea mining.

Trump's decision to sidestep the authority -- to which the US is not a member -- and issue deep-sea mining permits in international waters has raised tricky questions of jurisdiction.

Marine protected areas

Currently, almost all protected marine areas (MPAs) are within national territorial waters.

The treaty, however, allows for these reserves to be created in the open ocean.

Most decisions would be taken by a consensus of the COP, but an MPA can be voted into existence with a three-quarters majority, to prevent deadlock caused by a single country.

One crucial shortcoming: the text does not say how these conservation measures will be monitored and enforced over remote swathes of the ocean -- a task that will fall to the COP.

Some experts say satellites could be used to spot infractions.

Individual countries are already responsible for certain activities on the high seas that they have jurisdiction over, such as those of ships flying their flags.

Sharing the bounty?

On the high seas, countries and entities under their jurisdiction will be allowed to collect animal, plant, or microbial matter whose genetic material might prove useful, even commercially.

Scientists, for example, have discovered molecules with the potential to treat cancer or other diseases in microbes scooped up in sediment, or produced by sponges or marine mollusks.

Benefits-sharing of those resources has been a key point of contention between wealthy and poorer nations.

The treaty establishes frameworks for the transfer of marine research technologies to developing countries and a strengthening of their research capacities, as well as open access to data.

But it's left to the COP to decide exactly how any monetary benefits will eventually be shared, with options including a system based on specific commercialized products, or more generalized payment systems.

Environmental impact studies

The treaty requires signatories to assess the environmental impacts of planned activities under their control on the high seas before they are authorized in instances when such activities may have more than a minor or transitory effect.

It also calls for countries to assess the potential impact on international waters of activities within national jurisdictions that may cause "substantial pollution" or harm the high sea marine environment.

Ultimately, states are responsible for giving the green light to any potentially harmful activity -- a role NGOs hoped would go to the COP, to make controversial approvals more difficult.

The treaty also requires states to publish updates on an activity's environmental impacts. Approvals can be called into question if unanticipated impacts arise.

Though they are not specifically listed in the treaty, activities that could come under regulation include transport and fishing, as well as more controversial subjects such as deep-sea mining or even geo-engineering initiatives to mitigate global warming.

Bratislava (AFP) – A bust attributed to Renaissance master Donatello has re-emerged in Slovakia after falling into obscurity following World War II, but the country's nationalist government has sparked anger by stowing it away in a ministry building.

The sculpture of Italian noblewoman Cecilia Gonzaga spent centuries in a manor house in central Slovakia, whose owners, the noble Csaky family, left it behind when they fled the advancing World War II front in 1945.

Moved about and ultimately forgotten in the aftermath, it was sitting in a depository at the Spis Museum in the eastern town of Levoca when art historian Marta Herucova stumbled across it.

The bust had been marked "unknown author". But Herucova noticed the base was inscribed with the words: "Ceciliae Gonzagae opvs Donatelli" (Cecilia Gonzaga, a work by Donatello).

If confirmed, it would be only the eighth artwork signed by the Italian Renaissance sculptor to be discovered worldwide.

Herucova made the find in 2019, but it was only announced in February -- surprising the country.

"Who would expect an original Donatello to appear in Slovakia?" former museum director Maria Novotna told AFP.

But the bust is now a subject of controversy.

Nationalist Culture Minister Martina Simkovicova decided to remove it from the museum and bring it to an unknown location in late May, citing security concerns.

The move dismayed critics and art historians, who say the bust needs expert conservation and research to confirm if it is really by Donatello (1386-1466).

A group of cultural sector representatives including Count Moritz Csaky has meanwhile lobbied for the bust to go on display.

Csaky said in a statement on Monday that his family did not make any claim for restitution but cautioned "against individual artefacts becoming the plaything of power-political or commercial speculations".

"I hope that the bust will not become the victim of a second expropriation and will once again find a dignified and honourable place in the Spis Museum," he added.

The bust has an epic backstory.

After the Csaky family fled, Soviet troops looted their house, which then became a juvenile detention centre for girls after the communist government took over what was then Czechoslovakia in 1948.

The girls played with the bust and even defined its eyes with blue pen, said Peter Cizmar, the son of a former guardian.

In 1975, artwork still surviving at the centre was moved to the nearby Spis Museum.

Attributed to an unknown 19th-century artist, the bust "was put in a depository and had not left it since", said former director Novotna, an art historian.

Novotna was in charge of the museum catalogue as a young woman, and now regrets she did not have time to research the item as she was swamped with work.

In 2019, Herucova was working on the museum's 19th-century collection when she found the piece.

"The bust just came up," she said.

After noticing the inscription, she started in-depth research.

She suspected forgery, but the material, details and inscription were all too telling, she said.

"Even artists who made Renaissance-style busts never signed them in the name of the original author," Herucova told AFP.

She wrote about the finding in the French art history magazine Revue de l'Art, waiting for someone to contest the bust's origin -- which has not happened.

Herucova also contacted Csaky, who had no clear recollection of its origin either, as his family left for Vienna when he was 11.

But he did recall seeing the bust on a porch where the family dined in summer.

"He said there used to be two original Gothic statues next to it, which are also in the museum today," Herucova said.

Herucova also contacted Italian art history professor Francesco Caglioti, who voiced doubt about the authorship but declined to elaborate.

She is now pinning hopes on research in cooperation with foreign institutions.

But for now, the bust is hidden away.

Simkovicova, the culture minister who ordered it be moved with the help of a police commando, said it was "now safe and protected".

Police chief Jana Maskarova later said the bust was at an interior ministry centre in Topolcianky, central Slovakia.

Simkovicova promised to display the bust when "conditions are favourable".

Herucova hopes the ministry will not try to revamp the bust, which should retain its patina, she said.

"It's supposed to go to a professional place where they know how to do lab analyses."

Yaoundé – Cameroon’s overlapping conflicts have pushed almost one million people from their homes. A new report says the crisis is both under-funded and under-reported. RFI spoke to some of those forced to flee, now struggling to survive far from home.

Constance Banda sits on a wooden stool, her hands moving steadily as she washes her children’s clothes – three of the six look on, as at the end of the hall her four-year-old daughter cradles her tiny, two-week-old sister.

“I gave birth to her here,” Banda tells RFI, a brief smile emerging. “She offers me solace."

The bungalow where Banda and her family now live was once part of a government poultry farm in Mvogbessi, in Cameroon's capital Yaoundé. The farm was abandoned after bird flu struck Cameroon in 2016, killing more than 15,000 birds.

Today, this building is home not just for Banda and her children, but for dozens of other internally displaced people from Cameroon's war-torn North West and South West regions.

“It’s very hard for us here. My children sometimes go for days without food. My husband is a bricklayer, but he works for people and they hardly pay him," says Banda.

Her neighbour, Ruth Che Ndukong from Akum village, has a similar story of loss and migration. Seven years ago, she was mourning the death of her mother when gunmen attacked.

“I came here seven years ago. It was just at the beginning of the crisis. We were burying our mother when gunfire stormed the burial grounds. It was terrifying. So we decided to flee.”

Ndukong said life hasn’t been easy since she arrived in Yaoundé, as she worked flour into dough. “I survive by making and selling doughnuts,” she explained. “It’s the only thing you can make with limited capital."

The experiences of these two women highlight the hardships endured by almost 1 million internally displaced people across Cameroon.

“Many of them are barely surviving. Many are exploited, because they are vulnerable," said Willibroad Dze-Ngwa, a lecturer of history and political science at the University of Yaoundé 2.

Cameroon is grappling with multiple crises leading to this mass displacement, including a Boko Haram insurgency in the north, a refugee influx from the Central African Republic, and the protracted Anglophone crisis that has afflicted the country for more than eight years.

Banda and Ndukong are victims of the latter – which initially manifested as peaceful protests by teachers and lawyers in these regions who were challenging the imposition of French within Anglophone educational and judicial institutions.

The situation escalated into violence following the government's hardline response. Subsequently a separatist movement developed, which resorted to armed conflict against the state, demanding the secession of the Anglophone regions to form a new nation, Ambazonia.

The roots of the conflict lie in Cameroon's colonial past. The country had been colonised by Germany, but after the First World War it was split between France and the United Kingdom. The UK took control of the areas now known as the North West and South West regions, while France ruled the rest.

When independence came in 1960, the British and French-ruled parts of Cameroon decided to join together in a federation. But this came to an end following a controversial referendum in 1972, which saw the country abandon the federal system to become a unitary state.

Anglophone Cameroonians – who make up around 20 percent of the country's 28 million people – view this change as the majority Francophone population trying to absorb them, and anger over this exploded into conflict in 2016.

As the people of Cameroon suffer through these crises, the latest report from the Norwegian Refugee Council has put the country at the top of the list of most neglected displacement crises.

As well as noting the lack of funding to deal with the situation, in the wake of recent overseas aid cuts by several Western countries, the report highlights the relative lack of media coverage.

It reports that the displacement crisis in Cameroon was mentioned in 28,800 articles in English, Spanish, French and Arabic in 2024 – 15 times fewer mentions than the war in Ukraine, which was mentioned in 451,000 articles.

Theodore Lontum Wankuy, of the Big Steps Outreach Network NGO, told RFI that many of his organisation's programmes have been derailed by aid cuts.

“We used to receive aid from Canada and the UN, but that UN assistance is no longer available after the Trump administration cut funding to UN agencies. The US previously supplied about 80 percent of UNDP funding. That support has been cut, meaning that door has been slammed shut for us. Consequently, many of our projects have been put on hold,” he said.

Both Banda and Ndukong said that since they arrived in Yaoundé, they haven’t received any assistance from the government or from NGOs.

“We basically live from day to day. You aren’t always sure where your next meal will come from,” Ndukong told RFI.

Banda added: “All I pray for is for the fighting to end so that we can return a rebuild our lives."

Washington (AFP) – Donald Trump's deployment of California's National Guard marks the first time in decades that a US president openly defied a state governor and sent troops to an emergency zone.

By ordering 2,000 guardsmen to Los Angeles to help quell protests against raids by US immigration agents, Trump essentially mounted a takeover of the state's military regiments to address "lawlessness" on the city's streets.

The National Guard is a reserve military rooted in the 17th century local militias created in the American colonies before the country's founding.

Since then the guard has had multiple responsibilities: domestic disaster relief and security, homeland defense and prevention of civil unrest; and acting as reserve forces for US military deployments overseas.

Presidential orders to deploy guardsmen domestically are not uncommon.

But clashes between a president and governor over deployments -- or the lack thereof, such as during the US Capitol riot by Trump supporters on January 6, 2021 while he was still in office -- have been rare.

Los Angeles, 2025

The White House said Trump relied on a seldom used law, known as Title 10, that permits National Guard federalization in times of "a rebellion or danger of a rebellion against the authority of the Government of the United States."

California Governor Gavin Newsom called the decision "purposefully inflammatory." But Trump's order proceeded, and the guard troops were on LA streets Sunday.

"This is the first time since 1965 that a president has deployed the National Guard without a request by a state governor," Kenneth Roth, a longtime former Human Rights Watch executive director, posted on X.

"Then it was (president Lyndon) Johnson protecting civil rights protesters. Now it's Trump creating a spectacle so he can continue his immigration raids."

Elizabeth Goitein of the Brennan Center for Justice warned of a "shocking abuse of power" by Trump, whose memorandum authorizes federalization of National Guard troops "at locations where protests against (federal immigration) functions are occurring or are likely to occur."

"Trump has authorized the deployment of troops anywhere in the country where protests against ICE activity might occur," Goitein posted on X. "That is a huge red flag."

Alabama, 1965

A landmark civil rights moment led to a National Guard clash between a president and a segregationist governor.

With demonstrators led by Martin Luther King Jr on a five-day march from Selma to Alabama's capital Montgomery, governor George Wallace pledged National Guard security -- but then reneged.

The U-turn incensed Johnson who, in defiance of Wallace, called up the guard. The march was protected by thousands of Army soldiers and federalized guard members.

Arkansas, 1957

When the Little Rock school system was ordered desegregated, Arkansas' pro-segregationist governor Orval Faubus deployed the National Guard to surround a high school and prevent nine Black students from entering.

President Dwight Eisenhower bristled at the standoff and told Faubus the guard must maintain order so the Black students could attend. Instead, Faubus pulled the guardsmen, leaving security to local forces.

Eisenhower issued an executive order federalizing the Arkansas National Guard, and ordered 1,000 US Army troops to join them.

Kent State, 1970

Perhaps no anti-Vietnam war protest was more pivotal than at Ohio's Kent State University, where students slammed Richard Nixon's war expansion.

As unrest swelled, the National Guard opened fire, killing four students and wounding nine others.

The shootings sparked outrage, but also led to reforms regarding how the guard handles civil unrest and use of force.

Hurricane Katrina, 2005

The massive hurricane left much of New Orleans underwater, leading to the largest-ever peacetime deployment of the National Guard.

But critics accused then-president George W Bush of favoring a militaristic response over humanitarian relief.

Louisiana's governor, Kathleen Blanco, warned that many among the thousands of National Guard and federal troops were battle-tested Iraq war veterans.

"These troops know how to shoot and kill and I expect they will," she reportedly said.

Outside White House, 2020

June 1, 2020 saw a brutal crackdown on demonstrators following the police murder of African-American George Floyd.

With people aggressively protesting near the White House, the National Guard joined police to maintain order. Flash grenades and tear gas were deployed.

Unlike in the nation's 50 states, the DC National Guard is under direct command of the US president, who at the time was Trump.

Nairobi – As dusk settles over a high school in central Kenya, the hum of an electric motor powered by a discarded laptop battery signals a quiet revolution – led by physics teacher and inventor Paul Waweru.

"Most people throw these away," he says, holding up a palm-sized lithium-ion cell. "I see power, potential, possibility."

Waweru sources old laptop battery packs, tests their viability and then crafts new packs from them, which are then fitted as power sources for motorbikes.

These bikes can travel up to 50 kilometers on one charge, providing a cleaner, quieter and cheaper alternative to petrol-powered boda-bodas – Kenya's famous motorcycle taxis.

Waweru scours junkyards, repair shops and electronic waste dumps for old laptop batteries, which sell for as low as 0.50 Kenyan shillings – less than one American cent.

While most people view them as dead, Waweru says up to 70 percent of these cells still have some charge.

He converts old motorbikes by stripping out the internal combustion engine and replacing it with an electric motor and one of his custom battery packs. The end result is a machine that produces zero emissions and is almost free to operate.

"In places like Nairobi, where fuel prices keep rising and traffic chokes our cities, this kind of innovation isn't just clever – it has become necessary," he says.

Evans Otieno, a 29-year-old boda-boda rider in Kisumu, was among the first to test Waweru's invention. He used to spend more than 700 shillings a day on petrol. Now he charges his bike overnight with solar power.

"No noise, no smoke, just movement," Otieno grinned. "The customers do ask. They're all surprised. They say, this came out of an old laptop?"

An estimated 50,000 tonnes of e-waste are deposited in Africa annually, most of which ends in open, unregulated dumps, emitting toxins into the environment – adding to urban air pollution.

Waweru's laptop-motorbike hybrids provide a grassroots solution for climate change, waste management and youth unemployment all in one, and all out of a backyard workshop.

"This is bottom-up climate action and it’s working," said Mary Mburu, a circular economy strategist.

Waweru’s vision reaches beyond his workshop. He has begun training young people in his community to test the used batteries, build circuits and retrofit bikes. He envisages a network of community-powered workshops across Africa, building electric vehicles using locally available waste.

"We don’t need to wait for Tesla or Toyota to bring electric mobility to Africa" he says. "We can build our own with what we have."

His biggest challenges are funding, access to quality tools and grappling with outdated policies.

Back in his shed, he inserts the final cell into a freshly built battery pack. As he fastens the casing, a soft whir proclaims success. He steps back, watching one of his students ride the bike around the block.

"Change doesn’t have to be flashy," he says. "It just has to work and keep moving forward."

Paris (AFP) – Tim Friede was feeling particularly down on the day after the September 11 attacks, so he went to his basement and let two of the world's deadliest snakes bite him.

Four days later, he woke up from a coma.

"I know what it feels like to die from snakebite," Friede told AFP via video call from his home in the small US town of Two Rivers, Wisconsin.

This experience might put most people off snakes entirely, but Friede simply vowed to be more careful next time.

From 2000 to 2018, he allowed himself to be bitten by snakes more than 200 times. He also injected himself with their venom over 650 times.

Friede endured this pain because he wanted to achieve total immunity to venom, a practice called mithridatism which should not be tried at home.

After a couple of years, Friede started to believe he could be the basis for a better kind of antivenom. The former truck mechanic, who does not have a university degree, long struggled to be taken seriously by scientists.

But last month, a study published in the prestigious Cell journal showed that antibodies from his blood protect against a range of snake venom.

The researchers now hope Friede's hyper-immunity could even lead to the development of a universal antivenom.

This would fill a major need, because currently most antivenoms only cover one or a few of the world's 600 venomous snakes.

Up to 138,000 people are killed by snakebites a year, while 400,000 suffer amputations or other disabilities, according to the World Health Organization.

These figures are believed to be vastly underestimated because snakebite victims typically live in poorer, remote areas.

Friede's first bite was from a harmless garter snake when he was five years old.

"I was afraid, I cried, I ran away," said Friede, now 57.

Then he started bringing snakes home and hiding them in pickle jars. His mother sought counselling, but his interest in snakes persisted.

Things escalated after Friede attended a class that taught him how to "milk" snakes for their venom.

How antivenom is made has changed little over the last 125 years.

Small doses of snake venom are injected into animals such as horses, which produce antibodies that can be extracted and used as antivenom.

However this antivenom usually only works for bites from that particular species of snake -- and it includes other antibodies from horse that can cause serious side-effects including anaphylactic shock.

"I thought, well, if they make antivenom in horses, why can't I just use myself as a primate?" Friede said.

He started working through the venom from all the deadly species he could get his hands on, such as cobras, taipans, black mambas and rattlesnakes.

"There is pain every time," he said.

For years, the scientists he contacted to take advantage of his immunity refused to bite.

Then in 2017, immunologist Jacob Glanville, who previously worked on universal vaccines, turned his attention towards antivenom.

Glanville told AFP he had been looking for "a clumsy snake researcher who'd been bit accidentally a couple times," when he came across a video of Friede taking brutal back-to-back snake bites.

When they first spoke, Glanville said he told Friede: "I know this is awkward, but I would love to get my hands on some of your blood."

"I've been waiting for this call for a long time," came the response, Glanville said.

The antivenom described in the Cell paper includes two antibodies from Friede's blood, as well as a drug called varespladib.

It offered mice full protection against 13 of the 19 snake species tested, and partial protection for the remaining six.

The researchers hope a future cocktail will cover far more snakes -- particularly vipers -- with further trials planned on dogs in Australia.

Timothy Jackson of the Australian Venom Research Unit praised the immunological research, but questioned whether a human needed to be involved, pointing to synthetically developed antibodies.

Glanville said the ultimate goal of his US-based firm Centivax was to develop a universal antivenom administered by something like an EpiPen, potentially produced in India to keep the costs down.

Friede said he was "proud" to have made a "small difference" in medical history.

Now working for Centivax, Friede stopped self-inflicting himself with venom in 2018 to save the firm from liability issues.

But he hopes to get bitten by snakes again in the future.

"I do miss it," he said.

Hassan (India) (AFP) – All writers draw on their experience, whether consciously or not, says Indian author Banu Mushtaq -- including the titular tale of attempted self-immolation in her International Booker Prize-winning short story collection.

Mushtaq, who won the coveted literature prize as the first author writing in Kannada -- an Indian regional language -- said the author's responsibility is to reflect the truth.

"You cannot simply write describing a rose," said the 77-year-old, who is also a lawyer and activist.

"You cannot say it has got such a fragrance, such petals, such colour. You have to write about the thorns also. It is your responsibility, and you have to do it."

Her book "Heart Lamp", a collection of 12 powerful short stories, is also her first book translated into English, with the prize shared with her translator Deepa Bhasthi.

Critics praised the collection for its dry and gentle humour, and its searing commentary on the patriarchy, caste and religion.

Mushtaq has carved an alternative path in life, challenging societal restrictions and perceptions.

As a young girl worried about her future, she said she started writing to improve her "chances of marriage".

Born into a Muslim family in 1948, she studied in Kannada, which is spoken mostly in India's southern Karnataka state by around 43 million people, rather than Urdu, the language of Islamic texts in India and which most Muslim girls learnt.

She attended college, and worked as a journalist and also as a high school teacher.

But after marrying for love, Mushtaq found her life constricted.

"I was not allowed to have any intellectual activities. I was not allowed to write," she said.

"I was in that vacuum. That harmed me."

She recounted how as a young mother aged around 27 with possible postpartum depression, and ground down by domestic life, had doused petrol on herself and on the "spur of a moment" readied to set herself on fire.

Her husband rushed to her with their three-month-old daughter.

"He took the baby and put her on my feet, and he drew my attention to her and he hugged me, and he stopped me," Mushtaq told AFP.

The experience is nearly mirrored in her book -- in its case, the protagonist is stopped by her daughter.

"People get confused that it might be my life," the writer said.

Explaining that while not her exact story, "consciously or subconsciously, something of the author, it reflects in her or his writing".

Books line the walls in Mushtaq's home, in the small southern Indian town of Hassan.

Her many awards and certificates -- including a replica of the Booker prize she won in London in May -- are also on display.

She joked that she was born to write -- at least that is what a Hindu astrological birth chart said about her future.

"I don't know how it was there, but I have seen the birth chart," Mushtaq said with a laugh, speaking in English.

The award has changed her life "in a positive way", she added, while noting the fame has been a little overwhelming.

"I am not against the people, I love people," she said referring to the stream of visitors she gets to her home.

"But with this, a lot of prominence is given to me, and I don't have any time for writing. I feel something odd... Writing gives me a lot of pleasure, a lot of relief."

Mushtaq's body of work spans six short story collections, an essay collection and poetry.

The stories in "Heart Lamp" were chosen from the six short story collections, dating back to 1990.

The Booker jury hailed her characters -– from spirited grandmothers to bumbling religious clerics –- as "astonishing portraits of survival and resilience".

The stories portray Muslim women going through terrible experiences, including domestic violence, the death of children and extramarital affairs.

Mushtaq said that while the main characters in her books are all Muslim women, the issues are universal.

"They (women) suffer this type of suppression and this type of exploitation, this type of patriarchy everywhere," she said. "A woman is a woman, all over the world."

While accepting that even the people for whom she writes may not like her work, Mushtaq said she remained dedicated to providing wider truths.

"I have to say what is necessary for the society," she said.

"The writer is always pro-people... With the people, and for the people."

Beijing (AFP) – Hopeful parents accompanied their teenage children to the gates of a busy Beijing test centre on Saturday, among millions of high school students across China sitting their first day of the highly competitive university entrance exam.

Nationwide, 13.35 million students have registered for the multi-subject "gaokao" series this year, according to the Ministry of Education, down from last year's record-high 13.42 million test takers.

Outside the central Beijing secondary school, a proud parent who gave her name as Chen said "12 years of hard work have finally led to this moment" -- as she waved a fan in front of her daughter while the student reviewed her notes one last time before the test.

"We know our kids have endured so much hardship," Chen told AFP, adding that she was not nervous.

"I'm actually quite excited. I think my child is excellent, and I'm sure she will get the best score," she said.

China's gaokao requires students to use all their knowledge acquired to this point, testing them on subjects including Chinese, English, mathematics, science and humanities.

The exam results are critical for gaining admission to university -- and determining whether they will attend a prestigious or more modest institution.

While teachers and staff offered students their support, holding up signs of encouragement, some test takers, dressed in school uniforms, appeared panicked, including a girl with tears in her eyes.

"There's no need for us parents to add pressure. The children are already under a lot of it," said a woman named Wang, whose son had just entered the exam hall.

Like many mothers, she wore a traditional Chinese qipao in hopes of bringing good luck.

"I hope my son achieves immediate success and gets his name on the (list of high-scoring candidates)," Wang said with a smile.

Higher education has expanded rapidly in China in recent decades as an economic boom pushed up living standards -- as well as parents' expectations for their children's careers.

But the job market for young graduates remains daunting.

As of April, 15.8 percent of people aged 16 to 24 living in urban areas were unemployed, according to the National Bureau of Statistics.

Due to this pressure, many Chinese students prepare for the gaokao from a young age, often with extra lessons after the regular school day.

And every year education authorities are on guard against cheating and disruptions during the exam.

This week, China's Vice Premier Ding Xuexiang called for a "safe gaokao", stressing the importance of a rigorous campaign against cheating.

Areas around exam centres are closely guarded by police, with road lanes closed to traffic and several cities banning motorists from honking their horns so as not to disrupt the concentration of students.

In some schools, facial recognition is even used to prevent fraud.

While the university admission rate for gaokao test takers has exceeded 80-90 percent in recent years, many students disappointed with their results choose to repeat the exam.

As there is no age limit for the test, some have become notorious for attempting the exam dozens of times, either after failing it or not getting into their top-choice university.

One teacher at the Beijing school where parents saw off their children on Saturday estimated that only about 10 of the approximately 600 final-year students there would earn a place at one of the capital's top universities.

Jiang, a final-year high school student who only gave one name, said he dreamt of attending a Beijing university, and was remaining calm shortly before his Chinese exam.

"Even though the pressure is intense, it's actually quite fair," he told AFP.

"I feel like all the preparations that needed to be made have been made, so there's really no point in being nervous now, right?

"Whatever happens, happens. It's truly not something I can completely control."

Médenine (Tunisia) (AFP) – Deep in Tunisia's desert south, camels stride toward humming milking machines. Their milk is at the heart of a women-led project promising an economic lifeline for disadvantaged communities.

Spearheading this effort is 32-year-old Latifa Frifita, who launched Tunisia's first, and so far only, camel milk pasteurisation unit two years ago in Medenine.

The unit is based on research by Amel Sboui, 45, a senior biochemist at the Institute of Arid Regions, who succeeded in patenting a pasteurisation method that preserves camel milk's "nutritional and therapeutic qualities" while extending its shelf life to two weeks.

Containing up to five times more iron than cow's milk, camel milk is non-allergenic and some studies have suggested that it has immune-boosting and anti-inflammatory properties.

Pasteurisation of camel milk is essential to bringing it to wider markets because the milk is highly perishable.

Sboui and her lab of ten researchers -- eight of them women -- also conducted clinical trials at the regional hospital which showed that consuming the milk could help diabetic patients reduce their medication doses by up to half in some cases.

Jobs and investment in southern Tunisia are scarce, yet entrepreneur Frifita has pinned her hopes on a product long undervalued by local herders and is working to change their minds.

At first, she said she faced many challenges when trying to convince the herders to sell milk instead of meat -- a far more common commodity.

"They didn't see the point," she said while testing a fresh sample of the milk, wearing a hairnet. "They usually keep it for themselves or give it away for free."

But, having built "a relationship of trust" and with demand for the product growing, Frifita said she planned to reach further agreements with breeders.

Frifita, who holds a master's degree in food technologies, began sketching out her idea in 2016, but it was not until 2023 that she launched ChameLait with the support of the Institute, which provided her startup with premises to operate.

Today, she is happy to "promote a local product that defines southern Tunisia", where dromedaries are a fixture of the landscape, she said.

A mother of a two-year-old girl, she said she chose to "stay and invest in her region" rather than following her sports coach husband to the Middle East.

The station in Chenchou, about 100 kilometres (60 miles) south of Medenine, also serves as a training site for herders to learn mechanised milking, which yields up to seven litres a day compared to just two litres with traditional hand milking.

Frifita now runs the business alongside two other women -- one of them her older sister, Besma -- producing about 500 litres of pasteurised milk per week with the aim of doubling their output within two years.

ChameLait sells its products on demand and through a dozen retail shops, starting at 12 Tunisian dinars (about $4) per litre -- double the price Frifita pays breeders.

And the demand has been growing.

Amel Sboui, a 45-year-old senior researcher at the Institute, said this was largely due to word of mouth because of "people realising the milk's health benefits".

Beyond ChameLait and with more research needed, Sboui said he saw additional potential in freeze-dried camel milk, which could one day be sold "as a medicine, a functional food or food supplement".

The Institute views Frifita's business as a model enterprise.

Established under a programme by Tunisia's first president, Habib Bourguiba, the organisation aims to use scientific research to benefit the country's harshest and most neglected areas.

Medenine, with a population of a little over half a million, suffers from high levels of poverty and unemployment -- 22 and 19 percent respectively, compared to national averages of 15 and 16 percent.

These conditions have driven thousands of young people to leave, either for coastal cities or to seek opportunities abroad.

"Our primary goal, even as a research centre, is to create added value and jobs," said Moez Louhichi, head of innovation at the Institute.

By supporting "farmers and young entrepreneurs in promoting the region's resources, we encourage them to build their future here in Tunisia".

Since 2010, the Institute has helped launch 80 businesses, creating between 600 and 1,000 jobs, according to Louhichi.

A major camel milk collection centre is expected to open by the end of 2025 to expand mechanised milking in the region.

Louhichi said this would help the sector grow, turning the once-overlooked commodity into southern Tunisia's "white gold".

Houston (AFP) – Mercedes Yamarte's three sons fled Venezuela for a better life in the United States. Now one languishes in a Salvadoran jail, another "self-deported" to Mexico, and a third lives in hiding -- terrified US agents will crash the door at any moment.

At her zinc-roofed home in a poor Maracaibo neighborhood, 46-year-old Mercedes blinks back tears as she thinks about her family split asunder by US President Donald Trump's immigration crackdown.

"I wish I could go to sleep, wake up, and this never happened," she says, as rain drums down and lightning flashes overhead.

In their homeland, her boys were held back by decades of political and economic tumult that have already prompted an estimated eight million Venezuelans to emigrate.

But in leaving, all three brothers became ensnared by politics once more, and by a US president determined to bolt the door of a nation once proud of its migrant roots.

For years, her eldest son, 30-year-old Mervin had lived in America, providing for his wife and six-year-old daughter, working Texas construction sites and at a tortilla factory.

On March 13, he was arrested by US immigration agents and summarily deported to a Salvadoran mega jail, where he is still being held incommunicado.

The Trump administration linked Mervin and 251 other men to the Tren de Aragua -- a Venezuelan gang it classifies as a terrorist group.

Washington has cited tattoos as evidence of gang affiliation, something fiercely contested by experts, who say that, unlike other Latin American gangs, Tren de Aragua members do not commonly sport gang markings.

Mervin has tattoos of his mother and daughter's names, the phrase "strong like mom" in Spanish and the number "99" -- a reference to his soccer jersey not any gang affiliation, according to his family.

Mervin arrived in the United States in 2023 with his 21-year-old brother Jonferson. Both hoped to work and to send some money back home.

They had slogged through the Darien Gap -- a forbidding chunk of jungle between Colombia and Panama that is one of the world's most dangerous migration routes.

They had trekked north through Mexico, and were followed a year later by sister Francis, aged 19, who turned around before reaching the United States and brother Juan, aged 28, who continued on.

When the brothers entered the United States, they registered with border officials and requested political asylum.

They were told they could remain legally until a judge decided their fate.

Then US voters voted, and with a change of administration, at dawn on March 13, US immigration agents pounded the door of an apartment in Irving, Texas where the trio were living with friends from back home.

Immigration agents were serving an arrest warrant when they saw Mervin and said: "You are coming with us too for an investigation," Juan recalled.

When the agents said they had an arrest warrant for Mervin too, he tried to show his asylum papers.

"But they already had him handcuffed to take him away," Juan said.

He was transferred to a detention center, where he managed to call Jonferson to say he was being deported somewhere. He did not know where.

Three days later, Jonferson saw his brother among scores of shorn and shackled men arriving at CECOT, a prison built by El Salvador's President Nayib Bukele to house alleged gang members.

Jonferson saw his handcuffed brother kneeling on the floor staring off into space. He broke down crying and called his mother.

She had also seen Mervin in the images. "My son was kneeling and looked up as if to say: 'Where am I and what have I done to end up here?'" said Mercedes.

"I have never seen my son look more terrified" she said.

After his brother's arrest, Jonferson had nightmares. The fear became so great that he fled to Mexico -- what some euphemistically describe as "self-deportation".

There, he waited a month to board a Venezuelan humanitarian flight to return home.

"It has been a nightmare," he told AFP as he rode a bus to the airport and from there, onward home.

Juan, meanwhile, has decided to remain in the United States. He lives under the radar, working construction jobs and moving frequently to dodge arrest.

"I am always hiding. When I go to the grocery store I look all around, fearful, as if someone were chasing me," he told AFP asking that his face and his whereabouts remain undisclosed.

As the only brother who can now send money home, he is determined not to go back to Venezuela empty-handed. He also has a wife and seven-year-old son depending on him.

But he is tormented by the thought of his brother Mervin being held in El Salvador and by the toll it has taken on the family.

"My mother is a wreck. There are days she cannot sleep," Juan said.

"My sister-in-law cries every day. She is suffering."

Jonferson has since returned to Maracaibo, where he was greeted by strings of blue, yellow, and red balloons and a grateful but still forlorn mother.

"I would like to be happy, as I should. But my other son is in El Salvador, in what conditions I do not know," Mercedes said.

But her face lights up for a second as she hugs her son, holding him tight as if never wanting to let him go.

"I never thought the absence of my sons would hit me so hard," she said. "I never knew I could feel such pain."

For now, the brothers are only together in a screen grab she has on her phone, taken during a video call last Christmas.