'Death squad': Inside Bangladesh's Rapid Action Battalion
Bangladesh's elite counterterrorism force is committing extrajudicial killings, DW and Netra News reveal in a new investigation. High-ranking officials are approving the executions, according to insiders.
Christian Caurla | Arafatul Islam | Birgitta Schülke | Naomi Conrad
Each operation is carefully planned, sometimes for months, the target's every move analyzed and monitored by one of 15 units inside Bangladesh's Rapid Action Battalion (RAB). Victims are usually picked up late at night and whisked away to the special police force's facilities. Few survivors have dared to speak out about their ordeal, but one man could not remain silent. Deep into a warm November night in 2021, officers from the elite force stormed a house in an upmarket neighborhood in Dhaka, recalls Nafiz Mohammed Alam, a self-assured 23-year-old sporting a stylish blue suit. First, he says, officers beat and even waterboarded him, then they invited several journalists to his house. Typically, journalists are called to witness arrests or crime scenes and broadcast the official version of events, with no room for critical coverage. That night's news reports only showed one side of the story: uniformed RAB officers surrounding Alam, the footage zooming into rows of bottles filled with alcohol, proof that the suspect was allegedly running an illegal liquor delivery business. What the cameras didn't show was how the force's officers planted the bottles around his house before the journalists could show up, Alam notes, a detail that could not be independently verified. However, once the media left, he says he was forced into an unmarked van and taken to RAB 1, a large building just off the road to Dhaka's airport. There, he says, he was taken to a windowless room on a lower floor at the back of the light green building, hidden from view from the main road. Two ex-commanders confirm that each of RAB's units have a secret room with four to five small cells equipped with little more than a toilet and a blanket. These rooms are "usually soundproof, and from the outside, it is difficult to realize that such rooms exist," one of the RAB insiders says. Alam recalls the horror of first entering the secret prison, which he says smelled of human feces and rotting food. In that squalid room, far from his family and friends, he says he was tortured, repeatedly. "I thought," he says indignantly, "only terrorists were treated like this." Yet, Alam is fortunate to be alive. In many cases, people targeted by RAB are murdered or disappeared, never to be heard from again — a claim the government has long denied. For months, DW's investigative unit, in collaboration with the Sweden-based Netra News, investigated the elite force comprising military and police personnel. For the first time since its creation nearly two decades ago, two insiders-turned-whistleblowers have now spoken out about the inner workings of the "death squad." Both men are former military officers who were nominated to serve as commanders in different RAB units in recent years. DW and Netra News verified the identities of both men and their deployment history in the force, but to ensure their security, agreed to withhold any identifiable information. If RAB found out he had talked to the media, says one of the whistleblowers, he would likely end up dead, killed by the very force he had served in. Together with Netra News, DW's investigative unit cross-checked and corroborated their confessions with the help of experts, human rights activists and other sources, such as police and post-mortem reports, a database of confirmed cases and an audio recording of one of the extrajudicial killings. Not every aspect of the two insiders' accounts could be independently verified, given that orders for secretive operations are usually provided verbally to avoid any incriminating paper trail, both men note. Interviewed separately, their accounts corroborate each other in key aspects. Along with the findings of DW and Netra News, their testimonies paint a damning picture of systematic human rights violations, encompassing a range of abuses from abductions to torture and extrajudicial killings, covered up with near total impunity. It's an allegation that the Home Ministry, in an email to DW, strongly denied as "ficticious [sic], fabricated and politically motivated," adding that "on receipt of any such allegation the Ministry duly investigate [sic] each incident by an independent Magistrate. According to the investigation reports, the allegation made appears not to be authentic." Orders from above But allegations made by both insiders go further, suggesting that key figures in the ruling government may be harnessing the elite force for political gain, with tacit approval, at the very least, from the highest offices in Bangladesh. If targets are political in nature, the operation only goes ahead when explicitly sanctioned from above, in which case the decision "would come at least from the Ministry of Home Affairs, or the home minister would give that order," says one of the whistleblowers. "Without the approval of the prime minister, it is very unlikely that the home minister would give an order like this," the other whistleblower tells DW and Netra News, weighing his words carefully. He is referring to Sheikh Hasina, the current prime minister who heads the Awami League and has been in power since 2009, following a prior term in the late 1990s. Targets specified "by the home minister or from someone who stays even higher, like the prime minister of Bangladesh" were given "priority," one of the whistleblowers notes. It's an allegation that could not be independently verified. But institutionally, RAB falls under the authority of the Ministry of Home Affairs, and its highest official is responsible to the prime minister. DW and Netra News confronted the Ministry of Home Affairs and Prime Minister's Office with the allegations. The Ministry of Home Affairs denied any involvement, claiming the allegations are "politically motivated" and "malafide," a legal term for something undertaken in bad faith. It warned DW against "circulating any partisan views." The Prime Minister's Office did not respond. Inner workings of a 'death squad' Aside from detailing the chain of command, the two insiders unveiled the inner workings of the elite force. When a decision is taken to execute a target, a series of carefully prepared steps are put into action. First, an execution site is selected; one far away from prying eyes and thus potential witnesses. In Dhaka, one such site is the bank of the Turag, a polluted river that flows through the city; another is on the side of Marine Drive, an 80-kilometer- (50-mile) long road that runs along the coast in southern Bangladesh. Next, usually late at night when the roads are deserted and shops shuttered for the evening, unsuspecting targets are captured and blindfolded, then thrown into a civilian van that takes them to their final destination. Some victims, says one whistleblower, beg for their life; others remain silent. Then the target is shot and left to bleed to death. Once they are immobile, the blindfold, often made of a soft cloth so as not to leave any visible marks, is removed and their hands untied, one whistleblower explains. Then, the scene is set; evidence is planted on the body, depending on the cover story. If the crime scene is to look like a shootout with a gang, then drugs, often a local mix of meth and caffeine called yaba, are planted on the body. If the victim is to be an alleged jihadi, then religious pamphlets are deposited next to him. In both cases, firearms are planted on the target, the whistleblowers note. These, one of the insiders says, are unofficially smuggled from India. Next, shots are fired in the air and bullets strewn on the ground. But in rare instances, RAB operates quietly: victims are picked up and literally vanish without a trace, sometimes for weeks, months, or even years. The practice is often referred to as an "enforced disappearance." Across Bangladesh, hundreds are still missing. A lethal legacy The RAB force was founded at a time when the United States and its allies were still reeling from the attacks on the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. At that time, Washington was willing to allocate vast resources into the global fight against terror. Created in 2004, the elite force took members of Bangladesh's military and police and brought them together to fight terror and organized crime. Its more than 13,000 members don black uniforms, masks and often even sunglasses. RAB was pretty good at what it had been designed to do: It "has been a brutally efficient counterterrorism entity that has tracked down bad guys in Bangladesh, a country that some years ago was suffering pretty significantly from a wave of terrorism," says Michael Kugelman, who heads the South Asia Institute at the Washington-based Wilson Center, a nonpartisan think tank. In a written response to DW and Netra News, a US embassy spokesman says it was "no secret that the United States played an important role in training and equipping the Rapid Action Battalion when it was established for the purpose of countering terrorism." Funding, he says, ended in January of 2018 "due to concerns over human rights violations." From 2009, when the current government came to power, to 2021, more than 700 people have been killed by RAB, according to human rights activists. Killings peaked in 2018, when Bangladesh launched an apparent "war on drugs." Initially, one whistleblower says, "it was the drug peddlers who were killed," in a process that forfeited due process for a shoot-first approach. Rampant impunity Over the years, political targets were seemingly added to RAB's repertoire. Hundreds of politically active civilians have been abducted by RAB and other law enforcement agencies, never to return, according to activists who are documenting their cases. One of them is Nur Khan Liton. RAB, he says, "ignores the law and kills people." The prominent human rights activist, who has spent the last two decades closely monitoring the elite force, explains that since its inception it was imbued with "this mentality that if someone is brought to justice, it takes a lot of time, and sometimes people get bail and return to criminal activities," referring to Bangladesh's slow and often corrupt legal system. Instead, RAB seemingly took justice into its own hands. Despite earlier concerns, it would take until December 10, 2021, for the US Treasury Department to add RAB, along with seven high-ranking former and current officials, to its sanctions list. The decision was based on "widespread allegations of serious human rights abuse," which "threaten US national security interests by undermining the rule of law and respect for human rights and fundamental freedoms, and the economic prosperity of the people of Bangladesh." That step, Kugelman points out, was "a big deal." Neither the European Union nor the United Kingdom have followed suit. Hundreds have disappeared Relatives of the "disappeared" meet with DW on a large rooftop lined with potted plants and flowers in one of Dhaka's affluent neighborhoods. Dozens of people gather on rows of plastic chairs: mostly women, some older men, several children, clutching often faded photos of husbands, fathers and sons. Most of the men on the pictures had not been seen in over a decade; a few had eventually turned up dead. Many of the victims were local activists for the current opposition party, the Bangladesh Nationalist Party. They were picked up in the run-up to elections in 2014 and 2018 by RAB and other security agencies, according to local activists. In most cases, officials categorically deny involvement in their disappearances. One after another, the relatives stand up to tell their stories, often breaking down in tears as they recall their relatives' disappearance and, in the words of one woman, the "unbearable pain" of not knowing what happened to them. One girl weeps as she begs for her father to be returned to her. Another girl cries as she shares her innermost dream: she just wants her father to walk her to school. At one point, the group's spokeswoman, Sanjida Islam Tulee, who is hosting the meeting, points to several men lounging outside a shop in a narrow lane down below. The men were, she says, a constant. Later that day, her CCTV camera showed a uniformed man sidling up to her driver, asking him about the visitors upstairs. Many of the group's members had similar accounts of intimidation and harassment, including late-night calls to police stations and open surveillance. He had, one of the whistleblowers says, a chilling message for the relatives of those who had disappeared: an organization like RAB would not keep someone for years. The chance that those who had been abducted would return alive was "less than 1%," he notes. Anyone who might still be alive, he adds, would likely be held at RAB headquarters or could even be in the custody of another security agency. "It's not that we are just eliminating someone," the other whistleblower says. "We are actually putting the whole family" and those related to that person "in danger and in trauma for the rest of their lives." Out of control As it stands, relatives of those killed or missing are unlikely to ever receive justice: investigations by Bangladeshi authorities into RAB officers are rare, especially when they would concern extrajudicial killings, torture or enforced disappearances. Service records of their time with the elite force, both men say, are not transferred to their seconding unit. This creates a "culture of impunity," according to one insider: the army or police unit that RAB officers are seconded from "does not have any idea about the nature of operations he was involved in while working in the RAB." RAB is "beyond any control," a human rights activist in Dhaka tells DW, saying no one can hold them accountable. When it comes to the elite force, few in Bangladesh are prepared to go on the record. Behind closed doors though, their phones safely stowed away, many say US sanctions imposed in 2021 have had some positive effects: while killings are still happening, the numbers have decreased significantly. Although people are still getting picked up, they often no longer disappear indefinitely, but rather are presented to court after a few days or weeks on what activists say are usually trumped-up charges. For now, US officials indicate that they are in no hurry to lift the sanctions, particularly given that Bangladesh is set to head for the polls by early next year at the latest. Election time is traditionally a moment when RAB officers come knocking on doors. "There are enough reasons to believe that the ones who are in power now will try to use any means" to hold on to it, human rights activist Nur Khan Liton tells DW. When "thousands of people have become the victims of cross fires, when hundreds of people have become the victims of enforced disappearances, and those who are responsible for running the country don't take necessary steps to stop it, sanctions are essential to save lives." Like others in Bangladesh, Liton voices his hope that more sanctions might be passed, including by the European Union. RAB, one of the whistleblowers agrees, must be stopped, "whatever it may take." DW and Netra News confronted the Home Ministry, the Prime Minister's Office and RAB with the allegations leveled in this story. A spokesman for RAB referred to the Ministry of Home Affairs, which, in turn, wrote that it had "diligently assessed and scrutinized the issues and found that the issues are overstated, exaggerated, baseless and untrue." Yet, across Bangladesh, hundreds remain missing for weeks, months and even years. Julett Pineda, along with several other journalists who, for security reasons, cannot be identified, contributed to this report. Edited by: Mathias Stamm and Lewis Sanders IV
Why comedians go into politics
Nico Semsrott’s perspective sheds light on the crisis of the German left
His worn-out black sneakers tap on the creaky wood floor of the Mehringhof Theater’s backstage in Berlin. The tiny space is furnished with two old leather sofas, a small fridge, and no desk. Up on the wall, a modern-looking clock from Ikea stands out of tune in the otherwise vintage room. Its ticking punctuates the murmur of some two hundred people waiting for him. Nico Semsrott, a German stand-up comedian, slam poet, and demotivational coach, sits with his notes on his knees, memorizing his jokes one last time. He glances up at the clock: in seven minutes he walks in. He folds the notes back into his pocket and heads to the stage. If you were to observe a professional public speaker before a performance, you would likely see them engaging in some kind of warm-up exercise, like stretching, humming, or repeating tongue twisters to relax their muscles. Not Semsrott. I went to see one of his performances and watched him simply stand behind the black curtains, a beam of light shining on his face as he cleans his thin squared glasses – a strikingly different pre-show ritual that's even more surprising given that he is both a comedian and a politician. And he is in good company. Many entertainers animate today’s politics. Comedian Beppe Grillo's party won the elections in Italy, Jan Böhmermann’s “poem” on Erdogan caused a political crisis between Germany and Turkey, and English comedian Russell Brand campaigned for the Labor Party in the UK’s last elections. But why are comedians going into politics? “Because politicians are going into satire”, explains Semsrott with a smile “this is one of the jokes I forgot to use tonight”. Semsrott's party, "Die Partei," shocked German public opinion with provocative posters stating, "a Nazi could be hanging here." They raised public funding by selling money. They infiltrated 31 Facebook groups of AfD supporters and kicked out the administrators shortly before the elections. Their program includes proposals like rebuilding the Berlin Wall and their leader, Martin Sonneborn, now sits in the European Parliament. In a country famous for the stability (some would say boredom) of its politics and which has just opted for a second consecutive edition of a “grand coalition”, such initiatives are all the more jarring. Yet, in an age of hardening political divisions, the use of satire for political purposes should not come as a surprise. "Irony describes a kind of antidote to firm ideological thinking”, explains Professor Matthew Stratton, author of 'The Politics of Irony in American Modernism' and an expert on the interplay between politics and satire. Political satire isn't just one of the most popular genres in the field, its linguistic devices, typically mastered by comedians, are also effective in politics. In today's polarized political landscape, alternative methods to traditional journalism for holding power to account can play an important role. Ironic statements, by implying the opposite of what they state, can be very effective in covering fake news. While journalists might delve into complex explanations, comedians can simply call out and ridicule absurdities. “Journalism has its rules, and for a reason. But the engagement of satire can be beneficial for the system” Paul Hockenos, a Berlin-based journalist and political analyst, defends the profession’s role but agrees that the quest for sensational stories can spread misinformation. Moreover, irony can play a unique role that's beyond journalistic methods: it can act as a form of political rebellion. “The underlying idea behind improvisation is that the truth is funny,” explains Noah Telson, founder of Comedy Café Berlin, a major hub for improvisers in the city. He was a politically engaged teenager who grew up in New York State and spent much of his time in marches and protests against the war during the Bush administration. He then moved to theatre and tried to merge these two interests. “I am an improviser, but there is something political about it. If you break down how improv works, it’s built on the same premises as political rebellion. It’s an exercise in subversive behavior. It’s all about taking an idea and flipping it on its head to show how false or ridiculous it actually is.” Nico Semsrott’s performances align with this theory. His jokes, often targeting the German far right, are based on true events that he reads in newspapers or chooses from his life. Every year he adds 20 to 30 minutes. This time he is also including a slideshow. But PowerPoint is famous for working fine only until you need it. After one last intimidating glance at the VGA cable connecting his old, dusty laptop to the projector, stiff and wary, on the alert for banana skins, Semsrott takes the stage A big round of applause welcomes him. Against the white screen behind him, he looks like a black ink sketch straight out of a Wes Anderson storyboard. Everything is perfectly symmetrical. He hardly moves. His arms hang along his body, like puppets softly dangling at his voice's slightest vibration. The audience, engrossed in his flat-toned speech, sits on the edge of the chair, eyes wide open, looking out for hidden jokes. Around the hall, a dozen posters reflect the green light of the emergency exit signal in the otherwise pitch-dark room. It may seem improvised, but Semsrott knows exactly where he is going and plays with his audience like a musician with his instrument. He has long been in the business of making fun of politicians, but only recently did he enter politics. Why? “Because I am a disillusioned social democrat”, explains Nico. “I don’t feel represented by the SPD because they work against the poor and the young.” The relative decline of the social democrats in a country with a relatively healthy political and economic situation is intriguing, but it also offers a unique perspective on the reasons behind the political disillusionment that is driving comedians into politics. But Professor Stratton warns against oversimplifications. It is tempting to see irony as an inherently progressive tool that comes in handy when going against right-wing populism. After all, there is no such thing as a conservative John Stewart, and left-leaning ironic posts are killing it on Facebook. However, Stratton points out that irony's role is multifaceted. "Can irony be used to dismiss populism? Sure. Can irony be used to generate and support populism? Sure. In the American context, the so-called alt-right has generated a great deal of online enthusiasm for its tenets through a kind of ironic distancing from certain narratives as a means of embracing them. For example, promulgating openly racist memes but defending their use as ironic or humorous.” The use of irony has one more problem. Strategies like those commonly employed by Die Partei usually lack practical solutions. For example, the Die Partie's manifesto pledges to “further complicate the German tax system so that large companies can no longer find money-saving loopholes”. Semsrott concedes that such statements are not constructive. “It’s not good for the discussion. It’s not good for the debate but that’s not the point. It’s a reaction.” Although Die Partie doesn’t have a significant political weight yet, its growth is noteworthy. Fueled by disillusionment with the SPD's politics and scared by the rise of the right, it represents a stress indicator of the left. “There should always be serious politicians, but perhaps the situation is so desperate that I will be drawn more and more into politics.” Semsrott speaks hesitantly; his eyes wander around the ceiling looking for the right words. His statements are obscure and dense in meaning, a far call from the funny tone in his performances. “This is my enemy: the radicalization and simplification of every aspect of our life. The whole debate is based on yes and no – thumbs up or down. But there is so much more! Irony unveils the ambivalence. It’s the tool of the powerless. An act of defense. A call for help.”
Ethic Dilemmas in the Ivory Tower
How the scientific community opened up about animal testing.
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On the day that changed his life forever, Florian Dehlmet calmly entered the laboratory of the Werner Reichardt Centre at Tübingen University to conduct a research experiment on a rat. There was the familiar buzzing sound of the dimmer switch as the fluorescent tubes flickering on. The white light illuminated the white benchtop where the white-coated rat calmly ground its teeth. A little plastic mask muffled the gnashing sound as the anesthetic gas sedated the rat. Scalpel in hand, Florian started the surgery. But a few minutes later a piece of equipment started to malfunction, reducing the amount of gas being delivered. Wiggling its foot, the rat started waking up. As the procedure dictates in case of unexpected reactions of the animal, Florian immediately stopped the experiment and killed the rat. “That’s when I decided to abandon animal experiments”, says Florian. It wasn’t that his position on animal testing had changed: “Unless we agree on only using the medicines that we already have, experiments are the only way to test drugs’ safety before they enter the market.” Florian stopped because he simply couldn’t stand the stress of doing it himself. The image of a researcher troubled by ethical dilemmas runs counter to that of scientists as éminencses grises, whose pure focus exempt them from moral considerations. “The prominent ideology is that science doesn’t have anything to do with ethics. But in the case of animal testing the moral implications are obvious”, explains Bernard Rollin, American philosopher and author of a number of influential books that made him a world-leading scholar in animal rights.“ A bewildering array of scandals, such as that over fume tests on monkeys commissioned by Volkswagen, raised massive societal concern that overcame this artificial separation.” Eventually, part of the scientific community understood that it had to break the silence and make an effort to explain what happens in their laboratories and why. Massive animal rights protests made it very clear. One such protest saw models parading with makeup that hadn’t been tested on animals, while others mixed with the audience, their naked bodies painted in cruelty-free makeup. She was dressed in white from head to toe; her skin a russet, golden-brown; her upturned eyes black waxy marbles. After the last stroke of scarlet lycopene lipstick, the model hugged a white bunny and carried it down the catwalk. This was 2000 in Portugal. Animal rights movements in Europe were making headlines after launching several synchronized and centrally coordinated protests across the continent. “Science must save lives without using lives”, says Maria do Céu Sampaio, who organized the demonstration. She is dressed in a cable-knit lambswool sweater over a blue velvet shirt, which gives a friendly touch to her professional look. Her confident and passionate tone contrasts with the weary gaze of someone who has spent more than 40 years fighting for animal rights. “Animals are not a useful resource to be exploited for our own advantage; they should undergo experiments only when they serve the purpose of saving lives.” In 2013, under growing public pressure and after assessing the availability of alternative methods, the European Commission imposed a marketing and testing ban on every cosmetic involving animal testing. “It is a perfect storm”, reasons Rollin. “On one side the scientific community doesn’t address ethics anywhere near as much as they should; on the other the public has growing ethical concerns. Clashes are inevitable.” Rollin has personally tested this ideological barrier. In 1985 he wrote the federal laws requiring control of pain in laboratory animals “under vicious opposition from the scientific community”. On another occasion, the scientists from the University of Edinburg who cloned the sheep Dolly asked for his advice to prepare the public for the announcement. Some of the ethical issues he warned about were not addressed and so shocked society. “The problem is that the scientific community has completely failed to attempt to educate the public. Many still believe that people and dinosaurs lived at the same time!” But it’s in everyone's interest to engage in a more open debate. ”Success, freedom, and autonomy are tied to accord with social ethics," says Rollin. In order to avoid inadequate regulations being pushed forward by ethical concerns, scientists must break out of their ivory tower. Internet has helped to breach some ideological walls. I went from congresses to hashtags!” laughs Giuliano Grignaschi, a researcher at the Mario Negri Institute for Pharmacological Research. Grignaschi is not your typical scientist. His slender body of a track and field athlete leaves a strong clue of his previous career as a 400-meter sprinter. Only when he registered as a conscientious objector from serving the Air Force Academy and was assigned to community services, Grignaschi found that sport and science have a lot in common. “Improving, improving, improving. That’s the key in both cases.” After twenty years of laboratory research, his profound love for animals led him to become the head of the animal care unit, with the task of supervising the correct application of procedures in all animal experiments. “While the internet has greatly contributed to galvanizing a legitimate curiosity in scientific research, it has also misinformed the public”, he explains. “Because the scientific community was too reserved on animal testing, the only information found online was produced by well-intentioned, but misinformed activists.“ Grignaschi recognizes that animal rights groups had the merit of engaging public interest, but one side of the story was missing. Science’s widening disconnection from society has brought exaggerations and imbalance. A few years ago, the situation started to change. Grignaschi – fifty years old – opened his first Twitter account and learned to condense useful scientific information into 140 characters. His experience reflects a wider trend. In the digital era, the success of every company and institution is closely tied to their public image. While Youtube videos shot covertly in laboratories have damaged the reputation of many companies, brands like The Body Shop have been wildly successful by totally disavowing such testing. “Research is not enough”, says Grignaschi, “a good scientist needs to be a good communicator as well.” But could such a change damage science by shifting the focus away from research? “Absolutely not. Real progress cannot be achieved at odds with ethics.” On the contrary, when quickly accumulating pressure for change encounters a major scientific challenge, innovation can make the fortune of a company. Such was the case for TissUse, a Berlin startup company which products can reduce the need for animal testing. Yellow strips of tissue-infused silicon pump blood to three chambers the size of a screw head which house living cell cultures. The humble chunk of see-through material looks like a supercompact VHS which film snapped off the reel, but it actually simulates the activity of human organs. They call it human-on-a-chip technology – and it’s not science fiction. “Since the invention of the first human simulation in 1991, the goal has been to simulate the activity of human organs. What we want is to reproduce you and me on a chip, without us feeling any pain”, explains Uwe Marx, founder and CEO. “All you need to do is give us a sample and we will be able to simulate all your organs.” Technologies like this are a rare example of a limited array of alternatives to animal experiments that have emerged in the last few years. “But although they are very promising, organ-on-a-chip platforms can only offer an indication of what the real result on a living being would be”, explains Dario Padovan, president of Pro-test Italia, an association active across Europe in favor of continued animal testing to support scientific research. “The complexity of a full organism capable of feeling emotions and with a real psychological life cannot be tested with a simulation”, he explains. The same reason that makes animal testing morally disturbing also renders their use irreplaceable. Two years after he left animal experiments, Florian reached the same conclusion. He realized that no computer simulation could give him the answers he was looking for. “My whole field of research is useless if I don’t combine it with animal experiments.” Says Florian. Today he works with zebrafish; a two-millimeter long, half-millimeter wide fish that has the rare feature of a transparent pigmentation. This allows scientists to study its brain without the need for surgery. “We often harm the fish in other ways, but even simply keeping it still while the noisy machine is at work can expose the animal to a lot of stress”, says Florian. He pulls an elastic net of sugar gel into the water and drops it onto a fish. Its strings are so viscous that the tiny animal doesn’t notice it has swum into it. Its tail keeps flicking left and right, but the fish is not going anywhere. Florian looks into the microscope, through the water and skin, directly into its brain. The opening up of a part of the scientific community about animal testing is a positive event. According to Grignaschi and Rollin, such a reconnection can be beneficial for society as a whole and help fight a widespread anti-intellectualism in fields like vaccination and global warming. But the contrast with ethics is unavoidable. “It never gets easy”, says Florian. “No one cares about my fish. But if you saw them growing up under the microscope, if you saw them breaking their eggs and swam free for the first time, you would care about them too.” He switches off the microscope and cleans the gel off the fish. But the tiny creature won't swim away and rejoin the shoal. The procedure prescribes to kill the fish after the experiment. The image of a researcher troubled by ethical dilemmas runs counter to that of scientists as éminencses grises whose pure focus exempt them from moral considerations. “The prominent ideology is that science doesn’t have anything to do with ethics. But in the case of animal testing the moral implications are obvious”, explains Bernard Rollin, American philosopher and author of a number of influential books that made him a world-leading scholar in animal rights.“ A bewildering array of scandals, such as that over fume tests on monkeys commissioned by Volkswagen, raised massive societal concern that overcame this artificial separation.” Eventually, part of the scientific community understood that it had to break the silence and make an effort to explain what happens in their laboratories and why. Massive animal rights protests made it very clear. One such protest saw models parading with makeup that hadn’t been tested on animals as other mixed with the audience, their naked bodies painted in cruelty-free makeup. She was dressed in white from head to toe; her skin a russet, golden-brown; her upturned eyes black waxy marbles. After the last brush of scarlet lycopene lipstick, the model hugged a white bunny and carried it down the catwalk. This was 2000 in Portugal. Animal rights movements in Europe were making headlines after launching several synchronized and centrally coordinated protests across the continent. “Science must save lives without using lives”, says Maria do Céu Sampaio, who organized the demonstration. She is dressed in a cable-knit lambswool sweater over a blue velvet shirt, which gives a friendly touch to her professional look. Her confident and passionate tone contrasts with the weary gaze of someone who has spent more than 40 years fighting for animal rights. “Animals are not a useful resource to be exploited for our own advantage; they should undergo experiments only when they serve the purpose of saving lives.” In 2013, under growing public pressure and after assessing the availability of alternative methods, the European Commission imposed a marketing and testing ban on every cosmetic involving animal testing. “It is a perfect storm”, reasons Rollin. “On one side the scientific community doesn’t address ethics anywhere near as much as they should; on the other the public has growing ethical concerns. Clashes are inevitable.” Rollin has personally tested this ideological barrier. In 1985 he wrote the federal laws requiring control of pain in laboratory animals “under vicious opposition from the scientific community”. On another occasion, the scientists from the University of Edinburg who cloned the sheep Dolly asked for his advice to prepare the public for the announcement. Some of the ethical issues he warned about were not addressed and so shocked society. “The problem is that the scientific community has completely failed to attempt to educate the public. Many still believe that people and dinosaurs lived at the same time!” But it’s in the interest of everyone to engage in a more open debate. ”Success, freedom and autonomy are tied to accord with social ethics”, says Rollin. In order to avoid inadequate regulations being pushed forward by ethical concerns, scientists must break out of their ivory tower. Internet has helped to breach some ideological walls. I went from congresses to hashtag!” laughs Giuliano Grignaschi, a researcher at the Mario Negri Institute for Pharmacological Research. Grignaschi is not your typical scientist. His slender body of a track and field athlete leaves a strong clue of his previous career as a 400-meter sprinter. Only when he registered as a conscientious objector from serving the Air Force Academy and was assigned to community services, Grignaschi found that sport and science have a lot in common. “Improving, improving, improving. That’s the key in both cases.” After twenty years of laboratory research, his profound love for animals made him the head of the animal care unit with the task of supervising the correct application of the procedures on all animal experiments. “While the internet has greatly contributed to galvanizing a legitimate curiosity in scientific research, it has also misinformed the public”, he explains. “Because the scientific community was too reserved on animal testing, the only information found online was produced by well-intentioned, but misinformed activists.“ Grignaschi recognizes that animal rights groups had the merit of engaging public interest, but one side of the story was missing. Science’s widening disconnection from society has brought exaggerations and imbalance. A few years ago the situation started to change. Grignaschi – fifty years old – opened his first Twitter account and learned to condense useful scientific information into 140 characters. His experience reflects a wider trend. In the digital era, the success of every company and institution is closely tied to public opinion. While Youtube videos shot covertly in laboratories have damaged the reputation of many companies, brands like The Body Shop have been wildly successful by totally disavowing such testing. “Research is not enough”, says Grignaschi, “a good scientist needs to be a good communicator as well.” But could such a change damage science by shifting the focus away from research? “Absolutely not. Real progress cannot be achieved at odds with ethics.” On the contrary, when quickly accumulating pressure for change encounters a major scientific challenge, innovation can make the fortune of a company. Such was the case for TissUse, a Berlin startup company which products can reduce the need for animal testing. Yellow strips of tissue-infused silicon pump blood to three chambers the size of a screw head which house living cell cultures. The humble chunk of see-through material looks like a supercompact VHS which film snapped off the reel, but it actually simulates the activity of human organs. They call it human-on-a-chip technology – and it’s not science fiction. “Since the invention of the first human simulation in 1991, the goal has been to simulate the activity of human organs. What we want is to reproduce you and me on a chip, without us feeling any pain”, explains Uwe Marx, founder and CEO. “All you need to do is give us a sample and we will be able to simulate all your organs.” Technologies like this are a rare example of a limited array of alternatives to animal experiments that have emerged in the last few years. “But although they are very promising, organ-on-a-chip platforms can only offer an indication of what the real result on a living being would be”, explains Dario Padovan, president of Pro-test Italia, an association active across Europe in favor of continued animal testing to support scientific research. “The complexity of a full organism capable of feeling emotions and with a real psychological life cannot be tested with a simulation”, he explains. The same reason that makes animal testing morally disturbing also renders their use irreplaceable. Two years after he left animal experiments, Florian reached the same conclusion. He realized that no computer simulation could give him the answers he was looking for. “My whole field of research is useless if I don’t combine it with animal experiments.” Says Florian. Today he works with zebrafish; a two-millimeter long, half-millimeter wide fish that has the rare feature of a transparent pigmentation. This allows scientists to study its brain without the need for surgery. “We often harm the fish in other ways, but even simply keeping it still while the noisy machine is at work can expose the animal to a lot of stress”, says Florian. He pulls an elastic net of sugar gel into the water and drops it onto a fish. Its strings are so vicious that the tiny animal doesn’t notice it has swum into it. Its tail keeps flicking left and right, but the fish is not going anywhere. Florian looks into the microscope, through the water and skin, directly into its brain. The opening up of a part of the scientific community about animal testing is a positive event. According to Grignaschi and Rollin, such a reconnection can be beneficial for society as a whole and help fight a widespread anti-intellectualism in fields like vaccination and global warming. But the contrast with ethics is unavoidable. “It never gets easy”, says Florian. “No one cares about my fish. But if you saw them growing up under the microscope, if you saw them breaking their eggs and swam free for the first time, you would care about them too.” He switches off the microscope and cleans the gel off the fish. But the tiny creature won't swim away and mingle back in the shoal. The procedure prescribes to kill the fish after the experiment.
A self-indulgent but honest memoir
Looking back to my time trying to be a movie director in Los Angeles
I was twenty-one then, drained in my bed at 7:43 am as the alarm sounded from across the room, inside the cupboard, on the highest shelf - a strategy I adopted to force myself to wake up. Three minutes to stop the loud buzzing sound, eight to shower, three to heat up three slices of toast and squeeze two oranges while listening to the news. Six minutes to enjoy breakfast so I could start studying at 8 am. Last weeks before my graduation date - feeling like an octopus on roller skates. Still on my bed, the alarm still buzzing, eyes wide open as if the sound had pulled me back from the underworld, I grabbed my phone. A long message from Natalie. Quite too long actually. Sent at 3 am, not a good sign. I scanned through it trying to understand what happened. She was rambling, but the meaning was clear. I stopped the alarm: I was awake. Out of my window, Viale Monza was already congested. Clerks’ cars and Supermarket’s trucks were stirring up the pollution and fog of another grey day in Milan. Soon it would have rained. I dropped my phone, ignored my schedule, and went out jogging. The constant pace of my steps, the rhythmic sound of my breath, and the refreshing rain weaved my thoughts with an illusion of peace and progress. Natalie betrayed and left me. Tough luck. I had things do to, I would not have slowed down. I would have graduated, become a movie director, and then forgot about her too. Looking back, I see that those are the days that reshaped my character. Teenagers break their hearts easily, like they didn’t care. But the first time it hits them they become more careful, and this moderates their idealism. Thank God I was proud enough to remain half-blinded! People forget how important self-deception is. Lonely and confused, I would have never kept running without some lies. Natalie might have had my heart, I kept telling myself, but never an answer to all those messages that she never sent. Meanwhile, the next weeks - the busiest of my life - would have been a marathon on Ramadan. Besides finishing my thesis, in order to graduate in time I had to pass four exams – one every month – and to get to a proficient level in Spanish from scratch. Despite my strong motivation, something kept me from fully dedicate myself to my studies. I would spend hours scrolling through old pictures. One especially was often calling my attention. Riccione 2010, the slightly sulfuric smell of the seashore mixed with that of fried fish from the canopies. Flip flops, a volleyball, and nine friends at the beach looking at the camera they auto timed at ten seconds to have a photo of all of them together – that’s how you did it before the selfie era. Looking at that picture three years later helped me forget about the cold and humid temperatures of Milan. But it also made me a bit nostalgic. That was our last holiday all together, right before we started university. Interestingly, it was also the summer before the financial crisis hit the Italian market, suddenly turning us into the perfect candidates for the so-called “thousand-euro generation” club. No registry needed to be part of this group; the trouble was in fact to leave it. As youth unemployment reached fifty percent, TV and newspapers started to tell the plights of overqualified Italians living hand to mouth on just one thousand euro a month. They called us the “the lost generation". So arrogant, I thought. Speak for yourself, I am not lost at all. In fact, I plan to leave this country altogether. I have a fresh degree and a few hundred euros saved from my bartending, that shall be enough to buy myself a good airline ticket and an opportunity elsewhere. I starred at the picture for a few more seconds, wondering why all my friends were still here. We all grew up together, but I was always the most unsettled. I scrolled down before closing the laptop and posed my eyes on the capture under the photo. It simply read: “Us”. One year later, after I finally managed to finish my university, I was looking at the same picture from a computer screen in Los Angeles. Shortly after my graduation I found an internship in an American postproduction company. After six months the internship turned into a job, and after a year my company filed the application to give me a permanent working Visa in the US. It looked like my hard work had finally bought me an exit ticket from the infamous “one-thousand generation” club. Then my phone rang; the boss wanted to see me. “It’s not easy to say this. But I want you to know that we did everything we could.” I never liked Michelle’s office. It was too dark. It had no window and three sides of the room’s wall were painted in a dark brown color. On the forth side was a glass wall with a glass door. Why the human resources office resembled so much an interrogation room is something that never occurred to me. Shoulders against the glass, looking at the big blond woman through the diffused light of her lamp desk, I felt observed and guilty. “Teddy, come here!” Polina, my landlady, came back home from work with her big black dog just after I finished dinner, and found me sitting on the table, dangling my legs for who knows how long. Teddy brought over a gigantic tree branch, which it had been resolutely dragging all the way from the park to play with me, but I wasn’t in the mood for engaging activities. “How was your day?” Asked me Polina while she was spreading some butter on a piece of bread. “’Alright. Or maybe a bit weird.” “Why?” “They told me I can’t stay.” “What?” She asked alarmed raising her thin long Russian eyebrows. “The deadline for sending my Visa application was yesterday. My company was paying a lawyer to file all the documents, but only today they found out that his office was shut down for I don’t know which fraud. The trouble is that he just didn’t send the documents.” “Seriously? And what happens now?” “I have sixty days to leave the US.” Polina offered to go through all the legal technicalities try to find a loophole. I gently declined. “How do you feel?” “I honestly don’t feel anything. I guess it will hit me later.” The day after I was still fine. Two days after I felt the obligation of acting angry at my boss. As days went by, I also tried to be sad or disillusioned, but to this day I still don’t regret it. Thinking about it, my experience in the land of opportunity was doomed from the start. I had the first hint about it when my company asked me to open an American bank account to which they could transfer my tiny salary. Not that I had any bureaucratic issue. I drove to the closest mall, walked into a certain Chase bank, and ten minutes later I was already done. The unpleasant déjà vu hit me while I was unwrapping my new credit card. Still on the driveway, reaching on my pocket for the keys, I turned the envelope and there I read it: “Lehman Brothers Holdings Inc.” He cut his credit card in half, tore up his documents, and burned his money. He had terrible adventures in remote places, left profound memories in every person he met, and hitchhiked his way up to Alaska, where he died for food poisoning. His name was Christopher Johnson McCandless, a young Californian of a privileged upbringing, who, only a few days after graduating with full marks from Emory University, got rid of all his possessions, donated his saving to charity, and he started to travel. On the road. The world remembers him because his story became a bestseller book and a movie that captured the young generation’s desire for a big sod off to the modern capitalist world. Looking at my shiny credit card, I wondered what my personal hero would have thought about me. How could I open an account in the same bank responsible for the 2008 financial crisis, which almost bankrupted my country?I put the credit card in my wallet and drove back to the office trying to not think about it. Pennette Vodka and Salmone; some weed on a colorful glass pipe; sex on the sofa – with her two small dogs looking at us – then some pennette again. For a while, the discussion buzzed this way and that, incoherent, confused, like a wasp caught between a double-panned window. Then she suddenly said: “I think you should stop laughing and start taking me seriously”. “What do you mean?” “I am serious, it’s something that I am willing to do.” Monica was a friend of a friend. I only saw her three times in my life, but things moved pretty quickly between us: that night she asked me to marry her. Quite some chutzpah for someone I just met! All I knew about her is that she was a thirty-something psychologist from Hungary, who moved to America to study and temporarily married a friend to get a Visa. I guessed she liked me, but her offer to marry me, and to give me the same opportunity that she enjoyed, had more to do with her past than with me. Funny how psychologists can never solve their psychosis. “Well, thanks for the offer,” I finally said, feeling like a fish out of water, “but I don’t know if I want to stay.” A pause of dramatic silence. “I don’t care. I did everything I could, I played by the rules, and now I am not so interested anymore.” My relationship with Los Angeles ended that day, stoned on a couch in Sherman Oaks, busy turning down a marriage offer from a friend I hardly knew. I felt like Los Angeles was being quite a bitch with me, like in one of those toxic relationships that don’t want to finish. First, the city dumps me like it didn’t matter, and then it has second thoughts and it presents me with the opportunity to get together again. But it was too late. After thirteen months spent killing myself to fit in that city, I was now feeling liberated. The morning after, on my way back from Monica’s place, I noticed a group of people protesting against the use of public sprinklers. Too few millimeters of water in too many days: this was everyday news in Los Angeles 2014; officials were even advising skipping showers whenever possible. California was drying out, and I didn’t care. Old, rusty and with holes in its roof, my car wasn’t made for rain – I only paid it 800 dollars anyway. True, I never enjoyed driving around on forty-plus degrees without AC, but at least at home, I was fine. The big Eucalyptus in the middle of my backyard further contributed to my alienation from everyone else’s problems. It was a big old tree that stood gorgeous right next to Hollywood Boulevard, the last of its kind in this city. Its big leaves overshadowed the house and kept it cool all year long. A few years back, my landlady Polina considered selling her house. Inspectors came over and gave her a generous offer, but when they told her that they would have had to turn down the three in order to construct a new apartment building, she immediately changed her mind. Polina was a constant source of inspiration for me. She was a beautiful and strong Russian woman who lived in the US for most of her life, but who disliked both the Russians and the Americans. An ex-model, photographer, and film producer, she was now working as an acupuncturist. Next door was living my colleague Jeremy, a forty-something New York Jewish with a past as the guitar player of a rock band, and a difficult present as a constantly broke motion graphic artist. His personality was the unbalanced mix of strong social values, a bright mind, and absolutely no filter. He loved to complain about ‘merica to whoever would listen, but never superficially, always with the passion of a betrayed lover. The first time I walked into the office he said: “Jesus, now they send the interns in the graphics department too?”. Fast forward 3 months and he is ordering a round of Don Julio Tequila after another sixteen-hours working day together. “This is the best around, you know?” He said. “Not really, I don’t like Tequila.” “Of course, because you only buy shitty cheap shots. Do they even pay you at the office?” “Mark gives me one hundred bucks a week off the books”, I said. “Can you bring home the bacon with that?” “Dude, it’s LA, of course I can’t. I have been eating salad and rise for the last five months.” “Motherfuckers!” he cursed downing the shot of tequila with a wince. “But why do you work so much then?” “I don’t really know. I guess I want this job.” “Jesus. Let’s have a second round. Put away that money, kid, I pay.” Jeremy was right, good tequila is a different kettle of fish. I miss talking with him, waiting for him to prepare his morning espresso, and driving to work together. I miss Teddy, my landlady’s giant black dog who sounded like a dragon but behaved like a poppy. My rollerblades, because only in Los Angeles people don’t look at you weirdly when you use them. A ten dollar haircut at Supercuts every two weeks. Rock climbing with my friend Josh. My license plate, all I had left of my beloved Ford Escort 1991 after the car accident. Premiere Pro, the buggy editing software on which I spent most of my days. Nivea Baby Cream to fight California’s ridiculously dry weather. Broccoli, swordfish, and dark chocolate – in this order. Catie’s big blue eyes. I even miss the second time I shaved my hair – also the second time I immediately regretted doing it. I miss the abandoned couches that people leave on Los Angeles’ streets. They look so lonely and amiss, like solitary children who got too old too quickly. But most importantly, I miss cheap Oreos for breakfast. And it was Oreos again, this time for lunch, at a gas station just off Route 101. Then off again on the potholed highway, surrounded by dried shrubs and fat cacti. Hands on the driving wheel in brown leather, windows open, the salty breeze from the ocean. And then the crash, the exhaust system rattling off, and the awful smell of something burning. That Saturday I was coming back from the last shooting for my company after another seventy-hours working week. I was dead tired, I had five cookies for lunch and I was driving in forty-degree weather without AC. I don’t know if I passed out or if I simply fell asleep, all I remember is that I hit the BMW in front of me at sixty miles per hour. That woke me up. I crumbled out of my car with a big bruise on my chest. The guy in front of me was fine but wanted to call an ambulance for me. I refused because my insurance did not cover the 500-dollar bill. We exchanged the details, he drove away, and I called a friend to pick me up. That’s when I noticed that the radio in my car was still on. My favorite song. “I was scared of dentists and the dark/ I was scared of pretty girls and starting conversations.” While the proudly emptiest song ever written hypnotized the world with the uncompromising superficiality of its invented world - gangam - and the perverted ex-Disney alumni Miley Cyrus swung naked on a wrecking ball, I came up with a theory. By applying the Pareto principle to the world, I reached the conclusion that eighty percent of the people were stupid. I know, quite optimistic. No thanks, only a ukulele for me. Vance Joy’s Riptide was all I needed. A stream of consciousness that accumulates mysterious details, a series of small, personal facts a million times more complex than Beyoncé’s best makeup. To be sure, I was crazy too, but in a different way. After that car accident I had trouble breathing for more than two months, but that did not stop me from saving the 500 bucks on the ambulance to produce my own movie. As soon as I recovered from the accident I went to Malibu beach, my favorite spot in California, for a last day at the ocean. Two miles are a long way, if you are running on the beach; all those little muscles in the palms of your feet work overtime in the sand. That’s why I learned to leave my old Ford Escort not farther than one mile from Point Mugu, Hollywood B-movies most photographed cliff that marks the western end of the Malibu Coast. Accustomed as I was to go jogging next to the fetid waters of Milan’s canals, I never regretted moving to Los Angeles when I was at the beach. That day I felt very well and I didn’t want to go back to my car after only one mile of running. So, once I reached Point Mugu, where the coast simply ends on a bunch of insurmountable rocks, I dug a hole next to one of the only trees in the beech, I buried my keys and phone, then started to swim. In my mind the plan was easy, I would have swum around the rocks and kept running on the other side. It didn't even occur to me that the other end of the cliff could be more than one hundred meters away. Worse yet, once you start swimming you can’t go back, or the big waves of the ocean will surely smash you against the sharp rocks of the cliff. So there I was, dead tired off the coast of Malibu, trying to stay afloat while desperately looking for a solution. Then all of a sudden something slimy touched my foot. It was obviously some seaweed, but in my mind I had no doubt: there was a shark. All my fatigue disappeared and I swam like crazy until I reached the other side of the cliff. Face on the sand, breathing heavily with my eyes closed, it took me a while to realize what a terrible smell there was. Disgusted, I opened my eyes and I saw one of the most surprising spectacles. Hundreds of seals laid in front of me, sleeping on the sun or fighting for the best spot on a cliff. Clearly, very few people had been stupid enough to reach that side of the coast, making it a perfect spot for those beautiful and stinky animals. Staring at that uncontaminated spot of land with my nose pinched, I thought this was a good summary of my experience in California. A catch 22. A hard journey that brought me to something dangerous and smelly, but also unexpected and beautiful. It was time to go back. Back to where it all started, thirteen months before, when I was stuck at my desk with my red luggage next to me. Outside is windy, my dad waits for me in the car, ready to drive me to the airport where I will take a thirteen-hour flight to Los Angeles. But I just can’t move. I keep looking at that picture of a sunny day with my friends in Riccione. I know this is the last chance I have to change my mind, to say that I don’t want to go, that I want to stay here with my friends and my family. Then I click on the picture, and I realize that it’s actually a video. Someone must have pressed the wrong button so that instead of auto timing the camera to take a picture after ten seconds, it took a ten seconds video of us getting ready for a shot that never happened. And it was beautiful. Trapped in those seconds that were never supposed to be remembered, you could have a glance at what we truly were, with our real smiles and our real expressions. I played those seconds on repeat until they lodged in my head like the most pleasant earworm. Secured in my memory, those moments would have never vanished. We would have always been there, in that beach, together, redoing the same things over and over. A place of no choices to take, no challenges to face, no dreams to follow. I closed my laptop and head over to the car.