Inside a grimy flat in Mbare, Zimbabwe’s oldest township in the capital Harare, about 10 young musicians nervously rehearse their lyrical chants as they wait to be called into the recording booth.
Many celebrated musicians in Zimbabwe have been born out of this old flat. For those here now, this is their one shot at stardom, or at least a future in music.
One by one, they go in to sing under the watchful eye of Arnold Kamudyariwa, a popular dancehall producer known as DJ Fantan, who often stops those singing off-key.
In a sea of poverty, drugs, unemployment and crime, Fantan’s ChillSpot Records has given a voice to young people itching to tell stories of their daily struggles. It is Wednesday at 1pm, and the sounds of Zimdancehall reverberate from his studio in Matapi, Mbare.
Music is a huge source of comfort for Zimbabweans, and Zimdancehall, a local adaptation of Jamaican dancehall, grew from a demand for music that resonates with daily struggles. The infectious lyrics – often a lament of life’s challenges, losses and social ills, like the rising drug problem – have become the soundtrack for Zimbabweans.
Instead of singing in Jamaican patois, local musicians mainly use Shona, and recently some Ndebele singers have also emerged. A product of back yard studios, Zimdancehall is one of the fastest growing genres in the country.
“I think the reason why people like our genre is that it resonates with their daily struggles. If the ghetto is happy, you will hear us sing about that but if people are struggling, we tailor our message,” says Fantan.
Fantan, who traded turntables for the studio, along with his two friends Levelz and Ribbe, has found a new passion in raising Zimbabwe’s singers. From his tiny studio, the young producer creates stars and hit songs.
“We started off as DJs, we would just play at parties, but one day we realised that there was a need to create music. Our first studio was in my bedroom. Many artists made their hits from there nearly six years ago,” he says.
As the young musicians take turns to record their best chants, another accomplished musician, Caleb Tareka, popularly known as Ras Caleb, looks on.
“Music has changed my life; I would never be where I am today. Now I can take care of my family from the proceeds of the music, but it has taken years of determination,” Caleb says.
“Zimdancehall has taken many youths off the streets. It has created employment for some who are determined. I think this studio has done very well in raising talent and changing lives.”
Amid economic hardships, worsened by Covid-19, young people in the townships have found solace in music. Hundreds of home studios have sprouted up across Harare as musicians work overnight, encouraged by success stories from the townships. With no funding to build studios, they use basic recording equipment to create hit songs.
Michael Moso, a young hip-hop producer who works in his brother’s studio in Mbare, says: “This studio is very useful. It is better for the ghetto youths to spend their day here than on the streets. They become creative and do something useful with their time, so it makes perfect sense for us to have this studio.”
Although dancehall dominates in Mbare, Moso believes his genre will break through. Zimbabwean hip-hop is also growing, driven by the demand for local music.
While only a few of these artists become mainstream, the Covid pandemic has led to an increase in those marketing their music online through WhatsApp and YouTube.
Dozens of young people visit the ChillSpot studio daily, but most come from disadvantaged homes and cannot afford studio time.
One such young musician is Tanaka Chivese from Glen View, who has visited ChillSpot Records several times, hoping to get studio time.
“I kept coming here because I love music, until the producer gave me an opportunity. I recorded my first song in 2020 but it was never released – I guess I was not ready. But I am working on something which you will hear soon. I believe I can make it in this industry. What I need is an opportunity to show what I can do,” Chivese says.
Outside the studio, giant, colourful murals portray the musicians who have become heroes.
“We love our artists, and this is our small way of encouraging them for the great work they are doing. We use this to advertise our paintings,” says the artist behind the murals, Abraham Chimweta.
The studio churns out hundreds of songs, but only a few make it on to radio.
Guitarist and music producer Trust Samende says: “Musicians are doing their best to create with the little resources they have, but our system is killing us, the radio stations are killing us. So, the product is there, but our DJs prioritise foreign music over us. I do not know why they think anything that comes from outside is better. You can never hear our music being played outside.”
“Radio airplay is still an issue,” says Tremier Msipa, another producer. “When you are starting, you don’t know the ins and outs of radio. But I stand by the philosophy that if I keep making good music, it will eventually play.”
At the turn of the century Zimbabwe imposed a 75% local content policy to support local art. This gave birth to several celebrated artists in the country. But the Zimbabwean music scene remains male-dominated, with female musicians facing unequal opportunities.
“There are a number of amazing female artists, but there are definitely many obstacles that come into play being a woman in the industry. The percentage of successful female artists compared with their male counterparts is an indication of this. There is still work to be done,” says Gemma Griffiths, one of Zimbabwe’s top female musicians.
Until Zimbabwean music breaks through to other markets in Nigeria or South Africa, the producers will continue to make music on a shoestring – but with passion.
“We have already seen a number of self-taught producers winning the hearts of international artists and that bears testimony to what the future holds,” says music critic, Plot Mhako.
Migrant fruit pickers charged thousands in illegal fees to work on UK farms, investigation shows | Nepal
Ditya*, a single mother from Nepal, is used to travelling abroad for work. For years she has made a living as a migrant farm worker, where she can earn several times what she would in her home country. Last year she applied to become part of the UK government’s seasonal worker visa scheme, picking fruit and vegetables on a farm in Herefordshire that supplies fresh produce to Marks & Spencer (M&S), Tesco and Waitrose.
Ditya got the job, but it came at a huge cost. In order to secure it, she says she had to pay more than £3,000 – almost a third of what she earned during the six-month post – to recruitment agents.
Some of that money covered the cost of her flight and visa application. The rest appears to include illegal fees that labour rights experts describe as “exploitative and extortionate”.
A joint investigation by the Bureau of Investigative Journalism (TBIJ) and the Guardian can reveal that as many as 150 Nepali workers who came to work at Cobrey Farms in Herefordshire as part of the government scheme may have paid similar amounts, many of them claiming they paid agents working for a UK-licensed recruitment company.
The findings suggest that the underfunding of labour-rights enforcement, combined with the rapid expansion of the seasonal worker scheme – which aims to plug shortages created by Brexit and Covid-19 – could be putting thousands of migrant labourers at risk of exploitation.
Tesco and M&S, which buy from Cobrey, have human rights policies requiring their suppliers to ensure workers are not charged fees.
Tesco and M&S said they are urgently investigating the matter. Tesco added that any illegal fees had to be repaid in full. The workers, however, say they have not yet been reimbursed.
A Waitrose spokesperson said it couldn’t comment on the specific case, which was a live investigation, but it would “take whatever action” was needed.
The UK government launched the seasonal workers pilot scheme in 2019 to address concerns that the withdrawal from the EU would cause a shortage of labour for harvesting jobs on farms. Its rules state that workers should only pay a visa application fee of £259 (£244 until April this year) and travel costs. Any additional recruitment fees are illegal under UK law and can result in a labour provider being stripped of its licence.
Workers speaking on condition of anonymity said that they paid the fees to agents working for the Nepali company My Careers HR Solutions, which Poseidon Human Capital, a recruitment firm headquartered in London, says it controls day-to-day. Poseidon had in turn been hired by the Brighton-based charity Concordia, one of four organisations that operate the UK government scheme. Concordia had been contracted to find workers to pick fruit and vegetables at Cobrey Farms.
Simon Bowyer, CEO of Concordia, said that his company conducted an investigation and interviewed more than half of the 150 people recruited to work at the farm by Poseidon. He said a “significant percentage” told them they had paid fees to My Careers HR Solutions, its chairman John Khadka, Poseidon or “other named associates”, and that most payments were between RS300,000 (£1,935) and RS750,000 (£4,840).
Poseidon director Matthew Hurley said the company hired its own investigators, from a “reputable law firm”, who found that no officers from his company had been complicit in illegal fees being taken.
The costs for a Nepali worker to participate in the scheme, including charges for preparing documents, visa costs and logistics, are estimated to be more than £2,000, Hurley said. If farms covered these costs, potential “exposure to payment of illicit fees would be eradicated”, he said.
Khadka, who was the chairman of Kathmandu-based My Careers HR Solutions at the time of the alleged breaches, said the investigation found two deposits made by workers to his accounts. He said that both were from longtime friends who he was helping to transfer money.
In March, Khadka denied that his company had recruited Nepali workers to the UK or that he had any dealings with Poseidon. He subsequently said that he was suspended from the My Careers HR Solutions board as a result of Poseidon’s investigation, but added that it found the allegations made against him to be “incorrect”.
Concordia has now terminated its relationship with Poseidon and alerted the Gangmasters and Labour Abuse Authority (GLAA), the government body in charge of licensing labour providers and tackling exploitation in the agriculture sector. A spokesperson for the GLAA said it does not “provide a running commentary on specific investigations”.
The charging of recruitment fees via third parties has resulted in thousands of Nepali workers – primarily working in the Gulf and Malaysia – taking out informal loans they struggle to pay back, said Bishal Tamang, an independent migration researcher and former migrant worker. In the worst cases, he said, this has resulted in workers taking their own lives.
“They will borrow money from lenders that charge huge interest rates and give their land deeds as a guarantee. It is normally land that has been in the family for generations,” he said.
Tamang said he had previously paid RS100,000 (£645) to secure work in Saudi Arabia, but that workers can be charged more than 10 times as much for work in the UK.
According to figures obtained through freedom of information requests, the most common allegations in the agriculture sector brought to the GLAA last year were in relation to recruitment fees. A total of 25 such allegations were made in 2021, more than three times the number made in 2018, the year before the scheme’s launch.
“We need food on the shelves in supermarkets, and [migrant workers] have come to make that happen,” said Emily Kenway, a researcher and former adviser to the UK’s independent anti-slavery commissioner. “We’ve got to hold up our side of the bargain, which does not include workers being fleeced in order to get here.”
Kenway said the GLAA has been more likely to pick up on these issues because it had working relationships with labour enforcement agencies in countries such as Romania, where most migrant workers came from before Brexit. But the GLAA’s resources have not kept pace with the increase in the number of countries from which workers are now being recruited – 58 in 2021.
“We knew something like this was going to happen,” Kenway said. “Everyone who works on labour rights, modern slavery and trafficking has been saying from day one that there is a massive chance that we’re going to have exploitation taking place through the scheme because of its design and the lack of resourcing going into it.”
The seasonal worker scheme, which issued just under 2,500 visas in 2019, is expecting to issue as many as 40,000 this year. Meanwhile, the Home Office’s funding for the GLAA last year was £7m – less than what it spent on publications, stationery and printing.
Data released by the Home Office this week shows that Nepal has provided 395 seasonal workers to the UK in the first three months of this year – the fourth-highest country on the list.
Carolin Ott, a solicitor at Leigh Day, said the new findings were extremely concerning. “It is absolutely vital that this rapidly expanding scheme has necessary safeguards in place to prevent exploitation and ensure protection of seasonal workers’ rights,” she said.
Several workers who went to work at Cobrey Farms in 2021 said the recruitment fees represented a significant proportion of their earnings. One Nepali migrant who harvested asparagus and blueberries said he had paid about £3,100 to a recruiter. He said the farm’s HR team learned in the summer of the “exorbitant fees” some workers said had been charged by My Careers HR Solutions.
Ditya said she paid £4,420, including a £1,260 deposit that was returned to her when she went back to Nepal. When Concordia asked about recruitment fees during its investigation, she lied, saying she had only paid for her visa and flight, because she “didn’t want to get in trouble”.
Chris Chinn, whose family runs Cobrey, said that the farm notifies and cooperates with the GLAA in the event of any alleged or observed breach of labour standards. He said Cobrey’s licence means it has been “assessed as meeting the rigorous standards set by the GLAA”.
Concordia’s Simon Bowyer said that his company would not be refunding the workers, but would like to see My Careers HR Solutions do so. “I don’t know the exact nature of the relationship between My Careers and Poseidon,” he said, but we were not happy when we found that relationship – whatever it was – existed.”
TBIJ and the Guardian have also seen training certificates issued to Cobrey workers that feature the logos of the British Council and Ofqual, both of which said that they have not accredited any of the people or companies named in the documents. Hurley put this down to a “certification mistake” that was being addressed.
*Name has been changed
Additional reporting by Pramod Acharya
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Pussy Riot: Maria Alyokhina, a punk poet against Putin | Culture
The setting is the White House – or rather a set of White House, the one inhabited by actors Kevin Spacey and Robin Wright in the TV show House of Cards. The year is 2015. Maria Alyokhina, better known as Masha, has already been jailed and released more than one time. And she has begun to write her book, a Vonnegutesque memoir called Riot Days. The memoir tells the story behind Pussy Riot, the feminist punk collective that made Alyokhina the kind of star that is invited to make a provocative cameo in a hit TV show. It also depicts the author’s day-to-day life in prison, with special emphasis on the freezing cold, systematic mistreatment and forced labor – problems that seem not to have changed since Dostoevsky’s time. And it also recounts Alyokhina’s lifetime of defying tyranny.
In the third House of Cards episode of the show’s third season, Masha and fellow Pussy Riot activist Nadya Tolokonnikova refuse to toast Viktor Petrov, the Vladimir Putin of the series, played by Lars Mikkelsen. The women’s appearance on the show reflected the fact that they are recognized as major players in history –although Masha is not so sure. “As a teenager,” Masha recounts in Riot Days, “I used to do graffiti on one of the school walls.” The wall was painted with historical motifs depicting a Russia she hadn’t seen and didn’t believe in. “I liked seeing how the graffiti was gaining ground and began to mix with those historical episodes, giving shape to another truth, ours,” she writes. Even then, the teenage Masha thought like an activist.
Born in Moscow in 1988, Maria Alyokhina grew up in 1990s Russia, and she remembers “people queuing everywhere, queuing for food, clothes, vouchers.” That, she says, has not changed. “They tell us that the country has changed, but I keep seeing the queues.” Masha was raised by her mother, a programmer, and did not meet her math teacher father until she was 21. She hated the Russian educational system and changed schools four times. “They taught you not to think. They wanted us to just follow the rules. Obviously, I didn’t like it at all,” she once said. A poet, actress and mother, Masha studied journalism and creative writing and was a Greenpeace activist. She has long been inspired by the performance artist and political provocateur Aleksander Brener.
Pussy Riot’s first action took place in the same spot where Brener stood before the Kremlin with a pair of boxing gloves – the image of him dressed as a boxer became iconic – and asked the Russian president at the time, Boris Yeltsin, to come out and fight. “There were eight of us, like the eight dissidents in 1968″ who protested against the occupation of Czechoslovakia, she recalls. But the image that spread across the world, forever changing the West’s conception that Russia had left its Soviet past behind, occurred in the Moscow Cathedral. The action landed the collective in jail for the first time: the collective sang a song asking the Mother of God to become a feminist and free Russia from Putin. Masha dressed in green and wore a yellow balaclava. Lara Alcázar, the founder of the Spanish branch of the feminist activist group Femen, says that the action was significant because it “clicks in the mind of those who see it.”
“The protest seeks to arouse an opinion, a series of questions. It has always been necessary, but right now there is an emergency. It shows you the other side – in this case, where the oppressors and the oppressed are,” says Alcázar. Today, Masha is hiding somewhere in Iceland, after having fled Russia with her partner Lucy Shtein, both disguised as food couriers. Her life is in danger. Alcázar also points out that women who dedicate themselves to activism break many boundaries. As with Femen’s demonstrations, Pussy Riot’s protests are especially powerful because they consist of direct action and provocation, she says.
Carol Paris, editor of the Spanish-language version of Read & Riot: A Pussy Riot Guide to Activism, says that the most interesting thing about the collective is how they transcend the idea of individuality. “They show us how we can become active free agents. We should all be Pussy Riot.” And yet, as writer and translator Monika Zgustova points out, we cannot forget that Masha and the rest of the Pussy Riot “are in real danger, danger of being killed with a bullet to the forehead or a sophisticated poison, as has already happened to so many people who made the Kremlin uncomfortable.” That danger “gives value, weight and seriousness to their message,” a message that, as Nadya Tolokonnikov writes, they express through “barbaric and primitive political cabaret.”
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