Indian

Srinagar: Every spring, mason Mohammad Ghulam Sarwar boards a train to Indian Kashmir, seeking higher wages despite the risk of being targeted by militants in the disputed Himalayan region.

Sarwar, 25, is one of an estimated half a million migrant workers who stream into the Himalayan region each year, forming the backbone of an economy increasingly reliant on labour from some of India’s poorest states.

The dependence has endured despite decades of insurgency and a series of militant attacks that have made migrant workers vulnerable targets.

Since 2019, at least 24 migrant workers have been killed in militant attacks across the territory, according to local media reports.

More than 1500 people were killed in the same period, according to the South Asia Terrorism Portal, 219 of them civilians.

The latest attack last month saw gunmen shoot dead two brick kiln workers from the central state of Chhattisgarh.

But for workers like Sarwar, the rewards outweigh the risks.

“Kashmir is real paradise. I will keep coming every year for as long as I have the strength to work,” Sarwar, from the eastern state of Bihar, told AFP.

While millions of Indians seek jobs in the Gulf, some workers say Kashmir offers nearly comparable earnings without the costs and complications of overseas migration.

Sarwar earns 1,200 rupees ($12) a day in Kashmir, compared with about 700 rupees in Bihar for the same work, if he could find any at all.

The Muslim-majority region, battling some of India’s highest unemployment rates, has become increasingly dependent on outsiders to perform jobs that many locals consider menial, including domestic work, agriculture and construction.

Local businesses say they struggle to find workers willing or able to take up many jobs.

“Outside the handicrafts sector there is not nearly enough local skilled labour available in Kashmir,” said Mohammad Ashraf Mir of the Kashmir Chamber of Commerce and Industry.

“We see a rising dependence on migrant workers, tending towards absolute dependence.”

Waiting to be hired

Each morning, groups of labourers gather at prominent squares in the main city of Srinagar, waiting to be hired.

Most stay for about eight months before departing ahead of Kashmir’s harsh winter, when construction slows and agricultural activity dwindles.

Muslim-majority Kashmir has been divided between India and Pakistan since their independence in 1947, while an insurgency against Indian rule that erupted in 1989 has claimed tens of thousands of lives.

Although the rebellion has been largely weakened in recent years, sporadic attacks continue.

Sarwar said he saw a barber from his home state shot dead by suspected rebels some years ago.

While he was saddened by the incident, it failed to deter him.

“Life and death are in the hands of God,” he said.

“If I remain fearful, I will have nothing. But if I overcome, I will have everything.”

Sarwar shares a building in Srinagar with around 200 other labourers. Some 7-10 workers squeeze into tiny rooms, sleeping and cooking in the same cramped space while paying little more than five dollars a month each.

Outside, security is conspicuous.

Paramilitary troops, armoured vehicles and police special operations units patrol streets. CCTV cameras monitor the compound around the clock.

“They have been soft targets for the terrorists in the past,” a senior security official said on condition of anonymity.

“But security arrangements for them have become robust over time.”

‘Feels peaceful’

Police encourage labourers to live in clusters and avoid venturing out after dark.

A labourer from West Bengal said many Hindu workers adopt Muslim-sounding names while in Kashmir, fearing that displaying their religion could make them targets.

Rebel groups say they target migrant workers to avenge police harassment of their families.

Many labourers are reluctant to discuss security concerns publicly.

“I face no troubles here,” said Mohammad Iqbal, a 53-year-old painter from Uttar Pradesh state who has worked in Kashmir since before the insurgency began and is now accompanied by his son.

“It feels peaceful.”

Others are more candid.

“I am afraid of terrorists here,” said Shahid Sofi, a 24-year-old mason from Bihar who previously worked in Delhi and Mumbai.

“But overall working conditions here are good, the weather is good, and I like working in the wide, open spaces of Kashmir.”

In just under three months, 30-year-old Abhijeet Dipke – the founder and face of India’s Gen Z “cockroach” protests – has acquired the kind of celebrity status normally reserved for a breakout actor or cricketer.

In politics or activism, unless you come from an influential family, such recognition can take years – if it comes at all.

“It’s been a rollercoaster ride. Two-three months ago, nobody knew me. I was just in my room in Boston watching documentaries or attending lectures,” said Dipke, who recently completed a master’s in public relations at Boston University.

“Now I’m here surrounded by hundreds of people, by cameras. It’s a bit overwhelming.”

In and around his hometown of Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar in the western state of Maharashtra, Dipke is routinely thronged by people wanting to shake his hand or take a photo.

If the attention bothers him, it doesn’t show. Perhaps because politics isn’t entirely new to him: before moving to the US, Dipke had worked with the Aam Aadmi Party (AAP), an opposition party that grew out of an anti-corruption movement, for three years.

Then, on 16 May, Dipke wrote a post on X that would change his life: “What if all cockroaches come together?”

It was a response to a remark by India’s Chief Justice Surya Kant, who had likened jobless youngsters to cockroaches. Kant later said his comments had been misinterpreted and were directed specifically at young people using fake degrees, rather than the country’s youth more broadly.

But the clarification did little to quell the outrage.

Dipke said he wrote his post while playing a video game. “It was totally spontaneous. I had no idea it would become such a big movement,” he said.

Encouraged by tens of thousands of responses, he joined a handful of former colleagues and activists to launch the satirical Cockroach Janta Party (CJP), its name playing on both the chief justice’s remark and that of Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP).

Alongside the support, Dipke and the campaign were fiercely trolled by government supporters. Their website and X account was briefly taken down in India.

Dipke says that when he wrote to X and to India’s Ministry of Electronics and Information Technology asking why the account had been taken down, he received a notice saying it had been withheld under Section 69A of the Information Technology Act which allows the government to block online information ‘in the interest of sovereignty and integrity of India, defence of India, security of the State’.

The ministry did not reply to the BBC’s questions about the issue, but The Indian Express and other media reported government officials as saying the sites had been blocked because of ‘national security concerns’. Dipke says he decided to return to India in response to this.

“I took the decision to come back to India when I was called a national security threat by my own government. That really hurt me. Isn’t my government supposed to stand by me when I’m abroad?” he said.

“I decided I need to go back to my country to show I’m not a national security threat. I love my country, just not in the way that you [the government] want.”

Caracas, September 10, 2026 (venezuelanalysis.com) – Venezuelan Acting President Delcy Rodríguez presided over the signing of a memorandum of understanding between the Ministry of Ecosocialism and India’s Greens Zoological Rescue and Rehabilitation Centre (GZRRC) to “modernize and strengthen” Venezuela’s network of zoos, bioparks, and wildlife conservation centers.

GZRRC is the operating entity of the global conservation initiative Vantara, based in the Indian state of Gujarat.

According to the Venezuelan leader, Greens will provide “technical assistance, training, and technology to raise the standards for the management and protection of Venezuela’s biodiversity.” 

“Our professionals will be able to attend courses in India,” she added during the televised event on Saturday, September 5.

Rodríguez noted that Venezuela has 16 zoos and aquariums, 12 breeding centers, and four rescue centers. She also announced that the agreement involves “incorporating an aquarium, a wildlife conservation center, a veterinary center, and a wildlife hospital into the master plan for the recovery of La Guaira State” in the wake of the June 24 double earthquake.

The initiative with Vantara, which has a five-year time frame, also includes exchange programs for veterinarians, biologists, and other professionals involved in wildlife management and conservation.

Days earlier, Venezuela enacted the Law Approving the Framework Agreement for the Establishment of the International Big Cat Alliance (IBCA), which will focus on protecting seven feline species considered among the planet’s most representative. Venezuela is home to six of the world’s most important feline species, accounting for 14 percent of global feline biodiversity.

The legislation stems from a proposal put forward by India in 2023, which currently has the backing of 13 member states and applications for membership from more than 25 others.

During the recent ceremony, Rodríguez thanked Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi, Ambassador P.K. Ashok Babu, Vantara, and the wealthy Ambani family for “all their support.”

Venezuela’s Acting President held a four-day visit to India in June to offer investment and trade opportunities to major Indian companies, including the Tata Group, Amul, and Reliance. The latter has been a major importer of Venezuelan crude in recent months.

Vantara is backed by Reliance Industries, a major conglomerate owned by the Ambani family, with a major presence in multiple economic sectors, including energy, telecommunications, financial services, and retail. Its wildlife rescue center is located within the Jamnagar refining complex in Gujarat, the largest in the world. The facility, which covers approximately 3,500 acres, is managed by businessman Anant Ambani, the youngest son of India’s richest man, Mukesh Ambani.

Despite Vantara’s declared wildlife conservation mission and philanthropic endeavors, the company has faced controversy in recent years.

Various environmental groups and international organizations have accused it of operating as “a large-scale private zoo,” managing wildlife as commodities around the world, and taking advantage of loopholes in international regulations that seek to ensure that the trade in wild animals and plants does not threaten their survival.

In 2024, India’s Supreme Court appointed a panel of retired judges to investigate the alleged illegal acquisition of animals by Vantara, particularly elephants, as well as possible violations of wildlife regulations and money laundering allegations. The court ultimately dismissed the complaint filed by the Karanartham Viramah Foundation.

However, criticism that Vantara is breeding exotic animals for trade, as well as environmental concerns over setting up a wildlife sanctuary in the vicinity of an oil refinery, have persisted.

Venezuela had dealings with the Indian group before the latest memorandum of understanding. A joint investigation by Süddeutsche Zeitung and Venezuelan outlet Armando.info claimed that at least 39,000 wild animals from all over the world had been transferred to Vantara’s facilities by the end of 2024. 

The identified transfers included over 5,000 animals from Venezuela, among them members of protected species such as the Orinoco crocodile, harpy eagle, lowland tapir, giant anteater, jaguars, and spider monkeys.

Edited by Ricardo Vaz in Caracas.

Bettiah, India – Neyaz Miya was adjusting a kitchen handle. Mehadi Hassan was fixing a bracket for a bed.

They were at different construction sites – Miya in a half‑constructed home, a little higher up the hill, while Hassan was on the ground floor of Ganesh Hotel, closer to the Trishuli River that flowed through Syafrubesi, a bustling market town near the Nepal‑Tibet border, now wiped off the map by the August 26 flash floods.

More than 1,200 bodies have been recovered since then, at least 4,000 people remain missing, and more than 13,000 have been rescued.

“First came the terrifying loud sound. Then the ground trembled, and dark clouds descended upon us,” recalls 34‑year‑old Miya, who ran further up the hill with his phone and slippers that morning, five or six others running alongside him.

Hassan, lower on the slope, did not wait to reach for his slippers or his phone. He just ran, climbing a narrow, stair‑like path, up the hill, stopping only when he reached roughly 60 metres (200ft) above the road.

At some point, Miya and Hassan found each other. Around them were 60 to 70 other survivors who had also gathered high up on the hill.

A decade earlier, Miya had arrived in Syafrubesi as a carpenter. Three years later, he brought Hassan with him – both men from Bihar’s Bettiah district. Over the years, they built the town’s interiors – sofas, beds, almirahs, and kitchens for hotels and homes.

On that Wednesday morning, they watched all of that washed away. The multi‑storey hotels where they had worked – Red Panda, Garden Hotel, Buddha Hotel, Sunrise Hotel – were all swallowed by the flood.

“The town was gone in a blink,” Miya recounts, now sitting in his home in Turhapatti village of Bihar, India, just across the Nepal border. “There were only three kinds of people who survived that day: Those who were out of town, those who were at work and managed to run, and those who lived a little higher up the hill.”

Based on what he witnessed, Miya says only a few hundred people in Syafrubesi, a town that had a population of 2,271 in the 2011 census, likely survived.

Miya and Hasan are among them. Three of their close friends and colleagues, also migrant workers from Bihar, are not.

A workday like no other

When the floods reached Syafrubesi, the men were already at work: Their shifts began at seven in the morning.

“To start at seven, we would wake up at four or five,” Miya recalls. They would leave with empty stomachs and were fed tea with doughnuts or biscuits at the construction site by building owners. Their first break came at 11am, when they returned to the rented one‑room space (3,500 Nepali rupees or $23 a month) that housed five to seven migrants at a time.

On the morning of August 26, they left for work alongside 34‑year‑old Arman Ansari, 20‑year‑old Samir Ansari, and 52‑year‑old Mukhtar Ansari, all migrants from Miya’s Turhapatti village.

In the rented room, two teenage boys, Arman’s 14‑year‑old son, Salman Alam, and his friend Shibu Alam, 17, remained asleep. They had come a month earlier to visit the hills.

“My father had cooked meat bhaat (rice with meat),” Salman recounts. He was waiting for his father to return at 11am so they could eat together.

Arman, his father, was working beside Hassan on the ground floor, pasting sunmica onto the same bed. Samir and Mukhtar were on the top floor of the Full Moon Hotel.

When Hassan ran out of the under-construction building and up the hill, he believed Arman was behind him. But by the time Hassan and Miya met higher up, there was no sign of the other three: Arman, Samir and Mukhtar.

Miya and Hassan found the boys, Salman and Shibu, terrified, on the hill. “Salman was crying, howling and searching for his father,” Hassan said.

The flood, which came with a high speed, took half an hour to recede. Soon, helicopters started hovering above them, airlifting the critically injured.

The four of them – Miya, Hassan and the boys – walked down the hill on foot to search for the three missing in the debris. They found nothing but sludge. Miya’s furniture-cutting tools and machines, worth 80,000 Nepali rupees ($530), were buried in the debris.

When they got back to their room, perched high on a slope, they found that it had survived.

But the army had taken charge, and soldiers herded survivors away from tenements near the river. “They said it [the flood] might come again,” Miya recalls.

They slept that night in a government school building in a village, he says. “At night, we were given daal bhat (rice and daal), and we wrapped ourselves in tarpaulin and slept.”

The next morning, a helicopter took them to another village. From there, another helicopter carried them to an army compound in a town. In the evening, they teamed up with five other migrants and hired an SUV to reach Nepal’s capital Kathmandu, each paying 3,500 rupees ($23).

The next morning, on August 28, they hired another SUV, which charged them 950 rupees ($6) each for a distance of 290km (180 miles) to Birgunj, a town on the India-Nepal border. They then crossed the border on foot before boarding buses for their villages.

It wasn’t the homecoming Indian migrants who work in Nepal usually plan.

‘No regular work’ back home

Turhapatti is among thousands of villages tucked along the 1,715km (1,066-mile) stretch of the India-Nepal border, where generations have crossed back and forth in search of work.

The two countries share an open border, and on both sides, especially in Bihar, the bond is known as a roti-beti ka rishta (a relationship of food and daughters), alluding to ties of livelihoods and matrimonial kinship. People live, work, and marry across the border.

Kathmandu is as close to Turhapatti as is Patna, the capital of Bihar. Per its 2021 Population and Housing Census, Nepal had 700,000 foreign-born residents, 97 percent of them from India.

Miya and Hassan say the wages for a carpenter or a mason on the Indian side are between 600-700 rupees, while for the same work in Nepal, wages are about 900 rupees. That drives migrant workers from India over the border into Nepal.

Nepal, for its part, is facing a major out-migration crisis — its per capita income is the lowest in South Asia, barring Afghanistan, and hundreds of thousands of young men and women leave each year to find work elsewhere. This creates a demand for migrant workers from Bihar, India’s poorest state that lies just across the border.

In Turhapatti, Miya owns only 0.03 hectares (0.06 acres), not enough to feed his family of six children, wife and parents. In recent years, he transitioned from being a carpenter to a contractor, which allowed him to bring in more workers from Bihar.

He had been sending 30,000 Indian rupees ($315) back to his family every month.

Hassan has even less back home: He inherited a 6×8-metre (20×25ft) room from his father and no agricultural land. “There is no regular daily work here,” he says. He would send 15,000 Indian rupees ($157) home from Nepal each month for his wife and four children.

Their story echoes in most homes in Turhapatti. The village had a population of 16,000 people in the 2011 census, India’s latest one. In nearly every household, men have left to work in other parts of India and abroad as carpenters, masons, or labourers mixing cement and sand into mortar.

The destinations are Kashmir, where close to 700 men from the village work; Nepal, with nearly 600; and thousands scattered across Indian cities: Chennai, Kolkata, Delhi, Mumbai. About 100 men have migrated to Dubai, Oman and Saudi Arabia.

The houses they built in Turhapatti stand in stark contrast to those of those who remain in India. The marble-fronted and iron-gated homes belong to men working in the Gulf, while semi-permanent dwellings belong to those who stayed behind.

Migrants in Nepal fall in between: Miya has been able to raise a brick house.

‘My body shivers at the thought’

This economic reality is what drove Arman Ansari to Syafrubesi. On July 26, Arman left for Nepal with Samir and Mukhtar. Arman’s son and his friend Shubu went with the three adults; the teenagers were on a trip to the hills.

Now, Arman’s brother-in-law. Jameel Miya, a carpenter in Kathmandu, scours the city’s hospitals for Arman’s body, telling authorities that his brother-in-law’s right hand and chest had deep scars, cut by shards of glass when he was young.

Arman’s wife, Sahrun Khatun, has only her last phone call with Arman to hold on to. They spoke two hours before the floods swept him away. “He was about to get his wages on September 1 and return home,” she says.

Salman, who had tagged along with his father to see the hills, hasn’t been able to sleep since the flood.

“The moment I close my eyes, I feel the flood is coming for me,” he says.

Mukhtar’s family lives a few lanes away.

Since the floods, Kasmun Khatun, Mukhtar’s wife, has been glued to the internet for any news of her missing husband. Joining her in that remote search are her daughter Asmana (18) and son Sadre Alam (14).

Her eldest son, Osama, 25, a tailor in Kathmandu, has been busy searching for his father in city hospitals.

“After waiting for a week and watching the videos, I submitted my DNA samples,” he says over a phone call. Osama manages to send home 6,000 rupees ($63), but that is no longer enough – his mother needs eye surgery that has already been delayed and cannot be put off much longer.

“The guardian has gone, all of a sudden,” he says, referring to his father.

At the far edge of Turhapatti stands the home of Samir Ansari, the youngest among the missing migrants and youngest of his five migrant brothers.

The Ganesh Hotel project he was working on was only three days from completion.

“He said he found another site to work on,” recalls his father, Hasmuddin Miya, remembering their last phone call on the evening of August 25.

Samir was a mason who specialised in marble tiles, a skill he had learned in Kashmir while working under his elder brothers at construction sites.

The three families are preparing to host a bhoj, the funeral feast – a custom of feeding hundreds of people – having given up on hope.

Meanwhile, the two survivors, Miya and Hassan, are already making calls to find work again. This time, their search turns towards Nepal’s plains. They pledge never to return to the hills.

“My whole body shivers at the thought of going there,” says Hassan.