Sure A Not

A woman once branded “Australia’s worst female serial killer” has been pardoned after new evidence suggested she did not kill her four children.

Kathleen Folbigg was in 2003 sentenced to at least 25 years in jail, after a jury found she had killed Caleb, Patrick, Sarah and Laura over a decade.

But a recent inquiry heard scientists believe they may have died naturally.

The 55-year-old’s case has been described as one of Australia’s greatest miscarriages of justice.

New South Wales Attorney General Michael Daley on Monday announced the inquiry, which finished in March, had concluded there was reasonable doubt as to the guilt of Ms Folbigg on each offence.

“Kathleen Folbigg should be released from custody as soon as possible,” he said. “She has now been pardoned.”

Previous appeals and a separate 2019 inquiry into the case found no grounds for reasonable doubt, and gave greater weight to circumstantial evidence in her original trial.

But at the new inquiry, headed by Judge Tom Bathurst, prosecutors accepted evidence about gene mutations had cast reasonable doubt on Ms Folbigg’s convictions.

In mid-May, Chinese stand-up comic Li Haoshi, better known by his stage name House, cracked a joke about his adopted dogs.

Standing on a stage in a packed venue in Beijing, he said his dogs “fought to win, forged exemplary conduct” – a catchphrase that Chinese leader Xi Jinping has used while speaking about the military.

It drew laughs from the audience, but one of them later commented on Weibo, or China’s version of Twitter, that it made him uncomfortable because it insulted the “people’s army”. State media and officials swiftly condemned it as a “serious insult” to the Chinese army. Li was detained, and the company he worked for – Xiaoguo, one of the most successful stand-up comedy groups in China – was fined nearly 15 million yuan ($2.1m; £1.7m).

The fallout has dealt a heavy blow to China’s burgeoning but lively stand-up comedy scene. Even as other spaces for public expression have shrunk under Mr Xi’s increasingly censorious regime, stand-up comedy has thrived, allowing young people to take a light-hearted view of their joys and frustrations. Is that little bit of freedom now in danger?

The BBC contacted 13 comics and two managers to find out how Li’s detention was playing out in his industry. But no-one wanted to be interviewed.

A relatively new import from the West, stand-up comedy in recent years has become a popular form of entertainment among young Chinese. Open mic events have mushroomed in cities across the country, drawing aspiring comics and audiences – the cheapest tickets cost less than five yuan ($0.7; £0.5). There were about 18,500 live performances in 2021, raking in nearly 400 million yuan, according to a report by the China Association of Performing Arts. The number of shows only grew in 2022 as harsh lockdowns were implemented across China.

“Stand-up comedy is like an anaesthetic. It is irreplaceable,” says *Iris, a 30-year-old interior designer in Shanghai. A long-time fan, she says it was her lifeline during Shanghai’s gruelling 65-day lockdown last year, offering her rare consolation and a sense of connection. The city made international headlines for its sweeping and exhausting restrictions that caused food shortages and fuelled public anger.

“Everyone wanted to talk about their feelings during the lockdown. It would have made excellent material, but everyone also knew they could not talk about it,” she says.

And yet there were jokes. She remembers a subtle one about receiving vegetable “blind boxes”. The obvious reference was to the recent craze in China over collectible toys in mystery packaging, hence the term blind boxes. But it was also a dig at how Shanghai residents could only eat vegetables sent by the community because no-one was allowed to leave their home, not even to shop for groceries.

But the industry’s success has forced it to endure layers of censorship well before Li’s detention.

In a now-removed Weibo post, a writer who scripts for comedy shows said a company that had approached her last year sent her a long list of taboo topics. It included senior Party leaders, officials, extra-marital affairs, homosexuality, gambling, poverty and the pandemic. Then there were a series of meetings to discuss the potential impact of the jokes – how sensitive was it? Who might it offend ? The scripts were then submitted to relevant departments, but officials wouldn’t say much, or even make clear suggestions.

“The industry needs to spend 80% of its energy to create content, and then 500% of its time and energy to deal with censorship. It is a huge waste of resources, and it’s a waste of youth too,” the comic wrote.

This has didn’t stop comics from “playing edge ball”, a Chinese phrase for sensitive discussions that evade censorship. They managed to survive, poking fun at China’s many challenges – such as gender inequality and youth unemployment – and its controversial Covid measures. The gags, which often became trending topics on Weibo, sparked conversations.

“He looks so ordinary but how can he be so confident?” female comic Yang Li said about male confidence in an episode in 2020, inadvertently coining a now popular phrase, “ordinary but confident men”.

Traditional tropes – such as the social pressure to marry – were an easy target. “Some people around us are especially annoying. After they marry, they urge others to marry. Marriage is a mysterious institution. Once you are in, you have to recruit members, like a pyramid scheme,” joked Yan Yi Yan Yue, a comedian due of twin sisters.

But some topics were still off limits. When Chi Zi took on Mr Xi’s signature zero-Covid policy and the Party’s censorship during his US tour in February, his social media accounts were quickly taken down.

The fear of reprisal makes Chinese comedians cautious, but that caution, some say, also takes the edge off their humour.

“They are talking about issues that don’t really matter. Any issues related to the government or the party are not allowed to be challenged,” says *Lan D, a 25-year-old Chinese technician based in Ireland.

When she returned home earlier this year – the first time in three years since the start of the pandemic – she wanted to watch a live performance by Xiaoguo in Shanghai. But she was disappointed they had all been cancelled: “They are like my political ‘snacks’. I can’t quit it.”

But will the performances she loves weather the current storm? “There will be a chilling effect,” says Dr Sheng Zou, a scholar of media and popular culture at Hong Kong Baptist University. “It will definitely intensify self-censorship within the industry.”

Young Chinese like Iris are less optimistic. Sometimes she fears there is no future for Chinese stand-up comedy.

But she hopes she is proved wrong. “I want to hear Chinese people roast China,” she says, adding that compromises are necessary for the industry to survive.

“It would have made more sense if House [Li] was making fun of the People’s Liberation Army for three hours. But it was just those words.”

Looking back, she believes Li’s joke was not worth the trouble it caused, not just for him but for the whole industry. She says she had never heard of the military slogan that his joke referred to until he cracked it, and only realised it was politically sensitive when a friend who is a member of the Communist Party told her so.

“[Stand-up comedy] is like dancing with shackles. But as long as there is even the slightest opportunity to express themselves, they are willing to speak. And that is touching.”

*Names have been changed to protect their identities.

Additional reporting by Zhijie Shao from BBC Chinese.

On a rainy morning in May, dozens of young men queued outside a drug de-addiction centre in Srinagar city in Indian-administered Kashmir.

Many of them were teens accompanied by their parents, waiting for their turn to receive medicines from the Institute of Mental Health and Neurosciences (IMHANS), the only government-run drug rehabilitation centre in Kashmir. The medicines help reduce their withdrawal symptoms and prevent the transmission of infectious diseases.

“Did you take heroin again?” a doctor asks a young man after examining the size of his pupils.

“Yes, I couldn’t control myself,” he replies.

For decades, life in the Himalayan region of Kashmir has been racked by conflict and unrest. Nuclear-armed neighbours India and Pakistan claim it in full but administer only parts of it, and have fought two wars over it. Since 1989, there has also been an insurgency against Indian rule in Kashmir, costing tens of thousands of lives. In 2019, India divided the former state of Jammu and Kashmir into two federally administered territories, flaring up tensions further.

Now the region is staring at a new crisis: officials say drug addiction is becoming a serious worry in Kashmir, devastating the lives of young people. They also say there is a sharp rise in the consumption of hard drugs such as heroin.

In March, a federal minister told parliament that nearly a million people in Jammu and Kashmir – around 8% of the region’s population – use drugs of some kind, including cannabis, opioids or sedatives. While there are no comparable figures from earlier, doctors say there is a surge in the number of patients.

“Until a decade ago, we used to see 10-15 cases of drug addiction per day at our hospital. Now we see 150-200 cases a day. This is alarming,” says Dr Yasir Rather, a psychiatrist and professor at IMHANS.

Experts attribute this to several factors, including a shortage of jobs and mental health issues arising from living in a conflict zone.

In press conferences, top police officials have highlighted the seizure of large quantities of banned substances, and said they have unearthed links to Pakistan. They allege that the money from drug smuggling is used to fund militancy in Kashmir – Pakistan has not officially responded to this allegation. But some drug dealers told this reporter that they also get supplies from other Indian states including Punjab and capital Delhi.

Substance abuse is not a new problem in the region. “But earlier, people would take cannabis or other medicinal opioids and heroin was not in the picture,” Dr Yasir Rather says.

According to a survey conducted last year by the Jammu and Kashmir administration (there has been no elected government in the region since 2018), more than 52,000 people in Kashmir admitted to using heroin. The report says that on an average, a user spent around 88,000 rupees ($1,063.54; £860) a month to get the drug.

The numbers are likely to be higher as many people may not admit to their addiction or seek help due to the stigma around drugs.

Dr Mushtaq Ahmad Rather, director of health services in Kashmir, said that the government understands the severity of the problem and has taken several initiatives to tackle it.

But experts say there is an urgent need for more de-addiction centres where addicts can be admitted and receive consistent treatment.

While there are a few private institutions, there are only two public drug de-addiction centres in Kashmir, and both are located in Srinagar – one is IMHANS and the other is operated by the police.

Dr Mushtaq Rather says that the government has also set up Addiction Treatment Facility Centres (ATFCs) in each district. But unlike de-addiction centres, ATFCs don’t have admission facilities. They are small clinics with one doctor, a counsellor and a nurse to treat patients.

“These ATFC centres provide counselling, treatment and medicines to the patients for free,” says Dr Mushtaq Rather.

At IMHANS, the doctors are overwhelmed with patients who have come from all over Kashmir. While some drug users have voluntarily admitted themselves, others have been brought by their families. Most of the patients are men, though there are a few women as well.

“This is a sweet poison that will destroy you,” says Danish Nazir (name changed), 23, a patient who has been at IMHANS for three weeks.

Mr Nazir, a businessman, runs a shop in Srinagar and says he would use his income to buy some heroin almost every day. But he recently got engaged and when his fiancée found out, she encouraged him to get help. The couple have decided they will only get married after Mr Nazir recovers completely.

Another patient, a 15-year-old boy who barely has a stubble on his face, says he started using drugs with his friends.

“They are easily available here,” he said.

Some social activists say that the government has the primary responsibility of breaking the chain of drug supply.

“The police and the administration need to act swiftly on any inputs or information received about drug dealers,” says Syed Shakeel Qalandar, an activist based in Kashmir.

Vijay Kumar Bidhuri, the divisional commissioner of Kashmir who supervises administrative issues, did not respond to a request for comment.

Vijay Kumar, the police chief of Kashmir, also did not respond to text messages. Police records show that more than 5,000 cases have been registered under the anti-narcotics law between 2019 and 2022. Officials have said they are conducting massive operations against drug dealers and the people who supply drugs to them. Apart from laws related to to the sale and use of narcotics, they are also using stringent laws such as the Public Safety Act – which allows police to detain people for at least a year without a trial – to crack down on drugs.

“But tackling drug abuse is not only the job of the police. Society also needs to come forward,” a top police official told the BBC on condition of anonymity.

Apart from the serious physical and negative effects of drug abuse, there are other consequences too. Dr Yasir Rather says that users sometimes share syringes, increasing chances of contracting infections such as Hepatitis C.

There has also been an uptick in other crimes such as theft as people seek to get money to fund the addiction.

While the situation is serious, people like Mr Nazir are trying hard to get their life back on track. He says he is feeling better, and has words of hope for others.

“You may find it difficult initially but if you have the motivation, you can do it. Your family needs you,” he said.

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