Prince Harry returns to Angola to back landmine clearance
The southern African nation hosts the continent's largest minefield, a legacy of the 27-year civil war that began after independence from Portugal in 1975.
The Duke of Sussex visited a remote village in the southeast to 'deliver life-saving messages to children,' the Halo Trust mine-clearing organisation said.
'The Duke repeated simple phrases in Portuguese, including 'stop, go back and tell your elders' to prevent children from detonating lethal devices,' the British charity said in a statement.
Harry's mother, Princess Diana visited Angola in 1997, walking across a cleared minefield near the central city of Huambo during a lull in the civil war.
The iconic trip came just months before her death in a Paris car crash. Harry was 12 at the time.
In a scene echoing his mother's visit, Harry on Wednesday donned a protective visor and bulletproof vest to walk through demined shrubland, before taking part in a bomb detonation exercise.
'Children should never have to live in fear of playing outside or walking to school. Here in Angola, over three decades later, the remnants of war still threaten lives every day,' he said.
At least 60,000 people have been killed or wounded by landmines in Angola since 2008, according to the Halo Trust, which has cleared more than 100,000 bombs in the country.
Most casualties occurred in 2002 and 2003, when Angolans returned to their homes after peace was declared.
Diana was famously photographed meeting some of the victims during her visit.
Since launching operations in Angola in 1994, the Halo Trust has cleared landmines from an area nearly the size of 7,000 football pitches.
Harry's visit follows another in September 2019 when he retraced his mother's steps in Huambo.
The prince, 40, met Angolan President Joao Lourenco on Tuesday to discuss demining efforts - AFP
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Daily Express
15 hours ago
- Daily Express
Majority PoWs spent first night in church
Published on: Sunday, July 27, 2025 Published on: Sun, Jul 27, 2025 Text Size: AS the church of St Michael and All Angels in Sandakan is closely associated with the Allied POW story in orld War II, I read with great interest the report in Daily Express on the 'engineering marvel' of this beautiful heritage building. It was in St Michael's that, on arrival from Singapore, the majority of the Australian POWs spent the night, along with a contingent of British prisoners transferred from Jesselton some months later. The following morning, they weremarched to the camp at Mile 8 and, ultimately, to their deaths. St Michael's Church is the only surviving building, anywhere, to have any connection to the prisoners of war. It was because of this connection that in 2005 families of POWs and others donated sufficent money to install the magnificent stained glass Windows of Remembrance, in memory of the POWs and as a thanksgiving to the local people who risked, and gave, their lives to help them. The project was completed in 2008 with the unveiling of the Friendship Windows to celebrate the close ties bewtween Australia and the UK with the people of Sabah. However, what is not generally known is that the restoration of the church after World War II was initiated by St Michael's congregation as a memorial project to the Allied prisoners of war who had died at Sandakan and on the infamous death marches. In 1948 Mr H Bentham. a director of Harrison and Crosfields, visited Australia, where he made the announcement to the press. At the time of initiating the Windows Project in 2003 I was not aware of this, but it is fitting that what the parishioners began in 1948 with the restoration of the building, we finished 60 years later in 2008 with the 'crown jewels in the rainforests of Borneo', the Windows of Remembrance, which also honour the local people, shamefully neglected until then. Lynette Silver The views expressed here are the views of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of the Daily Express. If you have something to share, write to us at: [email protected]
New Straits Times
16 hours ago
- New Straits Times
The schoolteacher who helped build a multiracial army
IN the sweltering heat of July 1952, a young schoolteacher from Batu Pahat, Johor, folded away his lesson plans, turned in his chalks and made a choice that would alter the course of his life — and etch his name into Malaysia's military history. Peter Ng Boon Hwa was just 21 when he came across a newspaper advertisement calling for officer cadets. It wasn't just any recruitment notice — it was a quiet turning point in the making of a multiracial army. The Federation Regiment Bill had just passed on July 3, opening the door for non-Malay youths — for the first time — to serve in defence of a still-forming nation. Two years earlier, Peter had tried to enlist, but options were few: the Malay Regiment or the British Army. Neither path was suitable for someone like him. Now, in the flicker of an ad, that barrier was gone. And he could step up to answer the call of duty. It wasn't a decision made lightly. In Chinese families, cultural warnings loomed large: good sons don't join the army... for they may return in a wooden box. But Peter chose to go anyway. He left the safety of the classroom for the unknown of the parade ground, trading books for boots, guided not by rebellion, but by a quiet sense of duty and the hope of something larger — the birth of a nation. After a rigorous selection at the Malay Regiment headquarters in Port Dickson, Peter was eventually among the 12 young men handpicked by General Sir Gerald Templer, the British high commissioner of Malaya, to serve as an officer in the new regiment. They would become the founding pioneers of what was to be Malaysia's multiracial armed force — a group history would come to know as the "Templer Superb-12". On Aug 13, 1952, the officer cadets were personally welcomed by Templer at The King's House in Kuala Lumpur. From Port Dickson's 5th Mile Coast Road to Eaton Hall in Cheshire, England, their journey began in earnest. After basic training in the Pre-Officer Cadet Training Unit (Pre-OCTU) in Port Dickson, Peter was sent to England for further training. On Sept 5, 1953, he was commissioned as a second lieutenant and posted to the 1st Federation Regiment. His tall and commanding presence earned him a rare honour — appointment as aide-de-camp (ADC) to Lt-Gen Sir Harold Briggs, commander of the Federation Division. He served with distinction before returning to active duty as a troop commander in his regiment. In the mid-1950s, the Emergency was raging. On May 25, 1956, Peter was selected for a jungle warfare course at the elite Far East Land Forces Training Centre. He would later bring these battlefield skills to real-life conflict zones and beyond Malaysia's borders. In 1960, he completed his Company Commander's Course and was promoted to major in the 2nd Royal Cavalry Regiment, commanding a recce squadron. A year later, he was deployed to Belgian Congo as part of the Malayan Peacekeeping Force, which was tasked with restoring law and order during one of Africa's most volatile civil conflicts. Yet, even amid the chaos of war in the country, Peter remained a soldier of spirit and adventure. In true "soldier of fortune" fashion, he fulfilled his boyhood dream of going on a safari and returning home with two massive elephant tusks that would later be mounted at his regimental headquarters as a symbol of valour and morale. By the late 1960s, Malaysia faced renewed communist threats. After completing his Senior Officers' Course at the Army War College in Mhow, India in 1967, Peter was transferred to the Royal Rangers Regiment as the second-in-command. He would serve on the frontlines during the second Emergency (1968-1989), once again defending his homeland in the dense jungles of Malaysia. His leadership extended beyond national borders. One of his career highlights was training south Vietnamese troops in counter-guerilla warfare at the request of the United States army to resist the communist advances during the Vietnam War. It was a mission shaped by the global urgency of the Cold War and the "Domino Theory" propounded by then president Dwight D. Eisenhower. Peter rose to the occasion with quiet resolve and duty. LIFE OF SACRIFICE In June 1980, after decades of service, Peter was promoted to lieutenant-colonel and appointed commanding officer of the 304 Infantry Battalion (Territorial Army). His task was to secure the newly constructed East-West Highway linking Grik in Perak to Jeli in Kelantan. Stationed on a hilltop overlooking Pulau Banding and its bridge, he led with vigilance and calm assurance. I had the honour of visiting him in April 1981 — his camp, maintained by my army engineers, stood as a testament to his enduring commitment to service. Though Peter retired on Aug 26, 1983, after 31 years of distinguished service, his influence never waned. Known affectionately as "Peter Boon" by his peers, he was admired for his humility, warmth and unwavering principles. As a senior major for 20 years, he was more than just a rank — he was a moral compass, a decision-maker and a true officer of the nation. I came to know him during my years at the Taiping Garrison, between 1978 and 1980, while overseeing the construction of 288 Class G married quarters. Peter was the administrator then — a commanding figure who led not with noise or display, but with quiet authority, warmth and unwavering fairness. His presence was steady. His kindness unspoken, but deeply felt. For his decades of distinguished service to king and country, he was awarded the Kesatria Mangku Negara (KMN) — a fitting honour for a man who gave so much, and asked for so little. On March 1, 2020, Peter passed away peacefully at the age of 89 in Penang General Hospital, on what was poignantly the 87th anniversary of Army Day. He leaves behind five children — three sons and two daughters — and 12 grandchildren, a number that echoes the symbolic "12" of the Templer Superb-12, to which he proudly belonged. Of that founding cohort, only two remain today: Lt-Gen Datuk Abdullah Samsuddin, 95, and Lt-Col Khong Kim Kong, 94. Their numbers may dwindle, but their legacy stands — etched in barracks and battlefields, in classrooms and parade grounds, and in the quiet courage of men like Peter. As Malaysia marks Hari Pahlawan on July 31, we remember not just a soldier, but a pioneer. A patriot. An officer and a gentleman. We salute you, Sir.
Sinar Daily
17 hours ago
- Sinar Daily
'Your English is So Good' - Raciolinguistic reflections from Malaysia and how this is more complicated than you think
"YOUR English is so good'. Many of us Malaysians, especially those who use English regularly, may have heard this at least once. And when we travel to English-speaking countries, it often continues. During my early years in the United Kingdom in 2012, a kind British neighbour once said this to me. He meant it warmly, even noted that I spoke standard English, not a regional variety. He asked how I came to speak English so well. I smiled and explained that I learned it as a second language in Malaysia. The moment stayed with me. Over time, what struck me more was how many native speakers spoke in ways that did not always match the English we were taught, or taught to revere, as proper: rarely textbook grammar, and often far from the formal 'standard' we were trained to emulate. This is not a critique of how they, or anyone, speak or use the language. Language is diverse and contextual. Rather, it is a reflection on how unevenly linguistic authority is distributed. Their English was never questioned. Ours often is. That is what makes comments like 'Your English is so good' feel more complicated than they seem. They may be well-intentioned (and often are) but they are rarely neutral. Such remarks carry the assumption that fluency or proficiency is surprising, even exceptional, when it comes from those who do not fit dominant expectations of what an English speaker should look or sound like. This is not just about English. It is about who is allowed to speak without explanation and who is always expected to account for their voice. I was reminded of how deeply this runs while attending Residential 2025: Applied Linguistics and the Global South – English and Other Problems at Lancaster University. Professor Ryuko Kubota's talk, based on interviews with racialised students and instructors at a Canadian university, revealed patterns that felt immediately familiar: 'compliments' that function as microaggressions, the pressure to sound 'native,' and the subtle ways names, accents, and heritage languages become sites of judgement. Though her research focused on Canada, much of it resonated with Malaysian realities - where language politics are just as layered and just as unequal. In Malaysia, English occupies a complicated space. It is a colonial legacy, a class marker, a passport to global mobility and often, a quiet test of how 'intelligent', 'modern' or 'credible' someone is perceived to be. Yet fluency and proficiency are rarely judged on their own terms. For instance, two people may demonstrate equal command of English, yet be heard and evaluated differently, depending not on what they say, but on how they sound, who they are, or how they are perceived. We are taught, often implicitly, that English spoken with certain accents is more legitimate, more impressive, more 'correct'. But most of us speak with accents shaped by our histories, our communities, and our multilingual lives. Accents are not errors to fix but traces of where we come from - shaped by contact, identity and history, not deficiency. Here, over 1,500 join Payang Fun Walk and Run to promote healthy living and community spirit in Terengganu on July 11, 2025. (BERNAMA PHOTO) Accent is not the opposite of fluency, and sounding local is not the same as sounding less capable. If someone speaks with a British accent, à la Simon Cowell or an American one shaped by media exposure, let them. If someone speaks English with a Malaysian accent shaped by the rhythms of Kelantanese or Terengganu Malay, let them too. Accents are not errors to fix but traces of where we come from - shaped by contact, identity and history, not deficiency. Some of us carry traces of belacan or budu in our pronunciation and that, too, is English. The problem is not how we speak, but how our speech is filtered through racialised and classed expectations. But the hierarchies do not end with English. Bahasa Melayu, while officially upheld as the national language, is often treated as the cultural property of the Malay-Muslim majority. Chinese and Indian Malaysians are expected, even required, to speak it fluently, especially within the school system and state discourse. Yet when they do, their fluency is not always met with uncomplicated acceptance. Comments like 'You speak Malay so well!' may sound like praise but often carry an undercurrent of surprise - as though fluency alone cannot undo the presumption of ethnic distance. It is not that they are not expected to speak Malay - they are. But even when they speak it fluently, their command of the language is often treated as surprising, as if Bahasa Melayu is still something they had to acquire from the outside, rather than something they have a rightful, everyday claim to. It remains coded as not fully 'theirs', even though they are expected to know it. Meanwhile, when Malay speakers become proficient in Mandarin or Tamil, they may be met with raised eyebrows or half-joking questions like, 'Eh, how come you tahu cakap ni?' These moments reveal that language, in these cases, becomes less about communication than about containment - a way to monitor who belongs where, and who might be crossing lines drawn by race. These expectations are not just contradictory but also exhausting. Racialised speakers constantly navigate a shifting set of demands: to be fluent, but not too confident; to represent diversity, but not speak from it too loudly. The result is a kind of linguistic performance that never quite satisfies. In classrooms, meetings, interviews and conferences, many of us have learned to edit ourselves mid-sentence, softening an intonation, recalibrating a register, sometimes not because we lack fluency, but because we anticipate judgement, or feel the unease of speaking under someone else's expectations. Names carry this burden too. In a raciolinguistic system, names are not just identifiers - they are preloaded with assumptions. They shape how one's English is anticipated, heard or judged before we have even spoken. In classrooms and job interviews, names often function as shorthand for linguistic competence, cultural capital and social value. They trigger expectations and limitations - about who is likely to be articulate, and who will be asked to prove themselves. So, what does resistance look like? It looks like refusing to apologise for our accents. It looks like refusing to let our names be trimmed down or reshaped to fit someone else's tongue. It looks like teaching, writing, and dreaming in Bahasa Melayu, Tamil, Mandarin, or any mix of the languages that shape us. It means rejecting the idea that English fluency or proficiency signals intelligence, or that one language should dominate our understanding of knowledge, worth, or modernity. And it means recognising that when someone says, 'Your English is so good' or 'Your Malay is so good' or 'Your Tamil is so good' or 'Your Mandarin is so good' - they are not just reacting to language. They are reacting to who is speaking it. And that is precisely the problem. So, then we are allowed to ask: 'Why wouldn't it be?' Siti Nurnadilla Mohamad Jamil is a linguist and discourse analyst whose research focuses on language, ideology, and the legitimisation of violence in media and political discourse. She is currently a Visiting Researcher at Lancaster University and an Assistant Professor of Linguistics at the International Islamic University Malaysia. The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect those of Sinar Daily.
