Latest news with #YogitaLimaye
Saudi Gazette
29-05-2025
- Politics
- Saudi Gazette
The terrifying new weapon changing the war in Ukraine
Yogita Limaye RODYNSKE — An acrid smell hangs over the town of Rodynske. A couple of minutes after we drive into the city we see where it's coming from. A 250kg glide bomb has ripped through the town's main administrative building, and taken down three residential blocks. We're visiting a day after the bomb struck, but parts of the wreckage are still smoking. From the edges of the town we hear the sound of artillery fire, and of gunshots – Ukrainian soldiers shooting down drones. Rodynske is about 15km (9 miles) north of the embattled city of Pokrovsk. Russia has been trying to capture it from the south since the autumn of last year, but Ukrainian forces have so far managed to stop Russian soldiers from marching in. So Russia has changed tactics, moving instead to encircle the city, cutting off supply routes. In the past two weeks, as hectic diplomatic efforts to bring about a ceasefire in Ukraine have failed, Russia has intensified its push, making its most significant advances since January. We find proof of that in Rodynske. Within minutes of us arriving in town, we hear a Russian drone above us. Our team runs to the closest cover available – a tree. We press up against it so the drone won't see us. Then there's the sound of a loud explosion – it's a second drone making impact nearby. The drone above us is still hovering. For a few more minutes, we hear the terrifying whirring sound of what's become the deadliest weapon of this war. When we can't hear it any more we take the chance to run to hard cover in an abandoned building 100ft away. From the shelter, we hear the drone again. It's possible it returned after seeing our movement. That Rodynske is being swarmed by Russian drones is evidence that the attacks are coming from positions much closer than known Russian positions to the south of Pokrovsk. They were most likely coming from newly captured territory on a key road running from the east of Pokrovsk to Kostyantynivka. After half an hour of waiting in the shelter, when we can't hear the drone anymore, we move quickly to our car parked under tree cover, and speed out of Rodynske. By the side of the highway we see smoke billowing and something burning – it's most likely a downed drone. We drive to Bilytske, further away from the frontline. We see a row of houses destroyed by a missile strike overnight. One of them was Svitlana's home. "It's getting worse and worse. Earlier, we could hear distant explosions, they were far away. But now our town is getting targeted – we're experiencing it ourselves," says the 61-year-old, as she picks up a few belongings from the wreckage of her home. Luckily Svitlana wasn't at home when the attack occurred. "Go into the center of the town, you'll see so much that is destroyed there. And the bakery and zoo have been destroyed too," she says. At a safehouse just out of reach of drones, we meet soldiers of the artillery unit of the 5th Assault Brigade. "You can feel the intensity of Russian assaults increasing. Rockets, mortars, drones, they're using everything they have to cut off supply routes going into the city," says Serhii. His unit has been waiting for three days to deploy to their positions, waiting for cloud cover or high-speed winds to give them protection from drones. In an ever-evolving conflict, soldiers have had to rapidly adapt to new threats posed by changing technology. And the latest threat comes from fiber-optic drones. A spool of tens of kilometers of cable is fitted to the bottom of a drone and the physical fiber optic cord is attached to the controller held by the pilot. "The video and control signal is transmitted to and from the drone through the cable, not through radio frequencies. This means it can't be jammed by electronic interceptors," says a soldier with the call sign Moderator, a drone engineer with the 68th Jaeger Brigade. When drones began to be used in this war in a big way, both militaries fitted their vehicles with electronic warfare systems, which could neutralise drones. That protection has evaporated with the arrival of fibre optic drones, and in the deployment of these devices, Russia currently has the edge. Ukraine is trying to ramp up production. "Russia started using fibre optic drones much before us, while we were still testing them. These drones can be used in places where we have to go lower than usual drones. We can even enter houses and look for targets inside," says Venia, a drone pilot with the 68th Jaeger Brigade. "We've started joking that maybe we should carry scissors to cut the cord," says Serhii, the artilleryman. Fibre optic drones do have drawbacks – they are slower and the cable could get entangled in trees. But at the moment, their widespread use by Russia means that transporting soldiers to and from their positions can often be deadlier than the battlefield itself. "When you enter a position, you don't know whether you've been spotted or not. And if you have been spotted, then you may already be living the last hours of your life," says Oles, Chief Sergeant of the reconnaissance unit of the 5th Assault Brigade. This threat means that soldiers are spending longer and longer in their positions. Oles and his men are in the infantry, serving in the trenches right at the very front of Ukraine's defense. It's rare for journalists these days to speak to infantrymen, as it's become too risky to go to these trenches. We meet Oles and Maksym in a rural home converted into a makeshift base, where the soldiers come to rest when they're not on deployment. "The longest I spent at the position was 31 days, but I do know guys who have spent 90 and even 120 days there. Back before the drones arrived, the rotations could have been between 3 or 7 days at the position," says Maksym. "War is blood, death, wet mud and a chill that spreads from head to toe. And this is how you spend every day. I remember one instance when we didn't sleep for three days, alert every minute. The Russians kept coming at us wave after wave. Even a minor lapse would have meant we were dead." Oles says Russia's infantry has changed its tactics. "Earlier they attacked in groups. Now they only send one or two people at times. They also use motorcycles and in a few instances, quad bikes. Sometimes they slip through." What this means is that the front lines in some parts are no longer conventional lines with the Ukrainians on one side and the Russians on the other, but more like pieces on a chessboard during play, where positions can be intertwined. This also makes it harder to see advances made by either side. Despite Russia's recent gains, it will not be quick or easy for it to take the whole of the Donetsk region, where Pokrovsk lies. Ukraine has pushed back hard, but it needs a steady supply of weapons and ammunition to sustain the fight. And as the war enters a fourth summer, Ukraine's manpower issues against a much bigger Russian army are also evident. Most of the soldiers we meet joined the military after the war began. They've had a few months of training, but have had to learn a lot on the job in the middle of a raging war. Maksym worked for a drinks company before he joined the military. I asked how his family copes with his job. "It's hard, it's really hard. My family really supports me. But I have a two-year-old son, and I don't get to see him much. I do video call him though, so everything is as fine as it could be under the circumstances," he trails off, eyes welling up with tears. Maksym is a soldier fighting for his country, but he's also just a father missing his two-year-old boy. — BBC
CBS News
03-04-2025
- Health
- CBS News
As Myanmar earthquake deaths top 3,000, BBC goes undercover to reveal devastation near epicenter in Mandalay
The death official death toll from the massive earthquake that hit Myanmar nearly a week ago rose Thursday to 3,085 as search and rescue teams found more bodies, the internationally isolated nation's military-led government said, and humanitarian aid groups scrambled to provide survivors medical care and shelter. In a short statement, the military said another 4,715 people have been injured and 341 are missing. The epicenter of Friday's 7.7 magnitude earthquake was near Mandalay, Myanmar's second-largest city. It brought down thousands of buildings, buckled roads and destroyed bridges in multiple regions. Local media reports of casualties have been much higher than the official figures, and with telecommunications widely out and many places difficult to reach, it's thought the numbers could rise sharply as more details come in. The military junta that seized power of Myanmar in 2021 has maintained strict control over its borders since the disaster, refusing to let foreign journalists in and keeping up operations against rebel forces in the divided nation until Wednesday, when it declared a temporary ceasefire in the brutal civil war. CBS News' partner network BBC News, however, managed to sneak a team into Myanmar, with correspondent Yogita Limaye visiting the devastated city of Mandalay to witness the destruction first-hand before leaving to file her report from neighboring Thailand on Wednesday evening. Without formal access to recovery sites or government officials, the BBC team's ability to assess official rescue and recovery efforts was limited, but Limaye's report painted a picture of a crisis exacerbated by an extremely limited influx of foreign assistance — and a major city desperately in need of help. The World Health Organization said that according to its initial assessment, four hospitals and one health center in Myanmar had been completely destroyed while another 32 hospitals and 18 health centers had been partially damaged. "With infrastructure compromised and patient numbers surging, access to health care has become nearly impossible in many of the worst-hit areas," the U.N. said. "Thousands of people are in urgent need of trauma care, surgical interventions and treatment for disease outbreaks." A mobile hospital from India and a joint Russian-Belarusian hospital also were now operating in Mandalay, but the BBC report showed much of the little assistance reaching survivors in Mandalay was being provided by small local groups, or ad hoc by survivors. Limaye found no evidence of a major mobilization of Myanmar's military forces to help in search and rescue efforts, and it was unclear Thursday whether the newly announced ceasefire — which the junta said would last only until April 22 — might free up some troops to join that work. Limaye and her team covertly visited the main hospital in Mandalay, where hundreds of quake victims were lined up in rows of beds in the scorching heat outside, as the facility itself was too badly damaged by the quake to continue using. There was a clear lack of medics on hand to treat the wounded, some of whom had only family members to console them as they awaited treatment for serious injuries. The video surreptitiously recorded by the BBC as Limaye's team drove through central Mandalay showed most buildings seriously damaged and many completely toppled. The work to recover victims' remains from vast piles of twisted metal and concrete was scattered, and one woman told Limaye she had been waiting several days for anyone to come and help find her son, a construction worker believed to be among five trapped in a large building that was left at almost a 45-degree angle, with its lower floors crushed by the quake. Thousands of people have been left homeless, and the BBC's video showed many others choosing to camp outside their homes in Mandalay, clearly scared that ongoing aftershocks could still topple their damaged homes. Some search and rescue teams have been allowed in by the junta, including from allies China and India, and residents in Mandalay gave slices of watermelon to Chinese volunteers taking a break from the heat on Thursday. More than 1,550 international rescuers were operating alongside locals Thursday, according to a statement from the military, which said rescue supplies and equipment had been sent by a total of 17 countries. Myanmar's military seized power in 2021 from the democratically elected government of Aung San Suu Kyi, sparking what quickly turned into a civil war. The military junta's control over the country is patchy, and there were reports that it continued bombarding some rebel held areas — including areas impacted by the quake — even after declaring the ceasefire. The quake worsened an already dire humanitarian crisis, with more than 3 million people displaced from their homes and nearly 20 million in need even before it hit, according to the United Nations. It was only as the international community voiced concern that ongoing fighting could hamper humanitarian aid efforts that the military declared the temporary ceasefire on Wednesday. The announcement followed unilateral temporary ceasefires announced by armed resistance groups opposed to military rule. The military said it would still take "necessary" measures against those groups if they tried to use the ceasefire to regroup, train or launch attacks. Already on Thursday there were reports from local media in Kachin state in the north of Myanmar that military attacks continued in several areas, but they could not be independently confirmed. Prior to the earthquake the military was battling the Kachin Independence Army militia group. The KIA on Wednesday also declared a ceasefire but reserved the right to defend itself. It was unclear how the reported fighting broke out. The earthquake shook Kachin, but there have been no reports of damage there.
Saudi Gazette
25-03-2025
- Health
- Saudi Gazette
Journalists recall horrors of India's Covid lockdown
NEW DELHI — On 24 March 2020, India announced its first Covid lockdown, just as the world stood on the brink of a global pandemic that would claim millions of lives. India's already fragile healthcare system collapsed under the pandemic's weight. The WHO estimated over 4.7 million Covid deaths in India — nearly 10 times the official count — but the government rejected the figure, citing flaws in the methodology. Five years later, BBC India journalists reflect on their experiences recounting how, at times, they became part of the story they were covering. 'Oxygen, oxygen, can you get me oxygen?' Soutik Biswas, BBC News It was the summer of 2021. I woke up to the frantic voice of a school teacher. Her 46-year-old husband had been battling Covid in a Delhi hospital, where oxygen was as scarce as hope. Here we go again, I thought, dread creeping in. India was trapped in the deadly grip of a lethal second wave of infections, with Delhi at its heart. And it was just another day in a city where breathing itself had become a privilege. We scrambled for help, making calls, sending SOS messages, hoping someone might have a lead. Her voice shook as she told us her husband's oxygen levels had dipped to 58. It should have been 92 or higher. He was slipping, but she clung to the small comfort that it had climbed to 62. He was still conscious, still speaking. For now. But how long could this last? I wondered. How many more lives would be lost because the basics — oxygen, beds, medicine — were beyond reach? This wasn't supposed to happen in 2021. Not here. The woman called back. The hospital didn't even have an oxygen flow meter, she said. She had to find one herself. We reached out again. Phones buzzed, tweets flew into the void, hoping someone would see us. Finally, a device was located — a small victory in a sea of despair. The oxygen would flow. For now. The numbers didn't lie, though. A report from the same hospital told of a 40-year-old man who died waiting for a bed. He found a stretcher, at least, the report helpfully added. That was where we were now: grateful for a place to lay the dead. In the face of this, oxygen was a commodity. So were medicines, in short supply and hoarded by those who could pay. People were dying because they couldn't breathe, and the city choked on its own apathy. This was a war. It felt like a war. And we were losing it. 'Most difficult story I have ever covered' Yogita Limaye, BBC News "Balaji, why are you lying like this," screamed a woman outside Delhi's GTB hospital, shaking her unconscious brother who was lying on a stretcher. Minutes later, her brother, the father of two children, died, waiting outside a hospital before he was even seen by a doctor. I will never forget her cry. Around her, families pleaded at the door of the hospital to get a doctor to come and see their loved ones. They were among hundreds of pleas for help we heard over the weeks we reported on how the second wave of Covid, which began in March 2021, brought a nation to its knees. It was as though people had been left to tackle a vicious pandemic on their own – going from hospital to hospital searching for beds and oxygen. The second wave had not come without warning, but India's government, which had declared victory over the disease two months earlier, was caught unprepared by the resurgence. In the ICU of a major hospital, I saw the head doctor pace up and down, making one phone call after another frantically searching for supplies of oxygen. "There's just one hour of supply left. Reduce the oxygen we're supplying to our patients to the lowest levels needed to ensure all organs continue to function properly," he instructed his deputy, his face tense. I distinctly remember the heat and fumes from 37 funeral pyres burning simultaneously under the April sun at a Delhi crematorium. People sat in shock — not yet feeling the grief and anger that would come — seemingly stunned into silence by the frightening speed at which Covid ravaged the capital. Our work messaging groups buzzed all the time with news of yet another colleague desperately needing a hospital bed for a loved one. No-one was untouched by it. In Pune, my father was recovering from a Covid-related heart attack he'd suffered a month earlier. Back in my hometown Mumbai, one of my closest friends lay critical on a ventilator in hospital. After five weeks in ICU, miraculously, he recovered. But my father's heart never did, and a year later, he suffered a fatal heart attack, leaving a permanent hole in our lives. Covid-19 will always be the most difficult story I've ever covered. 'Could I have done more?' Vikas Pandey, BBC News Covering the pandemic was the hardest assignment of my life because it's a story that literally came home. Friends, relatives and neighbours called every day, asking for help procuring oxygen cylinders, hospital beds and even essential medicines. I interviewed several grieving families at that time. Yet, a few incidents have remained etched in my memory. In 2021, I reported Altuf Shamsi's story, which sums up the unimaginable pain millions went through. His pregnant wife and father were both infected with the virus and admitted to different hospitals in Delhi. He knew me through a friend and called to ask if I could help him find another doctor after the hospital where his dad was admitted told him that chances of survival were zero. While he was speaking to me, he got another call from his wife's doctor who said they were running out of oxygen for her. He lost his father first and later texted me: "I was looking at his body, while reading SOS messages from Rehab's [his wife] hospital for oxygen." A few days later, he lost his wife too after she gave birth to their daughter. The two other incidents came closer to home than anything else. A relative deteriorated very fast after being admitted to a hospital. He was put on a ventilator and doctors gave a bleak prognosis. One of them advised trying an experimental drug that had shown some results in the UK. I tweeted and called everybody I thought could help. It's hard to put that frustration into words — he was sinking with each passing hour but the drug that could potentially save him was nowhere to be found. A kind doctor helped us with one injection but we needed three more. Then someone read my tweet and reached out — she had procured three vials for her father but he died before he could be given the doses. I took her help and my relative survived. But a cousin did not. He was admitted to the same hospital. His oxygen levels were dipping every hour and he needed to be put on a ventilator, but the hospital didn't have any free. I made calls the whole night. The next morning, the hospital ran out of oxygen, leading to many deaths, including his. He left behind his wife and two young children. I still wonder if there was something more I could have done. 'We feared stepping out and we feared staying in' Geeta Pandey, BBC News The morning after Prime Minister Narendra Modi announced a hard lockdown, I headed out to Delhi's main bus station. The only people out on the streets were police and paramilitaries, deployed to ensure people stayed indoors. The bus station was deserted. A few hundred metres away, I met men, women and children who were looking for ways to reach home, hundreds of miles away. Over the next few days, those numbers swelled into millions as people desperately tried to find a way to be with their families and loved ones. As the virus made its way over the next few months, and the capital city — along with the rest of the country — remained under a strict shutdown, tragedy lurked at every corner. We feared stepping out and we feared staying in. All hopes — including mine — were pinned on a vaccine that scientists across the globe were racing to develop. I had last visited my mother, bedridden in our ancestral village 450 miles (724km) from Delhi, in January 2020, just a couple of months before the lockdown. My mother, like millions of other people, didn't really understand what Covid was — the disease that had suddenly disrupted their lives. Every time I called, she had only one question: "When will you visit?" The fear that I could carry the virus to her at a time when she was most vulnerable kept me away. On 16 January 2021, I was at Max hospital in Delhi when India rolled out the world's biggest vaccination drive, promising to vaccinate all the adults in the country of 1.4 billion people. Doctors and medical staff there described it as a "new dawn". Some told me they would visit their families as soon as they received their second doses. I called my mother and told her that I will get my vaccine and visit her soon. But a week later, she was gone. 'I never felt this helpless' Anagha Pathak, BBC Marathi A few days after India announced the lockdown, I was traveling to the border of Maharashtra state to document the impact of the restrictions. It was three in the morning as I drove along the eerily empty Mumbai-Agra highway. My hometown of Nashik looked unrecognizable. Instead of traffic, migrant workers filled the road, walking back home, stranded and out of work. Among them was a young couple from Uttar Pradesh. They had worked as laborers in Mumbai. The wife, still in her early 20s, was pregnant. They had hoped to catch a ride on a truck, but that didn't happen. By the time they reached Nashik, they had run out of food, water and money. I will never forget seeing the pregnant woman, her fragile body walking under the scorching sun. I had never felt more helpless. Covid protocols prevented me from offering them a ride. All I could do was give them some water and snacks, while documenting their journey. A few miles ahead, around 300 people waited for a government bus to take them to the state border. But it was nowhere in sight. After making some calls, two buses finally arrived — still not enough. But I made sure the couple got on the one heading towards Madhya Pradesh state, where they were supposed to catch another bus. I followed them in my car and waited for some time for them to catch their next bus. It never came. Eventually, I left. I had an assignment to finish. Five years have passed, and I still wonder: Did the woman make it home? Did she survive? I don't know her name, but I still remember her weary eyes and fragile body. — BBC
Yahoo
25-03-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
'It felt like war': BBC journalists recall horrors of India's Covid lockdown
On 24 March 2020, India announced its first Covid lockdown, just as the world stood on the brink of a global pandemic that would claim millions of lives. India's already fragile healthcare system collapsed under the pandemic's weight. The WHO estimated over 4.7 million Covid deaths in India - nearly 10 times the official count - but the government rejected the figure, citing flaws in the methodology. Five years later, BBC India journalists reflect on their experiences recounting how, at times, they became part of the story they were covering. Soutik Biswas, BBC News It was the summer of 2021. I woke up to the frantic voice of a school teacher. Her 46-year-old husband had been battling Covid in a Delhi hospital, where oxygen was as scarce as hope. Here we go again, I thought, dread creeping in. India was trapped in the deadly grip of a lethal second wave of infections, with Delhi at its heart. And it was just another day in a city where breathing itself had become a privilege. We scrambled for help, making calls, sending SOS messages, hoping someone might have a lead. Her voice shook as she told us her husband's oxygen levels had dipped to 58. It should have been 92 or higher. He was slipping, but she clung to the small comfort that it had climbed to 62. He was still conscious, still speaking. For now. But how long could this last? I wondered. How many more lives would be lost because the basics - oxygen, beds, medicine - were beyond reach? This wasn't supposed to happen in 2021. Not here. The woman called back. The hospital didn't even have an oxygen flow meter, she said. She had to find one herself. We reached out again. Phones buzzed, tweets flew into the void, hoping someone would see us. Finally, a device was located - a small victory in a sea of despair. The oxygen would flow. For now. The numbers didn't lie, though. A report from the same hospital told of a 40-year-old man who died waiting for a bed. He found a stretcher, at least, the report helpfully added. That was where we were now: grateful for a place to lay the dead. In the face of this, oxygen was a commodity. So were medicines, in short supply and hoarded by those who could pay. People were dying because they couldn't breathe, and the city choked on its own apathy. This was a war. It felt like a war. And we were losing it. Yogita Limaye, BBC News "Balaji, why are you lying like this," screamed a woman outside Delhi's GTB hospital, shaking her unconscious brother who was lying on a stretcher. Minutes later, her brother, the father of two children, died, waiting outside a hospital before he was even seen by a doctor. I will never forget her cry. Around her, families pleaded at the door of the hospital to get a doctor to come and see their loved ones. They were among hundreds of pleas for help we heard over the weeks we reported on how the second wave of Covid, which began in March 2021, brought a nation to its knees. It was as though people had been left to tackle a vicious pandemic on their own – going from hospital to hospital searching for beds and oxygen. The second wave had not come without warning, but India's government, which had declared victory over the disease two months earlier, was caught unprepared by the resurgence. In the ICU of a major hospital, I saw the head doctor pace up and down, making one phone call after another frantically searching for supplies of oxygen. "There's just one hour of supply left. Reduce the oxygen we're supplying to our patients to the lowest levels needed to ensure all organs continue to function properly," he instructed his deputy, his face tense. I distinctly remember the heat and fumes from 37 funeral pyres burning simultaneously under the April sun at a Delhi crematorium. People sat in shock - not yet feeling the grief and anger that would come - seemingly stunned into silence by the frightening speed at which Covid ravaged the capital. Our work messaging groups buzzed all the time with news of yet another colleague desperately needing a hospital bed for a loved one. No-one was untouched by it. In Pune, my father was recovering from a Covid-related heart attack he'd suffered a month earlier. Back in my hometown Mumbai, one of my closest friends lay critical on a ventilator in hospital. After five weeks in ICU, miraculously, he recovered. But my father's heart never did, and a year later, he suffered a fatal heart attack, leaving a permanent hole in our lives. Covid-19 will always be the most difficult story I've ever covered. Vikas Pandey, BBC News Covering the pandemic was the hardest assignment of my life because it's a story that literally came home. Friends, relatives and neighbours called every day, asking for help procuring oxygen cylinders, hospital beds and even essential medicines. I interviewed several grieving families at that time. Yet, a few incidents have remained etched in my memory. In 2021, I reported Altuf Shamsi's story, which sums up the unimaginable pain millions went through. His pregnant wife and father were both infected with the virus and admitted to different hospitals in Delhi. He knew me through a friend and called to ask if I could help him find another doctor after the hospital where his dad was admitted told him that chances of survival were zero. While he was speaking to me, he got another call from his wife's doctor who said they were running out of oxygen for her. He lost his father first and later texted me: "I was looking at his body, while reading SOS messages from Rehab's [his wife] hospital for oxygen." A few days later, he lost his wife too after she gave birth to their daughter. The two other incidents came closer to home than anything else. A relative deteriorated very fast after being admitted to a hospital. He was put on a ventilator and doctors gave a bleak prognosis. One of them advised trying an experimental drug that had shown some results in the UK. I tweeted and called everybody I thought could help. It's hard to put that frustration into words - he was sinking with each passing hour but the drug that could potentially save him was nowhere to be found. A kind doctor helped us with one injection but we needed three more. Then someone read my tweet and reached out - she had procured three vials for her father but he died before he could be given the doses. I took her help and my relative survived. But a cousin did not. He was admitted to the same hospital. His oxygen levels were dipping every hour and he needed to be put on a ventilator, but the hospital didn't have any free. I made calls the whole night. The next morning, the hospital ran out of oxygen, leading to many deaths, including his. He left behind his wife and two young children. I still wonder if there was something more I could have done. Geeta Pandey, BBC News The morning after Prime Minister Narendra Modi announced a hard lockdown, I headed out to Delhi's main bus station. The only people out on the streets were police and paramilitaries, deployed to ensure people stayed indoors. The bus station was deserted. A few hundred metres away, I met men, women and children who were looking for ways to reach home, hundreds of miles away. Over the next few days, those numbers swelled into millions as people desperately tried to find a way to be with their families and loved ones. As the virus made its way over the next few months, and the capital city - along with the rest of the country - remained under a strict shutdown, tragedy lurked at every corner. We feared stepping out and we feared staying in. All hopes - including mine - were pinned on a vaccine that scientists across the globe were racing to develop. I had last visited my mother, bedridden in our ancestral village 450 miles (724km) from Delhi, in January 2020, just a couple of months before the lockdown. My mother, like millions of other people, didn't really understand what Covid was - the disease that had suddenly disrupted their lives. Every time I called, she had only one question: "When will you visit?" The fear that I could carry the virus to her at a time when she was most vulnerable kept me away. On 16 January 2021, I was at Max hospital in Delhi when India rolled out the world's biggest vaccination drive, promising to vaccinate all the adults in the country of 1.4 billion people. Doctors and medical staff there described it as a "new dawn". Some told me they would visit their families as soon as they received their second doses. I called my mother and told her that I will get my vaccine and visit her soon. But a week later, she was gone. Anagha Pathak, BBC Marathi A few days after India announced the lockdown, I was travelling to the border of Maharashtra state to document the impact of the restrictions. It was three in the morning as I drove along the eerily empty Mumbai-Agra highway. My hometown of Nashik looked unrecognisable. Instead of traffic, migrant workers filled the road, walking back home, stranded and out of work. Among them was a young couple from Uttar Pradesh. They had worked as labourers in Mumbai. The wife, still in her early 20s, was pregnant. They had hoped to catch a ride on a truck, but that didn't happen. By the time they reached Nashik, they had run out of food, water and money. I will never forget seeing the pregnant woman, her fragile body walking under the scorching sun. I had never felt more helpless. Covid protocols prevented me from offering them a ride. All I could do was give them some water and snacks, while documenting their journey. A few miles ahead, around 300 people waited for a government bus to take them to the state border. But it was nowhere in sight. After making some calls, two buses finally arrived - still not enough. But I made sure the couple got on the one heading towards Madhya Pradesh state, where they were supposed to catch another bus. I followed them in my car and waited for some time for them to catch their next bus. It never came. Eventually, I left. I had an assignment to finish. Five years have passed, and I still wonder: Did the woman make it home? Did she survive? I don't know her name, but I still remember her weary eyes and fragile body. Follow BBC News India on Instagram, YouTube, Twitter and Facebook.
BBC News
25-03-2025
- Health
- BBC News
Covid-19: BBC journalists recall horrors of India's lockdown five years on
On 24 March 2020, India announced its first Covid lockdown, just as the world stood on the brink of a global pandemic that would claim millions of already fragile healthcare system collapsed under the pandemic's weight. The WHO estimated over 4.7 million Covid deaths in India - nearly 10 times the official count - but the government rejected the figure, citing flaws in the years later, BBC India journalists reflect on their experiences recounting how, at times, they became part of the story they were covering. 'Oxygen, oxygen, can you get me oxygen?' Soutik Biswas, BBC NewsIt was the summer of 2021.I woke up to the frantic voice of a school teacher. Her 46-year-old husband had been battling Covid in a Delhi hospital, where oxygen was as scarce as we go again, I thought, dread creeping in. India was trapped in the deadly grip of a lethal second wave of infections, with Delhi at its heart. And it was just another day in a city where breathing itself had become a scrambled for help, making calls, sending SOS messages, hoping someone might have a voice shook as she told us her husband's oxygen levels had dipped to 58. It should have been 92 or higher. He was slipping, but she clung to the small comfort that it had climbed to 62. He was still conscious, still speaking. For how long could this last? I wondered. How many more lives would be lost because the basics - oxygen, beds, medicine - were beyond reach? This wasn't supposed to happen in 2021. Not woman called back. The hospital didn't even have an oxygen flow meter, she said. She had to find one reached out again. Phones buzzed, tweets flew into the void, hoping someone would see us. Finally, a device was located - a small victory in a sea of despair. The oxygen would flow. For numbers didn't lie, though.A report from the same hospital told of a 40-year-old man who died waiting for a bed. He found a stretcher, at least, the report helpfully added. That was where we were now: grateful for a place to lay the the face of this, oxygen was a commodity. So were medicines, in short supply and hoarded by those who could pay. People were dying because they couldn't breathe, and the city choked on its own was a war. It felt like a war. And we were losing it. 'Most difficult story I have ever covered' Yogita Limaye, BBC News"Balaji, why are you lying like this," screamed a woman outside Delhi's GTB hospital, shaking her unconscious brother who was lying on a later, her brother, the father of two children, died, waiting outside a hospital before he was even seen by a doctor. I will never forget her cry. Around her, families pleaded at the door of the hospital to get a doctor to come and see their loved were among hundreds of pleas for help we heard over the weeks we reported on how the second wave of Covid, which began in March 2021, brought a nation to its was as though people had been left to tackle a vicious pandemic on their own – going from hospital to hospital searching for beds and oxygen. The second wave had not come without warning, but India's government, which had declared victory over the disease two months earlier, was caught unprepared by the resurgence. In the ICU of a major hospital, I saw the head doctor pace up and down, making one phone call after another frantically searching for supplies of oxygen."There's just one hour of supply left. Reduce the oxygen we're supplying to our patients to the lowest levels needed to ensure all organs continue to function properly," he instructed his deputy, his face tense.I distinctly remember the heat and fumes from 37 funeral pyres burning simultaneously under the April sun at a Delhi crematorium. People sat in shock - not yet feeling the grief and anger that would come - seemingly stunned into silence by the frightening speed at which Covid ravaged the work messaging groups buzzed all the time with news of yet another colleague desperately needing a hospital bed for a loved one. No-one was untouched by it. In Pune, my father was recovering from a Covid-related heart attack he'd suffered a month earlier. Back in my hometown Mumbai, one of my closest friends lay critical on a ventilator in hospital. After five weeks in ICU, miraculously, he recovered. But my father's heart never did, and a year later, he suffered a fatal heart attack, leaving a permanent hole in our lives. Covid-19 will always be the most difficult story I've ever covered. 'Could I have done more?' Vikas Pandey, BBC News Covering the pandemic was the hardest assignment of my life because it's a story that literally came home. Friends, relatives and neighbours called every day, asking for help procuring oxygen cylinders, hospital beds and even essential medicines. I interviewed several grieving families at that a few incidents have remained etched in my 2021, I reported Altuf Shamsi's story, which sums up the unimaginable pain millions went through. His pregnant wife and father were both infected with the virus and admitted to different hospitals in Delhi. He knew me through a friend and called to ask if I could help him find another doctor after the hospital where his dad was admitted told him that chances of survival were zero. While he was speaking to me, he got another call from his wife's doctor who said they were running out of oxygen for her. He lost his father first and later texted me: "I was looking at his body, while reading SOS messages from Rehab's [his wife] hospital for oxygen." A few days later, he lost his wife too after she gave birth to their two other incidents came closer to home than anything else.A relative deteriorated very fast after being admitted to a hospital. He was put on a ventilator and doctors gave a bleak prognosis. One of them advised trying an experimental drug that had shown some results in the UK. I tweeted and called everybody I thought could help. It's hard to put that frustration into words - he was sinking with each passing hour but the drug that could potentially save him was nowhere to be found. A kind doctor helped us with one injection but we needed three more. Then someone read my tweet and reached out - she had procured three vials for her father but he died before he could be given the doses. I took her help and my relative survived. But a cousin did not. He was admitted to the same hospital. His oxygen levels were dipping every hour and he needed to be put on a ventilator, but the hospital didn't have any free. I made calls the whole night. The next morning, the hospital ran out of oxygen, leading to many deaths, including his. He left behind his wife and two young children. I still wonder if there was something more I could have done. 'We feared stepping out and we feared staying in' Geeta Pandey, BBC NewsThe morning after Prime Minister Narendra Modi announced a hard lockdown, I headed out to Delhi's main bus station. The only people out on the streets were police and paramilitaries, deployed to ensure people stayed bus station was deserted. A few hundred metres away, I met men, women and children who were looking for ways to reach home, hundreds of miles away. Over the next few days, those numbers swelled into millions as people desperately tried to find a way to be with their families and loved the virus made its way over the next few months, and the capital city - along with the rest of the country - remained under a strict shutdown, tragedy lurked at every corner. We feared stepping out and we feared staying hopes - including mine - were pinned on a vaccine that scientists across the globe were racing to develop.I had last visited my mother, bedridden in our ancestral village 450 miles (724km) from Delhi, in January 2020, just a couple of months before the lockdown. My mother, like millions of other people, didn't really understand what Covid was - the disease that had suddenly disrupted their time I called, she had only one question: "When will you visit?" The fear that I could carry the virus to her at a time when she was most vulnerable kept me 16 January 2021, I was at Max hospital in Delhi when India rolled out the world's biggest vaccination drive, promising to vaccinate all the adults in the country of 1.4 billion people. Doctors and medical staff there described it as a "new dawn". Some told me they would visit their families as soon as they received their second doses.I called my mother and told her that I will get my vaccine and visit her soon. But a week later, she was gone. 'I never felt this helpless' Anagha Pathak, BBC MarathiA few days after India announced the lockdown, I was travelling to the border of Maharashtra state to document the impact of the was three in the morning as I drove along the eerily empty Mumbai-Agra highway. My hometown of Nashik looked of traffic, migrant workers filled the road, walking back home, stranded and out of work. Among them was a young couple from Uttar Pradesh. They had worked as labourers in Mumbai. The wife, still in her early 20s, was pregnant. They had hoped to catch a ride on a truck, but that didn't happen. By the time they reached Nashik, they had run out of food, water and money. I will never forget seeing the pregnant woman, her fragile body walking under the scorching sun. I had never felt more helpless. Covid protocols prevented me from offering them a ride. All I could do was give them some water and snacks, while documenting their journey.A few miles ahead, around 300 people waited for a government bus to take them to the state border. But it was nowhere in sight. After making some calls, two buses finally arrived - still not enough. But I made sure the couple got on the one heading towards Madhya Pradesh state, where they were supposed to catch another bus.I followed them in my car and waited for some time for them to catch their next bus. It never came. Eventually, I left. I had an assignment to finish. Five years have passed, and I still wonder: Did the woman make it home? Did she survive? I don't know her name, but I still remember her weary eyes and fragile BBC News India on Instagram, YouTube, Twitter and Facebook.
