Russian troops were already swarming the Donbas city of Severodonetsk when the few remaining Ukrainian defenders received the order to withdraw, to save their lives.

Relentless Russian bombardment – estimated by Ukrainian officials to have reached astonishing peaks of 50,000 or more Russian shells a day across the region – had already destroyed the only three bridge escape routes across the Siverskyi Donets River.

“We were waiting for that [withdrawal] order more than a month,” says a Ukrainian officer, acknowledging the strategic imperative of slowing Russia’s advance. The goal: to give Ukraine as much time as possible to deploy arriving American and European arms – longer-range artillery and rocket systems – that could tip the balance in the fighting.

The artillery reconnaissance officer from the National Guard Rapid Reaction Brigade, a major with a red beard who gave the first name of Denys, says that was achieved at a high cost.

Ammunition was low. Major Denys’ unit had been eating grass. And the four American-supplied M777 howitzer cannons the Ukrainians had been finding targets for – to devastating effect, sometimes wiping out an entire Russian battalion tactical group in a single day, the officer says – had been discovered by a Russian drone just days earlier and knocked out of service.

Surrounded by Russian forces on three sides, and with the river at their backs, their response to the late-June withdrawal order? “Run, run, [expletive] run!” recalls Major Denys.

The Ukrainians swiftly blew up their remaining vehicles, then escaped on dinghies and makeshift barrel rafts, pulling themselves along ropes slung across the river – even paddling with their arms – to get to the embattled city of Lysychansk, then still under Ukrainian control.

“The front line is in a very bad situation,” says Major Denys, speaking shortly after the withdrawal, as his group of 10 soldiers found brief sanctuary in the outskirts of Kramatorsk.

“The Russians have more firepower,” he says, noting a ratio of one Ukrainian shell fired back in response to 10 or 12 incoming Russian artillery rounds. “The difference is not slight; it’s [extremely] great.”

SOURCE:

Institute for the Study of War and AEI's Critical Threats Project

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Jacob Turcotte/Staff

Land lost, time gained

That imbalance led Ukraine at the weekend to also conduct an orderly withdrawal from Lysychansk, which enabled Russia on Sunday to claim control of that city – and therefore all the Luhansk region. Both Luhansk and the still-contested Donetsk region together constitute Ukraine’s eastern industrial heartland of the Donbas, which Russia aims to occupy.

Despite the Russian gains, Major Denys says Ukrainian forces in Severodonetsk accomplished their mission. He says they exacted a high casualty toll – he estimates Russia’s were five times heavier than Ukraine’s – and forced Russia to expend vast military resources for land of limited strategic value.

Indeed, the prolonged fall of the two cities is a critical example of Ukraine’s perseverance and dogged resilience, in a war of attrition already in its fifth month, in which its troops are vastly outnumbered and outgunned.

Scott Peterson/Getty Images/The Christian Science Monitor

A Ukrainian National Guard driver sits in the cab of a Kozak armored personnel carrier, camouflaged with cloth netting and branches, after an artillery reconnaissance unit’s withdrawal from Severodonetsk following weeks of intense Russian bombardment, on the outskirts of Kramatorsk, Ukraine, June 25, 2022.

“We lost the battle, but we will win the war,” says Major Denys, an 11-year veteran of the Ukrainian military, who quotes easily from Joseph Heller’s “Catch-22” and American war films like “Full Metal Jacket” and “Apocalypse Now.”

“Luhansk is a minor loss, because we won precious time in this battle, which will allow our allies to provide us with the necessary weapons and equipment for a further counteroffensive,” he says.

“We served as a kind of magnet for undressing the main forces of the Russian army, and we succeeded,” he says. “With every day of the war, we drive nails into … the Russian empire.”

Two conflicting timelines

Marking one of the few concrete achievements so far in the Kremlin’s costly campaign against Ukraine, Russia’s President Vladimir Putin on Monday awarded his two commanding generals in the Donbas the “Hero of Russia” award, and praised Russian soldiers as “brave, professional, and gutsy” for “liberating” all of Luhansk.

Ukraine’s President Volodymyr Zelenskyy, meanwhile, vowed that Severodonetsk and Lysychansk would be reconquered, even as Ukrainian forces dug in to defend Bakhmut, Sloviansk, and other cities to the southwest, where Russia has intensified bombardment in recent days.

On the battlefield, two conflicting, and uncertain, timelines are at play:

One is Russia’s ability to sustain its staggering scale of bombardment, capable of leveling cities, compelling Ukrainian forces to retreat, and paving the way for territorial gains.

The second is the speed at which Ukraine can acquire the longer-range weaponry, such as the American M777 lightweight 155mm howitzer, and the satellite-guided High Mobility Artillery Rocket System, or HIMARS, both of which bring Russian artillery and rocket launchers into range.

Similar systems are being sent by Britain, Germany, and other NATO members.

Until now, Russia has largely been able to strike from a safe distance, knowing Ukraine is hampered by the shorter range and dwindling stockpiles of most of its Soviet-era munitions.

The Pentagon says most of the 100 highly mobile, 25-mile-range M777s committed to Ukraine have arrived. Four HIMARS, which are capable of delivering in a single salvo as much explosive punch as a jet fighter’s bomb load, and with a range of more than 40 miles, are now in Ukraine. Another four are due this month.

Scott Peterson/Getty Images/The Christian Science Monitor

A Ukrainian National Guard officer holds one of 32 coins issued to mark a 2015 joint training exercise among Ukrainian military units and the United States, Canada, and Georgia, in Kramatorsk, Ukraine, June 25, 2022.

The packages are part of nearly $7 billion in American military aid earmarked for Ukraine since Russia’s invasion began in February.

Announcing the arrival of the first HIMARS on Twitter on June 23, Ukraine’s defense minister, Oleksii Reznikov, thanked the United States, and said summer “will be hot for russian occupiers. And the last one for some of them.”

Tough test for American gun

A video posted by Ukrainian ground forces shows an M777 howitzer in action. Inscribed in permanent marker on the gun barrel: “From America with Love.”

The American weapons are key to Ukraine’s ability to counterattack, but Major Denys notes they have some limitations.

“It’s good artillery, but it’s not very used to our conditions here,” he says. “It’s very sensitive.”

In Iraq, American artillery was rarely targeted directly by insurgents, so U.S. forces could “make a few shots, and that’s it,” he says. Yet in Ukraine, trading fire with Russians, he adds, just 10 rounds fired in a row can overheat the barrel.

“Artillery must be like a machine gun here,” says Major Denys. “Because Russian artillery, the Soviet artillery, is very like a machine gun.”

The disparity in artillery range and volume is felt across the broad arc of the Donbas front lines. And shortages are not just of longer-range ordnance, if the fight along the Izium front – which is currently blocking Russian access to key cities in Donetsk – is any indication.

“The boys are holding on, but there are not enough vehicles, not enough equipment,” says a goateed squad leader with tired eyes called Serhii, who wears a green bandana and black tactical gloves, his uniform dusty and Motorola radio on his shoulder worn from hard use.

He says his unit retreated from one village in late June using motorized farm scooters and even sleeping bags as makeshift stretchers to evacuate the wounded through minefields. They later recaptured that village, but of his brigade members at the front, Serhii reckons only 35% survived.

“If we had artillery, ...”

He, too, speaks of the overwhelming odds of facing Russian firepower.

“When the Russians are shooting, we can hear that artillery shelling is going on, but from our side, one lonely mortar is coming,” says Serhii, speaking near the town of Druzhkivka.

“Sometimes, very rarely, we can hear this M777, but it is not enough,” he says. Troops have not been able to rotate for rest, and Serhii says he broke his collarbone while diving for cover, and it has set the wrong way.

“The Russians have many, many soldiers, and they don’t care about [losing] their soldiers,” says Serhii. “When we were in the forest we saw many Russians coming, and we killed them all with machine guns. The Russians didn’t even take the bodies; they were stinking for days.”

But the fight for the Donbas is taking a heavy toll.

“Everyone is so tired,” says Serhii. “If you ask the boys about the future, they will tell you they are just living for today, and not thinking about tomorrow.”

“The reason for everything is just because we don’t have artillery,” he adds. “If we had artillery, everything would be different.”

Oleksandr Naselenko supported reporting for this story.

Seyli Molina is like millions of other Americans whose lives have been upended by the past year’s big inflation spike. Living in Kenner, Louisiana, she and her husband have been absorbing higher costs, spending more and getting less, saving little, and scrimping.  

Yet, with Cuban and Honduran roots, respectively, the Molinas are also part of a Latino segment of the population that’s among the most severely affected – and is handling the situation differently. 

The Hispanic experience is far from monolithic, of course. Yet experts say that, in general, the group is adapting to inflation as it has to other challenges – with a resilience rooted in cultures that focus on cooperation within the community, multigenerational living, entrepreneurship, optimism, and hard work.

The Molinas lost their home last August in Hurricane Ida. Their housing needs are being met for now by a neighbor who is renting them a room.

Amid absences from work as a notary due to health concerns, Ms. Molina has found herself spending additional time running one of Kenner’s more popular Facebook groups, where members sometimes reach out in search of jobs or employees. She plans to start a community garden as a bulwark for neighbors against current troubles. 

“I get to see it from a lot of different angles,” Ms. Molina says. “People’s lives are coming unraveled.” 

Indeed, surging prices have gone from a 1970s memory to a taxing strain on households of all racial and ethnic backgrounds. Yet compared with other groups, Latinos often work more, earn less, own less, and receive fewer employment benefits. They, along with Black Americans, funnel more of their already smaller paychecks toward basics like food and gas – for which price hikes have been particularly steep. 

Hispanic Americans represent almost 20% of the nation’s population. While they hail from multiple nationalities and cultural backgrounds, they tend to share certain traits that help them weather hard times, experts say. Families, which tend to be larger, frequently have several generations live together and pool resources. Or one family may live with another and share expenses. Saving is important. So are family and extended community, where neighbors look after one another. 

Ann Hermes/Staff

Apartment rental prices are posted in the Sunset Park neighborhood on July 6, 2022, in Brooklyn, New York. Latino workers are among those most affected by rising prices for things like food, gas, and rent, since they are overrepresented in low-wage jobs. Research also finds they generally receive less pay than white workers in the same jobs.

“Everyone suffers through hard times, and the Hispanic cultural community is resilient in that we reach out to one another to assist …  because when someone else benefits, we also benefit,” says Loui Olivas, a Latino professor emeritus at Arizona State University who specializes in entrepreneurial studies and small business.

He says Latinos also are industrious about how they save and spend, often shopping locally to support neighborhood merchants, says Dr. Olivas. 

Latinos own more businesses nationwide than any racial or ethnic group other than white Americans, and they start more businesses than any other group, opening them at four times the rate of other demographics, says Arturo Osorio, associate professor of entrepreneurship at Rutgers University in New Jersey. He says they are undaunted by the fact that most new businesses fail within 10 years because, often, they have no other choice.

Luis De La Hoz, chairman of the Statewide Hispanic Chamber of Commerce of New Jersey, says entrepreneurship is the Latino way. 

“We open businesses, especially after any natural disaster or crisis, because we cannot find jobs,” he says. “We cannot stay waiting to get unemployment, especially if you are undocumented. The only option that you have is to make a living for you and your significant others and loved ones.”

And if inflation is a hardship, he adds, that isn’t something new. “We’ve been facing many challenges and ... have overcome the problems as part of our daily life.” 

That doesn't mean that managing the strains of this past year has been easy. In general, Latino workers are overrepresented in low-wage jobs, underrepresented in higher-paid positions, and generally receive less pay than white workers in the same jobs – by about 35%, according to a 2021 study by McKinsey & Co. This equates to some $288 billion lost each year and prevents 1.1 million Latinos from joining the middle class annually, the report said.

Craig Hohmann

Elvis Encalada of Queens, New York, works as a garage attendant and manager. He says he could get a better-paying job that would be limited to 40 hours a week. It's better for his family, he says, that he works overtime, even though that means less time with his young sons.

Ecuadorian-born Elvis Encalada manages a garage in a Manhattan high-rise residential building. He earns $17 an hour, got a 35 cent hourly bump two years ago, and hasn’t taken a vacation since before the COVID-19 lockdown. He works six days a week, anywhere from 53 to 60 hours to make overtime. He lives in Queens with his wife and their two young sons. Even as grocery prices rise, Mr. Encalada says he and his wife spend less on food so they can cover higher phone and internet bills. Mr. Encalada says he’s thought about taking jobs that pay better by the hour – bank teller, door attendant, customer service representative – but they don’t offer overtime. So, he’s better off staying where he is: “Hispanic work – it’s almost like we always do overtime.”

A carpenter in rural North Carolina says he works 50 to 80 hours a week to net about $770 after tax. He and his wife, who asked to remain anonymous because of their immigration status, have four children ages 14 to 20, who were all born in the U.S. To earn extra money for their children’s education, the couple also run a weekend landscaping business. They use coupons, look for sales, and restrict how often they eat out. They still send money home to relatives in Mexico.

Providing for those left behind and for those who have less are tenets of Hispanic culture, says Dr. Lidia Virgil, chief operating officer at SOMOS Community Care, a nonprofit network of doctors in New York City that works with Hispanic and immigrant communities.

“If they know a neighbor is hungry, they will share half their meal – even though they are struggling themselves,” she says. 

Valentina Alvarez, a 2019 college graduate with a degree in textiles fashion merchandising and design, lives with her parents, grandmother, and adult brother. She works full time in her family’s Mi Colombia Restaurant in Elizabeth, New Jersey, where her brother also helps out. Ms. Alvarez says the mostly Hispanic clientele purchase about as much food as they did before this inflation shock, but now generally buy two lunch specials – one for lunch at the restaurant, the other for dinner at home – because it saves money.

As consumers struggle, businesses are also scraping to get by. Inflation, supply chain backups, and lack of workers are dragging down many of them, Hispanic and otherwise.

Lilia Rios and her husband, Francisco Del Toro, moved from Mexico 17 years ago to start a restaurant-furnishing shop, La Providencia. Based in Passaic, New Jersey, the company imports and distributes kitchenware, furniture, and folk art for Mexican restaurants in 22 states. Ms. Rios says expenses are up 50% to 300%. She and her husband are trying to renegotiate prices with their corporate customers, but may not be able to do so for another six to 12 months, since big customers expect to stick with previously established quotes. So, they are taking the hit – still making a profit but considerably less. Prices have increased at La Providencia’s retail store, which is open 360 days a year, but it constitutes a small part of business. Ms. Rios and Mr. Del Toro each work at least 60 hours a week.  

“We don’t rest,” she says. 

Despite feeling the pinch, Hispanic adults are more optimistic that they can live the American dream than are their non-Hispanic counterparts, says Chris Jackson, senior vice president at Ipsos, the global market research firm.

In Louisiana, Ms. Molina shrugs off the challenges her household faces.

 “You can take things with a grain of salt or a grain of sugar,” she says. “I take mine with sugar.” 

cnsphoto/Reuters

Helicopters carrying Chinese and Hong Kong flags fly over the Victoria Harbour during a flag-raising ceremony at the Golden Bauhinia Square in Hong Kong on July 1, 2022 – the 25th anniversary of the former British colony's handover to Chinese rule.

Chinese leader Xi Jinping hailed the 25th anniversary of Hong Kong’s return from a British colony to Chinese rule last week with a call to strengthen national unity and bring the once freewheeling city more fully under Beijing’s control.

Amid tight security on his first trip outside mainland China since the pandemic began, Mr. Xi declared a “new phase” for Hong Kong. To align the port city with mainland China, he stressed, Hong Kong’s officials must show greater political allegiance – not only to the country, but also to the Communist Party leadership and socialist system. Hong Kong’s government “must be in the hands of patriots” who are “assessed on both ability and political integrity before they are recruited,” Mr. Xi said in an address marking the handover anniversary on July 1. 

But Mr. Xi’s push to solidify China’s grip on Hong Kong is sharply curtailing the unique diversity and freedom that Hong Kong has enjoyed as a cosmopolitan metropolis of 7 million people on Chinese soil, where until recent years, free speech, a free press, and political protest flourished – including mass pro-democracy demonstrations in 2019. In the days since Mr. Xi’s visit, China’s central bank deepened its ties to Hong Kong’s monetary authority – part of a plan to integrate the financial hub with the mainland economy to boost overall development. At the same time, a group of Hong Kong therapists went on trial for publishing a set of children’s books that allegedly contain anti-Beijing sentiment.

“Hong Kong has gone from being such a free city to such a tightly controlled system,” says Jeffrey Wasserstrom, author of “Vigil: Hong Kong on the Brink” and history professor at University of California, Irvine. “This is part of a larger story of forced assimilation, the energy that’s put particularly on the physical edges of the People’s Republic of China to sort of rein in forms of diversity.”

Selim Chtayti/Reuters

Chinese leader Xi Jinping looks on as Hong Kong's incoming Chief Executive John Lee is sworn in as the city's new leader, during a ceremony to inaugurate the city's new government, in Hong Kong, July 1, 2022.

For Mr. Xi, China must prioritize sovereignty and national security in Hong Kong and elsewhere as it rises from a “century of humiliation,” starting with the 1839-1842 Opium War, that saw foreign powers wrest territory and occupy the country.

Under a national security law imposed on Hong Kong two years ago, political dissent has been silenced, with hundreds of activists and opposition politicians jailed or exiled, pro-democracy media outlets shuttered, and protests banned.

“Fear is now the main emotional driver used by the regime to maintain this kind of unity and stability,” says Kenneth Chan, associate professor of government at Hong Kong Baptist University. “In a nutshell, Hong Kong must fully integrate with the mainland on all fronts.”

An alternate route

Hong Kong didn’t have to turn out this way, China analysts say.

In the 1980s, Chinese leader Deng Xiaoping conceived a pragmatic formula for reintegrating Hong Kong known as “one country, two systems,” under which the former colony would enjoy “a high level of autonomy” with its basic freedoms, an independent judiciary, and capitalist system unchanged for at least 50 years. Mr. Deng’s plan was designed to accommodate cultural, ideological, and institutional differences between Hong Kong and the mainland, says Dr. Chan.

In a 1987 speech, Mr. Deng left open the possibility of eventual general elections in Hong Kong, and said that after the 1997 handover “we shall still allow people in Hong Kong to attack the Chinese Communist Party and China verbally.”

Eric Draper/AP/File

Then-Gov. Chris Patten (right) receives a folded British flag after its lowering at Government House in Hong Kong on June 30, 1997, as the British colony reverted to Chinese rule at midnight.

Yet since coming to power in 2012, Mr. Xi has recast the policy, putting the priority squarely on “one country.” 

Mr. Xi “emphasizes ‘one country,’ socialism, and Communist Party rule – and only under that principle can you have ‘two systems,’” says Chen Daoyin, a political scientist and former associate professor at the Shanghai University of Political Science and Law.

Moreover, Mr. Xi has more narrowly interpreted “two systems” to refer only to the economy, meaning Hong Kong can preserve capitalism. Last week, he advanced for Hong Kong the same implicit political bargain as on the mainland: accept party rule in return for economic prosperity. 

Indeed, Beijing’s crackdown on civil society and dissent in Hong Kong marks in many ways an extension of Mr. Xi’s sweeping moves to bolster the party’s power across China, experts say.

“What I see is domestic politics now being more rigorously enforced in Hong Kong,” including Mr. Xi’s “emphasis on unity and ideological conformity,” says Timothy Cheek, a history professor and expert in modern China at the Institute of Asian Research at the University of British Columbia.

The price of change

In a Hong Kong courtroom this week, five local speech therapists faced trial on sedition charges for publishing children’s books about a village of sheep threatened by wolves.

Prosecutors in the national security case say the defendants, jailed without bail for a year, wrote the books to incite separatism and hatred toward mainland China, according to the South China Morning Post. The therapists deny the charges.

Hong Kong residents say the parade of such trials amid an ongoing crackdown is stifling the city’s creative character. “The once diverse and vibrant cultural scene of the city has suffered … [from] the ill-defined but arbitrarily extendable red lines and no-go areas, all done in the name of national security and patriotism,” says Dr. Chan.

“Widespread disillusionment in Hong Kong … is the price of the changes,” he says.

Vincent Yu/AP/File

Protesters march on the streets against an extradition bill in Hong Kong on June 16, 2019. The Chinese government eventually addressed the demonstrations by enacting a controversial national security law.

The crackdown has led growing numbers of people to depart Hong Kong, with more than 130,000 people exiting this year, and a similar number applying for British visas. To a degree, Hong Kong’s unique identity is thriving in the diaspora, Dr. Wasserstrom says.

In mainland China as well as Hong Kong, analysts say, the suppression of dissenting voices may keep people quiet, but ultimately won’t change their views. “Forty years of reform and opening created pluralism,” says Dr. Cheek. “The uniformity that is required by Xi Jinping’s ideological approach is just anathema.”

Mukelwa Hlatshwayo

Elizabeth Kadzo teaches pupils at Utange Primary School, in Mombasa, Kenya, on April 25, 2022.

One morning in May, under an already-blazing sun, Elizabeth Kadzo strode purposefully through the hilly streets of Utange, a small township on the outskirts of Mombasa, in Kenya. 

Ms. Kadzo, a teacher at Utange Primary School, would typically be teaching at this time. Instead, she was heading to the local courthouse to inquire about a case that has dragged on for two years. 

“I told my principal that I cannot stay in school when children are [being] married,” said Ms. Kadzo. She was referring to an open secret – the disturbingly common practice of young girls being forced into sexual slavery.

Just a few miles from the world-class resorts and white-sand beaches that draw tens of thousands of tourists to Mombasa each year, towns like Utange endure a different reality. Amid rampant poverty, the coastal region is a human trafficking hotspot, leaving young girls vulnerable to sexual exploitation from both locals and foreign tourists.

Around a third of Kenyans live on less than $2 a day, and in Utange, families struggle to earn a living selling farm produce or doing odd jobs. Girls as young as 13 are sometimes forcibly “married” off – essentially sold – to older men to bring in a dowry. Other times, forcing girls into the sex industry is considered a rare job that feeds the family, while saving money that might be spent on education.

Spurred by the government’s slow rate of rescuing victims and prosecuting offenders, Ms. Kadzo has made it her mission to fight the abuse that blights her neighborhood. 

Using her own funds and occasional donations, she runs an organization called PACYA Kenya. The firebrand teacher’s self-appointed roles range from removing girls from brothels to seeking legal redress for escapees.

A high price for justice 

Ms. Kadzo walks into the court register’s office in Shanzu, a neighborhood a few miles from Utange, and asks for an update on the case of a teenager called Zimkita.

Zimkita was 13 years old when an older, wealthier neighbor married her.

Mukelwa Hlatshwayo

Rescued child Zimkita stands in her home in the township of Utange, just outside of Mombasa, Kenya, on April 25, 2022. The girl hopes to return to school later this year and says, “I want to be a lawyer – I want to help other people like me.”

Her case is not unique in this part of Kenya. The International Justice Mission (IJM), an international nonprofit with offices in Mombasa, estimates there are some 20,000 sex trafficking victims across Kenya at any one point, most clustered around the coastal region. Other organizations say the lack of reporting means the true number may be far higher. 

What is unusual, though, is that Zimkita’s ordeal has even made it into the legal system.

Under Kenyan law, sex and labor trafficking carry penalties ranging from 30 years imprisonment to life sentences. Still, only 46 people were successfully prosecuted for human trafficking between 2019 and 2020.

Ms. Kadzo has received threats from the perpetrators, who are often known to the community. “If you don’t drop the case,” she says one recently told her, “you [can’t] say I didn’t warn you.”

The clerk tells Ms. Kadzo that, after months of waiting, the case might get a mention the following month – meaning it would move to pretrial phase, with both the accused and the victim having to appear in court. But even that’s not certain, he warns.

“I come to this court almost every week for this and other cases,” Ms. Kadzo says, shaking her head in frustration. “It’s difficult to have these cases reach the trial phase. If you don’t have money, you can’t get justice.”

For families like Zimkita’s, the cost of justice is prohibitive. Just getting to the courts to follow up on the case costs around $10 – an amount the family simply doesn’t have to spare. Zimkita’s father is a palm wine tapper, who earns about $60 in a good month; her mother stays at home to look after their six children. 

Toward midday, the heat is sweltering as Ms. Kadzo arrives at the two-room, corrugated-iron-roofed hut where Zimkita and her family live. Sitting outside with her mother, the shy, slightly built teenager is nursing a 9-month-old baby; the child was born soon after her neighbor began abusing her.  

Zimkita doesn’t talk much to begin with, and says nothing when Ms. Kadzo breaks the news that the case hasn’t advanced. Eventually she speaks quietly.

She hopes to be able to return to school later this year, she says. “I want to be a lawyer – I want to help other people like me.”

Family, friends, tourists, and strangers

Campaigners struggle to untangle sex trafficking from entrenched poverty and accepted social ills.

A 2019 study from the International Justice Mission, which holds awareness-raising sessions with families in the region, found child sex trafficking in Mombasa “is facilitated by family, friends and community members, tourists as well as strangers, who act as recruiters, agents, pimps and transporters.” 

Mukelwa Hlatshwayo

Pupils from Utange Primary School play a game with stones in Utange, just outside of Mombasa, Kenya, on April 25, 2022.

“At times,” Ms. Kadzo says, “there is an expectation that young girls should join the business if their mothers also happen to be sex workers.” 

But cases aren’t always clear-cut – and some families don’t even realize their children have been trafficked. 

Police in Mombasa tell the Monitor about a case that made it to court: In December last year, a family in Bungoma, a rural outpost some 560 miles from Mombasa, welcomed an old friend into their home. The family opened up to the woman about their struggle to pay for their daughter Emily’s secondary school fees that year, on top of feeding their large family.

When the friend offered to take young Emily to Mombasa, get her into school, and get her a cleaning job near where she lived, the family agreed. Such arrangements are not unheard of and are considered an opportunity to escape grinding rural poverty.

But, a police report later noted, on arrival in Mombasa, the so-called family friend forced Emily into sex work, the same trade she, herself, was in. Police said the woman did not allow Emily to talk directly to her parents whenever they called, and threatened her with violence if she spoke to any outsiders. 

Soon after arriving in Mombasa, one of the woman’s clients asked if he could “marry” Emily in exchange for a bride price. Back at his home, neighbors soon noticed the man was abusing her and called the police. Emily was rescued and taken to a women’s shelter.

Both of her alleged traffickers were arrested and are set to appear in court in the coming weeks – a rare example of the law reaching perpetrators.  

Meanwhile, as the sun sets in Utange, Ms. Kadzo continues her mission to visit yet another girl in the area, rescued in December. She lifts her African print dress slightly as she climbs a small hill, and is panting as she approaches the compound.

Her five-person organization of unpaid volunteers has been rescuing girls with the help of goodwill donations from organizations but hopes to create a fully fledged team and a shelter for the survivors who can’t return home. Most of the rescued girls want to learn a trade to support their families, but some return to sex work when they can’t find any other jobs.

“We do not have enough resources to help the families with lasting solutions,” says Ms. Kadzo, stopping in front of the gate. 

Then she turns to enter the house where a rescued girl is waiting. 

Editor’s note: Names have been changed to protect victims.

Not long after 8 a.m. on an overcast Saturday, the Darby Park tennis courts under the flight path of Los Angeles International Airport come alive with a remarkable mix of people in workout clothes. Young and old; Black, Latino, Asian, and white; and singles, couples, and siblings crowd around courts, converted to a smaller size, to play the nation’s fastest growing sport: pickleball.

The steady roar of traffic and jets overhead doesn’t dampen the sport’s trademark welcoming spirit.

For the next three hours, the thwack of whiffle balls on paddles – in a game described as a cross between pingpong and tennis – punctuates the laughter on each of eight courts taped off to 44-by-20-foot pickleball court dimensions. There are powerful backhand volleys; soft, short “dinks”; and long rallies that finish with a clean drive down the middle and shouts of “Good shot!” Games end with paddle taps at the net.

The crowd rotating onto the courts here is an example of the nationwide enthusiasm for the sport, which is showing up at school playgrounds, country clubs, community rec centers, college campuses, and parks with underused tennis and basketball courts. Some California prisons have started offering it as an alternative to basketball. The global online community platform Meetup lists 92 pickleball groups with nearly 27,000 members. Developers are opening entertainment complexes, like Chicken N Pickle in Kansas City, Missouri, that offer pickleball and other activities in a sports bar-type atmosphere. And in March, it became the official sport of Washington state, where pickleball was invented with badminton and pingpong equipment in 1965 by three dads trying to amuse their children. 

“It is the fastest growing sport in the U.S. And we definitely see that trend continuing,” says Laura Futterman, spokesperson for the Sports and Fitness Industry Association (SFIA). Pickleball surged by nearly 40% between 2019 and 2021 to 4.8 million players, she says.

Ann Hermes/Staff

John Myles warms up before the Inglewood Pickleball Group’s weekly pick-up games at Darby Park last month. The Inglewood, California group has seen participation rocket in the past couple of years.

Not just “older folks”

No one is more aware of pickleball’s charm than Kelvin Hodrick, the Inglewood resident who brought it to Darby Park four years ago and has seen crowds grow hoping for a rotation onto a court. Mr. Hodrick lobbied the city four years ago for courts to use for pickleball after he grew tired of driving to Santa Monica 10 miles away to play. 

Back then, recalls Sabrina Barnes, Inglewood’s director of parks and recreation, “no one knew what pickleball was,” but it wasn’t long before it became “standing-room only.” 

The city provides paddles and portable nets, and Mr. Hodrick teaches anyone who wants to learn.

Pickleball is easy enough that new players can immediately participate, and free open-play sessions for players of all skill levels here lure otherwise inactive residents. 

Dolores Vasquez, a 30-something office worker who never cared for sports as a kid, now rarely misses a Saturday. 

Johnathan Lee, a retired state worker, says he spent his days “drinking coffee and watching ‘SportsCenter’ reruns” before discovering pickleball. He now plays five or six times a week. And when the pandemic closed courts, he used spray chalk to create a backyard court. 

“We went underground in the name of pickleball,” he chuckles.

Ann Hermes/Staff

Johnathan Lee, a retiree, traded TV sports for daily pickleball games. Here, he's wearing his own line of pickleball T-shirts during a game at Darby Park in Inglewood, California.

Part of the sport’s appeal is that it’s easy to learn and accessible (a paddle costs as little as $18). Pickleball courts are about a quarter the size of tennis courts. Rules are straightforward: Serves, at the baseline, are underhanded, and the ball must bounce once on each side before volleying can begin. Serves can’t land in the no-volley zone known as “the kitchen.” And the game typically ends at 11 points.

“Anyone can pick up a paddle,” says Hope Tolley of the USA Pickleball Association, the governing body of the sport. Plus, she adds, “it’s a welcoming culture that sets itself apart from other sports.” 

Yet despite the sport’s exponential growth, players remain predominantly white and high-income – 73% of pickleball participants are white and 45% report incomes of $100,000 or higher, according to a 2021 SFIA report.

The diverse pickleball scene in Inglewood – where 90% of residents are Black or Latino – is unique, observers say, though that is starting to change.

Joe Johnson, a program analyst for United States Space Command and president of the Pikes Peak Pickleball Association in Colorado Springs, Colorado, says he and his wife, Zina, were the only Black members when they joined in 2013; he estimates there now are 10 people of color, out of 1,500 members. He says it’s been a “challenge” that has motivated him to help launch pickleball at an after-school program in a majority Latino neighborhood. 

USA Pickleball launched a grant program in 2019 to make pickleball more accessible to schools, rural communities, and other areas. One recipient was the Boys & Girls Clubs of Greater St. Louis, which introduced the sport in several after-school programs this year. It was so successful that they’ve added the game to summer camp programs, says spokesperson Shuntae Shields Ryan.

“There tends to be a myth that it’s just older folks playing pickleball,” says SFIA’s Ms. Futterman. In fact, SFIA’s data show that in 2021, only 30% of participants were over 55 years old, 50% were between 18 and 54, and 20% were 6 to 17 years old.

Ann Hermes/Staff

Ramona Cobbs tosses the ball to teammate Darnel Edmond during a pickleball game at Darby Park in Inglewood, California last month.

Pickleball’s ability to move beyond niche sport might lie in its ability to capture the youth market, says Tim Delaney, director of sports studies at State University of New York-Oswego. “There are some high schools that offer pickleball as a sport and pickleball has been recognized as an official sport at many colleges,” he says.

Silly but healthy

Pickleball offers an encouraging range of possibilities from a public health perspective, notes Jonathan Casper, a professor of sport management at North Carolina State University who has studied the fitness and social benefits of pickleball. 

“While it seems low-impact, you get quite a bit of physical activity from it,” he explains.

Plus, while it’s easy to learn, it’s not easy to master. “That’s why there’s such a strong commitment to the sport,” he says.

Of course, it’s also fun, fans say.

“It’s wonderfully silly,” gushes Kerry Baker, a writer from Richmond, Virginia, who lives part time in Mazatlán, Mexico, and took up pickleball as a social outlet. 

In contrast to the hushed seriousness of tennis, the perforated balls pop and clatter, and the courts are small enough that banter among players is easy, even encouraged. 

Open play allows players to lay down rackets at the court they want. So an experienced player can be paired with a novice, or active 30-year-olds can partner with slower seniors – yet all bets are off as to who wins. 

The name, itself, loosens things up. The sport takes its name, not from a family dog as often reported, but from the rowing sport of crew, explains Pickleball Magazine. In a crew race, the random leftover rowers are put in a just-for-fun “pickle boat” race.

With growth comes challenges

Despite its carefree origin and skyrocketing growth, pickleball has its challenges. Turf wars with tennis players and noise complaints from neighbors are common. There’s an entire Facebook group devoted to pickleball sound mitigation (a pickleball paddle on a hard plastic ball can be up to 25 decibels higher than a tennis ball on strings). More venues are requiring fees and resident-only reservations for use of the courts, raising exclusivity concerns. There are pro-tours with big prize payouts, branding rights and sponsorships, and even a plan in the works to make it an Olympic sport. 

All that stirs up concerns that pickleball’s success will cause it to lose sight of its humble backyard roots.

“I hope they don’t forget what made [the sport] unique in the first place,” notes Professor Casper, “and that’s the welcoming nature of it.” 

AP

Climate activists demonstrate outside the European Parliament, July 5, in Strasbourg, France.

On July 6, European lawmakers designated carbon-emitting natural gas as a sustainable energy source. On the same day, the British government launched an ambitious package of energy measures, including caps on gasoline prices.

In the United States, meanwhile, a pro-climate president, Joe Biden, is likely to sell new oil leases in offshore waters and will visit Saudi Arabia next week in hopes it will export more oil. In South Korea, which is the world’s fourth-biggest oil importer, the government announced plans July 5 to greatly expand imports to boost strategic oil reserves.

In case anyone hasn’t noticed, the issue of energy security has shot to the top of the global agenda, appearing to overshadow progress on climate-friendly policies. It was a hot topic at June’s gathering of G-7 leading industrial nations and has gained urgency for a meeting of G-20 foreign ministers next week. About 80% of the world’s population lives in countries that are net energy importers.

Leaders almost everywhere are responding to the rising costs of fuel caused by Russia’s war in Ukraine, pandemic-era stimulus spending, and supply chain slowdowns. Last year, Russia was the world’s largest oil and natural gas exporter. Now it faces boycotts of its fossil fuels.

For the European Union – the world leader in climate policy – Russia’s cuts in gas deliveries to 12 of the EU’s 27 member states have led to energy security becoming the bloc’s second priority after the war in Ukraine. A few countries, such as Germany, have reverted to coal-fired power.

“The current crisis has fully revealed how existentially important it is for the future of the EU to ensure its independence from countries that threaten our security,” said Petr Fiala, prime minister of the Czech Republic and the new president of the EU Council. He added that each EU country must choose how to meet its own climate goals and withdraw from Russian energy supplies.

While the initial panic over the energy shock may have revived fossil fuel use, that does not mean clean energy and fuel efficiency efforts will lose out. “The world does not need to choose between solving the energy security crisis and the climate crisis – we have the technologies and the policies to solve both at once,” says Fatih Birol, executive director of the International Energy Agency (IEA).

He told world leaders at the G-7 summit that countries can rapidly scale up energy efficiency and renewables as part of the adjustment to the gas and oil shock. Global spending on clean energy reached a record level by 2022. In other words, the world need not accept the seemingly opposing agendas of energy security and clean energy.