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sageglobalresponse · 4 years ago

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For most people, the coronavirus pandemic has meant fewer travel options. Not so for super-rich families who are increasingly using their money to cross borders that would otherwise be closed to them.

This is the elite world of investment migration, where passport applications are based not on nationality or citizenship, but on wealth and the willingness to move it around the planet.

These so-called citizen-by-investment programs, or CIPs, are currently a growth industry, as are residence-by-investment arrangements, also known as "golden visas."

They're a way for ultra-rich individuals to not only diversify their portfolio by moving their money into a country, but also receive the benefits of citizenship, including a new passport.

Over the past five to 10 years, the primary motivations amongst CIP participants -- who tend to have a net worth of anywhere from $2 million to over $50 million -- have been freedom of movement, tax benefits and lifestyle factors, such as better education or civil liberties.

But with Covid-19 dramatically transforming our 2020, some elite families are also considering healthcare, pandemic responses and potential safe havens to ensure they have a backup plan for the future.

Plan B

"People really want the insurance policy of an alternative citizenship, which gives them a Plan B," Dominic Volek, Head of Asia for global citizenship and residence advisory firm Henley & Partners, tells CNN Travel.

"They are also concerned about healthcare and pandemic preparedness because, of course, this may not be the only pandemic in our lifetime.

"Wealthy people don't plan for five to 10 years -- they plan more than 100 years in advance, in terms of wealth and well being."

While largely anecdotal, Henley & Partners suspects that a recent uptick in interest in CIP can be linked to the coronavirus, health concerns, and general "doomsday predictions."

The company recorded a 49% year-on-year increase in inquiries between January and June of 2020.

And the number of people who filed an application following a consultation increased by 42% when comparing the last quarter of 2019 with the first quarter of 2020.

Mighty Montenegro

When it comes to specific citizenship programs, Montenegro and Cyprus have been the most popular, with new applications up 142% and 75%, respectively, in the first quarter of 2020, compared with the fourth quarter of 2019. Malta meanwhile has retained significant and constant interest.

"Many people in this ultra-high net worth bracket are interested in Cyprus and Malta, because it grants the applicant and their family unlimited access and settlement freedom throughout the European Union," says Volek.

"They not only have greater freedom of movement but also better education and healthcare (than in their home countries)."

Residency programs in Australia and New Zealand are also in high demand, but for another reason: crisis management.

"New Zealand has come out on top in terms of how it handled the pandemic, compared with some of the other usually more favored destinations like the UK or the US," says Volek.

"So we've definitely seen a big increase in inquiries in the Australia and New Zealand investment visas. That's probably also spurred by articles about these Silicon Valley guys, who had participated in various investor visas programs pre-pandemic and put doomsday plans in place."

$6.5 million investment

Only ultra-high net worth families can participate in these residency programs: Australia's program costs $1-3.5 million, while New Zealand will set investors back $1.9-$6.5 million.

"New Zealand's program is pretty flexible in terms of what you invest in -- as long as it's not for your personal use," explains Volek.

"A lot of these people have put that NZ$10 million into creating a completely self-sustainable, off-grid commercial farm. So then they've also got a place to go and just wait things out in times like these."

The CIP clientele is changing too: Americans, Indians, Nigerians and Lebanese applicants have shown the biggest spikes in applications over the past nine months.

American applications, in particular, jumped 700% in the first quarter of 2020, compared with the last quarter of 2019.

These ultra-elite individuals join a steady flow of investors from China and the Middle East

Covid-free havens

Some ultra-rich travelers are simply seeking a safe, remote place where they can hole up with their family should another outbreak occur.

Even if they don't have immediate access, they want to be prepared for the next pandemic.

"The talk so far is that the smaller countries are able to handle and manage the pandemic easier," Nuri Katz, founder of international financial advisory firm Apex Capital Partners, tells CNN Travel.

"So like the United States, it's just totally out of control. But smaller countries haven't been hit as hard. For example, in Caribbean countries like Dominica, Antigua and Barbuda, or St Kitts, there are very few Covid cases."

"These small countries seem to be opening up and there's a feeling that they'll be able to manage this problem a lot better than big countries," adds Katz. "So there's a lot of interest in that in terms of health care and lifestyle."

In addition, small island nations in the Caribbean nations provide relatively inexpensive CIP and greater travel freedom.

"If you have a net worth of roughly $1 million to, say, $5 or $10 million, the Caribbean is a great choice. For example, a wealthy Bangladeshi holds one of the worst passports in the world in terms of travel freedom -- you need a visa to go anywhere," adds Volek.

"If you donate $100,000 to the government of Antigua and Barbuda, plus fees, your family of four can get a second passport in about four to six months."

Beat the ban

Katz has also noticed the beginnings of another trend: investing in passports in order to increase your chances of beating travel bans in the future.

As some countries open up, they will only let in certain passports -- for example, Europeans are largely unable to visit the US, and vice-versa.

However, a Cyprus passport holder would be able to travel within the EU when borders are open.

"People are thinking, okay, this thing is going to be around for a while," says Katz. "How do we adjust our assets, including our citizenships, to be able to have the kind of lifestyle that we want?

"People who want to travel freely around Europe, they're starting to think about getting some kind of (citizenship or resident) status."

Investment Migration 101

Investment migration programs offer residence or citizenship in exchange for substantial investment in a country's economy, usually in the form of real estate, job creation, infrastructure development or government bonds.

The first CIP was introduced in 1984 by St Kitts and Nevis in the Caribbean. Since then, dozens of countries have established programs, including Austria, Cyprus, Malta, Moldova, St Lucia, Turkey, Antigua and Barbuda, Dominica, Greece, Montenegro and many more.

Some require applicants to set up nonprofits, establish companies that create local jobs or live in the country for a specified amount of time. Others enable applicants to invest in government bonds, real estate and development projects remotely.

Depending on the country, these programs can cost anywhere from $100,000 in Antigua and Barbuda to $250,000 in St Kitts and Nevis, $280,000 in Greece, $380,000 in Portugal, $1.1 million in Malta, and $2.4 million in Cyprus.

"I think a country like Portugal is one of the most attractive because the price point at €350-500,000 is achievable for high-net worth individuals," says Volek.

"You then get visa-free access to the European Schengen area and there's a clear legal path to citizenship after five years of residence as long as you can also speak elementary level Portuguese."

"But if the client has the financial capacity, then it's direct to Malta or Cyprus because you'd get EU citizenship immediately."

Doing due diligence

In 2017, Katz estimated that around 5,000 people per year acquired citizenship abroad through CIPs. In 2020, he puts that number closer to 25,000, though no official numbers exist.

Even as more super-wealthy individuals turn to CIPs as a backup plan, the reality is that these programs take time.

"There's just no way just any Russian oligarch can walk in, hand a million dollars to a politician, and walk away with a passport," says Volek. "That's obviously not the case."

Depending on the country, the due diligence process requires anywhere from several months to several years.

Typically, applicants will undergo thorough financial and criminal evaluations to ensure the money has been earned legally, prior to the approval of their residency or citizenship.

Taking Malta as an example, Volek says the country requires a strict, four-tier due diligence process starting with initial vetting by Henley & Partners.

'The applicant has to disclose their net worth and the source of funds, as well as provide police clearance certificates in their country of birth, country of citizenship and wherever they've lived for more than six months in the last 10 years..."

"Malta has a rejection rate of anywhere between 20 to 25% of applications -- they will reject the applicant if they're not comfortable with this person acquiring citizenship," he explains.

CIP proponents argue that such programs are a win-win situation: applicants pour investment into developing countries to offset the costs of natural disasters, industry collapses, pandemics or simply jump-start certain sectors of the economy.

At the same time, the individual can diversify their own assets while enjoying greater freedom of movement, a better lifestyle and reassurance in times of crisis.

But some experts suggest it's not quite so clear-cut.

In 2018, for instance, Transparency International, a global coalition against corruption, criticized citizenship- and residence-by-investment schemes in Malta, Cyprus, Portugal and Spain, arguing that these programs are "selling access to the Schengen visa-free travel area, and even EU citizenship, to foreign investors with little scrutiny, transparency or due diligence."

Kate Hooper, an associate policy analyst at the Washington DC-based think tank Migration Policy Institute's International Program, told CNN Travel that CIPs often arouse suspicion since some governments do not disclose their due-diligence processes.

"Numerous reports have raised concerns about how effective these processes actually are at screening people and rooting out dirty money," Hooper told CNN Travel in 2017.

"Over the years, there have been a handful of cases where citizenship has been granted to people without proper screening."

George DeMartino, a professor of international economics and ethics at the University of Denver, says CIPs can also exacerbate inequality.

"Programs such as these threaten to diminish political fraternity by affording special privileges to the already privileged," DeMartino

"They permit those with the least need to migrate and achieve citizenship in a new country the greatest opportunity to do so, while those far more desperate to migrate, such as those facing dire economic circumstances at home, are fully excluded from the benefits of these programs.

The programs are not the cause of this inequality, but they amplify it.

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xtruss · 5 years ago

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ARGUMENT

India’s Muslims Are Terrified of Being Deported

Many Indians lack the documents needed to prove citizenship—and Muslims are in the firing line.

— BY Puja Changoiwala | Foreign Policy | February 21, 2020

demonstrator holds a placard during a protest organized by various Muslim organizations and opposition parties against India's new citizenship law in Chennai on Feb. 19.

Firoza Bano, 50, sat worried in her home in the northern Indian city of Jaipur. Born in the north Indian state of Rajasthan in 1970, she has barely traveled outside the state—but now she faces the possibility of being kicked out of her home country. The Citizenship Amendment Act (CAA) and the proposed all-India National Register of Citizens (NRC) will require Bano to prove she’s Indian. If she’s unable to produce the requisite documents, she might lose her citizenship and be declared an infiltrator. At best, she might spend months in one of the detention centers being built across the country to house the newly created refugees—at worst, she could be deported to a country she’s never known or be left stateless.

“My mother gave birth to me at home. My birth was never registered, so how do I produce a certificate?” Bano said. “Nor do I have land ownership or tenancy records dating back five decades. Although we’re law-abiding citizens, having lived peacefully in India all our lives, we might be thrown out of the country.”

Last December, India passed the CAA, which provides a route to citizenship to members of six religious minority communities from Pakistan, Bangladesh, and Afghanistan—but not for Muslims. Coupled with the NRC, a supposedly definitive list of Indian citizens, the provision is facing criticism for being anti-Muslim and unconstitutional. A similar list in Assam has already been used to single out Indian-born Muslims for potential deportation. And while members of other faiths now have the shield of the CAA as a route back into Indian citizenship if they’re branded as illegal by the NRC process, Muslims have no such respite.

That’s a big problem. Even today, 38 percent of Indian children under the age of 5 do not have birth certificates.Even today, 38 percent of Indian children under the age of 5 do not have birth certificates. Other documents can substitute, but they’re also often lacking—especially for older people. The reasons for this are varied—lack of awareness, inaccessible registration centers, and no immediate requirement for these certificates to access social services. Government data shows that 6.8 million births were not registered in India in 2015-2016, and the situation is worse for older residents, who were born when home births were more prevalent in the country.

There’s a gulf between government rhetoric on the NRC and what critics believe—but the record of an increasingly hard-right Hindu nationalist government under the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) makes the government’s word seem dubious at best. There has been a systematic scapegoating of Muslims under BJP rule. Human Rights Watch published a report in 2019, observing that the party uses “communal rhetoric” to spur “a violent vigilante campaign,” whereby radical cow protection groups lynched 44 people to death, 36 of them Muslims, between May 2015 and December 2018. Prior to its landslide win in the 2019 elections, the BJP also used religious polarization as a campaigning tool, making promises such as the expedited construction of a temple in place of a demolished mosque in Ayodhya.

After the CAA bill was signed into law, widespread protests erupted across the country, killing 25 people so far and leaving thousands in police detention. The government has downplayed the NRC, stating that it has no plans of conducting the NRC exercise across the country on religious lines.

That comes despite regular rhetoric from the BJP on supposed infiltrators from Muslim countries. In the state of West Bengal, for instance, BJP chief Dilip Ghosh recently stated that the center was committed to “throwing out” 10 million Bangladeshi Muslim “infiltrators” from the state and that those opposing the move were “anti-Hindu, anti-Bengali and anti-India.”

Addressing a huge election rally in New Delhi on Dec. 22, Prime Minister Narendra Modi said the CAA/NRC had nothing to do with Indian Muslims and that “no Indian Muslims will be sent to any detention centers.” The speech was accused of being a “combination of falsehoods and half-truths.” Critics have called the CAA/NRC the “greatest act of social poisoning by a government in independent India,” aimed at making the country a Hindu state and turning a large number of Muslims into stateless subjects.

Zakia Soman, a co-founder of Bharatiya Muslim Mahila Andolan (BMMA), a nationwide rights organization for Muslims, said the “diabolical” developments have led to great apprehension in the Muslim community, which makes up 14.2 percent of the Indian population. Many Muslims have approached BMMA to understand and prepare for the repercussions. The organization has launched posters raising awareness and community meetings in 15 states across the country.

“Since CAA is so discriminatory, it has given way to fear that even if people have their documents in place, they will be left out of NRC. Ordinary people think, and not without substance, that this is an attempt to rob them of their citizenship,” Soman said.

Rais Shaikh, a member of the legislative assembly in the western Indian state of Maharashtra, said the CAA-NRC combination has created panic across the community. “I have had 75-year-old men and women approaching me, asking for help with documents,” he said. “At least 500 people visit my office every day, expressing similar concerns. Most of them are now running around to ready their documents, approaching lawyers and agents. They’re scared of being stripped of their citizenship.”

The northeastern state of Assam is the only Indian state to have an NRC, first prepared in 1951 and updated in 2019. Assam’s 33 million residents had to substantiate their citizenship through documents, proving that they came to India before neighboring Bangladesh became an independent country in 1971. The final list, published in August 2019, left 1.9 million applications out. The U.S. Commission on International Religious Freedom subsequently alleged that the Assam NRC was a tool to “target religious minorities and … to render Muslims stateless.” The detention centers have already been constructed there.

“Even Today, 38 Percent of Indian Childern Under the Age of Five Do Not Have Birth Certificate!”

With Assam as the precedent, the Muslim community fears persecution. Maulana Khalid Rasheed, the head of the Islamic Centre of India in the northern Indian city of Lucknow, started a helpline two weeks ago to quell fears and create awareness among the community. He receives at least 150 calls daily from Muslims worried about their expulsion from the country due to an absence of documents and legacy data.

“Through the helpline, we inform them about the documents they will need to prove their citizenship. During the Assam NRC, many were excluded owing to deficiencies in documents like spelling errors. We tell them to ensure their papers are free of similar mistakes,” Rasheed said. “Everyone is scared, especially the poor.”

Nishat Hussain, the founder of the National Muslim Women Welfare Society in Jaipur, said many Muslims are apprehensive of the future and have joined protest marches to oppose the controversial CAA/NRC. She said many Muslims do have the basic, essential documents, such as passports and Aadhar cards, which have unique 12-digit identification numbers for Indian citizens. However, these might not be enough.

“In Assam, many were left out of the NRC despite having these documents,” Hussain said. “They want decades-old documents, which are impossible to find.”

To help Muslims, the Karnataka State Board of Auqaf, a statutory body in southwestern India, has recently issued a circular to mosques, citing a need to prepare family profiles of all Muslims residing in their jurisdiction. It also calls on mosques to maintain registers with important documents of all Muslims, including birth and education certificates, voter ID cards, and ration cards, among others.

The circular notes: “Controversies are reported regarding the inclusion and exclusion of names in the NRC. Recent survey conducted by various NGOs reveal that larger section of citizens of the minority community are deprived of the right to vote due to non-enrolment/updation in electoral rolls of various constituencies. Substantial number of citizens do not have the basic documents to prove their domicile in the locality.”

A.B. Ibrahim, the then-administrator of the board, said it is necessary for mosques to maintain a register of documents as the data of citizens in government offices can be misplaced or destroyed due to natural calamities and unforeseen incidents. “Many lost their documents during the Karnataka floods in August 2019,” he said.

For the Muslim citizens on the front line of the issue, however, no preparation seems enough. Naseem Qureshi, a 24-year-old woman from Rajasthan, said she’s afraid she’ll lose her loved ones to the CAA/NRC exercise. “My parents tell me that we have our papers in place, but many of my close friends and relatives don’t. What if they throw them out of the country?” Qureshi said. “They’re looking to split families.”

Puja Changoiwala is an award-winning Indian journalist and author. She writes about the intersections of gender, crime, social justice, development, and human rights in India. Twitter: @cpuja

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graveyardbirds · 7 years ago

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Forsakers

(Construction workers demolishing skyscrapers in a future Kuala Lumpur ruined by climate change are pitted against a deadly enemy and each other.)

Publication history: “Forsakers: in HEAT: A Southeast Asian Anthology by Fixi Novo (2016)   Forsakers

Under Kuala Lumpur’s zinc alloy sky, Serik had a captive audience in birds and men. Three falcons perched on a rusty overhead I-beam watched him in the afternoon heat – while the foreman and other demolition workers laid watch on him watching the falcons.

“Better than World Cup!” Omar proclaimed as he took bets from the group gathered on the opposite rooftop. He collected the cigarettes and meal vouchers and stuffed them into his hip-pouch. The grand prize was a carton of Marlboro Lights.

Omar still operated out of a habit left over from working the golf and race courses in Doha and Dubai. He had been a caddy and a camel rider, until androids and drones replaced him. Sensing the men’s scrutiny, the falcons squawked and flapped their wings every few seconds. Most were female birds, captured and trained for their bigger talons. If they attack the men, they go for the eyes.

Appraising the situation, Serik raised his gloved fist and yelled, “Hoy!” The falcons scattered and dispersed through the wide spaces in the scaffolding. But it was not the sound of Serik’s voice that startled them. The foreman took off his visors and pointed to a larger bird circling in the warm updrafts rising from the concrete.

Kantubit, a two-year- old female golden eagle trained by Serik, swooped down and intercepted a falcon in mid-flight before returning to Serik. She deposited the now lifeless falcon at his feet and landed on his outstretched forearm. Serik looped the leash over her neck. He had cleared the falcons for the day. Now scared away, there was no need to send Kantubit after the others. Omar sighed as he noted the outcome in his crumpled exercise book: none of the men had bet on the killing of one falcon. The team was now free to enter the gutted office tower block and continue stripping it.

“Ignore the bodies,” the foreman always instructed them, but it was unnecessary. In order to do their jobs, the workers had gone numb inside. Some of the newer team members vomited over the ledge at the sight of the victims: other demolition workers.

“Damned hawks,” the foreman spat.

“Not hawks,” Serik corrected the foreman. “The small bird is falcon. Shumkar-”

“All I need to know is how many of them and where they are,” he cut Serik off, before barking orders to the crew via megaphone.

“Show’s over. Cepatlah! You guys think you’re on Discovery Channel?”

The Indonesian crew had nicknamed the foreman ‘Tuan Badak’. As Serik watched him walk off the demolition site, he thought, More like a bulldozer than an old rhinoceros.

After evening prayers, Omar recalled camel racing in Dubai, while Kuala Lumpur lay in darkness below and the workers sat on the roof of the office tower.

“Whoosh!” Omar supplied his own sound effects, as he acted out a camel race, pumping his arms to mimic the remotely controlled plastic whips attached to robot jockeys’ motors. Serik scanned the dark sky for Kantubit.  Back home, Serik’s golden eagle hunted with him for three years before he released her. After a successful hunt, he brought the wolf or fox to his grandmother, where she prepared the pelt. He took the anklets and jesses off the eagle’s feet and poured a bowl of milk in front of her as a sign of gratitude.

“You’re special. Saving our lives everyday. Respect, my brother!” Omar slapped Serik’s shoulder. Serik felt that anyone who owed Omar money and a packet of cigarettes was his ‘brother’.

“I am just berkutchi, a hunter.” Serik turned his eyes up to the stars. Orion winked at the city through the wispy haze. He suddenly craved shubat, although he had disliked the sour fermented camel’s milk as a child. Meat roasting in a nearby oil drum stirred up longings for manti dumplings filled with ground lamb.

Omar emptied a packet of oral re-hydration salts into his water flask and said, “We need a little ‘special’ sometimes or we all go crazy at work. Just like Erxat.”

Serik frowned at the memory and held out his hand for a cigarette. Omar slipped Serik two, but he always tucked the extra stick back into Omar’s pouch. It was their little routine.  #

When Serik was a boy, his elder brother fell off his horse and gored his head. The wound swelled up like a goat’s infected bladder by the time the red-cheeked shayki, a wandering shaman, entered their yurta. As the shayki performed tsat-tsah incantations, his mother clutched her hands over her chest, knelt and lowered her forehead to the parched grass and prayed to Tengri, the sky god. Three nights passed until he opened his eyes.

Serik never asked his mother what she prayed for in exchange for his brother’s life. She died when the Shining Dust blew from the ashes of Lake Balkhash, and rotted her lungs and what remained of the family’s herds. His brother survived for two more summers working in Nepal. He took a bus and crossed the border into Mongolia. On Zaisan Hill overlooking Ulaanbaatar, a tent city gang stabbed him for his stash of yarchagumba, the rare and highly prized cordyceps fungus.

His mother had made a trade with the spirits, exchanging Serik’s fortune for an extra two years of his brother’s life. Broken early, the rest of his brother’s time on Earth was like a limb not set right, and finally amputated on Zaisan Hill. Serik remembered him being more useless than a hunting dog – too lazy to holler foxes and wild cats from their hiding places, while Serik beat and threw stones to drive out prey.

Serik seized the opportunity to work in Malaysia. New fracking and mining money had built most of the newer cities in Kazakhstan, but those agencies in Astana only hired young men. Yet destruction was as important as construction; the agency told Serik that older men were more suited for demolition work.

When Serik and Erxat, a 33-year-old from Almaty, arrived at the rundown Kuala Lumpur International Airport terminal a guide shunted them into a waiting van. Through the grilled windows, Serik watched the highways transmute into abandoned office towers and sprawling malls. Sentimental nostalgia on behalf of the real estate moguls delayed the tearing down of some buildings in Kuala Lumpur.

Before he left, Serik promised his fiancée, Guli, that he would be home in time to celebrate Nowruz. That was six months ago. His passport was still with the agent in Kuala Lumpur, who promised the workers new digital ones from their respective embassies when they paid off travel expenses and other debts. That was also six months ago.

Erxat had fared worse than Serik. A clerical error caused the agency to mistakenly list him as deceased. When he finally went home a year later, his wife had screamed at him, outside what was to have been their yurta, “Why didn’t you stay dead? I don’t have to give back our compensation payment!”

Erxat returned to Kuala Lumpur, but his work slipped. The explosives team found him high on heroin under a bridge near Masjid Jamek. In hospital, Serik observed that Erxat had more stab marks than his brother. He asked Erxat if he had resolved matters with his wife; he shrugged and tried to give Serik his dented wedding ring. Within a week, Omar and two Bangladeshis found Erxat at the base of an electrical pylon, not picked clean like other animals. As if the shumkar were contemptuous of easy prey.

“Erxat is free,” Serik said to Omar on the office roof by way of consolation, but it was not quite true. Erxat had obtained release. It was not the same as freedom, but better than nothing.

The heat was never good for work. All morning, men labored up and down the fire escape, hacking away at remaining doors and plaster walls with fire axes. Other men wielded oxyacetylene torches to cut through steel braces on each story, as a precursor to using other wrecking equipment.

On the lookout for more falcons, Serik remained on the roof. Kantubit spread her black primary feathers and dug her talons into the thick glove on his forearm.

“Patience,” he chided her. The falcons didn’t attack in the late afternoon, preferring to strike at dusk.

Silence enveloped the remaining steel and glass high-rises around the office tower. Shamans always said everything was alive. Serik wondered if buildings had their own spirits. If people died during demolition, were their ghosts added to the myriad?

Serik’s childhood memories resurfaced sometimes, as hunts and treks across the Kazakh Steppe at sunrise.

“Humans keep trying to fly higher than their Creator,” Grandfather used to observe every time he saw distant orange flares of space shuttles being launched from sites on the horizon.

“It’s progress,” Serik’s father would shrug. “Not when they start changing the weather. These recent late winters are bad for our herds.” For Serik, to recall what it was like in the past was pointless. He had only looked to the future, but progress was not development. Humans also tried out-creating their Creator. These shumkar were not falcons but demons created in the name of ‘progress’.

Around the world, cities with large pigeon populations began using falcons for pest control. Kuala Lumpur had been no different, until rich urbanites and the upper-middle class started taking up falconry for sport. Smuggling into Malaysia began when the demand for wild birds increased; they were deemed better hunters than those raised in captivity. Serik had heard of the black market in Kazakhstan, but could never believe it: smuggling eggs in ice boxes or tranquilized birds of prey over the border to Xinjiang, China.

Stress destroyed their immune systems, made the birds vulnerable to opportunistic pathogens. For the smuggled raptors, one was a certain fungus called aspergillus fumigatus, attacking the bird’s defenses and spreading throughout the respiratory system. One strain of the fungus mutated, not only infecting the shumkars’ lungs but also their brains and behavior, making them more aggressive.

During a day off, he and Nilam, a Bangladeshi engineering graduate from Dhaka, were exploring an abandoned bungalow in the Bangsar suburb, in the hope of salvaging remnants of the previous occupants’ lives. Serik found stacks of brochures extolling vacation getaways and eco-refuges off the coast of Terengganu. He kept one brochure because it had photos of Malaysian white-bellied sea eagles nesting in one of these places.

“Listen,” said Nilam, and both men heard flapping and piteous cries coming from the basement. They found a golden eagle chained to a perch in the darkened room. Her feet had been bound with plastic cable ties that cut into her feet, and the toes were swollen with infection. When Serik felt her flight muscles, they were soft. There was no telling how long she had been in her prison.

Serik wrapped the eagle in a tarpaulin cloth and took her back to the accommodation. Tuan Badak exploded with rage when Serik took the eagle into his office the next day but it did not matter. Serik told him of his skills as a berkutchi back in Kazakhstan and of a new plan for clearing condemned buildings of shumkar. Tuan Badak listened. The constant loss of workers looked bad on his track record.

Kantubit took off from Serik’s arm, soaring up into the twilight. Given her condition, Serik would have to release her soon. For her age she should not be ill, but something didn’t sound right in her lungs. Serik feared her ordeal had permanently weakened her, despite his painstaking care and nursing.

A large, matte black dragonfly hovered at the sixth and seventh levels, darting low before ascending high. Serik and Omar heard Tuan Badak laugh for the first time since they met him.

“Tuan Badak has a new toy,” remarked Nilam over the walkie-talkie.

“Copy,” replied Serik with disdain. An eagle could outmaneuver any drone because its brain made continuous adjustments in flight and speed.

“Serik! See me in my office after work!” Tuan Badak’s voice nearly broke the walkie-talkie loudspeaker. “Copy,” sighed Serik.

In the laboring air-conditioning of Tuan Badak’s office, Serik decided that if he was a shumkar, he would attack the foreman the same way as the other falcons: anchor talons to the shoulders and peck out his oily eyes, while simultaneously shitting in the mouth to add insult to injury.

“Your eagle – get rid of it,” said Tuan Badak, leaning back in his worn, neoprene-cushioned chair.

“But you said…?”

“That was then, this is now. More drones will be coming tomorrow.”

Serik kept quiet, trying to think of a reply to this new information. Tuan Badak mistook it for obstinacy.

“Get rid of your eagle now. Or find another job.” The screen door slammed shut as Serik strode out.

After lunch break, Omar glimpsed Serik as he disappeared into the office tower lobby, running past workers stepping off a bus.

“I know what Boss Badak said to you!”  “You can’t help me!” Serik replied, waiting for the lift to take him to the rooftop.

“There’s always a way.” said Omar.

“You’re right,” Serik nodded as both of them got into the lift, “I must let her go now.”

A message alert pinged in Omar’s pocket. He took out his phone and read the SMS from Nilam.

“Brother, don’t go up to the roof. Please.” Omar’s voice wavered.

Serik heard gunshots as the lift opened. As if Tengri was splitting the sky in half.

Serik scrambled on to the roof, searching for Kantubit. He saw eagle feathers – brown, white and black – scattered on the cement floor. Nilam was taking cover behind an exhaust vent.

“Tuan Badak now gone amok!” Nilam muttered as he shielded his face from the sun and possible incoming bullets. When Nilam saw the rage in Serik’s eyes he realized that fury was not necessarily explosive; it can be endothermic and drain the heat from the surroundings.

The foreman was on the roof, reloading a pump-action shotgun.  “Hoy!” cried Serik, clenching his fists.

The foreman spun around and did not lower the gun. “I told you to get rid of the eagle! I always hate it when my men don’t listen!”

Serik approached him, hoping that a worker’s serious injury or even death on the job would get Tuan Badak arrested. No such effect: a bullet missed Serik and ricocheted off the exhaust vent.

Kantubit’s body lay on the ledge. Her leash was still around her neck and the white secondary feathers of her wings were soaked with blood. Serik scooped her up and cradled her under his arm.

“Get off my site!” roared Tuan Badak in disgust.

Serik took hold of Kantubit’s leash and swung her body at the foreman. In death, she was still majestic as her wings spread out to full breadth. Tuan Badak’s face turned pale as he backed away from Serik. He tugged again and aimed the eagle like a sling. The foreman screamed as Kantubit’s legs jerked forward and her talons scratched his face.

Omar and Nilam did not see Tuan Badak fall off the roof, but they heard his long scream, distorted and getting fainter as he neared the ground below. Both men heard a final muffled thump and a metallic clanking as the body landed on a pile of steel pipes and cables.

All work on the site ceased. Serik stood on the ledge and Nilam yanked him back.

“Don’t let them see you!”

Omar tried to release Serik’s white-knuckled grip on Kantubit’s leash, but the fingers refused to budge.

“Leave now,” advised Omar.

Nilam shoved Serik towards the fire escape door on the roof. Omar reached into his hip-pouch and took out a packet of cigarettes, oral rehydration salts, and a wad of notes. He handed the items to Serik and said, “This is my ‘special’ for you, brother. Now go!”  # Running down the stairs, Serik wrapped Kantubit in his jacket. Descending floor after floor, he suddenly remembered the brochure with photos of the place of the white-bellied sea eagles.

According to the information on its pages, Terengganu was only a short bus journey out of Kuala Lumpur. With any luck, he would get to bury Kantubit at sea and find some sanctuary before trying to return home.

Sanctuary was not freedom, but for Kantubit, Serik was willing to find a sense of belonging.

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