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Give us 5 minutes, and we'll give you the world. Around the clock, Voice of America keeps you in touch with the latest news. We bring you reports from our correspondents and interviews with newsmakers from across the world.

Give us 5 minutes, and we'll give you the world. Around the clock, Voice of America keeps you in touch with the latest news. We bring you reports from our correspondents and interviews with newsmakers from across the world.

DUBAI, United Arab Emirates — Iran's Guardian Council on Sunday approved the country's hard-line parliament speaker and five others to run in the country's June 28 presidential election following a helicopter crash that killed President Ebrahim Raisi and seven others.  The council again barred former President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, a firebrand populist known for the crackdown that followed his disputed 2009 re-election, from running.  The council's decision represents the starting gun for a shortened, two-week campaign to replace Raisi, a hard-line protege of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei once floated as a possible successor for the 85-year-old cleric.  The selection of candidates approved by the Guardian Council, a panel of clerics and jurists ultimately overseen by Khamenei, suggests Iran's Shiite theocracy hopes to ease the election through after recent votes saw record-low turnout and as tensions remain high over the country's rapidly advancing nuclear program, as well as the Israel-Hamas war.  The Guardian Council also continued its streak of not accepting a woman or anyone calling for radical change to the country's governance.  The campaign likely will include live, televised debates by the candidates on Iran's state-run broadcaster. They also advertise on billboards and offer stump speeches to back their bids.  So far, none of them has offered any specifics, though all have promised a better economic situation for the country as it suffers from sanctions by the U.S. and other Western nations over its nuclear program, which now enriches uranium closer than ever to weapons-grade levels.  Such matters of state remain the final decision of Khamenei, but presidents in the past have leaned either toward engagement or confrontation with the West over it.  The most prominent candidate remains Mohammed Bagher Qalibaf, 62, a former Tehran mayor with close ties to the country's paramilitary Revolutionary Guard. However, many remember that Qalibaf, as a former Guard general, was part of a violent crackdown on Iranian university students in 1999. He also reportedly ordered live gunfire to be used against students in 2003 while serving as the country's police chief.  Qalibaf ran unsuccessfully for president in 2005 and 2013. He withdrew from the 2017 presidential campaign to support Raisi in his first failed presidential bid. Raisi won the 2021 election, which had the lowest turnout ever for a presidential vote in Iran, after every major opponent found themselves disqualified.  Khamenei gave a speech last week alluding to qualities that Qalibaf's supporters have highlighted as potentially signaling the supreme leader's support for the speaker.  Yet Qalibaf's role in crackdowns may be viewed differently after years of unrest that have gripped Iran, both over its ailing economy and the mass protests sparked by the 2022 death of Mahsa Amini, a young woman who died after being arrested for allegedly not wearing her headscarf, or hijab, to the liking of security forces.  The Guardian Council disqualified Ahmadinejad, the firebrand, Holocaust-questioning former president. Ahmadinejad increasingly challenged Khamenei toward the end of his term and is remembered for the bloody crackdown on the 2009 Green Movement protests. He was also disqualified in the last election by the panel.  The election comes at a time of heightened tensions between Iran and the West over its arming of Russia in that country's war on Ukraine. Its support of militia proxy forces throughout the wider Middle East has been increasingly in the spotlight as Yemen's Houthi rebels attack ships in the Red Sea over the Israel-Hamas war in the Gaza Strip.  Raisi, Iranian Foreign Minister Hossein Amirabdollahian and others were killed in the May 19 helicopter crash in the far northwest of Iran. Investigations are continuing, though authorities say there's no immediate sign of foul play in the crash on a cloud-covered mountainside.  Raisi is the second Iranian president to die in office. In 1981, a bomb blast killed President Mohammad Ali Rajai in the chaotic days after the country's Islamic Revolution.

Give us 5 minutes, and we'll give you the world. Around the clock, Voice of America keeps you in touch with the latest news. We bring you reports from our correspondents and interviews with newsmakers from across the world.

Seoul, South Korea — South Korea on Sunday resumed anti-North Korean propaganda loudspeaker broadcasts in border areas in retaliation for the North sending over 1,000 balloons filled with trash and manure over the last couple of weeks. The move is certain to anger Pyongyang and could trigger retaliatory military steps as tensions between the war-divided rivals rise while negotiations over the North's nuclear ambitions remain stalemated. South Korea's Joint Chiefs of Staff confirmed that the military conducted a loudspeaker broadcast Sunday afternoon. It didn't specify the border area where it took place or what was played over the speakers. "Whether our military conducts an additional loudspeaker broadcast is entirely dependent on North Korea's behavior," the Joint Chiefs of Staff said in a statement. Hours earlier, South Korean national security director Chang Ho-jin presided over an emergency meeting where officials decided to install and begin the broadcasts from loudspeakers. The South had withdrawn such equipment from border areas in 2018, during a brief period of engagement with the North under Seoul's previous liberal government. Chang and other South Korean security officials berated Pyongyang for attempting to cause "anxiety and disruption" in South Korea with the balloons and stressed that North Korea would be "solely responsible" for any future escalation of tensions. The North said its balloon campaign came after South Korean activists sent over balloons filled with anti-North Korean leaflets, as well as USB sticks filled with popular South Korean songs and dramas. Pyongyang is extremely sensitive to such material and fears it could demoralize front-line troops and residents and eventually weaken leader Kim Jong Un's grip on power, analysts say. South Korea has in the past used loudspeakers to blare anti-Pyongyang broadcasts, K-pop songs and international news across the rivals' heavily armed border. In 2015, when South Korea restarted loudspeaker broadcasts for the first time in 11 years, North Korea fired artillery rounds across the border, prompting South Korea to return fire, according to South Korean officials. No casualties were reported. Last week, as tensions spiked over the trash-carrying balloons, South Korea also suspended a 2018 agreement to reduce hostile acts along the border, allowing it to resume propaganda campaigns and possibly restart live-fire military exercises in border areas. South Korean Defense Minister Shin Won-sik in a meeting with top military commanders called for thorough preparation against the possibility that the North responds to the loudspeaker broadcasts with direct military action, the South Korean Defense Ministry said in a statement. North Korea continued to fly hundreds of balloons into South Korea over the weekend, a third such campaign since late May, the South's military said. South Korea's Joint Chiefs of Staff said it detected the North launching around 330 balloons toward the South since Saturday night and about 80 were found in South Korean territory as of Sunday morning. The military said winds were blowing eastward on Saturday night, which possibly caused many balloons to float away from South Korean territory. The South's military said the balloons that did land dropped trash, including plastic and paper waste, but no hazardous substances were discovered. The military, which has mobilized chemical rapid response and explosive clearance units to retrieve the North Korean balloons and materials, alerted the public to beware of falling objects and not to touch balloons found on the ground but report them to police or military authorities. In North Korea's previous two rounds of balloon activities, South Korean authorities discovered about 1,000 balloons that were tied to vinyl bags containing manure, cigarette butts, scraps of cloth, waste batteries and waste paper. Some were popped and scattered on roads, residential areas and schools. No highly dangerous materials were found and no major damage has been reported. The North's vice defense minister, Kim Kang Il, later said his country would stop the balloon campaign but threatened to resume it if South Korean activists sent leaflets again. In defiance of the warning, a South Korean civilian group led by North Korean defector Park Sang-hak, said it launched 10 balloons from a border town on Thursday carrying 200,000 anti-North Korean leaflets, USB sticks with K-pop songs and K-dramas, and $1 U.S. bills. South Korean media reported another activist group also flew balloons with 200,000 propaganda leaflets toward North Korea on Friday. Kim in recent years has waged an intensifying campaign to eliminate South Korean cultural and language influences. In January, Kim declared the North would abandon its longstanding goal of a peaceful unification with the South and rewrite its constitution to cement the South as a permanent enemy. Experts say Kim's efforts to reinforce the North's separate identity may be aimed at strengthening the Kim family's dynastic rule. North Korea's balloon campaign is also possibly meant to cause a divide in South Korea over its conservative government's hard-line approach to North Korea. Liberal lawmakers, some civic groups and front-line residents in South Korea have called on the government to urge leafleting activists to stop flying balloons to avoid unnecessary clashes with North Korea. But government officials haven't made such an appeal in line with last year's constitutional court ruling that struck down a law criminalizing an anti-North Korea leafletting as a violation of free speech.

Give us 5 minutes, and we'll give you the world. Around the clock, Voice of America keeps you in touch with the latest news. We bring you reports from our correspondents and interviews with newsmakers from across the world.

Give us 5 minutes, and we'll give you the world. Around the clock, Voice of America keeps you in touch with the latest news. We bring you reports from our correspondents and interviews with newsmakers from across the world.

KYIV, Ukraine — Ukrainian forces have for the first time hit a latest-generation Russian Sukhoi Su-57 fighter jet at an air base inside Russia, Kyiv's GUR defense intelligence agency said Sunday, showing satellite pictures which it said confirmed the strike. In a Telegram post, the GUR did not specify how the Su-57 was hit or by which unit of the Ukrainian military. A popular Russian pro-war military blogger who calls himself Fighterbomber and focuses on aviation said the report of the strike on the Su-57 was correct and that it had been hit by a drone. The GUR said the aircraft was parked at the Akhtubinsk airfield, which it said was 589 kilometers from front lines in Ukraine between Ukrainian and Russian invasion forces. "The pictures show that on June 7, the Su-57 was standing intact, and on (June 8th), there were craters from the explosion and characteristic spots of fire caused by fire damage near it," the GUR said, with the images posted alongside the message. Ukraine has been fighting a full-scale Russian invasion since February 2022. Both sides conduct regular strikes hundreds of kilometers into enemy territory with missiles and drones. Ukraine, which lacks the vast arsenal of missiles available to Moscow, has focused on making long-range drones to strike targets deep inside Russia. Russian blogger Fighterbomber said the jet fighter was struck by shrapnel and the damage was currently being assessed to see if the aircraft could be repaired. He said if the plane were to be deemed beyond repair it would be the first combat loss of a Su-57. Russian state-run news agency RIA Novosti’s military correspondent Alexander Kharchenko posted a cryptic message which did not directly acknowledge the strike but decried the lack of hangars to protect military aircraft. Despite being touted as a Russian fifth-generation fighter aircraft to rival its U.S. equivalent, the Su-57 was plagued by development delays and a crash in 2019. According to its manufacturer, serial production of the aircraft began in 2022. It is a heavy fighter jet capable of fulfilling a variety of battlefield roles. 

Give us 5 minutes, and we'll give you the world. Around the clock, Voice of America keeps you in touch with the latest news. We bring you reports from our correspondents and interviews with newsmakers from across the world.

Give us 5 minutes, and we'll give you the world. Around the clock, Voice of America keeps you in touch with the latest news. We bring you reports from our correspondents and interviews with newsmakers from across the world.

Dakar, Senegal — When armed men entered Safi’s village in northern Burkina Faso and began firing, she hid in her home with her four children. The gunmen found them and let them live — to suffer the guilt of survival — after killing her husband and other relatives. Safi, whose last name has been withheld for security reasons, is among 2 million people displaced in the West African country by growing violence between Islamic extremists and security forces. About 60% of the displaced are children. Many are traumatized, but mental health services are limited and children are often overlooked for treatment. “People often think that the children have seen nothing, nothing has happened to them, it’s fine,” said Rudy Lukamba, the health coordinator for the International Committee of the Red Cross in Burkina Faso. He works on a program to help identify and treat traumatized children. It often relies on mothers to spot signs in children as young as 3 or 4. The chances of a successful outcome after treatment is greater when the children have a parental figure in their lives, he said. Mass killings of villagers have become common in northern Burkina Faso as fighters linked to the Islamic State group and al-Qaida attack the army and volunteer forces. Those forces can turn on villages accused of cooperating with the enemy. More than 20,000 people have been killed since the fighting began a decade ago, according to the Armed Conflict Location and Event Data Project, a U.S.-based nonprofit group. Mental health services in Burkina Faso are often reserved for only the most severe cases. A U.N. survey published in 2023 showed 103 mental health professionals in the country of more than 20 million people, including 11 psychiatrists. Community-based mental health services by social workers are expanding, now numbering in the hundreds and supported by a small team of U.N. psychologists. In addition, traditional medicine practitioners in Burkina Faso say families are increasingly turning to them for help with traumatized children. But the need is immense. The U.N. said surveys by it and partners show that 10 out of 11 people affected by the conflict show signs of trauma. With no money and fearing another attack, Safi set off on foot with seven children, including her own, across the arid plains in search of safety. They settled in a community in Ouahigouya, the capital of Yatenga province, and sought help. It was there that Safi learned how post-traumatic stress can affect children. They had nightmares and couldn’t sleep. During the day, they didn’t play with other children. Through the ICRC, Safi was connected with a health worker who helped through home visits and art, encouraging the children to draw their fears and talk about them. Traditional medicine practitioners are also helping traumatized children. One, Rasmane Rouamba, said he treats about five children a month, adapting the approach depending on the trauma suffered. Children in Burkina Faso also have lost access to education and basic healthcare in fighting-affected areas. The closure of schools is depriving almost 850,000 children of access to education, the U.N. children’s agency has said. The closure of hundreds of health facilities has left 3.6 million people without access to care, it said. Burkina Faso's government has struggled to improve security.   The country's military leader, Capt. Ibrahim Traoré, seized power in 2022 amid frustrations with the government over the deadly attacks. He is expected to remain in office for another five years, delaying the junta's promises of a democratic transition. Around half of Burkina Faso’s territory remains outside government control. Civic freedoms have been rolled back and journalists expelled. And the country has distanced itself from regional and Western nations that don’t agree with its approach, severing military ties with former colonial ruler France and turning to Russia instead for security support. Safi, adrift with her children, said she plans to stay in her new community for now. She has no money or other place to go.  “There’s a perfect harmony in the community, and they have become like family,” she said. 

KAMPALA, Uganda — Early last year, Caroline Ikendi was in distress after undergoing an emergency Caesarean section to remove one stillborn baby and save two others. Doctors said one of the preterm babies had a 2% chance of living. If the babies didn't get breast milk — which she didn't have — Ikendi could lose them as well. Thus began a desperate search for breast milk donors. She was lucky with a neighbor, a woman with a newborn baby to feed who was willing to donate a few milliliters at a time. "You go and plead for milk. You are like, 'Please help me, help my child,'" Ikendi told The Associated Press. The neighbor helped until Ikendi heard about a Ugandan group that collects breast milk and donates it to mothers like her. Soon the ATTA Breastmilk Community was giving the breast milk she needed, free of charge, until her babies were strong enough to be discharged from the hospital. ATTA Breastmilk Community was launched in 2021 in the Ugandan capital, Kampala, by a woman who had struggled like Ikendi without getting support. The registered nonprofit, backed by grants from organizations and individuals, is the only group outside a hospital setting in Uganda that conserves breast milk in substantial amounts. ATTA, as the group is known, receives calls for support from hospitals and homes with babies born too soon or too sick to latch onto their mothers' breasts. More than 200 mothers have donated breast milk to support more than 450 babies since July 2021, with over 600 liters of milk delivered for babies in that period, according to ATTA's records. In a measure of efforts to build a reliable community, many donors have given multiple times while others help to find new ones, said ATTA administrator Racheal Akugizibwe. "We are an emergency fix," Akugizibwe said. "As the mother is working on their own production, we are giving (her) milk. But we do it under the directive and under the support of a lactation specialist and the medical people." She added: "Every mother who has given us milk, they are kind of attached to us. They are we; we are them. That's what makes it a community." ATTA makes calls for donors via social media apps like Instagram. Women who want to donate must provide samples for testing, including for HIV and hepatitis B and C, and there are formal conversations during which ATTA tries to learn more about potential donors and motivations. Those who pass the screening are given storage bags and instructed in safe handling. Akugizibwe spoke of ATTA's humble beginnings in the home of its founder, Tracy Ahumuza, who would store the milk in her freezer. Ahumuza started the group amid personal grief: She hadn't been able to produce breast milk for her newborn who battled life-threatening complications. Days later, after the baby died, she started lactating. She asked health workers, "Where do I put the milk that I have now?'" Akugizibwe said. "They told her, 'All we can do for you is give you tablets to dry it out.' She's like, 'No, but if I needed it and I didn't get it, someone could need it.'" In the beginning, ATTA would match a donor to a recipient, but it proved unsustainable because of the pressure it put on donors. ATTA then started collecting and storing breast milk, and donors and recipients don't know each other. Akugizibwe said the group gets more requests for support than it can meet. Challenges include procuring storage bags in large quantities as well as the costs of testing. And donors are required to own freezers, a financial obstacle for some. "The demand is extremely, extremely high," Akugizibwe said, "but the supply is low." Lelah Wamala, a chef and mother of three in Kampala who twice has donated milk, said she was spurred to act when, while having a baby in 2022, she saw mothers whose premature babies were dying because they didn't have milk. Being a donor is a time-consuming responsibility, "but this is the right thing to do," she said. Via motorcycle courier on Kampala's busy streets, breast milk from donors is taken to ATTA's storage and delivered to parents in need. ATTA's goal is to set up a full-fledged breast milk bank with the ability to pasteurize. The service is necessary in a country where an unknown number of women suffer for lack of lactation support, said Dr. Doreen Mazakpwe, a lactation specialist who collaborates with ATTA. Mazakpwe cited a range of lactation issues mothers can face, from sore nipples to babies born too sick or too weak to suckle and stimulate milk production. If both mother and baby are healthy, "this mother should be able to produce as much milk as the baby needs because we work on the principle of supply and demand," said Mazakpwe, a consultant with a private hospital outside Kampala. "So, in situations where there's a delay in putting the baby on the breast, or the baby is not fed frequently enough … you can eventually have an issue where you have low supply." Mazakpwe said she advises mothers on how to establish their own supply within about a month of receiving donated breast milk, and sometimes all that's needed is to hold the baby the right way. When mothers start lactating, it frees up supply for new ones who need ATTA's help, she said. Akugizibwe said their work is challenging in a socially conservative society where such a pioneering service raises eyebrows. Questions, even from recipients, include fears that babies who drink donated breast milk might inherit the bad habits of their benefactors. In addition, "If you don't breastfeed there is a lot of negativity," said Ikendi, whose premature babies survived on donated milk. "Society looks at you as though you've just literally refused to breastfeed." She spoke of struggling even when she knew she had no choice after seeing her babies in the intensive care unit for the first time. Through the glass she saw they were so tiny, on oxygen therapy and bleeding from their noses. The babies, a boy and a girl, had been removed at seven months. Ikendi's babies received donated breast milk for two months. One recent morning, an emotional Ikendi held her children as she described how the donated milk "contributed 100% to our babies' growth."

Spokane, Washington — The inmates of Washington state's prison system tramp through the forest, their yellow uniforms and helmets bright against the brown branches and green leaves.   They are Arcadia 20, or ARC 20, an elite group of firefighters based in Spokane who have been recruited from existing firefighting prison camps.   The aim? Teach the inmates the skills needed to help prevent forest fires - and in the process, give them an opportunity to start on a path to a new career.   Recruited by the state's Department of Natural Resources and Department of Corrections, the program seeks to provide the dozen or so inmates with enough training to prepare them for jobs as civilian firefighters once they have completed their sentences.   "I do believe one thing for sure, that people deserve a second chance," said Kenyatta Bridges, 34, who joined the ARC 20 team for training in the middle of last year while serving a 10-year sentence for manslaughter in a 2014 gang-affiliated shooting in Pasco, Washington.   Bridges started a job in a civilian fire crew on June 3, following his release.   Reuters was granted exclusive access to ARC 20 over three months, including a visit last August to the Tonasket Rodeo Grounds, a rural community in northeast Washington near the Canadian border. Bridges and the ARC 20 crew were setting up their tents after a day of helping contain a fire. Crew members learn how to conduct prescribed burns, how to handle dangerous equipment, and how to ensure fires that have been contained stay that way. And when necessary, they are on the front lines of a fire, digging lines to help reduce the chance a fire will continue to spread. "Team work, communications skills, an accountability for one's actions and others as it relates to duties and providing for safety" are an integral part of their mindset, according to ARC 20 management.   "The fellas that I've worked shoulder to shoulder with, they're amazing," Bridges said. "We all made bad decisions in our life. Some of us got caught, some of us didn't. But we learn from our mistakes." Earning ability While states across the American West have inmate firefighting crews, Washington's ARC 20 program is the only one of its kind in the U.S., recruiting incarcerated individuals from full confinement into a reentry center where they continue to build skills in firefighting and prepare for life after release.   They also earn more. Inmates in Washington state's regular prison firefighting camps, who number around 230, are paid up to $1.50 per hour, based on experience, for their daily duties. When dispatched to an active fire zone, they are paid the state's minimum wage of $16.28 per hour plus overtime.   Elite crew members who have joined the ARC 20 team are paid a base salary of up to $3,796 per month with potential overtime pay on fire assignments. This year-round crew has a maximum of 20 team members.   It had 13 people on the team during its first full year in 2023 and expects to have 12 as Washington state's fire season ramps up at the end of June. The Pacific Northwest is struggling with the effects of climate change, with higher-than-normal chances of wildfires and a longer season this year, according to meteorologists at the Department of Natural Resources, the state agency charged with wildfire prevention and management.   According to DNR officials who manage both fully incarcerated camp crews and the ARC 20 team, a high-earning member of the camp crew received approximately $11,000 in 2023, whereas an ARC 20 crew member earned up to $60,000.   The ARC 20 team is trained to join "hand crews" — teams of 18 to 25 firefighters who work and camp near the front lines of active wildfires, often hiking long distances and carrying their own gear to reach remote areas. They also conduct prescribed burns and chainsaw trees to the ground as part of the state's fire mitigation and forest management efforts. ARC 20's crew superintendent Ben Hood is on the team that selects participants. "We call it getting bit with the fire bug... Once you get bit with it, you're hooked in," said Hood. "It becomes part of, kind of who you are, becomes more than just a job. It kind of becomes a lifestyle."   When the team isn't traveling the state fighting fires, they are housed at Brownstone Reentry Center, a minimum security facility in downtown Spokane. Residents participate in work or training programs and are granted additional freedoms like wearing normal clothes or owning a cellphone.   ARC 20 crew members are paid higher wages than some staff in the state's correctional system, including the facility where they live, according to Brownstone's manager. Running a kitchen Reuters visited another crew of fully incarcerated individuals in September at a Department of Natural Resources facility at Cedar Creek Corrections Center, southwest of the state's capital city, Olympia.   They had just returned from a weeks-long assignment running a mobile kitchen for almost 1,000 wildland firefighters per day, who were fighting two of the 2023 season's biggest fires in the state.   Timothy Bullock, 32, an electrician jailed for second-degree assault stemming from a domestic dispute, said he has changed his life goals and wants to become a wildland firefighter. "I used to drink quite a bit... it was a terrible mistake on my part that affected other people, people I cared about. So it's hard dealing with that," said Bullock, acknowledging a prison sentence may have been needed for him to change his path. "I just know that I'm never going to make those types of mistakes ever again."   Bullock has been a standout member of the Cedar Creek Corrections Center camp crew, according to his bosses at DNR. He has submitted his application for ARC 20 and is being considered for a spot in late 2024. "I'm getting real close to getting out. It's kind of working out for the better, you know, to get back on my feet and then have an opportunity when I get out," said Bullock. Washington's model could be a 'stepping stone' for state agencies across the U.S., according to transition crew liaison Roy Hardin, who helped form the crew with Hood.   "If a person is employed, has a really good job right when they get out of prison, they're not homeless, they're probably not going to come back," said Hardin. He said four crew members from ARC 20 have gone on to take jobs as members of the state firefighting agency – one engine leader and three engine crew members.   Kenyatta Bridges is one of those crew members.   On June 3, he started fighting fires with DNR's Arcadia Engine 7405 near Spokane, in one of the most wildfire prone areas of Washington state.   "He's hard working. He's motivated," said superintendent Hood, who recruited Bridges. "He's becoming one of those leaders. He's good with the chainsaw. He doesn't know how to quit working; he's physically capable of the job. He's what you want in a firefighter." Bridges is elated for this new chapter of his life. Since his release from Brownstone he has been living in transitional housing with other formerly incarcerated individuals in Spokane, and on May 20 his partner gave birth to their son.   "I feel like I couldn't ask for nothing better," Bridges said, discussing his life post-release. "To have everything so quickly, it feels like every gear is rotating and spinning just on point."

WESTPORT, Connecticut — Kate Bulkeley's pledge to stay off social media in high school worked at first. She watched the benefits pile up: She was getting excellent grades. She read lots of books. The family had lively conversations around the dinner table and gathered for movie nights on weekends. Then, as sophomore year got under way, the unexpected problems surfaced. She missed a student government meeting arranged on Snapchat. Her Model U.N. team communicates on social media, too, causing her scheduling problems. Even the Bible Study club at her Connecticut high school uses Instagram to communicate with members. Gabriela Durham, a high school senior in Brooklyn, says navigating high school without social media has made her who she is today. She is a focused, organized, straight-A student. Not having social media has made her an "outsider," in some ways. That used to hurt; now, she says, it feels like a badge of honor. With the damaging consequences of social media increasingly well documented, many parents are trying to raise their children with restrictions or blanket bans. Teenagers themselves are aware that too much social media is bad for them, and some are initiating social media "cleanses" because of the toll it takes on mental health and grades. This is a tale of two families, social media and the ever-present challenge of navigating high school. It's about what kids do when they can't extend their Snapstreaks or shut their bedroom doors and scroll through TikToks past midnight. It's about what families discuss when they're not having screen-time battles. It's also about persistent social ramifications. The journeys of both families show the rewards and pitfalls of trying to avoid social media in a world that is saturated by it. Concerns about children and phone use are not new. But there is a growing realization among experts that the COVID-19 pandemic fundamentally changed the relationship kids have with social media. As youth coped with isolation and spent excessive time online, the pandemic effectively carved out a much larger space for social media in the lives of American children. Social media is where many kids turn to forge their emerging identities, to seek advice, to unwind and relieve stress. In this era of parental control apps and location tracking, social media is where this generation is finding freedom. It is also increasingly clear that the more time youth spend online, the higher the risk of mental health problems. Kids who use social media for more than three hours a day face double the risk of depression and anxiety, according to studies cited by U.S. Surgeon General Vivek Murthy, who issued an extraordinary public warning last spring about the risks of social media to young people. The Bulkeleys and Gabriela's mother, Elena Romero, both set strict rules starting when their kids were young and still in elementary school. They delayed giving phones until middle school and declared no social media until 18. They educated the girls, and their younger siblings, on the impact of social media on young brains, on online privacy concerns, on the dangers of posting photos or comments that can come back to haunt you. At school, on the subway and at dance classes around New York City, Gabriela is surrounded by reminders that social media is everywhere — except on her phone. Growing up without it has meant missing out on things. Everyone but you gets the same jokes, practices the same TikTok dances, is up on the latest viral trends. When Gabriela was younger, that felt isolating; at times, it still does. But now, she sees not having social media as freeing. "From my perspective, as an outsider," she says, "it seems like a lot of kids use social media to promote a facade. And it's really sad." There is also friend drama on social media and a lack of honesty, humility and kindness that she feels lucky to be removed from. Gabriela is a dance major at the Brooklyn High School of the Arts. Senior year got intense with college and scholarship applications capped by getting to perform at Broadway's Shubert Theatre in March as part of a city showcase of high school musicals. "My kids' schedules will make your head spin," Romero says. On school days, they're up at 5:30 a.m. and out the door by 7. Romero drives the girls to their three schools scattered around Brooklyn, then takes the subway into Manhattan, where she teaches mass communications at the Fashion Institute of Technology. In New York City, it's common for kids to get phones early in elementary school, but Romero waited until each daughter reached middle school and started taking public transportation home alone. In the upscale suburb of Westport, Connecticut, the Bulkeleys have faced questions about bending their rules. But not for the reason they had anticipated. Kate was perfectly content to not have social media. Her parents figured at some point she might resist their ban because of peer pressure or fear of missing out. But the 15-year-old sees it as a waste of time. She describes herself as academic, introverted and focused on building up extracurricular activities. That's why she needed Instagram. "I needed it to be co-president of my Bible Study Club," Kate explains. As Kate's sophomore year started, she told her parents that she was excited to be leading a variety of clubs but needed social media to do her job. "It was the school that really drove the fact that we had to reconsider our rule about no social media," says Steph Bulkeley, Kate's mother. Schools talk the talk about limiting screen time and the dangers of social media, says her dad, Russ Bulkeley. But technology is rapidly becoming part of the school day. Kate's high school and their 13-year-old daughter Sutton's middle school have cell phone bans that aren't enforced. Teachers will ask them to take out their phones to photograph material during class time. The Bulkeleys aren't on board with that but feel powerless to change it. Ultimately they gave in to Kate's plea for Instagram because they trust her, and because she's too busy to devote much time to social media.

LOS GATOS, California — Although its video streaming service sparkles with a Hollywood sheen, Netflix still taps its roots in Silicon Valley to stay a step ahead of traditional TV and movie studios. The Los Gatos, California, company, based more than 300 miles away from Hollywood, frequently reaches into its technological toolbox without viewers even realizing it. It often just uses a few subtle twists on the knobs of viewer recommendations to help keep its 270 million worldwide subscribers satisfied at a time when most of its streaming rivals are seeing waves of cancelations from inflation-weary subscribers. Even when hit TV series like “The Crown” or “Bridgerton” have wide appeal, Netflix still tries to cater to the divergent tastes of its vast audience. One part of that recipe includes tailoring summaries and trailers about its smorgasbord of shows to fit the personal interests of each viewer. So, someone who likes romance might see a plot summary or video trailer for “The Crown” highlighting the relationship between Princess Diana and Charles, while another viewer more into political intrigue may be shown a clip of Queen Elizabeth in a meeting with Margaret Thatcher. For an Oscar-nominated film like “Nyad,” a lover of action might see a trailer of the title character immersed in water during one of her epic swims, while a comedy fan might see a lighthearted scene featuring some amusing banter between the two stars, Annette Bening and Jodie Foster. Netflix is able to pull off these variations through the deep understanding of viewing habits it gleans from crunching the data from subscribers' histories with its service — including those of customers who signed up in the late 1990s when the company launched with a DVD-by-mail service that continued to operate until last September. “It is a secret sauce for us, no doubt,” Eunice Kim, Netflix's chief product officer, said while discussing the nuances of the ways Netflix tries to reel different viewers into watching different shows. “The North Star we have every day is keep people engaged, but also make sure they are incredibly satisfied with their viewing experiences.” As part of that effort, Netflix is rolling out a redesign of the home page that greets subscribers when they are watching the streaming service on a TV screen. The changes are meant to package all the information that might appeal to a subscriber's tastes in a more concise format to reduce the “gymnastics with their eyes,” said Patrick Flemming, Netflix's senior director of member product. What Netflix is doing with its previews may seem like a small thing, but it can make a huge difference, especially as people looking to save money start to limit the number of streaming services they have. Last year, video streaming services collectively suffered about 140 million account cancelations, a 35% increase from 2022 and nearly triple the volume in 2020, when the COVID-19 pandemic created a boom in demand for entertainment from people corralled at home, according to numbers compiled by the research firm Antenna. Netflix doesn't disclose its cancelation, or churn rate, but last year its streaming service gained 30 million subscribers — marking its second-biggest annual increase behind its own growth spurt during the 2020 pandemic lockdowns. Part of last year's subscription growth flowed from a crackdown on viewers who had been freeloading off Netflix subscribers who shared their account passwords. But the company is also benefiting from the technological know-how that helps it to keep funneling shows to customers who like them and make them think the service is worth the money, according to J. Christopher Hamilton, an assistant professor of television, radio and film at Syracuse University. “What they have been doing is pretty ingenious and very, very strategic,” Hamilton said. “They are definitely ahead of the legacy media companies who are trying to do some of the same things but just don’t have the level of sophistication, experience nor the history of the data in their archives.” Netflix's nerdy heritage once was mocked by an entertainment industry that looked down at the company's geekdom. Not long after that put-down, Netflix began mining its viewing data to figure out how to produce a slate of original programming that would attract more subscribers — an ambitious expansion that forced Time Warner (now rolled into Warner Bros. Discovery) and other long-established entertainment companies such as Walt Disney Co. into a mad scramble to build their own streaming services. Although those expansions initially attracted hordes of subscribers, they also resulted in massive losses that have resulted in management shakeups and drastic cutbacks, including the abrupt closure of a CNN streaming service.  What Netflix is doing with technology to retain subscribers to boost its fortunes — the company's profit rose 20% to $5.4 billion last year — now is widening the divide with rival services still trying to stanch their losses. Disney's 4-year-old streaming service recently became profitable after an overhaul engineered by CEO Bob Iger, but he thinks more work will be required to catch up with Netflix. Netflix isn't going to help its rivals by divulging its secrets, but the slicing and dicing generally starts with getting a grasp on which viewers tend to gravitate to certain genres — the broad categories include action, adventure, anime, fantasy, drama, horror, comedy, romance and documentary — and then diving deeper from there. In some instances, Netflix's technology will even try to divine a viewer's mood at any given time by analyzing what titles are being browsed or clicked on. In other instances, it's relatively easy for the technology to figure out how to make a film or TV series as appealing as possible to specific viewers. If Netflix's data shows a subscriber has watched a lot of Hindi productions, it would be almost a no-brainer to feature clips of Bollywood actress Alia Bhatt in a role she played in the U.S. film, “Heart of Stone” instead of the movie's lead actress, Gal Gadot.

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