The Brief

The family WhatsApp group pinged this past Sunday night with a message from my father, who had sent a dua, an Islamic prayer that we typically recite in remembrance of the dead.

I was confused — it was not my mother’s death anniversary and there was no recent death in the family. Then I glanced at the calendar: it was already 9/11 in Sri Lanka.

When the two planes crashed into the World Trade Center 22 years ago, I was around 8,700 miles away at my grandmother’s funeral in Colombo, Sri Lanka. I was 11 years old wearing a black skirt and purple button-down shirt with a black chiffon shawl loosely wrapped around my head, wondering if my father would make it to his mother’s funeral. He was working in Dubai at the time and since mobile phones weren’t as widely available then, it was after work hours when my father got the news that his mother had passed. And under Muslim beliefs, we bury our dead within 24 hours of their death.

My father did make the funeral, and we buried my grandmother on September 12. While we passed around Marie biscuits and cloudy lumps of sugar crystals, America was reeling from one of the biggest terror events of the 21st century, one that would in time profoundly impact foreign policy and change life as they knew it for American Muslims.

Little did I know the events taking place in New York would inform my career choice and influence how I report. Yet, at the time, I only truly understood what had happened a few days after the funeral because for my Sri Lankan Muslim family, when there is a death in the family we turn off the TV for three days. And this was before the age of social media.

Growing up in the era of the Sri Lankan civil war, I was no stranger to bomb blasts and suicide bombers. My first memory of one was when I was 6, watching on TV as plumes of black smoke quickly took over the sky while people scampered away from the site of the Central Bank bombing in Colombo. With four journalists in my immediate family and my father working for a newspaper, I was de-sensitized to the news pretty early on.

But, watching those planes fly into the buildings was different.

Maybe it was the sheer audacity of it? Maybe it was seeing the Bin Laden name at construction sites quite often as a kid in Dubai and the disbelief that someone from this family could commit such a heinous crime? Maybe it was because this was all we heard about on the news or read about?

If you ask me who the Secretary of State and Defense Secretary is right now, I need a moment to think. But, back then, with my father playing CNN on a loop everyday, Condoleezza Rice, Colin Powell, Donald Rumsfeld were household names.

Growing up in the shadow of 9/11, I also became hyper aware of how American media was portraying the Middle East; the very place that offered my parents a safe space to raise their children away from the terrors of Sri Lanka’s civil war. I have a complicated relationship with Saudi Arabia, where I was born, and the UAE, where I have lived the longest. But in the media I saw a place I did not recognize from my own experiences: an unsafe, backward, almost barbaric place where women are oppressed and locked away by men who are terrorists.

I hated what I was seeing on TV.

Yes, some countries in the Middle East still have a long way to go in terms of affording human rights to all residents. America present and past has its own bad history.

In the UAE, I watched movies, went bowling, and sat in food courts alongside men, who looked like those shackled at Guantanamo Bay. I never once felt unsafe in the 20 years I lived in the Middle East. The very women branded as oppressed I looked up to, I aspired to be like — they were my teachers, my aunties, my mother.

After 9/11, all of a sudden, the people I knew, the communities I grew up with became the enemy.

It wasn’t until I was 18, living in Malaysia, that I fully comprehended how 9/11 had shaped my formative years. Wanting to escape a future in the sciences, I completed the Ontario Secondary School Diploma in Malaysia. My teacher, Ms. Sutter, showed us a video in our “World Issues” class about the media’s role in the 2003 U.S. invasion of Iraq.

I watched how the words “weapons of mass destruction” were repeated, over and over again. Television channels ran the story, without fact-checking. Muslims — and the Arab world — became the enemy.

Has that gone away? Depends on who you ask.

In 2017, a few months before I boarded a flight to LAX to begin life here, a former colleague told me I should change my name and remove my headscarf so I could have it easy. His name was Amir but he went as Alex when he was in America.

The culture of surveillance, the othering, has defined the American Muslim experience (read about how it affected my friend Salma in this Los Angeles Times story). But, so has fortitude.

When I read Los Angeles Times journalist Lorraine Ali’s piece in 2021, I was shocked to learn that Americans did not see Saddam Hussein’s execution like I did (every gruesome detail), that it wasn’t splashed on front pages like it was in the UAE.

When I decided to pivot back to journalism after a brief stint in marketing, I did so by enrolling in a graduate program at USC. In my first chat with my mentor, Dr. Allissa Richardson, I mentioned that I wanted to continue writing for the web or a print publication. She asked me why I wasn’t considering radio or TV.

I told her: I am a Muslim woman who wears a headscarf and has a weird accent.

Dr. Richardson encouraged me to bring my whole self into the newsroom.

And here I am today, a hijab-wearing woman in a Southern California newsroom — and you hear my voice on the radio.

My whole reason for entering this profession is to ensure the accurate coverage of communities; it’s easy to paint whole swathes of a community with one brush.

That anger and hurt that I felt listening to anchors talk about a Middle East and Arab world I did not recognize? That informs my own reporting on communities.

But just as there is beauty in taking time to observe the intricate detailing and reflecting on an artist’s thought process behind a painting, so too is there beauty in truly understanding a community’s humanity.

Music fans are becoming increasingly uncomfortable with AI songs, according to a recent report published by the music and entertainment insights company Luminate. The decline is especially notable with young listeners who are part of Gen Z and Gen Alpha.

The study compared attitudes towards AI use in music creation from May to November of 2025. It found that overall interest dropped from -13% to -20% during that time period.

"Across the board, what we found is that consumers are net negative," says Audrey Schomer, a media analyst and research editor at Luminate who authored the report, titled "Generative AI in Entertainment 2026: Examining Changes in Industry Strategies, Legal Challenges & Consumer Attitudes." "All that means is that people are more likely to feel uncomfortable than to feel comfortable with AI use."

The results include partial AI usage (like for writing lyrics or creating vocals) as well as fully AI generated compositions or performances, though the latter is viewed in a more negative light. A significant portion of the people surveyed — about a third — feel indifferent towards AI music altogether. Schomer notes that the decline in interest is marked by people who changed their outlook from positive to negative from May to November.

The Luminate report coincides with a rise in generative AI content across social media and streaming platforms. Last year, the French company Deezer implemented an AI detection tool to track and label how much "synthetic content" is uploaded to its streaming platform. Earlier this month, Deezer reported that approximately 44% of daily uploads are now AI generated tracks. But when it comes to listening behaviors, there's no sustained uptick to match; Deezer found that AI songs account for less than 3% of total streams on the platform, and a majority of those streams have been deemed fraudulent, meaning they're likely driven by bots rather than human listeners. (Deezer says it demonetizes these streams).

In recent months, artists and advocates have raised concerns about how a spike in AI content on streaming services can affect how much real musicians get paid. That's because Spotify, Apple Music and several other companies rely on a pro rata model: if an artist's catalog accounts for a certain percentage of total streams on the platform, that's the percentage of total royalty payouts they receive. In February, several artists' rights groups from around the world published an open letter called "Say No To Suno" — a reference to one of the largest AI song generators — in which they claimed that AI content "dilutes the royalty pools of legitimate artists from whose music this slop is derived."

Still, the hype around AI music isn't entirely fake. Several self-disclosed AI projects, including Xania Monet and Breaking Rust, have already landed on the Billboard charts. Monet is the artificially created avatar behind Mississippi poet Telisha "Nikki" Jones, who uses Suno to turn her words into R&B compositions and performances. According to Billboard, Monet signed a multimillion dollar record deal with Hallwood Media in the fall.

For some singers, these developments raise serious concerns about the state of the industry. In March, R&B singer SZA told the magazine i-D that she feels "at war" with AI and the kind of content being created with it.

"It's happening disproportionately with Black music," SZA said. "Why am I hearing AI covers of Olivia Dean, when Olivia Dean just came the f*** out? She can't even collect the streams. I'm also really offended by the type of Black music that's coming out of AI. Weird, stereotypical struggle music."

Although Luminate's study did not ask listeners why their outlook on AI has shifted, Schomer suggests that musicians speaking out against AI could be moving the needle.

"If people have any sort of affinities towards specific artists who have been active in some of those artist rights campaigns, then perhaps that rising awareness would lead people – particularly young people — to be more anti AI," she says.

She also says that as AI becomes more common in everyday life, AI fatigue or brain fry (mental burnout from excessive AI use) could also be playing a role in changing attitudes, particularly for younger generations that have more anxieties about entering a rapidly changing workforce shaped by AI.

"There's more and more concerns about jobs, and I think that Gen Z are probably among the biggest receivers of some of that messaging around contraction of job opportunities [and] entry level jobs," Schomer says.

When it comes to music, Luminate's report found that sentiments are particularly negative towards new songs created by AI in the style or sound of an existing artist. Major AI song generators including Suno and Udio have faced copyright lawsuits for training their models on artists' music without authorization — but several labels and publishers, including Warner Music Group and Universal Music Group, have struck licensing deals with these same AI tools. The agreements would compensate artists and songwriters for opting into having their likeness, voice or style used in AI creation. Last month, Taylor Swift became the latest artist to file several trademark patents that could be meant to protect her voice or image from being used in this way by AI tools.

Looking ahead, several music generators and streaming services like Spotify have indicated that they'd like to create interactive ways for fans to remix and alter existing songs using AI. Given Luminate's findings, which indicate that people are least comfortable with AI usage to create new music that mimics the sound or style of existing artists, Schomer says building audience trust in those new features could pose a real challenge.

"If the biggest decline among young users is on that particular kind of activity, it's the very thing that's being proposed to happen in these services," Schomer says. "I think that poses a potential uphill battle for the services to actually attract users and demonstrate that this is a good thing for the industry."

Jazz maestro and Afro-Cuban music legend Arturo Sandoval's obsession with sound began at the age of 13 in the small town of Artemisa in western Cuba.

Now 76, Sandoval boasts a history that includes being mentored by Dizzy Gillespie, winning 10 Grammys and a Presidential Medal of Freedom, and collaborating with towering figures like Stevie Wonder and the "Queen of Salsa" herself, the late Celia Cruz.

But on his 49th studio album, "SANGÚ," Sandoval turns inward, with a little help from his family. His son, Arturo "Tury" Sandoval III, and daughter-in-law, Melody Lisman, helped conceive and produce the album.

"They came one day to my house and said 'you know what? We have an idea,'" Sandoval says. "'You need something different. You need to refresh your repertoire.' And I said okay."

During the pandemic, when live music venues were shut down, Sandoval's frustration at being stuck at home led to a burst of creativity.

"I started composing new tunes and making videos every day. For two and a half years, I was doing that, and I wrote a few hundreds new songs,"

Sandoval III and Lisman selected 100 of those songs and then came back to the older Sandoval and told him to choose just 12 to record for the new album.

Sandoval's famous trumpet peppers the entire album with classic bebop, funk and Afro-Cuban stylings that made him famous, but it also sounds unmistakably modern, as if he's reaching back into his history and plucking notes specifically to pass on to future generations.

What is 'SANGÚ'?

One might be tempted to try and translate the album's title, but you won't find it in any Spanish/English dictionary. The elder Sandoval says the title is funnier, and more personal than that.

"My English, my pronunciation is very funny," Sandoval explains.

After recording the first track on the album, he turned to his son and daughter-in-law and said, "It sounds good."

"They started laughing so hard," Sandoval recalls. " I said, 'what is funny about it?' I said 'it sounds good.'"

"They said 'no, you didn't say that. You said S-A-N-G-U with an accent.' SANGÚ."

A surprisingly common language

Perhaps the oddest part of the "SANGÚ" story is that even though Sandoval III has never considered himself a musician, helping to produce his father's latest project was incredibly natural.

"It's been quite a journey," Sandoval III says. "To some degrees music was the common language, was the lingua franca that my dad and I could really speak unexpectedly even though it's not my natural language."

Sandoval III calls collaborating with his father "magical," but admits there might have been some discomfort when he wanted to give his father some notes.

"It's really funny because he prides himself that no one has ever told him to make music this way or the other. So, for someone who is basically music-illiterate to tell him to try it some other way, was quite shocking for him, as you can imagine," Sandoval III says.

"But we had a really clear vision and we really wanted to jar him back into maybe some of the stuff that he was even doing in the early 80s that was so inspiring to so many people."

Like Lazarus, hope springs eternal

One of the most recognizably Cuban songs on "SANGÚ," and one of the only tracks that features Arturo Sandoval's speaking voice, is called "Babalu Ayé." It's dedicated to the Catholic Saint Lazarus, or San Lázaro in Spanish – a man Jesus rose from the dead.

"We are very devoted to San Lázaro," Sandoval says. "We light candles,we pray, and we ask San Lázaro for health."

Though, he notes, he's not one to go to church every Sunday.

"When I need to communicate with God, I make a direct call."

Connecting with his audience

"I try to be sincere when I'm playing, to really express what I am feeling inside of me," Sandoval says. "That experience to play in front of an audience and see the people appreciate it … is kind of like a unique experience, man."

"That's the most important thing. It's like you're winning the lotto every night … sometimes you see a couple of ladies in the audience with tears in their eyes and I say 'thank God, thank God, thank God.' I get to their soul."

Hope for his homeland

Sandoval fled Cuba and then became an American citizen with the help of his mentor Dizzy Gillespie back in the late '90s, but thoughts of the island and its people are never far from his mind. And even though he says he tries to stay away from politics, he also admits he can't keep quiet when it comes to the suffering of the Cuban people.

"The word hope is the last thing you should lose in your life, but I'm going to tell you it's been 67 years and a half," Sandoval says. "It's way too long because the people have reached the bottom already. The people are desperate and hopeless."

"I would love to before I die to go and visit if the conditions get according to a principle of freedom. Otherwise I'm going to die dreaming."

Arturo Sandoval's latest album "SANGÚ" is out now.

JOHANNESBURG, South Africa — Winnie Madikizela-Mandela is one of the most revered —and controversial — women in South African history, but to her grandchildren the anti-apartheid icon was always just their beloved 'Big Mommy.'

Now two of Mandela's granddaughters are reexamining her divisive legacy in a new Netflix documentary series called The Trials of Winnie Mandela, currently only available in Africa.

In the trailer for the series, sisters Princess Swati Dlamini-Mandela and Princess Zaziwe Mandela-Manaway acknowledge they have set themselves a hard task, asking, "How do you ask your grandmother, are you a murderer, are you a kidnapper?'"

But they think they managed to present an unbiased portrayal of Winnie in the series.

"I'm so proud of this work, because it is not just a myopic view of a person that we love, but also who is complex, and has had a complex history," says Dlamini-Mandela, 47.

While Nelson Mandela became South Africa's first Black president and a global icon — having spent 27 years in jail for his role in the fight against apartheid — his wife Winnie, who was arguably just as instrumental in that fight, has been widely maligned.

That's because Winnie is accused of encouraging some of the worst Black-on-Black violence in the townships during apartheid in the 1980s.

A gang of youths associated with her, called the Mandela United Football Club, were responsible for vigilante abductions and killings of those suspected of being government informers – even children.

In 1997, she appeared in front of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission established by the new government to investigate crimes committed during apartheid.

After being pressed by the Desmond Tutu, who led the commission, she said: "Things went horribly wrong…for that I am deeply sorry." The commission found her "politically and morally accountable" for the crimes committed by her gang of bodyguards.

Even though the Netflix show is only being released now, filming of the documentary started before Winnie's death in 2018 aged 81. So she gets to answer for herself.

"Our grandfather's painted as a saint, and our grandmother's painted as a sinner," Dlamini-Mandela says.

"And we ask her that question…what do you think about that? And she says, well, who is anyone to say, whether you're saint or a sinner, that's between me and my God."

What is clear is that Winnie's commitment to the struggle came at great personal cost.

When Mandela was imprisoned, she was left not only to raise their children alone, but to carry on his activism – which she did fearlessly.

She became such a thorn in the side of the apartheid state that she was regularly targeted.

In 1969 she was put in solitary confinement for 491 days and tortured. She says in the documentary of that time: "The 18 months in solitary confinement, it left scars nothing can heal."

She was jailed numerous times in the decades that followed, with her Soweto home frequently raided in the dead of night. Ultimately, she was exiled to the remote town of Brandfort, in the Free State, in a harsh attempt to stifle her influence and activism.

Despite the brutal treatment and constant humiliations, she never gave up.

But she was criticized for her increasing militancy, even within her African National Congress party. Especially for a speech she gave in 1986 appearing to condone the brutal township punishment of "necklacing" used on alleged police collaborators.

In South Africa, "necklacing" was a brutal form of killing in which a car tyre was forced over a person's chest and shoulders and set alight.

She was also villainized for alleged romantic affairs while her husband was in jail. When Mandela was released, their marriage faltered, ending in a divorce in 1996 for which she was mostly blamed.

Reassessing Winnie through a feminist lens

"I wholeheartedly don't believe that a male comrade would've waited 27 years for a wife's return. The alleged affair feels like something they used against her in order to vilify her," says Momo Matsunyane, who directed a recent play in Johannesburg, "The Cry of Winnie Mandela," which sought to rehabilitate her image.

In recent years, a new generation of young South Africans like Matsunyane have begun to reassess Winnie's legacy from a feminist perspective.

When she died in 2018, thousands mourned all night outside her home. There are now t-shirts with her face on them, street murals, and a major Johannesburg road named after her.

"It's true to say that she may have been involved in some events that occurred that made her seem ruthless," Matsunyane says.

But she adds it doesn't have to be a false dichotomy.

"It's also true that she was fiercely resilient in the face of a greatly violent and inhumane system. She put her life and body on the line for the fight for freedom."

Aside from her renewed status as a revolutionary icon, what are her granddaughters' most cherished memories of her?

"God, there's so many," says Mandela-Manaway. "I mean, her cooking for us in the kitchen on Sunday lunches … giving me hugs, giving me advice, talking to her about anything."

Despite growing up in turbulent times, the sisters — now both in their late forties — weren't that politically aware until they were young adults.

"We were kids, so we didn't realize that we were Nelson and Winnie's grandchildren," Mandela-Manaway says. "Not like...we knew that these were political figures who were known across the world. We had no idea."

But much as their mother Zenani – Winnie and Nelson's first daughter – tried to normalize things for them, it was an unusual childhood.

"And we literally were like, we only had each other, because no one wanted to be associated with us," the sisters say. "Being cool... Mandela became cool after."

When she died, the hashtag #SheDidn'tDieSheMultiplied trended on South African social media.

"There are a lot of young women who identify with the spirit of Mama Winnie," says theater director Matsunyane.

Four candidates seeking to replace Sen. Maria Elena Durazo in California’s 26th Senate District took questions from Eastside residents Wednesday evening, where concerns about immigration, public health and the environment took center stage. 

Durazo is nearing the end of her term and is running for the LA County Board of Supervisors seat currently held by Hilda Solis, who is termed out. 

The forum, hosted by Proyecto Pastoral, brought together Juan Camacho, Wendy Carrillo, Sara Hernandez and Sarah Rascón — four of eight candidates running for the seat — to outline how they would represent Boyle Heights and East LA. Organizers said they initially invited only candidates with active campaigns but later extended invitations to others. “We were open to everyone,” said Enrique Velázquez, with Proyecto Pastoral.

About 60 people attended the forum, many raising concerns about affordable housing, healthcare, and environmental issues tied to the Exide Technologies plant nearby. 

Among them was Martha Martinez, 70, who has lived in Boyle Heights for nearly three decades and says housing affordability tops her list.  

“My children pay extremely high rent,” Martinez said. She hopes that eventually they will be able to afford homes in the neighborhood as well.

Joseph Villela, 43, joined the forum to hear what the candidates had to say about the changes in the district. 

“I want to hear what their priorities are,” Villela said. “How are they prioritizing Boyle Heights?”

Meet the participants

• Camacho immigrated to the United States from Mexico when he was 2 and grew up in the San Gabriel Valley. He serves as President of Equality California Institute, where he leads programs to protect LGBTQ+ civil rights and support youth leadership.
• Carrillo immigrated to the U.S. from El Salvador when she was 5 and grew up in Boyle Heights and City Terrace. She previously served the Eastside as State Assemblymember for the 52nd district. 
• Hernandez currently serves on the Los Angeles Community College District Board of Trustees and is a housing, immigration and environmental attorney. She began her career as an LAUSD middle school teacher and lives in Eagle Rock. 
• Rascón grew up in El Sereno and her background is in sustainability and environmental justice. Recently, she served as the Director of County and Regional Affairs for Mayor Karen Bass.

Four candidates seeking to replace Sen. Maria Elena Durazo in California’s 26th Senate District took questions from Eastside residents Wednesday evening, where concerns about immigration, public health and the environment took center stage.

(

Laura Anaya-Morga

/

Boyle Heights Beat

)

Across the board, candidates pointed to their work supporting health resources across the Eastside and emphasized their commitments to protecting immigrant communities from federal enforcement and redirecting state funding to keep immigrant families housed.

On public health and social services

On public health, Rascón pointed to the work she’s done to bring social services and mental health resources to Eastside families as a county liaison for the mayor’s office, including Prop 1, which invested $65 million for mental health services in LA County. 

“Our undocumented immigrant communities should never fear going to the doctor,” Rascón said.

Hernandez said she will redirect Prop 1 funding to support early intervention and community nonprofits. 

Camacho stressed funding for mental health, community clinics, and schools and emphasized the need to get in front of issues like housing affordability to promote healthier communities. 

Carrillo pointed to the work she did as an assemblymember to secure $50 million in state funding to revitalize General Hospital in Boyle Heights. 

“My promise is to keep fighting for resources in the budget,” Carrillo said. 

Four candidates seeking to replace Sen. Maria Elena Durazo in California’s 26th Senate District took questions from Eastside residents Wednesday evening, where concerns about immigration, public health and the environment took center stage.

(

Laura Anaya-Morga

/

Boyle Heights Beat

)

On protecting immigrant communities 

All four candidates said they would push back against federal immigration enforcement.

Rascón said she spent the summer patrolling her neighborhood for federal agents. 

Carrillo criticized the state’s recent move to share immigrant driver’s DMV data with the Department of Homeland Security.

Hernandez proposed expanding “safe zone” doctrines in the district beyond schools and healthcare facilities and taxing private ICE detention facilities. 

Camacho emphasized keeping the federal government accountable. 

“I will ask that the attorney general keep going after federal agents terrorizing our communities and that we keep suing the Trump administration when they keep taking away our rights,” he said.

To address the massive state and federal cuts to the state’s Medi-Cal program, which will cause some immigrant populations to lose health coverage, Rascón, Hernandez and Camacho said they’d adopt progressive taxation to fill the gap in funding left behind by the cuts.

The candidates were asked how they would address a proposed rule by the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) to end certain federal housing assistance for families with mixed immigration status.

All candidates said they would redirect state funding to supplement the funding lost by HUD to protect housing for mixed-status families and renters. 

Carrillo said she would work on legislation to protect tenants from displacement, like eliminating the Ellis Act, which allows landlords to legally back out of their rental business and evict tenants. 

On environmental justice

Environmental justice was another key focus. Rascón and Hernandez emphasized reducing pollution and expanding green space, while Camacho said he would focus on community listening. 

Carrillo pointed to past investments in park cleanups, LA River restoration and remediation of neighborhoods impacted by the Exide battery plant contamination.

Upcoming candidate forum

Rascón, Hernandez, Camacho and Carrillo will participate in a candidate forum hosted by the Maravilla Community Advisory Committee. 

When: Today from 1 to 3 p.m.

Where: Our Lady of Guadalupe Church Hall, 4018 E. Hammel St.