A rare cold snap stuns Uruguay, hitting the homeless hard and causing 7 deaths
MONTEVIDEO, Uruguay (AP) — An unusual gust of frigid air extending from Antarctica has blasted the small South American nation of Uruguay, leading to the deaths of at least seven homeless people this week and prompting authorities to declare a state of emergency as they scrambled to open shelters.
The polar front first dumped the mass of freezing weather on Uruguay on Monday, shocking a coastal nation with flat terrain accustomed to mild winters in the Southern Hemisphere.
Light snow dusted parts of the country for the first time in four years as temperatures hit minus 3 Celsius (26 Fahrenheit) and windchill readings dipped far below that. But the freeze was breaking on Thursday, with temperatures expected to rise across the country in the coming days.
As health officials issued numerous warnings about the dangers of frostbite and hypothermia, homeless people faced potentially devastating circumstances.
Outreach workers fanned out around the city, trying to convince people to come indoors. The seven homeless people who died from exposure to the cold were found in various parts of the country — one man who had been sleeping under a bridge, another in a bus station, another in a tent near the river.
The homeless population in the economically stable nation of 3.4 million has steadily climbed in recent years, with the Ministry of Social Development in 2024 reporting over 2,700 homeless people — the vast majority in the capital of Montevideo.
President Yamandú Orsi this week invoked rare executive emergency authorities that empowered police and other officials to forcibly remove homeless people from the streets, citing a level of risk for the rough sleepers that Uruguay has seldom seen.
"The possibility of mandatory evacuation has been applied for the first time because the scale of the problem really requires other tools,' said Leandro Palomeque, director of Uruguay's National Emergency System.
Authorities opened 32 new warming centers and three more sprawling evacuation spots — including by converting public gyms and a police academy — and prepared some 1,000 extra beds.
Inside one shelter late Wednesday, social workers distributed blankets and hot meals to scores of people who warmed themselves around the steaming vats of meat stew, their faces flushed from the searing winds.
Some said police forcibly removed them from the street.
'I was lying on a small table, and the police came and told me I couldn't be on the street,' said Mauricio Rodríguezs. ' I didn't want to come.'
Others, reaching the limit of how much they could withstand, sought out a warm bed.
'The worst time of winter is dusk, when the cold starts to set in and your body can't take it anymore,' said Lucas Bilhere, 19, wrapping himself in a blanket in the Montevideo evacuation center.
His puppy, Alaska, pranced around the orderly rows of vinyl mattresses strewn with donated sheets where hundreds of people slept bundled-up on the polished gymnasium floor. Rumpled shirts and damp socks hung from the nets of soccer goals.
Unlike in normal shelters, the warming centers allowed homeless people to bring pets and personal belongings and remained open during the daytime.
As much as Bilhere said he dreaded this wintry weather, he feared just as much what would happen when the cold snap passed and the emergency shelters closed.
'My dream is to have my own home ... and sleep warm,' he said. ' I wish that for everyone.'
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44 minutes ago
This Ukrainian woman beat cancer. But her fight to free her captive husband isn't over
KYIV, Ukraine -- KYIV, Ukraine (AP) — 'You have no moral right to die.' That's what Olha Kurtmalaieva told herself as she lay in intensive care, her body shutting down after emergency chemotherapy. Her cancer had progressed to Stage 4, meaning it had spread to other parts of her body and was now incurable. The pain was unbearable. The doctors weren't sure she'd make it through the night. She was facing death alone in the Ukrainian capital, while her soldier husband was in Russian captivity in the more than three-year war. 'If I die now, who will bring him back?" Olha thought to herself. "He has no one else in Ukraine.' Against the odds, she learned she was in remission last year. But even after multiple prisoner exchanges, including one that freed over 1,000 people, her husband, a Ukrainian marine, remains a captive. She hasn't given up. At nearly every exchange, she's there waiting, one of hundreds of Ukrainian women still trying to bring home their husbands, sons and brothers. 'He's everywhere in my life,' Olha said. 'His (photo) is on my phone screen, in my wallet, on the kitchen wall, in every room.' Day and night, questions circled in her mind: 'What can I do to speed this up? What did I do today to bring him home?' Olha was just 21 when she learned she had cancer. It was Hodgkin's lymphoma, Stage 2. The tumors were growing but were still treatable. 'At that age, you're thinking: cancer? Why me? How? What did I do?' she recalled. Her husband, Ruslan Kurtmalaiev, promised to stay by her side through every round of chemotherapy. When they met, in 2015, he was 21 and she was just 15. 'It wasn't love at first sight,' she said with a wide smile, eyes sparkling. Their attraction blossomed gradually that summer in Berdiansk, in what is now the Russian-occupied zone in the southern Zaporizhzhia region. Three years later, as soon as she turned 18, they wed. When they first met, it was not long after Russia illegally seized Crimea, Ruslan's homeland, in 2014, and also invaded eastern Ukraine. Ruslan, a professional soldier, had already served on the front line. From the beginning, Olha understood that life as a military wife meant constant sacrifice — long separations, missed milestones, and the uncertainty of war. But she never imagined that one day she would be waiting for her husband to return from captivity. When she describes Ruslan, tears well up in her eyes. 'He's kind, he has a heightened sense of justice,' she said. 'For him, it was a matter of principle to return home and bring our Crimea home,' she said, a loss she fully comprehended only after Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. 'Only when I lost my home did I fully understand him." Olha managed to complete only two sessions of chemo before the full-scale invasion. When her long hair began to fall out, she shaved her head. When she sent Ruslan a photo, he didn't hesitate: 'God, you're so beautiful,' he told her. Later, he made a confession. 'He told me, 'Yeah, I saw your hair falling out in the mornings. I gathered it all from your pillow before you woke up — so you wouldn't get upset.'' At the time, she believed that losing her hair was the worst thing that could happen to her. But soon after, she discovered what real tragedy meant. Olha never made it to her third round of chemo. She stayed in Berdiansk, which was seized by Russian forces in the early days of the war. Cut off from medical care and waiting for news of Ruslan, she quietly began helping the Ukrainian military from inside occupied territory. 'There was no oncology department in Berdiansk. There was simply nowhere to get treated,' she said. 'But honestly, I didn't even care that much at the time.' In early April, she discovered that Russians had captured Ruslan and others from his marine forces' unit. 'I started to cry, but then I stopped myself. I thought, 'Wait. Is this something to cry about? He's alive. That's what matters.'' At the time, she said, their idea of Russian captivity was naive. Only later did it become synonymous with torture, starvation and medical neglect. Olha left Berdiansk in June of 2022. 'Walking through your own city, but feeling like it's someone else's — that's horrifying,' she said. 'There were Russian flags everywhere. I kept Ukrainian music in my headphones. I was scared my Bluetooth might disconnect, and they'd kill me. But it was worth it.' She spent several months moving between cities, helping to organize peaceful rallies to raise awareness about Ukrainian POWs. Eventually, she settled in Kyiv. Throughout that time, she paid little attention to her cancer diagnosis, even as her health steadily declined. Then her condition worsened sharply. Her temperature spiked to 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit). 'When the doctor looked at my test results, she said, 'How are you even walking?'' she recalled. Her lymphoma, left untreated during occupation, had progressed to Stage 4. Emergency chemotherapy began — and it hit her hard. 'My second round of chemo was disastrous,' she said. She developed an intestinal blockage, couldn't digest food, and was rushed to intensive care. 'It was morphine all night from the pain. I couldn't stand. I couldn't sit. They moved me like a dead body.' In the hospital, she overheard doctors say her condition was inoperable. Then a nurse came to her bedside and spoke plainly. ''We're going to try to restart your system manually,' she told me. 'But if it doesn't work, you may not wake up tomorrow. You must help us however you can.'' It was the thought of Ruslan, still in captivity, that helped Olha survive. In April 2024, five days before her birthday, Olha was told she was in remission. Now she juggles civic activism with running an online cosmetics store. She co-founded the Marine Corps Strength Association, representing over 1,000 Ukrainian POWs still in captivity. In close contact with former prisoners, Olha gathers fragments of information about Ruslan — she has had only one phone call with him in the past three years. She sent several letters but never received a reply. Like an investigator, she pieces together every detail. That's how she discovered that Ruslan had broken ribs and a crushed arm during regular beatings, according to the testimony of one of the POWs. As part of the psychological torture, he is made to listen to the Russian national anthem repeatedly. A Crimean Tatar and a Muslim, he is given only Christian religious texts to read — not the worst form of pressure, Olha acknowledges, but still a clear violation of his faith. One day, a Russian guard struck him eight times on the head with a hammer. 'The other prisoners said they had never seen bruises like that in their lives,' she said. Ruslan spent months in solitary confinement. And yet, somehow, he remains emotionally strong. 'He tells the others about me,' Olha said, her voice softening. 'One of the guys who came back said (Ruslan) told him: 'She's your age, but she's got a business, she's strong, she's fighting for us. She'll get us out.'' That story stayed with her.
San Francisco Chronicle
an hour ago
- San Francisco Chronicle
This Ukrainian woman beat cancer. But her fight to free her captive husband isn't over
KYIV, Ukraine (AP) — 'You have no moral right to die.' That's what Olha Kurtmalaieva told herself as she lay in intensive care, her body shutting down after emergency chemotherapy. Her cancer had progressed to Stage 4, meaning it had spread to other parts of her body and was now incurable. The pain was unbearable. The doctors weren't sure she'd make it through the night. She was facing death alone in the Ukrainian capital, while her soldier husband was in Russian captivity in the more than three-year war. 'If I die now, who will bring him back?" Olha thought to herself. "He has no one else in Ukraine.' Against the odds, she learned she was in remission last year. But even after multiple prisoner exchanges, including one that freed over 1,000 people, her husband, a Ukrainian marine, remains a captive. She hasn't given up. At nearly every exchange, she's there waiting, one of hundreds of Ukrainian women still trying to bring home their husbands, sons and brothers. 'He's everywhere in my life,' Olha said. 'His (photo) is on my phone screen, in my wallet, on the kitchen wall, in every room.' Life before Russia's full-scale invasion Olha was just 21 when she learned she had cancer. It was Hodgkin's lymphoma, Stage 2. The tumors were growing but were still treatable. 'At that age, you're thinking: cancer? Why me? How? What did I do?' she recalled. Her husband, Ruslan Kurtmalaiev, promised to stay by her side through every round of chemotherapy. When they met, in 2015, he was 21 and she was just 15. 'It wasn't love at first sight,' she said with a wide smile, eyes sparkling. Their attraction blossomed gradually that summer in Berdiansk, in what is now the Russian-occupied zone in the southern Zaporizhzhia region. Three years later, as soon as she turned 18, they wed. When they first met, it was not long after Russia illegally seized Crimea, Ruslan's homeland, in 2014, and also invaded eastern Ukraine. Ruslan, a professional soldier, had already served on the front line. From the beginning, Olha understood that life as a military wife meant constant sacrifice — long separations, missed milestones, and the uncertainty of war. But she never imagined that one day she would be waiting for her husband to return from captivity. When she describes Ruslan, tears well up in her eyes. 'He's kind, he has a heightened sense of justice,' she said. 'For him, it was a matter of principle to return home and bring our Crimea home,' she said, a loss she fully comprehended only after Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. 'Only when I lost my home did I fully understand him." Facing cancer and hair loss Olha managed to complete only two sessions of chemo before the full-scale invasion. When her long hair began to fall out, she shaved her head. When she sent Ruslan a photo, he didn't hesitate: 'God, you're so beautiful,' he told her. Later, he made a confession. 'He told me, 'Yeah, I saw your hair falling out in the mornings. I gathered it all from your pillow before you woke up — so you wouldn't get upset.'' At the time, she believed that losing her hair was the worst thing that could happen to her. But soon after, she discovered what real tragedy meant. War and captivity Olha never made it to her third round of chemo. She stayed in Berdiansk, which was seized by Russian forces in the early days of the war. Cut off from medical care and waiting for news of Ruslan, she quietly began helping the Ukrainian military from inside occupied territory. 'There was no oncology department in Berdiansk. There was simply nowhere to get treated,' she said. 'But honestly, I didn't even care that much at the time.' In early April, she discovered that Russians had captured Ruslan and others from his marine forces' unit. 'I started to cry, but then I stopped myself. I thought, 'Wait. Is this something to cry about? He's alive. That's what matters.'' At the time, she said, their idea of Russian captivity was naive. Only later did it become synonymous with torture, starvation and medical neglect. Olha left Berdiansk in June of 2022. 'Walking through your own city, but feeling like it's someone else's — that's horrifying,' she said. 'There were Russian flags everywhere. I kept Ukrainian music in my headphones. I was scared my Bluetooth might disconnect, and they'd kill me. But it was worth it.' She spent several months moving between cities, helping to organize peaceful rallies to raise awareness about Ukrainian POWs. Eventually, she settled in Kyiv. Throughout that time, she paid little attention to her cancer diagnosis, even as her health steadily declined. Then her condition worsened sharply. Her temperature spiked to 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit). 'When the doctor looked at my test results, she said, 'How are you even walking?'' she recalled. Her lymphoma, left untreated during occupation, had progressed to Stage 4. Emergency chemotherapy began — and it hit her hard. 'My second round of chemo was disastrous,' she said. She developed an intestinal blockage, couldn't digest food, and was rushed to intensive care. 'It was morphine all night from the pain. I couldn't stand. I couldn't sit. They moved me like a dead body.' In the hospital, she overheard doctors say her condition was inoperable. Then a nurse came to her bedside and spoke plainly. ''We're going to try to restart your system manually,' she told me. 'But if it doesn't work, you may not wake up tomorrow. You must help us however you can.'' It was the thought of Ruslan, still in captivity, that helped Olha survive. Unanswered letters In April 2024, five days before her birthday, Olha was told she was in remission. Now she juggles civic activism with running an online cosmetics store. She co-founded the Marine Corps Strength Association, representing over 1,000 Ukrainian POWs still in captivity. In close contact with former prisoners, Olha gathers fragments of information about Ruslan — she has had only one phone call with him in the past three years. She sent several letters but never received a reply. Like an investigator, she pieces together every detail. That's how she discovered that Ruslan had broken ribs and a crushed arm during regular beatings, according to the testimony of one of the POWs. As part of the psychological torture, he is made to listen to the Russian national anthem repeatedly. A Crimean Tatar and a Muslim, he is given only Christian religious texts to read — not the worst form of pressure, Olha acknowledges, but still a clear violation of his faith. One day, a Russian guard struck him eight times on the head with a hammer. 'The other prisoners said they had never seen bruises like that in their lives,' she said. Ruslan spent months in solitary confinement. And yet, somehow, he remains emotionally strong. 'He tells the others about me,' Olha said, her voice softening. 'One of the guys who came back said (Ruslan) told him: 'She's your age, but she's got a business, she's strong, she's fighting for us. She'll get us out.'' That story stayed with her. 'I can't afford to be weak. How can a marine's wife be weak?' Olha said. 'What matters is that he knows I'll keep fighting for him — until the very end." ___ ___
Hamilton Spectator
an hour ago
- Hamilton Spectator
This Ukrainian woman beat cancer. But her fight to free her captive husband isn't over
KYIV, Ukraine (AP) — 'You have no moral right to die.' That's what Olha Kurtmalaieva told herself as she lay in intensive care, her body shutting down after emergency chemotherapy. Her cancer had progressed to Stage 4, meaning it had spread to other parts of her body and was now incurable. The pain was unbearable. The doctors weren't sure she'd make it through the night. She was facing death alone in the Ukrainian capital, while her soldier husband was in Russian captivity in the more than three-year war . 'If I die now, who will bring him back?' Olha thought to herself. 'He has no one else in Ukraine.' Against the odds, she learned she was in remission last year. But even after multiple prisoner exchanges, including one that freed over 1,000 people , her husband, a Ukrainian marine, remains a captive. She hasn't given up. At nearly every exchange, she's there waiting, one of hundreds of Ukrainian women still trying to bring home their husbands, sons and brothers. 'He's everywhere in my life,' Olha said. 'His (photo) is on my phone screen, in my wallet, on the kitchen wall, in every room.' Day and night, questions circled in her mind: 'What can I do to speed this up? What did I do today to bring him home?' Life before Russia's full-scale invasion Olha was just 21 when she learned she had cancer. It was Hodgkin's lymphoma, Stage 2. The tumors were growing but were still treatable. 'At that age, you're thinking: cancer? Why me? How? What did I do?' she recalled. Her husband, Ruslan Kurtmalaiev, promised to stay by her side through every round of chemotherapy. When they met, in 2015, he was 21 and she was just 15. 'It wasn't love at first sight,' she said with a wide smile, eyes sparkling. Their attraction blossomed gradually that summer in Berdiansk, in what is now the Russian-occupied zone in the southern Zaporizhzhia region. Three years later, as soon as she turned 18, they wed. When they first met, it was not long after Russia illegally seized Crimea , Ruslan's homeland, in 2014, and also invaded eastern Ukraine. Ruslan, a professional soldier, had already served on the front line. From the beginning, Olha understood that life as a military wife meant constant sacrifice — long separations, missed milestones, and the uncertainty of war. But she never imagined that one day she would be waiting for her husband to return from captivity. When she describes Ruslan, tears well up in her eyes. 'He's kind, he has a heightened sense of justice,' she said. 'For him, it was a matter of principle to return home and bring our Crimea home,' she said, a loss she fully comprehended only after Russia's full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022. 'Only when I lost my home did I fully understand him.' Facing cancer and hair loss Olha managed to complete only two sessions of chemo before the full-scale invasion. When her long hair began to fall out, she shaved her head. When she sent Ruslan a photo, he didn't hesitate: 'God, you're so beautiful,' he told her. Later, he made a confession. 'He told me, 'Yeah, I saw your hair falling out in the mornings. I gathered it all from your pillow before you woke up — so you wouldn't get upset.'' At the time, she believed that losing her hair was the worst thing that could happen to her. But soon after, she discovered what real tragedy meant. War and captivity Olha never made it to her third round of chemo. She stayed in Berdiansk, which was seized by Russian forces in the early days of the war. Cut off from medical care and waiting for news of Ruslan, she quietly began helping the Ukrainian military from inside occupied territory. 'There was no oncology department in Berdiansk. There was simply nowhere to get treated,' she said. 'But honestly, I didn't even care that much at the time.' In early April, she discovered that Russians had captured Ruslan and others from his marine forces' unit. 'I started to cry, but then I stopped myself. I thought, 'Wait. Is this something to cry about? He's alive. That's what matters.'' At the time, she said, their idea of Russian captivity was naive. Only later did it become synonymous with torture, starvation and medical neglect . Olha left Berdiansk in June of 2022. 'Walking through your own city, but feeling like it's someone else's — that's horrifying,' she said. 'There were Russian flags everywhere. I kept Ukrainian music in my headphones. I was scared my Bluetooth might disconnect, and they'd kill me. But it was worth it.' She spent several months moving between cities, helping to organize peaceful rallies to raise awareness about Ukrainian POWs. Eventually, she settled in Kyiv. Throughout that time, she paid little attention to her cancer diagnosis, even as her health steadily declined. Then her condition worsened sharply. Her temperature spiked to 40 degrees Celsius (104 Fahrenheit). 'When the doctor looked at my test results, she said, 'How are you even walking?'' she recalled. Her lymphoma, left untreated during occupation, had progressed to Stage 4. Emergency chemotherapy began — and it hit her hard. 'My second round of chemo was disastrous,' she said. She developed an intestinal blockage, couldn't digest food, and was rushed to intensive care. 'It was morphine all night from the pain. I couldn't stand. I couldn't sit. They moved me like a dead body.' In the hospital, she overheard doctors say her condition was inoperable. Then a nurse came to her bedside and spoke plainly. ''We're going to try to restart your system manually,' she told me. 'But if it doesn't work, you may not wake up tomorrow. You must help us however you can.'' It was the thought of Ruslan, still in captivity, that helped Olha survive. Unanswered letters In April 2024, five days before her birthday, Olha was told she was in remission. Now she juggles civic activism with running an online cosmetics store. She co-founded the Marine Corps Strength Association, representing over 1,000 Ukrainian POWs still in captivity. In close contact with former prisoners, Olha gathers fragments of information about Ruslan — she has had only one phone call with him in the past three years. She sent several letters but never received a reply. Like an investigator, she pieces together every detail. That's how she discovered that Ruslan had broken ribs and a crushed arm during regular beatings, according to the testimony of one of the POWs. As part of the psychological torture, he is made to listen to the Russian national anthem repeatedly. A Crimean Tatar and a Muslim, he is given only Christian religious texts to read — not the worst form of pressure, Olha acknowledges, but still a clear violation of his faith. One day, a Russian guard struck him eight times on the head with a hammer. 'The other prisoners said they had never seen bruises like that in their lives,' she said. Ruslan spent months in solitary confinement. And yet, somehow, he remains emotionally strong. 'He tells the others about me,' Olha said, her voice softening. 'One of the guys who came back said (Ruslan) told him: 'She's your age, but she's got a business, she's strong, she's fighting for us. She'll get us out.'' That story stayed with her. 'I can't afford to be weak. How can a marine's wife be weak?' Olha said. 'What matters is that he knows I'll keep fighting for him — until the very end.' ___ Associated Press writers Vasilisa Stepanenko, Evgeniy Maloletka and Volodymyr Yurchuk contributed to this report. ___ Follow AP's coverage of the war in Ukraine at
