In the immediate aftermath of an earthquake, there is a 72-hour “golden window” when those trapped under rubble are most likely to survive.

But in the 72 hours after a 7.7 magnitude quake struck Myanmar on Friday, rescue and relief workers seeking access to some of the worst-hit areas were blocked by military authorities, multiple aid and human rights groups told the BBC.

This was despite a rare plea for international humanitarian assistance by junta chief Min Aung Hlaing.

“I would like to invite any country, any organisation, or anyone in Myanmar to come and help,” he said in a speech shortly after the disaster, claiming he had “opened all ways for foreign aid”.

On the ground, things moved less freely.

“I’ve talked to a few people now that were part of the rescue efforts in both Sagaing and Mandalay, and they said that [the military] imposed a curfew… the roads were blocked, the checkpoints were really long, and there was a huge checking of goods and services going in and a lot of questioning,” John Quinley, director of international human rights group Fortify Rights, told the BBC.

“It could have just been a lot easier to allow those people in,” he added. “Obviously the Myanmar junta said it was for safety reasons, but I don’t believe that’s totally legitimate.”

Meanwhile, the golden window closed.

At the time of writing, more than 2,886 people in Myanmar are confirmed dead as a result of the earthquake.

On Tuesday night, an attack on an aid convoy further exacerbated concerns.

At 21:21, a convoy of nine Chinese Red Cross Society vehicles carrying earthquake relief supplies was attacked by the military, according to Ta’ang National Liberation Army (TNLA), a resistance group in Shan State.

The convoy was traveling toward Mandalay when it was fired upon by soldiers with machine guns, forcing it to turn back, the TNLA said in a Telegram post late on Tuesday.

A junta spokesperson later confirmed that soldiers had shot at the vehicles, saying they had not been notified that the convoy would be passing through and fired warning shots after it failed to stop.

But this is not the first time the junta has attacked aid workers, Mr Quinley said.

“They pick and choose when aid can go in, and if they can’t monitor it and they can’t use it how they want, they restrict it,” he said. “They definitely also, on top of that, actively target humanitarian workers.”

The junta, which began fighting a civil war with resistance forces in Myanmar after it seized control of the country in 2021, has a history of weaponising aid and humanitarian assistance: funnelling it towards areas that are under its control and restricting it in areas that are not.

The BBC assessed the power balance in more than 14,000 village groups as of mid-November last year, and found the military only has full control of 21% of Myanmar’s territory, nearly four years on from the start of the conflict.

In previous natural disasters, such as Cyclone Mocha in 2023 and Typhoon Yagi in 2024, which left hundreds dead, the military obstructed relief efforts in resistance-held areas by refusing to release supplies from customs, authorise travel for aid workers or relax restrictions on lifesaving assistance.

“It’s a worrying trend that happens in times of crisis, like the earthquake,” Mr Quinley said. “The junta is blocking any aid to what they see as groups that are aligned with the broader resistance.”

James Rodehaver, head of the Myanmar team at the Office for the UN’s High Commissioner for Human Rights, further suggested that the junta deprives Myanmar’s population of aid as a form of punishment.

“They do that because the local population, by and large, does not support them, so by depriving them of humanitarian aid, they are both punishing them but also cutting off their ability to support themselves and be resilient,” he told the BBC.

There are already signs the junta may be repeating this tactic in Sagaing.

Although central Myanmar, which includes the cities of Sagaing and Mandalay, is nominally run by the junta – meaning aid can only be delivered to the area with their co-operation – large parts of the broader Sagaing and Mandalay regions are considered resistance strongholds.

The likelihood that the junta might tactically deprive these areas of aid has prompted outcry from hundreds of human rights and civil society organisations, who have urged the international community to ensure relief efforts get to where they’re most needed, and aren’t channelled through the military government.

One such statement, signed by 265 civil society organisations and released on Sunday, notes that most of the worst-hit areas are under the effective control and administration of pro-democracy resistance groups.

“Myanmar’s history provides stark warnings about the dangers of channelling aid through the military junta,” it reads.

In Sagaing, the impact of aid shortfalls can already be seen in troubling ways, according to relief agencies.

They speak of shortages of food, water and fuel, while trucks carrying aid are stranded at military checkpoints around the city. Hundreds of residents, suddenly homeless, are sleeping outside on the street. Rescue volunteers who were forced to dig through the rubble with their bare hands have run out of body bags for those they couldn’t save.

Other community members seeking to respond to the earthquake are being forced to get authorisation from junta authorities by submitting lists of volunteers and items to be donated, local media reported.

This tactic – of bombarding responders with lengthy bureaucratic checklists and processes – is routinely deployed by the junta to restrict the activities of international aid organisations in Myanmar, humanitarian sources told the BBC.

According to a registration law imposed in 2023, such organisations must attain a registration certificate, and often sign a memorandum of understanding with relevant government ministries, to legally operate inside the country.

One source, who spoke to the BBC on condition of anonymity, said aid groups are often required to remove certain activities, areas or townships from their proposals, with no room for negotiation. Areas where the junta doesn’t have oversight or control over the aid work are typically those that are disallowed, they added.

Aid agencies have found ways to navigate the junta’s restriction, however: a lot of humanitarian assistance in Myanmar happens underground, via local groups that can bypass checkpoints and distribute aid without attracting the attention of the authorities.

Many financial transactions in humanitarian aid also happen outside of Myanmar’s banking system, so that actors can avoid scrutiny and potential investigation from the country’s central bank, a source told the BBC. In some cases, humanitarian organisations open bank accounts in Thailand so that they can privately receive aid funds, then carry the money over the border into Myanmar in cash.

Such covert methods take time, however, and could lead to potentially fatal delays of days or weeks.

Some aid workers are hopeful that, given the scale of Friday’s earthquake and the international appeal for assistance by Min Aung Hlaing, it may be easier to overcome barriers and provide aid more efficiently.

“In the past we have faced some challenges,” said Louise Gorton, an emergency specialist based in Unicef’s East Asia and Pacific Regional Office.

“The scale of this emergency, though, is significantly higher… I think there will be pressure on the regime to ensure unfettered and unimpeded humanitarian access – and we’ll continue to repeat the same need and find ways, sometimes low-key ways, to deliver aid.”

Cara Bragg, country manager for the Catholic Relief Services (CRS) team in Myanmar, said that while it’s too early to tell whether the junta will truly “open all ways for foreign aid”, her team is prepared to navigate the complex humanitarian situation to deliver assistance.

“It’s certainly a concern that they [the military] may direct the aid in specific places, and not based on need,” said Ms Bragg, who is based in Yangon.

“But as humanitarian actors CRS works under a humanitarian mandate, and will be very focused on getting aid to the places it needs to go – to the hardest-hit areas, regardless of who controls them.”

Early indications suggest that, despite Min Aung Hlaing’s plea to the international community, the embattled junta leader is unlikely to prioritise the unfettered flow of humanitarian aid.

Shortly after the earthquake, military jets launched a series of airstrikes on affected areas, killing more than 50 civilians, according to the National Unity Consultative Council (NUCC).

Then, on Tuesday, Min Aung Hlaing rejected ceasefire proposals that were put forward by resistance groups in a bid to facilitate aid. Military operations would continue as “necessary protective measures”, he said.

The junta changed its mind a day later, agreeing to a 20-day ceasefire to help relief efforts. But it remains to be seen whether the pause in hostilities will hold. The military stressed it would “respond accordingly” if rebels launched attacks.

For many onlookers, this seeming contradiction – of asking for aid with one hand while conducting military strikes with the other – chimes with Min Aung Hlaing’s history of duplicity.

John Quinley, from Fortify Rights, noted that the junta leader has “lied on numerous occasions” – and suggested that the recent appeal for foreign aid is more likely an appeal for international recognition.

Against that backdrop, Mr Quinley added, it’s critical to ensure earthquake relief gets to where it is most needed.

“I think as a human rights group we need to monitor: OK, [Min Aung Hlaing] allows aid in – but is it actually reaching people in need? Or is he weaponising the aid? Is he blocking the aid from getting to communities in need?” he said.

“I’m not hopeful when it comes to taking what Min Aung Hlaing says with any hint of truth.”

Outrage is a precious political currency and France’s far right has spent this week attempting, furiously and predictably, to capitalise on the perceived injustice of a court’s decision to block its totemic leader, Marine Le Pen, from standing in the 2027 presidential election.

The airwaves have been throbbing with indignation.

“Be outraged,” said one of Le Pen’s key deputies, on French television, in case anyone was in doubt as to what their reaction should be.

But it remains unclear whether Le Pen’s tough sentence will broaden support for her party, the National Rally (RN), or lead to greater fragmentation of the French far right. Either way, it has created a feverish mood among the nation’s politicians.

Le Pen and her allies have boldly declared that France’s institutions, and democracy itself, have been “executed”, are “dead”, or “violated”. The country’s justice system has been turned into a “political” hit squad, shamelessly intervening in a nation’s right to choose its own leaders. And Marine Le Pen has been widely portrayed, with something close to certainty, as France’s president-in-waiting, as the nation’s most popular politician, cruelly robbed of her near-inevitable procession towards the Élysée Palace.

“The system has released a nuclear bomb, and if it is using such a powerful weapon against us, it is obviously because we are about to win the elections,” Le Pen fumed at a news conference, comparing herself to the poisoned, imprisoned, and now dead Russian opposition politician Alexei Navalny.

As France assesses its latest political tremors, an uneven pushback has begun.

Nervous about the impact the judgement may have for the country’s frail coalition government, the Prime Minister François Bayrou has admitted to feeling “troubled” by Le Pen’s sentence and worried about a “shock” to public opinion.

But other centrist politicians have taken a firmer line, stressing the need for a clear gap between the justice system and politics.

An early opinion poll appears to show the French public taking a calm line, bursting – or at least deflating – the RN’s bubble of outrage. The poll, produced within hours of the court’s ruling, showed less than a third of the country – 31% – felt the decision to block Le Pen, immediately, from running for public office, was unjust.

Tellingly, that figure was less than the 37% of French people who recently expressed an interest in voting for her as president.

In other words, plenty of people who like her as a politician also think it reasonable that her crimes should disqualify her from running for office.

And remember, French presidential elections are still two years away – an eternity in the current political climate.

Emmanuel Macron is not entitled to stand for another term and no clear alternative to Le Pen, from the left or centre of French politics, has yet emerged. Le Pen’s share of the vote has consistently risen during her previous three failed bids for the top job but it is premature, at best, to consider her a shoo-in for 2027.

Anyone who followed the court case against her and her party colleagues in an impartial fashion would struggle to conclude that the verdicts in Le Pen’s case were unreasonable.

The evidence of a massive and coordinated project to defraud the European Parliament and its associated taxpayers included jaw-droppingly incriminating emails suggesting officials knew exactly what they were doing, and the illegality of their actions.

That the corruption was for the party, not for personal gain, surely changes nothing. Corruption is corruption. Besides, other parties have also been found guilty of similar offences.

Regarding the punishments handed out by the court, here it seems fair to argue that Le Pen and her party made a strategic blunder in their approach to the case.

Had they acknowledged the facts, and their errors, and cooperated in facilitating a swift trial rather than helping to drag the process out for almost a decade, the judges – as they’ve now made clear – might have taken their attitude towards the case into consideration when considering punishments.

“Neither during the investigation nor at the trial did [Le Pen] show any awareness of the need for probity as an elected official, nor of the ensuing responsibilities,” wrote the judges in a document explaining, often indignantly, why they’d delivered such a tough sentence.

They berated Le Pen for seeking to delay or avoid justice with “a defence system that disregards the uncovering of the truth”.

It is worth noting, here, the wider hypocrisy demonstrated by elites across France’s political spectrum who have recently been muttering their sympathy for Le Pen. It is nine years since MPs voted to toughen up the laws on corruption, introducing the very sanctions – on immediately banning criminals from public office – that were used by the judges in this case.

That toughening was welcomed by the public as an antidote to a judicial system stymied by an indulgent culture of successive appeals that enabled – and sometimes still enables – politicians to dodge accountability for decades.

Le Pen is now being gleefully taunted by her critics online with the many past instances in which she has called for stricter laws on corruption.

“When are we going to learn the lessons and effectively introduce lifelong ineligibility for those who have been convicted of acts committed while in office or during their term of office?” she asked in 2013.

Reasonable people can reasonably disagree about the court’s sentencing decisions in Le Pen’s case. But the notion – enthusiastically endorsed by populist and hard-right politicians across Europe and the US – that she is a victim of a conspiratorial political plot has clearly not convinced most French people.

At least not yet.

So where does this verdict – clearly a seismic moment in French politics – leave the National Rally and the wider far-right movement?

The short answer is that no one knows. There are so many variables involved – from the fate of Le Pen’s fast-tracked appeal, to the RN’s succession strategy, to the state of France’s precarious finances, to the broader political climate and the see-sawing appetite for populism both within France and globally – that predictions are an even more dubious game than usual.

The most immediate question – given the slow pace of the legal appeal that Le Pen has vowed to initiate – is whether the RN will seek prompt revenge in parliament by attempting to bring down the fragile coalition government of François Bayrou.

That could lead to new parliamentary elections this summer and the possibility that the RN could capitalise on its victim status to increase its lead in parliament and perhaps, even, to push the country towards a deadlock in which President Macron might – yet another “might” – feel obliged to step down.

One person who will now be facing extra scrutiny is Le Pen’s almost but not quite anointed successor, 29-year-old Jordan Bardella, who could be drafted in as a replacement presidential candidate if Le Pen’s own “narrow path” towards the Élysée remains blocked on appeal.

If social-media-savvy Bardella’s popularity among French youth is any indication of his prospects, he could well sweep to victory in 2027. He has found a way to tap into the frustrations of people angry about falling living standards and concerns about immigration.

But turning youthful support into actual votes is not always straightforward, and other, more experienced and mainstream figures on the right may well be sensing an opportunity too.

The Interior Minister, Bruno Retailleau, is widely seen to be emerging as a potential contender. Some even wonder if the provocative television personality, Cyril Hanouna, might become a serious political force on the right of French politics.

Meanwhile, Bardella, like the RN in general, has been on a highly disciplined mission to detoxify the party’s once overtly racist and antisemitic brand. In February, for instance, he abandoned plans to speak at America’s far-right CPAC event after Donald Trump’s former advisor Steve Bannon made a Nazi salute.

But this week’s events have revealed that the RN is enthusiastically committed to the distinctly Trump-ian and populist strategy of blaming its misfortunes on a “swamp” of unelected officials. Bardella, meanwhile, complained about the recent closure of two right-wing media channels alongside his party’s own legal struggles.

“There is an extremely serious drift today that does not reflect the idea we have of French democracy,” he said.

It’s the sort of language that goes down well with the RN’s core constituency, but its broader appeal may be limited in a country that remains, in many ways, deeply attached to its institutions.

To frame it another way, will French voters be more motivated by the belief that Le Pen was unfairly punished, or by concern that the judges involved have since been the victims of death threats and other insults?

As for Marine Le Pen, she has vowed that she will not be sidelined. But her destiny is not entirely in her own hands now. At the age of 56 she has become a familiar figure, fiery at times, but personally approachable, warm and, in political terms, profoundly influential and disciplined. So what next for her?

France has had one Le Pen or other (Marine’s father, Jean-Marie ran four times) on their presidential ballot paper since 1988. Always unsuccessfully.

History may well look back on this week as the moment Marine Le Pen’s fate was sealed, in one of three ways: as France’s first female and first far-right president, swept to power on a tide of outrage. As the four-time loser of a French presidential election, finally denied power by the taint of corruption. Or as someone whose soaring political career was brought to an early and shuddering halt by her own miscalculations over a serious embezzlement scandal.

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It’s 10am, and in a little over two hours, Wayne Hawkins will be dead.

The sun is shining on the bungalow where the 80-year-old lives in San Diego, California with his wife of more than five decades, Stella.

I knock on the door and meet his children – Emily, 48, and Ashley, 44 – who have spent the last two weeks at their father’s side.

Wayne sits in a reclining chair where he spends most of his days. Terminally ill, he is too weak to leave the house.

He has invited BBC News to witness his death under California’s assisted dying laws – because if MPs in London vote to legalise the practice in England and Wales, it will allow some terminally ill people here to die in a similar way.

Half an hour after arriving at Wayne’s house, I watch him swallow three anti-nausea tablets, designed to minimise the risk of him vomiting the lethal medication he plans to take shortly.

Are you sure this day is your last, I ask him? “I’m all in,” he replies. “I was determined and decided weeks ago – I’ve had no trepidation since then.”

His family ask for one last photo, which I take. As usual, Stella and Wayne are holding hands.

Shortly after, Dr Donnie Moore arrives. He has got to know the family over the past few weeks, visiting them on several occasions alongside running his own end-of-life clinic. Under California law, he is what is known as the attending physician who must confirm, in addition to a second doctor, that Wayne is eligible for aid in dying.

Dr Moore’s role is part physician, part counsellor in this situation, one he has been in for 150 assisted deaths before.

On a top shelf in Wayne’s bedroom sits a brown glass bottle containing a fine white powder – a mixture of five drugs, sedatives and painkillers, delivered to the house the previous day. The dosage of drugs inside is hundreds of times higher than those used in regular healthcare and is “guaranteed” to be fatal, Dr Moore explains. Unlike California, the proposed law at Westminster would require a doctor to bring any such medication with them.

When Wayne signals he is ready, the doctor mixes the meds with cherry and pineapple juice to soften the bitter taste – and he hands this pink liquid to Wayne.

No one, not even the doctor, knows how long it will take him to die after taking the lethal drugs. Dr Moore explains to me that, in his experience, death usually occurs between 30 minutes and two hours of ingestion, but on one occasion it took 17 hours.

This is the story of how and why Wayne chose to die. And why others have decided not to follow the same course.

We first met the couple a few weeks earlier, when Wayne explained why he was going ahead with the decision to have an assisted death – a controversial measure in other parts of the world.

“Some days the pain is almost more than I can handle,” he said. “I just don’t see any merit to dying slow and painfully, hooked up with stuff – intubation, feeding tubes,” he told me. “I want none of it.”

Wayne said he had watched two relatives die “miserable”, “heinous” deaths from heart failure.

“I hate hospitals, they are miserable. I will die in the street first.”

Wayne met Stella in 1969; the couple married four years later. He told us it was something of an arranged marriage, as his mother kept inviting Stella for dinner until eventually the penny dropped that he should take her out.

They lived for many years in Arcata, northern California, surrounded by sweeping forests of redwood trees, where Wayne worked as a landscape architect, while Stella was a primary school teacher. They spent their holidays hiking and camping with their children.

Now Wayne is terminally ill with heart failure, which has already brought him close to death. He has myriad other health issues including prostate cancer, liver failure and sepsis which brings him serious spinal pain.

He has less than six months to live, qualifying him for an assisted death in California. His request to die has been approved by two doctors and the lethal medication is self-administered.

It was during our first meeting that he asked the BBC to return to observe his final day, saying he wanted terminally ill adults in the UK to have the same right to an assisted death as him.

“Britain is pretty good with freedoms and this is just another one,” he said. “People should be able to choose the time of their death as long as they meet the rules like six months to live or less.”

Stella, 78, supports his decision. “I’ve known him for over 50 years. He’s a very independent man. He’s always known what he wants to do and he’s always fixed things. That’s how he’s operating now. If this is his choice, I definitely agree, and I’ve seen him really suffer with the illness he’s got. I don’t want that for him.”

Wayne would also qualify under the proposed new assisted dying law in England and Wales. The measures return to the House of Commons later this month, when all MPs will have a chance to debate and vote on changes to the Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill.

The proposed legislation, tabled by Labour MP Kim Leadbeater, says that anyone who wants to end their life must have the mental capacity to make the choice, that they must be expected to die within six months, and must make two separate declarations – witnessed and signed – about their wish to die. They must satisfy two independent doctors that they are eligible.

MPs in Westminster voted in favour of assisted dying in principle last November but remain bitterly divided on the issue. If they ultimately decide to approve the bill, it could become law within the next year and come into practice within the next four years.

There are also divisions here in California, where assisted dying was introduced in 2016. Michelle and Mike Carter, both 72 and married for 43 years, are each being treated for cancer – Mike has prostate cancer that has spread to his lymph nodes, and Michelle’s advanced terminal ovarian cancer has spread throughout much of her body.

“I held my mother’s hand when she passed; I held my father’s hand when he passed,” Michelle told me. “I believe there’s freedom of choice however for me, I choose palliative care… I have God and I have good medicine.”

Michelle’s physician, palliative care specialist Dr Vincent Nguyen, argued that assisted dying laws in the US state lead to “silent coercion” whereby vulnerable people think their only option is to die. “Instead of ending people’s lives, let’s put programmes together to care for people,” he said. “Let them know that they’re loved, they’re wanted and they’re worthy.”

He said the law meant that doctors have gone from being seen as healers to killers, while the message from the healthcare system was that “you are better off dead, because you’re expensive and your death is cheaper for us”.

Some disability campaigners say assisted dying makes them feel unsafe. Ingrid Tischer, who has muscular dystrophy and chronic respiratory failure, told me: “The message that it sends to people with disabilities in California is that you deserve suicide assistance rather than suicide prevention when you voice a desire to end your life.

“What does that say about who we are as a culture?”

Critics often say that once assisted dying is legalised, over time the safeguards around such laws get eroded as part of a “slippery slope” towards more relaxed criteria. In California, there was initially a mandatory 15-day cooling off period between patients making a first and second request for aid in dying. That has been reduced to 48 hours because many patients were dying during the waiting period. It’s thought the approval process envisaged in Westminster would take around a month.

Outside Wayne’s house on the morning of his death, a solitary bird begins its loud and elaborate song. “There’s that mockingbird out there,” Wayne tells Stella, as smiles flicker across their faces.

Wayne hates the bird because it keeps him awake at night, Stella jokes, hand in hand with him to one side of his chair. Emily and Ashley are next to Stella.

Dr Moore, seated on Wayne’s other side, hands him the pink liquid which he swallows without hesitation. “Goodnight,” he says to his family – a typical touch of humour from a man who told us he was determined to die on his terms. It’s 11.47am.

After two minutes, Wayne says he is getting sleepy. Dr Moore asks him to imagine he is walking in a vast sea of flowers with a soft breeze on his skin, which seems appropriate for a patient who has spent much of his life among nature.

After three minutes Wayne enters a deep sleep from which he will never wake. On a few occasions he lifts his head to take a deep breath without opening his eyes, at one point beginning to snore softly.

Dr Moore tells the family this is “the deepest sleep imaginable” and reassures Emily there is no chance her dad will wake up and ask, “did it work?”

“Oh that would be just like him,” Stella says with a laugh.

The family start to reminisce about hiking holidays and driving around in a large van they converted to become a camper. “Me and dad insulated it and put a bed in the back,” says Ashley.

On the walls are photos of Emily and Ashley as small children next to huge carved Halloween pumpkins.

Dr Moore is still stroking Wayne’s hand and occasionally checking his pulse. For a man who Emily says was “always walking, always outdoors, always active”, these are the final moments of life’s journey, spent surrounded by those who mean most to him.

At 12.22pm Dr Moore says, “I think he’s passed… He’s at peace now.”

Outside, the mockingbird has fallen silent. “No more pain,” says Stella, embracing her children in her arms.

I step outside to give the family some space, and reflect on what we have just seen and filmed.

I have been covering medical ethics for the BBC for more than 20 years. In 2006, I was present just outside an apartment in Zurich where Dr Anne Turner, a retired doctor, died with the help of the group Dignitas – but California was the first time I had been an eyewitness to an assisted death.

This isn’t just a story about one man’s death in California – it’s about what could become a reality here in England and Wales for those who qualify for an assisted death and choose to die this way.

Whether you’re for or against the proposed new Westminster law, the death of a loved one is a deeply personal and emotional time for a family. Each death leaves an imprint, as will Wayne’s.

Additional reporting by Josh Falcon