← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
18 Feb 2012
00:28:00
Guns remain the ultimate arbiter of disputes in post-Gaddafi Libya. And in Benghazi is...
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BBC World Service Announcer
You're listening to a download from the BBC. This is from our own correspondent.
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Bill Law
You can hear the version of the
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BBC World Service Announcer
program broadcast on the World Service by following the link to the BBC iPlayer on the top of our website.
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Bill Law
To keep up with our latest reports
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BBC World Service Announcer
and get a sneak preview of our stories, you can sign up to our
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Correspondent Narrators (Gabriel Gatehouse, Bill Law, Juliana Liu, Justin Rolatt, Reggie Nadelson)
Twitter feed as well.
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BBC World Service Announcer
But now, presenting the BBC Radio 4
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Correspondent Narrators (Gabriel Gatehouse, Bill Law, Juliana Liu, Justin Rolatt, Reggie Nadelson)
edition, here's Kate 80 today, how the men with guns are still in charge in Libya as it emerges from four decades of dictatorship. The migrant workers caught in the crossfire as the protests escalate once again. In Bahrain, we hear how a man who cut down vast swathes of Amazon rainforest insists it was his patriotic duty. He was following government orders. Find out how a locust is breeding resentment between the people of Hong Kong and visitors from mainland China, and join the Courtneys and Ashleys, the Kates and Samanthas, at the Wedding palace in Manhattan, where anything is possible. There have been celebrations in towns and cities across Libya as people mark the anniversary of the start of the revolution which toppled Colonel Gaddafi. But efforts to rebuild the country are being hindered by armed militia guilty of widespread abuses of human rights. The allegation came from Amnesty International, which talked in a report of war crimes against suspected Gaddafi loyalists, unlawful detention and cases of torture, some of which have resulted in death. The country's new leaders, it claims, have done nothing to investigate the abuses, nor to hold those responsible to account. Gabriel Gatehouse, who is in eastern Libya, where the revolt started, says order cannot be restored until the authorities succeed in disarming the hundreds of former rebels who still believe in settling disputes with a gun.
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BBC World Service Announcer
Benghazi is a city on edge. The flood of adrenaline that powered the revolution has ebbed away, exposing frayed tempers and short fuses. We went to the hospital to interview a doctor during the revolt against Gaddafi. He had, for a brief period, swapped his stethoscope for a gun. The doctor's name was Ahmed El Medjawal. He met us in the main entrance and we hadn't got very far when some former rebel fighters acting now as security guards in the hospital asked us if we had permission to film. The doctor said he'd answer for us, and on we went. But before we could reach his office, the the same security guards reappeared, running after us with some more senior doctors in tow. An argument broke out between our friend and one of the hospital directors. The row was conducted in more or less civil tones, but the politeness was clearly for our benefit. Resentment bubbled under the surface. Eventually, we made it to Dr. Mjowal's office and started recording our interview. We'd barely begun when those same three fighters burst in and told us to stop. Now the anger boiled over. The doctor and the security man squared up to each other in the tiny office, nose to nose. We needed permission from the commander of the local brigade. Shouted the fighter. What right did he have to walk into his office and tell him what to do? Responded our doctor. And so it went on, hands gesturing, arms flailing. Eventually, the security man threatened to call in the Katiba, the men with the guns. In Libya, the gun is the ultimate arbiter of dispute. It's not always used as it wasn't in this case. Sometimes the mere threat is enough. A few weeks ago, I went to check on reports that there was digging going on in Colonel Gaddafi's former compound in Tripoli. The dictator's gold, it's rumoured, lies hidden somewhere in the ground. A group of men stopped me from entering. On whose authority? I wanted to know. Authority? The man in charge asked. Yes, I said. Which ministry or government department has decreed that the BBC should be prevented from seeing your digging? I don't need any ministry, the man said, patting his Kalashnikov. This is my ministry. Anyway, back to Benghazi. We went to see the director of the hospital and the incident was eventually resolved. But that little argument told us a great deal about what kind of country Libya is becoming. It's a place where the Katiba rules supreme. It's a country run by a patchwork of former rebel fighting brigades like the Katiba. At the hospital, most of these brigades are answerable to no one but themselves. Each rules over its own little territory, whether it's a hospital, an airport or a few city blocks. It's at the edges of these small fiefdoms that the trouble starts. If ever there were a place that proved the old adage that all politics is local, then Libya is it. I'd wanted to talk to Dr. El Mijjawl about the future of his country as it emerges from four decades of dictatorship. Having fought in the revolution, how did he feel about the direction Libya was heading in? But his main concern seemed to be the management of the hospital. It was the same old Gaddafi era figures in charge, he complained, and they were simply appointing their own family and friends to positions of responsibility. It was the same local concerns that had upset the security people. They didn't really mind us filming in the hospital, but we'd asked the doctor for permission. Rather than the fighters undermining their little patch of authority. Almost every evening you can hear evidence of these minor disputes as the sound of gunfire drifts across Libya's cities after dark. And yet a recent survey of public opinion suggests a staggering degree of optimism amongst people here. Whatever their frustrations about how things are turning out, more than 90% of those questioned thought that the revolution was a positive development. And so the Libyans are both united and at the same time, dangerously fractious. The day after that incident at the hospital, I sat in the warm morning sunshine talking to a man who's become something of a professional protester. Every day he comes out onto one of Benghazi's main squares to voice his displeasure at the failings of the local government, the power of the armed militias. After listening to his litany of complaints, I asked him if he thought it had all been worth it. His face changed. Oh, he said, I feel like a different man now. I can breathe. I am free.
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Correspondent Narrators (Gabriel Gatehouse, Bill Law, Juliana Liu, Justin Rolatt, Reggie Nadelson)
Gabriel Gatehouse in eastern Libya Activists in Bahrain say that more than 120 protesters have been hurt in clashes with the police this week. It's the most serious trouble since a month long revolt last year was crushed by government forces backed by troops from Saudi Arabia. The UN Secretary General, Ban Ki Moon, has expressed his concern and urged the Bahraini authorities to exercise what he called maximum restraint. Originally, both Sunnis and Shiites were part of this protest movement which wanted political, social and economic reforms. But since then, sectarian violence seems to have taken hold. Bill Law says many of the casualties this week came as police and army units tried to stop people leaving Shiite neighborhoods to take part in the demonstrations against the Sunni authorities.
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Bill Law
They look stunned, bewildered, frightened. Migrant workers caught between security police firing off rounds of tear gas and the occasional rubber bullet and young Shia men dodging the security forces in their armored personnel carriers. The workers were Asians from Pakistan or Bangladesh. They were standing not far from the main square of a village called Tashan. These are some of the forgotten people of Bahrain as the struggle between pro democracy activists and government forces continues to escalate. The standoff was taking place exactly a year since the day that protesters had set up camp on Pearl Roundabout in the capital Manama. They were later driven off with lethal force. At least 60 people have been killed in the 12 month long uprising, including five police officers. But on this February day, the attempts by activists to walk to the roundabout were easily seen off by the authorities. There was a massive police presence and the capital remained calm, almost eerily so through the day. I'd been getting reports of outbreaks of violence between police and protesters in various Xia villages that straddled the two major highways running from the capital. I'd seen live pictures from one of the villages. Sitra, my contact, had gone over to his window and held his iPad up to show me police vehicles circling an empty field and occasionally firing off tear gas. Their aim, he said, was to keep people in their houses so they wouldn't try to march on Pearl Roundabout. And it was working. We drove down the motorway, and most of the roads leading to the Shia villages were blocked by police. Officers in riot gear carried tear gas launchers. My driver, Ibrahim, found a narrow road that was open. We headed up it and arrived in a small square where young men, some dressed all in black, were loitering. The square was littered with stones. It feels like something could happen, ibrahim said. And then, suddenly, it did. Two police vans firing tear gas burst at speed through a makeshift barricade of overturned rubbish bins and wooden pallets. A rubber bullet bounced on the pavement in front of us. Ibrahim slewed the car around to go back the way we'd come, but we were blocked by three more armored personnel carriers. There was tear gas in the air everywhere. We headed down a side road, and that's when I saw the Asian migrant workers. A minute later, we found a side road and managed to get out. The Asians, like their Shia neighbors, couldn't. The police made sure they stayed inside the villages. Bahrain is a country with a migrant population of nearly half a million. A substantial number are professionals from the West. They enjoy good wages, low taxes, and, what was before the troubles broke out, one of the most relaxed and welcoming countries in the Gulf. But many of the migrant population are desperately poor. They work in construction and service sectors and send money home to their families. They're badly paid and live in grim housing. Now, as the unrest continues, the economy is stagnant. The construction industry has ground to a virtual standstill. Tourists aren't coming. The meager wages that migrants are receiving are drying up. And while the protest swirls around them, they wait and wonder what will come next. They're not the only ones. The government claims to have learned lessons from the brutal crackdown. Last year, an independent tribunal of human rights experts appointed by the king was strongly critical of the way the authorities handled disorder. It cited the dismissal of thousands of Shia from the civil service in the private sector, the torture of detainees, and the excessive use of force by the police. King Hamad has promised reform, and the government is making some improvements. But the way the police are dealing with Dissent in the Shia villages means that the anger against the authorities is continuing to build, and some of that is rebounding on the Asian workers. That's because for several years the Ministry of the Interior has had in place a policy to staff its riot police with foreign Sunni Muslims from places like Yemen, Syria and Pakistan. Much of the excessive use of force has been linked to these poorly trained but comparatively well paid officers. But so far, only a handful of them have been charged. And as Shia youth continue to be beaten and tear gassed, the resentment grows. The other day, masked protesters were reported to have stopped two buses and threatened migrants traveling home after work. It may have been an isolated incident, but even so, the Asian workers I saw must have been thinking it's not just the tear gas they have to fear now. Tolerance is in short supply in Bahrain
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Correspondent Narrators (Gabriel Gatehouse, Bill Law, Juliana Liu, Justin Rolatt, Reggie Nadelson)
today, and that's Bill law. China's always had something of a love hate relationship with Hong Kong, its southern port, which until it was handed back 15 years ago, was a British colony. In those days, many of the Chinese who lived there were fearful of being reunited with the motherland. In British Hong Kong, they'd enjoyed what they thought was a lifestyle infinitely prevalent, preferable to that on the mainland. But since then, many mainland Chinese have prospered. They've done well from an economy which has powered ahead. And yet, as Juliana Liu explains, there's still tension between the mainlanders and those living in Hong Kong.
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Juliana Liu
She cries throughout the hearing, sobbing so much the security officers repeatedly give her toilet paper to dry her tears. I'm sitting with the dozens of other reporters at Sha Ting Court in Hong Kong's New Territories, listening as Xu Li, a 29 year old woman from mainland China, is handed a 10 month prison sentence. The judge, Andrew Ma, chastises her for putting lives at risk. The case is the first of its kind. You see, Shu Li is a travel agent, but instead of organizing tourists, she brings pregnant women from Mainland China into Hong Kong, making arrangements for them to give birth here. Babies born locally to mainland parents get the right to live and work in Hong Kong. They're also entitled to hold a special Hong Kong passport. Passport which is much easier to travel with than a normal Chinese passport. With so much to gain, it's not hard to see why so many mainland parents, most of whom can have only one child, would opt to deliver in Hong Kong. After all, it's one country, right? Well, not exactly. Say Hong Kong residents who are absolutely furious that almost half of all babies born here are the children of mainlanders. Their anger is particularly directed at people like Shu Li's clients. Some of them can't make proper hospital bookings because of the new quota system from mainland mothers. So they gatecrash hospital emergency wards when they're about to give birth, putting stress on medical staff and diverting their attention from local patients. Irate locals recently pooled their money to publish a full page advertisement in Apple Daily, a popular tabloid newspaper. The colorful advert features a giant locust perched on a mountain poised to invade Hong Kong. Locust, or wang cong in Cantonese, is a derogatory term used to describe mainlanders. To find out why Hong Kong people would give money to insult their fellow countrymen, I get in touch with a Facebook group behind the campaign. Only one person in the lively online forum agrees to speak. I meet Bruce Lee, a shy 21 year old computer science student, on a sunny day at his university. Hong Kong is one of the most densely populated places on earth, so I'm not too surprised when the Baptist University campus turns out to be a series of dull tower blocks rising high into the sky. Sitting on one of the few outside benches, Bruce, named after the famous kung fu star, says he tried to persuade more people to talk to me, but they refused because the spelling of my surname marked me out as a locust, yet another undesirable Mainlander invading Hong Kong. But I've just started a new job and have no baby plans. So how come I'm a locust? The word means different things to different people, Bruce explains. Not all mainlanders are locusts, he says. Just the ones coming to hoover up the city's resources without giving anything back.
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Correspondent Narrators (Gabriel Gatehouse, Bill Law, Juliana Liu, Justin Rolatt, Reggie Nadelson)
Giving back?
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Juliana Liu
How exactly is that defined, I wonder? Many business people believe Hong Kong wouldn't be the Asian financial capital it is without Beijing's explicit support. And last year, 28 million visitors and that's more than four times Hong Kong's entire population came from across the border to eat, to shop, and spend a lot of money. And therein lies the problem. It's not just a specific battle for scarce medical resources. Part of the population here feels under pressure, under attack, and increasingly underpaid. When I was a little girl growing up in the mainland province of Hunan, my mother would speak of Hong Kong people with a certain tone of voice. It was amazing she could convey so much with so little. But the implication was clear. Hong Kong people spoke a strange language. They looked down on their mainland cousins, and they were rich. Some of those things are still true. Cantonese Mandarin are mutually unintelligible dialects, and you can find locals who look down on mainlanders. But the last part about money is no longer as true as it once was. On average, Hong Kong residents have much more money than people across the border. But the perception now is that the richest people in the city are either mainland tourists or mainland business people who have no problem flaunting their newfound wealth and status. They're the ones with a seemingly insatiable appetite for the priciest property, the finest food and wine, and the most exclusive designer fashion. The former country bumpkins are now at the top of the heap. While locals occasionally feel like second class citizens in their own city, understandably there is unease and resentment. The battle over babies in Hong Kong has unmasked another clash, one of culture and class, with a dose of jealousy thrown in for good measure.
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Correspondent Narrators (Gabriel Gatehouse, Bill Law, Juliana Liu, Justin Rolatt, Reggie Nadelson)
Juliana Liu in Hong Kong Next to Brazil, to the frontline of an environmental battle which is actually being won. For years, parts of the southern Amazon region were a vision of hell. Vast fires swept through the rainforest as loggers, chainsaws, whining, systematically cleared the great forest. But today the Brazilian government says it's nearly achieved its target to cut deforestation by 80%. And it's not too late either. Satellite images confirm that a majority of the forest in this region is still intact. So reasons for many to celebrate. But needless to say, not everyone's happy. The Brazilian government used to take a very different stand back in the 1980s. It saw it as land fertile for development. Just in Rowlatt's been to meet one of the pioneers who was actually encouraged to remove trees and develop the land for agricult culture.
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Justin Rolatt
There was nothing when we came here 25 years ago. Nothing at all, jean Bernier told me, his eyes twinkling with pride as he led me through Cadencia, a small town in northern Brazil. Nothing except trees, of course, he added with a laugh. Jomar is an easy man to like. He's small and lively, with tightly cropped graying hair and a bright, mischievous manner. We opened all this up. We cleared the forest and built everything ourselves. Roads, houses, everything. Everything, he said. In truth, Cadencia is rather ordinary, a sleepy rural town with grey concrete buildings and wide, quiet roads. But to Gil Mars it is clearly the most wonderful place on earth. He swept his hands wide, gesturing towards a school playground with swings and a climbing frame made from recycled tractor tires. This was one of the first places we built, he told me. We have three schools now. We crossed over to a restaurant on the main street. This is owned by an Italian, Gilmas said. He arrived here in 1986 with only a Backpack on his back. And now just look. Once again, it was nothing fancy. Big plate glass windows with neat rows of Formica tables. Inside. At the back was a counter piled with salads and barbecued beef. But Gilmar has good reason to feel proud of Cadencia. Its creation is a classic story. Hardy pioneers risking everything to make themselves a better life on a dangerous frontier. Yet Gilmar's story, and that of hundreds of thousands of settlers like him, is rarely ever told. The reason is simple. Cadencia is in the Amazon. The town is only here because Gilmar and the other townsfolk have burnt or cut down tens of thousands of acres of primary rainforest. Back in the early 80s, there was a massive government campaign to get people to come out here. The Amazon was, they were told, a land without people for a people without land. It was a patriotic duty to turn it into productive farmland. That's when Gilmar came up from the far south of Brazil. Like many of the settlers in this region, he's a gaucho, born into the great ranching and farming tradition established by migrants from Europe. We knew how to farm, he told me. We just didn't have any land. So when we got out here, we did well. Just how well he and his fellow gauchos have done became clear when we finished up our food and Gilmar took me out to his farm as we drove. You would never know that just a couple of decades ago, this whole area had been dense jungle. Now it is vast open soya fields with just the occasional dark smudge on the horizon and where forest still stands. Once again, Gilmar swelled up with pride as he described the huge farms he and the other settlers have carved out of the forest. As far as he's concerned, they've simply done what they were told to do. But his community has faced fierce criticism as attitudes to deforestation have changed. Now they treat us like criminals, he tells me. The Environment Agency has come here in helicopters and in trucks with machine guns. They behave as if we are bandits and all the people here are very upset. There has been a lot of illegal deforestation around Cadencia. But even so, it is hard not to feel some sympathy for Jomar. We didn't know it was wrong, he told me defiantly when I asked whether he feels guilty about destroying the forest. We were just doing what we'd been told was right for us and right for our country. He claims many farmers are now beginning to recognize the value of the jungle. My daughter loves the forest, he said. She wouldn't let me cut down any more trees. Even if I wanted to, he told me. He started replanting trees beside the rivers and streams on his land and improving the management of the forest. There is now much less illegal deforestation in the area. So how far might this go, I wanted to know. Would he and his fellow farmers consider reforestation? Jomars grimaced. I know some gauchos who would rather go to prison than to plant forest on land they have gone to so much effort to improve, he said emphatically. It is attitudes like this which have led to the demonization of Amazon farmers. But actually most of the world's farmers hold similar views, because most farmland was once forest. Mankind has been destroying the wild places on the planet since the first seeds were sown. The only difference is that in the Amazon it's still happening right now.
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Correspondent Narrators (Gabriel Gatehouse, Bill Law, Juliana Liu, Justin Rolatt, Reggie Nadelson)
Justin Rolatt in Brazil not so long ago, when living together out of wedlock ceased being viewed as sinful, the commentators forecast the imminent death of marriage. But they got that one wrong. Men and women are still getting married all around the world, and there are now same sex weddings as well. Where there are nuptials, there's money to be made from the receptions, cakes, photographs, honeymoons and of course, the outfits. Reggie Nagelson's been looking at the business of buying a wedding dress in New York.
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Reggie Nadelson
As soon as I get to 20th street in Manhattan, I see them, the brides to be, all heading for Kleinfeld's. Inside the vast emporium all plush carpets and chandeliers, sofas and mirrors. The consultants greet the women and show them to dressing rooms with their names on the door. You must make an appointment in advance. And then they begin the process of offering up the fantasy to all the Courtneys and Ashleys, the Kate's and Samanthas. Weddings are of course, a multi billion dollar business in America, and for most brides the dress is the thing. Kleinfeld's has 1500 different dresses, silk and satin lace, tulle and chiffon, beaded bodices and bustiers that lace up in the back. The brides to be are soon as high on these astonishing, delicious confections as children in a candy store. The average price for a dress is around $6,000, though there are dresses for less and dresses for much, much more. At least one Nigerian princess was in recently and dropped 32 grand. And that's before you add the veil, the headpiece, the shoes, the jewels also available at Kleinfeld's or the second dress. Some brides like a different gown for their reception in one of the dressing rooms. Brittany, who has come for her first fitting, admires her strapless ivory fishtail wedding dress and smiles. I love this dress because it reminds me of the ocean and I'm getting married in Hawaii. Her consultant nods. She will stay with her bride to be through the whole process, even giving her a home phone number for emergencies when the shop is closed. We want everyone to find exactly the dress they dream of, says Mara Urschel, who with her husband, Ronnie Rothstein, owns Kleinfeld's. We make sure everyone is perfectly fitted, adds Urschel, who shows me the room where the chosen gowns are hung from the ceiling on a dry cleaner's rack that runs a whole city block. Down here are scores of seamstresses, beaders, pressers, the kind of craftspeople you might once have seen at a great couture. Well known designers, those just starting, all flock to Urschel, who was once a top buyer at Saks. They know that to be shown at Kleinfeld's is essential in the wedding dress business. Kleinfeld's was a Brooklyn landmark from 1940 until seven years ago. Urschel and Rothstein moved it into Manhattan and transformed it into the palace it is. And to Kleinfelds they come black, white, Asian women. They come from all over the country, from Europe, China, Brazil. With same sex marriage legal in New York, Klinefels can outfit two brides for the same wedding and does it can retrofit a dress for an Orthodox Jewish bride who must be covered up, anything is possible. In a central atrium lined with mirrors dotted with raised platforms, the brides model their dresses for the families at Kleinfeld's. Even the guys get a look in with the men's boutique, all antique prints and vintage furniture, tone on tone. Tuxedos are very chic, says Frank, who runs the men's department, showing me handsome wedding suits in various shades. After watching the brides to be, one thing is clear. They do not want to look virginal. They want fashion. Most want strapless. They know the lingo. Ball gown, says one bride to be, or fishtail, poofy skirt or fit and flare. She ponders the choices. I want more bling, she says, for clearly, each girl is a movie star on her own red carpet. Most of the brides arrive with ideas already dancing in their heads, often because they have seen say yes to the Dress, the reality show featuring Kleinfeld's. Suspense is high on the shows. Will Nietzsche get her way? Or give in to her mother, who wants a sedate wedding dress? Will Rosanna's grandmother, a couture seamstress approve. Que pensa nonna? Rosanna asks. Grandma examines the dress, beams. Bellissima, she exclaims.
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Correspondent Narrators (Gabriel Gatehouse, Bill Law, Juliana Liu, Justin Rolatt, Reggie Nadelson)
Grandmother approves. What a relief. Reggie Nadelson in New York City, bringing this edition to a close. I'll be back next week with more from correspondence near and far, on both Thursday and Saturday mornings. Why don't you join us? Goodbye.