← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
BBC Radio 4
00:28:14
The Colombian fighters who've given up the struggle, opting for education instead -- a...
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Hi there.
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You've downloaded the BBC radio programme from our own correspondent.
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We make two versions and if you'd
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like to hear our World Service programme,
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you'll find it on the BBC iplayer.
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This, though, is the edition broadcast on BBC Radio 4. It's presented by Kate Ady.
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Today, quadratic equations instead of Kalashnikovs. We're in a school for Colombian fighters who've handed in their guns. There's a rare visit to Pyongyang as the ailing North Korean leader tries to secure succession for his son. Democracy flowers in Kyrgyzstan, but proves more complicated than many imagined. And we're off to Kuala Lumpur to find out why Malaysia's national ice hockey team has to practice in a shopping mall. A former army officer in Colombia was this week sentenced to 44 years in prison in connection with the killing of more than 200 civilians. Illyrio Antonio Urena was said to have been the leader of a right wing paramilitary unit which carried out assassinations over an eight year period from the late 1980s. His victims were suspected of collaborating with left wing rebels against whom the Colombian military has been fighting a long campaign. Today, those rebels still wage their long guerrilla war. And there are still powerful rightist paramilitaries. But the violence is not as intense as it once was. Tens of thousands of Colombian fighters have decided to put down their weapons. Robin Lustig's been meeting some of them.
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I met Claudia at a school in the Colombian city of Medellin. She's 27 years old, the mother of a young child and a former guerrilla fighter. She was wearing a purple T shirt and jeans when we met. With her hair tightly braided, she looked, I suppose, very much like students look the world over. But her story is anything but usual. Before I tell you Claudia's story, though, I should tell you something about Medellin. You may have heard of it as one of the most dangerous cities in the world. The former stronghold of the notorious drug lord Pablo Escobar. But Pablo Escobar was shot dead by police back in 1993, and that was when the tide of violence began to turn. Today, Medellin's a very different place. It's a bustling city with a population of two and a half million, and it's now said to be one of the safest cities anywhere in Latin America. Mind you, there are still some parts of town I wouldn't want to venture into. And even in the city centre after dark, you do come across tight little groups of hard eyed young men who it seems wise to steer Clear of. But back to Claudia. The school where we met was set up especially for former fighters. They lay down their guns, come in from the jungle, and now they sit in neat rows, learning to read and write. In one classroom I peered into, they were even grappling with the arcane joys of quadratic equations. Claudia is of mixed race. Her mother came from one of Colombia's indigenous communities. She was brought up by her maternal grandfather. But he was killed by a shadowy paramilitary group and she was left alone, shunned by her neighbours as mestiza. Mixed race. I felt so alone, she told me. I was empty inside. So at the age of 17, she took up arms and joined a leftist guerrilla group, persuaded by its talk of equality and the fight against poverty in the jungle. They taught her first aid. But it was a hard life, sleeping in the open on a plastic sheet with commanders who expected total loyalty and total obedience. I asked her if she had done anything that she was ashamed of. Thanks to God, she said, I have no blood on my hands. But I did see some things that made me question what the guerrillas had said about fighting for equality. One day, Claudia was transferred to a base guarding a coca plantation, which her group had established to raise money for their fight. Coca leaf is what cocaine is made from. Colombia is one of the world's major producers, and both the left wing guerrilla groups and the right wing paramilitaries are heavily involved in the drugs trade. So Claudia decided to escape. One night in the pouring rain, she was on guard duty. When everyone was asleep, she crept through the camp, collected up their boots and threw them away so that her fellow fighters wouldn't be able to chase after her. I was so scared, she said. I knew that if they found me, they would kill me. But they didn't find her. And now she sits in school, hoping to complete her studies and then become a human rights activist to champion the cause of Colombia's indigenous peoples. Claudia's story is just one of thousands like hers. More than 50,000 former fighters have now laid down their weapons, most of them former members of the paramilitary groups that are said to have had close links to the Colombian army. Men like William, whom I met at the same school. He's 37, and unlike Claudia, he does have blood on his hands. He told me he's still haunted by memories of the massacres he took part in. He can't sleep at night, and he often goes to church when his thoughts turn to the many people he's killed. William's biggest fear now is that his children will end up as he did, because the paramilitaries are still out there, as are the leftist guerrillas. For the past 20 years, the government has been fighting on two fronts. Against the hugely powerful drugs cartels run by men like Pablo Escobar, and against the left wing insurgents in groups like farc, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia. Over the years, as the fighters became traffickers and the traffickers became fighters, it became all but impossible to tell them apart. Now the cartels have been smashed, but new, smaller gangs have stepped in to take their place, and they seem to be doing as much trafficking as ever. The world is still awash in Colombian cocaine, but there is less fighting. For the people of Medellin, that is something to be thankful for. For Claudia and William, the fighting is over, but the war goes on.
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Robin Lustig, who's back now from South America. The scenes of joy as those Chilean miners emerged from 69 days captivity below ground has made fabulous television. And doubtless we'll be seeing those pictures again and again when the time comes to relive the big news stories of 2010. It's been, of course, a gigantic media event. The families camped out at the site were soon outnumbered by correspondents who flew in from everywhere to report on the moment the miners returned to the surface. Gideon Long, however, has spent rather longer at the Copiapo mine as the BBC's man living in the Chilean capital, Santiago. He arrived there soon after the news broke of a disastrous rock fall back in August, and he's been there more or less, ever since.
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I can clearly remember my first evening at Camp Hope. The whole place was shrouded in the Kamanchaka, the thick mist that rolls in from the Pacific Ocean each night and is burnt off the next morning by the sun of the Atacama Desert. Through the mist, a bonfire was burning, and sitting around it were some of the relatives of the 33 miners. The atmosphere was jovial, almost festive. Just one day earlier than the relatives had been told that after 17 days underground, their men were alive. On that first evening, I chatted to the Chilean Mining Minister, Lawrence Goulborn, who came to sit by the fire and talk to the families. He'd just had his first telephone conversation with the men. They told him how they'd survived on a spoonful of tuna fish and a cup of milk each day when most people had given them up for dead. Before I settled down to sleep that night, I. I wandered around the camp and looked at the shrines that the families had set up to their loved ones. They looked like tributes to the dead. But these were quite definitely shrines to the living. Camp Hope has become my home since then. I've been here for most of the past six weeks. I've watched the place grow and I've got to know its residents. Like Maria Segovia, for example, the sister of one of the trapped men. With a voice like a foghorn and and a seemingly endless supply of energy. Maria is one of the leaders of the camp. People here refer to her simply as the alcaldesa, the mayoress, or Rolly the Clown. Rolly works in the mining industry, but he's taken time off to be at the camp to keep the children and the grandchildren of the miners entertained. He's a proper clown, with white face paint, a red nose and huge shoes. He can even make animals out of balloons. And like most clowns, Rolly is, deep down, a melancholy soul. Once, as I sat talking to him, he drifted off into thoughts of his own. Who knows how this will end, he muttered to himself before getting up and wandering away, distractedly twisting a balloon between his fingers. For me, Rolly is the hero of Camp Hope. For weeks, he's made everyone's life here just that little more bearable. For the most part, the atmosphere at the camp has been upbeat. The families have maintained an unshakable faith in the miners ability to survive. But every now and then, the cracks show. I remember September 5th, exactly a month after the accident. The relatives marked the occasion by scrambling up a hillside, waving Chilean flags and singing the national anthem. The mood was one of defiance. But then I looked over to the tents where the families live. The wife of one of the miners was crouched alone in the dust, her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. The occasion was just too much for her. This story has given an insight into the Chilean character. It seems to me Chileans are not your typical South Americans. They don't fit the stereotype of the laid back, party loving Latinos. They can be an austere bunch with a strong work ethic and a deeply ingrained sense of duty. It comes from their history. And this was always a bleak, far flung outpost of the Spanish empire. The sort of place that no soldier would want to be posted to, a frontier land. And it's because of that, I think, that the miners have become such heroes here. They've personified precisely those virtues that Chileans hold most stoicism, discipline and endurance. How fitting that this story unfolded just as Chile was celebrating 200 years of independence. The country could hardly have asked for more fitting bicentennial heroes than these 33 men. Camp Hope has changed beyond recognition since that first misty evening back in August. Hordes of journalists have arrived, bringing satellite trucks and the relentless din of electricity generators. It's become crowded. It's lost a lot of its charm. Like a disgruntled long term resident, I sometimes catch myself shaking my head and muttering about how it's not the place I once knew. I think back fondly to my relaxed fireside chat with the minister, Mr. Goulborne. These days he's a superstar in Chile, and I can't get near him. Over the past week or so, I've wondered what will happen to the camp once all this is over. The tents will be dismantled, the journalists and the engineers will leave, the generators will be switched off, and the miners will go back to their homes and their families. Camp Hope will revert to what it was just a few months ago a dirt road, a few scattered piles of rock and a couple of holes in the ground, all lost in the ferocious, beautiful wilderness of the Atacama Desert.
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Gideon Long in Chile this week seen a notable flowering of democracy in Central Asia, a region more usually associated with totalitarian leadership than with political pluralism. Parliamentary elections took place in Kyrgyzstan on Sunday, six months after a violent revolution which unseated the country's authoritarian leader, Koman Bek Bakiev. The process was monitored by the Organisation for Security and Cooperation in Europe, which said later the country had taken an important step towards meeting its commitments to democracy. But as Rehan Dimitri has been finding out in the Kyrgyz capital, Bishkek, there are some who are unhappy with the cards which democracy has dealt them.
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There's a saying popular among Russian speakers which more or less says, what we've been fighting for has proved to be our undoing. It could well apply here in Kyrgyzstan. The electorate wanted democracy, but now some are worried about the outcome of the Sunday parliamentary vote. The country received international praise for conducting what could easily be called the freest elections that have ever taken place in Central Asia. In this part of the world, most countries are ruled by authoritarian leaders, and elections are often a mere formality. The outcome is predictable. Those in power stay in power. But this time around, no one knew for sure which party would emerge as the winner. For once, voters could choose from a huge range of political parties vying for seats in Kyrgyzstan's parliament. But when the results were published, many were shocked. They hadn't expected the Kyrgyz ethnic nationalist party, called Atajud, to come top its leadership is made up of politicians who had served under the previous authoritarian president Bakiyev, who was ousted in a popular uprising in April. The parties which had helped to overthrow him had been expected to do well. The opinion polls said they would win. But although they did win some seats in the parliament, they did not get enough support to form a government. So what does the outcome of Central Asia's most democratic election really mean? One thing stands out. The continuing importance of what happened in Kyrgyzstan in June. A week of inter ethnic fighting between Kyrgyz and Uzbek communities living in the south of the country. More than 400 people died. There were losses and brutal killings on both sides, but the Uzbeks bore the brunt of the conflict. Most of the 2,000 houses destroyed during the violence belonged to ethnic Uzbeks. In the months that followed, many of them were arrested for their alleged involvement in the events. On my recent trip to Osh, the city at the epicentre of the June violence, a Russian lawyer showed me graphic evidence of what she claimed was police brutality. I saw mobile phone photographs of her clients, severely bruised legs and backs. She said most of them were Uzbek. The lawyer also talked about the dangers she faced when defending Uzbeks. She said that relatives of Kyrgyz people who had been killed in the June violence were out of control. During the trials, they shouted abuse and threatened lawyers, witnesses and even the judges. But there was no official punishment or condemnation for their behavior. The June violence opened a Pandora's box of nationalism, polarizing the different ethnic groups. Being a Kyrgyz in Kyrgyzstan became very important. Being an Uzbek, Russian or Uyghur became dangerous. Kyrgyz people united around the idea of patriotism, blaming the international community for taking sides in the conflict. Many people were talking about losing the so called information war. They held foreign media responsible for showing too much of the sufferings of Uzbeks and portraying the Kyrgyz as barbarians. The Kyrgyz people needed a boost of confidence, and that is exactly what the Atajurt party was ready to provide with popular appeals to nationalist sentiment. In an interview with the regional news website, one of Atajuj's leaders infamously said that no other ethnic group in Kyrgyzstan could expect to be deemed equal to the Kyrgyz. That spooked the Uzbeks, the Russians and other minorities. The Russian Embassy in Bishkek issued a statement expressing concern about the nationalistic rhetoric of certain parties. But while apparently criticizing one party, Moscow showed its support to another. During the parliamentary election race, Russia's president, Dmitry Medvedev met the leader of the Arnamis party, headed by former Prime Minister Felix Kulov. The photograph of these two men shaking hands was widely used during the election campaign. It delivered the votes of most ethnic Russians to the party. And despite some signs before the election that ethnic Uzbeks wouldn't vote, many of them did. And they too largely voted for Mr. Kulov's Arna Muys, because one of the main figures in his party is an Uzbek. Now the election is over, the choice has been made. The five parties that have done best are haggling about the makeup of parliament. Since none of them gained enough votes to govern alone, a coalition has to be formed. So there were many parties, there is a new parliamentary system, and there was a free election. But democracy, it seems, can be much more complicated than many people here imagined.
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Rehan Dimitri In Kyrgyzstan at the weekend, North Korea's leader Kim Jong Il appeared at rallies and performances with his son, Kim Jong Un. For seasoned observers of North Korean politics, this could only mean one thing. He was sending out a signal that he wanted his son to succeed him. Now millions of portraits of the heir apparent are being prepared for distribution. Songs are being composed in his honour. And and to make sure the good news filtered out of this usually secretive country, foreign journalists were invited in to witness events. It was the first time in many months the reporters had managed to secure visas to visit Pyongyang. Our man Chris Hogg was among them.
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They were kneeling on the grass by the side of the wide avenue. At first, as our van approached, it was hard to make out what they were doing. Then, as we got closer, it was hard to believe what they were doing. The group of women, most of them middle aged, all neatly if not smartly dressed, were cutting the grass with scissors, the kind of scissors you use to trim material to make a dress. A few blocks down, another group of women were scrubbing the pavement again. They were on their knees, working away at the paving slabs with what looked like shoe brushes. What should we glean from such scenes about life in the North Korean capital? It was a holiday marking the 65th anniversary of the founding of the ruling party. Was this a spontaneous outpouring of civic pride? Perhaps. But who in their right mind would try to keep a lawn tidy using scissors? So had they been told to do it, ordered to ensure the route used by foreigners to get to the city's main hotel was pristine at all times. In North Korea, you never know the government guides who decide where and when your van stops. If you can get out to Film or not, who you can talk to, who you can't talk to, are not interested in helping you find out the answers. We'd been invited to North Korea with less than two days notice to witness the country's leader introduce his young son to the people as his heir. About halfway through a performance by tens of thousands of dancers and gymnasts, Kim Jong Il appeared on the balcony just above us. Close to him stood his son, Kim Jong Un, the young general, as he's known here. Of course, there was no actual introduction, no speech, no announcement, no interview with the candidate, just a wave and a smile from father and son and a roar from the crowd in an instant. But in this secretive state, the symbolism of their joint appearance was clear. For many people, this was the first confirmation that that Kim Jong Un was the anointed successor. Anywhere else in the world, the appearance or demeanor of a future leader would be endlessly chewed over by the media and the public. Obviously, North Korea is different. In a country where a careless word can land you in terrible trouble, no one wanted to discuss the matter. This is not my area, pleaded the guides every time I raised the subject. So I asked a young woman who was showing us around a flower show, part of the officially sanctioned tour we weren't allowed to deviate from. Next leader? She asked, shaking her head vigorously. I don't know. The strain in her voice was evident. I only know the Dear Leader, Kim Jong Il, she told me, and started to repeat the familiar slogans. You hear about him all the time. Our guide ushered me away from her. You are causing great tension, he said. It's no exaggeration to say that Pyongyang appears frozen in a bygone age. The grand military parade, our second opportunity to observe a country's leadership and the political elite, was dated, although no less impressive for it. Ranks of soldiers, tens of thousands of them, goose stepped as one, their rhythm so precise it shook the earth beneath the stonework of the square, bounced under their boots as if it were a wooden floor in a dance studio. No country in the world, except perhaps China, could match this in terms of scale or execution. Although as I watched the soldiers struck past, I wondered where else would feel the need to. What the rest of the world wants to know is what will happen next there, as the ailing leader tries to secure the succession for his son. Surprisingly, it was one of the government guides who came closest to giving me the answer. He was loyal to the country's leadership from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. But after a beer over lunch, he quietly explained that in his view, change is like a big boat. It starts very, very slowly, but once it's in motion, it speeds up fast. It wasn't a prediction, it was an aspiration. North Koreans who've suffered so much are perhaps beginning to dare to hope that in time, life might get better.
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And that was Chris Hogg. All kinds of wondrous new sporting facilities are being promised in Kazakhstan. The country's hosting the 2011 Asian Winter Games. And there are plans for a gleaming new sports palace, a biathlon stadium and a ski jump complex. They're also doing up the big skating rink close to the southern city of Almaty. Now this, we discover, may be of particular interest to the ice skaters of Malaysia. They, at the moment, are having to practice in a shopping mall and must be dreaming of the day they can perform in a glittering ice rink in the shadow of the Tian Shan Mountains. One doesn't usually associate ice hockey with tropical countries like Malaysia, but Jennifer Pak says despite a shortage of facilities there, the games caught the imagination of many in the capital, Kuala Lumpur.
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It's perpetual summer in Malaysia. I've stopped checking the weather forecast since it rarely changes. High of 33 degrees Celsius, low of 26, and there's always a chance of thunder showers. That's why Malaysians embrace the cold. Not the sub zero weather I grew up with in Canada, but air conditioning. It's cranked up high in taxis, office buildings and hotels. Sometimes it's so cold my teeth chatter. There is no escaping air conditioning, though, because life in Kuala Lumpur revolves around shopping malls. Their food courts are always packed breakfast, lunch and dinner. I even spent my first Christmas Eve in Malaysia at a club inside, you guessed it, a mall. Malaysians are so proud of their shopping centers that the government now wants to export them. A senior minister proposed building malls that carry Malaysian brands in emerging markets, starting with Vietnam. So perhaps it shouldn't be surprising that a shopping mall is also the venue for an unlikely sport. Ice hockey. The Sunway Pyramid is Malaysia's first themed mall, shaped like an Egyptian pyramid. At the back of this desert oasis is a skating rink, the only one in the country. This is where ice hockey has gained a small following, and it's growing. I joined dozens of people crowded around the railings on all four floors of the mall to watch the Malaysian International Ice Hockey Tournament. Malaysia was playing against Kuwait. Mohammad Rashhaidi Hamad came to the mall with his friends to skate for fun, only to find their plans hijacked by the Tournament still, the 32 year old was mesmerized as players whizzed by on skates. He winced every time the pucks smacked loudly against the walls. It's fun to watch, he told me. But too aggressive to play. He prefers football or badminton instead. The most popular sports in the country. Jason Yee told me he's addicted to hockey and began playing a few years ago. The lanky 20 year old told me he was passing by the skating rink when he heard a lot of yelling. That's when he saw players slamming into the railings as they jostled for the puck. He was hooked. I just feel like it's a man's game, he told me. Still, it's hard to keep a steady fan base without any proper seating around the rink. Many people stood to watch the tournament for 20 minutes and then left. But the Malaysian national side has far bigger problems to worry about. The skating rink is too small for the entire team to fit onto it at the same time. That means they practice with five players on each side and add on an extra player for international games. Malaysia has won medals in international competitions but currently ranks in the middle among largely non winter countries, trailing Taiwan, United Arab Emirates and Thailand. Hanif Mahmoud, a veteran hockey player and a member of the national team, blames their performance on the small ice rink. It takes us at least two games to adjust to the size of the ice, the 49 year old told me. As vice president of the Malaysian ice Hockey Federation, Mr. Hanif is lobbying the government to build a bigger ice rink. So long as there's only one in the country, he said. The growth of ice hockey in Malaysia will always be dictated by owners of shopping malls. If they decide to close down tomorrow, many years of hard work will just disappear, he said. The sport has come a long way since 1974, when ice hockey was first introduced at a shopping mall in Kuala Lumpur. Back then, Mr. Hanif had trouble finding hockey equipment and made shin pads out of plastic drainpipes. Mr. Hanif hopes to convince the government that ice hockey is more than just a fringe sport by finishing within the top three in the upcoming Asian Winter Games in Kazakhstan. It won't be easy to achieve considering they can only practice late at night when the skating rink is closed to the public. Malaysia's national ice hockey team is often referred to as Cool Runnings, the title of a Hollywood comedy loosely based on the Jamaican bobsled team's debut at the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary. But maybe it's not so far fetched for a tropical country to excel at a winter sport. After all, Malaysia's only ice rink is housed inside an Egyptian pyramid. The latest megamall, one, Utama, even has an indoor rainforest with a suspension bridge. Malaysians clearly have shown themselves to be masters at climate control.
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And with Jennifer Pack discovering even the heat can't melt the enthusiasm for ice hockey in Malaysia, we've reached the end of another edition. I'll be here again on Saturday morning with more from our own correspondence. I do hope you'll join us all then. Goodbye.