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From Our Own Correspondent
A Bitter Winter in Afghanistan
00:28:33
A trip to the world's highest road tunnel shows the perilous conditions in which many live
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BBC Presenter
BBC Sounds Music Radio podcasts Today in
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Narrator/Reporter
Peru, scenes of violent unrest have underscored a deep political divide in a country which narrowly escaped a coup before Christmas. We meet a drag queen in St. Petersburg who describes how his performance venues are being shuttered amid Vladimir Putin's clampdown on Western values in the US Were among anti abortion protesters in the March for Life. We hear why they are still dissatisfied even after Roe versus Wade was overturned. And the distinctive rhythms and guitar chords of flamenco reverberate in the streets of San Fernando in Spain, which still celebrates a groundbreaking musician. First, Afghanistan, which is now experiencing its harshest winter in a decade. Freezing temperatures have already killed more than 120 people and more than 70,000 livestock. 28 million Afghans, more than half the population, need relief to survive. But a new Taliban government edict, one of many which restrict the lives of women and girls, has ruled that Afghan women cannot work with the aid agencies. Lise Doucet, who's been reporting on Afghanistan for many years, set out to find out what it's like to live in these freezing temperatures.
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Lise Doucet
Oh, it's more dangerous than Ukraine. The online message from an old friend startled me. How could a trip out of Kabul on the main highway heading north to the Salang Tunnel be more dangerous than a crushing war in Ukraine? I'm always afraid when people go there, thomas told me. He lived in Kabul in the 1980s. As an East German diplomat, he knew everything anyone needs to know about this tunnel. Snaking through the magnificent massifs of the Hindu Kush, the world's highest road, tunnel had been a Soviet engineering marvel during its Cold War rivalry with America. But over the decades, the Salang became the stuff of legend and lore. Every year, especially in winter, travellers were ambushed and killed by avalanches, by accidents. When I lived in Kabul in the late 1980s, during the Soviet troop pull out from Afghanistan, the Salang Tunnel, shut by snow, was often in our BBC headlines. And now snow is making headlines again. More and more Afghans are perishing in this coldest winter in a decade. So we headed to the Salang, a tunnel nearly 11,000ft high, more than a mile and a half long. The closer we got, the deeper the snow, the faster the wind. At the entrance to the first of its galleries, even the mightiest of lorries were wobbling as an angry storm closed in, creating a wind tunnel. Compact Corolla sedans were no match for winter's powerful punches, wheels spinning and lurching, cars piling up in the snow. A roadside service came to the rescue. His name, Saki Mohammed. His face as lined as the land, his eyes as dark as the charcoal heating most Afghan homes. Chains to stop tires from twirling hung from his tattered clothes. As this biting cold clutched our faces, the bare fingers of Sanjay, my colleague from India, went stiff as he filmed. Beware the formidable mountains of the Hindu Kush. It translates as killer of Hindus. But in a country where the hospitality is as warm as the landscape is harsh, Sakimohamad invited us to his home. It was another treacherous trek down an icy slope, across a rickety bridge, up another steeply sloped hill blanketed in snow. Inside his mud and straw home, we were enveloped by a family's warmth and the traditional heating Afghans have relied on for centuries. A sandali covered by a blanket, charcoal burning inside. It always strikes me how this is a country struggling to move forward while remaining stuck in the past. Saqi Mohammed's wife, Kamar gul, had brought 10 children into this world. Five boys, five girls. A constant in a poor country where children are often the only wealth, the only joy. But in this dimly lit room, infused with the fumes of the Sandalys, the brightest lights were the eyes of the youngest, 14 year old Zeinab, the first girl in this family to go to school. Five year old Jamshid, whose eyes twinkled with mischief, talking about studying to become a doctor. But now Zaynab's high school has been shut by the Taliban government and the curriculum in Jamishid's class, in all the classes, has been changed to put an emphasis on Islamic learning. Afghanistan's conservative Taliban leaders say they want to develop their country. But there's a tussle and tension with the international community, with Islamic countries, with many Afghans who insist that Islam gives girls and boys a right to be educated, to work one after another. Senior UN officials have been coming here to urge the government to reverse or at least relax new edicts, including the last one, which bars Afghan women from working in aid agencies. Kamar Gul told me in a voice as bitter as the cold that no aid agencies had come to this hill to help them. Not the last government, not this one. Outside, a winter's wind howled season after season, year in, year out. The majority of Afghans live like this. The hardest of lives engenders an admirable stoicism, but also a flickering hope that one day their lives will change for the better. That the legends and lore of this country will be of a generation which moved from this dark tunnel of. Of war and want into a time of peace and progress.
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Narrator/Reporter
Lise Doucet Peru is suffering its deadliest clashes since the return of democracy at the turn of the century. Anti government protesters are demanding interim President Dina Boluate resign and at least 56 people have died in the unrest. Many demonstrators had voted for former leftist President Pedro Castillo, who was ousted early in December and wanted new general election and a new constitution. While protests have been largest in southern Peru, thousands have traveled to Lima to take their grievances to the capital. Mitra Taj has been speaking to people there.
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Mitra Taj
Last month, Peru's President Pedro Castillo went on national television and delivered a shocking message. He announced he was closing Congress, reorganizing the justice system and would henceforth rule by decree. The speech was strikingly similar to one delivered three decades earlier by Peru's former right wing leader, Alberto Fujimori, which marked the start of his authoritarian rule. Unlike Mr. Fujimori, though, Mr. Castillo was quickly impeached and arrested. Dina Boluarte next in the line of succession as his vice president was sworn in to replace him and lawmakers celebrated a victory for democracy. It was all over so quickly that it was hard to fathom the chaos that would follow. Protests against Dina Boluarte's government began peacefully at first, but soon turned violent. Demonstrators torched police stations, attacked airports and imposed dozens of road blockades that paralyzed many parts of the country. Boluarti responded by declaring a state of emergency and deploying the military to help restore order. So far, at least 46 civilians have been killed in clashes, nine more have died in incidents related to road blockades, and a policeman captured by a mob was lynched and burned. But why are the same people who voted for Ms. Boluarte as Mr. Castillo's running mate protesting against her? Even though Ms. Boluarte identifies as a leftist, she formed a center right cabinet and is backed by conservatives in Congress. And many of the protesters I spoke to blame the right wing opposition for Mr. Castillo's downfall. They recall how his rival in the election, Keiko Fujimori, the daughter of Alberto Fujimori, had waged an ugly campaign to try to annul their votes based on Boga's claims of electoral fraud and how lawmakers repeatedly tried to impeach him over graft allegations they wouldn't let him govern is something you hear a lot from his supporters. The backdrop is the divide between Lima, Peru's wealthier, more conservative capital, and poorer regions in the Andes, where Castillo had promised big change. Peru's south has historically been a cradle of indigenous uprisings and revolutions, and many people there see the current protests as part of an ongoing struggle for rights and and inclusion. Several of the protesters say they've lost hope in Peru's political system altogether and want a new constitution to replace the one passed by Alberto Fujimori in 1993. One protester, Jairo, told me he was marching for his children's future. He's from a village where people don't have decent housing or running water, despite a huge copper mine in the region. I don't want them to grow up in a country with so much inequality, he told me. Here in Lima, he said, rich people have everything, and on top of that, they discriminate against us. It's hard to overstate how polarized Peru is right now. To Peruvians on the left, Boluarte is a dictator, or at least she's fast becoming one. Many on the right view the protesters as terrorists and want her to crack down harder. Political analysts say she's partly to blame for the growing divide. While she's called for dialogue, she also accuses protesters of being paid to push an agenda on behalf of drug traffickers and criminals. Anti terrorism police have used her state of emergency to carry out surprise dawn raids to round up protesters. Jairo told me he had been arrested for sleeping in a public square. The police tried to beat a confession out of him to charge him with terrorism, he says, but he refused. Last weekend, authorities used a tank to tear down the gate of a public university and detained nearly 200 protesters and students. Police released all but one of them due to a lack of evidence. The next day, as police were raiding the university, I spoke to Javier, who was watching from his doorstep across the street. He called the operation abusive, but said no one seems to be interested in dialogue. Peruvians are killing each other, but for what? Corrupt politicians? So what is next? Peru has already had six presidents in the past six years. President Boluarte has offered to bring elections forward to April of 2024, but she'll need Congress to ratify the proposal. The promise of new elections might help relieve current tensions, but they're unlikely to bring an end to the constant corruption scandals that drive so much turmoil here or the deep discontent with the status quo in much of Peru. Many analysts say Peru could be ripe for an authoritarian turn if a leader charismatic or competent enough, were to emerge. One political scientist, Alberto Vergara, has called Peru a democracy without democrats. It's hard to disagree when you look at what happened after this last election. The loser cried fraud. And the winner went on to try and Stage a coup. The country appears to be stuck in a downward spiral.
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Narrator/Reporter
Mitra Taj Dissent within Russia about the war in Ukraine has been largely silenced by legal means. There are heavy penalties for those who speak out against it. And the same censorship is being extended to aspects of the private lives of Russians. A new anti LGBT law was passed in Parliament last month which banned propaganda of non traditional sexual relations. And the authorities are moving to limit the public space for any expression of gay identity as part of Vladimir Putin's battle against Western values. Will Vernon was in St. Petersburg, where he met someone whose livelihood has been directly impacted by the new law.
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Will Vernon
I'm sitting in the kitchen of the only monster drag queen in Russia. His name is Danya. As we chat, an enormous rainbow flag adorning the wall of his St. Petersburg flat. He's doing his makeup. He draws a wide, mocking grin around his mouth in shocking black paint. For his act, called Miss Tizzy, he performs in costumes based on horror movie characters. Think Halloween meets drag. But the main event he performs at, called Gender Blender, has had to cancel its shows. In December, the Russian parliament passed a law banning the promotion of so called LGBT propaganda. What this means in practice isn't completely clear. Homosexual sex isn't illegal in Russia, but talking about it publicly in any way that is positive or neutral, as it says in the law, is now forbidden. Daniel plans to emigrate and move to France. He tells me he cannot live somewhere where it's illegal just to be yourself. What's happening now, it's very frightening, he says, because you don't know what's going to happen next. The 22 year old still works at some clubs, but he fears they too may close as the crackdown intensifies. As he applies ghostly white foundation to his ears, he lists friends in the LGBT community who have recently fled the country. I want to be in a place where I can do what I love freely, Daniel tells me, and not within some limits or bans. I don't want to live in fear. The new anti LGBT law began its journey through the Russian legislative system last summer, shortly after Moscow launched its invasion of Ukraine. The timing was no accident. Vladimir Putin says that Russia is not only fighting Ukraine on the battlefield, but also Western values. During a speech in the Kremlin to mark the illegal annexation of four Ukrainian regions, the president lashed out at the west and LGBT rights, calling them pure Satanism. Last week in St. Petersburg, I called into Russia's first LGBT museum. It closed its doors to the public after the law was passed. I'd been granted special access by Pyotr Vaskresensky, an activist who set up the exhibition. Like Dania, he too plans to leave Russia. His collection of gay and lesbian themed art is arranged in a room overlooking one of St. Petersburg's historic streets, a mixture of stunning baroque and classicist architecture. I asked Piotr about the new law. Why was it passed now? It's very easy to explain, he says. The war is lost, the economy is destroyed, and the authorities need to find a new scapegoat LGBT people. It's a distraction, he says, from the Kremlin's humiliating setbacks on the battlefield. Russia already had laws that discriminated against people like danya and pyotr. 10 years ago, so called gay propaganda was made illegal in relation to children. But these measures go much further. The fear is that any reference to LGBT people or culture in is now effectively illegal. Censorship is already in evidence in Moscow. I stopped by the largest bookshop in the capital, Domhnigi, a long, imposing slab of concrete built during the Soviet period. My task should be a simple one. I'm looking for one of the biggest selling books from last year. Summer in a Pioneer Tie is a story of a gay romance at a youth camp and was a huge hit in Russia. No, we don't have it, says the bespectacled lady behind the information desk. But it's one of the most popular books in the country. I exclaim. One of the most popular, yes, but we don't have it, she answers. Abruptly, I call a well known online bookseller. Again, the book is unavailable. High street shops, online marketplaces and streaming services are withdrawing or censoring books, films and TV series, anything with gay characters or themes. Back in drag queen Dania's flat, he dons an enormous pair of jet black stiletto heeled boots and catwalks down the corridor. He gets emotional, describing his love of performing in the clubs. When I see the eyes of people in the audience, they've never seen such performances before. It's so cool. He doesn't want to leave this country. What kind of a Russia would he like to live in? I ask. One that doesn't undermine basic human rights, he says angrily. My orientation is my right from birth, and no one has the right to cancel it or ban it or prosecute me for it.
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Narrator/Reporter
Will Vernon It's 50 years since the U.S. supreme Court established a constitutional right to abortion in its famous Roe vs Wade ruling, and seven months since it struck down those rights. Last weekend, anti abortion activists celebrated at their annual March in Washington held every January since the court decision in 1973. The mood was triumphant, but many of those present saw the recent ruling as only the first step towards their goal barring abortion across the US Barbara Plett Usher was in Washington, where she found the battle is far from over on both sides of the bitter divide over abortion rights.
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BBC Presenter
Mona Reis was a teenager when she got involved in the campaign to legalize abortion, and she started working at an outpatient abortion clinic in 1973, the day after the Supreme Court ruled there should be nationwide access to the procedure. Mona choked back tears as she told me how she held the hands of women in the recovery room, remembering their profound relief that they could now move forward with their lives. I asked whether she'd ever thought then that the ruling would be overturned by its 50th anniversary, and her voice quavered. I knew in my head it could happen, she said. But in my heart I never really believed it would happen. Karen Cross was a teenager when she had an abortion in 1975. I had my life ahead of me. I was an honor student. I had great plans, she told me. But her life fell apart afterwards, she said. And when she became pregnant again, she decided to keep this baby while completing her studies. The first student allowed to do so at her school, Karen says she would never have had the abortion if it hadn't been legal. Her mother arranged it, but years earlier had refused to end her own pregnancy because doing so then was illegal. So she'd had to leave a promising career in the Air Force. These were painful decisions for both, but Karen thanked her mother for giving her life and said she's met hundreds of women who regret their abortions. I'm so thankful I live to see this day, she said. So thankful. The moral passion I found in Mona and Karen is only part of the story about how the abortion debate evolved. Scholars studying the movement make the case that key conservative leaders in the 1970s and 80s politicized abortion to unify Catholics and evangelicals into a powerful voting bloc of the religious right. And the issue has become sharply polarized since since the goal of the anti abortion movement has now been achieved. But that simply altered the landscape, shifting the battleground to the states. At least 12 Republican led legislatures have banned the procedure and some of the states that haven't banned it are exploring ways to help women access abortion. Across state lines, pro abortion advocates are providing advice and money to help women travel to clinics. More common is the so called abortion pill. The federal government has made it easier for women to self manage the procedure through medication, and healthcare workers are prescribing it in consultations over the Internet. But they are navigating a maze of confusion and desperation, one nurse practitioner told me. This is a legal gray area. There is uncertainty even for the abortion opponents who are claiming victory. They faced a series of defeats in the midterm elections on ballot measures involving abortion rights and with candidates they supported. Some state courts have also blocked bans from taking effect. It's like the wild, wild west, carol Tobias told me. She's president of the National Right to Life, the country's oldest and largest anti abortion grassroots organization. It's not a free for all, she said. But there are just a lot of unknowns, including what the strategy for the movement's next phase will look like. One change anti abortion activists have made so far has been to pay more attention to the life of the mother, not just the unborn child. There has been church and charity support for them before, but now anti abortion leaders are pushing for government policies to help families cope with unplanned pregnancies. It's not a solution, but an evolution. I have been struck by anti abortion protesters who, unlike Karen, haven't grappled with the complexity of an unwanted pregnancy. That's because many are young. Church youth and school groups are marshaled for the marches. I get it. I used to belong to one, but they tend to give you the answer before you have the questions. If I don't want a child, I will not have sex, one young woman told me outside the Supreme Court last year. But what if you end up falling pregnant? I asked. Then I will have that child, she said, because I cannot murder that child on the grounds of convenience. Ever. I could have asked, but what if the baby is in danger? What if your health is at risk? What if you don't have the support to deal with a child? Shouldn't you have the option to end the pregnancy? The loss of that choice is an inflection point in a decades long struggle, not an end to it, and both sides are regrouping for the continuing battle.
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Narrator/Reporter
Barbara Plet Usher in Spain Flamenco music, with its dramatic guitars, complex rhythms and intensely emotional singing style, is almost a cliche of Spanish identity. One of the definitively Spanish art forms recognized all over the world, it has a specific heritage, drawing on the history and culture of its Roma community, the so called Gypsies. Across Spain and beyond, many people of all backgrounds still revere the figure of the great singer Cameron de la Isla. Three decades after his death, Guy Hedgego discovered how cherished the singer still is in his hometown.
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Guy Hedgeco
San Fernando's cemetery sits on the edge of town, the winter sunlight reflecting off its tall whitewashed walls. In a far corner, one particular grave stands out. It's a large tomb made of dark marble and the name carved on it reads Jose Mongecruth. Slightly obscured by some red carnations. Thrown on top is the nickname by which this flamenco singer was much better known, Cameron de la Isla. Behind the tomb is a statue of Cameron himself, his long curly hair tumbling down around his shoulders, looking as if he might be about to burst into song. Cameron is virtually synonymous with San Fernando, a town perched on the southern coast of Spain. Derrick cranes are dotted along its docks, which look out at Cadiz across the bay. Inland, it's surrounded by marshes where flamingos and white storks can be seen. It all feels a long way from the landlocked hurly burly of Madrid, where I live. It's not just the small town feel and sea air, it's the sounds as well. San Fernando and the surrounding region of Andalusia are the spiritual home of flamenco. You might hear it in the guitar chords being strummed by a street musician, or the polyrhythmic foot stomping and clapping of performers in a venue, or even in the flamenco tinged electronic beats coming out of a teenager's phone in a bar. Flamenco was important in this town before Cameron de la Isla, but he put this place on the map. Born into a humble gypsy family, he earned his nickname, meaning Shrimp of the island, because of his light skin. As a child, his voice, a heart wrenching wail with a sandpaper edge to it, made him a local phenomenon from a very young age. By the 1970s, he'd become Flamenco's biggest star. His meteoric career continued until his death from lung cancer in 1992, aged just 41. When I visit his grave, a number of people are paying their respects to him. They're not simply dedicated fans. Some credit him with supernatural powers. One man, Antonio, tells me he's visiting San Fernando from Almeria, 270 miles away, and the colleagues from his farming business have asked him to rub their lottery tickets on the feet of the statue of the singer to bring them luck. Spain's Roma community numbers around three quarters of a million. Many are marginalized and impoverished, and there are relatively few gypsies in public life. Cameron's extraordinary success therefore made him an anomaly, and the gypsy community in particular have always treated him with messianic reverence. Later, Cameron's younger sister, Isabel, arrives at the grave and starts tidying up the flowers that were laid there. People come from everywhere to see him, she tells me. He was the greatest. There are lots of good singers, but he is seen as a God. His musical legacy is clear to see. He popularized flamenco, which can seem a dauntingly complex and closed off genre. He upset traditionalists by blending flamenco with jazz and rock music and using drums and Indian instruments on his records. But for Cameron, the fame that came with that success was hard to handle. His struggles with drugs, including heroin, are well documented, adding to his status as a tortured genius. Yet his sister offers a different take on the man, who was, in fact, extremely shy. She repeatedly uses the word noble to describe him, meaning a nobility or generosity of spirit. When she visits his grave, Isabel often climbs up onto the statue to clean it, and while there, she embraces the marble likeness of Cameron, who she says she still misses desperately. For me, it's as if he died yesterday, says Isabel, barely holding back the tears. And such is the enduring presence of Cameron three decades after his death that I can sense the rhythms and melodies of his music floating out from his resting place over the cemetery walls into the rest of Andalusia and beyond.
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Narrator/Reporter
Guy Hedgeco and that's all for today. We'll be back again next week on both Thursday and Saturday mornings. Do join us.
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Will Vernon
Are you confused about why your mortgage
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Guy Hedgeco
rate is going up?
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Will Vernon
Unsure of what causes inflation, or befuddled over what GDP stands for? I've got the perfect podcast for you. I'm Tim Harford, and in my new Radio 4 podcast, Understand the Economy, I'm taking you back to basics. I'm going to explain all the complex financial terms you're hearing in the news as clearly as I can. Inflation, interest rates, growth, bonds, banks. I'll explain it all. Search for Understand the Economy available now on BBC Sounds.