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From Our Own Correspondent
A Coup Crumbles
00:28:01
The programme that takes you places. In this edition to two countries, Burundi and to...
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Thank you for downloading the latest edition of BBC Radios from our own correspondent, the best in news and current affairs storytelling.
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It's introduced by Kate Ady. Hello. Today, war games for the Americans and their allies as Islamic State seizes key cities in Syria and Iraq. There's whiskey for the top brass, but fear on the streets as a coup crumbles in Central Africa 20 years after a volcanic eruption. The islanders in the South Pacific still waiting for the return of the tourists. And there's talk of democratic revolution. In Barcelona, a group of naked Italian shoppers it seems, might be to blame. Islamic State militants are this morning said to have moved into the ancient ruins of Palmyra in Syria after taking the city from pro government forces yesterday. The IS fighters are also reported to have taken over Palmyra's air force base, intelligence headquarters and the military prison bodies are said to be lying in the main square. Earlier in the week in Iraq, they seized control of Ramadi, a provincial capital not far from Baghdad. Yoland Nell tells us that these latest developments in the region came Shortly after some 10,000 troops, mostly from the US and its western and Arab allies, had gathered in neighboring Jordan for two weeks of joint milit exercises.
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As a hulking American B52 bomber passes overhead, there's a thundering explosion on the barren hill in front of us. It sends up a giant popcorn shaped dust cloud just minutes later. U.S. apache and Jordanian Cobra attack helicopters whir in, spitting missiles, the ways then clear for snipers and tanks to make a bold advance. Of course, there's no actual enemy threat in Wadi Shadiya in Jordan's southern desert. What's known as Operation Eagle lion is just a war game, but it's been taking place here as real wars are raging next door in Syria and Iraq. A U S led coalition began an air campaign against IS last August. It now includes Western and Arab allies who are among the 18 countries represented in this large military exercise. After witnessing the mock battle, journalists gather around military leaders with we want to know how this training might turn into action. Yet amid the recent setbacks, the officers are cautious when answering questions. The exercise speaks for itself, is all that the Jordanian brigadier general will say when asked for his message for is. So I question a major general from US Central Command about the implications of the capture of Ramadi. The true story here at Eager lion is just 18 countries coming together, he replies. It shows there's a common interest in regional stability. Right now. The stories coming out of Ramadi are ones of horror and chaos. Residents say that IS fighters have gone Door to door, looking for government sympathisers and throwing their bodies into the Euphrates River. Tens of thousands of people have fled the city. The loss of Ramadi, just 65 miles to the west of Baghdad, is a big blow for both the Iraqi government and US strategy. Despite the risk of a sectarian backlash, Iraq's Prime Minister, Haider Al Abadi has appealed to Shia Muslim militias to help retake the Sunni heartland. He said he'll also arm Sunni tribes to fight is. But in Amman, I meet a respected Iraqi commentator who's unconvinced this approach will work. Munkif Taqr is Sunni and used to be both a general in the Iraqi army and an academic. But he switched to a new career in opinion polls following the U. S led invasion of his country in 2003. As we sit drinking Arabic coffee, Mr. Daghr tells me that after Mosul, Iraq's second biggest city, fell quickly to IS last June, he looked into his data to try to work out how it happened. The striking difference he found between Iraqis from Mosul and those elsewhere was the sense of insecurity they felt in their own neighbourhoods and their lack of trust in the Shia dominated central government. Now we see the same story repeated over and over again. The pollster says IS or Daesh stress the faults of the government and use these as a recruitment tool. They say we're Sunnis like you. Mr. Dagh tells me that Baghdad is making a huge mistake in focusing on a military response. Daesh isn't taking over new areas because it has more weapons or fighters than the Iraqi army. He goes on, it's because the governments lost the battle for the hearts and minds of Sunnis. This has become an ugly sectarian war. And to defeat Daesh they need a parallel strategy. They must convince everyone that Iraq is their country. Back at the Eagle Eye exercise, a friendly Iraqi journalist offers me a pastry and his views. Diya Al Khuaz is impressed by the American and Jordanian show of force. But he can't believe that Iraqi troops said to have been at the training have made even a symbolic contribution. Since my country was invaded and occupied, the Iraqi army's become weak. They can't even defend themselves, he says Mr. Akwas now wants Jordan, a mainly Sunni country, to help train and arm Iraqi Sunni tribes. And he believes others have a moral responsibility to fix the problems they created. I blame the Americans for what's happening because they destroyed Iraq and and left it unstable. Ms. Akouas says. Unfortunately, many other countries helped them in the Port of Aqaba. We watch the final display. Special operations personnel whiz about in combat boats and swiftly board a suspicious looking ship. An audience of VIPs gives them a round of applause. The real wars in this region will be much harder to win.
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Yoland Nell in southern Jordan, the President of Burundi has announced a 10 day delay for parliamentary elections which were due to be held next Tuesday. The opposition, regional and international leaders had asked for the polls to be postponed until order was restored. Protests have been continuing in the Burundian capital, Bujumbura, after the coup attempt last week. Andrew Harding, who's there, says the instability's far from over.
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It was late afternoon by the time we crossed the border into Burundi. Rain clouds were moving in over the tightly packed green hills and our drivers were missing. They arrived an hour later, explaining how they'd been dragged from their cars by a mob and beaten up on their way to fetch us. No real reason given. Military coups have that effect on crowds. Rumours breed anyone can be a suspect. It was dark by the time we cleared the last army roadblock, turned one final corner and saw the lights of Bujumburra. In the valley below and beyond the gleaming grey expanse of Lake Tanganyika, the coup was already crumbling. President Pierre Nkurenziza had driven back to the capital on the same road a few hours ahead of us. The head of the army had settled matters by declaring himself against the coup. Now it was a matter of hunting for the officers, the politicians and anyone else suspected of backing the wrong side. The next day, we were invited to see one captured general. It was an odd setting, a fancy bar cum nightclub overlooking the police were unloading grenade launchers in the car park. Inside, uniformed waiters were serving whisky to the top brass. And there was a crocodile pit, a short, plump looking reptile slouched in a pool of green water. Presumably just an exotic feature, nothing to do with the interrogations that might or might not have been carried out in the bar. In the end, we were told to leave. Someone realised it wasn't quite the the right backdrop. It's 14 years since I was last in Bujumbura. It's an appealing city with cobbled streets and a stunning sandy beach. Back in 2001, a long civil war was still winding down. Ethnic Hutu rebels shelled the city from the hills. The national army was dominated by ethnic Tutsis. It was more or less the same ingredients that had led to the genocide in neighbouring Rwanda. Burundi has had its fair share of massacres too, but in recent Years, it's worked hard to patch things up. There's a strict quota system here. In the army, the police. In parliament, the Tutsi minority is guaranteed jobs and a share of power. And so for 10 years, President Nkrunziza, father, Hutu, mother Tutsi, has led this tiny country not particularly well, it seems. There's huge corruption, a clear drift towards authoritarianism, and Burundi's economy has fallen far behind that of Rwanda, to the north. But there's been stability of sorts here, and the ethnic issue has slipped quietly into the background. Then came the president's decision to run for a third term in office, a familiar ploy in this part of Africa, but something many here promptly rejected as being against the letter and spirit of the law. There were street protests, international condemnation, and then, last week, an attempted coup. Through it all, innocent Mahozy has been trying hard to look on the bright side. He's a tall, gentle, stooped man who runs an independent television and radio station here. In a way, he said, this crisis has brought us even closer together. Tutsis and Hutus have been protesting side by side on the streets, and the coup itself was the work of both groups within the military. It's a sign of how far we've come as a nation. It's not often you hear violent protests and a military coup being described in such positive terms. But Innocent has a point, at least for now. In neighboring Rwanda, you're not supposed to even talk about Hutus and Tutsis. Burundi has taken a different and arguably more honest approach. Nobody's pretending those differences aren't there. It's just that most people don't. Don't think they matter anymore. Except they can matter. When the rumors start to fly, the paranoia builds and cynical politicians stir things up. The presidency already openly and provocatively accusing Tutsis of being behind the protests. And so in the last few days, more than 100,000 Burundians have fled this country. Many have taken to boats heading south or west across Lake Tanganyika. Already some have died of cholera on the beaches. Maybe the refugees are just being cautious or overreacting. Perhaps this will remain a fundamentally political crisis. But there are reports that a pro government youth militia is making threats in the countryside. And Innocent, the television boss is starting to lose faith. He's not exactly in hiding yet, but his station has been attacked and shut down by the police, and he's keeping out of sight. If there's dialogue, there is hope, he told me. But if not, we're heading back to war.
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Andrew Harding in Bujumbura people have been out on the streets in the Macedonian capital, Skopje as well. Moscow reckons it's all a Western plot, an attempt to start a coup. It's almost a quarter of a century now since the country won its independence from Yugoslavia. But this small, landlocked nation in the Balkans is struggling economically and in the midst of political crisis. The protesters are demanding the resignation of the Prime Minister, Nicolas Grievsky. As Guy Delaunay's been finding out. They say he's been presiding over a corrupt administration, whipping up ethnic tension and illegally tapping the phones of opponents.
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The leader of Macedonia's opposition camping out in a tent on one of Skopje's main streets. It seemed unlikely, but then, everything else about Macedonia these days has taken on a distinctly surreal air. Just strolling through the center of the capital is now an eerie experience. That's because of the scores of recently erected statues looming over squares and parks, on bridges, along the riverfront promenade. During the day it's unsettling enough, but at night it's positively spooky. There's also been a frenzy of building with neoclassical columns sprouting between the brutalist concrete blocks which became Skopje's default style after an earthquake in the 60s flattened most of the city. For many Macedonians, this is more than a matter of aesthetics. It's the most visible symptom of a government which they say has gone power mad. The dramatic makeover of Skopje was part of a policy called antiquization, an attempt to recast Macedonia as the cradle of civilization. At least that's how the welcome message on your mobile phone describes the place when you land at Alexander the Great airport. Critics, and there are plenty of them, say the authorities ran roughshod over any dissenting voices and merrily spent millions of euros of this not exactly wealthy country's cash on creating a capital of kitsch. But the latest allegations are far more serious. After years of accusing the government of increasingly authoritarian behaviour, the opposition somehow obtained what seems like incontrovertible proof of wrongdoing. Hours of COVID recordings of top officials apparently discussing bribery, ballot rigging, and perhaps most damning of all, the COVID up of a murder committed by a police officer. This last alleged crime appears to have been the final straw for many people, and on Sunday they came to the capital in their tens of thousands. Young marched next to old and ethnic Albanians alongside Macedonians, Turks, Serbs and Roma in this deeply fragmented region. They all wanted the same thing the resignation of the long serving Prime Minister, Nikola Graewski. A young man called Vladimir and a small group of friends had come from Volandovo, a small town about 80 miles away from Skopje. They carried placards printed with the articles of the constitution, which they said the government had violated. No matter what religion or political party, we're here to give support to the opposition and people who think about more than money. So, said Vladimir. Does opposition leader Zoran Zaev fit that description? Plenty in the crowd were not convinced. More than one person told me this was a demonstration independent of any political party. Mr. Zaev's own previous involvement in a land scandal and timely receipt of a presidential pardon may have been playing on their minds, or just utter mistrust of a political class which has manifestly failed to take Macedonia forward. So were the reports of the opposition leader spending the night under canvas just so much spin? There was only one way to find out. Towards midnight, I wandered back to the site of the rally at government headquarters. The night was warm, the aroma of Skopsco beer floated on the breeze, and there was a convivial atmosphere in the glare of the lights from the buildings recently renovated in the style of the White House. Tents and folding tables were pitched on the central reservation opposite. And sure enough, posing for selfies and puffing on a cigarette, there was Mr. Zaev. Are you really planning to stay all night? I asked him. Well, until 5am at least, he replied. Did you bring a tent? I wondered. No, he admitted, but I'm sure somebody will give me a space in theirs. He said he hoped he'd get some sleep, because the next day he'd be meeting the Prime Minister to try to find a way out of the political impasse. But those talks came to nothing. The following evening, the government organised a rally of its own, bussing in supporters and public sector workers in an effort to show that Mr. Groewewski could also muster a crowd of tens of thousands. A tit for tat rally, then. And the next day there were even tit for tat tents as government supporters set up a camp outside the National Assembly. For Macedonians, though, this is all much closer to tragedy than farce. A stalemate at home between government and opposition and a deadlock internationally over the country's choice of name, which is keeping it out of the European Union. So even if Mr. Grew does eventually bow to the protesters demands, it's hard to see a hopeful path forward for Macedonia. Perhaps then it's no wonder the government's been so keen to glorify the past.
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Guy Delaunay in Macedonia now, after years of economic woe, Things appear to be looking up in Spain. Growth is surging and unemployment dropping from its high of nearly 26%. Yet many Spaniards are deserting the traditional political parties. The ruling Conservatives are losing supporters in droves to a once tiny Liberal party called Citizens. The Socialists, meanwhile, are being harried by radical newcomers called Podemos. So the general election this winter could transform Spanish politics in ways unthinkable a year ago. This Sunday, though, all eyes will be on Barcelona, where many expect a major upset in a municipal vote. Julius Purcell has been finding out why the radical left could be set to take over the City Hall.
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When I took that photo, I had no idea that it was going to lead to all this. Vince Fournet is in his studio in Barcelona's port district of Barceloneta. Outside, the Mediterranean is dazzling in the sunshine. Wisenz is a photographer and son of a local ironworker. The ground floor below his studio is used to be the family forge serving the industrial port. Now it's a shop selling surfboards, camera around his neck, Vincent takes me out along the seafront. This is where it happened, he says, pointing to a beachside supermarket. One morning last August, he spotted some tourists queuing at the till here. Not an unusual sight given the 27 million tourists who flock to the city annually. Except that as a prank, these guys were totally naked. I snapped them, Vince says, and then I sent the photo to the newspaper. With that image, Vincent turned his neighborhood into the symbol of Barcelona's urban dilemma. Barceloneta is proud of its working class cohesion. The smallness of its flats means children play in the streets. Elderly people hang out together in the main square. But the mass rental of apartments here to tourists, many residents say, is bringing in antisocial behavior, driving up prices and driving out locals. For many Barcelonetans, the naked shoppers were the last straw. Last summer, huge demos called for a crackdown on tourist flats. Barcelona's mayor agreed to act, but for many, it was too little, too late. For years, the authorities refused to listen. Vicente says that photo was the spark that set off all this indignation. Spain's volatile new politics is fuelled by such indignation. If the polls are right and Spain's political order is due for a shake up, the first signs might be seen in Barcelona in Sunday's municipal elections. Here, a new alliance of left wing parties called Encomu, Catalan for in common, has suddenly become the centre right mayor's main political rival. Barcelona is going to spearhead a democratic revolution. This is the bold Claim made by incommons leader and mayoral hopefully found it in common a few weeks before the Barceloneta protests erupted. She's calling for a citywide freeze on the rental of apartments to tourists and even considering ways of reducing tourist numbers. Her rivals say that tourism kept Barcelona afloat through the recession. Colau, they say, will kill the golden goose. Many Barcelonans, it seems, disagree. Polls suggest Colau's party will become the city's second political force. Ada Colao is already a household name. In 2009, she launched a campaign to help unemployed mortgage defaulters across Spain, Often scuffling with police, her organization prevented over 1,000 evictions. As political incumbents now talk up new signs of growth, Colau argues that the wounds inflicted by unemployment and austerity are deep and lasting. I meet Colau in her new party's makeshift headquarters. Tourism, she acknowledges, grew in Barcelona during the recession, but so too did the gap between the city's rich and poor. Tourism is good, she says, but now it needs to be sustainable and its benefits spread more equally in common, she promises, will channel taxation from tourism directly to areas most affected by it, such as Barceloneta. Back in Barceloneta, with the elections and the summer approaching, the issue of tourist flats is hotting up again. Ask around and some Barcelonetans will say short term rental is a reasonable way to make ends meet. But even with so many residents on low incomes, that's a minority view here. From hundreds of balconies flutter the blue and yellow flags of the campaign against Tourist apartments. They hugely outnumber the red and yellow flags of Catalan independence. Near the markets, Lourdes Lopez sits in her wheelchair winter and summer under a rug or a parasol. She's here selling lottery tickets. The display of blue and yellow all around is largely her work. I actually gave out most of these flags when I sold tickets, she tells me. The city's tourism model, she says, makes us feel that as poor people, we can't live near the sea anymore. A frail, elderly woman approaches. Lourdes scans her ticket. Sorry, love, no luck today. She won't be drawn on who, if anyone, will get her vote on Sunday. Only that she feels pride just seeing these flags. It shows the politicians, she says, how things can be changed from the street up. This year, such ideas will be rattling Spain's political establishment well beyond Barcelona, and that's Julius Purcell.
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Now it can take quite some time for a community to build itself up again after it's been at the centre of a volcanic eruption. There was A Spectacular1 in September 1994 in East New Britain, the largest of the islands which make up Papua New Gu. The blast effectively wiped out Rabaul, the town which at the time was the provincial capital and which is overlooked by three volcanoes known locally as father, mother and Daughter. During the past few decades, the little girl has been the most vocal. It was her eruption 20 years ago which smothered the town. Fiona MacDonald has been to Rabaul to see if it's managed to recover.
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Benjamin spits an expert stream of buai onto the dark grey ash covering the ground. This blood red spat is common all over an island that loves to chew its betel nut. He says since the eruption of 94, few outsiders want to come here anymore. But he and his family have their land around Rabaul and they'll stay. Only a few weeks ago, a cruise liner came into the harbour, but it didn't hang about for long. There were no buses to take the passengers around, only the odd converted truck with wooden seats and a tarpaulin top that was unlikely to impress the tourists, particularly on the poor. We're a few hundred metres from the base of Tavurvur, one of the two volcanoes that simultaneously erupted more than 20 years ago, damaging the town of Rabaul and ending its spell as the provincial capital. 80% of the structures in the town collapsed under the weight of the ash that in some places was meters deep. Heading down Mango Avenue, once a broad two lane highway built by the Germans during their 35 year occupation, which end with the outbreak of World War I, it feels like we're the sole survivors in a post apocalyptic film. Everywhere is charcoal on this straight road. No buildings remain standing and no cars need to come here any more because there's little left to come. For bright green bushes have pushed their way through the ash and line the road the way the buildings once did. Back in 1937, eruptions from Tavurvur's sister volcano, Vulcan, killed more than 500 people. Twenty years ago, despite the devastation, only five people lost their lives because the town had a well rehearsed evacuation plan. But the population had to stay in the dark for more than a week under the pall of ash that blocked the sun. Colleen was a little girl in elementary school when the volcanoes blew up. At the time, she lived across the bay in Kokopo, the town that's now the capital. Even five miles away from the eruption, she remembers the heat, the flames and the constant explosions made them run from the shore to the safety of the hills. Behind there, her family hid in the bush with the others. And when it was all over, there was darkness, the oppressive heat and the occasional aid drop of food and water from helicopters. It was more than a week before they could go home. But because they lived a long way from the areas worst affected, their house was still standing, albeit coated in ash. Colleen told me the dogs that hadn't died in the area had turned feral and had to be shot. Benjamin takes me past what was once a white hotel, now a dirty shadow of its former self, the windows dead and empty. We bounce down the Runway of Rabaul's old airport, where three women appear, running barefoot across this ashen expanse of pumice, hoping we might be tourists coming to look at the still smoking volcano. They have a few bracelets they've made from cowrie shells. Matilda tells me she has high hopes that soon foreigners will return to Rabaul. At the moment, the only people who come here are volcanologists who don't seem to need the bracelets. But Georgina tells me she has other tricks up her sleeve. Her sons climb the sides of the Tavurvo volcano to look for megapode eggs that those large birds try to incubate in the guaranteed warmth. Perhaps, you might think, not the safest activity for seven and eight year olds. But she shrugs and adds that at least it's one opportunity to earn a little money. Although most of the old capital has now been moved to the safer environment of Kokopo, half an hour's drive away from potential eruptions, people still feel deeply attached to Rabaul. Despite the ever present volcanic grumbles and plumes of smoke. The town itself is no longer in imminent danger and its market thrives. The colours of the fruit and the women's woven bags or bilhams, garish after the monochrome greys all around. Near the town, the soil is fertile, but mangoes, pawpaws, coconuts and bananas, gallop nuts, peanuts and of course, the ubiquitous and much loved betel nut are spread out for sale under every tree. Growing your own fruit and vegetables here means most people can get by without much cash. And life seems a little better when the mouth is bright red and the eyes glittery from chewing that boo eye,
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waiting for the tourists to come back. And with Fiona Macdonald out there in the shadow of the volcanoes in East New Britain, we've reached the end of this edition. There's a new one on Saturday morning at half past eleven. I hope you'll join us then. Goodbye.