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From Our Own Correspondent
A Glimpse of the Future
00:27:29
Two conflicting visions of the future present themselves on a visit to the Middle the...
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You have downloaded from our own correspondent. This edition is the latest one broadcast on BBC Radio 4, and here to introduce it is Kate Ady.
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Hello. Today the drones return to the skies over Pakistan. What chance now of a peace deal with the Taliban? The strike in South Africa's platinum mine seems close to an end, but the bitterness it's left behind will take a long time to clear. We hear from the hills and valleys of Burundi where going out for a jog came can land you in jail. And I Wish I were 4 years old and starting all over again. We raise a glass to a much loved school in New York. But first, forces loyal to the government of Iraq have been reinforcing positions around the town of Samarra against ISIS and the other Islamist insurgents who have taken control of large parts of the west and north of the country. The Iraqi authorities are reported to have shut down much of the social media in the country amid concerns it's being used by ISIS to spread fear. The jihadis are said to be issuing warnings that more people will be executed if they fail to respect the codes it's seeking to impose. The militants are already in control of Mosul, Tikrit and a number of other Iraqi towns and cities. They've also a sizeable force in neighbouring Syria. Jeremy Bowen has been considering their objectives
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on the road to Aleppo. A thought I've had often in the last few years, the dropped back into my head. The modern world is in retreat. I was in a car moving along a bumpy, dead straight road across a flat, scrubby plain north of Homs. A year or so ago, the territory was in rebel hands, but the Syrian army took it back. Its tanks had dug into the occasional hillocks. That Syrian plain was desolate, the occasional villages abandoned and empty. Some weapon had punched holes in the mud, brick houses toppling their steep, tapering conical roofs that used to funnel away the summer heat. A line of collapsed electricity pylons was the site that prompted the return of the thought about the retreat of the modern world. It isn't just about physical damage. It's a question of what's happening inside people's minds. The road I was traveling wasn't far from the route taken to the Holy Land by the Crusaders more than a 1,000 years ago. The plane felt so lonely that part of my mind, numbed by the driving, wouldn't have been surprised to see a bloodthirsty medieval army moving forward in a cloud of dust with murder in the name of religion on its mind. That might sound like a whimsical thought. But these days, there is a real risk of an early death at the hands of armed men who are prepared to kill, often in the name of religion. During the 20th century, Islamist thinkers set about trying to return their religion to what they saw as its purest form, as it was during the time of the Prophet Muhammad in the seventh century. Since then, jihadist fighters have seized what started as a religious revival and soaked it in blood as part of their mission to remake and reject the modern world. In the process, they've evolved various poisonous doctrines that most Muslims reject, especially their belief that they can kill fellow Muslims, they believe have rejected God. The road we were taking took us past a dried out lake bed. It was not a place to stop, because on the other side were fighters from the Nusra Front, the Al Qaeda affiliate in Syria. What's remarkable about the turbocharged evolution of jihadi groups in Syria is that Al Qaeda loyalists are no longer the fighters most feared by those who do not share their beliefs. That dubious crown has gone to isis, which stands for the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. This ultra extreme Sunni Islamist jihadi group started as a splinter from Al Qaeda. Its leader, Abu Bakr Al Baghdadi, seems to regard himself as the true successor of Osama bin Laden. In Syria, ISIS concentrates on fighting other rebel groups rather than the Assad regime. ISIS wants to establish a state that straddles Syria and Iraq and to impose what it believes is a pure interpretation of Islam. The group holds important territory on the Syrian side of the border with Iraq. Its surge through Iraq in the past few days has so terrified Iraqis that vast numbers of people have fled from their homes, destroying any notion that many other Muslims share the beliefs of isis. What's happened is another reminder of the way that political and ideological links work in the Middle East. Al Qaeda in Iraq, the group that spawned isis, emerged during the fight against the American led invasion and occupation of Iraq. It saw an opening in Syria when the civil war started and moved in, and that gave it a power base to surge back into Iraq. We're seeing two linked sets of consequences. One comes from the decision by President George Bush, Prime Minister Tony Blair and others to invade Iraq in 2003, which was a recruiting sergeant for the jihadists. The other, the ISIS move back into Iraq is the starkest example so far of the Syrian civil war's capacity to destabilize the region. I'm sitting writing this on the ninth floor of a hotel in Beirut, and you could say that the view from my window is disproves the idea that modernity is retreating in the Middle East. I can see canyons of cranes and high rises, new offices and expensive flats. The Lebanese risk turning parts of their delightfully low rise city into a Levantine version of Dubai. The drilling and banging of building and the honking of car horns from the tangled traffic is washing in over my balcony. You might say it's the essence of Middle east modernity. In fact, it's one possible glimpse of the future. Another is in the minds of the men of isis.
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And that was Jeremy Bowen. The Pakistani authorities in a joint mission with the US military have hit back at Taliban targets after the attacks earlier this week at Karachi airport in which nearly 40 people died. At least 16 suspected militants were reported to have been killed in drone strikes in the North Waziristan tribal region. The attacks are the first to have been carried out by the controversial unmanned aircraft there this year. Mike Wooldridge, who is in the Pakistani capital Islamabad, says the operation has all but killed off hopes that a peace settlement can be reached with the Taliban.
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The first doctor, Seemi Jamali knew of the attack on Karachi airport was from the urgent strap line running across the TV screen. Head of the emergency department at the city's Jinnah Hospital, she drew immediately on 25 years experience of this kind of medicine in Pakistan's most volatile city. The hospital is equipped to cope with 500 casualties. She quickly alerted her colleagues and arrived herself before the first casualty was brought in, a young man called Assad who works in a canteen at the airport. As the night wore on, they received around 17 bodies, including those of the militants. They also treated around 25 more injured casualties. When we visited the hospital, there were still nine members of the airport's security force recovering from their injuries. Sergeant Nasir Ahmed's injuries were caused by a rocket propelled grenade. He fought face to face with one of the 10 young militants who carried out the attack. He believed their aim was probably to reach and seize a plane. That's been the speculation in various reports here that the militants were thwarted in an attempt to carry out a significantly bigger attack on or some kind of hostage taking. Besides their weapons, they had dry rations to keep them going. Had their mission taken a different course? The most senior airport security force officer we spoke to, Shabab Hussein, comes from Karum Agency, one of the semi autonomous tribal regions of Pakistan, where militancy has its roots and conflict has been long running. He received bullet wounds in the arm and chest. He called it an attack against humanity, saying Pakistanis were a peaceful people who did not indulge in such actions. We have a right to defend our lives, our country and our people, he said. The Pakistani Taliban, founded in 2007 as an organization distinct from the Taliban in neighbouring Afghanistan, quickly admitted responsibility for carrying out the attack. A spokesman said it was, as he put it, a message to the Pakistan government that we are still alive to react to the killings of innocent people in bomb attacks on their villages. The group also said it was in retaliation for the killing of its late leader, Hakimullah Mehsud, in a US drone strike last November. Later, Uzbek militants also took responsibility for the airport attack. That would come as no surprise to analysts here, who say they and the Taliban have long been working together. The origin of this is the thousands of Islamic militants who came to Pakistan from Central Asia when the campaign was on to force the Russians out of Afghanistan. Many settled and indeed married in the north west tribal region after the war was over. And so there's now a new generation born in Pakistan. It is a highly charged time here. The Taliban are threatening more attacks. Intelligence and security experts here talk of Taliban sleeper cells, particularly in a huge teeming city like Karachi, and suggests that the Taliban leadership bought time to plan the airport attack through the ceasefire with the government. While efforts were made to get peace negotiations underway, it was clear that some, at least in the military, were always sceptical about dialogue. When I was here last, the initiative was in the balance and a former senior figure in the army told me, we've had eight ceasefires with the Taliban already and it's got us nowhere. Unnamed government officials have briefed the media here this week that there's now a resolve to crush the militants with an iron fist. And the speculation that a long anticipated all out offensive in the militant stronghold of North Waziristan could now finally happen, while acknowledging that it could provoke a further violent backlash elsewhere in the country. And yet, will the governments be so ready, even after the airport attack, to write off the hopes of a negotiated solution to this conflict that's claimed the lives of thousands of Pakistani civilians and security personnel exploring it was one of Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif's electoral pledges last year. There's one other element in all of this. Splits in the Taliban were exposed and there was outright fighting within the movement as the groundwork for talks took place. Few conflicts around the world, of course, have ever ended without fine judgment between the pressures to act and the politics of pragmatism. Mr. Sharif is probably preoccupied by that thought right now.
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Mike Wooldridge in the Pakistani capital, Islamabad. Three major platinum mining companies in South Africa say they've reached the basis of a deal that could see the end of the longest ever strike to hit the industry. Earlier, thousands of workers gathered at a rally near Johannesburg. Many were urging their leaders to sign the deal, which is now being discussed by their union. The companies say the strikes cost them a huge amount of money. Andrew Harding tells us that in the mining communities it's caused much bitterness.
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Someone has burnt down Fred Mekwe's shack and made a pretty thorough job of it. The tin roof is warped and black, the television, the ironing board, the bed, all beyond salvage. Fred thinks his younger brother Zeppo probably had something to do with it. After all, he had been threatening to kill him. Up here on the cold, bone dry plains north of Johannesburg, things have been getting rather nasty and rather personal. It all started, geologically speaking, about 2 billion years ago, when vast quantities of molten rock seeped to the earth's surface through several deep cracks. Rather more recently, prospectors discovered that the resulting puddle of ancient magma happens to contain just over 70% of the world's known platinum reserves. Fred's home is in a small village close to one of the shafts at the Impala platinum mine, where he's worked for the past decade as a miner and more recently, an instructor. On January 23, almost five months ago, work at Impala and the other two big mining companies, Lonmin and Amplatz, ground to a halt. 70,000 workers had just begun what is now the longest, most damaging strike in South African history. It's cost the workers and the companies about 2 billion pounds and is well on the way to pushing the entire national economy into an official recession. Strikes are not uncommon here. Cheap migrant labour was one of the hallmarks of the racist apartheid system. Since the arrival of democracy 20 years ago, and even before then, unions have been pushing for higher salaries and better conditions. But those demands have always been relatively modest. That's because the big unions have for years been in a rather cosy partnership with the anc. They're all part of a formal governing alliance that has helped to keep a lid on labour unrest, kept union bosses handsomely rewarded, and allowed mining companies to change very little. But that arrangement has started to break down. The ANC is still hugely popular in South Africa. They just won yet another national election. But there are signs that the biggest threat to the party was will come from the left, from an increasingly politicized trade union movement. Just as it did in neighboring Zimbabwe. Fred Mekwe emerged from the wreckage of his house and walked over to inspect his still rather impressive vegetable patch. His wife had a miscarriage after the fire and has gone to stay with neighbors. It all changed after Marikana, Fred told me. That's when the rules stopped mattering here. Nearby Marikana, as you may remember, is the Lonmin owned mine where 34 striking workers were shot dead by police two years ago. It was a defining moment. The miners had joined a radical new union, amcu, which was demanding a rise not just of a few percentage points, but double or nearly triple the basic wage. The killings instantly destroyed all trust between the workers, the state, the companies and the unions. So when it came to a new round of wage negotiations this year, amcu, suddenly the majority union at the mines, was in no mood to compromise. For 21 weeks, the strike has taken a brutal toll on families here. Wives queuing before dawn on the rocky path outside their shanty town, hoping local charities might be dropping off food parcels. Hungry children struggling to concentrate in class. And the men sitting in small groups playing cards, getting in deeper trouble with the loan sharks and warning people like Fred not to break ranks. Fred was always lukewarm about the strike. More money would be great, but in the meantime, he's not earning and he has a home loan, a car loan and his wife's nursing studies to pay each month. And the intimidation outraged him. We live in a democracy, he kept saying, but people are dying here. And it's true, at least five workers have been killed for trying to break the strike. Fred's own brother, a union organizer, warned him he'd be next. Instead, Fred escaped with a few bruises and a burnt down home. And now it seems the strike may finally be ending. The details are still being thrashed out, but it looks like a weary compromise. On the phone, Fred sounded relieved. I've taken out another loan to keep my car, he said, but my brother and I are finished. We will never speak again.
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And that's Andrew Harding. The president of Burundi in Central Africa has caused some surprise by indicating he may seek a third term in office despite a two term limit. Opposition politicians and some Western countries have suggested such a move would be unconstitutional. But President Nakurunziza told the BBC the country's constitution was open to interpretation. It would be up to the courts to decide. Tim Franks is just back from Burundi, where a long history of blood soaked conflict was somewhat overshadowed by the genocide in neighboring Rwanda. It's a place, he tells us, where inter ethnic tension is still evident and where people like to go running the
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drive out of Bujumbura last Saturday provided an image that will stay with me for a long time yet. It was just after dawn and we were climbing away from Lake Tanganyika towards the high plateau of the interior. The escarpment wound on and on. From time to time, on my left, the curtain of banana trees and acacias would swing open and the hills and valleys would spill away from us towards a horizon of forest. But it was the view to my right that entranced me. Tucked between the narrow road and the side of the hill, the people of Bujumburra were running up and up a great long line of them. Some were in clusters, controversially, as you'll hear, others in their private reveries. Most were young men, but I also saw a man and a woman of late middle age and generous girth running together and holding hands. The tradition of Saturday morning runs had started during Burundi's long years of ethnic conflict. The last spasm of war had only ended back in 2005, with 300,000 dead from the population of 8 million. Then no one jogged up these hills. This was where the militias, now the men of government, would hide. So it was in the city of Bujumbura itself that people would try to vent their fear and frustration and claustrophobia by running, often in a group. But on this Saturday morning, I was taken aback to see some young men running together as a group. It was a surprise, because back in March, the country's president, Pierre Nkrunziza, had decreed that such a practice was to be banned. He feared it was being used as a cover for subversion. Indeed, some people are now spending a very long time in prison, in part at least because of their group jogging. They're members of the opposition MSD party, sentenced to jail terms ranging from five years to life. The 49 year old president, for his part, remains an enthusiastic consumer of team games, football in particular. He has his own side, Hallelujah fc, for whom, according to government leaflets, he plays as a striker and often scores goals. I'd already been made aware of the president's penchant for a kick about as I drove with my colleagues back from an interview in town. Suddenly, a policeman and a soldier started waving their hands at us to get us off the street. A frantic ringing motion, as if they'd trapped their hands in a dog's mouth. Moments later, a screaming cavalcade of security careered up the road. First the police, a dozen armed men in blue camouflage arrayed in the back of a pickup. Then the army, a dozen men in green camouflage with rifles, another soldier gripping an enormous mounted machine gun, then a herd of four by fours with tinted windows, then more army and police. I asked the local journalist I was with where the President was coming from. His afternoon football game, he answered. On this Saturday, I was trying to visit another of the places where the President likes to play, a stadium which he's had built by his home village in the northeast of the country, some hours out of Bujumbura. We rounded a corner and stumbled across a complex straight from a Mediterranean resort, an arena of magisterial size and scop. Sadly, the guards wouldn't let us into the stadium, despite the laissez passer we showed them, issued by the president's own office. While we chatted with the soldiers, a stream of boys hauled themselves past us up the steep road. They were dressed in rags, their heads bowed under fat bundles of sugar cane. I'd GUESS they were 7 or 8 years old, but they may have been older. Burundi comes second in the world only to Afghanistan in stunting the main symptom of chronic child malnutrition. This in a place which, as we'd seen on our drives across the country, is fertile enough to be self sufficient in food, but it's also a land sucked dry by corruption. Burundi bumps along the bottom of all the major global indices of corruption. As we drove back to Bujumbura, time and again we were stopped by policemen languidly waving us down before seeing our display of cameras and microphones and deciding maybe we didn't have too many questions to answer. Halfway down our final winding descent towards Bujumburra, the sun about to sink into Lake Tanganyika, we drove past a lone jogger running up the hill. He was a grey bearded man in a long trousered tracksuit, his eyes locked forward, his hands shadowboxing.
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Tim Frank's there now. Are there any children anywhere who haven't dreamed of going to a school they love? A place where part of every day is devoted to art, music and to reading for pleasure, where there are few exams and where everybody feels part of the community, and where the students who graduate still go on to top notch secondary schools and the very best universities. Reggie Nadelson was a pupil at one such establishment in the United States. It's just had a party to celebrate a rather special birthday, and she was there.
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Just 100 years ago, Caroline Pratt opened a progressive school in New York's Greenwich Village and called it City and Country. She was convinced kids knew as much about their own education as the teachers and Pratt's motto and the title of her book was I Learned from Children. The school soon occupied a couple of brownstones in the heart of the village. The yard between them became the playground, and tonight, on the hundredth birthday, that yard is filled with scores of graduates, some from as far back as 1931, some as recent as 2013. City and country feels almost unchanged since my own time here 50 years ago. The school was a wonderful refuge from a troubled home life, says my ex classmate Carl, now a cattleman and farmer in New Hampshire. The school made me who I am, adds Catherine, a New York attorney I once played with in Yard, as the sports periods were called. We drink wine and sing old folk songs. Pete Seeger, the activist who wrote if I Had a Hammer, was the music teacher here for a while. We tour the school, which is bigger now, a couple of adjacent brownstones having been added as have some computers. There is also homework and test prep, a necessity in a more competitive world. In my time there were no grades, no tests, no homework. The classes then as now, are known as groups, from the twos to the 13s. There is a full program of art, music, history, languages, science, math, current events. There are field trips and plays. But at the heart of the school is what has always been known simply as library. The booklined library has comfortable armchairs, as it did 50 years ago, where every child spends half an hour every day reading for pleasure. They choose their own books, any book. Vladimir Posner, one of Russia's most famous journalists, spent his childhood in New York and started at City and country in 1941. I was all of seven, he says. It was one of the luckiest breaks in my life. No tests, no stupid rote learning. And did we learn? We learned to make documents on vellum. Like ancient monks. We felt the joy of discovery and of devouring books. In library, I get together with a quartet of current students. Emma, who is a 13, is currently reading Bulgakov's Master and Margarita. Her group studied the Soviet Union this past term. Sam, a 10, says, if you love your school, you learn to think outside the box and be flexible. George, Sam's older brother, is a 12. This is a community, he says. We all grew up as brothers and sisters. At City and Country, every group has a job. The eights run the post office, which helps them learn arithmetic. The nines operate the old printing press, which my own father, a printer himself, used to demonstrate. A13. Hal's favorite job is taking care of the fours and fives. The little kids cheer you up, he says. Over the years, I had wondered if this school I adored, an idyllic, progressive little outpost of all good things in Greenwich Village, perhaps the most liberal and lovely part of the usa, could also teach students to deal with an increasingly complex world. Meeting the current crop, I'm convinced it's not only still viable, but better than any other system. These kids actually love learning. The fact that no personal phones are allowed in the school isn't an issue for them. They are very bright and articulate, but neither pretentious nor self. Regarding I love this place. I still love it. So seemingly do my classmates. Out in the yard, we reminisce as the stars come out over Greenwich Village. Alan, who's a poet now, feels it's as if we were just on pause and we've picked up after 50 years without missing a beat. This is the first time back for John, a doctor. He is euphoric about it. He keeps turning to us and saying, I'm just high. I'm really high on this place. As for me, I Wish I were 4 years old again and just starting.
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And with Reggie Nadelson reminiscing under the stars in Greenwich Village, we've reached the end of another edition. Two new programmes next week on Thursday and on Saturday mornings. Why don't you join us.