← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
A Nightmarish Tale
00:28:13
The BBC's Middle East editor Jeremy Bowen examines claims that a conclusion to the in...
Loading summary
Transcript12 lines
- [00:00]
A
You're listening to a download from the BBC. This is from our own correspondent. You can hear the version of the programme we make for the BBC World Service by visiting our site at BBConline. But here's the latest edition broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and introduced by Kate Ady.
- [00:17]
B
Today from Damascus, a nightmarish tale of two cities. A message from the Russian president from the town of Crystal Goose. The television soaps helping Turkey extend its influence through the Middle east and in the Tuscan hills. Why they're still picking olives by hand, just as they did in ancient times. Shocked, humbled, deeply moved. Those were the comments of the UN Secretary General, Ban Ki Moon yesterday after he talked to Syrian refugees at a camp just inside the Turkish border. Earlier, a senior Syrian official had told the BBC that army operations were at a crucial turning point. The information minister, Omran Al Zobi, predicted that government forces would in three to four days win what he called the battle for Damascus. Damascus. But Jeremy Byrne, who's in the capital, says the signs are the conflict still has some distance to run.
- [01:11]
A
At the moment, the capital of Syria is having its own nightmarish tale of two cities. I'm in the center, not far from one of the world's great places, the walled old city of Damascus. It contains the 1400 year old Umayyad Mosque and so many layers of history that Roman columns proper, parcades in the souk. And people still live and work in the street called Straight, where The Bible says St. Paul stayed after he was struck blind on the road to Damascus. The other Damascus is in the modern suburbs. Armed rebels control big chunks of them, though they're also surrounded by the regime's forces. In the last week, they've been pounded by artillery. To my British ear, the word suburbs brings up a vision of the place where I grew up. Gardens, laurel hedges, children dawdling to school, and at the weekend, the scent of Sunday lunch. Damascus suburbs aren't like that. They're concrete and breeze blocked. Jungles expanded chaotically for poor people who migrated to the capital looking for work when life in the countryside just got too hard. One of the reasons that so many people decided they were prepared to risk death to oppose President Assad were the consequences of of the worst drought in Syria's recorded history. Between 2006 and 2011, according to the UN, it wiped out the livelihoods of 800,000 people in northeast Syria, 85% of the livestock died. The regime made matters worse by subsidizing big landowners who intensively farmed thirsty crops like Cotton and wheat. Northeast Syria is now a stronghold of the rebellion in Damascus. Some of the men who carry guns against the president once worked in parched and dying fields. The poor, burned with anger, had no stake in the status quo, and were desperate enough to challenge it. Until around a month ago, the war in Syria had seemed to be in a stalemate. Neither side could defeat the other. It doesn't feel like that anymore. And that's because the armed rebels have stepped up their operations in Damascus. I was here last, in January. The reason why I haven't been back to Damascus is that you need a Syrian visa to come here, and they're hard to get these days. At the beginning of the year, armed rebels were just appearing for the first time in the suburbs. I was astonished when one morning I joined a convoy of journalists heading for the funeral of a protester and found that a few minutes after the last police roadblock, the Free Syria army was in charge. Since then, little by little, the rebels have built their strength. Damascus is not about to fall, but its center, the regime's hub, is starting to feel as if it's under siege. That's not literally the case. The regime controls plenty of roads in and out, but security zones to keep bombers away surround government buildings and military HQs. The front of the chief of Staff's headquarters, not far from where I'm staying, has been blown off. The roads in from the suburbs are cut by roadblocks, and Damascenes complain about appalling gridlocked traffic caused by the number of streets closed for security reasons. And then there's the shelling. It comes from the centre out to the suburbs, so it's not as if shells are landing near government buildings. But when shell fire is in the soundtrack of a city, it cannot be normal. The other day, I had a chat with Mokhtar Lamani, who works with the UN envoy, Lakhtar Brahimi. I don't think any diplomatic challenge is bigger than the one they've taken on. They're trying to find a political deal to end the war. Mr. Lamani, a convivial Canadian Moroccan, spelt out what could go wrong. The alternative to a settlement, he said, was a failed state, fought over by warlords like Somalia. Mr. Lamani said Syria could be even worse. Because Somalia was relatively isolated and Syria was intimately connected to its neighbors through family, religious and ethnic ties. It's in a pivotal position in the most politically congested, fragile part of the Middle East. In Tripoli and Lebanon this week, at least a dozen people were killed as Factions supporting the two sides in the Syrian war fought each other. Syria's other neighbors, Iraq, Turkey, Jordan and Israel, can already feel the heat coming over the border. The stakes could not be higher. The outlook could not be worse.
- [05:40]
B
And that's Jeremy Bowen in Damascus. There was a small gathering in Moscow earlier this week to mark the one year anniversary of a rally that emboldened Russia's splintered opposition and touched off a series of unprecedented protests against Vladimir Putin. For the president, it's been possibly the most challenging year of his more than a decade in power. Those protests, which followed a controversial parliamentary election, were a public challenge to his authority and sent his approval rating tumbling. And yet today, surveys show that the protest mood in Russia is waning. Indeed, away from the capital, President Putin still enjoys widespread support, as Steve Rosenberg has been finding out. In the town of Gus Khrushtalny, 160
- [06:24]
C
miles east of Moscow, 250 years ago, a Russian merchant was walking through the woods in the county of Vladimir. Legend has it that all of a sudden he came upon a magical river, the goose. The merchant was mesmerized by its beauty, by the sparkling sunlight dancing on the water, by the birds on the riverbank, by the stillness of the forest. And at that very moment, he thought to himself, what a perfect place to build a factory. So he did. A glass works and a town to go with it. It became known as Goose Khrushtalni, Crystal Goose. For the next two and a half centuries, the town was famous for producing the finest Russian crystal. It did so under the czars, the Communists, under wild Russian capitalism, too. But in recent years, the magic has faded. For a time in the 1990s, workers at the crystal factory stopped getting their salaries. They were paid in glass and crystal instead. To survive, they had to pedal their goods by the roadside. Today, the crystal factory has shut down. The last workers were laid off this year. But that's not the only problem, which is talk of the town. People's gas and electricity bills are getting bigger. Food prices are rising. Crime is rampant. Public services are crumbling. Last month in Crystal Goose, a group of school children spotted an elderly woman lying on the street. She was injured, but still alive. Several times they called for an ambulance, and each time, the emergency services told them to go away, to stop making prank phone calls. By the time the children had found someone to help, the woman was dead. The story made headlines nationwide. Which brings me to the eternal Russian who is to blame. In search of an answer, I meet Valieri. He's in the glass business. He doesn't produce it. Few people here do anymore. He imports it from Belarus. But in Crystal Goose, business is a dangerous activity. After Valieri refused to pay protection money to a gang, his house was burgled and his wife beaten up. In Crystal Goose, he tells me, criminals have been running riot, burning down businesses, attacking entrepreneurs and controlling the town. I ask him who he blames. Vladimir Putin, perhaps. But no. Valery still hopes his president can restore order and punish the local criminals, officials and police he holds responsible. Two years ago, Valieri and some other local businessmen wrote to Vladimir Putin for help, and help came. Investigators from Moscow were dispatched, but little, Valery tells me, has changed. He's still hoping, though. Who else can we rely on? He tells me Putin is the only person in Russia with the power to change things. Tatyana feels the same way. I talked to her at the local Citizens Advice Center, a tiny office run by volunteers in the centre of town. She tells me about her daughter, Lyuba, who was gang raped by five men. The police, Tatiana says, were reluctant to act. Still, Tatiana pressed charges. A few months later, her daughter was murdered. The investigation into her killing has stalled, so Tatyana too has written a letter to Vladimir Putin. In it, she begs her president to help find Lyuba's killers. And she ends the letter with these. As a mother, I say this, you are my last hope. Crystal Goose is typical of much of Russia. Throughout history, people here have tended to look up to their leader, almost mesmerized by him, like the merchant was by the magical river Goose. Millions of Russians still believe that Vladimir Putin has the best intentions. It's just that they're stymied by bad advisors, corrupt officials or criminal gangs. But Russian history teaches another lesson, and Vladimir Putin should take note. In times of economic crisis, the good tsar can suddenly and quite dramatically fall from grace. Mikhail Gorbachev became a figure of hate when the Soviet economy collapsed and the Soviet empire fell apart. Boris Yeltsin's popularity plummeted when his reforms impoverished the population, when those workers at the crystal factory got paid in glass instead of money. In Russia, no tsar can stay at Goodsar if he can't pay pensions and salaries on time.
- [11:21]
B
Steve Rosenberg South Tyrol, known in Italian as Alto Adige, is Italy's richest province. Here, unemployment's low and business is thriving. It's largely German speaking and was part of Austria until the end of the First World War. In the 1970s, it gained autonomous status. Today, though, with Italy deep in economic crisis, Rome wants cash and is asking the regional government in South Tyrol to contribute more. Bethany Bale, who's been in the provincial capital, Bolzano, says many of those German speakers resent having to bail out southern Italians. Some of them say it's time to leave Italy altogether.
- [12:01]
D
A few years ago, I had to ring up the Wargraves association in South Tyrol. An Alpine glacier near the Austrian Italian border was melting and had revealed the bodies of three soldiers killed in the bloody mountain battles of the First World War. The phone was answered by a man who spoke German with a strong Tyrolean accent. Were these soldiers from the Austrian army or the Italian army? I asked. They were part of the Austrian army, he said. And where were they found? I asked. In the Ortler Alps, he replied. It used to be Austria, but now it's Italy. Unfortunately, South Tyrol, once part of the Austro Hungarian Empire, was annexed to Italy in 1919 at the end of the First World War. Many people here are native German speakers, and a few of them, like the man from the Wargraves association, are still not reconciled to the fact that the province has been part of Italy for almost a century. In the 1920s and 30s, the fascist dictator Benito Mussolini encouraged Italians from the south to send settle in the region. German was widely banned in schools, in courts and in public offices. And place names were Italianized. It all contributed to what one local author described to me as the long standing hostility between the two language groups. Tension increased sharply in 1939 when Hitler and Mussolini agreed to give the German speakers a choice. Stay in South Tyrol and become forcibly integrated into Italian language and culture, or emigrate to the German Reich and give up their ancestral homeland. It was hugely divisive. One woman from the provincial capital, Bolzano, told me. If you stayed, you were called a traitor, and if you left, you were seen as a Nazi. Even now, you can see splits in families in my own family over who decided to stay or to go. Today, however, South Tyrol is thriving. It's the wealthiest province in Italy, and being bilingual is a fact of life. Relations between the German and Italian speakers eventually started to improve in the 1970s, when South Tyrol was granted autonomy. Under the agreement, 90% of taxes paid here stay here. But these days, Italy's looming financial crisis is inflaming old resentments. Rome wants South Tyrol to contribute millions to help bolster Italy's national budget, a demand which politicians here say goes against their autonomy agreement. And this has given new life to the small separatist movement headed by the Federation of Historic South Tyrolean Riflemen, known as the Suttirole Schutzenbund, the Schutzhen, who organize marches in Tyrolean national dress and feathered hats, have long campaigned for reunification with North Tyrol. In Austria, the worse the economy gets, the better it is for us. The leader of the Schutzen, Elma Thaler, told me excitedly. People are starting to realize they haven't got anything to do with Italy. But Franz, another Bolzano resident, was sceptical. The Schutzen are a minority, he told me. Most people don't want to leave Italy. But it is true that our history is still very raw. Just look at our architecture. As I wandered through Bolzano, I began to see what he meant. The old city feels very Tyrolean, with its narrow Gothic arcaded streets and picturesque squares dominated by statues of Germanic heroes like the medieval minstrel and Walther von der Vogelweide. But cross over the river and you come to a very different part of town, filled with monumental buildings erected by the Italian fascists. It's somehow ironic, France had told me. One of Bolzano's most controversial buildings is its tax office. Severe and geometric, it was built during the Second World War as the Fascist party headquarters. A huge stone frieze on its facade chronicles the regime's achievements. And in the centre, on horseback, is a large chiseled image of Benito Mussolini. In South Tyrol, old European fault lines are still under strain.
- [16:45]
B
Bethany Bell in Bonzano. Much has been made in recent times about Turkey's increasing influence in the Middle East. The crisis in neighboring Syria has pushed Turkish diplomacy and military muscle further into spotlight. But there's a cultural weapon in the country's arsenal. It's television soap operas, which are beginning to dominate ratings across the region, where they're dubbed into increasingly racy and colloquial Arabic. This year, the Turkish newspaper Hurriet boasted that the export of more than a hundred different drama serials has earned the country more than 40 million pounds, as well as the esteem of tens of millions of viewers, especially women. The craze has in its turn inspired travellers from Arabic speaking countries and even from as far afield as the Balkans, to go on organized tours in Turkey around the locations of their favourite soaps. Rajan Datta decided to get behind the scenes of this booming industry and even ended up in front of the cameras.
- [17:45]
E
Istanbul's Jera Pasha district is bathed in sunshine as we pull into a local school parking lot turned temporary hospital entrance. Using what looks like sticky backed plastic, three set designers are frantically trying to convert the shell of a white van into a makeshift ambulance camera Operators, script editors, publicists and producers huddle around a TV monitor, bustle about a bit, then huddle back together again. They look harassed, anxious. Yet the shooting day has only just begun. I've arrived at the location for episode three, so series two of the Turkish version of Desperate Housewives. Yes, it's a soap opera based on the US original. Wisteria Lane is now Gull Street, I'm told, But to regard it as only that would be to do it a disservice, as Turkey assumes the mantle of NATO's delegated project manager. In the Middle east, soaps like this are a prime weapon of its soft power, matching the global prestige of telenovelas in Latin America with arguably even more social influence. Leading lady Shungul Odin floats onto the set and we're introduced. She's a big star, especially in the Arabic speaking world, and good pals, I'm told, with the equally fragrant Queen of Jordan. Shungul is charming, with a good sense of humor and doesn't seem like a prima donna. It's been agreed that the man from the BBC, yours truly, will be an extra in the next scene, in which Shangirl's character smuggles her lover out of hospital in a wheelchair. When I ask her how I should approach the role, she grabs my hand and tells me, feel, don't act. Suddenly, Shun Girl is whisked off again, presumably to sign autographs and reply to fan mail or whatever it is soap stars do in their spare time. She is now a huge star all over the region. Some 85 million viewers watched her. In the final episode of a rags the Riches saga called Noor, she's promoted Istanbul's shopping festival in Dubai, been mobbed in the Balkans and is recognized frequently in France. Another drama called the Magnificent Century, about the Ottoman ruler Suleiman, has been sold to over 40 countries. One director tells me the rise in popularity of Turkish soaps during the last decade is down to new affluence in the Middle east and rising aspirations amongst women, coupled with the explosion of cable and satellite tv. According to the programme's distributors. In the seven years since these soaps were first aired across the region, tourism to Turkey from Arab countries has soared fivefold. And that's why the industry wants financial reward from the government for the value soaps like this add to Turkey's brand. In South Korea, they argue, pop music, film and soap opera industries are backed and nurtured by by the Ministry of Culture. A man comes round with a tray of Turkish tea and I wonder if it's wise for me to drink my fourth cup. I'm sitting amongst the other extras who are dressed as nurses, physicians and patients with an assortment of ailments and bandages. I don't speak Turkish, but like extras the world over, it's clear they're not happy with the catering or working conditions. And then suddenly it's time for my scene to start and there's a hush on set. I decide to look at my watch anxiously in the manner of an expectant dad and try to remember the advice don't act feel. A wheelchair rolls up carrying a 40 something man pushed by a white coated doctor and shun girl who's now wearing big dark glasses and a floppy summer hat. They try to push the wheelchair up the ramp into the ambulance, but fail and fail again and again. This isn't deliberate, so there's retake after retake. When it's finally done, after about an hour and a half, to my horror, I realize I have to repeat my supporting act again for three more camera positions. Just a couple of weeks later with the episode rush through the production line to take pride of place on primetime Turkish tv. I cannot believe what I see, which is virtually nothing. OK of me anyway, just a fleeting blur behind a wheelchair. I might as well have done handstands and juggled behind Sean Gul, the star of the show. All that feeling for nothing.
- [22:25]
B
Rajan Datta in Turkey this is a critical time of year for the olive growers of Italy. After leaving their fruit to ripen on ancient trees throughout the autumn, the harvest is now well underway. Most of the crop is used to make olive oil. Italy may not be its biggest producer, Spain is, but it's still a major part of the Italian agricultural economy, earning millions at home and on the export market. Now there's fierce argument about who makes the very best oil, but many will tell you it comes from the hills around the Tuscan cities of Lucca, Florence and Siena. Danny Mitzman's been finding out that the harvest process has changed little since ancient times.
- [23:06]
F
Until this autumn, I was an olive oil virgin. Oh, I'd had the posh stuff on salads and bruschettas. I'd even spent a Christmas holiday selling it at a deli. But I had no real idea what authentic extra virgin olive oil was for one simple reason. I'd never made it. But now I've had one of the most uplifting days of my life, taking fresh, juicy olives from tree to bottle. My American friend Seal had invited me to help harvest. She and her husband, hermino Cordioli own a hectare of land on the lush hills which rise up above Verona. Hermino and his father planted most of the 350 olive trees when they bought the plot, abandoned and overgrown 15 years ago. Inside the olive grove, the nets laid out beneath the trees are slippery and I slide down the terraces on my behind, giggling. Seals vetoed the use of noisy tree shaking machinery. She prefers to harvest by hand and I immediately appreciate why. As soon as I touch my first olives, I feel a rush of excitement. They're simply beautiful purple and green gems. It's like plucking jewels. I discover that olive picking's the ideal rural job for a metropolitan princess. Shaded by the trees, you don't get hot and sweaty. There's no bending or even stretching. You don't get your hands dirty. And the best thing you can chat on the job. Ciel and I gossip in English while a few trees away, Hermino and his brother in law banter in Veronese dialect, laughing constantly. They're stripping the uppermost branches using rakes and a pinsa, a simple yet brilliant gadget. You drag down the branch like hair straighteners. The olives plop to the ground while the leaves remain intact. I pluck and chuck with tireless zest. As we pick. Zeal explains her hopes to get a protected designation of origin certification for their oil. To get a pdo, a product needs to be grown and processed in the region and conform to the highest quality standards at every stage. You have no idea how terrible uncertified oil can be. SHE SIGHS Cheap olives get shipped in from anywhere, processed in Italy and labelled Italian Extra Virgin olive oil. It's outrageous. Obtaining a PDO is a complex, costly process of strict controls and overwhelming bureaucracy. But if they get it, the Cordiolis will be able to market their oil as Veneto Valpolicella, renowned for its grassy forest fruits aroma and its sweet, spicy green almond flavour. It's time to gather the nets and channel the olives into crates before the next step of removing any stray twigs, leaves or damaged fruits. We then load the crates into Hermino's van and drive down the hill to the olive mill. On the road, Seal calls the agronomist who's been advising them and monitoring their olives. Orieta Pavane is the olive oracle. She's the leader of a tasting panel. The people who blind sample every oil submitted 20 tests evaluating flavour, aroma and colour. That's after going through all the chemical analyses. The Cordioli oil's oleic acid levels are almost up to the required level, so Orieta's confident it'll pass. We pull up outside the olive mill and unload the crates. I'm expecting rustic stone slabs and dubious levels of hygiene, but it's state of the art. The olives are washed, then smashed, mashed and churned in high tech machines which ensure there's no contact with the air until the oil's extracted. To minimize oxidization, each batch has the producer's name displayed on an electronic board alongside the current temperature, a maximum of 27 degrees Celsius. It's the modern face of cold pressing. I peer into our olive incubator, churning 495 kilos of grey green mush that'll yield just 58 litres of oil. Then the final stage to separate off the pulp and water. At last the oil appears. It trickles down a spout into a shiny silver basin with a siphoning hole in the bottom. As the bright greeny gold river starts to flow, I stick my nose into the basin, inhaling the grassy scent, amazed and thrilled. I helped make this. Hermino and Ciel are whispering to the director, who disappears and returns with a litre bottle. Hermino pops it under the siphon and Ciel hands it to me. Souvenir. She grins. You've earned it.
- [28:03]
B
They always taste better when you pick them yourself. Danny Mutzman bringing this edition to a close. We'll be back with more from around the world next Saturday. I hope you'll join us. Goodbye.