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From Our Own Correspondent
. A Yankee Learns Farsi
00:28:12
French police have been placed on higher alert after rioting in the northern city of...
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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 Today.
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Riots in Amiens A brutal summer in Marseille. Discontent among French youth is posing a growing challenge to the new president why the much oppressed Kurdish people could emerge winners in the battle for the future of Syria. Cairo's drinkers wonder if Egypt's new Muslim rulers will call time on the city's thriving bar scene. And there's an embarrassing mistake as an American tries to master the Iranian language. Farsi police throughout France are on high alert this weekend after the riots in amiens which left 16 officers injured in the city's northern suburbs. The clashes, involving more than 100 youths and up to 150 police officers, left a primary school severely damaged and a sports centre destroyed. The area where the rioting broke out is set to become one of the 15 so called priority security zones which will be formally established next month. Christian Fraser says the troubles come at a difficult time for the country's new president, Francois Hollande. The French economy is showing no sign of picking up and trade unions are warning of what they call a hot autumn of protest.
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The old port of Marseille is bustling at this time of year. It's the Mediterranean route into France and a haven for traders, a gateway for smugglers. And it reflects in the visiting yachts that currently hug the harbour the wealth and privilege to which many in Marseille aspire. High above the towering cranes of the old waterfront is the contrasting image of poverty and despair. The limestone hills are crammed with faceless, deprived housing projects in which the drug gangs are in murderous control. And this has been a particularly brutal summer, with 17 drug related deaths this year, already surpassing the figure for 2000. We were warned off filming in these suburbs. The taxis refused to go there. Even the police are wary. There's a new threat. The smuggling from the Balkans has put powerful military style weapons in the hands of teenagers. They use them as if it's a video game, said Jean Marie Allemand, head of the city's police union. Some of the gunmen are as young as 13, he said. They spray bullets in all directions. They're afraid of nothing. In another suburb this week, far to the north, in the city of Amiens, there was a riot. In fact, the local mayor compared it to urban guerrilla warfare. The poor relationship between police and local youths from immigrant Backgrounds is often blamed. In Amiens this week, people told me the violence was sparked by an overzealous police stop and search operation. But it's no secret that in these suburbs, there is also a suffocating sense of alienation. In 2005, three weeks of similar rioting spread from Paris to other parts of the country, leading to an unprecedented state of emergency and much soul searching. There was the inevitable rush to new job creating initiatives. But seven years on, they've had little effect. It's a direct challenge to Francois Hollande and his new Socialist government. In Marseille, youth unemployment is as high as 40%. A local crime reporter, Francois Georgetti, told me that on some estates, the gangs are now the only active employers. Young dealers treat it like a proper career, he said. It's meticulously organized. There's a regular salary. They're divided between split shifts. Sure, there are risks. If you're not murdered, you'll probably end up in jail. But why would you not take the risk? Why not, indeed? The rewards bring luxuries, the kind we see in the port that would otherwise be forever out of reach. So what does the President do on the economy? He was elected to restore social justice and close this growing gap between the well heeled elite and the increasingly disgruntled working class. On security, the country expects him to talk tough. It's not a priority, he said. It's an obligation. And notably his Interior Minister, Manuel Valz, is a hardliner, not to the taste of all in his party. Some compare him to one of his predecessors. We will wipe the scum from the streets. Remember that. Nicolas Sakozy in 2005. I'm sure Mr. Vles will opt for a different choice of language, but. But there is the same kind of intent. He's named Amiens and Marseille as two of his 15 priority security zones within France, to which the government will now devote extra resources. But reversing the trend will be a mighty challenge. A few weeks ago, I reported from the immigrant heavy suburb of Ornez Dubois, on the edge of Paris that was at the center of the 2005 riots. Its biggest local employer, PSA Peugeot Citroen, has just announced it is closing its assembly plant with the loss of 5,000 jobs. One worker estimated that on his estate, 80% of the adult men, most with families, are about to lose their jobs, another perilous step on the road to grinding urban decline. Yet France is hardly isolated in these difficulties. The Eurozone crisis has left its mark on others too, with unrest recently in Greece, Spain, Portugal and of course, London. In Britain, the summer riots of 2011 brought some of the same kind of introspection. Yes, perhaps the Olympics have temporarily lifted spirits, but they don't mask the underlying problems, which are similar across Europe. There is an underclass of young men and women, jobless and restless, and the events in France this week should serve as a warning to all.
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And that was Christian Fraser. So how will the Middle east be affected if President Bashar al Assad is driven from power in Syria? It's a question currently exercising foreign ministries in the region and far beyond. The Kurds, who've long wanted a homeland of their own, see a window of opportunity opening up. There are more than a million of them in Syria, the majority in the northeast. Government forces have already been pulled back from there, and control of several towns and cities is now in Kurdish hands. Olagarin wonders if this ancient people could turn out to be winners in the fight for the future of Syria.
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With gold rimmed glasses, a neat black moustache and a pinstripe shirt, the middle aged man who came to meet us could have been a bank manager. He was unmarried, he explained, and had no children. He wanted us to know that was a choice, not a twist of fate. As a Kurd, I am not free, he said. I couldn't father a child who was also a prisoner. Instead of becoming a husband and father, he became a guerrilla fighter and an activist. He spent 15 years fighting for self rule for the cards. These days he feels it's getting a lot closer in parts of Syria's Kurdish northeast. That's how it seems under a hot sun. We travelled through dusty villages and towns, passing hillsides where shepherds still tend their flocks. And we found something missing the dark shadow of the security forces. After a wave of protests in late July, President Assad loosened his grip on the Kurdish region, probably so that he could try to tighten it elsewhere. Kurdish leaders say they now control about half their territory. Kurdish flags have replaced Syrian ones. Kurdish language schools have opened, and though the government's forces have not gone completely, they are lying low over glasses of tamarind juice in the city of Qamishli, a former law student turned politician summed it up. These days, said Amer, sitting cross legged on the carpet, the police wouldn't show up even if someone was killed. On our undercover journey through the region, bumping into the Syrian military was not part of the plan. But we had a telling close encounter as we filmed outside a courthouse. Our local guide had assured us it was safe. We Kurds are in charge here, he said. We'll have no problems. Then a young Syrian soldier emerged from inside in a vest and sandals. He wasn't dressed for combat. He stood in silence, looking a bit scared of us. A moment later, a plainclothes Syrian official strode into view, the type of man who could have detained us or dispatched us to Damascus. But he was more interested in hurrying us away. Travel among the Kurds and you get enmeshed in a web of hospitality, it seems every door is open, every hand is outstretched, and over plates of figs and grapes and cups of cardamom flavored coffee, every family has a story of suffering to tell. In the home of Saeed Hame, we sat in a circle on the floor in the Kurdish way. Just to gather here like this would have been impossible a month ago, he said. We couldn't dare talk to a journalist. Recalling how the regime fired him from his teaching job, Said beat the patterned rug in frustration with his fist. He and many others want the government erased from the region altogether. They're not killing us, he said, but we're not completely free. Freedom means more than just existence. If I go somewhere, I could still be arrested. The Kurds insist they want peaceful change, but they are ready for a fight if it comes to it. District by district, they have been setting up armed self defense units and a militia has sprung up, though it's media shy. Those guys are everywhere, but they're not under our control, said Saleh Muhammad, the softly spoken leader of the Kurdish Democratic Union, the most powerful party here. Mohammed is a veteran of the struggle for Kurdish rights with the CV to prove it. I asked how long he had spent in prison. Not long, he said with a laugh. Just two or three months a year, every year since 2003. And it was the Middle east type of prison, he said, with underground rooms for torture. He talked about the past and the future of his ancient people with an unhurried air. I believe our struggle is beginning to have results, he said, a feeling shared by many Kurds. It's unclear what will emerge from the broken jigsaw of Syria, but the Kurds are already benefiting from the chaos. They are pushing for autonomy in a new Syria, but ultimately many yearn for Greater Kurdistan, an independent state for all the Kurds.
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Olagaran, an Indian yoga guru, has ended a six day hunger strike against corruption which he's been staging in the capital, Delhi. The fast by maverick holy man Baba Ramdev was largely ignored by the authorities. It also failed to attract the level of public support seen last year when he and the veteran social activist Anna Hazara took part in similar protests. Mark Talley suggests it may mark the beginning of the end for the anti corruption movement, which until recently was regarded as a coming force in Indian politics.
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Last summer, the government was rattled by evidence of corruption, including massive sums of money misspent on preparations for the Commonwealth Games, and the exchequer losing perhaps as much as £24 billion by selling mobile phone frequencies cheaply to favored operators. So when the campaigners fasted in protest against these and other scandals, ministers lost their nerve. In April last year, crowds poured into the streets of Delhi in support of the fast by Anna Hazari, a social worker who's emerged from the obscurity of rural western India to become the figurehead of a national movement against corruption. Anna demanded the establishment of an ombudsman. Seeing the public support for him and fearing that, being 74, he might die, ministers hurriedly agreed to set up a committee to establish an independent body to investigate misappropriation of government funds. Hardly had the Anna fast ended before the saffron robed yoga guru Baba Ram Dev came to Delhi to protest against corruption. Knowing of the popularity of his televised yoga classes, four ministers rushed to the airport to greet him. But they failed to persuade him to call off his fast. Alarmed by the crowds Ramdev attracted, the Home Minister sent the police in the middle of the night to disperse them. This they did with considerable brutality, arresting Baba Ramdev as he tried to escape, dressed as a woman. When Anna and Ramdev returned to Delhi to fast this year, the government decided that the steam had gone out of their movements and the best policy was to ignore them. Anna was protesting because there was still no agreement on the ombudsman he wanted. This time Delhi didn't turn out to support him. After three days, he called off his fast amidst confusion about whether he had asked his colleagues to form a political party or not. When I visited the camp in the middle of Delhi, which Baba Ramdev established this year for his fast, demanding the recovery of all the illegal Indian funds deposited in foreign banks. Police officers were relaxing in chairs and constables leaning on their lead tipped lattes or staves. I found very little evidence of support from the general, general public. The only backing I could find was among his dedicated disciples. The government ignored Ramdev until, seeing that his fast was going nowhere, he called on his supporters to march on Parliament. He managed to turn his temporary arrest into a drama which brought traffic in central Delhi to a halt. The police treated him with kid troughs. With the fasts over can the government revert to the Indian tradition of accepting corruption as a part of life. That tradition goes back 3,000 years to the political theorist Chanakya, known as the Indian Machiavelli. He said, just as it's impossible not to taste honey or poison when it's on the tip of the tongue, so it's impossible for a government servant not to eat up at least a bit of the king's revenue, bringing it nearer to our time. Indira Gandhi dismissed corruption as a global phenomenon, and the other day, a minister in the government of Uttar Pradesh, India's most populous state, told officials it was all right to steal, but not to loot. The limited support for Anna's fast indicates that middle class anger against corruption isn't the potent force that it was said to be. At the height of his popularity last year, although Baba Ramdev can rally his own supporters, there's little evidence that his movement enjoys mass support. But during this fast by the Baba, the main opposition party, the right wing Hindu Bharatya Janta party and some of its allies came out in his support. They clearly believe he wields a big enough stick to help them defeat the governing coalition in the 2014 election. It's not just the politics of the anti corruption campaign which worried the government. Businessmen openly and officials privately say the whole administration has slowed down perceptibly because in the present feverish atmosphere, civil servants are reluctant to take decisions for fear of being accused of corruption by the opposition or indeed the media. But there seems little the ruling Congress Party can do. As one senior congressman put it to me, Baba Ramdev and Anna have brought corruption center stage, and it's likely to stay there. Doubtless the Baba will produce more dramas to keep himself in the frame.
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And that's Mark Talley. In the Indian capital, Delhi, the holy month of Ramadan is coming to an end. For believers in the Arab world and beyond, it's been a time of religious observance, good deeds, prayer, and of course, strict fasting from dawn until dusk, when the feasting finally gets underway. In Egypt, this year's celebrations took on a particular resonance. This has been the first Ramadan to be celebrated in the post Mubarak era, with a country now ruled by a president from the Muslim Brotherhood party, Mohammed Morsi. Egyptians and foreign visitors to Cairo, like Edwin Lane, have been speculating about how life there might change under Mr. Morsi and whether some of the city's more secular ways might be about to go.
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It's the eve of Ramadan and I'm sitting in one of Cairo's thriving downtown bars, a stone's throw away from Tahrir Square, drinking what I fear is my last ice cold bottle of Egyptian beer for at least a month. It's loud, smoky, hot and crowded around me. The clientele, a mix of old Christian men, liberal Muslims, self styled revolutionaries and expat journalists, crowd around square tables. They're too small to hold the dozens of beer bottles piling up on them or accommodate the ever increasing circles of drinkers on rickety wooden chairs. Meanwhile, the typically surly barman stomps up and down carrying armfuls of beer. Thrusting the green bottles into any outstretched hand he sees, he pops the metal tops off with one swift, well practiced movement. There's not much drinking time left. Tomorrow will be the beginning of the holy month of Ramadan, and in an hour the Ba, like many others across the city, will be closing its doors in accordance with Egyptian law. In Egypt, Ramadan means 30 days of fasting, praying, late night feasts, television, soap operas and no alcohol. That's nothing new. In past decades, the country's military leaders have tried to appease Islamists by closing the bars during the holy month while tolerating them for the rest of the year. But now things are different. When Egyptians chose the Muslim Brotherhood's Mohammed Morsi as their new president, they put an Islamist in charge for the first time in their history. As night draws to an end and the drinkers pay their bills and file out into the still sweltering night, many are wondering how long it will be until Cairo's bars will be forced to close for good. As a rule, it's not difficult to get a drink in Cairo. As well as the tourist hotels and restaurants, there are at least half a dozen small local bars existing on alcohol licenses dating back to the 1950s and 60s and attracting local Egyptians with cheap beer and even cheaper decor. Don't want to leave the house? No problem. A chain of off licenses, appropriately called Drinkies, will deliver beer, wine and spirits direct to your door on the back of a moped. Nor is alcohol a recent foreign import. Stella, the most famous Egyptian brand, proudly reminds its drinkers on its bottles that it's been brewed and sold here for the last 115 years. That, one bar owner is keen to point out, makes Stella 30 years older than the Muslim Brotherhood. Even the ancient Egyptians were partial to a drink. According to an Egyptian Proverb dating from 2200 BC the mouth of a perfectly happy man is filled with beer. But even in cosmopolitan Cairo, it's impossible to ignore how at odds the bar scene feels with Egypt's strong Islamic culture. Egypt is a religiously conservative place. The mosques not only dominate the Cairo skyline, they're on every street corner, wedged between shops and cafes, under flyovers in the basements of buildings. Islam is woven into the fabric of everyday life. When people drink alcohol, they lose their minds and make problems on the streets, says Ahmed, a quietly spoken man in his late 20s. He's neither a Brotherhood supporter nor a Salafi, but his prayer callous a dark bruise on his forehead caused by repeatedly pressing it to the ground during prayer, shows that he's serious about his religion. People should be free to drink as they choose in their own homes, he adds, but eventually they should close the bars. He, like many other Egyptians, thinks that Morsi has bigger fish to fry than worrying about alcohol laws. The economy, for one, needs desperate attention. Then there's the enormous task of overseeing Egypt's seemingly endless transition of power from military to civilian rule. The Brotherhood itself is also keen to promote its economic and political plans rather than its views on social issues like beer or bikinis. But for secularists, the attitude of the Islamists towards alcohol is at least an indicator of how far they want to push their religious agenda. A few days later, and it seems my fears of a Ramadan beer drought were misplaced as I find myself again drinking beer in a downtown bar that is simply relocated to a discreet back street with a Members Only sign at the door. My friend Hassan, a 22 year old, secularly minded Muslim, is there for him, he says beer laws are not about getting drunk, they're about freedom of choice. I don't like people telling me what I can and can't do, he says as a late Ramadan night merges into early morning. That's not the kind of country I want to live in.
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Edwin Lane in Cairo the United States this week sent a note of condolence to Iran after the earthquakes in Tabriz in which more than 300 people were killed. Usually these two nations have only hostile comments for each other. Recently they've been scrapping over Tehran's nuclear ambitions and its alleged involvement with the conflict in Syria. It's a long time since the United States and Iran got on. History can offer plenty of reasons for this. Top of the list might be the seizing of the American embassy in the Iranian capital in 1979. Today, there is still no formal diplomatic relations between the two. Yet the US is home to some half a million people of Iranian heritage. Daniel Nassor has married into an Iranian American family and reckons the best way to fit in is to learn the language.
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I'm surrounded by Iranians. We're drinking tea in my partner's mother's crowded, sunny living room in Florida. My partner Leila and her relatives are chatting away in Farsi, paying me scant attention. Are they talking politics or football or lunch? I have no idea. Suddenly the room falls silent. Layla's grandmother, a petite, mischievous eyed woman from Tehran, stares me in the eye. She addresses me in Farsi. I smile, wide eyed. The rest of the room erupts into laughter. Well, if I'm to be the butt of a joke, I declare to myself, I prefer to understand the punchline. That was four years ago, when I resolved to learn the language. By God, next time Layla's granny has a laugh at my expense, I'll have a retort. Layla and I lived next door to one another in Washington before we met. I often saw her walking on the block carrying a yoga mat, and I had noticed her beautiful purple black hair and olive skin. Later I fell in love with her sense of justice, her quirky humor, and the dignity I imagine comes with her membership of a proud and ancient Persian culture. She's one of about 470,000 people of Iranian descent who live in the US today. The vast majority of them arrived after the 1979 Islamic Revolution in Iran or, like Layla, were born to those immigrants. I dived into my studies, full of Yankee overconfidence, buying texts from an Iranian bookshop and battering Layla with mispronounced words for household objects. I was certain that soon Layla's granny and I would be trading one liners. A Tehrani, an American and an Arab walk into a teahouse and the like. Farsi and English share a common Indo European ancestor. Farsi grammar is relatively simple. No gender, not even he and she. None of the irregular verbs and noun declension that bedevil students of Latin, German, and French. But Farsi does have a vast vocabulary, and it contains consonants that are not even heard in English, like kheli, meaning many. Another one rings around a G k and a French r. Tagh is a word borrowed from Arabic, meaning investigation. These sounds render words as distinct to the Iranian ear as fish and dishonest, but they confound foreigners who misplace them at their peril. The word for coffee is gahveh. Khafe means suffocate. I'll offer Granny tea when I see her next. Seeking some advice, I call Michael Hillman, a professor of Persian at the University of Texas. He says the quality of Farsi language education in the US is poor. Too many books are written by amateurs untrained in language instruction. Too many beginners courses are taught by literature and politics professors. According to the Modern Language association, few Americans actually study Farsi compared to Spanish, Japanese, Arabic, and even American Sign Language. My evening classes are taught by an architect he banters with a half Iranian university student as I squint and struggle to keep up. I'm doing alright, but embarrassing mistakes are made. Like the time I wanted to say American government but got a vowel wrong and out came your American penis. Professor Hillman told me Farsi was easy to learn. Easy for him, perhaps. He spent six years in Iran before the revolution. Immersion, then, that's the key. But BBC employees are banned from entering Iran, and the US State Department warns that Americans who visit Iran risk arrest there. How about Afghanistan? Next door, about half the country speaks Dari, a variant of Iranian Farsi. But there's the small matter of the war. Tajikistan. I've absorbed enough of Layla's Iranian chauvinism that I would be loath to learn the language with a Tajik accent. Layla and I could enforce Farsi only evenings in our home, but the last thing Laila wants to do at the end of a long day is to chat to me as if to a three year old. So for now, I'll continue my evening classes. I'll study vocabulary and watch Iranian film. I am making progress. Soon, I expect I'll be able to read a children's book and I'll wait for Tehran and Washington to patch things up so I can visit Iran. God willing. Or as they might say in Iran, be' omidah Khoda.
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Daniel Nassor A Yankee learning Farsi Bringing this edition of the program to a close. I'll be back with more from our own correspondence next Saturday morning. Do join us. Goodbye.