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From Our Own Correspondent
Afghan New Year
00:27:56
Afghans enjoy New Year celebrations but Lyse Doucet finds they are concerned about the...
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Hello.
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This download from the BBC is the latest edition of the Radio 4 programme from our own correspondent.
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It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Today, Afghans celebrate New Year with a bang. But the months ahead look uncertain and dangerous. In Germany, a dilemma over thrift and responsibility for the most powerful woman on Earth. They're getting ready to vote in Egypt. Hundreds reckon they've got what it takes to be the new president. And we find unexpected charms amid the shadows on an evening stroll in Guinea Bissau. The British and American mission in Afghanistan has seldom seemed as precarious as it does this weekend. The death of another British soldier there on Wednesday came amid fresh speculation that the withdrawal date for foreign forces, currently set for the end of 2014, will be brought forward. But Lise Doucet, who used to live in Kabul and is still a frequent visitor, tells us the mood there, despite the instability, isn't all pessimistic.
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The first explosion sounded at midnight. Across Kabul. Afghans froze, held their breath. Some were jolted from sleep. I also stopped and listened closely. Was it a bomb? The night went silent. Then a staccato burst of sound rang out. Gunfire. I went out to the roof terrace to see if the black night sky would reveal its secret. And there it was, a cascade of brilliant orange lights flaring, fizzling, then exploding again. Fireworks to usher in the Persian New Year now rose, celebrated by Afghans and some neighbors, too. There hadn't been a celebration of this kind for as long as most Afghans could remember. On the roof terrace next door, children's excited squeals of laughter was the other sweet music of this night. And when night gave way to day, a new year dawned. The roof terrace became the stage for a symphony of bird song. Sparrows tweeted. Swallows traced long sweeping arcs in the sky, signalling a long, hard winter was over. And then a black magpie came to rest with its distinctive stripes of white and blue. Afghans call it the good news bird. And what good news it brought that day. News of nothing more, but nothing less than the kind of day you might call, well, normal somewhere else in the world. But not in a country that's lived through more than 30 years of war. Streets were free of the congestion and fumes that normally clog this crowded city. Children in sparkling New Year clothes ran after the tinkling tunes of an ice cream cart. I even caught some policemen sleeping in the warm spring sun as I went past a parade of shops fronted by a modern landmark. The big black sign with uneven white lettering be Beautiful Salon Cobble. Despite its Growing maze of ugly security barriers did seem beautiful. But just a day earlier, there'd been warnings to stay indoors. A fierce dust storm tore across the city, whistling through the poorest of crumbling homes, shutting down the airport. Afghans have a saying for moments like this. When the winds blow past, something will come to pass, something bad. But the day passed without incident. And so did the next. I dropped in on Afghan friends to enjoy a Nowruz treat aft meva, seven dried fruits, from almonds to apricots, served in sweet syrup. This year, Afghans are more focused than ever on the year ahead and the year after that. By 2014, most of 130,000 foreign troops here will be gone. But while Nowruz was sweet, the political mood is sour. Far more sour than anyone would have imagined when Afghans hailed the return of the west in 2001, when US led forces toppled the Taliban. So sour there's even constant reference to the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, which ended in early 1989. I lived in Kabul then. That new year was full of uncertainty. How long would the brutal war against Afghan mujahideen fighters go on? This year? They're asking, how long will war against the Taliban continue? And will it get even worse? Just as worrying, there's mounting Afghan anger against those who should be their friends, their allies, and in particular, US Forces. After a series of incendiary incidents. The inadvertent burning of the Koran at a US military base, a nighttime massacre of 16 Afghan civilians. When a visibly tired President Karzai met tribal elders from that village, he told them they were fighting two demons. He meant the Taliban and the U.S. when I asked him what he meant, he used a new phrase. It had, he said, reach the end of the rope. He's often railed with emotion and anger against US Military operations and civilian casualties they cause. Even though Taliban attacks kill far more, the president insists he speaks for his people. There's no denying Afghan disenchantment with a partnership which hasn't been as smooth or successful as many dared hope. But some Afghans worry their president's very public rebukes could cause NATO troops to pull out even faster, plunging their country into greater danger. However you look at it, these next two years are fraught with uncertainty and risk. Afghan saw in this new year with a dark dust storm and then a bright spring sun, two omens for a people who start another year not really knowing what it will bring, but knowing all too well it could go either way.
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And that was Lise Doucet campaigning in the Egyptian Presidential election isn't supposed to start until next month, but already there's much jostling for position. It'll be the first presidential poll since Hosni Babarak was chucked out in a popular uprising last year. Voting will take place on two days in May. The ruling military council, which took over from Mr. Mubarak, says it will hand over power to the new civilian administration. In the meantime, a list of candidates is being assembled, and John Lyne in Cairo says it's a long one.
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Outside the office of the Presidential Election Commission, close to where President Mubarak used to have his residence, the candidates come out in a steady stream, brandishing the papers they need to begin their run for election to be the next president of Egypt. Sami Ibrahim Abdul Latif is a man of humble origins, from a simple village in the Nile Delta. Wearing the traditional Egyptian Galabaia, he scrapes a living reciting the Koran in graveyards. His program is to support the poor people like himself. He says his campaign team consists just of himself. He has no campaign funds whatsoever. What about the requirement to secure 30,000 signatures, I ask him, in order to get his name on the ballot paper. That's wrong, he says, and he pledges to challenge it with national and international lawsuits. In Egypt's more than 5,000 years of history, only three people have ever stood in a contested election to lead the country, and that was the less than free presidential race won by Hosni Mubarak in 2005. But this year, even before nominations have closed, more than 900 Egyptians have already put their names forward. It looks like democracy has really caught on. Those aspiring to follow President Mubarak include a cleaner, an undertaker, and someone described as a repentant thief. One photographer, who proudly declared he had no educational qualifications whatsoever and surely just as little chance of success, appeared on a TV chat show. When he was introduced as a candidate, he upbraided the presenter. My dear lady, I am not a candidate. I am Egypt's next president. I believe I am Egypt's undisputed next president. I met another of the candidates, Fakhal Aboudi Fatih, holding court at his cafe in a poor neighbourhood. It's called the Freedom Club Cafe, but he hopes soon to rename it the Presidential Cafe when he is successful. If I can run my cafe efficiently, why not Egypt? Indeed, the world, he suggests. The old regime used to deal with us as ignorant people, he says, as a nation of deaf and dumb. Egyptians will respect me as a man of the people. He insists that he has begun trying to gather the 30,000 endorsements needed to get on the ballot paper, though I didn't see much sign of any urgent action as we sat round pleasantly chatting, drinking, shy and tasting the sweet, milky Egyptian concoction called sahleb. The contrast could hardly be more stark at the campaign headquarters of the man currently leading in the polls, former Arab League chief, Amra Musa. Serious looking men and women bustle round in suits. There's modern Egyptian art on the walls and fine chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. Upstairs, a team of volunteers is busy collating the thousands of signatures they've already gathered to get on the ballot. This being Egypt, there are great long forms that have to be filled in correctly to the smallest detail, lest the whole candidacy be declared null and void. Here they have media advisors, outreach advisors, political advisors, thousands of volunteers and countless offices spread across this vast country of more than 80 million people. They couldn't even tell me precisely how many. They say their mission is to rebuild Egypt. It's an impressive display of professionalism for a country so new to the concept of free elections. The candidate, Amremusa, was Hosni Mubarak's foreign minister for a decade before moving to the Arab League. His advisors almost visibly bristle at the suggestion that he is tainted by association with the old regime. Mr. Amamusa has a long and distinguished career, one told me. He is very proud of his achievements. There is nothing to be ashamed of. There is nothing we or him shy away from. Maybe Egypt needs such a man. Still, some are asking whether this is the sort of candidate Egyptians were fighting for when they died in their hundreds during the revolution last year. Of course, it's early days yet. The largest political force, the Islamists of the Muslim Brotherhood, are still agonizing over whether to put up a candidate or to give their support to someone else. So will Egypt's next president be someone with, shall we say, experience of the old system and good contact with the mighty military? Or will Egyptians opt for a completely new broom? If there's one lesson of the last year, it is that Egyptians are no longer prepared to be taken for granted and are still capable of surprising the world.
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John Line in Cairo. The German Chancellor Angela Merkel, isn't just the most powerful leader in Europe, she's the most powerful woman in the world. But she faces a dilemma. While on the one hand she's told by figures like the European Central bank head Mario Draghi that the worst of the Eurozone crisis is over, her own electorate fears it might again have to dig deep into its pockets to sort out the problem of Greek debt. So to what extent do the Germans feel it's their responsibility to help the less well off members of Europe? It was a question on the mind of Newsnight. Gavin Esler in Berlin.
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I was walking across a bridge over the River Spree in the heart of Berlin, hoping for a rare meeting with the German Chancellor, Angela Merkel, when it occurred to me that there was a strange coincidence about Germany and grand European projects. Exactly 500 years ago, one of Europe's greatest thinkers was getting increasingly worried that good German money was being wasted. Cash was heading to the Mediterranean, subsidizing a bunch of badly behaved foreigners. The 16th century German thinker was Martin Luther, and he was desperate to stay part of that great European project known as the Roman Catholic Church, but equally desperate not to support those who were ripping off German believers to pay to build St. Peter's in Rome. The unfairness of what he saw as abuses fed popular resentment until German patience finally snapped. Luther broke away from his beloved Catholic church, protesting in that great rebellion we know as the creation of Protestantism, the Reformation. Nowadays, Germans, even those who are Catholic or non Christian, cannot escape the Lutheran past. It's also the Lutheran present. The most powerful woman in the world, Angela Merkel, is a Lutheran believer, the daughter of a pastor. The new German president, Joachim Gauch, is a former Lutheran pastor. And that cliche of the Protestant work ethic, hard working German taxpayers, even if they're not actually Protestant, to bail out the euro while being caught in a squeeze as acute as luther in the 16th century. In their hearts. From Angela Merkel to the car workers on the Volkswagen assembly line, the German people are desperate to be good Europeans, just as Luther was desperate to be a good Catholic. But in their heads, many Germans suspect there may be something wrong, something morally wrong as well as economically dangerous about giving money to those who, in the German view, have been at best reckless and at worst dishonest. In Luther's hometown of Wittenberg, just along from the church where in 1517, he nailed his famous 95 theses, rebelling against the Pope, members of the church choir practiced their hymns and then told me that it was right for Lutherans to help other Europeans, a Christian virtue, but that the other Europeans needed to behave responsibly. And they had not behaved responsibly, which was, some said, increasingly irritating. It was with the choir's comments and their hymns still ringing in my ears that I walked over that bridge towards the Chancellor's office, just across from the Reichstag Frau Merkel greeted me warmly, but in typical fashion told me directly that she rarely gives interviews, that her time was very limited and we'd better get on with it. Our businesslike conversation reminded me of all those virtuous adjectives, pure Luther, that I'd learned in my first German lesson. Sparsam, Troi, Ehrlich, Ernst Strang, thrifty, straight, honest, serious, strict. And the more we talked about how, in her view, entire nations, indeed the continent of Europe, needed to balance their budgets, just as ordinary families have to do every month. The pastor's daughter from Hamburg sitting in front of me sounded exactly like the grocer's daughter from Grantham, Margaret Thatcher. Their values and their view of home economics could almost be interchangeable. I suggested to Frau Merkel that when she talks of thriftiness and responsibility, which she does rather a lot, then many British people will agree with her. Which is why so many Britons are sceptical about the euro and suspect it might fail. Those thrifty Germans are bailing out those who've shown no talent for thrift in the past. This, of course, was an argument Angela Merkel, the good European, cannot really accept. Indeed, she praised British austerity and said she wanted a strong Britain to work with Germany. Despite the legacy of the war, the divisions of the Euro and the cliches in British and German tabloid newspapers, I left the Chancellery thinking how much Britain and Germany really have in common. On the way out, I watched the Chancellor of Germany inspect a military guard of honour, soldiers marching with Prussian precision in defence of a young German democracy, a new Germany really just 20 or so years old. I was struck by Merkel's political genius, quietly spoken, cautious, the hausfrau balancing the books of her nation. The puzzle now is when her political decision to be a good European collides with her Lutheran conscience. Not to reward bad behavior or be reckless with money. I wondered whether, for Frau Merkel, like Martin Luther, another reformation in Europe might be on the cards. Not tomorrow, perhaps, but one day.
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That was Gavin Esler, and as you heard, there's considerable excitement surrounding the upcoming presidential pole in Egypt, and not just from the hundreds of people who believed they should have the job vacated by Hosni Mubarak. But there was rather less interest internationally, at least in the election which has just taken place on the other side of Africa. In the state of Guinea Bissau, people there were voting after the death in January of the last president. Malam Bakai Sanya. Guinea Bissau has experienced numerous army mutinies and coup plots since it won independence from Portugal in 1975. Sir John James, who went there for the polling, wondered if all would go according to plan.
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Within five minutes of arriving in Guinea Bissau, you realise why this sleepy backwater has become a favourite spot for Latin American cocaine smugglers. After a flight over the mangrove swamps, creeks and rice paddies, the we arrive at the main airport where the customs officer doesn't even glance at our meticulously filled in arrivals cards before stamping our passports and letting us through. We're met as soon as we get off the plane by a friend of a friend, Carlos, who doesn't seem to have any trouble moving in and out of the airport's so called secure zones. We jump in his 4x4 and within 15 minutes we've seen much of the capital, Bissau. Carlos leaves us at the hotel and heads off for a coffee. And with Colonel Samba Jalo, until recently the nation's intelligence chief, it was to be the last time they meet. Bissau has a completely unexpected charm. What immediately strikes you is the small town feel. Almost everyone seems to know everyone else. You can't take a taxi or a bus ride in the city without the driver shouting out to old friends that he spotted along the road or in passing cars. The only time anyone pestered me in the street it was to tell me that the pockets on my rucksack hadn't been closed properly. People sit out in the small front gardens of their homes and shout greetings and jokes at the passers by, as the Portuguese colonialists might once have done. The pastel colored houses they left behind, many with broad verandas and balconies, look unchanged in decades. There are numerous fine art deco buildings as well in a well preserved city center. There's not been much development here to replace them. At night, the city center is almost pitch black. Electricity here is a rare commodity, but people are still out, and by the lights of passing cars and small shops lit by generators, you see people walking home chatting with friends and romantic couples strolling hand in hand along the uneven pavements. In almost every measure, this is one of the world's very poorest countries. The infant mortality rate is 1 in 10, and according to the World Health Organization, the country's 1.6 million inhabitants have access to only 72 doctors. It's an irony of history that the only West African country to fight and win its independence has finished up in the worst state. I spent a few hours in the countryside, walking through areas littered with tens of thousands of bombs. And rockets left over from the colonial war. Young children don't know better than to use ancient hand grenades to try and knock down mangoes. The army continues to hold much of the power and frequently intervenes in civilian life every year. Recently, there seems to be some sort of mutiny, upheaval or attempted coup D'. ETAT. In 2009, a remote controlled bomb blew up the head of the army, and a group of soldiers from the interior of the country immediately made for Bissau and attacked the home of the president, blaming him for the assassination. The president was tortured, killed with machetes, and then military sources tell me his heart was eaten to make sure his spirit wouldn't seek revenge. In the recent presidential election, there were nine candidates. The eventual winner will know that no elected president has ever completed his term in office without dying or being overthrown or assassinated. On the Sunday night I was there after the first round of the presidential election, the aforementioned Colonel Jallo was gunned down by armed men in military uniform not far from his home. But what violence there is is concentrated among the elites, the people at the very top. You see plenty of people in the city who seem to be doing very well, driving the latest models of the world's most expensive luxury cars and 4x4s on Bissau's few tarred roads. In the last few years, progress has been made. The electricity supply is a little better, though everything is relative here. The government is no longer nine months behind on civil servant salaries. And there are new roads, some so straight you can land drugs, planes on them. To reassure us that Colonel Jalo's assassination would not jeopardize the electoral process, the army summoned us to their headquarters inside a crumbling Portuguese fort still littered with ancient cannons, almost the only weapons on display. Several of the buildings lack roofs, and no one stops us going in. Resources are thin on the ground. One soldier I see on patrol in the city has only one boot, so wears a flip flop on the other foot. Guinea Bissau may frequently appear on the lists of failed states. The nation has indeed failed its citizens. But this is not a failed country. It's one of the most beautiful places in West Africa, with sacred forests, uninhabited islands, and a manageable and friendly capital. You can eat prawns the size of your hand, dance at the carnival or the carnivalesque political rallies, and eat the freshest cashew nuts in one of Africa's major producers. Election day was peaceful and well organized. They can do some things well here.
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John James. Now, Burma might not be the first place on your list of holiday destinations. But a changing political climate there has resulted in something of a boom in tourism. The next stage on the road to democracy comes in a week's time with parliamentary by elections. Only a small proportion of the total number of seats is being contested, so there's no prospect of huge change. But with the opposition leader, Aung San SUU Kyi, standing for the first time, it's still likely to be an event of some significance. Caroline Hawley, there on holiday, unexpectedly found herself caught up in the campaign.
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There's a joke they like to tell in Burma about a man with terrible toothache. He goes to a dentist in neighbouring Thailand who asks, aren't there any dentists in your country that you can visit? Yes, there are, replies the man. The problem is that in Burma you're not allowed to open your mouth. But now the Burmese are opening their mouths, and after nearly half a century of military rule, they'll make their voices heard at the ballot box next weekend. The poll won't change the balance of power, but there's little doubt that if the voting's free and fair, Aung San SUU Kyi will be taking up a seat in Parliament. By happy coincidence, we flew into Mandalay shortly after she arrived there on a campaign stop. It felt like everyone had turned out to see her. From women in conical hats taking a break from the rice fields, to city workers and shaven headed monks on motorbikes. There was even a Burmese rock band there. Young men with long hair in black jeans and T shirts, waiting to clap eyes on the much bigger star in the hotel. When we eventually got there, I met a young man, a jade dealer, who'd returned to Burma last year after 12 years in the States. Everything's changing, he said. We used to have a dictatorship, now we have a parliament. But not everyone trusts the government. Old wine in new bottles is how one man described them to me. And at a pagoda in Rangoon, a 67 year old man with missing teeth looked around nervously to check for informers as he told me of the hundreds of monks who'd been arrested in the past from surrounding monasteries, and of the hopes he has in the lady. Many worry about her security. She doesn't have the heavily armed soldiers guarding her that we saw being disgorged by the boatful to protect the president as he visited a famous pagoda on Burma's beautiful inlay lake. What she does have is the respect, the reverence of vast numbers of Burmese who can't wait to vote for her. National League for Democracy at party headquarters, crowds of Supporters were busy buying up T shirts of her in keyrings that only a few months ago would have landed them in jail. And suddenly, visitors are everywhere. Burma is bursting with tourists, enticed by its ancient temples, its myriad gilded buddhas, its generous, gentle people and the fact that political change is finally afoot. Mind you, you'll need the patience of a devout Buddhist to use the Internet in Burma. You'll have to bring cash, as There are no ATMs and your mobile phone won't work. Visiting Burma is like travelling back in time. Power cuts are frequent and running water a luxury for many Burmese. And I learned a little about the country's healthcare system when I got toothache myself, an agonising throb from an abscess that threatened to ruin my stay on Napoli Beach, a palm fringed paradise on Burma's west coast. At the charity run clinic which dosed me up with antibiotics, I I heard that people even have to pay for their own anaesthetic in hospital. The generals, fond of their golf and their surreal spanking new capital, Naypyidaw, haven't managed to find much money to spend on their people. Sewage flows by the roadside in even some smart parts of the former capital, Rangoon, so scarce are the street lights. We were advised to take a torch to avoid falling into potholes. And if you wonder why there are so few motorbikes in Rangoon, well, I was told that in 2007 a bike crashed into the car of a senior Burmese general who on the spot, banned them. But this is a place with stunning sights. From Rangoon's magnificent gold plated Shwedagon pagoda said to house hairs of the Buddha, to Bagan that's been likened in scale and grandeur to Cambodia's Angkor Wat. We watched as the sun set a glowing orange over a dusty plain studded with temples dating back almost a third thousand years. Before cycling back to our hotel in the cool of the evening, our guide cheerfully singing country roads, take me home. I'm back home now with my memories of fishermen and floating gardens on Inleh Lake, of bare shouldered monks emerging from their monasteries in the morning mist with lacquered bowls for people to put donations in and of the kindness and warmth of the Burmese we met. Among the many highlights was being given a ride by smiling strangers to Aung San SUU Kyi's rally in Mandalay. Later, a monk living in an isolated lakeside monastery told me how lucky I was to have caught a glimpse of her.
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And that's it. Caroline Hawley, exploring the charms of Burma, bringing this edition to a close. I'll be here again next Saturday with correspondents around the world. I do hope you'll join us. Goodbye.