← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Battlegrounds
00:28:13
As athletes turn up to the winter Olympic games, what might they find? The Thai is of...
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You're listening to a download from the BBC.
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This is from our own correspondent. You can hear the version of the programme we make for the BBC World
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Service by visiting our site at BBConline.
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But here's the latest edition broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and introduced by Kate Ady.
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Hello. Today, as national teams head to Sochi in preparation for next month's Winter Olympics, we hear how they could be faced with unusual facilities. An Italian priest in the Central African Republic refuses to stand by as Christian and Muslim militias attack civilians. Some of the fish in our supermarkets comes from Thailand, but can we be sure it hasn't been caught by slaves? And we remember one of Britain's greatest defeats on the battlefield. A picture speaks a thousand words. Though as we know in this program, words can also describe pictures rather well, both can generate a variety of responses. Soon our newspapers will be full of photos of Olympians rejoicing in their victories and mourning their losses at the Winter Games in Sochi in southern Russia, journalists will strain to find the bon mot to describe what they see. Steve Rosenberg was in Sochi recently and couldn't resist taking a photograph of a somewhat unusual sight he came across. So let's hear his words about it.
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When I went to spend a penny last week in the Caucasus Mountains, little did I know that I would learn so much about Russia from one trip to the toilet. The cubicle in question was inside the Laura Cross Country Skiing and Biathlon Centre, brand new and built, of course, for next month's Sochi Winter Games. I tracked down the gents and went in. It was pretty much as you'd expect things to be, really, in a little wc. There was a sink, some paper towels, but oddly enough, there were two toilets where you'd expect only one full size lavatories. They were side by side and no partition down the middle. Equally strange, there was only one toilet paper dispenser within reach of just one of the toilets. I didn't really know what to do. Which seat should I sit on? Was I allowed to sit on any of them? Or was this strictly a loo for. For two? Well, needs must. And I chose and powdered my nose. And before I walked out, I took a picture of this intriguing bathroom on my mobile phone and posted it online. The reaction was unexpected and quite overwhelming. The photo triggered a wave of comments in social media, on Russian radio and even on television. This image of two toilets with no dividing wall in an Olympic WC had somehow struck a chord with the Russian people. Some saw it as a symbol of the country's rampant corruption and bad management. This is what $50 billion gets you, wrote a prominent anti Kremlin activist, a reference to the alleged cost of the Sochi Games. A different blogger used to used more colourful language. There used to be a partition there, he suggested, but people are so fat from all the backhanders they've been taking that their backsides can't fit. So the partition had to be taken down. To other people who saw my picture, these twin bowls seem to represent the country's two leaders, the President and the Prime Minister. It's the tandem toilet, declared one tweet. One seat for Putin, the other for Medvedev. There were many comments about Russia's controversial law that restricts the spread of information about homosexuality. Referring to the two toilets side by side, one social networker warned, be careful, this is gay propaganda. But there were other interpretations too. One blogger thought the double loo reflected the tight security put in place ahead of the Olympics. One toilet seat is for the athlete, he wrote. The other is for the KGB officer secretly guarding him. And yet this photo sparked more than just political satire. It seemed to remind some Russians of their youth of toilets passed in kindergartens and schools, where there were also no partitions of basic bathrooms in Khrushchev era Soviet apartment blocks. And perhaps most interestingly, it seemed to say something very deep about the Russian soul, about Russia's grand tradition of the collective. Here's one comment I read. Two toilets and just one roll of paper between them. Hold hands and trust your comrade. And here's another. Come on, guys, let's all be friends. Which is exactly the kind of message that Russia wants to project to the world ahead of the Sochi Games. Now, I'll confess I don't know the full story behind this unusual arrangement, although the blogosphere is bubbling away with possible scenarios. Perhaps there was once a partition, but it broke. Perhaps they simply forgot to put one in. Perhaps it was even meant to be one toilet and one bidet. They just couldn't find the bidet. Perhaps we will never know. But if this tale of two toilets has taught me anything, it is. Yes, Russians like to complain and to criticize people in power, but they also love to laugh. And they have the ability to laugh at themselves. When I returned to Moscow from Sochi, I went to meet the president of the Russian Olympic Committee, Alexander Zhukov. We sat down for a serious interview about Olympic security, about gay rights, and about allegations of corruption in the run up to the Sochi Games. But when the interview was over, I showed Mr. Zhukov the photo of the two loos which I'd snapped up in the mountains at the Olympic Biathlon Centre. When he realised there were two toilets there with no partition, he gave a smile as big as the Sochi Olympic Stadium and burst out laughing. Well, he said, after all, it is the biathlon.
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Steve Rosenberg, still a little baffled by the bathroom arrangements in Sochi. Thailand is one of the biggest exporters of seafood in the world. Thai fish end up on American and British plates. And it's not just prawns that you can find in the supermarkets and restaurants. There's tuna, mackerel and sardines. Unfortunately, the Thai fishing industry is accused of using forced or slave labour on some of its boats. With a shortage of local people wanting to work on the boats, a lot of the crews on Thai vessels are illegal migrants from Cambodia and Burma. Some of them are tricked into working in the fishing industry. Becky Palmstrom recently heard the story of one victim.
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I meet Ken in a government run shelter in Bangkok. With its towering gates and bright pink walls, it looks somewhere between a prison and and a kindergarten. In fact, it houses victims of trafficking out of some 25 men. Most, like Ken, are Burmese and were once held in slave like conditions on fishing boats. We sip tea sweetened with condensed milk while I'm told about their life at sea. Daily beatings, no medicine if you're sick and brutal captains who throw men overboard. When Ken talks, his fingers run over the word love which is clumsily tattooed across his knuckles. I was promised a good job in a factory, he explains, but he ended up forced to fish 20 hours a day, seven days a week and he's not paid. In fact, he's told he owes money to the fishing people. People said anyone who tried to escape had their legs broken, their hands broken or were even killed. But Ken did escape. He jumped ship and swam for six hours in the open sea. Like many trafficked men, he was ashamed to return home empty handed. So when a job at a pineapple factory came up, he said yes, except there was no factory, just another boat and another unpayable debt. He's not alone. As the third largest exporter of seafood globally, Thailand is under pressure to tackle the problem. At the moment, there's no way of knowing which fish have been caught using slave labour. Military music is pumping out over the heads of some hundred and fifty police officers standing to attention. Deputy Chief of Police General Chatawan Suksumjit is is walking the lines, shaking hands, nodding, saluting. He oozes dark glasses slicked back hair and a shiny grey uniform. He chairs the new government committee dealing with forced labour on fishing boats, an industry whose work he describes as dirty, dangerous and difficult. He directs us onto boats and out to sea. In the Malacca Straits, we approach four battered fishing vessels. His two SWAT teams swarm onto the deck and in the absence of an obvious enemy, they point their guns at the sky. The focus of the mission today is to find trafficked and forced labour, announces the general in Thai before ordering the mainly Burmese crew onto the deck. Those men who do wear shirts have holes in them. Most are barefoot. They speak quietly to me in Burmese, glancing nervously at the captain. Some say they didn't even know they were coming on to a boat when they left Myanmar. They owe a middleman $750 for bringing them here, they say. But soon we're ushered off the fishing boat and it speeds off. I fear we might have just let a crew of slaves and their captors get away. The general doesn't share my concerns. From what we saw, there was no lock up or detention room, he says. We saw no signs of harm on their bodies or in their facial expressions. They didn't look like they'd been forced to work. A few days later in Myanmar, we sit on the floor of a bamboo shack that smells of wood smoke. This is where Ken's parents live, and the poverty is palpable. You've met Ken? His mum and dad ask me. I realize we're bringing them the first news they've had of their son in four years. His father is thin, with a gaunt face and teeth stained betel nut red. His mother's plumper. A comb holds up her graying hair. I show them a video of Ken that we filmed. That's him. That's my son. His mother cries in recognition. She raises her hands to her face and weeps while her husband places his hand close to hers. We didn't know anything, she says. We heard nothing. I'm so happy, so happy, ken's father says, unable to tear his red rimmed eyes from the video screen. It's rare that reporting ever influences lives directly like this. Ken's parents are a reminder that the way our fish is caught can generate unintended consequences and tragedies in unlikely places. We don't know how many men are trapped at sea, but I do wonder about those we left on the boats in the Malacca Straits. Do their families know where they are? Or are they, like Ken's parents, still waiting for news of their sons?
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Becky Palmstrom, Iran which had its invitation to the Syrian peace conference in Montreux withdrawn, said the talks had failed before they even began. During the first day yesterday, the signs weren't good. Syria's foreign minister traded accusations with the president of the opposition National Coalition on the ground in Syria, the fighting continues, including between different opposition groups. That creates more pressure on Syria's neighbours as people flee across the border. Hannah Lucinda Smith joined some Syrians looking out of their old homes from the Turkish side.
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They broke the air like thunder. Four gunshots fired off in quick succession. They're celebrating, said our translator, Zachariah, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to hear gunfire on a Saturday afternoon in a small town in Turkey. But Achikale is no normal town. It used to be twice the size that it is today, until the railway that ran through it was designated as the borderline between Turkey and Syria. In the frenzy of Middle Eastern map drawing that followed the First World War, the Syrian half of the town became known as Tel Abyad. And today, a century on from the war that triggered its creation, the town is itself a battleground. From the top of a gravel bank, Abu Husain, a small and unassuming man in broken glasses and a woollen hat, gazed over the border fence to his house in Tel Abyads. It was less than 200 metres away, but this was as close as he could get. All he could do was watch as two men lingered on the street in front of his home. They didn't look or dress like locals. He was resigned to the harsh realities of his new situation. Even if he was able to go back there, he was sure that the men would have looted his belongings. That's your house? I asked him as I tried to figure out which building he was pointing to. That was my house, he replied. Two weeks ago, the Syrian rebels, who had controlled Tel Abyad for almost a year, were driven out by foreign jihadist fighters belonging to a group known officially as the Islamic State of Iraq and Sham, or isis. The Syrians have their own name for them. They call them Daesh. Western journalists simply call them Al Qaeda. But Abu Hussein disagrees. Those guys are not Al Qaeda. They're not even Muslims, he said. Even Al Qaeda are not doing things like that. During three days of fierce fighting, many of Tal Abyad's residents fled over the border into Ashikale. Then the border was closed by the Turkish authorities, leaving them all stuck here. Abu Hussein recognized the irony of the situation that he was in. When Tal Abyad was still under the control of the Syrian rebels, he was responsible for manning the Syrian side of the border crossing. For eight hours a day, every day for seven months, he screened hundreds of people as they crossed back and forth between Syria and Turkey. Despite the deepening conflict, many people in Tel Abyad continued to earn a living as they had always done by bringing goods from Syria and selling them in Turkey. Tea, sugar, cigarettes, they could all be sold for twice as much in Ashikale as they'd cost to buy in Tal Abyad. When we were in charge of the border, we didn't prevent people from taking those things into Turkey because more than 2,000 people made a living like that, abi Hussein said. When Tel Abyad was taken over by the Syrian rebels, a new trade began in the other direction. New jobs were created in the war economy, said Abu Hussein. Because there is no government in Syria anymore, people began bringing Turkish goods in freely without paying any import tax. He paused for a second and then laughed. Of course, that was before Daesh. Every day, hundreds of Syrians, all of them in the same position as Abu Hussein, gather at the border crossing Nachikale, waiting to see if the gate will be opened. There seems little chance that those cross border traders will be able to resume their business anytime soon. For now, they just want to go back to their homes. It doesn't matter who controls the city, said Umm Mustafa, an elderly mother of seven who had been coming to wait at the crossing for five days straight. We are not with any side. I just want to go back to my house. Even in this bleakest of situations, there are Syrians who are trying to make the best of it. Meters away from the border crossing, Mahmoud served baklava from beneath the red and white canopy of his mobile stall. He came to Achukali when the Syrian regime began bombing his home city of Raqqa, and he's been living in a nearby refugee camp for the past 11 months. He told me he'd started his business two weeks ago, catering to the crowds waiting at the border. They offer us everything in the camp, but I prefer to work and that's why I've started this, he said. But he knows where he would rather be. Inshallah, Inshallah, God willing, he said. I have great hope that I will go back.
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Hannah Lucinda Smith on the Turkish Syrian border in the Central African Republic, armed groups and lynch mobs have claimed more lives in recent days. The divisions between Muslims and Christians are growing as militias from either side seek brutal revenge for earlier killings. Neighbour is pitched against neighbour the country's parliament this week elected a new interim President Catherine Samba Panzer is the first woman to hold the post. Around 500 European Union peacekeepers are also heading to the country, joining French and African Union troops already there. Thoma Fessi met one man who is doing what he can to bring some peace to the communities.
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He was waiting for us by the side of the dirt airstrip in shorts and sandals, a small, simple wooden cross hanging around his neck, sunglasses with one of the arms broken off. The car was badly damaged. It had been stoned a few days earlier. I was surprised that the shattered windscreen was still surviving the bumpy roads, but at least it would protect from the dust. Father Aurelio Gazera was nearly killed as he tried to provide a safe passage for hundreds of Muslims who wanted to leave the town of Bozoum. When the mostly Muslim Seleka forces who controlled this country for nearly a year left, Muslim civilians immediately became easy prey for Christian militiamen. Perched on a hill overlooking the town, Father Aurelio's Catholic mission was transformed into a camp for displaced people. For more than a month, 4,000 Christians sought refuge there, fleeing the violence. Now that Seleca forces have gone, Father Aurelio has convinced them all to return home. He allowed the local band to play on the steps of his church the night before. Everybody moved out. Dozens of displaced people sang along and danced into the night. Their feet lifted the dust from the ground, forming a thick cloud above their heads. You could see it through the moonlight and feel it in your throat. Some of the women were almost in a trance. There was a mix of joy and anxiety. Many had lost relatives in the violence, and they were not quite sure whether it was safe enough for them to return home. But it was their farewell party. At sunrise, the church was packed. Father Aurelio gave a last service, like a final blessing. Addressing his audience in perfect Sango, the local language, he threw in a few provocative words to open his sermon. As soon as the mass is over, he said, you'll all get out of here. Accustomed to his sense of humor, the congregation laughed and clapped. Father Aurelio has been living in the Central African Republic for 22 years. He's part of a group of Italian priests who came to the region as missionaries. He has experienced this country's history of violence before, but he's never witnessed local communities tearing each other apart in sectarian brutality. He couldn't bear the thought of doing nothing. French troops went up to Bozoum a few weeks ago, but quickly left. A small bunch of African Union soldiers from Cameroon are now overwhelmed by the looting and the lynch mobs. So Father Aurelio conducts his own patrols. He drives out of the town and tries to reach out to the many militiamen who are desperate for revenge. Standing alone, encircled by men covered in talismans, holding machetes, knives and hunting rifles, he talks to them, hoping that the worst can still be prevented from happening. We should always keep thinking that it is still possible, he told me. But the margins are narrower by the day. He wants a stronger international force in and around Bozoum before it is too late. When the Seleka rebels burned down more than a thousand homes two weeks ago, he faced them and said he wouldn't leave until they released the man they had captured. The Christian hostage was deprived of food and water for three days. He was beaten and his captors kept repeating they would kill him. Father Aurelio had him freed. At the moment, this man seems the only chance to mediate between the communities in Bazoum. But he recognizes the limits of his efforts. The hatred has reached such a level that militiamen from the majority Christian population are now hunting Muslims. Aurelio shares the Catholic mission with two other Italian priests. They have settled into a peaceful haven above the Valley of Fear. The two local ladies in the kitchen have been taught Italian cuisine so they don't overcook the pasta, which reaches this remote place by boat and truck. And after an espresso or a lemongrass tea in the evening, Aurelio might update his Twitter feed, which has become one of the most reliable sources of information from the country's northwest. After all these years, he knows that the families he has helped escape may not come back just yet. The line that now divides Christians and Muslims not only in Bozoum but throughout the country, clearly affects him. But Father Aurelio isn't one to just sit and watch.
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Thoma Fessi. In January 1879, Britain suffered one of the worst military defeats in its colonial history. At the Battle of Isildwana, 20,000 Zulu fighters, armed mainly with spears and shields, outwitted and defeated 1800 well armed British and colonial soldiers. This rout stung the Victorian world, which afterwards preferred to celebrate the successful British defence of Rorke's Drift instead. In South Africa, though, the battle has always been a source of immense pride for Zulus, and it remains so, as Hamilton Wendave found out recently.
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An imposing sphinx like mountain stands against a blue summer sky. Dotted along the slopes are mounds of whitewashed stones and granite grave markers. In Piwantanzi, his two sons, Ntando and Musa, and their friend Ngaba are wandering through the long grass that surrounds the graves. Mpewa has brought the young men here to pass on the stories he knows of the Zulu victory. Keeping memory alive through oral history is an ancient African tradition. These graves belong to the British people. Mpiwa begins, indicating the piles of white stones. The Zulus fought them and won the battle. The British left their dead here on the battlefield and only came back to bury them months later. So each mound has six or seven or even more bodies. The bones were white and scattered when they came back, so they did not know who was who, and they buried them together in mass graves. He points to a hilltop in the distance. But he says the Zulus took their dead and buried them on that mountain. Mpiwa is carrying a rusted spear and a Knobkeri club in his hand, both of which he flourishes as he talks to the young men. This is known as iweesa, he says as he sweeps the knobkerry low over the ground and then raises it to come swinging rapidly downwards. The Zulus would attack the knees first and then smash the head or the shoulder. The young men listen intently. This was my grandfather's spear, mpewa adds, bringing the rusted weapon up to show the young men. It is known as ikwa. He shoves the spear forward into the air and draws it back slowly. That was the sound of the flesh sucking at the blade when the warriors pulled it out of the British stomachs. The defeat at Isantluana stunned the Victorian world. Was this the beginning of the end of the notion of white supremacy? For a British public, the old controversy over whether Lord Chelmsford or Colonel Durnford was ultimately responsible for the defeat is an ongoing historical debate. But for Mpewa and many other Zulus, which British officer was at fault is a sideshow. For them, the memory of the battle is about pride. It is a victory passed down from father to son, like Mpewa is doing today. My grandfather and my great grandfather fought here, mpiwa tells me. My great grandfather was in the Veteran Regiment. He had fought in many wars, but this was the first battle for my grandfather through all the years of colonial oppression and apartheid. Isandlwana became more than merely a Zulu victory, but was a symbol to all black South Africans that white domination was not inevitable and could be defeated. Still, the scars of those years have not disappeared from South Africa. The area around the battlefield is a remote region of poverty with high levels of unemployment and illiteracy. Mpiwa himself had no job for many years until the department of Tourism, offered him a course in studying history and tourism management. It was only then that he understood that the courage of his grandfathers could still change his life today. I didn't care so much about the management, he laughs. But I loved the history. I knew that I had found what I wanted. Now he has a regular income and has even begun work on a book about his forefathers lives and experiences. Tens of thousands of tourists come every year to see the old battlefield, and there are scores of people like Mpiwa who work in the lodges and hotels nearby. I was born after my grandfather died, mpiwa says, but my father told me all the stories, and now I tell them to all the visitors who come here every day. So, too, as interest in the battle grows, more and more is learned about Zulu history and traditions, much of which was ignored in the past. Late that afternoon I go to Mpiwa's home. It is a simple, round, mud walled grass hut with no electricity. A coal stove burns inside, the evening meal cooking on its glowing top. The women sit on one side of the hut and the men on the other. Mpiwa lays the iwissa and the ikla gently against the curve of the wall. We are lucky, he tells me. We remember our ancestors, and they are still here with us even today.
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Hamilton Wende with the Ghosts of Battles Past in South Africa. And that's it from this edition. Do join me again for more from our own correspondence on Saturday morning. Goodbye.