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From Our Own Correspondent
Bombs + Kebabs
00:28:10
Ian Pannell tells us how the story of Robin Hood is proving popular with one of the to...
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Kate Adie
Hello, this is the.
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BBC Correspondent
From our own correspondent office at Bush House in London.
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Kate Adie
You can check out what we're up to by signing up to our Twitter feed, but here's a download of our Latest program on BBC Radio 4. Introduced as ever by Kate Ady.
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Narrator/Reporter
Once he owned a kebab shop. Today he's making bombs for the Syrian rebels and is inspired by the film Braveheart. Drug cartels, state authorities, sometimes they're all the same people, we're told, as Mexicans prepare to cast their votes. A celebration of midsummer in Latvia with songs, flowers and running around naked. And an important tip at a wedding in Italy. You don't throw confetti, you eat it. UN human rights investigators say the violence in Syria is spiralling out of control, with many parts of the country descending into civil war. Their report accuses both the government and the rebels of committing atrocities against civilians. The government, they say, is resorting increasingly to the use of helicopter gunships and artillery. Artillery to shell entire neighbourhoods. For their part, the rebels have taken to using roadside bombs. Ian Panel has been learning more about their strategy. On a visit to Syria's northern Idlib
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Kate Adie
province, Omar has not been lucky. A large man with a shaggy beard and tight, curly black hair, he emigrated to Libya to set up a kebab restaurant. It did well, so he set up another one. Then last year, the Libyan revolution erupted and one restaurant was destroyed by NATO bombing, the other by Colonel Gaddafi's forces. So he packed up his bags and brought his family back to his native Syria. The country was already in the throes of protest, calling for change. But as the government began to physically suppress its opponents, so those calls became increasingly vociferous by stages, morphing into armed insurrection. Like many men in his neighbourhood, he hadn't held a weapon since his two years national service. But as the violence began to spiral, mechanics, shopkeepers and chefs like Omar took up arms, forming the rebel Free Syrian Army. He became a marked man. And as government forces advanced, he was forced to run away again, abandoning yet another business. Over a lunch of salad, pita bread, yogurt and hummus, Omar draws a crowd in the kitchen as he effortlessly skins a tomato in one piece, expertly folding it into a decorative rose, his hands a blur as he chops at cucumbers and fragrant mint leaves. We talked about the difference between the two countries. In Libya, you could talk about anything, but not politics. He In Syria, you could talk about anything, but not the Assad family. It underlines the extent to which this has become a very personal Struggle not just against the Ba'ath party and the Syrian government, but also against President Bashar Al Assad and the family that's kept a tight grip on the country's power and resources for more than four decades. It's also become a violent struggle. Today, Omar lives in a farmhouse hidden amongst the vast olive groves in the north of the country. He doesn't make kebabs anymore. He plants IEDs, improvised explosive devices. In other words, homemade bombs. Offence is the best defence, he says, explaining a tactic that many find repugnant. The very letters IED are redolent to the Taliban in Afghanistan or Al Qaeda in Iraq. For some Syrians, and certainly the Assad government, these men are simply terrorists. But with little support from the outside world and just a small quantity of arms and ammunition now crossing the Turkish border, the fighters see homemade bombs as a legitimate weapon. We're weak, he says. We build bombs because they give us strength. And he insists they only attack the army, not civilians. We spent nearly two weeks with Omar and the self styled Idlib Martyrs Brigade, men who regard themselves as freedom fighters. A latter day band of merry men with Basil Abu Abdu, their commander, as some sort of Robin Hood figure. Curiously, in this corner of Syria, this very English folktale of a group of outlaws taking on a wicked overlord and defending ordinary people has gripped the popular imagination. And they certainly have some magnetism. As they move through the countryside, drawing crowds of admiring children, grateful residents offering tea and bread, Basil leads hundreds of fighters. Like Omar, he only has limited military experience. He used to sell spare car parts. But they fought endless battles over the last year and have grown stronger and smarter all the time. Basil also confesses that he draws inspiration from war movies. I ask him which film in particular, he says he can't remember the title and apologises because it's the story of a battle against the English. He describes a great leader hundreds of years ago who took on a much stronger army fighting for independence for his people. The film, of course, is Braveheart, the story of William Wallace, a 13th century Scottish hero who fought for independence. But the terrifying reality on the ground is not the stuff of romantic tales or historical drama. It's become a seething mire of violence and bloodshed. Artillery shells destroying homes and lives, Tank rounds blasting into villages. Gunfire and explosions. Whatever the rights and wrongs or reasons, both sides are now locked into a fight to the death. Both believe they have right on their side, that the ends justify the means and they're willing to do almost anything to win.
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Narrator/Reporter
And that's the END PANEL Three policemen were shot dead at Mexico's international airport earlier this week. A gun battle broke out in a crowded restaurant area. Terrified passengers and friends dived for cover as the three were shot, trying to arrest other officers suspected of smuggling drugs through the airport. There's been a wave of drug related killings in Mexico in recent years, but the violence is usually confined to areas along the border with the United States. How to deal with the gangs behind it has been one of the main themes in the run up to this Sunday's presidential election. Will Grant's been out on the campaign trail.
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Will Grant
For me, this election campaign has been about three women and a man. There has been much more besides, of course, plenty of mudslinging and accusations of corruption, televised debates, hundreds of millions spent on long, expensive campaigns rivalling anything happening north of the border, and a loud and colorful protest movement led by the country's students. But four characters, a man and three women, stick in my mind. First, the man, Enrique Pena Nieto. Unless something very unexpected happens, he's probably the next president of Mexico. Extraordinarily charismatic in the flesh, he is the young, telegenic and handsome candidate injecting new life into the old and autocratic party which ruled Mexico for most of the last century. The pre his critics say he and his soap star wife are symbols of all that is wrong with Mexico's political system. He has made some huge gaffes during this campaign, but has emerged unscathed. Asked to name three books that had influenced him, he couldn't get past the Bible, which he admitted he'd only read parts of. In another interview. When asked the price of a kilo of tortillas, the staple food of most Mexicans, he snapped back that he wasn't the lady of the house, so didn't know about such trifling matters. For his opponents, it was a sign he is uneducated and stuck in the machismo of 20th century Mexico. How can a man like this run the country? The protesters cried. He's nothing more than good hair. Ah, yes, the hair. It is quite impressive up close, it has to be said. Thick, dark and flecked with grey. He wears it swept up and to the left in a politician's version of a Teddy Boy quiff. Which brings me to the first woman of the three. I met her when I was following the Pena Nieto campaign in the oppressively hot and extremely violent state of Tamaulipas in northeastern Mexico. As I pottered around the main square in the city of Tampico, one muggy evening a a group of elderly men and women were dancing to a xylophone band. Between songs, I asked this woman out on the town what she thought of Pena Nieto. I love him. He's gorgeous, she cackled, her lipstick smeared a little and alcohol on her breath. Is he coming here to Tampico? I was thinking of her the next day when I finally met the supposed pin up of Mexican politics. I asked people why they were going to vote for you. I told him many simply said that you were handsome. How can you persuade people that you're more than just good hair and nice teeth? A smile flickered across his face before he answered in slick but slightly rusty English, I think people are evaluating me on more than just how I look. Rather, it is on my experience, my record as governor of the state of Mexico. Mind you, he didn't deny he was good looking. When I arrived in Mexico six months ago, it had all seemed quite different. And that's where our second woman comes in. The ruling party had chosen as its candidate Josefina Vasquez Mota, the first woman to stand for president for a major political party in Mexican history. She started off quite strongly, painting herself as a viable alternative to the male dominated status quo in one of the most unequal societies in Latin America. But soon the infighting began. She seemingly isn't backed by the outgoing president Felipe Calderon, and the other day I interviewed the former president Vicente Fox, elder statesman of her party, who openly called for Mexicans to vote for her opponent. She is now down to third place and has been reduced to urging women to withdraw sex from their husbands unless they vote for her. The final woman of this election campaign has no name. We met in a faceless hotel in an anonymous city in Tamaulipas through a contact I've never met. Remember I said Tamaulipas was violent? Well, it felt like the most dangerous place I've ever been. While we were there, a car bomb went off in the state capital and 14 mutilated bodies were dumped in a nearby municipality. This woman was once the girlfriend of a member of the feared Cetas drug cartel, a group which specializes in beheading its victims. She arrived at the hotel room wearing dark sunglasses and high heels and began to regale us with stories of the relationship between the pre Pena Nieto's party, which has governed Tamaulipas since the Mexican Revolution, and the drug cartels. The men I fell in with aren't just drug traffickers, she said, clawing nervously at her hands. They're soldiers, police, members of the government. So it's a close relationship between the authorities and the cartels? I ask her somewhat naively. She looked at me straight and summed up what many fear a return to the party of Mexico's past will mean for its future. It's not just close, it's the very same people will grant.
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Narrator/Reporter
India's economy may not be the success story it was a few years back, but it is still growing at more than 5%, a rate most European countries can only dream of. Tourists are crucial to India's economic success. There are more than 6 million foreign visitors every year. They generate at least £150 billion worth of business. The authorities then are keen to do what they can to keep them happy. New luxury hotels and visitor centres are sprouting all over the country. But some fear an older way of life is being sacrificed in the rush to accommodate the tourist. Anthony Denslow's been to historic Hampi in Karnataka state, an important religious centre and once the capital of a mighty empire.
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Anthony Denslow
At 11 o' clock in the morning, I had my hair cut in a bright blue shop open on one side to a narrow alley full of wandering cows and facing a temple pond full of stagnant green water. By 5 o' clock that same day, the shop had been turned into a pile of blue dust and my barber was squatting in the rubble, gazing forlornly at what had become a huge open space in the course of a day of frantic demolition. This was my business for most of my life, he told me, and I inherited it from my father. Now I don't know what to do. Such a bulldozing doesn't usually raise an eyebrow in India, a land jam packed full of illegal slums and shanties. But this is Hampi, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and home to some of India's most significant and magical archaeological ruins. For years, it's also been a laid back favorite for low budget travelers, many who stick around this remote spot in central Karnataka for months. And you can quite see why. In Hampi, nature has been throwing around the furniture, scattering giant boulders along the Tungabadra River. Rocks some the size of London, houses piled in bizarre arrangements. And a modern bazaar has steadily grown amongst the ruins to cater for the foreigners. And that's where the tension lies. The central government of India wants to protect this UNESCO World Heritage Site and turn it into an upmarket and pristine tourist destination. It wants all traders and villagers out of the bazaar, along with the squatters who have invaded the ruins. It's a cruel dilemma and it's not easy to take sides between the locals, the government, the travellers and the wannabe four star resort tourists. Because human activity in this beautiful rocky fantasy is entwined with what once was the greatest city of the largest Hindu empire in the history of India. Half a million people lived in this now moonlike landscape. At a time when the Vijayanaga empire was at its peak in the 16th century, modern migrants actually moved into the ancient stone houses that line the ceremonial streets at the heart of the old empire. They have painted over some of the stonework and added brick walls. Whole families and their animals are squatting in some of India's most significant ruins. Several homes still boasting exquisite rock carvings. I walk down the main avenue that connects two temples. One in Hampi Bazaar, itself full of life and ritual, with its own resident temple elephant. And the other now ruined on a hillside splattered with rocks. And on that long avenue lined with once ancient shops, half have already been cleared of modern life, while the other half still has its would be entrepreneurs. People selling sugar cane, curries or trinkets. One half is silent, old and dignified. The other is crowded with life, chatter and commerce. You can still stay in Hampi Bazaar and eat breakfast in the shadow of the great temple, a bike ride from all the ancient sites. But all around is the noise of demolition and the air is heavy with uncertainty. Maybe we can stay one more year before the bulldozers reach us. Kiran, the youngest son of my guest house owner, tells me. But how can we make a living in a place with no visitors in the middle of nowhere? For the central government wants to turn the whole of Hampi into an all ticketed archaeological park where tourists are coached in from their air chilled hotels. There are grand plans for a new road system, a bus station and large hotels away from the ruins. It wants to clear the little traveller town altogether. And villagers like Kiran have been offered scrub land an hour's drive away on which to rebuild their lives. Already another guest house, the oldest in the bazaar, has been flattened alongside my barber shop. Kieran photographs the scene on his phone. The tensions between preserving ancient sites, attracting tourist dollars and allowing people to make their own living out of this extraordinary landscape are complex. And it's a problem that India may have to confront in other places. I can quite understand why illegal squatters need to be moved out of ancient buildings, says Kiran. But it seems tragic that the very lifeblood should be taken out of Hampi altogether. Today it's now impossible to get a haircut in Hampi. And who knows what this remarkable place might look like in the future.
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Narrator/Reporter
Anthony Densilo in India it may seem scarcely credible to us that midsummer's already come and gone. Apart from those who observed the event in rather chilly conditions at Stonehenge, it wasn't an occasion much noticed here. To Latvians, though, the summer solstice celebration known as Ligua is arguably the most important holiday of the year. Following an ancient pagan tradition, they mark the date by staying up all night to greet the sunrise. This year, Damian McGuinness got in touch with his inner pagan and joined in last weekend's festivities to find out why Latvians believe this day so important.
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BBC Correspondent
As the sun slowly sets, about an hour and a half before midnight, it peaks out briefly from behind the clouds. We all out excitedly. Five minutes later, it's gone. For a festival which is all about celebrating the sun, the sun itself is being remarkably coy. The weather's been poor all day, but this is a beautiful, if fleeting moment. In this far northern land, winters are long, dark and snowy, with the temperature regularly falling below minus 30 degrees Celsius. So you can understand why the arrival of the long summer days is greeted by something approaching national hysteria. It's not a complicated festival. All you have to do is head out to the countryside, get a fire going, stay up all night waiting for the sun to come up, and drink lots and lots of beer, which I can only assume is why it's called ligua, the Latvian word for sway. Women pick flowers to make into crowns for their heads, while men are supposed to strip naked and jump into a nearby lake or river. Everyone sings medieval Latvian songs around the fire, and couples are encouraged to disappear into the forest to look for a mythical flowering fern. And as a result of this particular tradition, it's widely thought that Latvia enjoys a mini baby boom every year about nine months after Ligua. No doubt all the drinking also has something to do with it. The songs, the flowers, the running round, naked signs of the pagan roots which Latvians are proud of and which have made the country what it is today. Over the centuries, this tiny nation has been invaded by Swedes, Russians, Germans, with the Russians and the Germans even coming back for a second go. And ancient traditions have helped Latvians hang on to their sense of national identity. Even in the darkest days of foreign occupation, during the years of Soviet oppression, Latvian songs and poems were an important part of the resistance movement, eventually culminating in the so called Singing Revolution in the late 1980s. People here showed their desire for independence from the Soviet Union through mass singing events. The songs galvanised the independence movement by reminding Latvians of their pre Soviet identity. The Midsummer celebrations are also a symbol of a romanticised and in some ways quite fictional rural past. And they are a reminder of a time before Stalin destroyed the Latvian countryside by sending small landowners to the Gulags. Midsummer was the point when farmers had finished ploughing and sowing the crops and had not yet started the harvest. A good time to have a party. Today, in a globalised world of lattes and wifi, such traditions seem to be more important than ever. Zara and Costa coffee may have have arrived in Riga, but it's also more common than ever to see people walking round the streets in medieval national costume on public holidays. And high quality Latvian made designs are seen as more fashionable than anything H and M might have to offer. But the traditions are also constantly in flux. My Latvian friends couldn't quite agree whether the ligua tradition of jumping over the bonfire guaranteed you wealth, luck or love. So to be on the safe side, we all did it anyway. And there seemed to be a bit of controversy over whether the flowers in the girl's hair meant they were virgins or just looking for love. As all the women had flowers on their heads, including a pregnant friend of mine, I can only assume that the general understanding was the latter, because this is the night when evil spirits are about. Traditionally, Latvians would protect their livestock by decorating them with wreaths made from branches and leaves. Modern Latvians have more wealth invested in their cars than their cows, so today it's bumpers and wing mirrors which are adorned with greenery. And even the date is a little bit confused. The actual summer solstice is a few days before ligua. It's thought it was moved after Christianity arrived in the Baltics in the 12th century to coincide with St. John the Baptist's feast day. The missionaries obviously hoped that the Balts would soon forget their pagan nature worshipping ways. Instead they just kept doing the same thing just a few days later. But the advantage of this rather loose definition of tradition is that it can be easily adapted. At this particular Ligue celebration there was a large group of French visitors. So as the Latvian sun came up, it was greeted by a long wobbly line of people who had certainly done their bit with the Latvian beer, but had dropped the traditional Latvian songs in favour of a rather chaotic French can
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Narrator/Reporter
can Damian McGuinness getting married in an exotic foreign location has never been more popular. Latvia sounds pretty lively, but some will insist that tying the knot on a Caribbean beach is the height of romance. You can watch the sun sink slowly into the waves as the aroma of jerk goat wafts over from the hotel barbecue. Others, though, could argue that flying the wedding party to Italy is not only more tasteful, but cheaper too. Danny Mitzman, who's based in Bologna, has experience of Italian weddings. She tells us there's certainly no danger of going hungry.
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Danny Mitzman
My Italian friend Valeria is getting married. So is my school friend Fiona. Both are having civil ceremonies. Valeria at the Rocca Sforzesca in Imola, a Renaissance castle once used as a prison. Fiona at St. Albans register office, once the gatehouse of a Victorian prison marriage prison jokes aside, I'm thoroughly looking forward to both events. Last Friday I had dinner with Valeria and two other girlfriends, Paola from Bologna and Sicilian Mariangela. The wedding was inevitably the main topic, particularly plans for the hen night in Italian, fabulously called an addio al nubilato, a farewell to nubility. The conversation was bursting with prenuptial excitement until Valeria happened to mention that some of the guests were only invited to the ceremony, not to the dinner. Marianela was horrified. You can't invite people and not give them a meal in return. Why not? Retorted Valeria. Sending an invitation's a courtesy to tell people you're getting married, but I don't want my boss at my reception. Mariangela was not convinced. In Sicily, receiving an invitation means you're obliged to buy a gift, and that means you expect a free meal. I diffused the tension by showing them the poem I'll be reading at Fiona's wedding, a gentle marital comedy and rhyme by Pam Ayres. They were amused by the verse and astonished by the idea of readings during the ceremony, particularly comic ones. But Mariangela's disgust at the notion of unfed wedding guests got me thinking. While the focus at British receptions is on the speeches, the Italian reception is, unsurprisingly, all about the food. And on this one occasion, quantity is perhaps even more important than quality. Down south, wedding banquets can go on for an entire day, but here up north, things aren't much better. In my experience, Italian weddings are the ultimate gastric challenge. With an array of mouth watering antipasti served buffet style. On arrival, I'm usually full before I've even reached the table. The sit down meal then begins with at least three primi piatti, usually elaborate pastas and rich risottos. And that's before the main course. Italian weddings are the only time I actually find myself getting bored with eating. Looking over at the cake and groaning and aren't we there yet? Food even plays a role in the ceremony itself because Italians throw rice, not confetti, over the newlyweds. It's apparently symbolic of prosperity, fertility and happiness. Although pelting the couple with rice is immense fun. It's a real pest to clean up, especially from the cracks between cobblestones, so some places have chosen to ban it. One popular venue in Romeo and Juliet's hometown of Verona is the romantic, if a touch sinister Juliet. Juliet's tomb. I've been to two weddings there and the no rice rule was strictly enforced. As for the multicolored bits of paper we call confetti, they're known as coriandori here. You won't see them at weddings, but you will find children in fancy dress throwing them during February's carnival celebrations. In fact, Italians would never throw confetti over the newlyweds because in this country you don't throw confetti, you eat it. Confetti is the word for sugared almonds, traditionally given to guests by the bride and groom as a thank you gift and keepsake. Our word confectionary comes from the same root. Confetti are generally presented in a little lace and ribbon adorned package called a bomboniera. I'm assuming Valeria's boss will at least get one of those. Confetti aren't just for weddings though. You can get them in different colours to celebrate baptisms, university degrees, anniversaries and first communion. There are entire shops selling only confetti and bombo related decorations and trinkets. Curious to know more, I ventured into one last week. All frilly lace, shiny ornaments and wall to wall sugared almonds. It was like a combination of Aladdin's cave, the house in Hansel and Gretel and an Ann Summers shop. I wanted to know why there are always five confetti and a bombonera. Its tradition, smiled the shopkeeper. Each one is a symbolic wish for the newlyweds health, happiness, fertility, long life and wealth. I decided it might be auspicious to get one for Fiona. So if you spot someone at Gatwick carrying a Frou frou little bundle and practicing her Pam Ayers accent, that'll be
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Narrator/Reporter
me, Ganny Mitzman on her way to an English wedding. Let's hope she's remembered that most vital piece of kit, the umbrella. That's it. I'll be here with more from our own correspondence on Saturday morning. Why don't you join us?