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From Our Own Correspondent
Brides For Sale
00:27:51
Correspondents around the world with the detail behind the headlines: Beth McLeod on...
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Kate Adie
Hello from the from our own correspondence
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Programme Presenter
studios at Broadcasting House in London, you've
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Owen Bennett Jones
downloaded the latest edition of the programme
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Kate Adie
broadcast on BBC Radio 4.
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Programme Presenter
It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Struggling Syrian refugees are selling their daughters so they can feed their families a little longer. There's another food scandal in China. This time it's rat, leaving a nasty taste in the mouth. Why, a pile of nappies at the British Museum is good news for the Somali economy. And no queues, no scarves, no chance, not even any abuse. This is much of the day, North Korean style. The Turkish Prime Minister, Mr. Erdogan, says the Syrian government is using chemical weapons against the rebels. He plans to share the evidence he's seen with the American President, Barack Obama when they meet next week. Refugees continue to flee the fighting in Syria in huge numbers. Hundreds of thousands have been seeking refuge in Jordan. Most have been receiving little or nothing in the way of aid. Many have had to take drastic steps to survive. Beth MacLeod says some are marrying off their daughters to much older men in exchange for money.
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Beth MacLeod
There's an Arabic saying which I'm told translates as, if you marry a Syrian woman, your life will be good and peaceful forevermore. Syrian women have a reputation for being excellent at cooking and housework, and are also considered to be very pretty. But many thousands of Syrian women have been forced away from the homes they reputedly kept so well. They're attracting the attention of Arab men who've long dreamt of acquiring a perfect Damascene wife who can now take their pick, helping the Syrian revolution into the bargain by saving these refugees from poverty. It's a business opportunity that Ummazed was quick to spot a Syrian refugee herself. She set herself up as a matchmaker in Oman, supplying Syrian wives to men who are mostly from the Gulf for a fee. They come from Saudi Arabia in bunches like ants, she says. They tend to be over 50. Some are as old as 80. They ask for girls with white skin and blue or green eyes. She looks me up and down. I can find a husband for you if you like, she says with a cackle. I decline her offer. Besides, I'm well beyond the preferred age range of the prospective grooms. They want girls who are very young, from 12 years old, no older than 16. She says brides that fit the bill aren't hard to find. Desperate refugees are offering up their daughters, sacrificing them for a fee that will keep the rest of their families fed a little longer. Umm Mazid isn't proud of what she's doing for A living. She's difficult to pin down, refusing to meet us at the room she rents because she's ashamed of the conditions she's living in. Instead, we meet at the small, dark flat that belongs to her parents, also Syrian refugees in East Amman. After checking there are no men with us, she comes to the door unveiled, a laughing young woman with a round face, wearing a low cut black top and leggings. After pouring out glasses of Arabic coffee, she settles into an armchair and lights a cigarette, seeming to enjoy being the centre of attention. Back at home, I never thought about matchmaking. I I lived a very fancy life. I had a nice house, a car. I used to smoke lots of shisha. I didn't have to work. Interviewing her is tricky because her phone rings constantly, prospective brides and grooms calling to make arrangements. She answers all the calls, dancing along to the loud Arabic music that serves as her ringtone. After one particularly raucous conversation, she hangs up, laughing. There's a Kuwaiti man who wants to marry me, she says. He. He's 90. He'd buy an apartment in Amman for me and my children so we can live decently. She told me earlier that she already had a husband who was fighting for the Free Syria Army. Well, we're divorced now, she says with a shrug, and the Kuwaiti is rich. At times she seems contemptuous of the men, suggesting that she's the one taking advantage of them and their money. But at other times, her anger comes through. I curse them all. I've always known that men could be nasty, but the things I've witnessed, the exploitation I've seen, it makes me wish they were all dead. After putting on a black abaya and headscarf, she leads the way up a steep hill to a neighbour's house, where we're introduced to one of the refugee brides. Ghazal has enormous blue eyes framed by carefully applied eyeliner and a zebra print headscarf. She tells me that she's 18 but looks a good four years younger. Prompted by her mother, she talks about her recent marriage to a Saudi. We weren't happily married, she says. He was much older than me and didn't respect me as a wife. She said he also wanted her to sleep with his friends. The marriage lasted for one week, then the man divorced her and returned to Saudi Arabia. I did it to help my family, she says. But I won't marry for money again. Next time I want to marry a Syrian boy of my own age. Ummazed, the matchmaker shakes her head sadly. That Saudi was A nasty piece of work, she says. So isn't there a more palatable way she can earn a living? I ask. Isn't she receiving any aid? She laughs bitterly. I've asked all the charities for help, but I've got nothing. What am I supposed to do? How can I pay the rent? This is the only way that my family and I can survive. As we shake hands goodbye, her now familiar ringtone starts up again. She turns to answer the phone and walks off, wheeling and dealing her way along the narrow streets of Oman.
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Programme Presenter
That was Beth MacLeod in Jordan. Voting is taking place in Pakistan's general election after a campaign marred by violence. The killings have continued. On polling day, police in Karachi say at least 10 people died and more than 30 others were injured when a bomb exploded outside the office of the Awami National Party. An attack in the northwestern city of Peshawar at a polling station reserved for women injured eight people. But men and women are still casting their ballots in large numbers, defying threats of more violence by the Pakistani Taliban. The frontrunners in the election are thought to be the Pakistan Muslim League, led by the former prime minister Nawaz Sharif and the Movement for Justice Party of the former cricketer Imran Khan. Owen Bennett Jones has been looking at how the political parties there go about selecting their candid and how much it costs to run a campaign.
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Owen Bennett Jones
The Islamabad sitting rooms of upper class Pakistanis reveal a fair amount about their status. Generally speaking, the tattier the furniture, the older the money. First generation wealth sitting room white carpets and gold chairs. Second generation deep red Afghan carpets and stylish highly patterned cloth slung over sofas. Third generation fraying upholstery. I was at a party in a second generation room recently, complete with a purpose built bar, when one of the young women there said she'd like to run for parliament. You, I replied, but you've got no interest in politics. I don't know. It would be fun, wouldn't it? You must advise me. Which party should I join? I thought about it. The Pakistan People's Party, I guess. It's the natural home of rich, liberal Pakistanis who like a drink. Do you know any of the Bhuttos? I asked. The third generation of the Bhutto dynasty is now leading the party. Sure, but the party only wants big landowners and industrialists. They don't want people like me. OK then, Muslim League Nawaz, perhaps? Nawaz Sharif is the leader, actually. You said you like him, didn't you? Nah, same problem. I don't bring enough votes. We ran through some of the smaller parties. Mqm, I suggested. Wrong ethnic background. What about the religious parties? Are you kidding? Those dogs? I've got it, I said. The anp. They're perfect. The anp, or Awami National Party is for Pashtun nationalists and has a strong base in the northwest of the country up towards the Afghan border. It's currently in a brutal struggle with the Taliban. In It's a question of the Taliban's religiosity versus the ANP's nationalism. You can't go wrong, I said. You're a Pashtun. They have some pretty safe seats and they'd love to have a woman candidate to give themselves a modern image. True, but then there's the electoral maths. How do you mean? I'd have to pay for the ticket to be their candidate. Pay? Pay who? The party leadership, of course.
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Programme Presenter
Really?
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Owen Bennett Jones
How much? Quarter of a million dollars. And what if you lose? Well, that's the risk. But you can hardly expect them to give their seats away, can you? And there's the campaigning too. Campaigning in Pakistan is expensive. I've been asking around during this election about how it all works. One of the main costs is transport. You need to move voters to the rallies and to the polls. All the candidates are trying to hire the same bus companies. Prices skyrocket. Then there's food. People, after all, may not be going to the rallies to listen to the interminable speeches. And if you want a big rally, you need a national name there, ideally your party leader. Here's the thinking. To get elected, you need to show that you're someone with such good connections to the most powerful people in the country that you will be able to deliver benefits to your area. And the most obvious way to look well connected is is to persuade those powerful people to come to your rallies. And the best way to persuade those leaders to come to your rallies is to pay them. Middlemen will negotiate the fee, but one or two hundred thousand dollars to so called party funds should do the trick. The closer the electoral contest, the higher the price for your leader attending your rally. TV coverage is another expense. The trick is to get a DVD made showing you in various heroic poses, and then to bribe the local cable operator to simply take off the network programming and to broadcast your DVD instead. In rural areas, it's been happening all over the country. So much to spend money on. Getting elected can cost more than a million dollars. In the film, the candidate, the character played by Robert Redford battles through a bruising campaign. And right at the end of the Film, as his victory is declared, asks, what do we do now? In Pakistan, and doubtless in many other countries too, the answer to that question is obvious. You set about recouping your investment. Making back a million dollars plus a bit of profit in a five year term is not easy. One of the more reliable sources of income is the development fund the government allocates to each elected representative to spend in his or her constituency. Some of it can be skimmed off, the rest handed out to contractors who have to pay kickbacks. And should you ever make it to ministerial level, well, then the money gets really serious. And there's one other thing. With very few exceptions, members of the Pakistan Parliament use their clout to avoid paying taxes. A brilliant piece of investigative journalism by a Pakistani journalist recently revealed the figures for this outgoing parliament. 68% of members in both houses. And don't forget, many of these people are multi millionaires. Didn't even file a tax return.
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Programme Presenter
Eoin Bennett Jones. Delegates from more than 50 nations and international organisations were in London this week for a conference on the future of Somalia. The Prime Minister, David Cameron, told the delegates it was vital to rebuild the country to prevent mass migration and the export of terrorism. Mary Harper was listening to some of the speeches and grand plans for Somalia. But she wonders how much real progress in that country, racked for decades by civil war, lies in the hands of Somalis themselves.
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Mary Harper
The day after the Somalia conference, the heads of state had made their speeches, hundreds of millions of pounds of extra money had been pledged. The journalists had packed up their cameras and tape recorders and the cleaners were vacuuming the corridors of Lancaster House. But in another, equally glamorous location, another Somalia conference was taking place. And this was the one that in many ways really mattered, because this was about business and investment. The British Museum, home to ancient and precious objects from all over the world, was an odd choice of venue. Somalis are traditionally a nomadic people. Apart from livestock, the less you have in terms of material possessions, the better. This also applies to the Somali business community, a super globalised group who travel the world living out of suitcases and making money. They were there in force in the British Museum. As with the Americans, the Europeans and the Arabs, all keen for a stake in Somalia, a country that's been at war for more than two decades, its city smashed to rubble, needs new buildings, roads, electricity and water. And it's in a part of the world where fresh reserves of oil and gas are being discovered. The first thing that caught my eye was an enormous orange banner with a picture of A fat, smiling Somali baby wearing nothing but a nappy. Standing in front of it was a smart young Somali in a shiny suit. His name was Mohammed and he was selling nappies made in America sold in Somalia. The company was set up by a group of Somalis living in Minnesota in the United States. It was inspired by a young Minnesota based Somali woman who every time she went home, got frustrated by the lack of nappies, sanitary pads and other such items. So, like a good Somali, she saw an opportunity. The products have Somali names and images. They are a Somali brand and they're selling like crazy in Somali towns. Mohammed told me that a recent study found that 30% of teenage girls in Somalia miss school for a few days every month when they have their periods. The products he sells mean they don't have to miss school anymore. I could have talked to Mohammed for hours, but I was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Someone wanted to introduce me to another Somali entrepreneur called Faisa. Faisa is small, dainty and extremely pretty. Her leopard skin headscarf made her golden skin glow even more. Lips painted a bright and shiny red. She was bubbly and dynamic and had a strong Yorkshire accent. She told me how her family had fled Somalia when civil war broke out in 1988. They ended up in Sheffield, hence the accent. Faisa is doing the opposite of Mohammed. She's exporting goods from Somalia to Europe, the Gulf and elsewhere. Although it's best known for conflict, famine, piracy and extremism linked to Al Qaeda, Somalia also exports more live animals than any other country in the world. Sheep, goats, cows and camels. Because the country is so hot, the animals have thin skin. This means the leather they produce is of the finest quality and is used to make supple soft leather goods such as gloves and handbags. So this dainty young lady from Sheffield is in talks with some of the world's most prestigious leather companies. She was born in the Somali town of Borau, famous for its livestock, and she knows all about animals and their hides. She rattled off a long list of tanning methods and told me her company is investing in a tannery so the hides can be properly treated at source instead of the current salt and sun drying method. But Pfizer hasn't stopped at leather. Somalia is also home to special trees whose SAP produces frankincense and myrrh. For centuries, these have been exported for use as incense in mosques and churches for perfume, cosmetics and other purposes. It's currently exported in its raw form. Faisa wants to purify it in Somalia. So more of the profits stay in the country. After meeting Mohammed Faisa and many others like them, I wondered why the speeches and politics of the previous day had got all the attention. They felt like a lot of hot air. Unlike the company selling affordable nappies and sanitary pads in Somalia, where they're much needed. All the fine gloves, bags, coats and shoes being made from Somali leather, these felt like real achievements, bringing real benefits.
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Programme Presenter
And that was Mary Harper. China has undergone a series of scandals over food safety in recent years. But the latest revelation that your dish of roast lamb may actually be roast rat has caused widespread revulsion. The country's official Xinhua news agency said more than 900 people had been arrested for allegedly selling adulterated or mislabeled food products. The Supreme People's Court is now demanding harsher punishments for offenders. Our correspondent in Beijing, Martin Patience, says the scandals have angered people in China. They no longer trust the food on their plates and blame the authorities for failing to take action.
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Kate Adie
It seems that barely a day goes by in China without news of Europe, yet another food safety scandal. But the latest case, even by Chinese standards, was truly stomach churning. Hundreds of people were arrested after passing off rat meat as lamb. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the scandal has given rise to a round of stories about rodents. I heard one anecdote about a restaurant in southern China that serves up rat meat dishes. Believe me, these establishments do exist. At this particular restaurant, the owners reassured the customers that their rats had been caught in the countryside and not the sewers. Now, whether the story is true or not, it gives you a flavour of public concern over food safety. When you eat at cheap restaurants or roadside stalls for that matter, you're always left with that queasy feeling that you may have consumed something that you didn't order. My wife recently had lunch at a restaurant and discovered a stone in her soup and then a piece of scrubbing brush in her main course. When I asked why she hadn't complained, she said that she didn't want to spoil the meal for her friends. The irony is that people in China are now eating more than ever before. But quality remains elusive. Obesity, once unheard of, is now becoming an issue. There's been the largest wave of migration in human history. Here, tens of millions of rural migrants have poured into the cities to fuel the country's remarkable economic growth. And the journey from the farms to the factories in the last couple of decades has given rise to a vast food supply chain catering for China's now majority urban population. But the food industry here is Often filthy and and even downright criminal. Farmers drown vegetables and pesticides. Businesses pump cattle full of steroids. And corrupt officials, after taking their cut, often certify questionable food is safe. It's little wonder then that people are concerned. One weekend, I joined some city slickers who've become part time farmers. The PR consultants, teachers and computer programmers juggled their iPhones in spades. And at an organic farm on the outskirts of the capital, glistening with sweat, they said their weekend workout was all about ensuring the quality of the produce. For most people, though, a return to the land simply isn't feasible. So the Chinese middle class, along with many foreigners, buy their meat from Australia and milk from as far away as New Zealand. With so much mistrust, those with the cash plump for trusted brands. But if there's one issue that provokes anger here more than most, it's baby milk formula. Back in 2008, a scandal of stunning proportions unfolded in homes across the country. Hundreds of thousands of babies became sick after drinking contaminated formula. Several of them died, but the authorities initially suppressed the scandal because they didn't want bad news breaking before the Beijing Olympics. That decision sparked outrage because what it boiled down to was an issue of trust. If the authorities aren't prepared to look out for babies, then exactly who will they protect? During the fallout from the baby milk scandal, the authorities promised to take tougher measures to clean up the food supply chain. They introduced the death penalty for some cases. But corruption and lax enforcement of regulations mean that people here are still looking at their plates every meal time, thinking about the country's terrible record on food safety. The surest sign of the scale of the problem is that China's leaders are very picky about what they eat themselves. One gutsy Chinese newspaper reported that there were special farms and carefully monitored producers of fish, pork and poultry that supplied the nation's leadership. That report didn't stay online for long. But while they may be eating from a different plate, the authorities know that they need to deal with the simmering public anger over food safety. Like the appalling air pollution here, it's something they simply cannot afford to ignore.
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Programme Presenter
Martin Patience in Beijing. When the World cup kicks off in Brazil next summer, it will do so without footballers from North Korea. It's not because they've been withdrawn over health and safety worries after those threats of nuclear war from Pyongyang. Nor is it because the North Korean players have all been drafted into the armed forces by their autocratic leader, Kim Jong Un. No, the truth is they just failed to qualify Knocked out finally by Uzbekistan. But inside North Korea, football does continue despite this setback. Tim Hartley, visiting the country as a tourist, went to see a big game in the capital. It was, he tells us, a somewhat bizarre experience.
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Mary Harper
Experience.
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Programme Presenter
The game was a sellout, though you'd never have guessed it. As we entered the 50,000 seater Kim Il Sung Stadium, below the watchful eye of the Eternal President and Great Leader, not forgetting his son, the Supreme Leader, Kim Jong Il. There was no one to be seen. There were no queues, no turnstiles and certainly no hot dog stands or program sellers. But once inside, it was a different matter. Every seat was taken and row upon row of men sat silently wearing identical dark suits and red ties, everyone sporting a tiny enamel badge on their left breast. No, not of Pyongyang fc, but of the Great Leader himself. The artificial pitch looked immaculate under the spring morning sun. Kick off was at half past nine. Maybe it was the early start, but there were no chants and no flags or scarves in sight, just a quiet murmur around the darkened rows of seats. Many of the fans were soldiers in green uniforms and broad brimmed hats. I don't know if they were under orders to attend, but some were quietly reading paperbacks and showed no interest in the game. The opposition, the crack army outfit Amrock Gang, looked stronger in the first half, but it was a scrappy match. Pyongyang fought back and won. A penalty, though you'd be hard pressed to know that from the reaction of the crowd, there was none. My travelling buddies decided to inject some old style terrace atmosphere of our own and we chanted, one nil to the referee, one nil to the referee. The dozen or so Westerners who had joined us in the VIP box at €30 a seat. Hard currency only, please. While they laughed at us, one or two even joined in as we grew bolder. Pyongyang oo oo. Pyongyang oo oo. But the locals just stared at us. In a land where it appears you must ask permission to speak, this show of individuality, of spontaneity, was not seen as rude or aggressive. They just stared blankly at us. I think they thought we were, well, a little odd. Our tour party was closely monitored at the game. Two guides led from the front, while a mysterious Mr. L, who hardly spoke, brought up the rear. It was never clear if he was just minding us, always making sure our guides stuck to the strict party line that all was rosy. In this socialist utopia. The national side uses the official name of the country. The Democratic People's Republic of Korea. Their greatest footballing moment came in the 1966 World cup when they beat Italy by two goals to nil to reach the quarter finals. They also qualified for the 2010 finals. At the last World cup in South Africa, North Korea's coach Kim Jong Hoon told the media that he'd received regular tactical advice during matches from Kim Jong Il, using mobile phones that are not visible to the naked eye and purportedly developed by the Supreme Leader himself. But the team is struggling at the moment and has not qualified for next year's World cup in Brazil. Its last game was a goalless draw in a friendly against fellow Communists, Cuba. Back on the pitch at the Kim Il Sung stadium, Amrock Gang had got one back. Another penalty. The why the referee had to confer with the linesman is anyone's guess. The Pyongyang striker was taken down five yards inside the box. The goal caused little reaction. The crowd stayed quiet. Neither manager ventured out of the dugout. There was no high fiving, no pats on the back from the players. Now I like to watch controlled football, but not quite like this. Surprise, surprise. There was some half time entertainment. A brass band piped up behind the goal. But immediately another band behind the opposite goal struck up. They were playing different tunes, not that anyone seemed to care. The match went into stoppage time. Pyongyang were pressing hard. The crowd at last seemed to rouse themselves, if only a little, at the prospect of another goal. And finally Pyongyang scored with a low shot following some good Inter passing. It was the very last kick of the most bizarre game I had ever watched. And it came in the 94th minute. Maybe the referee was under orders to ensure a home win in the Great Leaders Stadium. I'd like to think the crowd went home happy, but with no emotion one way or the other. On the faces of the soldiers and party faithful as they marched silently out. I just couldn't tell.
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And that from Tim Hartley at a quiet football match in Pyongyang has brought us to the final whistle. More from our own correspondence near and far next Saturday morning. Do join us. Goodbye.