← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Conspiracy!
00:27:49
Correspondents' stories from around the world: a field day for conspiracy theorists as...
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Transcript15 lines
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Hello from the.
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From our own correspondence studios at Broadcasting
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House in London, you've downloaded the latest
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edition of the programme broadcast on BBC Radio 4. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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I told you so. The conspiracy theorists have their say as scandals rock the White House. Two years after Colonel Gaddafi was toppled, peace and stability still in short supply in Benghazi, we find out why Somali pirates are honing their football skills in the holiday islands of Seychelles. And it's noisy, dirty. The traffic's appalling, the poverty shocking. So why is it so hard to bid farewell to Mumbai? It's been a gloomy week at the White House with President Obama trying to fight off scandals from three different quarters. He's taking flak after the revelation that the federal tax agency has been improperly targeting opposition groups. There have been awkward questions about the attack in Libya in which a US ambassador was killed, and about the government seizure of some journalists phone records. Mark Bardell tells us that while the White House tries to move on from this parade of political headaches, the conspiracy theorists are making the most of it.
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America, land of the free, home of the slightly afraid, is the very birthing ground of conspiracy theories. Suspicions that an overweening government is out to baffle, bully and bamboozle hover overhead like the black helicopters which in urban myth are ever ready to crush American liberty. During the last election, I got chatting to a woman making calls from a phone bank on behalf of the Republican Party. We chatted about normal stuff children, the Nevada mountains all around us, but soon returned to politics. She told me not to believe the opinion polls because people dared not tell the truth because of the government. She told me she was sending out emails on behalf of Mitt Romney. And several times the message had come back not connected to server. Clear evidence, she said, that the government was spying on her and interfering with her Internet connection. This is just one of many similar conversations I've had up and down the country. I came to the conclusion not that Americans were crazy, but that otherwise completely normal, sane people here can easily believe crazy things when it comes to politics. I also remember one conservative Tea Party leader. I think it was in a field full of sheep in South Carolina, insisting some unnamed authorities were asking impertinent questions about his little group's finances. Another one I thought only he was right and I was wrong. And the events we've witnessed in recent days will make him and all the others feel thoroughly vindicated. In America, crazy can be true. The boss of the irs, America's Inland Revenue, has now stepped down after it was revealed some of its officials deliberately targeted Tea Party groups. It's a grey area who should and shouldn't get a tax free status. But this trawl seems clearly biased against the right. But President Obama has condemned this as intolerable and inexcusable. But even so, some senators are claiming despite clear denials and no evidence that the rot came from the top, the Department of Justice also finds itself accused of persecuting those the administration finds awkward. Its officers carried out an unprecedented virtual raid on the news agency AP, the Associated Press. They seized two months worth of records from around 20 of its reporters, phone calls from their home phones, mobiles and office lines in order to find out who leaked a story about terrorism. Many feel this smacks more of intimidation than investigation. Then there are more revelations about last year's Benghazi incident. The facts are simple that four U.S. diplomats, including the ambassador, were killed by militants. Conservatives have long suggested a cover up that the authorities removed words the State Department objected to, particularly the word terrorism. Conservatives contend what they call the mainstream media and sometimes label the lamestream media have ignored this and other other stories and that is largely the case. The trouble is that from the very get go, the president's critics eagerly build upon the uncertain evidential sands, a tottering tower of such baroque design that anyone simply looking for the facts is a bit put off. The websites making much of Benghazi usually stress the president's middle name, Barack Hussein Obama, and hint he's a secret member of the Muslim Brotherhood. But by comparison, the facts suggest something a bit more prosaic. It looks as if the State Department was trying to blur what happened so they wouldn't face charges of inadequate security at their diplomatic mission in Libya. But in hyper partisan America, there's little mileage in reporting a dull old fashioned careerist cover up. There are strong strands that come together, meaning some in America are bound to see patterns in the clouds, wispy facts forming the face of tyranny. The country was founded on a rejection of far off, overbearing, overtaxing government. The British, of course. Much later, in the 50s, reds were sought under beds with an enthusiasm that suggested the fear was rather relished. And the addled 60s showed a similar glee in dreaming up government cover ups from aliens to those black helicopters. Some ended up arguing only wearing tinfoil in your hat could stop them reading your brainwaves. Then the 70s went and compounded it all with a truth Watergate proof grotesque conspiracies can be real and that dogged believers can bring down the mightiest. Nowadays, the Internet is a brackish pond where fear, fact and fantasy can breed monstrous conceits. But these recent developments have made me revisit the T shirt slogan that's become a tired cliche. Just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not out to get you. Not everything written in green ink is untrue. I suspect in some indeterminate way these events will have a real political importance. In a country where the two political sides lack any empathy towards each other, the the rift of mutual distaste will widen, and my friends in Nevada, South Carolina and elsewhere will nod their heads at this evidence of a government bent on persecuting its enemies and be all the more willing to believe the next story of outrage in these increasingly disunited states of America.
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Mark Mardell and in Benghazi, the Centre as you heard of scandal in Washington, it's proving to be a violent week. A bomb went off at a school last night. Earlier there was a full scale armed assault on a police station and a car bomb explosion in which three people were killed. These are just the latest in a string of attacks against security forces and Western interests in the city. Radical Islamists, like the group which attacked the American consulate there last September, usually get the blame. Today, as Nick Redmayne's been finding out, there's some uncertainty in Benghazi about the presence and the influence of those Islamists.
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Outside the somewhat shabby terminal of Benghazi's Bernina Airport, despite my protests, Saad reaches down to take my bag. Sorry I'm late. The traffic. It's terrible. I'd first met saad during the 2011 revolution, when his mechanical skills had come in handy, fixing multiple rocket launchers onto Chinese made pickups. Peering out through the cracked glass of Saad's windscreen, we nudge into a line of cars leaving the airport. Police just looking, not doing. Not like Gaddafi's time, says Saad, pointing at a couple of uniformed officers standing indolently by their shiny and stationary police car. Then a blast of horns as two substantial articulated lorries cut across the carriageway, performing U turns, almost colliding with each other. Here in Libya, drivers are free, says Saad, lifting both hands from the steering wheel in exasperation, safely negotiating further manifestations of freedom. We arrive in Benghazi's suburb of Rasa Beda. Look here. Saad points at a pristine single story cube of a building, a random shop. You remember. This was a space last time. One day, nothing. The next it's here. I ask him why he makes a shop here. He says, because Libya Free, we walk on. I'm keen to know what's happened to the Rasa Beda charitable organisation, a group Saad and fellow residents set up during the revolution to support vulnerable local families. Ah, well, Rasa Beda organisation is a little bit closed, says Saad with a wry smile. I was in Turkey looking for car parts and when I came back, the Imam had given the key of our building to Ansar al Sharia. I still don't know why. The Ansar al Sharia militia, a hardline Salafi group, was blamed in the attack on Benghazi's US Consulate that resulted in the death of the ambassador and three others, an event leading to a popular backlash amongst Benghazi citizens. I thought Ansar had been driven out of the city. I say yes, I Saad. But as we cross the road, he points out banners erected by Ansar al Sharia, requesting donations for Syria. What are they using the place for now? I inquire. Well, the sign says Mother and Child Clinic, but I never see any doctors or patients. And they made the Shisha Cafe move its tables away so no one sees who goes in or out. I know the top floor is Ansar's radio station. It was playing jihadi music when I last listened. The other two floors. Sarge shrugs. Next day, Awadh, a friend of Saad's, wants to show me his old school, the Salah Al Din Secondary. This is the first time in 30 years I step over the threshold, says Awadh. We're met by a group of men in their 20s, resting in the building's shade and exchange greetings. It turns out that there are 14 families here, all turning the building into homes. I ask where the new tenants are from. These guys are from Ajdabiya, Raslanouf and from here in Benghazi, says Awad. And who's organising the redevelopment? No one. It's freestyle. They can't afford to rent, so they just decide to live here free. No one told them. They just do it. Inside, amid the broken concrete, workmen are busy sealing off doorways, creating individual dwellings from the original unmistakably academic layout of the corridors and classrooms. Howard populates the building shell with his own memories. This was my classroom, he says. And this was Sadiq Shwedi's, a few years older. A good boy, very good. And Gaddafi? He hung him and made all the students watch the execution. I tell you, Gaddafi was not human. Outside Sarda's arrived, and together we drive back. Downtown, Benghazi's traffic as sclerotic as ever. Overhead, a helicopter wheels and hovers, its pods of rockets and guns, suggesting it's not employed by the Highways Authority. In front of the bunker, like Tibesti Hotel, there are several demonstrations going on. A group of veiled women hold professionally produced banners announcing they're proud to be Hijabi. On the other side of the road, a woman in sunglasses waves a hand penned placard and demands that militias leave public buildings. While searching out his own patch, a sad looking man bemoans the lack of help from central government. They're all different, I say to Saad. Yes, he smiles. It's because Libya's free.
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And that was Nick Redmayne. At last, a slightly sunnier forecast for the long troubled British economy recovery, albeit a modest one, is now in sight, according to latest figures from the bank of England. Its quarterly report, which talks of better than expected growth and lower inflation, contrasts sharply with the outlook elsewhere in the European Union. On top of disappointing figures in Germany, crippling unemployment in Spain and a further decline in Italian GDP came news this week that France has fallen back into a recession. Christian Fraser's been to the Lotte Caronne region, where people have their own ideas about how to cope.
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There's an economic buzz. In the town of Villeneuve Soulotte, they're busy building a currency. It's known as the Abbey, and today some 400 households are using it to buy everything from strawberries and mohair mittens to haircuts and chiropody clippers. The lot and Garonne is the market garden of France. Plums and prunes are their specialty. The currency is suitably named. Abbey is French for bee, the organic farmer's best friend. The characteristics of the bees, their industry, their loyalty to the hive, the fact they only really get going in the spring are much the same as the people they serve in the lot. The rhythms of life are set by the land. They work. On Wednesday, braving the rain as much as the economic storm, the residents and traders gathered for the weekly market of locally grown organic food. No sign of the cheaper foreign imports here. Loaded onto the trestle tables alongside the produce were the posters that advertised the Abbey. The currency was launched in 2010 in response to the global economic crisis. Today it's accepted by 112 companies in the town. In effect, it has established a small local trade zone, which in Villeneuve extends around 30km, where the abbey exists alongside the euro. It's a not for Profit organization and any commission earned through the exchange of euros and abays is reinvested in local business. It creates loyalty between the customer and the producer, explains Nicolas Queho, the vice president of the organizing committee. Their buzz phrase is money de liens, money de bien. Money that creates connections is good money. One obey equals one euro, as long as you use it within six months. After that, the currency depreciates by 2%, encouraging people to spend, not save, and to spend quickly at that. Perhaps the government should take note. Getting people to part with their money is their biggest challenge. Figures out this week revealed spending power in France has fallen to its lowest level since 1984. All told, 120,000 abays have been traded. Not a huge amount, but its popularity is growing. And the scheme is now spreading to other parts of the country, where Euroscepticism and the movement against globalization are on the rise. There are 40 towns planning similar schemes. 20 are already using their own version. There's the Mielle or honey in the Gironde, the USCO in the Basque region, and the Violet San or sol Violette in Toulouse. But is the abbey a fashion fad, or is it here to stay? Judging by recent surveys into public attitudes in the European Union, Euroscepticism in France is growing. The authoritative Pew Research Centre asked whether people believed that European integration had strengthened their economies. 26% of the British sample agreed. Only 22% of the French believe it has. Wednesday was also the day that marked President Hollande's first year in power, coinciding with France's descent into its double dip recession. The President, whose personal poll ratings are equally disastrous, offered his grand vision in response. An economic government for the eurozone that would meet monthly under its own president, with power to raise taxes, control its own budget, even issue its own debt. He capped his announcement with a promise for even closer political union in Europe within two years. Call me a cynic, even a skeptic, but it's hard to imagine a proposal more at odds with the prevailing mood in the Villeneuve market. A move to more Europe, more big government that would be about as popular in these parts as an outbreak of blight. The worker bees of the Lottan Garonne have been plagued by excessive rainfall and a deluge of Mr. Alon's taxes. This year, farmer Patrick Joy will produce 250 tonnes of the most impossibly scarlet strawberries in his industrial scale climate control greenhouses. But he'll also pay an extra €36,000 in tax and social charges for the 40 seasonal workers who will pick them. It's been a bad year under, Mr. Hollande laments. People don't buy strawberries when there's gloom. They blame the President, but they also blame the euro. The bank of France may dismiss the Abbey as a glorified system of bartering, but those who champion the growth of these local currencies say the significance lies not in their size, but in what their growing popularity represents. A return to a more parochial way of life, a rejection of the Eurozone project, and quite the opposite of the plan Mr. Hollande has in mind.
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Christian Fraser in southwest France, countries around the world are finally claiming some success in the fight against the pirates who've been terrorizing shipping off the Horn of Africa. As a result, there are now more than a thousand Somalis convicted of piracy, languishing in jails in some 20 different nations. Many suspected pirates captured by one navy or another, now end up in the tiny island nation of Seychelles in the middle of the Indian Ocean. There they're kept in a jail which is funded by the United nations, before being processed by a court also organised by the un. Anthony Denslow's been there in search of the pirates.
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The Indian shopkeepers along the beach have never heard of the prison at Montan Pose, but a villager tells me to drive above a deep ravine full of banana trees. As the sea becomes a distant horizon and the road winds steeply, I stop to ask the way of two men in yellow dungarees shoveling sand. As soon as the man with the shovel turns, I can see that he's a prisoner. He asks first for cigarettes, then for money, and then he says, just give me anything. I have nothing. I am from Somalia. This is the pirates prison, hidden high in the hills. Hundreds of metres below, between two shimmering white beaches. Upmarket tourists are paying between two and three thousand pounds a night to stay in their thatched villas. They know nothing about this prison wing opened three years ago by the UN Office for Drugs and Crime. Here, 66 Somalis awaiting trial for piracy or, if already convicted, await deportation to serve their sentences. Back home early the next morning, I'm in Victoria, the island's capital, to witness an astonishing sight that is about to disappear forever. In the heart of town is the beautiful black and white Creole courthouse. Outside, lolling on benches, are groups of handcuffed prisoners. It's a sun kissed Dickensian scene that I cannot imagine anywhere else. Six Somalis in flip flops and chained in pairs are brought into the tiny court where a judge and nine lawyers, clad in black and wearing wigs barely give them a glance. These six were arrested last August hundreds of miles north, nearer Yemen than Seychelles. They're accused of attempting to board a merchant ship and were captured by the Dutch navy with help from a Spanish helicopter. Charles Brown is a barrister from Cumbria and one of two UK Criminal Prosecution Service lawyers who have been seconded to the Attorney General's Office in Seychelles to help prosecute pirates. He says that they can look pretty shell shocked when they first arrive in these lush islands, but describes the Somalis as a cheerful and reasonably intelligent lot. Most Somali prisoners though, claim to be either economic migrants or or simple fishermen, although as Brown points out, their captured boats rarely have refrigeration or even fishing nets. At one point, so many pirates were being caught that they were being dumped back into the beaches of Somalia. But these days, with intensive patrolling of the Indian Ocean, more are being convicted here in Seychelles. Another 17 were recently flown home to a UN funded jail in the relatively secure region of Puntland to serve sentences that mostly range between 10 and 20 years. Years 59 have already been tried and sent back. Alan Cole, who works on the UN's counter piracy program, tells me that most Somalis are happy to be sent home to escape the prison diet of rice and tuna. But he cites the story of one Somali who opted to stay on to finish studying for a certificate in English. In one year, he's received more formal education in a Seychellwar jail than he did in 20 years in Somalia. Charles Brown believes that the war on piracy is succeeding thanks to the efforts of navies and the close monitoring of boats leaving the Somali coast. No armed merchant ship has ever been boarded and many now have a secure room or citadel to where crews can retreat while still operating their ships. Seychelles is undergoing something of a building boom at present, with Russian and Arab money contributing to some worrying development. Pristine forest and beaches are being built upon. The prison at Montan Pose is not the only fortress overlooking the former Slaver colony. There are now ugly giant palaces built by the rulers of the United Arab Emirates dominating the skyline over Victoria. The old Creole courthouse, where justice is literally seen to be done, is to close to become a museum. And the court moved to a vast new Chinese built property on the edge of town. Meanwhile, as the astonishingly rich newcomers from the Gulf look down on their outsized boats in the harbour and the very rich tourists relax in their gated hotels, the Somali pirates are honing their gardening and footballing skills behind their very own walls.
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Anthony Denslow now, visitors don't always take to the Indian city of Mumbai. If the country in general is known for its colour, its get up and go, its divisions, extreme wealth and total poverty, then these are qualities which in Mumbai seem exaggerated. Its India, only more so. Rajini Vaidyanathan spent the last year and a half reporting there and has now departed from new BBC job in Washington. Before she left, we wondered, was Mumbai a place she was keen to see the back of? Or one she'd never forget?
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As I make one of my final journeys around Mumbai, battling dense traffic, I find myself in one of the trademark yellow and black taxis called Premier Padmanis. Rusted and battered, it chugs along the road. Its angular bodywork and hand painted number plate make it seem as if the car's been lifted straight from a 1970s police drama. They don't make these anymore. They've been replaced by modern vehicles. Just one example of how old cuts against new in today's India. I try not to look down at the small rusting hole on the floor of the car or the limply hanging side mirror. There's no such thing as safety in India, says the driver nonchalantly. Here we rely on God. It's faith which drives so many in this city, India's most populous. It's so full of extremes. Home to the world's most expensive private house, it's India's financial capital and the centre of the Bollywood universe. But it's also a place where millions live in dire poverty. As I gaze in front of me, I see both a huge new shiny skyscraper emerging from the ground and a makeshift slum, its blue tarpaulin roofs standing out on the horizon. Alongside the beeping horns, I hear the thumping bass from a dance concert which is taking place in the racecourse nearby. Hip young bikers have paid $50 to get in. On the bridge above, a crowd of men from a nearby slum have gathered. They too feel the pulsating beat. Boom, boom, thud. But can't see where exactly it's coming from. I never used to listen to this music until I got here. But then it became the soundtrack to a parallel universe, one which those men will never know. A world of expensive belts, crisp tailored shirts, nostril defying aftershave, shatteringly expensive champagne and beautiful people. Look around Mumbai and you'd wonder that there's room for such opulence. There is hardly enough space for all the poverty in this crowded city. The cab door opens. A globule of spit arcs from the driver's mouth. He wipes his lips and shuts the door again, ignoring the sticker on his own taxi do not spit Disease Risk. India is a land of inordinate bureaucracy, yet every day the rules are broken. A small child wanders past, weaving between the cars and fumes. She's probably spent most of the day knocking on windows, asking for money, as businessmen sit behind the reflective glass, bowing their heads with a mixture of guilt and awkwardness. She has matted hair and is wearing a party dress, torn and dirty, the frayed lace frills barely intact. You can't help everyone. You mustn't feel sad, was the advice a friend once gave me. But it's hard not to notice. Everywhere you look, there are people sleeping on the roadside, under bridges, somewhere, anywhere in Bombay. You're never immune to the disparities which smack you hard in the face. Here, humanity is tested in so many ways. The car's picked up pace and is driving along the city's famous seafront Marine Drive. Couples line the promenade in their secret trysts. All they want is the space to fall in love, away from rules and traditions. Still not easy in India. As we pass them, their embraces are anything but clandestine and provide the perfect backdrop for the sunset. We've pulled on to the City Sea Link, a toll road which connects north and south. A road for the rich, you could say. It's fast, sexy, and offers a dramatic panorama of the city as you whiz along it. No bumps or congestion here as in the city itself. The wealthy glide along, able to afford and access the privileges. Those who can't afford it are left behind. Finally, I'm home. Amid a cacophony of blaring, squeaking, squalling car horns. This is the heartbeat of a frenzied city, one I fell in love with instantly. I'll be back again one day. Mumbai is alive, more so than anywhere I've been.
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Rujini Vaijanathan on her way to Washington. Just as lively a city, but perhaps, as you may have heard at the top of this program, in a rather different way. We're back with two editions next week on both Thursday and Saturday morning. I hope you'll join us. Goodbye.