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From Our Own Correspondent
Dilemmas in Damascus
00:28:23
Despatches: Syrians, exhausted by a seemingly unending conflict, face agonising over...
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This is a download from the BBC. It's from our own correspondent.
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We make one version of the program
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for the BBC World Service, but this is the latest edition broadcast on BBC Radio 4. It's introduced by Kate Ad Hello. Today, agonizing decisions for Syrians worn down by a war no one expected would last so long. A talk with Jesus as rioting again hits Rio, only weeks ahead of the World Cup. A story from the old port of Marseille about a snake, a sharp knife, and who might have most to fear from the upcoming European elections. And in the United States, an Ecuadorian love song. As spring finally arrives on Long island, it's been yet another week of conflict in Syria. President Assad's warplanes have been attacking rebel positions in and around the city of Aleppo. A village market was hit on Thursday. It's reported that 27 civilians, including three children, were killed amid the violence. Plans are going ahead for a presidential election on June 3. Lise Doucet has been discussing it with people in the capital, Damascus.
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A Syrian friend has a big dilemma. It's one that confronts parents the world over. Where should his little boy go to school now? As any parent knows, it can be a difficult decision. But most would not know the difficulty of this decision in Damascus. First, he told me, I must ask, is the school likely to be shelled? Second, how many checkpoints are there between my house and that school? And if something happens, how quickly can I reach him? He then burst into loud laughter. I haven't even begun to consider how good the school is and who the teachers are. He exclaimed. Then he took a long draw on his cigarette, as if to punctuate his laughter with a pause to make it clear this was no laughing matter. A few days later, we met again. Then I learned he was troubled by an even bigger decision. Had he, he asked aloud, already made the wrong choice by staying in Syria? This meeting took place on the day presidential elections were announced, the day it was clear Bashar Al Assad would run again. For my friend and like minded professionals who still hang on in Damascus, it was the final nail in the coffin. Bashar is telling us he's here to stay. He lamented that he's not interested in a negotiated way out of this war, not interested in any other political ideas. Another Damascene sitting with him listened in silence. What do you think? I asked him cautiously, knowing this isn't a place where people readily offer their political views. He offered only one I am against extremists. That's the label given to Islamist rebels. By regime supporters. So you support the president? I replied. He nodded with the confidence of someone who had no questions about the choices he had made. He believed he was on the winning side. Of course, these elections are meant to offer Syrians a choice. It's the first presidential poll in decades where there will be more than one name on the ballot. But everyone knows there will really be only one name that matters, a prominent Syrian journalist told me. The media were called to a meeting by an enthusiastic government official who said they must give equal space to all candidates. He also informed them that State TB would provide special programming to explain to citizens what the new election law means. But the journalist told me he advised the don't waste your time. Syria today divides in two, he said, into Syrians who will vote yes for Bashar and those who will vote no or not vote at all. In essence, this is a referendum on his rule and, perhaps more precisely, on the fact he has survived far longer than many expected. No one has any doubt that when voting goes ahead in those parts of Syria which aren't in utter ruin, engulfed by war or controlled by opposition fighters, Bashar al Assad will win. And many doubt it will be an exercise that could be described as legitimate. But this is Syria now. Two states of mind, two starkly different realities. And in the middle, the many Syrians who aren't sure what to do or where to turn. In a few areas, this war has taken another turn. Rebels are making deals with the government. Officially, it's called reconciliation. In reality, they and their families were literally starving in areas long besieged by the government or worn down by a war no one expected would last so long and be so punishing. One man involved in negotiations told me that even some of the most battle hardened fighters are now saying, if I knew three years ago this would be the price Syria would pay, I would never have taken up a gun. Even some of the activists who first took to the streets calling for peaceful change are exhausted and anxious about their future, their country's fate. In the midst of this anguish, the Syrian government will stage an election to send a defiant message that their rule carries on, no matter what. For the opposition that hasn't given up the fight, it's a clarion call to carry on. I asked a senior government official whether he thought it was a good idea to hold an election now. I don't know, he admitted with personal candour. But do you think it will help or harm any chance of moving forward? I asked. He shook his head. I just don't know. That's the dilemma facing many Syrians now, not knowing any more what choices to make, what choices there are.
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And that was Lise Doucet. There have been violent protests in the Brazilian city of Rio de Janeiro this week, less than two months before it hosts the football World Cup. One person was shot dead. Main roads in the tourist area of Copacabana were closed when demonstrators set cars and barricades of tyres alight after waves of street protests last year over poor living conditions. The unrest is posing problems for a country preparing to stage the big football tournament in June. Misha Glenny's just back from Rio.
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It's not often you get to interview Jesus, but last week I was lucky enough to have a few words with the great man before he took off on the road to the crucifixion. Except on this occasion he wasn't heading up a hill outside Jerusalem, but a steep incline near the centre of Rio de Janeiro in South America's largest slum. Rocinha. Jesus has been doing this for the last 22 years. On good Friday on this occasion, Andre Martins, a 27 year old security guard at a nearby shopping mall, was playing him for the fourth time. The reconstruction is called the Via Sacra, and it's not difficult to see why. The show's director and founder, Aurelio Mesquita, cast this startlingly charismatic young man in the lead role. With exceptionally clear diction and penetrating eyes. I'm surprised he hasn't already been snapped up by a casting agency to appear in one of Rio's televisual soap operas, which are sold the world over. But the Via Sacra is not about stars, nor is it a faithful reconstruction of Christ's final journey. Each year Aurelio selects important political and social issues to highlight in a show which, given its setting in Rocinha, cannot but shine a light on Brazil's huge levels of inequality. These issues are never anything less than bold. The traditional figures of the Passion Play have over the years been portrayed as drug dealers, corrupt policemen, prostitutes, victims of massacres and bent politicians, among others. The idea is to emphasize what Aurelio believes to be the contemporary relevance of Christ's personal philosophy. This has created problems for him from the very start. Indeed, after the first performance in 1992, he was publicly condemned from the pulpit of Rio's Catholic cathedral, for it was was deemed tainting the story of Christ by associating it with a favela, as the slums in Brazil are known. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the Catholic hierarchy were grumbling when they learned that one of this year's themes was about what Andre Martins, AKA Jesus, described to me as the global scourge of paedophilia. But the subject that hovers every year around the performance of the Via Sacrament is the vexed issue of the relationship between Rocinha's residents and the police. Never has this subject had a more acute political resonance than it does today, only weeks before the World cup kicks off. Two and a half years ago, in November 2011, Rossinha became part of an extraordinary experiment known either as Pacification or more commonly by the acronym upped. This involved sending in special forces and even in two sprawling favela complexes, the Brazilian military. The aim was to push out the drug cartels. They controlled the slums as their base to sell cocaine to the wealthy middle class children of neighbouring areas. Once the traffickers were forced out or arrested, the police then established a heavy armed presence in the favelas to prevent their return. This show of state power was meant to be followed up by something equally important to the residents of Rossinha, the social upp, that is more schools, health centres and social services. The aim was to reduce the high levels of murder and robbery associated with the drug gangs and put an end to state indifference towards the favelas. Amongst other things, this was designed to reassure visitors to Rio during the World cup and in two years time to the Olympics. Like almost every resident of Rocinha, Aurelio says there has been no sign of the social UPP since the police moved in over two years ago. Nothing, he confirms bitterly, absolutely nothing. This perceived failure has been compounded by the creeping return of some drug traffickers into the favela and a disastrous incident last July when an innocent labourer was tortured to death by members of the UPP police force. And these officers were supposed to be trained in more community friendly policing techniques. And that's why the Via Sacra Jesus Journey to the Cross was imbued with such tension this year. Is the UPP coming apart at the seams just before the World Cup? Aurelio doesn't know. And he has something more important on his mind. The Sisyphean task of finding funds for next year's Via Sacrament. I hope he finds them, because his remarkable project is one of the most creative uses of Christian iconography I've ever encountered.
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Misha Glenny in Rio, Opinion polls suggest the far right Frond national could emerge from next month's European elections as the best supported party in France. At a press conference in Paris this week, its leader, Marine Le Pen, described the European Union as a technocratic monster that only serves the interests of bankers. Commentators expect the vote to go badly for the president, Francois Hollande. Voters are unhappy with him, the performance of his government and its determination to stick to budget targets set by Brussels. Emma Jane Kirby's been taking the political temperature in the port of Marseille.
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The little boy is staring at the fish stall with a horrified delight as the tanned fisherman hoses cold water onto the catch. The Dorade Royale, the sea bream flex their silver blue fins lethargically in the shallow trough. With a balletic artistry, the little boy points to the neighbouring trough, where a long, black, thick sea snake is coiled, brooding darkly in an inch of water. It's scary, he announces. The fisherman squints at the customers crowded round his stall and spots an opportunity for some theatre. Grinning, he seizes the sea snake behind its head and lets it hover dangerously over the sea bream. I've been asked today by the BBC, he laughs, nodding towards me, what I think of the European Union. And here's what I think, he says, drawing out the sea snake to its full length. The big fish like Brussels here just eat up all the little defenceless fish. He slaps the sea snake back into its trough and lowers his own head dramatically above it. We don't need you, Brussels, he growls. That's what I say. Marseille's political allegiance has not been as constant as the little ferry boat, which regularly and reliably takes people from one side of the old port to the other for many years. A Communist stronghold since the mid-1990s, the city has been led by the right wing, but it has been steadfast in its suspicion of the European Union, rejecting both the maastricht treaty in 1992 and, 13 years later, the European constitution. Its pro EU deputy mayor Martin Valas, fears Marseille, fuelled by high unemployment and an influx of Eastern European workers, is drifting from Euroscepticism towards Europhobia. I'm really worried that the people here are going to vote for extreme Eurosceptic parties, she sighs as we sit in her office, just to punish the government. From the jumble of dossiers and paperwork on her desk, she picks up a copy of Le Figaro, where the lead article is about the Socialist Prime Minister Manuel Val's plans to overhaul the French economy. The word austerity, we note, with its overtones of Brussels diktat, is noticeably absent. President Hollande, who led the campaign for the yes vote in the referendum on the European Constitution knows that anything which smacks of the European Union at the moment is not going to be a vote winner. But these anti EU messages are dangerous, says Madame Vallas, putting down the paper. We need strong representatives in the parliament fighting for this city to make sure we get the most out of the eu. In a dusty, leafy park opposite his high school, Etienne Schouard, a gentle economics teacher, suggests a child could look at the EU balance sheets and spot they don't add up. In 2005, he posted an article on the Internet warning Marseille that a yes vote in the referendum on the proposed European constitution would be a disaster. He became an overnight star in France, and his blog drew millions of followers. He's a gentle, shy man whose faded denim blue eyes tell me he's worn out by a long day teaching in stuffy classrooms. And then I mention the European Union and he jolts sharply, like a man who's unwittingly brushed his hand against an electric fence. The whole society, the whole economy across Europe's crashing, he spits, the veins in his neck pulsing with rage. Greece is on its knees, unemployment is soaring, and they say the EU is a good model. Go to hell. He beats dust furiously from his jacket. I am trying not to swear, he says, breathing heavily. But when I think of how undemocratic this EU system is and these technocrats who do what they want, we have to get out of the European Union. It's nearly lunchtime now at the port, and there are only a couple of sea bream left shuddering in the fishermen's plastic troughs, but the thick sea snake still lurks in his basin. As I wander away, I hear the metallic hiss of the fisherman sharpening his knife and turning round. I see that a customer has bought the snake and is waiting expectantly, holding out a large supermarket bag. I can't watch as the knife tears through the snake's flesh, but I do look at the fisherman, who's chuckling as he chops the beast into steaks. I can't hear what he's saying from this distance, but from the play acting and the pantomime grimaces, I can imagine it's something along the lines of Fare thee well, Brussels.
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Emma Jane Kirby in Marseille Foreign ministers in the Gulf hope they've managed to ease months of tension between Qatar and the other members of the six nation Gulf Cooperation Council. They met last week to discuss a rift which had developed over Qatar's support for Egypt's Muslim Brotherhood, Saudi Arabia and its regional allies, Bahrain and the UAE made it clear they believe the Brotherhood poses a threat to the national security. This argument with the neighbours has been something of an embarrassment to Qatar, a tiny nation in the throes of rapid development. It has huge reserves of oil and natural gas. Its economy is growing at nearly 20% a year. But Matthew Teller says its people are finding it hard to live with the pace of change.
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It's still cool enough to sit outside in Qatar's capital, Doha. In another few weeks it will be too warm, and most people, those who don't have to work outside, will be retreating indoors to the comfort of air conditioning. For now, though, families relax in the afternoon sun on the waterfront corniche. The view has changed beyond recognition in the last few years. Glass and steel towers rise like an artificial forest from what was once a shoreline of flat sand. We have become urban, says Dr. Khalsim Al Ghanim, a sociology professor at Qatar University. Our social and economic life has changed. Families have become separated. Consumption, culture has taken over. Qatar's government puts a positive spin on the pace of change from desperate poverty less than a century ago. This, after all, has become the richest nation in the world, with an average per capita income for citizens topping £60,000. What's less well understood is the impact of such rapid change on Qatari society itself. You can feel the pressure in Doha. The city is a building site, with whole districts either under construction or being demolished for redevelopment. Constantly snarled traffic adds hours to the working week, fueling stress and impatience. Local media report that 40% of Qatari marriages now end in divorce. More than two thirds of Qataris adults and children are obese. Qataris benefit from free education, free health care, job guarantees, grants for housing, even free water and electricity. But abundance has created its own problems. It's bewildering for students to graduate and be faced with 20 job offers, one academic at an American university in Qatar told me. People feel an overwhelming pressure to make the right decision. And in a society where Qataris are outnumbered roughly 7 to 1 by expatriates long term residents speak of a growing frustration among graduates that they are being fobbed off with sinecures. While the most satisfying jobs go to foreigners, the sense is deepening that in the rush for development, something important has been lost. Qatari family life is atomizing, with children almost universally being raised by nannies brought in from, say, the Philippines, Nepal or Indonesia. Gaps of culture and outlook are opening up between the generations. Umm Khalaf, a woman in her 60s, her features hidden behind a traditional batula face mask, described to me the beautiful simplicity of life in her youth. We were self resourceful once, she said. It's painful to lose that family intimacy. Out on the dusty plains west of Doha, at Umm Alafa', I, roughly the place of snakes, farmer Ali Al Jahani is treating me to a tin bowl of warm, foamy camel's milk fresh from the udder. Before, he says, swiping a soft, sweet date through the milky froth and chewing thoughtfully, you could be rich if you worked and not if you didn't. It was much better. The government is trying to help, but things are moving too fast. Others echo his sense of politicians being out of step with people, particularly with regard to the strenuous and allegedly corrupt effort made to bring the 2022 Football World cup to Qatar and the unanticipated level of media scrutiny that has come with the turmoil of construction. Maryam Dahruj, a journalism graduate, adjusts her niqab face veil while speaking of a sense of threat. People in Qatar are afraid, she tells me. Suddenly all the world wants to see us. We are a closed community, and they want to come and bring their differences. How can we express our values? Qatari society is defined by class, which is often linked to race. It is desperately unequal. Redress the balance by, for instance, abolishing the Kafala system that condemns migrant workers to near slavery, or by opening Qatari citizenship to expatriates, and the fear is stability will erode and cultural values be undermined. But stability is already a shrinking asset here, and values are already shifting as once solid regional alliances with Saudi Arabia and other neighbors weakening and corrosive, apprehension spreads among Qataris about the impact of the World Cup. Still eight years away, the government may yet find itself facing internal pressure to reform. I didn't know about all this Kafala stuff, one young Qatari woman told me, and I'm feeling why didn't we fix it before? Behind the corniche, coffee drinkers and water pipe smokers enjoy the cool evening in the Suk Wakif market, a replica. Since the original was torn down a decade ago and rebuilt to look old, it's the only sook I know where men go round with dustpans and brushes. Cleanliness is another Doha obsession. Have some sympathy for Qataris, says the American anthropologist I'm with who has spent years in Doha. They've lost almost everything that matters, and
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that was Matthew Teller. The number of people deported from the US in recent years has dropped sharply, according to figures from the country's Justice Department. The Statistics don't mean the administration's become reluctant to deport illegal immigrants. More that those accused are increasingly seeking lawyers and fighting the deportation orders. Hundreds of thousands of people cross into the United States every year in search of work. Simon Worrell says this migrant workforce is changing the face of American society.
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Spring has finally arrived here on Long island after one of the coldest winters I can remember. The snow's melted, the days are growing longer. The other day, a lipstick red cardinal began building a new nest in our overgrown rose bush. In a few more weeks, Ariosto will pedal up on his bicycle and the clicking of his secateurs beneath our bedroom window will announce the beginning of summer. Ariosto. He's never given us his surname, comes from Ecuador. He's a short, compact man with a faded safari hat, skin the colour of teak, and exquisite Old World manners. Each summer, he flies north to America to tend people's gardens, sending the money home to Ecuador to pay for the medicine his diabetic wife requires. Ariosto's arrival is part of an annual migration of Hispanic or Latino workers to this part of America. Some, like Ariosto, will be documented, others are not. Some, like Ariosto, will already have jobs lined up. Those who do not will rise at dawn each day to stand outside the Latino deli next to the movie theatre, waiting for a local contractor to come by in his pickup truck and give them a day's work. Mowing lawns, hauling trash, building houses, cleaning swimming pools. They come from Mexico and Guatemala, Colombia and Costa Rica, Honduras and Ecuador. Many don't speak English other than to negotiate a price. Eight to $15 per hour is the going rate. In some blue collar towns on Long island, there have been cases of racial abuse and what's known as beaner hopping, chasing and attacking Latino immigrants, mostly by white youths. In 2008, in the town of Patchog, a Latino man was stabbed to death. But a fierce work ethic and strong family values defeat most prejudices. Many Latinos will stay and create lives for their families here. They work long hours, save money to buy a starter house, often with another family, which they'll fix up at the weekend. This influx of Latinos is part of what the 60s American poet Charles Olson called the Browning of America. According to Olson, who spent summers studying Mayan glyphs in the Yucatan Peninsula, the white European incursion into North America would be a temporary event and the country would eventually return to its original non European makeup. Certainly the greatest change during the two decades I've spent in America has been the dramatic rise of the Latino population. Latinos now comprise about 17% of the U.S. population, or 53 million people, more than Spain. In states like Texas and Florida, Spanish is increasingly the lingua franca. There are Latino congressmen and women, ambassadors and baseball players. Latino votes are increasingly influential. Senator Marco Rubio of Florida is seen as a possible presidential candidate. These national trends are even mirrored in the mostly affluent and predominantly white area of Long island where I live. The number of Latino pupils at the high school my son attended has doubled in the last two decades and now makes up nearly half the student population. To aid integration, the school now employs three Spanish speaking counsellors and two bilateralists, bilingual secretaries. Not everything is rosy. In recent years, three Latino students at that school have committed suicide. But for every tragedy, there is a happy ending. A friend of my son's, a first generation American whose Latino single mother could not speak English, won a scholarship to Harvard and now works on Wall Street. Ariosto cannot speak or write English. We communicate in a mishmash of Spanish and Italian with lots of hand signals in between. But somehow we manage to explain what jobs we want him to do. He stays for three or four hours per week, digging, weeding and pruning, his shirt soaked in sweat. A couple of times each morning one of us will get up from our desk and make him a cup of tea, pitch black, tons of sugar, and stand in the sunshine with him, chatting and joking. One day he asked me if I had a guitar. When I brought it out to him, he laid down his spade, wiped his hands, then broke into an Ecuadorian folk song. I listened, transfixed as eyes closed, the tendons on his neck taut as hawsers, Ariosto filled our garden with a song of pain and longing and love.
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A love song to welcome the spring on Long Island. Simon Worrell, bringing this edition to a close. More stories from around the world next Saturday morning. I hope you'll join us. Goodbye.