← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Everything to Play For
00:27:54
Insight, colour, analysis: in this edition, the once impregnable Rajapaksa camp is as...
Loading summary
Transcript12 lines
- [00:01]
A
Thank you for downloading the latest edition of BBC Radio's from our own correspondent, the best in news and current affairs storytelling. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
- [00:11]
B
Hello. Today, defections, treachery, betrayal. The Sri Lankan President suddenly looks vulnerable ahead of an election. Next week, there's a 12 course dinner for Russians and for the country's leader, Vladimir Putin, much to chew over at the start of 2015. The police are given the slip in Ethiopia, all thanks to a plate of pasta and a bottle of rum and reasons to be cheerful in the us. Driving from nowhere to nowhere else towards the setting sun, the Sri Lankan President might just be regretting his decision to call an early general election. Mehenda Rajapaksa, who is seeking a third term in office, called the poll for January 8 nearly two years ahead of schedule. But support for him has been dropping away. Former friends turning against him. Mr. Rajapaksa says he's guaranteeing Sri Lanka much needed stability after a quarter century of civil war. But Charles Havilland, a former correspondent in Sri Lanka, says that suddenly his supporters seem less than confident.
- [01:14]
C
One day last month, six astrologers were brought onto government television to discuss the prospects for the presidential election. All six declared that not only would President Rajapaksa secure a fabulous victory, but that nature would completely work against anyone challenging him. For nearly a decade, Mahinda Rajapaksa has been the undisputed leader of Sri Lanka. Perhaps I should really say king, because that's how many of his fans refer to him. He's frequently compared to a conquering Sinhalese monarch of ancient times. Not so long ago, state television featured a lullaby on how the king saved the country from the Tamil Tiger terrorists. True, there is fear there as well, given that his three brothers are respectively the defence chief, the economic development chief and the speaker. But no one doubts the Rajapaksa's power. But now the monarch may be in trouble. No sooner had he announced the snap election than a serious challenger came forward to oppose him for the presidency. Maitreyapala Sirisena was a senior politician at the heart of Mr. Rajapaksa's own party. He has little of the President's jovial, folksy charisma, but coming from a farming family in the Sinhalese heartland, he appeals to the same demographic while being backed by a large opposition coalition that kept his name secret until the final moment. A stream of other ruling party luminaries then followed him in defecting. Defections are common in Sri Lanka, but in recent years, nearly all defections have been to the government. Now the tide is reversed and there's dark talk of betrayal. Noting that Judas Iscariot hanged himself after betraying Jesus Christ, the state owned Sunday observer commented Maitrepala too will suffer the same fate as Judas after his imminent defeat. The voters should, the paper said, teach these traitors the lessons of their lives. But the 69 year old President suddenly looks vulnerable and tired, even being forced to abandon a recent election speech halfway through now Sri Lanka is sharply divided politically thanks to decades of war and violence based around divisions between the Sinhalese majority and the Tamil minority. Many, mainly Sinhalese, still revere the President for winning the war against the Tamil Tigers and getting a lot of post war infrastructure built. But others, including the vast majority of Tamils and also of the Muslim minority, want him out. Tamils as they feel the whole structure of the Sinhalese and Buddhist dominated state marginalizes them and Muslims who are reeling from a series of attacks on them by extremist Buddhist monks tolerated by the Rajapaksas. But how meaningful a change would Maitrepala Sirisena bring? Standing on a manifesto of anti corruption and constitutional reform, he has an unwieldy coalition. It includes a former president who's actually apologized for the past treatment of the Tamils. But it also embraces a hardline Buddhist Nationalist party, a defector from the ruling coalition that completely denies the well attested evidence that thousands of Tamil civilians died in the final bombardments of the war. Mr. Sirisena has made no mention of minority rights or of any political solution to the ethnic conflict and has ruled out allowing any political leader to to be prosecuted for alleged war crimes. But whatever the loopholes, it is Mr. Sirisena who has momentum. A government hitherto seen as impregnable seems to be floundering as the number of defections to the opposition mounted. The President said ominously that he had files on the defectors but would not use them for political advantage. These are figures who had been his close colleagues a day earlier. The main Muslim politicians in Mr. Rajapaksa's coalition have now abandoned him, while the main Tamil opposition party, the Tamil national alliance, says the Rajapaksa government has brought only pain and suffering to Tamils and Muslims and they should vote for Mr. Sirisena. Beyond the minorities, many Sri Lankans are exasperated at rising living costs and at a culture of political thuggery and violence which only seems to grow during the election campaign. Many actors, singers and artists have campaigned against the government. Their rallies have been attacked by pro government mobs leaving some people seriously injured. In other election malpractice, the army was found to have used state money to post pro Rajapaksa propaganda to hundreds of thousands of soldiers and their families. There is everything to play for in this election. Mahinda Rajapaksa could still win, but should the king lose, many Sri Lankans are wondering whether he will hand over his crown without a fuss and whether this powerful family will go peacefully if it fails to secure that fabulous victory foretold in the stars.
- [06:06]
B
And that was Charles Havilland Russians are in the middle of their extended New Year break. But while families sit down to enjoy their traditional holy supper on their Christmas Eve on Tuesday, 12 dishes 11 for each apostle, there is much for them to think about. Their leader, Vladimir Putin, is still very popular, but it's clear 2015 will present him with some of the toughest challenges in his 15 year presidency. The falling oil price has already dealt a savage blow to his country's economy. Western sanctions imposed after Moscow's annexation of Crimea are taking their toll. And as Sarah Rainsford tells us, there are calls for mass protests in the months ahead.
- [06:47]
D
Who is that on your T shirt? I asked the girl, snipping at my much neglected toenails in a smart beauty salon that opened recently near my home. I was fairly sure I recognised the receding hairline peeking above the beautician's apron, but I wanted to check. It's Putin. She smiled up at me before rummaging in a tray of bright coloured bottles and pulling out her telephone. I've got him here too, she told me, displaying its back cover with another image of Vladimir Putin, this time with a long, bushy beard. Is that like Putin the hipster? I wondered, bemused by the unusual portrayal of Russia's clean shaven president. It's Putin as a moujik, she corrected me. Strong. A man's man. I really like him, she admitted shyly, before turning her attention back to my toes. She's not his only fan. It's 15 years since Russia's first president, Boris Yeltsin, handed power to Vladimir Putin on New Year's Eve. That was a few months before I was first posted to Moscow. I've reported from three other countries since then. Now I'm back and Putin is still here. Once a political nobody, the former KGB spy has been transformed over his time in office into a powerful leader commanding over 80% support in opinion polls. After years of feeling humiliated by Yeltsin on the world stage, drunk, conducting an orchestra or or just too sozzled to get off his plane, Russians were ready for Putin. He was portrayed from the start as a man of action, the judo champion and the bareback horse rider. A man's man, as the beautician had said, a moujik. And that man has delivered results. The first years after the Soviet collapse were chaos here. A time of sudden poverty for many, sudden wealth for a chosen few. And for the government, a time of repeat trips to the IMF with the begging bowl. But under Putin's presidency, Russians have gradually felt better off and more self confident, thanks largely to the steady rise of the oil price, Russia's chief export. The results clear in streets full of smart cars and big shopping malls, in the crowds of cappuccino drinkers in Gorky park with its art exhibitions, and in the fact that these days, if you want a taxi, you don't have to flag down an ancient wreck and haggle over the price. With a nuclear scientist moonlighting for extra cash, you can book one via your smartphone. In so many ways, daily life here is easier and more predictable now. Less exciting, perhaps. But stability and order are what Russians craved after the 1990s, and Putin delivered that. He hasn't done it alone, of course. My first stint working here under Putin, Mark 1, saw the takeover of NTV, whose reporters once recounted the uncensored horrors of the first Chechen war. The channel was also home to the biting political satire Kukli. Its muzzling marked the start of Putin's dismantling of the independent press. Over a decade on, there's still some variety in the printed media, and a new generation of bloggers has endured online, despite increasing restrictions. But it's television that's always shaped public opinion here, and that's now firmly under Kremlin control. So it was that the takeover of Crimea from Ukraine, condemned as an illegal annexation by the west, was portrayed here as correcting a historic injustice. Russia was recovering sacred land, Putin proclaimed on all the TV channels, and his ratings soared. But as I study this new Russia I've returned to now under Putin, Mark 3, I do wonder how long the swagger can last. The oil price that once made Putin's Russia rich has slumped. Western sanctions over the Ukraine crisis are biting, the ruble has plunged in value, and the bank bailouts have begun. Just as Russians were getting used to the good life. 2015 is shaping up to be a very difficult year. There are some low rumblings of discontent, and Putin's most charismatic rival, Alexei Navalny, used his own New Year's message to call for mass protests in 2015. That could happen if the economic situation gets significantly worse, though Navalny's own activity is likely to be limited by his conviction for fraud on Tuesday. In the meantime, my local nail salon is busy planning a new offering, painting Putin's face onto fingernails. As long as Russians still choose and can still pay for things like that, perhaps Vladimir Putin hasn't got too much to worry about.
- [11:22]
B
Sarah Rainsford in Moscow, tens of thousands of Ethiopians have been forcibly moved from their homes as the government in Addis Ababa presses on with a plan to turn vast swathes of land in the south into centres for commercial agriculture. Many of those who've been moved from their homes are pastoralists. Their families have worked these southern lowlands for generations. These are people who traditionally herd cattle, goats and sheep. But many of the huge new government plantations have been established on land previously used for grazing. And there are complaints that the communes set up to accommodate the displaced are inadequate and lack proper health and education facilities. Matthew Newsome set out to investigate.
- [12:06]
E
After driving 500 miles over two days through Ethiopia's lush highlands, I began my descent into the lower Omo Valley, home to some of the most traditional tribes in Africa. Here, where paleontologists have discovered some of the oldest human remains on earth, ancient ways of life cling on. Tourists can be found here seeking a glimpse of an Africa that lives in their imagination. But the government's plan to modernize this so called backward area has made it inaccessible for journalists. As my jeep bounced down into the valley, I watched as people decorated in white body paint and clad in elaborate jewelry made from feathers and animal horn herded their cattle down the dusty track. I arrived late in the afternoon at a village I won't name, hoping to speak to the Mercy tribe. There are some 7,000 of them, and they are famous for wearing huge ornamental clay lip plates. The Mercy way of life is in jeopardy. They're being resettled by the government to make way for a major sugar plantation on their ancestral land, so ending their tradition of cattle herding. Meanwhile, a massive new dam upstream will reduce the Omo river, ending its seasonal flood and the food crops they grow on its banks. It is without doubt one of the most sensitive stories in Ethiopia, and one that the government was keen to suppress. Human rights groups have repeatedly criticized schemes like this, alleging that locals are being abused and coerced into compliance. I'd spoken to local senior officials in the provincial capital of Jinka before traveling into the remote savannah. The suspicion was palpable. As the chief of the Southomo Zone lectured me Local people in the area's reputation had been greatly harmed by the negative reports by foreigners, he said. Eventually, a frank exchange took place and I secured verbal permission to report on the changes taking place in the valley. It seemed prudent to let the Mercy tribe and attendant police warm to my presence before I started asking questions. After all, I thought I had the whole evening. A brief chat with the tribe ended abruptly with the entrance of a police officer wearing a replica Manchester United football shirt, vehemently waving a dog eared copy of the country's constitution. I was prohibited from talking to anyone and must immediately climb back into my jeep, drive back up the mountain and return to Jinka, he said. As often in Ethiopia, he didn't explain exactly why I objected to driving through the wilderness at dusk on safety grounds, and so a compromise was reached. I would pitch my hammock outside the police station, a short stroll away from the village, with armed guards watching my every move. The chief of the zone came on the two way radio. This is house arrest. I protested. No, just a misunderstanding, he replied. The prospect of returning home without interviews about the resettlement was unthinkable. My ruse was to distract my captors. I sat them down for a meal of pasta and vegetables and brimming beakers of spiced rum in front of my laptop, which was playing an Ethiopian comedy. After saying good night, I struck out through the scrubland. I ran without sense of direction through bush and bog, crawled under fences and negotiated large herds of noisy cattle. I had to find the village elder I'd met earlier and interview him before policemen and their flashlights turned up. So I was relieved to stumble on two boys milking their cows in the moonlight. They led me to the elder's hut. The sound of so many rudely awakened animals in our wake filled me with dread that searchlights were heading our way. The moment had arrived. I squatted in front of the elder inside his mud dwelling, surrounded by his sleeping companions, several cows, a goat and a cat. I was poised to record truths heard by so few journalists in this media muzzled region. I asked him in Brokenham Harrick what was going on. He told me, the government is telling us to sell our cattle and modernize like townspeople. They say our land is the property of the Sugar Corporation. We have not been asked what we want or need. If we do not accept the resettlement plans, we'll be taken to jail, he said. How can we survive if we have no access to land, cattle or water? I promptly thanked the elder for his time, apologised for disrupting his evening and headed back to my open air jail. On reaching my hammock, I found several dozing policemen and an empty bottle of rum. Mission accomplished.
- [16:49]
B
Matthew Newsom In Ethiopia, the eurozone has a brand new member this week. Lithuania signed up to the common European currency on January 1, the 19th country to use the euro. Earlier, the country's president said it would mean Lithuania joining the club of the strongest, and his prime minister believes the move will give the country added security in the face of what's been happening in another former Soviet state, Ukraine. Vishala Sri Patmo says that while there's excitement there about joining the euro club, the country's Soviet past continues to cast a long shadow.
- [17:26]
A
The University of Vilnius could be mistaken for a palace. It has tall Romanesque columns at each corner, the windows and doors tiny in comparison to the grandiose building inside. The corridors and rooms have high ceilings with intricate, ornate carvings on the walls. It's a serene winter's morning. I can see the Old Town silhouetted in the distance and its tall cathedral belfry towering over the city. Andreas is an assistant professor at the university and a senior member of its choir. The singers, formed into a circle on the theatre's stage, are busy practicing behind the stage, in a cramped room full of instruments. There's a long narrow tube made of wood, Andreas tells me. It's a ragas. It's an instrument that I play, he says, showing me how it makes sounds. I have a go, but fail miserably. Gorda, another member of the choir, joins us, handing Andreas a twig like tool with which he tunes his ragas. Andreas was a teenager in the late 80s when millions of people across the Baltic states formed human chains across their countries, holding hands and singing about their lands being free. It became known as the Singing Revolution. Some of those songs were about the values of the Lithuanian people, and choirs like this one tried to ensure that as the country evolves, those values aren't forgotten. Gorda is too young to remember the days when her country was part of the Soviet Union. All I remember is going to the central park in the city and watching a big statue fall down, she tells me. When I was older, I realized that that statue was Lenin. She's now a law graduate, having finished university. In the summer. We talk about her future. I like the law, she says. I felt it was important to get an education. But money is not the most important thing. Gorda feels that young Lithuanians shouldn't get swept up with a new European tide. Tens of thousands of young People are now leaving for the more prosperous nations of Western Europe, and there are fears they won't come back, leaving the government with a cost of an aging population and the problem of a brain drain. Gorda says it's essential to remember the values of older generations. We sing about how important it is for women to be wealthy, to be married and to have children, she says. We sing about family. This is what makes people happy. So I ask her if she is married and she replies no. Are you happy? I ask, and she replies yes and starts to laugh. Andreas says the overall message from the songs is that family is important and that as young people, they have a duty to their parents and grandparents. They both tell me they're scared that more integration with Europe means might mean people forget about these ideals. Andreas and Gorda, like many I meet in Lithuania, seem desperate to hold on to their culture and heritage. Their capital city, Vilnius, is steeped in history and full of exhibitions and events celebrating its past. But these people are also desperate to exorcise the Soviet ghost, which still looms over them more than 20 years after the country became independent. Today, it's hard to find any trace of the former Communist empire. In Vilnius, there is only one statue from that era still standing, and that's on the Green Bridge which stretches across the River Neris. It's of two soldiers holding on to the Soviet flag. People are embarrassed, Andreas tells me. They don't want our past widely known. They want to forget. Despite some worries that joining the euro might drive up prices, Lithuanians are proud to be joining the European currency. But proud as they are about moving forwards, the past never seems very far away. Lithuania, the biggest of the Baltic states, borders with Russia and relations with its former ruler are as frosty as its winters. Russia's involvement in eastern Ukraine and President Putin's recent bullish statements on Crimea, saying in his sacred Russian land have sent shivers up the spines of many here. The president of Lithuania is very clear where she stands with her Russian counterparts. She tells me she hasn't spoken to President Putin in four years and that she feels Russia's behavior is like that of a terrorist state. I think she is a bit too strong about Russia, says Gorda. We are a small country, after all. I check every day what is happening in Ukraine, but I am not scared. We are in Europe now, and they should protect us.
- [22:05]
B
Vishala Sri Patma in Lithuania now, the first days of any new year are traditionally a time to dream about holidays of a lifetime. Many in the months ahead will go to the United states to the cities, perhaps New York, San Francisco, New Orleans, or to Las Vegas, perhaps the beaches of California or Florida. But many wonder about going on a US Driving holiday. There's a range to choose, from Los Angeles to San Francisco, along the Pacific shoreline, or following the Music trail down Route 66, perhaps through the desert in Arizona, like me years ago, desperately trying not to break the measly speed limit. But our man, Jonathan Izard, promised himself a solitary coast to coast special.
- [22:49]
F
You're crazy, said Martha at the car rental depot, handing me the keys to a Chevrolet Malibu, her face a mask of disbelief. You're driving from New York to San Francisco alone? Why would you do that? Why? Well, it was something about age and identity. I mean, a 60th birthday is a major event. So road trip. It was classic midlife crisis stuff. I'd rejected countries where my rudimentary language skills would only let me ask for a bed or a beer. It had to be an English speaking country. Or America. So as the GPS told me how to escape from Manhattan, I felt apprehension and curiosity. I had no plans, no route, no appointments for a month. Just a big fat space of nothing. New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland. The further west I drove, the bigger the skies became. Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and the wider the eyes grew when I walked into a diner. New York, said one young woman, seeing the plates on my car. Boy, you're a long way from home. Well, the car's from New York, I explained, but I'm even further from home. Oh, sure, she said, trying to place my accent. Australia? No, I'm from London. Oh, London. London, England, right? That's right. So how's the Queen? Missouri? Iowa, Colorado. Every day, every moment, there were sights that I could never have seen in London, England. Like the truck I followed in Hot Springs, South Dakota, with the huge, ungainly corpse of a recently killed moose spread eagled over it, steam rising from its eviscerated guts. Or the pair of identical corpses proudly displayed in a local museum with the label explaining Siamese twin calves joined at the brisket, delivered by caesarean section in 1963, preserved by the clinical skills of the taxidermist. They stood upright, four feet tall, locked forever in a furry tango, the hint of a smile on their leathery lips. On the wall nearby, a dusty collection of 50 different types of barbed wire, donated by K.M. spear, Esq. Along with his own slim volume, A Brief History of Barbed Wire Fencing. I guess the winter nights are long and lonely in Wyoming. Near the town of Alliance, I made a detour to visit Car Henge, yes, car Henge. A replica of England's ancient and mysterious prehistoric monoliths. Stonehenge, but built of cars. There in the sandhills, halfway between nowhere and nowhere else. Old automobiles painted grey and stacked up in an impressive display. Absurd, certainly, but everybody there had a grin on their face. Why was it built? What does it mean? Who cares? It's fun. Not so much fun was the hour I spent in Berry Creek's gun shop. The racks of rifles stretched from wall to wall. There were handguns of varying sizes and design. Berry must have seen my doubtful expression, especially when I noticed the pink plastic rifle. It was, he said, for the younger market. Girls of 7 or 8. Could a girl of 7 or 8 kill someone with that? Oh, you bet, said Berry with a tone of reassurance. I swallowed, unsure what to say. Jonathan, more people are killed every year by vehicles than guns. But nobody's suggesting getting rid of vehicle licenses, right? Right. You don't argue with a man who owns a gun shop. Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, California Before I went on my road trip, I asked the online world, how long does it take to drive from New York to San Francisco? One reply was, you can do it in three days. I expect you can. But that wasn't the kind of trip I wanted. In my month of heading towards the setting sun, I was never bored, never lonely, never, and only scared. Once, when I got lost on foot in the desert, I discovered that one cactus looks remarkably like another. In San Francisco, a man I got chatting to echoed Martha's words in New York, from East coast to west coast, driving alone. Shut up. But I wasn't alone. I spent a month in the company of myself. I felt a profound sense not of isolation, but connection. Connection to the world around me and connection to me. I'm here now, I would frequently tell myself out loud. You could call it existential, or you could just say I was alive and tinglingly aware of it. And that's a reason to celebrate. Not just a birthday, 60th or otherwise. It's a reason to celebrate. Full stop.
- [27:45]
B
Jonathan Izard goes west and brings this edition to the end of the road. I'll be here again next Saturday with more from reporters around the world. Do join us. Goodbye.