← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
BBC Radio 4
00:28:12
A big week for the Turkish Prime Minister. Jonathan Head gauges reaction to his power...
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Presenter
You are about to listen to from our own correspondent. We make two versions of the program.
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Jonathan Head
If you would like to hear the
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Presenter
edition broadcast on the BBC World Service, please visit the BBC iPlayer. This is a podcast of the version broadcast on BBC Radio 4, presented by
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Narrator/Correspondent
Kate Ady Today, the Turkish Prime Minister and how he's set to become the most powerful figure in his country's recent political history. We find out why the Malaysian authorities want their young people to know more about sexual Mauritius may be a paradise for many visitors, but we hear it's a depressing place for a group forced to settle there. And in Beverly Hills we learn that while real men don't go for manicures, they may well like the idea of a little handshake maintenance. It looks as if there may be far reaching consequences. After the weekend referendum in Turkey, voters there were asked to consider constitutional changes promoted by the prime minister, recep Tayyip Erdogan. Mr. Erdogan faced strong opposition from secular parties, which have repeatedly accused him of abusing his power and seeking to turn Turkey into an Islamic state. Jonathan Head, who followed the Prime Minister's campaign, explains how the referendum became a test of Mr. Erdogan's political strength, one he passed by winning a clear majority.
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Jonathan Head
Turkey's Prime Minister May be many things scathing critic of Israel and and self styled pal of Iranian President Ahmadinejad, but an aficionado of the contemporary rock music scene, he's not. After all, here's a man who tells women to have more children, who once tried to outlaw adultery, and who said recently that he couldn't understand why people had to drink wine when they could just eat the grapes instead. So who, I wondered, was going to come off best out of a meeting with the Irish mega band U2, who were here for their first concert in Turkey? The only music Mr. Erdogan has ever expressed any liking for is a type of local crooning known as Turkish classical music. It had all the makings of a quick and awkward photo op. It doesn't help that the lofty prime minister has a habitually brusque manner and that at well over 6ft tall, he literally towers over his guests. But the meeting went on for an hour and the wily prime minister made good use of it at the rally he was addressing afterwards. The to drum up support for his constitutional reform package. I just came from a meeting with Bono from U2, he told the crowd, and you know what he asked me? He said, brother, why did you go to jail? And so Mr. Erdogan was able to relate to the crowd how he was sentenced to prison 12 years ago just for reciting an Islamic poem reminding his audience of the tight restrictions on religious expression which are one of the targets of his reform drive. The past week has reminded people here once again that they should never underestimate Recep Tayyip Erdogan. He's been in office eight years now, an impressive feat in a country once known for its revolving door coalition governments. He's brushed aside the objections at home and abroad to his religious piety, to his abrasive leadership and to his ambitious new foreign policy. There were plenty of good reasons to oppose some of his constitutional amendments, and many Turks did. But Mr. Erdogan proved that he still has what it takes to get people behind him when it counts. His margin of victory in the referendum was larger than most polls predicted. He's on track now for a third election win next year that would make him the most powerful political figure in modern Turkish history. So should the world be quaking in its shoes? Some writers in the Western media say yes, we should. Turkey, according to this scenario, is turning its back on the west, embracing Iran, Syria and Hamas. With his apparently unstoppable election machine, Mr. Erdogan will roll back the secular regime forged by Turkey's founding father, Ataturk, and impose an Islamic republic. I think this is pretty far fetched. Turkey is not Iran, nor is it the inward looking, state dominated country it was as recently as 30 years ago. It's the world's 17th largest economy, Turkey, built on a foundation of world class exporting businesses. Lifestyles in some parts of Istanbul rival those of Rome, Paris or London, although lifestyles in some eastern Anatolian villages aren't too far from what you'd find in Afghanistan. It is a very diverse place, which in part explains the depolarisation of politics. I was in a village near the Greek border the other day during Ramadan and I asked the farmers there how many people were fasting. They just laughed at the question. About 10, they said. Out of more than 300 residents, they were all Muslims, but none was a fan of the Prime Minister. No evidence has yet emerged that Mr. Erdogan has a radical Islamic agenda. The complaints against him, and there are plenty, are pretty standard in Turkish politics. That he's autocratic and thin skinned. It's not pleasant if you're on the receiving end of one of his tirades. You even worse if you've been slapped with criminal charges, as some cartoonists have for their caricatures of him. But there's nothing especially Islamic about that. Instead, he describes himself as a conservative, pro business and pro family values. Much of provincial Turkey thinks like him, and so they vote for him. When I asked him recently why he thought he'd failed to bridge the gulf separating secular and religious Turks, he seemed puzzled by the question. But I'm the prime minister for the whole country, he protested. Just look at what I've done. I provided services to everyone. I've turned 81 provinces into building sites. It seemed to be his proudest boast. Watching him working the crowds and pressing the flesh before the referendum, it was obvious what he was a politician through and through, interested most of all in winning votes and getting re elected. If that's the case, Turkey's secular democracy is probably safe.
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Narrator/Correspondent
Jonathan Head in Istanbul. A sex education programme is being piloted in some schools in Malaysia. There's some helpful advice for girls wondering how to say no. You could apparently say, I have to go, I just remembered something. Or another useful line, particularly for those prone to headaches. I'm not feeling well. Well, that's one kind of approach. The idea of providing more sex education has come about in part because hundreds of unwanted babies have been found abandoned in recent years. Some were left in Muslim prayer halls, others on riverbanks, some even on top of rubbish bins, as Jennifer Pack in Kuala Lumpur has been finding out. It's thought most were abandoned by unmarried mothers.
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Jennifer Pack
Watching American shows on TV in Malaysia is often jarring. Censors bleep out swear words and there are often a series of awkward jump cuts when couples get hot and heavy on screen. But Malaysians are not prudes. A teacher who won an award for outstanding achievement recently attributed his boundless energy to reading and regular sex with his wife. He boasted to a local newspaper that a good and legitimate sexual relationship kept his body and brain functioning remarkably. Over the last year, a polygamy club was started up. It claims the practice can help women control a husband's wandering eye. But that's as far as sex talk goes within the confines of marriage, anything outside that is considered taboo in this Muslim majority country. Young couples are seen holding hands everywhere in Kuala Lumpur, but anything more is frowned upon in Malaysia. It is illegal for Muslim couples who are not married to each other to be in a secluded area together. Doing so raises suspicion that they were engaged in immoral acts. If caught, they face fines and a possible jail term. Islamic authorities famously raid budget hotels during Valentine's Day and major holidays to catch unmarried couples. Some are so fearful of being caught, they jump out of buildings to flee. Some end up dying from their injuries. Although Islamic law only applies to Muslims, non Muslims are also expected to be modest in public. A Malaysian Chinese friend told me she was once scolded by a security guard for cuddling with her boyfriend at a mall. The message is clear. Married sex is the only type of sex allowed. So when the stories of a series of abandoned babies were reported in the local press this year, it was a rude awakening for Malaysians. The latest case is of a baby boy, less than a day old, who was found in a paper bag hanging on a signpost at an apartment building. Police say many of these babies are left by unmarried couples because having a child out of wedlock is seen as deeply shameful. It's tough being an unmarried pregnant woman in Malaysia. It wasn't until I went to the Khawaja shelter that I understood how desperate these women are made to feel. The refuge is located on the edge of Kuala Lumpur. Women from all over the country come here to hide their pregnancies from their families and communities. Mila, not her real name, wore an oversized long sleeve shirt and a headscarf and was ready to give birth soon. She is 28, working at a law firm and about to get married. But she is still giving her child up for adoption. Her story puzzled me. Here was a woman with a steady job and soon to have a husband, but she still felt she couldn't keep her baby. Why? I asked. Mila shook her head at me with a small smile. Even though I have a fiance, what we did was wrong. Islam forbids premarital sex. If the baby found out he was born out of wedlock, he will carry the shame for the rest of his life. The people who run the Kwaja shelter told me most of the women there will give their babies up for adoption. Many blamed the problem on the lack of sex education in schools. The women's minister told me that some girls didn't even know they can get pregnant from sex. That's why she hopes to introduce a new reproductive health course that will, among other things, teach girls the risks of having sex. But many more conservative Malaysians oppose the plan, saying it will encourage more teenagers to get pregnant. In the meantime, other groups have stepped in with their own solutions to the problem. One charity opened the country's first baby hatch in May, where single mothers can drop off their babies anonymously. In the state of Malacca, the religious authorities have announced they will approve more marriages for Muslim girls under the age of 16. That move is supported by the opposition Pan Malaysian Islamic Party. The head of its youth wing, Nasrud Ibn Hassan, acknowledges young people have sexual urges. Islam is not against sex, he said at a recent press conference. It just has to be legitimate. But this argument has led to a perversion of the institution of marriage, says women's rights activist Marina Mahathir. You know what most girls think marriage is? She asked me. Now they say marriage is a way to have legal sex. What is and is not deemed appropriate for Malaysians is further confused by their easy access to Hollywood TV shows and movies. Authorities may try to scrub away offensive and sexual scenes, but an unedited version is always available just down the street at my local pirated DVD shop.
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Narrator/Correspondent
And that was Jennifer Pack. And while those Malaysian children may be getting sex education classes, in the West African state of Senegal, thousands of schoolboys sometimes get no lessons at all. Instead, they are forced by their teachers to go out and beg. These are the Talibeh, pupils at Islamic boarding schools. Many are beaten if they come back empty handed. The government has just prosecuted a group of teachers, but none was sent to prison. Human rights workers call it slavery and say the authorities are still not doing enough. And as he followed the story, my colleague Angus Crawford found himself wondering if he'd become too closely involved.
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Presenter
Ishmaylah was just what we wanted bright, articulate and willing to tell his story. He lifted his shirt to show us the scars on his back, some from insect bites, but others from beatings by his own teachers. We were in the West African state of Senegal to report on the problem of the talibay, their pupils at Islamic schools. And every day, tens of thousands across the country are sent out to beg for food and money. If they don't bring back enough, they're punished. These schools, or daras, once had a proud reputation, and in some places they still do. They used to educate the leaders of the future and charged no fees. But crop failure, economic crisis and mass migration to the cities has corrupted that tradition. Many daras are now just scams to make the teachers rich on the backs of child labour. Parents still send their children, though partly out of religious duty. Some don't know what goes on there, and for others, a child in the school is just one less mouth to feed. Which brings us to Ismaila. He'd been sent away when he was just four. His teacher would hit him with a cattle whip. Eventually he ran away, ending up living on the city's rubbish tip. He was rescued by a social worker and when we meet him, he's about to go home for the first time. In five years we're given permission to go too. The family know we're coming. His life is the story of the Talibay. And as journalists, we can't help feeling we've uncovered a great way of illustrating it. And it looks like we might have a happy ending too. We set off with Ismaila bouncing up and down on the car seat. He's grinning with excitement. We arrive at the meeting point and wait. And then wait a bit more. Then his father arrives, but he refuses to even look at his son. A limp handshake is all that is offered. The smile falls from Ismaila's face when we arrive at the house. He trails miserably behind and sits on the floor. Family members wander in and out to stare. Ishmael's mouth begins to turn down at the corners. He puts his head in his hands. Then his mother arrives. Surely she'll be pleased to see him. But she walks straight past, pausing only for another brief handshake. I start to feel sick. What can have gone wrong? What's happened to turn this good story sour? Is it our fault? Perhaps we should never have become involved. But it's not as if we hadn't thought about it. We had. We talked it over with our bosses before even leaving London. Everyone in the house has given their permission for us to be there. And we've had extensive conversations with local NGOs. We're with a social worker. And yet we've stumbled into something we just can't control. Ismaila was just part of a story, the perfect example of a wider problem. Now he's a nine year old boy whose hopes are disintegrating around him. And. And we're involved, whether we like it or not. The men talk very fast in the local language. Wolof. We've no idea what's going on. I catch the eye of my BBC colleague. We're both thinking the same thing. If we leave, Ismaila is going to be punished. But then the men reach some kind of decision, get up and walk out. And everything changes. Ismaila's mother hugs and kisses him. She caresses his hands as if to make sure he's real. The other women in the room laugh and clap their hands. They then explain what was going on. Men rule the Senegalese home. His father and uncle had sent Ishmaela away to study in the first place and had been unwilling to take him back until his grandmother stepped into the debate. It's actually her house and what she says. Here goes. After hearing about what happened in the dara, she declares that Ismaila will live with her a and won't be sent away again, whatever the men may think. Debate over, he starts to smile, and soon he's playing with his brothers. But it's been a nerve wracking half an hour for us. It's also been a sharp reminder, like a slap in the face, that journalism and real life don't necessarily walk hand in hand. Editors may like simplicity and happy endings, but real lives often resist both. Ismaila is much more than just a story, and we've kept in touch and know that he is safe and has been accepted back into the family. A charity now pays for him to go to a local school, but he still carries the scars on his back and the knowledge that his father willingly sent him away. The dara has changed him. As we leave, one of his brothers says simply, ishmaelah's got an old face now.
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Narrator/Correspondent
Angus Crawford In Senegal, the European Court of Human Rights is due to rule soon on an appeal by a group of Indian Ocean islanders who want to be allowed to return home. Thousands of people from the Chagos Islands were deported to Mauritius in 1960 so that a military base could be built on the biggest island, Diego Garcia. It's now used primarily by the American military as an airbase. The British government, which has ruled the Chagos as an overseas territory since 1814, has already decided the islanders cannot return. Lorraine Mallander's been back to Mauritius to meet some of those forced to set up home there.
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Lorraine Mallander
It's Sunday morning in Lucienne's yard in Rochebois, a run down suburb of Port Louis. Barefoot children dart in and out of the house, a stray dog is having a barking fit, and the next door neighbors are arguing at the top of their voices. In the midst of this chaos, seven determined old Chagossian ladies are telling me they want to go home. But before we proceed, Lucienne has a score to settle. She shifts her bulk on the chair, one eye squinting accusingly, lips pursed in disapproval. Como sau PA con mono FA m, she says in her native Creole. What do you mean you don't know my surname? I used to take your mum to school, Sagai, she says sharply. Eclair li s a z a e Lucien Sagai, I feel suitably admonished. I'm no match for this powerhouse of a woman who helped my grandmother bring up her seven children. Almost 50 years ago, Lucienne appeared on the doorstep of my Chinese Mauritian grandparents looking for work. Aged 18, she just left Peros Banos in the Indian Ocean archipelago of Chagos, which was then a dependency of Mauritius under British colonial rule. A few years later, when she sought to return home, she discovered the islands were officially closed. People who had left were not being allowed back in. Lucienne has never seen her homeland since. Over the ensuing years, right up to the early 70s, hundreds of her compatriots were shipped to Mauritius where they were dumped on the docks and left to their fate. Today, Lucienne has summoned her friends to her yard so they can tell their stories. They remember how their beloved dogs were killed before their departure. How they were rounded up and shipped off Kumais Glav like slaves. And how they struggled to adapt to their new life in Mauritius in their poverty stricken circumstances. Many of the younger children died. Zotibois Dilet Sagrin remembers one of the women. They died drinking their mother's milk of sadness. Mauritius, a paradise for many western tourists, proved a bleak place of exile. Families would be blighted by depression, drug abuse and suicide. But still they clung to their memories. Lucille Urany remembers the straw huts where they lived. How they would fish and grow their own food, bartering with the neighbors for their needs. We didn't need money. It was a time of abundance, she says. Their children have been raised on these memories of an idealized age of innocence. Lucille's granddaughter, Pascalina Nellon, dreams of Chagos, even though she's never been there. She imagines becoming a Robinson Crusoe type character, washed up on the beach, exploring the island for food. I feel they were happy. I'd like to know that too, she says. But her longing is tempered with pragmatism. Returning home would be easier said than done. It's just not realistic. Quick as a flash, Lucienne swings round on her chair. If we returned, you could always come and visit. She fires back. The way things are right now, you don't even have that option. But starting over again would be really difficult, says Pasqualina. Living in straw huts with no running water for a start, we could build everything we need, says Lucien. A few days earlier I'd met Johnny Andre, a second generation refugee who said that living with his parents memories was like watching a film. As a child he felt distance from their pain. Later he fulfilled his greatest dream, finding a job as a mechanic with an American company on Diego Garcia. Elation would soon turn to disappointment. The abandoned straw huts were still there, but otherwise the island had turned into a US territory, a high tech military launchpad for the war on terror. Now Andrei shared his parents pain. He returned angry, determined that his people should get their homeland. Back in 2000, the UK High Court ruled in the islanders favor a judgment later crushed by further legal manoeuvres by the British government. Now, with an upcoming ruling at the European Court of Human Rights, their hopes have been raised again. Lucien Sagai will always regret that her sons, both of whom died of heroin overdoses, never returned to her cherished homeland. Now, just like the other ladies sitting in a semicircle on her patio, she wants to return home to die on the Chagos Islands.
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Narrator/Correspondent
Lorraine Mallander in Mauritius. Now, today's leading men are a scruffy bunch. For actors, musicians, entertainers and TV presenters, the fashion now seems to be for the tightest trousers, no ties and the longest stubble short of a beard. It wasn't always like this. There was a time when the iconic faces of the age prided themselves on their sartorial elegance and immaculate presentation. Celebrities like Clark Gable, Frank Sinatra and Humphrey Bogart wouldn't have been seen dead in public without first putting on a sharp suit, polished shoes and having the closest possible shave. Zeb Soames has been to visit one of the few places where this tradition still survives.
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Zeb Soames
Tucked away in the basement of a smart hotel in Beverly Hills is a piece of living history. It's a place where the style and elegance of old Hollywood is embalmed in the heady scents of soap and talc, cologne and shoe polish. Gornick and Drucker have groomed Hollywood's celebrity elite since the 1930s. Clark Gable, Tyrone Power, the Rat Pack, Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, and even a former president, Robert Ronald Reagan. Through the dark walnut panelled reception, relics of the past, hair tonics, razors and brushes are displayed in glazed cabinets. William Gornick, white haired and well preserved in open neck shirt, cravat, horn rimmed glasses and sand coloured slacks, embodies classic Beverly Hills style. The only incongruous touch just noticeable beneath his turnips was a pair of black leather cowboy boots ornately embellished in gold. He handed me an auction catalogue to read whilst I waited. The next day in Las Vegas, many items from the barbershop were to be sold alongside other celebrity memorabilia. I flicked past some outlandishly gaudy furniture from Michael Jackson's mansion until I reached Gornick's items which all centred around his connection to President Reagan, his barber's chair, a signed baseball bat and even a lock of presidential hair. Gornick beckoned me over to the chair. I explained this was to be my first straight razor shave and I hoped it wasn't to Be my last. He began by covering my face in a searing hot towel infused with the scent of lemons, which was instantly relaxing. This was replaced with a light muslin cloth over my eyes, leaving my lower face free for the job in hand. Soap was applied with a badger hair brush and trying not to get any into my mouth, I asked how the business began. Its early success was owed to Billy Wilkerson, the colourful and controversial owner of the Hollywood Reporter newspaper, known in the 1930s for its candid and outrageous coverage of the movie business and its personalities. Wishing to capitalise on the wealth of the studio crowd, Wilkerson decided to open a haberdashery store on Sunset Strip with the novelty of an in house barbershop led by his own barber, the late Harry Drucker. Real men never shopped for clothes in those days and Wilkerson believed the lure of a good shave and some sporting talk might persuade them to spend money in the rest of the store. In keeping with the demands of the modern studio executive. They offer a manicure whilst you're shaved, but refer to it as handshake maintenance, which sounds much more manly. Mine was being maintained by an affable Russian woman, Svetlana, whilst we spoke. Harry Drucker was an ardent gambler and it's said he solicited many of his more famous clients at the racetrack, including the notorious gangster Bugsy Siegel. Gornick told me how one fateful evening in 1947, Bugsy visited the barber shop for a shave and a trim. An hour later he was found shot dead, but clean shaven. Gornick brought the cutthroat razor to my face and began the shave. So what was it like to have not just the ear, but the throat of a president? Gornick explained that he never talks shop with his clients, be they politicians, producers, lawyers or even Indian chiefs. He insists, but limits conversation to sports and small talk. He recalled how Reagan was a master at putting everyone at ease. One appointment came the day after he'd made one of his famous presidential gaffes. Whilst absentmindedly wearing a radio microphone, he described the Polish government as a bunch of no good, lousy bums. Gornick remembers Reagan's opening words to him that next morning. No racist jokes today, only Irish ones. Gornick smoothed cocoa butter over my stubble and went in for a second, even closer shave. Regan was never charged for his appointments, but on one occasion insisted on paying. There was one problem. He never carried any cash, so beckoned over one of his bodyguards to borrow the fee. The guard, somewhat embarrassed, didn't have any money either, so he called over an aide. And so the farcical chain continued right down to the last of the President's entourage. In the end Regan had to post a cheque, but of course it was never cashed. It's framed in pride of place above the Gornigan Drucker reception. With a deft snip of my nose hair and a pinch of cologne, I was finished. I wouldn't need to shave again for days or so it felt. Smiling might also prove difficult. In the end, President Reagan did manage to find a way to pay for his visits, albeit posthumously, with interest. That lock of presidential hair fetched over $2,500 at auction, and with that from
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Narrator/Correspondent
a particularly clean shaven Zeb Sones, we've reached the end of another edition. I'll be here again on Saturday morning with more from our own correspondence, some well groomed, but others well, anything but Good bye.