← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Feb 17, 2011
00:27:56
The wind of change sweeps across parts of the Middle East and North Africa -- an from...
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You are listening to a download from the BBC. This is from our own correspondent. You can hear the version of the programme broadcast on the BBC World Service and presented by Alan Johnston by going
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to the from our own correspondent website
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or indeed to that of the BBC World Service. But here's the edition which goes out on BBC Radio 4. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Bahrain, Libya, Iran, Yemen, Algeria. The unrest which started in Tunisia and spring to Egypt is contagious. There's a new political party preaching peace in the Basque region, but some Spaniards are sceptical. The country of 18,000 islands set to rise to the top of the World Economic League. And in County Cork, a sheep stops play in the sport which brings traffic to a standstill. In the early hours of this morning, riot police in Bahrain attacked a camp set up by anti government demonstrators in the capital Manamar. The opposition says at least four people were killed and many others were injured. There were also clashes between police and anti government demonstrators in two Libyan cities late last night. Jeremy Bowen's been considering the wave of anti government unrest that's been sweeping through parts of North Africa and the Middle East.
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The tinted back window of the shiny black Mercedes rolled down. The two men in the front were both wearing the plainclothes uniform of a successful secret policeman. Leather jackets all the better to half conceal weapons, sunglasses and walkie talkies. They stared at me and they didn't look as if they specialized in friendly chats. It happened outside the Cabinet Office Building in the heart of Cairo. President Mubarak had been gone for 36 hours. Behind the rolled down window was an opaque black blind. With a snap, it retracted. The men in the front scowled. The BBC cameraman had somehow brushed the Mercedes sign on the front of the car with his backside and they weren't happy. But the man now looking out, who had a more expensive leather jacket and a better walkie talkie, was friendly. We talked about the car. Egyptians love Mercedes. During the fight for Tahrir Square, a man who wanted to get my attention flashed his Mercedes key fob to show that he was a serious person whose opinion was worth hearing. I asked the man in the back seat about the new Egypt change. He said, yeah, we hope it's coming. We really do. A secret policeman in a government car not stopping us filming and talking to a journalist about change. Just another surprising moment. In three remarkable weeks, Authoritarian Arab and Iranian leaders are struggling to continue to suppress forces that have been routinely squashed for years. Public opinion and public anger across the region that means much more work for the secret police, we reporters have the occasional brush with them, nothing much in comparison with the intimate, intimidating, lifelong immersion that many Arabs and Iranians have had, but always enlightening. In Algeria, with one nervous government, the police are all pervasive. When I made the mistake of trying to film riot squads near a mosque, half a dozen fierce looking men materialized, their leather jackets open to show off stubby submachine guns pointing in our direction. We had half a day in a police station listening to shouting and the occasional scream of pain coming from the cells before they let us go. Ecoutoir, listen, you, one of the leather jackets said. This is the first time and the last time, understand? And he jabbed me in the chest and pushed me out into the street. For foreign correspondents protected by their passports, arrest is an occupational hazard, but usually only a minor irritation. But the power the secret police and their like have over the lives of millions and the monopoly of power by corrupt elites and the denial of freedom are all creating a critical mass of anger that has already been too much for the presidents of Tunisia and Egypt. Last time I was in Tehran, when the authorities were cracking down on the Green movement just after the 2009 elections, I was never arrested. Thankfully, an Iranian colleague with whom I walked round Tehran every afternoon was prepared, though before we went out, she would change her elegant strappy sandals and into trainers in case we're arrested. She explained why? I asked, so you can run for it? No, she said, it's because if they see I have pink nail polish on my toes, it'll be harder for us. Back then, street level toughs, government enforcers were positioned every few yards, armed with thick clubs. Mobile squads of police on motorbikes rushed from one crossroads to another and tear gas hung over the city centre for hours. After the protests were broken up in Egypt, they're wondering, where's next? Iran? Algeria? Jordan? Yemen, Bahrain? Egypt is traditionally a country that other Arabs follow. Under President Mubarak, Cairo, for all its human energy, became a political backwater. His pursuit of stability created stagnation. The events of the last three weeks have changed all that. The power of the people has put Cairo back at the center of the Middle East. Of course, plenty can go wrong. In Egypt. The military is in charge. It's being trusted by the disparate anti Mubarak coalition to break up the system the military has helped create that gives its senior officers money and power. The protest leaders believe the will of the people gives the generals no choice. Let's see if they're right. I've lost count of the number of Egyptians who've told me they are proud of themselves and their country in a way that they've never been before. If other Arabs and Iranians want the same feeling of a new start, a sense of independence and achievement, then the revolutionary wind that started in Tunisia and blew through Egypt will get stronger.
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And that was Jeremy Bowen. The Spanish Supreme Court is due to rule shortly on whether a new political party for the Basque region can be recognised and officially registered. The party, it's called sotu, has condemned violence, saying it has no place in the campaign for a separate Basque state. A previous Basque party, Batosuna, was banned eight years ago, despite denying it had links with the terrorist group Etta. Sarah Rainsford was there as SORTU launched its mission statement at a news conference in Madrid.
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The men on stage were Basque separatists, pronouncing the arrival of an historic moment. A milestone, they said, on the path to peace. But I got the impression they wished we awkward journalists weren't there. I was one of dozens of Spanish and foreign correspondents squeezed into the narrow, weakly lit room. On the platform before us were two women with flowery scarves and fixed smiles. In front, their main spokesman looked nervous. Beside him was a representative of Sinn Fein, lending the weight of Ireland's experience to proceedings. For more than 40 years, militants from ETA have been killing, kidnapping and extorting money in their fight for a separate Basque state. More than 800 people have been murdered. And while ETTA planted the bombs, its political voice was Batasuna, a party that never condemned violence but that denied any direct link with the militants. The Spanish state never accepted that. And in 2003, Batasuna was banned. Eight years on, we'd been called to that cramped room to witness its reincarnation. But with a crucial difference. For the first time ever, the new party, sortu, has declared its explicit rejection of violence, including ETA violence. And that is historic. SOTU wants to develop new democratic solutions to the conflict. The man on stage read from his notes. Sort of means to create, and we're creating a new future. But then, statement over, he began bundling up his papers to leave. The man who just professed his commitment to democracy seemed desperate to evade the scrutiny that brings. And he was a professor of journalism. No questions, he declared. But they rained down regardless. Will you meet the victims of Etter terrorism? Do you condemn etta's past violence? Will you call on ETTA to disband? We reject all violence, including by Etta. The spokesman struggled, returning to his written statement. Some Basque journalists began shouting, the questioners down. I caught mutterings about right wing provocation. The separatists polled 10, even 15% of the Basque vote before they were banned. They argue that's a sizeable chunk of society disenfranchised. So their ambition is to get the new party registered in time for local elections. This may an important step, they believe, on the path towards peace. The final decision rests with Spain's highest court. It has to judge whether SORTU is any different to Batasuna, the party it ruled, a danger to democracy almost a decade ago. No wonder SOTU's spokesman looked jittery on that statement stage. But after years of conflict and umpteen broken ceasefires, many Spaniards are deeply wary of ETA and its entourage. Different faces, same old tricks. Most headlines concluded after that press conference. Most people here feel they can afford to take a hard line now. There have been no targeted killings by ETA in 19 months, no extortion in four, and a record number of separatist militants are behind bars. Then last month, ETA itself declared another ceasefire. Its supporters say this is another sign of a separatist fundamental shift away from violence. I was up in San Sebastian when talk of that change was first becoming public almost a year ago, away from the city's grand, sweeping seafront, I met one of the leaders of Battasuna down a cobbled back street. There, in a basement bar, Chelu Moreno described a consensus emerging within the separatist ranks that independence would never be achieved with bombs. But when we met in that bar, I still didn't hear a ringing denunciation of violence. My interviewee chose his words carefully. They were nuanced. That ambiguity has gone completely now. The party statutes of SORTU make it quite clear that the rejection of violence is irreversible. Even the Interior Minister has acknowledged the move is unprecedented. Though he's giving the separatists no credit for political bravery, for him, this has happened because they've been forced into a corner, because ETA is weaker militarily than ever. The great majority of Spaniards agree. Some I've spoken to want ETA to apologise for every last killing before those who justified that terror for years are allowed anywhere near political office. Others insist ETA itself disband first. One woman I met showed me her fingers crossed behind her back. That's how they talk, she snorted, referring to sortou. They don't mean a word they're saying. Sotu insists it will prove its words once back in office, an outcome that ultimately depends not on Spain's people or politicians. But the Supreme Court. But whatever the judges rule, ETA's political wing has already made a very public commitment to peace. If the separatist goal really is to secure their place in the political mainstream, they'll have to stand by that commitment regardless.
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Sarah Rainsford in Madrid. Ugandans go to the polls tomorrow to vote in presidential and parliamentary elections. The incumbent president, Yoweri Museveni is standing again after 25 years in power. For many people in the north of the country, this will be the first time they've been able to cast their votes in an atmosphere of calm and order. The Lords Resistance army rebels who terrorised the region have been driven out. Will Ross reported for the BBC for several years at the height of the violence there. He's just returned and has sent us this dispatch from the town of Gulu.
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No need to travel in a convoy with military escorts. No fear of rebels lurking in the long grass. Travelling around northern Uganda is a lot easier these days and you can see as well as hear just how relieved people are. About an hour's drive outside the town of Gulu, I met a group of farmers. They were pulling up roots of cassava and filling huge reed baskets. Several women sat together and as they peeled the cassava with sharp knives, they chatted and often burst into shrieks of laughter. One of them, Nancy, mocked the way election fever had swept across the area. She poked fun at the people who had accepted a bribe to go and cheer at political rallies. No presidential candidate wants to appear lonely, so some of them have hired people to join a crowd. For the paltry price of a bar of soap, they'd willingly cheer for a rival politician the very next day. Net result? Maybe one free T shirt and some soap to wash it with. They'd make more money if they ignored the politicians and joined us in the fields. Nancy told her friends as she lobbed another gleaming white piece of cassava into the basket. Until recently, farming was far too dangerous an activity around here. For more than 20 years, bands of marauding young rebels haunted northern Uganda, terrorising the population. As a reporter based in Uganda, I'd met countless dazed survivors of attacks by the Lord's Resistance Army. People whose homes had just been burnt. Fathers who'd been forced to watch as their relatives were killed in front of them. And I remember Angelina, whose daughter Charlotte was abducted from a boarding school. And I remember her voice trembling as she spoke of the fear that her daughter would be killed when the Ugandan army sent helicopter gunships to attack the rebels. During the war, more than a million People were confined to squalid camps where they suffered the indignity of waiting for trucks of food aid. That nightmare is now over. The camps are deserted. The people are home. Seeing the joy on the faces of the farmers, you'd never know the horrors they've all lived through. 25 year old Alice's home is a grass thatched hut just a short walk from the cassava field. When she was only seven, rebels snatched her during a raid and took her to Sudan. She was with them for 11 years. By the time I was released, I'd given birth to two children and I was heavily pregnant with a third, she whispered. The father of the children was a rebel commander almost three times her age. Alice had no choice. In captivity, the orders were do as you're told or be killed. Where was the man now, I wondered. Oh, he left me. His relatives said I was too young for him and told him I'd probably leave him, she said, before adding that he took the few possessions she owned, including all her clothes. Alice still carries the scars of bullet wounds from the war. She gets severe pain in one arm as well as a knee and suspects there could be shrapnel inside. Painful daily reminders of life on the front line. Back in Gooloo Town, I was driven around on the back of a motorbike. We passed the new glitzy banks and numerous multi storey hotels that have sprung up since the war ended. The man riding the motorbike was Patrick, sporting a well trimmed moustache and one earring which was glinting in the sun. Now in his late 20s, he's had a few other jobs in his life. One of them he keeps fairly quiet. For two years, Patrick was a bodyguard to Joseph Cognes, the leader of the LRA rebels and the man responsible for sowing so much terror across the region. I may have worked closely with him, but the big man didn't tell us what he was really thinking and so I've no real idea why he was fighting. Patrick told me. I wondered if he thought the rebels had left northern Uganda forever. Well, my greatest worry is this election, he said. If President Museveni wins again, I fear some of the former rebels will go back to the bush. Several people told me they also worried the election could see a return to violence. It's not surprising the people of northern Uganda remain worried. Deep in the villages, people gather round small radios and hear of brutal LRA attacks and abductions in neighbouring countries. They just hope Joseph Kon does not decide to bring the guns and the machetes back home. People here want their own sons and daughters to enjoy the childhood some of them never had.
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That's Will Ross International Investors are always interested in getting in on the ground floor, identifying those nations on the rise before everyone else does. Some are turning their attention to Indonesia, with its huge and youthful population. Will this country be the next Asian tiger? Peter Day has been in the capital, Jakarta, unquestionably. This nation has huge potential, he says, but it also has big problems.
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You notice one thing straight away in Mamet's tiny house in a crowded shanty town called Bukit Duri in the east of Jakarta, the sprawling capital of Indonesia. There's no furniture and few possessions on the clean yellow tiles. There's little evidence that three generations of Mahmud's family are living here, him and his wife, three children and two grandchildren. There's a reason for the lack of stuff, and it's not just poverty. This ramshackle village, with narrow covered mud floor corridors instead of village streets, clings to the side of the Chilliwong River. It rains hard in Jakarta, and every few months the stinky river floods pent up in concrete channels which have then been narrowed by thousands of unofficial houses. And when it floods, the water level rises fast in the villages along the banks, 5, 10, 15ft. Very quickly it drowns the ground floor of Mehmet's house and forces his family upstairs to the flimsier wood built st second story where they wait for the flood water to go down. It's happened all the time he's lived here, he says, 50 years or so, since he was a small boy. Mamet's television's on the second floor. The families are always ready to move and the rains come and the river half drowns their home for as long as three days at a time. I travel to Indonesia because international investors are getting excited about a country of 17 or 18,000 islands and that stretches almost 1700 miles along the equator. Finance experts are coming to regard it as a potential member of the vibrant club of so called brics nations. Brazil, Russia, India and China, growing exceptionally fast and likely to rise over the next 20 or 30 years right to the top of the world's economic league table. With 240 million people, Indonesia is the fourth most populous country in the world. The the biggest Muslim nation, a youthful democracy succeeding the decades of post colonial dictatorships under presidents Sukarno and Suharto that ended in chaos at the end of the 1990s. Indonesians have been watching the news from Egypt with some recognition. It's a bit like our story 11 years ago, they say. Now it has to be said that even if international investors are getting excited about Indonesia as another of what they call the emerging markets, there are drawbacks to their expectations. Much of Indonesia's current prosperity comes from its huge exports of coal and palm oil to China and India from giant enterprises that remain in few hands. 15% of the country lives in abject poverty, worse than the conditions in the flood prone village I visited in Jakarta. Other kinds of development activity are strangled by inadequate transport, a real problem in a country the shape of Indonesia. But the thing that may hold back the overseas investor is something not uncommon in other BRIC or developing countries corruption. It is openly talked about. The news is full of it, a culture of bribery and kickbacks that pervades everyday life and then top politics, bureaucracy, the courts and business. In the years of democracy, there have been concerted attempts to prosecute and send to prison some of the most spectacular offenders. And that continues. But still they come new cases of corruption, tax dodging, delays to the planning and business licensing process unless cash is paid to officials. At one stage in recent years, Indonesia was named as absolutely the most corrupt place in the world in the annual league table compiled by the campaigners Transparency International. It is now slightly improved, but still pretty awful, says the organization. And yet Indonesia has huge potential. It's vast, staggeringly beautiful. It has gorgeous food and intricate cultures and very friendly people. It's growing younger in total population terms, at a time when much of the developed or developing world, including China, is facing a rapid decline into distinct old age. Waiting for the next flood in his house above the river in Jakarta, I asked Mammat whether he made anything of the BRICS thesis and Indonesia's aspirations to be up there with the big boys. I don't understand investments, he said, but I do feel that my life has got more difficult compared to the old days, by which he meant the 30 years of Suharto dictatorship. Mahmoud is also fearful that the authorities will move him from his house soon flooded but familiar with not enough compensation to buy another one. He's a driver for a building firm and spends more than a third of his income, totaling the equivalent of just three pounds a day on sending his son to secondary school. The bankers may talk of bricks, but Mamet is hoping that a little learning may help his son prosper more than he has done in the new Indonesia.
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Peter Day now you can call it tenpin, bowling crown, green bowls or even skittles. But whatever the name, many countries have a form of bowling they call their own. In the green and wide open spaces of Ireland, there's no need for a bowling alley or other confined space. Their version of the game takes place in the fresh air, out on the public roads. The rules are simple. Pick up your 28 ounce solid iron ball, hurl it as far as you can, repeat four times, then measure the total distance. The winner's the one who's thrown the furthest. Trish Flanagan's been to take part in proceedings in County Cork.
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The men shed their jackets to play in T shirts, but I huddle in my coat. Although it's a bright winter afternoon, the sun is on the wane, the frost is coming creeping in. I'm on a winding country road outside the East Cork village of Cloyne for a bowling match, as they call it. Here, John and Brian are bowling for a place in the quarter final. Each bangs the ball several times before throwing. This knocks limestone from the surface, helping to dry the ball and improve their grip. There's great athleticism in the way they hurl the ball and themselves down the road, the supporters scattering as it approaches. I walk with referee Michael o', Donovan, who carries several balls, measuring tape and some chalk in an old plastic carton. Most importantly, he carries the money which people have bet on the outcome of this match. 5% of each day's wager goes towards the prize fund of €5,000 for the winner at the end of the season. Those who've bet on a player follow him, giving advice. Come on now, give it everything, boy. There's no shape to the road there. If you play it on that side, you'll be better off. The sport has its own vocabulary. A miler is a long shot. A sop is a tuft of grass, highlighting the spot for which the player should aim. I'm joined by Jim Giesley, a sprightly man in his 70s. What happens when it rains? I ask. Bowling is played in bad weather and good. The only time a score is cancelled is for a death in the immediate family or widespread frost. I often played when it was lashing down when I was young and hardy. HE LAUGHS that was a big loft. Shouts Jim. Another strange word. A loft is when you throw the ball up in the air and over a corner in the road. Mick Barry was able to loft 90 yards, says Jim reverentially. Mick Barry, I'm told, won eight All Ireland titles and played competitively into his 70s. Now 92, a road in Cork City was named after him last year. There are a few cars on this road, those that pass are gracious and wait for a throw to finish. Referee Michael tells me clubs have insurance policies in case of mishaps. Some vehicles have been hit in the past. Over the season, games are played on a mixture of roads. Rough, smooth, hilly, flat, narrow, wide, winding and straight to test the skills of the players. This one's close. It's down to the last bowl, and John wins. You were too far out on the road, Brian says Jim. There's a big fall on that road you were thrown in. That's a mortal sin. On the subject of religion, the Roman Catholic Bishop of Cork, John Buckley, is the best known exponent of the game. I had a teacher who was very interested, he says he often took us out bowling on the road, particularly during religion class. In my early days, I thought road bowling was part of religion. I still do. In the 1980s, a time of high unemployment and immigration, many people were out bowling on the roads. There'd have been a revolution except for bowling, says the bishop. Referee Michael says he's noticed more people playing in the current recession. It's a cheap sport. Apart from a shoe with a good grip, no specialized equipment is needed. Michael passes bundles of €50 notes to the stake collector for distribution to those who backed the winner. John. An informal game of doubles brings us back to the start line. Along the way, there's a momentary distraction. Someone shouts that a sheep is caught in the briers. One of the group hops over the wall to disentangle him. After much pulling by man and beast in opposite directions, the sheep is finally freed, to much applause. The sheep has only three legs, cries one of the crowd. Well, I can't do anything about that, says his rescuer. The game finishes and referee Michael offers me a throw of the ball. I take it, run a few steps, swing my arm, and off it goes. There are cheers of approval. You play better than some of the men did today. Shouts one. I feel a quiet glow of satisfaction. I've been initiated into my native county's unique sport. I've one small regret, though. I could have taken a few bets on that throw.
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And with Trish Flanagan showing the men how it's done in the Republic of Ireland, we've reached the end of another edition. I'm back on Saturday morning with a fresh collection of despatches from around the world. Do join us. Goodbye.