← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Feb 26, 2011
00:28:01
Our correspondent - who can't be named - describes life in Tripoli with its empty up...
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You're listening to a download from the BBC.
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This is from our own correspondent.
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You can hear the version of the
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programme broadcast on the World Service by
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following the link to the iplayer on
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the top of our website. To keep up with our latest reports and get a sneak preview of the stories, you can sign up to our Twitter feed as well. But now, with the addition Broadcast on Radio 4, here's Kate Ady.
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Today, there's still no obvious resolution to the Libyan story. We hear of the weird atmosphere on the streets in Tripoli, of strange goings on at the United nations. And we consider where America stands as the shock waves spread across the Middle East. When trouble has happened before in Tripoli, the population shrinks indoors. Capricious violence comes from the men at the top. And ordinary citizens have reason to fear, even under normal circumstances. Ordinary Libyans have little idea of verified information. They live on rumour and whispers. We have one view from a young journalist who returned to Tripoli earlier this week.
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Close your eyes and imagine an abandoned city. Streets are empty, shops are closed. Building after building is deserted. There is no laundry hanging on balconies or families shouting or kids playing outside. Windows and shutters are closed. There is only fear. This is Tripoli, but there is some movement. People with urgent business to attend to can be seen on the streets during the day, but they are very, very cautious. I arrived in Libya on Monday. The airport itself was chaotic, with thousands of people stranded, waiting to leave. I told the authorities I was a tourist, an obvious suspicious reason to give at such a crucial time. But the immigration officer smiled at me. All is OK here. You will love the city. God protect the leader. Everywhere I looked in Tripoli was a reminder of Gaddafi's dictatorship. His picture is everywhere. He stands reminding people of his presence. The photos and banners all sing his praises. I could see there was a heavy security presence, either armed police or security patrols in civilian clothes monitoring every corner of the city. The few people who were out on the street were only there because they had to be queuing up at the bakeries whose shutters were half open to get their daily bread. Lines of people whose faces were pale with fear. News spread of more killings and there was even a suggestion that the police had fired on people in similar queues across the city. There was a long line of cars at the petrol stations, with drivers worried that fuel might run out. My hotel was almost empty and the few foreigners who were there departed shortly after I arrived. That left just me, three other guests, few employees and the hotel security guard, as well as the men from State Security. There were around 15 of us altogether. In an otherwise empty hotel, the top man of state security was wandering in and out, praising the leader. Long live Gaddafi, the father. The first night there were shots being fired at my hotel. It seemed like they were very close to where I was sleeping. I called down to reception and they advised me to close the shutters and stay away from the window. I could also hear planes flying overhead. To make matters worse, it was almost impossible to get in touch with anyone. The mobile network was down and still closely monitored. It was hard to verify anything that was happening in Tripoli, but some doctors I managed to get through to told me that people were being killed. It was impossible to know how many. They said the army was preventing them from helping the casualties. That night, Gaddafi appeared briefly on television. It was so offensive, people told me. He didn't acknowledge the fear he'd caused, the bloodshed, the threat, but they were happy he hadn't fled. They wanted him to be prosecuted in Libya. In the morning, I used the excuse that I needed to go to the chemist to go out, but the hotel told me there were no taxis available. Eventually, they arranged for a car. The driver turned out to be from state security, too. He drove me through the streets which were under control, but took a wrong turn and passed a street that had been burnt out and destroyed. These are drug addicts and traitors, he said. It's America and Israel who want to control Libyan oil. They are paying them to do this. They couldn't send troops, so they are paying people inside Libya to do it for them. We will ever support our father. He meant Colonel Gaddafi, who has controlled Libya and its wealth for 42 years. That night, Gaddafi appeared on television again. There were reports that almost 300 people had died in and still he claimed he hadn't yet ordered the use of force. People in the west of the city of Tripoli told me they had heard bombing till after midnight, accompanied by heavy shooting. But it didn't seem to be having the desired effect. We are ready to pay with our souls for our freedom, I was told. His end is coming.
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From the streets of Tripoli to the Libyan outposts around the world and the embassies which have been hemorrhaging ambassadors, no senior official in the regime ever feels completely safe. Previously, Gaddafi has threatened to hunt down dissidents abroad. So rarely have even educated, well traveled Libyans dared to voice dissent. At the United nations headquarters in New York, Barbara Plett has been watching the Libyan delegation wrestle with morality, loyalty and fear.
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This was the week that the upheaval in the Arab world finally reached the United Nations. The Egyptian and Tunisian uprisings had done nothing to disturb the placid calm here. On all things revolutionary, the Security Council maintained a discreet diplomatic and deafening silence. So the apparent defection of the Libyan UN mission had all the force of an earthquake. It started with rumors that the ambassador was going to resign in protest at the violence his government was inflicting on civilian demonstrators. I got to the Libyan Embassy just in time to see the envoy march into the foyer and take up a position next to a portrait of Colonel Colonel Muammar Gaddafi riding a white stallion. To the amazement of the UN press corps, he denounced the Libyan leader for waging what he said was genocide. He appealed to the UN to protect civilians in his country, in part by enforcing an Iraq like no fly zone. We don't represent the regime, he cried. But the people. Gaddafi should go. This was deeply personal stuff. We're aware that this will put our families back home in danger, said one of the Libyan diplomats who had come out with his boss. But they're in danger anyway. It was also, of course, deeply political. The UN mission was joining a wave of defecting diplomats jumping from what looked like a regime on its way out. The only snag was that the man leading the revolt wasn't actually Libya's UN Ambassador, Abdurrahman Shahram. It was his deputy, Ibrahim Debashi. Where is the ambassador? We asked. I don't know, answered Mr. Debashi, but I don't think anyone can stay silent about what's happening in Libya. And, he added, he was requesting an emergency session of the Security Council. That was good enough for certain Western Council members, uncomfortable about staying silent in the face of the monumental events shaking the Middle East. Russia and China were reluctant followers. Their line is that the uprisings in Tunisia, Egypt and Libya are internal Arab affairs that don't concern the un. But they could hardly be seen to refuse a request by the Libyan mission. So Mr. Debashy marched into the chamber to make his case. It was then that the actual ambassador, Mr. Shalram, showed up. He wasn't noticed at first in the crush of media outside the Council, a short, stocky, balding man, looking shaken but determined. Word quickly seeped through the crowd. That's him.
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Who?
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The ambassador. Then he spoke, and what had been confusing started to become surreal. I'm with Gaddafi, he said. We're old school friends. But while he strongly opposed the bloodshed in Libya, he wasn't with his deputy's decision to refer the matter to the Security Council. Moreover, he seemed convinced that following his appeals to senior government officials, the violence would soon stop. In 24 hours, he said, Colonel Gaddafi will make a clear and brave decision. Western diplomat seemed as bemused as we were. We thought Mr. Debashi was in charge. They shrugged. But flush with the triumph of getting the UN to address at least one of the revolts in the Middle east, they said it didn't matter which Libyan ambassador called the meeting. The two did not appear hostile to each other. Mr. Shalram said he understood the emotions behind Mr. Debashi's position, but for him, loyalty was the greater duty. It's not our custom to leave Gaddafi alone now, he said. I'm not one of those who will kiss Gaddafi's head and feet during the day only to denounce him at night. He then delivered a rambling speech to the Council. On the one hand, admitting to mistakes and calling for reform. On the other, warning about the danger of extremists and Islamists in Libya. It was difficult to pin down where he stood, but he was tearful when he discussed the news from home with other ambassadors. After speaking, Mr. Shahram left alone, his face ashen. By then, Colonel Gaddafi had delivered his belligerent speech, signaling an escalation in violence, not the calm and dialogue for which the ambassador had been hoping. In the end, it was the deputy who had the final say. Speaking from the official press, stakeout, unrepentant and fired up, he warned that Colonel Gaddafi speech was a code for his forces to commit genocide. I hope I am wrong, he said. I'm sure he did. But I was less sure whether the ambassadors were engaged in a kind of political theater, playing to different galleries at home and abroad, or whether the upheaval in Libya's UN mission was simply a reflection of the power struggles and uncertainties in the troubled country. It represents.
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Barbara Plett and last night, the Libyan ambassador at the UN himself denounced Colonel Gaddafi. These are not only challenging times for the Arab world's diplomats. Their Western counterparts are struggling with the swift pace of event. For decades, they've had important alliances with the region's autocratic leaders. Oil trumps democracy in many instances, but at least the diplomatic chessboard was familiar. Now the whole game is being flung in the air. Who knows where the pieces will fall? Mark Mardell has been watching Washington try to cope with all this sudden uncertainty.
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President Obama was firm this week. He strongly condemned the Libyan government's use of forces. Outrageous. On back to the universal human rights of the Libyan people. That's the easy bit. Colonel Gaddafi isn't what you'd call a good guy or an American ally. It's what to say about your friends that's awkward. One of the delights of travelling out of Washington is hearing the unexpected. I was chatting to a church minister at a tour of an army base in the south, over potato salad and sweet tea, talking about the wave of revolution sweeping the Middle East. Terrible outcome in Egypt, he said. Dreadful. Before I could ask him to detail his distress, he was questioning me about what he called difficulties with Muslims in England and Holland. So I think I know where he was coming from. I think I know where he gets it from too. Nightly on cable tv, one commentator warns these revolts are a plot to establish a fundamentalist Islamic government right across the Middle east and in Europe, hinting they're backed by communists and even President Obama himself. The aim of to destroy America through high oil prices. But this certainty is rare. America left, right and centre, to use a word they love, is conflicted. The clashes on the streets of the Arab world are echoed here in a less visible struggle within America's psyche. Realpolitik headbutts the US franchise of freedom within President Obama's breast Professor Pragmatic wars with the counterculture kid America has been regularly, repeatedly torn between old, reliable but autocratic allies and the stability they offer and an enthusiasm for democracy. So much so that it's reasonable to ask, why does America so often back the bad guys? It's not just cynical self interest. Americans are idealistic and optimistic. They glory in the fact that their country was born because of a revolution against tyranny. Many hold to a fierce conviction that their rebellion and against us was a clarion call for universal freedom that still echoes in the world today. But American interests also matter to Americans, and in the world as it is. American policymakers have often decided that the choice is between the bad guys and the worst guys. This is not new. Two of the founding fathers, Jefferson and Adams, rowed for years about the French Revolution. Jefferson supporting it even as it descended into bloody terror. Adams preferring America's oldest enemy. Yes, us again. America never showed much subsequent enthusiasm for revolution thereafter. But what really did for idealism was the Russian Revolution and an aggressive Soviet empire after the Second World War. America's big bucks did go to the bad guys. Democracy and freedom might have their good points, but not if they allowed wrong headed foreigners to vote for commies. The fall of the Berlin Wall should have ended all that, but it didn't. After 911 Islamists became the new commies, the potential beneficiaries of dangerous democracy. This isn't a left right issue. The Republican neocons whose ideas shaped George Bush's foreign policy were the loudest in proclaiming the universality of freedom and the need for America to aggressively target tyrants. But in government, it was only their enemies that were bombed out of office. Friends got billions and an intermittent lecture. Bush's Secretary of State, Condoleezza Rice went to Cairo to say that the U.S. pursuit of stability in the Middle east at the expense of democracy had achieved neither. But Mubarak continued to get billions of dollars. So the Arab Spring is an interesting moment. History doesn't often do controlled experiments, but the cauldron in the Middle east could provide one for the Obama administration. Everywhere they counsel peace and human rights. But as the Egyptian government tottered, they felt ambivalent. The fall of the government in Bahrain would leave them worried. Libya pleased. Yemen concerned. Saudi terrified. Iran delighted. Obama was elected as the anti Bush and doesn't want America looking bossy or domineering and doesn't want ideology to trump America's interests. But I have a feeling his heart beats a little faster when he sees peaceful crowds on the streets. Why do I think that? Well, for all his talent, he's a curious speaker. Half the time he's strangely bloodless, rattling off well constructed passages with just enough intonation to let you know that he's alive. So when he can be bothered to make your spine tingle, he probably means it. When Mubarak fell, it seemed Obama, rather than Egypt, was liberated. His speech soared. His political being is drenched in a slightly envious admiration for the leaders of the civil rights movement. You know he's on a roll when he uses one of his favorite quotes. The moral arc of the universe bends towards justice. Martin Luther King's adaptation of a line from a 19th century abolitionist white preacher. And yet this was one speech after the event. President Obama has not followed up with more stirring speeches to the people of Bahrain, Yemen or Jordan, let alone delivering a homily on protest in China. Maybe it's simply politic for the US President to stay silent when demonstrators are being accused of being cockroaches in league with sinister foreign powers. But the moral arc of the universe perhaps does not always bend in the same direction as America's selfish strategic interests. And the president only wants to label bad guys as such when they're already history.
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Mark Merdell in Washington. Way back in spring last year, the Belgian government collapsed. Elections followed in June. But no one has been able to form an administration. For eight months now, the nation has been in a state of political paralysis. The very distinct Flemish and French speaking communities just don't seem able to strike a deal that would make a coalition possible. In Brussels, Jonty Bloom has been exploring those linguistic differences that lie at the core of the nation's deep divisions.
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Visiting the national parliament in the centre of Brussels, I noticed that behind the reception desk there was not just one defibrillator kit, but two. One had a sign on it saying that the instructions were in French, the other a sign that the instructions were in Flemish. It struck me at the time that you'd have to be a pretty hardline Flemish or French speaker to insist on having your life saved by the defibrillator with the instructions in your own first language. But in Belgium, that doesn't seem impossible these days. This is a nation of 10.7 million people, but they've just stopped talking to each other. Or to be more precise, they've stopped listening because there's a lot of talking going on. Over the years, in an attempt to defuse the argument over language, more and more power has been given to the regions and different language communities. As a result, there is a national federal parliament with an upper and lower house where you can use any of the official languages. There's also a Flemish regional parliament just across the road where you have to speak Flemish, and a French regional parliament which does its business in French. Of course, there's also a parliament for the French speaking community and one for the Flemish speaking community. They represent the Flemish speakers, including those who happen to live in French speaking areas, and vice versa. And just to be totally fair, there is a parliament for the German speaking community which consists of just 70,000 citizens, perhaps the most over represented people on earth. If that sounds confusing, don't worry, you're not alone. A very senior and experienced politician I spoke to couldn't quite remember if there are six or seven parliaments in Belgium. But the money and power given to all those national and regional assemblies haven't healed the linguistic divide. Instead, they seem to have widened it. Take the town of Linkebeck, a town in Flanders where Flemish is the official language. But these days its citizens are almost exclusively French speaking yuppies from Brussels who've moved to the countryside for a better standard of living and an easy commute into the capital. They of course elect fellow French speakers to the town council, who hold meetings in French, which are then closed down and declared illegal by the Flemish authorities, because by law they have to be held in Flemish. You might think the obvious answer would be to make the first language of Linkerbeck French. Just don't suggest it to the Flemish. They get very upset at the idea and in a sense you can't blame them. Flemish was for generations seen as the language of country bumpkins. Rich, sophisticated Belgians spoke French and Flemish. Children were made to do the same at school. The French speakers ran the country and had all the best jobs. It's only recently, with the economic decline of the old heavy industries in French speaking Wallonia and the rise of new high tech ones in Flemish speaking Flanders, that the shoe has been on the other foot. The result has been an increasingly sharp divide between the two main languages, with even the political parties splitting into French and Flemish groupings. And it's not as though there are many unifying national institutions to counterbalance that trend. The King is a national figurehead, but the Flems say his Flemish isn't perfect. The head of the army had to warn recently that officers should be promoted on their ability to lead in battle, not their language skills. Only for his memo to be leaked, probably by a discontented Flemish speaking officer, or a discontented French speaking officer, or perhaps a very discontented and lonely German speaking officer. The national anthem has three versions with words in three languages. But the acting prime minister, a trilingual politician from Flanders, when asked to sing the French language version instead sang the French national anthem on TV during the Belgian national holiday. It is therefore hardly surprising that the split up of the nation is considered a distinct possibility. Except that nearly everyone I spoke to said it won't happen because of one simple factor, the linguistic divide. You see, with all sides absolutely refusing to give an inch on the issue, no one can think of what to do with Brussels. The city is officially bilingual, but the vast majority of people in Brussels speak French, even though it's surrounded by the Flemish speaking province of Flanders, which claims Brussels as its capital. Compared with solving that problem, creating a national government looks like child's play. They might stand a chance if they tried to form an administration based purely on the three unifying things that all Belgians love equally, whatever language they speak. Chips, beer and chocolate. Although that would get my vote, it's not going to be enough to break this linguistic logjam. Belgium looks destined to continue with a caretaker government for months to come.
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That was Jonty Bloom. These are difficult times at the BBC. World Service language services in Albanian, Serbian, Macedonian, Portuguese for Africa and in English for the Caribbean are closing. On Friday it was the turn of The Serbian service to fall silent. Mark Loewen, who's worked alongside its staff in Belgrade, reflects on the contribution they've made.
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Jovan Chirilov closes his eyes in thought, casting his mind back 70 years. Pa, pa, pa, pa, pa, he sings, his elderly face suddenly animated again. I remember it well, he says. Beethoven's Fifth. That was the jingle for the evening news bulletin on the BBC. We could have been arrested, even killed for listening. The memories are still vivid for this renowned Serbian theatre director. He was eight when the BBC Yugoslav Service was launched, broadcasting in the language formerly known as Serbo Croat to a country that soon fell under occupation by the Nazi led Axis powers. He tells me how he and his father would perch by their shortwave radio, listening to the rare source of independent news under occupied Yugoslavia. We closed the doors and turned down the volume, he says, so nobody else could hear. And so began this vital lifeline of information to a country of 20 million people. As the Second World War progressed, the British government supported the Partisans, the communist resistance force of Josip Broz tito. But the BBC's role was, as ever, to stand above government policy, to remain impartial. And yet still after the war, during Tito's long leadership of the country, there was criticism of the BBC's Yugoslav Service for a perceived pro communist bias. During a parliamentary debate on the service in 1960, the British Liberal Party MP Jeremy Thorpe spoke out. Does not the honourable Member agree that there have been some glaring omissions from the presentation of the British point of view to Yugoslavia and some willful misrepresentations? Is he aware that it is very difficult for somebody holding anti Tito views to obtain the freedom of the air? The British Under Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs Robert Allen replied, I do not accept the honorable member's statements. In general, it seems to me that the best answer to Communism is not to abuse it, but to show that our system is better and that is what the BBC tries to do. For over 50 years, the BBC's Yugoslav service continued its daily broadcasts. And then, as Yugoslavia began its slow and painful collapse into civil war, so the Yugoslav service divided into separate arms in 1991, Serbian and Croatian. During the tumultuous decade of the 1990s, when independent media were taken off air and attacked under Slobodan Milosevic's presidency, BBC Serbian remained in place. There was a tacit respect for us from the regime, says George Ivlaj, Belgrade correspondent for the service since 1993. A Serb leader during the war once said to me, we don't like what you're doing, but we can't do anything about it because facts are facts. The Serbian service always tried to transcend the often difficult political relationship between Serbia and the West. Serbs hated the British government for leading the NATO bombing of Serbia during the Kosovan war, and yet they tuned into the BBC's Serbian service in ever greater numbers. But not everybody was convinced of its impartiality. The BBC is an anti Serb propaganda machine, one Belgrade resident told me, a tool of British colonialism. But in the last decade, a democratic Serbia has emerged free of Milosevic's rule. And during that time, the international BBC news operation and the Serbian Service have shared the same cosy office in the heart of Belgrade, largely hidden in a central apartment block. We have been able to report freely, though also retreat to safety when public tempers have frayed. Every major Serbian figure has passed through this office, from presidents to pundits, from human rights activists to ultra nationalists. And I, as a young reporter in a still sensitive area, have had nothing but friendship and support from this committed and professional Serbian service team, both in London and Belgrade. It is a structure that the BBC uses around the world. BBC News and the language service working together. And it's a successful formula, as I have learned from my native colleagues, wisdom and experience. Drawn on their contacts and their advice, they, my second family, will be profoundly missed by their audience and by me. And what of the legacy of the BBC Serbian Service? It has set the highest standards of journalism, says Jovan Chirilov, still tuning in daily, and it's made those of us who listen, citizens of the world. Since Serbian news is so domestic, the service closes as Serbia extends its hand westwards, striving for EU integration. The argument is that as this country's own media and democratic institutions strengthen, there is less need for the BBC's Serbian language section. But Jovan isn't convinced. You never know with the Balkans, he tells me. There may be rough times ahead when we need the BBC the most. But then it'll be too late. In 1939, the first notes of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony opened the news bulletin to one of the world's great countries. 72 years on, a battered, smaller, weaker Serbia bids farewell Dovidia to its language service. For decades, the BBC has been speaking to this country, throughout its turbulent and profound change. Now it's time for Serbia to go it alone.
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Mark Loewen and that's it for this edition. We'll be back on Thursday and Saturday of next week. Do join us. Goodbye.