← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Jan 15, 2011
00:28:29
Violence on the streets of north Africa -- Chloe Arnold in Algeria says it's not only...
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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 program broadcast on the BBC World Service and presented by Alan Johnston by going to the from our own correspondent website 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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The boredom, rage and resentment which stoked violence on the streets of North Africa and forced a president to flee his country. Also this morning, we're lectured on our moral responsibilities in a holy city in northern Israel. Give an elephant a wash and brush up as Communist Laos darts down the road to capitalism. And we're off to Grand Rapids, Michigan, to find out why some Americans are still captivated by our royal family. Security forces in Tunisia have sealed off the main avenue in the capital, the scene of mass protests which culminated yesterday in the President Zin Al Abedin Ben Ali fleeing the country. The Prime Minister, Mohammed Ghanushi, who assumed power on the president's departure, has ordered the army to restore order. He's meeting political parties today to discuss forming a new government. The uprising in Tunisia sends an ominous message to other authoritarian governments in the region. Chloe Arnold is in neighbouring Algeria, where there's been a series of street protests over unemployment and rising food prices.
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Few people could have predicted how quickly the protests have unravelled in Algeria and Tunisia. What began as localized demonstrations over food prices and unemployment quickly turned to violent clashes with security forces, dozens killed and hundreds wounded. But while in Algeria, the protests have subsided, Tunisians are celebrating the end of 23 years of rule by President Ben Ali, ousted yesterday and forced to flee the country with his family to Saudi Arabia. In Algeria, the protests began in the new year, when the price of staple foods shot up. Last year, a croissant cost 10 dinars. Now it costs 15. An electrician called Murad, shopping at his local bakery, said bakeries and patisseries usually do a roaring trade. In Algeria, there's a big appetite, both for the sticky French confections and the rose and cardamom scented almond cakes traditionally eaten at birthdays and weddings, piled in precarious towers in every baker's window. But for Murad, cakes and croissants have been off the menu. The baker says it's because the price of sugar has gone up. Concern about the cost of food is one reason why thousands took to the streets, demanding the prices be cut. But it's also been a chance to protest at the lack of employment opportunities or adequate housing. The demonstrations quickly turned violent rioters throwing stones and bottles at police who fired back with tear g. Officially, two people were said to have died here in Algeria, though protesters say the real figure was a lot higher. The riots mostly took place at night, shops and buildings ransacked, some set alight. I had an eerie feeling driving through the capital one morning, the streets empty but for dozens of police in armoured vans and the smoke from half a dozen burnt out buildings rising gently into the sky. Less than a week into the rioting, the government backed down, announcing a reduction in import taxes on sugar and cooking oil, meaning a return to last year's subsidized prices. As quickly as the riots began, they seemed to fade away. In Tunisia, the story's a little different. Last month, a young university graduate set himself on fire after police confiscated the fruit and vegetables he'd been selling at a local market. It was the only job he'd been able to find, but police said he was operating without a license. His death triggered a series of protests across the country over unemployment, lack of freedom and police brutality. The popular rap star Hamada Ben Amour was arrested after releasing a song entitled President, you, People Are Dying. By the middle of the week, those demonstrations had moved to the capital, Tunis. The army was sent in, but within days, the President was forced to dissolve his government and stepped down. One thing both countries have in common is a vast population of young people with very little to do. There's even a word for it here from the Arabic word for wall, which describes the thousands of young men who stand all day leaning against walls because there are so few jobs. They joke that when the Berlin Wall came down, they should have sent it to North Africa so they could lean against it. In both countries, boredom, resentment and disillusionment with the government have led to the unrest in Tunisia. Young people have stood up to what they describe as decades of repression. As they saw it, they had nothing to lose. But perhaps because of Algeria's recent troubled history, the riots were over within a fortnight. People remember what they call here the black years, which began in the 1990s when Islamist militants fought security forces and hundreds of thousands lost their lives. With that in mind, the most Algerians have lost their appetite for any more political upheaval. A few days ago, I met Sid Ahmed, a marketing student at Algiers University, in our local grocery store. It's an Aladdin's cave that sells everything from fire lighters to tinned peaches to gleaming copper coffee pots. Together, we scoured the shelves, comparing the prices of food that day to last year. Sugar, biscuits, yogurt, sunflower oil. They all cost up to 50% more, though the shopkeeper assured us the prices would come down again by the weekend. With a sigh, Sid Ahmed put the date rolls he couldn't afford back on the shelf. The trouble is, he told me, like so many, my family and my friends are struggling to make ends meet, and the government does nothing to change that. It's that sentiment that underlies the worst unrest these two countries have seen in many years.
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Chloe Arnold on the turmoil in North Africa South Sudanese people based in Europe have been travelling to London to vote in the historic independence referendum. They've been coming from places as far afield as Moscow, Geneva and Rome to Westminster Central hall, which is their only referendum polling station in the whole of Europe. The doors close there at 6.30 this evening and it will be about a fortnight before the result is known. But Will Ross, who spent the last week in southern Sudan, says all the signs are that its people will choose to secede and a new African nation will be born.
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Picking up fresh cow dung with your bare hands. It doesn't sound like a very appealing way to make a living, does it? But for the cattle keepers of southern Sudan, it's a daily dawn ritual. Elijah Garang emerged from his shelter made from sticks and plastic sheeting, adjusted his woolly hat, which had Manchester emblazoned across it, and surrounded by his herd of white, long horned cows, he started doing the housework. The cattle had made quite a mess of the open air living room, but with the whole family, including the young children, joining in, soon the dung had all been collected and heaped onto small fires dotted around the camp. This was the homegrown method of warding off mosquitoes. You could call it the George Bush approach. Smoke em out. I was there to gauge the appetite for independence, and Elijah became very animated when I asked how he felt about the prospect of Southern Sudan breaking away to form a new country. It'll be great for us because then we can be at peace. We've been suffering for so many years, he told me. This is a common refrain here. Decades of war between the south and the Islamic north has left people with a long list of sad memories and a great deal of bitterness. I used to have thousands of cattle, elijah said as he smothered cold ash across the hide of one of his cows, the local all in one sunblock and insect repellent. But I lost so many animals in the war. I even lost my wife and other relatives. The fact that the cattle were mentioned first before the people gives you some idea of just how loved these animals are. Watching as they were patted and preened the scene reminded me of that weekend ritual which is so common in Britain when men emerge from their homes to wash, polish and wax their cars proudly. Over the last week, cattle herders across the south have been walking, often for several hours, to reach the polling stations. The independence referendum is an event which many told me they could hardly believe they were witnessing. I couldn't sleep at night, I was so excited, stella told me as she cast her ballot in a small village in the state of Western Equatoria. I voted for independence so that my children will have a better life than we've had. Heavily pregnant, Stella said, adding that she had spent years in exile in refugee camps after fleeing across the Ugandan border when she was 10. Even the domestic animals have experienced today's joy, she added. When I mentioned this remark to an old man under a towering mango tree, he said, you have to remember that when the northern forces sent over Antonov planes to bomb these villages, we all rushed to the underground shelters. Even the dogs, chickens and ducks would hurry there as soon as they heard the distant hum of the plane. Now I can't get the image out of my mind of the ducks heading for the bunker at a speedy waddle. I checked the voting queue and you'll be glad to know there were no feathered friends there. But from the way people were talking, the ducks would also be voting for secession if they could. In the same village, I met John Patrick, who just returned south after spending two decades in the Sudanese capital, Khartoum, when the war had become too intense, he'd moved north to try to finish his education. I had to walk for hours to reach the school each day. It was impossible. So in the end I had to give up, john Patrick said. In Khartoum, he said he'd been treated as a third class citizen and had faced discrimination every day. He learned to repair old radios, to scrape a living, and today he sits on the veranda in front of a bar right next to the reddy brown dirt road that runs through the village. I came to vote for my freedom, he told me, before performing some major surgery on an ancient, battered radio that burst into life with a song by the Congolese musician Franco. I asked what the reunion with his parents had been like. I hadn't seen them for 20 years. It's difficult to put in words, but tears flowed that day, he told me, largely because of the lengthy war. The south of Sudan is one of the very poorest places on earth. John Patrick knows that starting a new country there is going to be tough. But for him, being back home is the most important thing and he seems ready to face the challenges. We used to have an orange farm here. It was burnt during the war, but we'll start another, he said. This part of the south of Sudan is extremely fertile and has the potential to become the breadbasket of the region. But to say that farming could do with a bit of modernisation would be an understatement. We recently taught the farmers here a new practice. One aid worker told me the use of the ox drawn plough. He added, this place clearly has some catching up to do. After a monumental struggle, the independence flag looks set to be hoisted here in July. I hope I'll be back to witness what will be a huge party for the people of Southern Sudan and of course, for the cows, the chickens and the ducks.
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And that was Will Ross. There have been signs of change in communist Laos this week with the opening of the country's first stock exchange. Not a lot of action so far with shares in only two companies being traded. Coincidentally, the opening in the capital, Vientiane, came shortly after the death of a man associated with an earlier, darker chapter of the country's history. General Vang Pao was part of the CIA's secret army which fought against the Communists in laos in the 1960s and 70s. Claudia Hammond says people in Laos today are determined to put history to one side and move on. They hope to follow their neighbours across the border in China on the path towards prosperity.
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It was just after dawn when I took a motorised canoe across the river to meet 48 year old May Boonam. As the sun began to rise, she made her way down the path from the jungle where she'd been sleeping. Mei is an Asian elephant who's been rescued from a working life spent logging to become part of the new spirit of private enterprise in Laos. The Communist government is now encouraging private business and this elephant village outside the pretty town of Luang Prabang, famous for its Buddhist temples and orange clad monks, is attracting plenty of tourists keen to have the chance to see elephants close up. The old name for the Kingdom of Laos supposedly translates as the land of a million elephants. But although fewer elephants than that remain, now, it turns out that with the addition of an accent, the name translates as Valley of the Elephants. So there probably never were a million. May was blinded in one eye after it was slashed by a branch during her old job. And another injury has left her with a small hole in her right ear, but she's so vast that when her keeper or mahout and I ride her bare back, she carries us as though we're as light as babies. Then it's time for what he tells me is her favourite part of the day. And I ride from the muddy banks straight into the deepest part of the river, where she appears to take pleasure in falling to her knees to dunk me, while her barefoot mahout, Mr. Lidd, sits behind me, casually playing with his BlackBerry. I take a scrubbing brush and clean the leaves and dirt off the surprisingly delicate skin on her head and back. In a country where employment opportunities are still few, working in tourism is one alternative to subsistence farming. A day's drive west brings me to a region once again dominated by farming, but which feels as though it's poised for something new. The area surrounding the town of Fonsavan is the most bombed in the world. During the so called Secret War between 1964 and 1970, the US spent $2 million a day dropping bombs on this part of Laos in a failed attempt to prevent communism from taking hold. The equivalent of a plane full of bombs dropped every eight minutes for nine years. On the so called Plain of Jars, which contains hundreds of mysterious giant stone pots made over two and a half thousand years ago, I saw bomb craters the size of swimming pools. Local people make use of the old ordinance, rocket cases are used as window boxes and diffused cluster bombs serve as ash trays in cafes, one of which is even appropriately named Craters. Yet thousands of items of unexploded ordnance remain, and from time to time children still lose limbs from explosions after picking up the old cluster bombs, which look like shiny yellow tennis balls. The first safety songs they learn at school are not about crossing the road, but about the dangers of touching any metal they might find. More than half the farmers in the region say they'd like to expand their operations if it wasn't for the fear that cultivating more land might disturb an unexploded bomb. An international charity, the Mines Advisory Group, is going through the painstaking work of trying to clear the area, and their spokesman tells me one fringe benefit is that the involvement of local women in this brave and vital job has improved the status of women in the town. Looking at the job adverts in the local papers, it's clear that there are few opportunities apart from jobs with the development organisations working here. Yet in this town, new infrastructure is being built. Walking around the flat, dusty town, it's clear that there are high hopes here for the future. Not far from the old market, where tiny birds are spatchcocked and barbecued, ready to eat whole, there are brand new buildings, housing development, corporations, each set back from the road with a grand driveway. There's a dual carriageway with new street lighting, which was put in just weeks ago. Yet as I walk along the pavement in the evening, barely a car or motorbike passes me on this perfect new road. It almost feels like a larger town that's in limbo, waiting for a bigger future. But investment into the region is coming from China, South Korea and Thailand, and people seem optimistic. Just a few days ago, the Laos Stock Exchange opened for the first time. Starting with just two companies, there's a sense that Laos is moving on from the old battles and hoping to follow its neighbour China into times of new prosperity. The Hmong leader Vang Pao will be mourned by many, but his death also breaks one of the last links with the Indochina wars in recent years. He called for a new era of peace, prosperity and reconciliation to return to Laos. People here are hoping that private enterprise will provide the solution.
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Claudia Hammond in Laos. Next, we're off to one of the holy cities of Judaism. Tzfat, also known as Safed, is in the north of Israel and something of a summer holiday resort for both foreign and Israeli visitors. Tzfat is perhaps best known for its claim to be the birthplace of Kabbalah, the controversial brand of Jewish mysticism which purports to answer tricky questions about the nature of the universe, the purpose of existence and so on. While Kabbalah may be best known to some for its celebrity supporters, like the Beckhams and Madonna, Tzifat attracts Jews of every sort, as Clive Lawton's been finding out.
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Perched on a hill within sight and shelling distance of the Lebanese border, Tzvat is cultivating a niche tourism profile as the home of Jewish spirituality. And it can make a fair claim to be the cradle of the distinctive and increasingly popular Jewish school of mysticism, Kabbalah. No better day to encounter Jewish spirituality than the most spiritual day of the week, Shabbat. So after the day, tripper coach parties leave. On Friday afternoon, Tzfat finds itself still full, with visitors planning to stay and immerse themselves in the mystical ambience of a Tzfat. Shabbat. All around Tzfat, they are getting ready. Most distinctively dressed are Hasidim followers of the mystical, charismatic teachings of a Polish rabbi in the 18th century. But their apparent uniformity is misleading. The various sects sport sometimes tiny costume variations. Jewish hippies who may have already tried Indian mysticism come to see if the Jewish version resonates. Clapping, singing, Bratzlav Hasidim surround them on the streets, exemplifying the advice of their 19th century Ukrainian master who taught them to embrace all things with simple joy. Brat slavers provide a striking contrast to most Hasidim who wear black coats, black hats and tight shiny ringlets at their ears on Shabbat. Its beautiful black satin frock coats, knee breeches and stunning round fur hats. Bratzlav Hasidim, though, often wear white. Sometimes they're in white caftans with large full head covering, crocheted white skull caps. Their side curls are often hardly curled at all, but escape straggly, as if life's too much fun to spend time disciplining hair. Other Orthodox Jews, dark coated men and modestly dressed women mingle with the Hasidim. Often they have several children in tow and come from their fairly insular communities in Brooklyn, Jerusalem, North Manchester, Melbourne, Antwerp, wherever. While some of the crowd are Hasidim, some are not. And it takes an experienced eye to spot the subtle differences. But all Jews, it seems, as they arrive in Tzfat, relax. Time here is time out. Observing Jewish practices, learning Jewish things seem easy and accessible. Singing lasts longer. People stroll sociably with apparently hardly a care in the world. If elsewhere, such Orthodox Jews seem a bit too focused to interrupt, perhaps even forbidding, Tzvat on Shabbat is ideal for buttonholing some and getting to know them also. I told my non Jewish companion I think he had misgivings. As we approached three young men, perhaps late teens, in dark suits and broad brimmed hats, My trained eye told me they're not Hasidim. Wrong hats. Shabbat shalom. I greeted them. Good Shabbos. They responded in the German, Hebrew, Yiddish mix of Central and Eastern European Jews for centuries. But their American accents emboldened me. Where are you from? Brooklyn. So tell me, what are you doing at the moment? We're still in high school. And your ambition? Obviously we'd like to study, but it's not always possible. A life of Jewish study is their ideal. And if you can't, then maybe I'll do what my brother did. He became an actuary. These young men have studied Talmud for long hours around their American secular studies since they were 10. The Talmud is a 19 volume compendium of rabbinic debate. Those who study it are expected to become fluent in at least three languages and have been challenged by the Complexities of rabbinic disputes since elementary school. Qualifying as an actuary, a really challenging profession, seems like a reasonable and easily achievable fallback position. Then we approached another two father and son perhaps dark suits again, broad brimmed fedora hats. My guess, they're Lubavitch Hasidim. Unlike all other Hasidic groups, Lubavitch Hasidim are out there all over the world, wherever Jews might be. Kind of internal Jewish missionaries trying to make all Jews a bit more religiously involved. Shabbat Shalom, I said. I was explaining to my non Jewish friend here about Lubavitches. Can you tell us why you don't wear conventional Hasidic clothing? You're not Jewish, says the older man to my companion. Do you believe in God? Well, no, not really, says my well mannered English friend, unprepared for a full on rabbinic encounter. Not really. How do you know there's no God? Well, I don't really know. Aha. So you're almost certainly a believer who can't admit it to himself. Good. So what God wants of you, of all human beings, is to keep the basic laws of morality. Do you know what they are? No stopping him now. An instant seminar There on the street, I stood like a spare part, watching and listening as this Hasid lectured a non Jew on his moral responsibilities in a quiet cobbled courtyard in northern Israel. No doubt about it, there's something remarkable
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about Tsvat Clive Lawton youn might think that with republicanism at the very heart of US politics that Americans would have little time for kings and queens and all that go with them. But some, it seems, continue to be captivated by the idea of monarchy and the romance and fantasy which surrounds it. Laura Trevelyan's been to see an exhibition which celebrates the life of Prince William's mother Diana, which is currently pulling in the crowds in the American Midwest.
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Have you been wondering where Diana's wedding dress is? Along with the 25 foot train which dominated the isle of St. Paul's Cathedral, look no further than Grand Rapids, Michigan. Of all the towns in all the world, this is where it's currently in residence. Coming face to face with the famous cream dress, magnificent in all its early 80s flounciness, was a somewhat spooky experience. As I stared at the matching bridal parasol in its glass case, specially made in case of rain but never used, I was suddenly 12 years old again, glued to the TV on the day of Charles and Diana's wedding. That sense of nostalgia is ever present here as you look at childhood videos of Diana doing handstands and walk past some of her other famous outfits. A Celebration is a traveling exhibition from the Spencer family ancestral home of Althorpe in Northamptonshire. With impeccable timing, it opened in Grand Rapids the week before William and Kate's engagement. The dress designer and philanthropist Pamela Rowland had lobbied for the exhibit to come to her hometown. Like so many across the world, Pamela felt she knew Diana and admired her good works, grace and elegance. She mourned when Diana died, and now Pamela's looking to William and Kate to continue Diana's legacy. She is not alone, judging by the exhibition's success. Grand Rapids is a charming Midwestern town boasting an art museum and a concert hall. Its elegant downtown historic district is carefully preserved. The urban decay of nearby Detroit is nowhere to be seen. At the time of the American Revolutionary War, Grand Rapids hadn't even been settled by the Europeans, so there wasn't a statue of King George III to be torn down. Yet despite having no apparent connection with royalty whatsoever, thousands from Grand Rapids and beyond are flocking here. So why, in this ostensibly meritocratic land of the free, does the hereditary feudal monarchy have such appeal? Who better to ask than four generations of the Henneman family who made the pilgrimage in freezing cold conditions from the other side of Michigan State? The great grandmother, now in a wheelchair, watched the coronation of the Queen in 1953 and feels a sense of historic connection with Britain. The grandmother saw royalty as remote and austere until Diana drew her in. The mother, Meredith, loved Diana's movie star looks and accessibility, while the granddaughter wants to be a princess and loves tiaras, of which there are plenty. In the exhibition by the pictures of the banks of flowers which piled up across central London in the wake of Diana's death, I found Barb Behrens and Susan Macket reminiscing. The two friends were in London at that time and signed one of the books of condolence by Kensington Palace. Barb explained that she wasn't very interested in the royals until Diana, whose very public philanthropy and canny use of her own image she found compelling. Barb and many others here see something American in the story of Kate Middleton. She's the commoner who's marrying a prince, a tale of social mobility, which is appealing and even inspiring. Here Susan Macket identifies with what she sees as Kate's Midwestern values, the idea that common sense, patience and hard work have their own reward. William and Kate's engagement has revived Barb and Susan's interest in the monarchy, which became dormant after Diana's death. They, and so many others I met, are following this latest royal story avidly. There's also a touching concern for the young couple. As Meredith Henneman pointed out, Diana's story was far from being a fairy tale, much as this exhibition places her wedding dress in pride of place and records how Diana saw it as the happiest day of her life. Everyone knows how the marriage failed and the Princess's life was cut short in a car crash in France. Pamela Rowland hopes the royal family has learnt from the past and will find a way to harness William and Kate's appeal while also protecting them. Barb Behrens and Susan Macket are waiting with great interest to find out which charities Kate will champion. And that's very American, too. The sense that with great privilege comes responsibility and a duty to give back. The New World may have rebelled against the King's rule more than 200 years ago, but that gives a useful perspective. Royal advisors could do worse than to listen to the unsolicited advice coming from Grand Rapids, far from the ancient palaces of London.
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And with that from Laura Trevelyan in the American Midwest, we reach the end of another programme. Our midweek edition's back next week, so two chances to join our correspondence on Thursday and on Saturday mornings. Do hope you'll join us. Goodbye.