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From Our Own Correspondent
Jordan Retaliates
00:27:47
The news behind the news. In this edition Paul Adams is in Jordan as the country takes...
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- [00:01]
Kate Ady
Thank you for downloading the latest edition of BBC Radio's from our own correspondent, the best in news and current affairs storytelling.
- [00:09]
Narrator/Presenter
It's introduced by Kate Ady. Hello. Anyone can end up homeless, but in a winter as icy as Canada's, that can mean a death sentence. Hungary's most famous gypsy, just a few weeks old but already at the centre of a bitter row over racism. Our correspondence on a driving range in Beijing, not working on his golf swing, but investigating a death in the family. And it's less Dr. Zhivago, more Mrs. Bean, when we let the huskies do the driving on a frozen river beyond the Arctic Circle. But first this morning to Amman in Jordan. Yesterday, thousands took to the streets to protest against the murder of the air force pilot captured by Islamic State militants in December. The rallies followed the news that Jordanian warplanes had launched dozens of new airstrikes on IS positions. A military statement said that terrorist training camps had been hit, as well as weapons and ammunition storehouses. The country's foreign minister, NASA Judah, warned the operation was just the beginning of Jordan's retaliation for what he described as a horrific and brutal killing. Paul Adams has sent us this dispatch.
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Paul Adams
I was half asleep when the call came through, slumped uncomfortably in the back of a car, dozing off the effects of a day spent crisscrossing northern Israel. The sat nav told us we'd gain a few minutes on the return journey to Jerusalem, but by going down the Jordan Valley. So when the phone rang and a BBC voice from London said, go to Amman now, I was already halfway there, on the Jordanian side of the Allenby Bridge, in those familiar smoke filled minutes of uncertainty that always accompany Middle Eastern border crossings. I looked up at the TV screens in the arrivals hall, at images I'd only started to hear about and wasn't quite ready to see. Most Western news organizations tend to exercise extreme caution when it comes to the graphic images and political content of. Of videos whose subtext sometimes seem less important than an obvious desire to scare us witless. But here in the Middle east, broadcasters and the public are less squeamish when it comes to man's inhumanity to man, it sometimes seems there's nothing they won't show. And so the handful of travelers making the late crossing were treated to something unspeakable, even by the depraved standards we have so quickly come to expect. Not quite the moment of immolation, but everything else, over and over. I looked at the faces watching beside me, but most seemed blank, inured or not quite comprehending. I couldn't tell. But it was clear as I boarded a taxi for Amman that by the end of the evening every Jordanian would know exactly what had been done to one of their sons. The following morning we headed south to find Lieutenant Muad Alcaspe's family home which winding through rocky hills turned green by winter rain past villages perched on the slopes high above the Dead Sea. Far below in the desert haze, the salty lake at the bottom of the world gave off a dull glow. On our way, we passed the imposing ramparts of the castle at Kerak, one of the largest fortresses in the Middle east. Built in the 12th century, it served for a while as the headquarters of the notorious Crusader Reynald of Chatillon, who used it as a base from which to menace Mecca itself. And it's said, delighted in throwing his enemies from the castle walls onto the rocks far below. Regarded as one of Islam's most implacable enemies, he spent 15 years in prison in Aleppo, was freed for a vast ransom of gold, but was finally captured and beheaded by Saladin himself. It all happened more than 800 years ago, but. But for the men who fight under the banner of Islamic State, it might just as well have been yesterday. For them, the Crusaders are still here, along with their modern day allies, the Zionists. They still deal in ransoms and like Reynald, they're not above throwing their enemies to their deaths from tall buildings. And in this holy war they clearly feel justified in meting out a uniquely horrible punishment to a fellow Muslim who has the temerity to take up arms against them. And so finally we reached the village. The surrounding hills were deserted, but a was packed cars lining the streets. All around the building that serves as the tribal headquarters, workers were putting up a huge sign above the door. From now on, this place will be known as the hall of the Martyr Moaz al Kasaspeh. Next to it, solemn well wishes were making their way along a receiving line into a vast white marquee. Men in traditional robes, men in suits, men in the uniforms of the army and the air force. No women here. They were attending a separate event nearby. And there in the corner being embraced and kissed. The pilot's father, Safi, receiving public condolences for the first of three long days as waiters offered dates and cardamon scented coffee to rows of seated guests. The Kasaspes were already a prominent family before this appalling event. Part of the influential Barashe tribe, one of the clans that formed the backbone of support for the Hashemite Kingdom. Now Safi, the father of the martyr, is the voice of the nation. Last week, pleading for his son's life, he questioned Jordan's role in the US led coalition against IS now his hopes so brutally dashed, he told me Jordan should hunt down the militants wherever they are and destroy them. The next day, as King Abdullah arrived to pay his respects, jets flew overhead. Apparently on their way back from bombing IS targets. Jordan says it's stepping up its involvement in the campaign. Have the men who lit the torch that killed Moaz Al Kasaspe overreach themselves? Or is this exactly what they want?
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Narrator/Presenter
And that's Paul Adams. Now we tend to think of Canada as a well off country blessed with many resources, a place where life seems on the whole rather comfortable. But in fact, it has a serious homelessness problem. With more than 200,000 Canadians saying they've nowhere to go, the number of people living below the poverty line has been steadily increasing since the 1990s, when the federal government started cutting back its contributions to social housing. Not having a home to go to is difficult anywhere, but in a country with one of the world's coldest climates, it can be positively life threatening. And already this winter, a number of cold weather related deaths have been reported among the homeless. Sian Griffiths has been following developments in Ottawa.
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Kate Ady
Despite what the glossy brochures might suggest, living in Canada isn't like being on a perpetual skiing holiday. It can be quite an effort. Being Canadian, you have to adapt to one of the most hostile climates on the planet or you face freezing to death. Winter in Ottawa, Canada's capital, means enduring temperatures as low as -36 Celsius. With the wind chill factor. Never mind the snowstorms, the biting arctic winds navigating through often deep snow or walking on black ice that's very treacherous. The threat of frostbite is always very present should any extremities, any skin, be exposed. But if you're well resourced, you'll probably get by. Like most Canadians, I live in a nice warm home. Before I go out, I usually put on two to three layers of warm clothing. Woolen socks, two pairs of gloves, a warm hat, a big bulky scarf and winter boots. Good, warm, waterproof footwear is essential. Cold, wet feet means you're feeling penetratingly, shudderingly cold. On top of all of the layers, I wear a very heavy, expensive winter coat. I get into a heated vehicle, a car or a bus, and usually end up in a heated building. This daily ritual, a scaled down version of the way an explorer might prepare for an Arctic trek is simply something Canadians take for granted. It's quite a different story, however, if you're homeless. They just don't have the resources to cope with this demanding weather. They make do with donated items of clothing, which can get wet, get stolen or simply disappear and hope for somewhere warm to rest their heads. Being homeless is a precarious existence anywhere, but during a Canadian winter, it's positively life threatening. At the Salvation army shelter in Ottawa's Bywood Market, men fill a lobby area after days spent milling about the city's bone chilling streets. On the evening I visit, it's heaving beyond capacity, like all of the city shelters and all the beds will be full. There will be nowhere left to sleep except on mats on the floor, but at least that's indoors. I meet Eric and Adrian, two homeless men in the shelter. Eric has a bed for the night, while Adrian isn't sure where he'll end up, on someone's sofa or possibly on the freezing street. Eric, who is well spoken, has greying yellowing hair and moustache. His ashen coloured face is somewhat weather beaten. You put your hand in a freezer, you'll feel it numbing, he says, describing what it feels like to be in the cold. When the windchill hits minus 36, it feels twice as cold as the average freezer. You get used to it as long as you keep moving around, he tells me. He says he's been in the system, as he puts it, for 18 months. He's already lost 10 friends to suicide, drug overdoses and poor health. The extreme cold is just another daily threat. Homeless people in Canada have half the life expectancy of the general population. Adrian, originally from Jamaica, is hunched over and looks like he's perpetually trying to get warm, even though he's indoors. He's been on the street for 10 years. He tells me he often sleeps outside because he doesn't know where his crack cocaine addiction will take him. Eric says that being in a shelter with 150 guys can be a big adjustment. Fights can start over. The littlest thing, when it gets cold, the shelters will be packed and busy. You have to watch your possessions. For a lot of guys, this is all they have. Outreach workers drive around trying to persuade people to come in. They offer warm clothes and sleeping bags to those they can't bring back if it means keeping those down on their luck, safe for one more freezing night. The carers say that while it's true some homeless people may have had bad experiences in shelters, they worry about those whose judgment may be impaired. By mental health issues and addictions, and who can't tell when it's really best to get indoors. Anyone can end up homeless. A life crisis like a divorce or losing a job can lead to a downward spiral. Many may be struggling with mental health or addiction problems. A lot of Canadians are said to be just one paycheck away from needing a shelter. The men tell me they are on waiting lists for social housing, but it's a long wait. The city of Ottawa has a 10 year plan to tackle homelessness, but for Eric And Adrian, that's 10 winters away. For now, Eric says his ambition is to survive, especially when it's going to get cold. You live every day as if it's your last.
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Narrator/Presenter
Sian Griffiths in Ottawa, a baby boy, hardly more than a month old today finds himself at the centre of a bitter race row in Hungary. He's called Ricardo, and he was the very first baby born there this year. He was from the Roma community. Not that there was anything unusual in that, in a country where around 8% of the 10 million population belong to that minority. But a comment on Facebook by a far right parliamentary deputy that Gypsies would soon outnumber Hungarians has set off a nationwide controversy about racism. Nick Thorpe has been to meet the family at the centre of the storm.
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Nick Thorpe
Outside the Coroner Hotel in Mako, a town in southern Hungary famous for its warm weather and its excellent onions, stands the bronze statue of Mihalyol, a gypsy violin virtuoso. He holds his violin lightly in his left hand, the bow in the right, and looks to one side as though directing the applause of the audience towards the other members of the band. Geyseratz on second violin, his dad Gezer on viola, Joseph Kelechenyi on the cymbalom, a kind of Hungarian dulcimer, and Janosz Puka on double bass. These were the most famous Gypsies of Moko until little Ricardo came along. Mihaly Fatiol played the dance halls of Budapest and Europe from the 1920s to the 1970s at a time when no restaurant, no society wedding was complete without a gypsy orchestra. Ricardo Ratz was born at one minute past midnight five weeks ago and thus became the first baby born in Hungary this year. National as well as local media noted his birth, and a photo of Peter and his wife Silvia holding Ricardo made the front pages. Then Ellard Nowak, deputy leader of the far right Jobbik party, posted that picture beside one of himself. His wife and three children on Facebook mentioned that Ricardo was the third child of a 23 year old gypsy mother then added, the number of Hungarians is not just falling disastrously, but soon we will become a minority in our own homes. When will the day come when they decide to change Hungary's name? And when will we finally tackle our country's biggest problem? This provoked an avalanche of both condemnation and approval. Ricardo's birth seemed to hold up a mirror in which both Hungarian racism and anti racism were reflected. They're breeding like rats, like parasites, was a typical comment from those who sided with the Jorbik deputy. Opposition and government politicians tried to outdo one another with gestures and words of solidarity with the family, Ricardo became Hungary's most famous gypsy at only a few days old. I meet Ricardo, his mother Silvia and father Peter in the town hall of Moko. The splendid old building smells of new paint. There are wooden parquet floors, a cluster of flags and the mayor herself, Eva Erzebet Farkos. As every year, she says she promised 100,000 forints, about £250 to the parents of the first baby born in her town in 2015. Without realizing what she was letting the family in for, Ricardo takes one look at your BBC reporter and bursts into tears. Nothing personal, his parents reassure me. He's just eaten and his tummy hurts. Peter outlines his life story. The family are the only Roma living in a small village on the edge of Moko. They get on well with everyone and have never experienced personal hostility or racism before. Peter does community work and is just taking his driving test for tractors and harvesters. Their two daughters are still at kindergarten. I just want a quiet family life with no media attention, he explains. Warm food at home when I get back from work, my family around me. Sylvia hands him the now wide eyed baby, the sometimes quiet point at the centre of the storm. People should not be stigmatized from the moment of their birth, she says. When my son is 18, he can decide whether he identifies himself as Roma or not. It's not his fault that he came into this world a few moments after midnight. Maybe there was racism in Hungary before this, but we didn't feel it, she adds. We, we love living in this town. Everyone is kind to us here now. My baby is giving me the strength to get through this. All that differentiates us is the colour of our skin, says Peter. We have the same hearts and blood and souls. Ricardo will go to kindergarten and school and learn a trade like any other child. They're in a rush to fetch their daughters and go home. I offered them a lift, but they'd rather take the bus. Elod Nowak, the parliamentary deputy, has refused to apologize for his comments and even suggested that Peter should apologise to him. Far right media are still full of allegations of an explosion of gypsy births. They maintain it's Hungary's biggest problem. They don't seem to realize that Gypsies are Hungarians too, with equal rights. Peter, Silvia and Ricardo disappear into the sleet and gloom of the February afternoon past the statue to Mihai Fatyol, violin
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Narrator/Presenter
virtuoso Nick Thorpe, back now at his base in Budapest. Listeners last week may have heard Chris Bowlby talk of the destruction of Beijing's Summer palace in 1860. The perpetrators were British and French troops who also looted priceless artworks, a collection which had been put together by successive Chinese emperors. The incident continues to cast a shadow over relations between the two countries. He pointed out the significance of that in what's likely to be a key year in Sino British relations, Prince William is about to visit China. There's talk of a state visit here by the Chinese president, Xi Jinping, but our reporter has a personal interest in those events. In the 19th century, an ancestor was part of the story.
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Chris Bowlby
It was the end of a long day of interviewing and filming, and my poor Chinese translator and fixer responded with infinite patience. When, armed with a vague map reference, I asked whether we could go and look for a green space in a Beijing suburb. There was, I hinted, a kind of mysterious ancestral duty I felt I had to fulfill, something the Chinese are perhaps especially good at understanding. We battled through horrendous rush hour traffic before finally arriving at the entrance to a municipal park. I assume we were too late that it would be closing as a winter evening descended, but I was surprised to find groups of locals exercising in the darkness. Peering at my map, we finally located the patch of enclosed green, which I hoped would connect me, through my family, to this place and help me understand the circumstances of a gruesome death and a catastrophic act of revenge. What was I so keen to find? This was the site of a Russian cemetery in the Chinese capital, one of the few places where Christians could be buried in the 19th century. And it was where my ancestor, a journalist named Thomas William Bowlby, had been buried in 1860. But his had been no ordinary death. He'd been accompanying a joint Anglo French expedition at the end of the Opium wars, invading China to force its imperial government and markets to open up to the West. He, like me, was on his first visit to China, and as fascinated as I was by a place of dynamism and yet deep tradition in his diary and reports for the Times newspaper. He'd written about everything from admirably cultivated gardens and local sewage systems to impressive architecture. But alongside it all was an imperialist confidence in the superiority of his civilization and its military power. That confidence led to a fatal miscalculation. He went ahead with a delegation, assuming they'd witnessed Chinese surrender. Instead, they were taken prisoner. Thomas Bowlby and several others were tortured and left to die. His mangle body, identified only by the name written in his socks, was delivered in a rough coffin back to the British commander, Lord Elgin. He and Bowlby had become friendly during the expedition and now he feared looking weak back in Britain if this Chinese insult were not avenged. So after burying Bowlby in that Russian cemetery with full military honours, he ordered that the Imperial Summer Palace, a fabulous complex of buildings near Beijing, be burnt down. What the British did is taught today to all Chinese children, part of a patriotic education program introduced by a Communist government promising that under its leadership, China will never again suffer such humiliation. Lord Elgin's decision, and in case you're wondering, he was the son of the Lord Elgin, linked with the removal of those sculptures from Greece, is condemned as straightforward Western barbarism. In this Chinese version of events, the murder of hostages barely features. I went to see one of China's top academic experts, Wang Daochang. His study was crammed with research material. A small statue of Chairman Mao peeping from behind one pile of yellowing paper. Professor Dao Chang smiled effusively, but lectured me implacably on the history of Western aggression and Chinese weakness. I finally managed to pose a question about the torture and deaths of Bowlby and the other hostages. Was that not an explanation of why Lord Elgin and the British authorities had destroyed the palace? This is what they said to justify their actions, he replied dismissively. That's the way they tried to maintain the so called moral high ground. When I visited the Summer palace ruins and learned of its beauty and its extraordinary art collections looted by British and French soldiers, it was easy to understand the anger. And yet the death of Thomas Bowlby is part of that story. While the palace and its fate is still so strongly remembered today, had any trace of him survived. So there I was, back in that park, emerging onto the green space to find not a cemetery, no gravestones or mausoleums, but a golf driving range. Bemused, Chinese golfers wondered what on earth this Brit was doing, scanning their floodlit lawn in case ancient stones or inscriptions were visible. There was nothing, for this is another China not preoccupied with Western historical crimes here were Chinese citizens in a spirit of sporting global enjoying a game imported from Lord Elgin's Scottish homeland. No personal link for me then, surviving in the Beijing landscape. But in some ways I thought as I made my way back, a place offering more hope for the future than a reminder of bitter history.
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Narrator/Presenter
And that's Chris Bowlby. Think it's cold here in the north of Finland. It's been down below minus 30 Celsius and saying minus 22 Fahrenheit doesn't make it sound much warmer. But the temperatures don't deter hardy British holiday makers. Half a million of them will visit the country this year. Some perhaps will be there to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the birth of the composer Sibelius. But many are intent on enjoying the country's natural beauty, its mountains, lakes and the celebrated northern lights, or aurora borealis. If you're in the chilly north, they reckon you can see this magical phenomenon on 200 nights a year. Christine Finn went hoping not only for a sight of those famous lights, but also to travel through the Finnish forest on a sleigh drawn not by reindeer but by dogs.
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Christine Finn
Years ago I stayed in a hotel in the American state of Montana which charged top prices for rooms next to a railway track. It was a historic rail route and enthusiasts apparently would savour the rattle and rush of the passing locos. I was reminded of this unlikely sounding visitor draw the other week when my room at a guest house in Finland faced a well occupied comple of dog kennels. A hundred and fifty glossy eyed hounds lived there and they are, I discovered, prone to howling and barking at the moon or whatever else takes their fancy. One would start and the conversation would go on long into the night until presumably one of them says, give it a rest, we've got to work tomorrow. Having huskies at the door is clearly a marketing plus. This being a husky farm which caters to tourists on a wilderness adventure, and the location high up in the Arctic Circle is quite a draw for first time husky mushers and northern light spotters like me. Huskies and auroras are both unpredictable beasts, but I am told to listen out because the dogs often bark when the northern lights appear. These huskies are fed on organic meat and treated like athletes and they have the nonchalance of lean, mean racing machines as we humans step up the layers of clothing, temperatures dropping to minus 34 degrees Celsius. The Huskies think nothing of sleeping on top of their kennels on pillows of snow. I am now ready, suitably attired For a few hours of mushing, the dogs are reined in pairs, four pairs to a sleigh. I am paired with a young woman engineer from Venezuela called Marialbis. It's taken her eight flights to get here in the hope of fulfilling her Aurora dream. While waiting for the northern lights, she's been ticking off an exhaustive list of wilderness adventure activities. Horse sledging, ice fishing, reindeer feeding, snowmobiling, cross country skiing, Sami visiting. And now, bravely, she's the passenger. As for the first time, I launch onto the snow as a husky driver. To be honest, the huskies drive the thing and they know it. We take off at great speed as I try to remember the instructions. Always keep. Always one hand on the sleigh and feet on the boards or the brake. All very well, but rounding the first curve through the forest, my balaclava slips down over my eyes. I lose my footing and feel not sleigh underfoot, but ice. I'm half on, half off the thing yelping, can't see, can't see. The huskies are unconcerned and accelerate, leaving Mary Alba struggling to keep her video camera focused on the action. The French couple behind inquired later if I'd invented a new winter sport. With me at the helm, this was always going to be less Dr. Zhivago, more Mrs. Bean. Through the forest and onto a breathtaking frozen river, and the huskies go even faster. The dogs seem to be competing, snarling and snapping, the excited young ones trying to take the lead. It appears the dogs will stop for nothing, not even to answer the call of nature. After dodging a hail of instantly freeze dried dog poo, I realised the dogs had found their pace and settled down to the ride. I actually started to enjoy it. And when Mary Albus took her turn, I snuggled down into the reindeer hide and finally had my Dr. Zhivago moment. Back at the guest house, night was falling and hopes rising. The cloud was lifting. Maybe we'd get lucky and see those northern lights. In the meantime, Mary Elbus showed me her video. Me squeaking at the sheer speed of the ride, the dogs scrapping and loving every minute of it. The film over, we wandered outside, neither of us knowing what we should really be looking for. Did those incredible green veils in the sky simply appear out of nowhere? There was nothing doing, just a chilled calm, maybe the soft snoring of huskies. I'd just gone back to my room when I heard a squeaking, which sounded like mine. As I tried to control the sleigh, Mari Albis was out in the snow, dancing on the spot, skyping the sky to friends back in Venezuela. For the sky was now dancing too, with ripples of light stretching in every direction. She'd looked at the charts, all the data and the aurora predictions, she said, but what had taken Mary Albus back outside for what was our first fabulous glimpse of the northern lights was the sudden barking of 150 excited huskies.
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Narrator/Presenter
Christine Finn gazing at the night sky. And in a year spent in the subarctic, I sometimes heard the aurora as well as seeing it, a sort of crackling music. Lots more reporter stories on Thursday and Saturday of next week. I hope you'll join us. Goodbye.