← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Key moments of 2020 reported by our correspondents
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Key moments of 2020 and thought provoking dispatches by our correspondents.
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BBC Sounds Music Radio podcasts Our stories
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on this program come from around the world. And last year our correspondents, wherever they found themselves, were describing the impact of COVID 19. But there were other events which played out against this backdrop. Afghanistan found itself facing no let up in the decades long violence, with a particularly awful attack on Kabul University, killing students and professors. One of the lecturers talked about the country's future. America had a summer of protests after the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis. Pictures of a white policeman kneeling on the black American's neck drew comment and condemnation from around the world. Our dispatch came from a local black American journalist in Lebanon. The huge explosion in the port area of Beirut and its aftermath was encapsulated by the story of a missing dog. And in Brussels, our correspondent emerged from pandemic lockdown. What did he head off to buy? First, Andrew Harding covers Africa for us. And with a dramatic story to tell, he reflected on that most basic skill of a correspondent, the use of words.
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As darkness fell, heavily armed ethnic militia groups fanned out across the struggling provincial city brandishing weapons. Some fighters wearing tribal markings warned of a bloodb if the upcoming election, which many here believe could be engulfed by rigging and violence, did not go their way. The fighter's aging spiritual leader, a former businessman accused of staggering corruption and nepotism, has accused opposition forces of stoking terror and trying to steal the election. Foreign diplomats are privately warning that the increasingly isolated oil rich nation's fragile institutions may be close to collapse. And so on. Perhaps you can guess the country. No, not the Central African Republic or South Sudan, but the United States. As for the writing style, in recent years, journalists here in Africa have taken to playing a sort of parlor game, applying the kind of breathless, cliched style that foreign correspondents like me are sometimes accused of using to describe this continent's conflicts to events across the Atlantic or in Britain. In the last few months, Donald Trump's behaviour has made that game much easier and much more tempting. After all, Africa is routinely held up as the stereotype land of stolen elections, of big man politics, of unstoppable deadly diseases. So you can hardly blame people on this continent, a place of impressively low COVID infection rates, a place these days with plenty of reassuringly dull elections for enjoying the irony, however fleeting, there's the sense here of tables being turned, of pride and maybe even something close to pity for America. For a friend in trouble. A few weeks ago, I took part in a conference call with the American Secretary of State, Mike Pompeo. He wanted to explain that his government was doing more to help Africa fight COVID 19 than China was. In fact, he said, America had done more to help this continent than any other nation ever had or indeed ever, ever would. It was a very Trumpian, superlative, rich performance from America's top diplomat. He brushed aside my suggestion that Mr. Trump's talk about the value of injecting yourself with disinfectant might have undermined his country's reputation in Africa. Then Mr. Pompeo followed up with an email and a tweet in which he warned unnamed African nations that there would be unnamed consequences if they fail to hold free and fair elections in the coming months. Again, the heavy sense of irony was hard to ignore. After all, Mr. Pompeo's boss has repeatedly told what might be called untruths about America's own election warning without evidence that it's going to be rigged, maybe even stolen. And yet there is no doubt that Mr. Pompeo has a point. Africa is changing fast. It's more peaceful, more democratic, more prosperous these days. But there are signs of a slide towards a new authoritarianism in Uganda, Tanzania, Ivory coast, guinea and beyond. Old leaders and new populists are on the march. Opposition candidates are being harassed or imprisoned, election rules changed, the media restricted, constitutions amended to allow for yet another term in office. So what does America's voice, its moral authority, count for in all this? There's no doubt that the US still has power and influence in Africa. It has its navy, its drones, its humanitarian aid and its music culture. Campaigns like Black Lives Matter. All that still counts over here. But these days, China's influence, its giant loans, its vast construction projects, its mineral exports, all that gives Beijing growing political clout. Clout that comes without tiresome lectures about the importance of democracy. Today, America is learning what so many on this continent already know, that elections can be ordeals to overcome rather than opportunities for change. In that spirit, perhaps South Africa holds some clues for what lies ahead. After all, this is the country that showed the world how to end racial apartheid, how to steer a course away from division and civil war. More recently, South Africa experimented with what you might call its own proto Trump presidency. A decade ago, it elected a brash, deeply flawed and charismatic, so called man of the people. Jacob Zuma proceeded, it's alleged, to loot the state and to wreck the country's precious institutions to hide his corruption. Unemployment shot up here. So did the national debt and racial polarization. But somehow, with the help of investigative journalists and a defiant judiciary, South Africa pushed back. President Zuma was forced out. His successor lamented a lost decade. But the work of rebuilding has begun. As for Mr. Zuma angry, bitter, aging. He insists he's the victim of a vast international conspiracy. But he's facing trial for corruption, and he's running out of ways to delay that reckoning.
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Andrew Harding for years we've had stories from Afghanistan, most of them reflecting relentless violence. Every so often, the subject of peace talks arises between the government and the Taliban, only to be obscured by yet another outrage. In November, there was an attack on Kabul University, the largest and oldest in the country. 35 dead, 50 injured. Not the worst incident of the year, but wretched in its effect on dreams and aspirations. Lise Doucet heard from one of the university lecturers.
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Sami Mehdi called his students one by one. I called Rahid, he told me, but his phone was off. I called Raouf. His phone was off, too. And then Sammy stopped speaking. He couldn't go on. This is a story still too painful to tell, even for a journalist and university lecturer like Sammy. It's a story of the first day of classes, a day when Afghanistan's oldest and biggest university was washed in a golden autumn light. A day when a suicide bomber blew himself up at the gates of this leafy compound, when gunmen went classroom to classroom, firing guns and hurling grenades. By the end of a six hour siege, 16 of Sammy's students in the School of Policy and Public Administration were dead. Slowly, every day since then, he's posted pen portraits of them on his Twitter account. Dear Soheila, I'm sorry, he wrote. I'm sorry I cut your questions short in class to make time for my lecture. Now the opportunity to listen to you is taken from us forever. There's a photograph, too, of Sirius Sohela in a dark black scarf and bright white tunic, peering intently through round spectacles. But it was another snapshot of Sohela, posted by someone else, which became a shocking meme in this moment, Sohela sprawled on a classroom floor in her stark black and white dress, the scarlet red cover of her book about Simon Bolivar, the Latin American revolutionary splattered with blood. Don't post these gruesome images, many pleaded. Another of Sammy's murdered students also touched a deep chord. Mohammed Rahed, a charismatic young man with twinkling eyes and a wide, warm smile. His video pep talk went viral. Life is full of challenges, pain, sadness, pressure, problems, he proclaimed. What does it cost to smile? He implored his fellow students. Don't forget to smile, sammy told me. More about Rahed, an extraordinary student but also the only provider for his family. Rahed taught English in the morning, came to classes in the afternoon, and then went to work at night in his little shop. Sammy remembered a day when Rai had declared, I'm afraid of nothing, and he was challenged by other students. You must be afraid of something? They asked. Like losing your life or your loved ones. Life brings good and bad, raheed insisted. But you must follow your dreams, sammy admitted. I thought then he was just too young, but now I think he was so courageous. And on that day, when Rahed, like many other students, found himself trapped by gunfire and injured, he still found peace of mind to write a last letter to his parents. Don't wait for me to come home anymore, he told them. I will not return. I wanted to graduate, but they didn't let me finish it. My wish was to see everyone smiling. Every student's story is a story of a dream destroyed. It's a chronicle of a generation, the 20 somethings who came of age after the September 11 attacks in the United States in 2001, which led to the ousting of the Taliban. This is the generation which didn't live through Afghanistan's chaotic civil war of the early 1990s or the harsh Taliban rule. They've grown up with a vibrant Afghan press, social media, elections, however flawed, but also a war which grinds on generation after generation. Now, 40 years in all, this generation is very different from any other in Afghan history, sami told me. They challenged me every day in the classroom in Kabul. I also spoke to students like Freshta, who lost two friends. She wakes in the middle of the night uncertain if she'll ever be able to return to class, even stay in Afghanistan. All too many young Afghans are already trying to find a way out to a different country, a different future. And I also heard from 20 something Afghans living in Taliban controlled districts. They too condemned this terrible attack on a place of knowledge. But they blamed the Afghan government, and the Afghan government blamed them. The only point which matters now is ending this war, reflected Sammy, who belongs to a 30 something generation. We have no choice but to be hopeful and be brave, he said. And then, remembering his students, he added, they're not just kids, they're fighters fighting for their dreams.
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Lise Doucet A spark lights a fire and in May last year, George Floyd's death in Minnesota led to mass demonstrations across America. A black American, he died under arrest as a white policeman knelt on his neck, outrage surged about police brutality and racist treatment of Black Americans and the other inequalities came into sharp relief. Emma Sarpong, a black journalist in Minnesota, described there being more than money, which separates black and white lives.
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Minnesota consistently ranks near the top of the US Standard of living charts. It enjoys rates of homeownership and educational attainment unseen in most of the country. The Twin cities, Minneapolis and St. Paul boast one of the highest concentrations of successful American companies, and they help fuel a median income that's almost 15,000 pounds pounds above the national average. If that's not enough, Minnesota even snagged the title as the country's third happiest state in a national poll. Many Minnesotans, it appears, are living the American dream. But that's only if they are white. The state's racial disparities mean that prosperity and the great quality of life are out of reach for most of its black residents. And so for black people, the Twin Cities are often listed as one of the worst places to live in the country. I've lived in Ohio and New York, but it was in Minnesota I felt the most dehumanized and violated because of my race. Two weeks after moving here in 2016, I got sick and fainted. My brother called the St. Paul Fire Department. They are the responders for both fire and medical emergencies here. A crew of white men arrived with no stretcher and with no intention of helping me. Instead, they barked, I should get up off the floor on my own because they didn't have all day. I told them I was too weak to do so. I told them I had food poisoning and was dehydrated. They told me I had a 24 hour stomach bug and would be fine. They provided no assistance as I feebly made my way down the stairs, and ultimately they refused to take me to the hospital. I got to the emergency room that night with help from family with blood pressure so low I was hooked to an IV drip until sunrise. In the 1990s, Nick Khalid and other African American firefighters sued and settled with the St. Paul Fire Department for discriminating against its black employees and the black community. Khaled, who retired in 2001, tells me medic crews routinely downplay medical emergencies of black people and deny them transportation. He recalls white medics urging a black boy with a gunshot wound to his head to lift himself from the concrete and hop on a stretcher. Oh, it's just a flesh wound, they assured the boy. Another time, a young black man suffering from excruciating headaches after brain surgery was made to walk down a long flight of stairs. He died two weeks later. Khalid, now 76, is bothered by back pain from the years of having to carry laboring black women to ambulance when his white colleagues denied them stretchers. The fire department and most institutions and corporations in the Twin Cities have diversity and inclusion initiatives, but they remain overwhelmingly white and feel hostile. For some African Americans. Companies hire black professionals but struggle to retain them. Felicia Enuha is one of many who fled the Twin Cities. She left 10 years ago for Atlanta. She told me through tears that she still suffers from ptsd, from the microaggressions and isolation she experienced working at a large Minnesota corporation. You can't be your authentically black self and work there. You have to conform to make them comfortable. If you don't, they'll make your work life miserable and push you out. The disparities and injustices are deep and pervasive, seeping into all aspects of life in Minnesota. And as recent events have shown, this includes policing. Minnesota's governor called the killing of George Floyd the ultimate manifestation of the systemic racism in the state. It's the second police killing of a black man in Minnesota in recent years, which has spawned nationwide protests. In 2016, Philando Castile was shot by an officer in a Minnesota suburb while driving back from a shopping trip. The only officer to ever be convicted in Minnesota for killing a civilian was a Somali, and he killed a white woman in Minneapolis. The pent up anguish and frustrations reached a boiling point when the video of Mr. Floyd hit social media, prompting unrest that led to rioting and the torching of businesses across America. Standing shoulder to shoulder amid the charred ruins of a business corridor in Minneapolis, a crowd chanted Floyd's last words, I can't breathe. I can't breathe. COVID 19 still rages in Minnesota and black Americans are disproportionately affected. But it appears the pandemic is a secondary concern. Scott McDonald, a 28 year old black Minneapolis resident, told me the pandemic of police killing black men started long before the coronavirus. If I had to choose, I'd rather have the coronavirus than deal with the Minneapolis police. At least I'd have a chance.
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Emma Sarpong In a country dealing with the coronavirus, a nose diving economy and political fragility. The explosion in August in the port of Beirut was devastating for Lebanon in more ways than 1, 200 were killed and thousands injured as the warehouse storing nearly 3,000 tons of ammonium nitrate exploded. Street protests followed with accusations against the political elite of mismanagement and negligence. Leila Malana Allen is a journalist in the city who, in the immediate aftermath of the explosion, realised her pet was missing.
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A white hot flash and I was hurled into the corner of the room. My peripheral vision was a sea of flying glass and splintering wood as I clambered over the debris of what had seconds before been my bedroom. Ears ringing, my first thought was of my family. Not my birth family, safe across the sea, but my chosen Beirut family, with whom I'd built a life within these whitewashed walls. A blur of black and gold streaking through the gaping hole left by our exploded front door told me the canine members of our pack had made it out alive. I grabbed my flatmate, Lizzie, and we picked our way through the jagged piles of glass that formed a treacherous pathway out wreckage. The initial fear was another blast, so we tried to gather our shell shocked neighbors under the most solid nearby structure, a staircase. Suddenly, there was Fred, the elder of our two dogs. For the next few days, he sat loyal and silent by my side, defending the ruins of our home after a kind upstairs neighbour took us in. But the puppy, Bunduk, hazelnut in Arabic, named for his habit of curling into a ball with his tail sticking up like the nut's peak, was gone. Dozens of dogs were lost in the blast on our dog mum WhatsApp groups. One by one, they were found. They need to hear your voice to come out of hiding, people said. My feet were torn up and stitched back together after the blast, so I couldn't walk for days. Unable to search, I felt helpless. I prayed my hazelnut would find his way home and hobbled to the door every time I heard a bark. The response was overwhelming. Friends trawled the neighborhood, tracking down witnesses who'd seen him sprinting away. I sent missing posters everywhere. They were shared around the world. A local animal charity dispatched a dedicated Bunduk search squad of volunteers to scour the streets for hours, but there was no sign. After a few days, I lost hope. Perhaps he'd been hit by a car or suffered such serious injuries he died alone and afraid. A friend later confided in me that by this point she'd started to search streetside rubbish dumps for piles of bloodied fur. I often describe my life as akin to a go bag, ready to pack up and move at a moment's notice. These mischievous fur balls are the most stability I've allowed myself since childhood. Being greeted at the door after a challenging day by squealing, nuzzling adoration is the greatest comfort I know. And suddenly, like so many hurt by this tragedy, the sanctuary I'd built for us was shattered. Several days later, I was working on a story about sniffer dogs searching for survivors in the rubble. Tears welled up as I struggled to push Bunduk from my mind. A message popped up on my phone. Did you lose a dog? I think I have him. Where? In Tripoli. It couldn't be Bunduk, I responded. That's Lebanon's northernmost city, 80 kilometers from Beirut. A video came through, downloading painfully slowly on the city's patchy Internet. And there he was, scared, a little bloodied, but alive. His rescuer had found him in the street, injured and terrified. Shortly after the explosion, frantically evacuating to Tripoli, he picked him up and put him in his car. In the following days, we both posted pictures and finally, someone connected the dots. The relief was immense. But with no car and limited mobility, I had no way of reaching him. Once again, Lebanon's animal lovers sprang into action. That evening, I received dozens of calls with plans to get him home. And then one more. He was in a car on his way with yet another person I'd never met. By 2am he was back in my arms, saved by a network of human beings who'd done everything they could to protect him while dealing with the impact of this disaster on their own lives. We're separated again now. The dogs evacuated to the mountains with Lizzie, while I await surgery to reconnect several tendons in my foot that were severed by flying glass. We still don't know if our flat will ever be stable enough to move back in permanently, but somewhere we'll rebuild and we'll be home again. Because home is where the hounds are.
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Leila, Malana Allen. Everyone has their own lockdown story and there's much in common around the world, from fear and frustration to reflection and the puzzling moment when you wonder why there's nothing to get dressed properly for. Last summer, after weeks of confinement at home in Brussels, Kevin Connolly got a taste of freedom.
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The gates of paradise have been chained up and padlocked shut for weeks. But now, at last, they have begun to swing open. This does not mean that after all this time self isolating, I've taken to metaphysical reflection about the heavenly reward that may await us in the future. Just at the local primary school complex in my part of Brussels, the children's paradise has been closed down throughout this period and now finally reopened as a local government emergency centre for the distribution of masks. They are to be compulsory here in Etobec, although not in other parts of the Belgian capital. This is because Belgium has gone for a constitutional model which is like a cross between a jigsaw and a kaleidoscope. Brussels alone is divided into 19 separate municipalities, each with its own mayor and police force. And overall, the country has seven parliaments. Still, the leadership of my commune has spoken, and as a result, I have been issued with two reusable masks. And suddenly, in my part of town, they're everywhere. As a badge of good citizenship, their historical role in the robbing of stagecoaches and the evasion of closed circuit TV cameras, now entirely forgotten. Belgium embraced the lockdown at the portent laden hour of Midnight on Friday 13th March, and for long weeks, empty trams clattered down deserted boulevards. Pedestrians who passed each other in the street executed strange ballets of awkwardness, stepping into the road or even crossing the street to avoid proximity with their fellow citizens. For the Belgians, as for the British, queuing is seen as a kind of secular sacrament. And in the first days of confinement, as it's known in French, shoppers automatically spaced themselves a metre and a half apart as they waited patiently for their turn to enter the supermarket. The reopening of hardware stores a few weeks back triggered the sort of joyous gratitude with which Bronze Age peasants once greeted the return of sun at winter's end. Rarely can the opportunity to purchase a shovel or a replacement mop head have been the catalyst for such happiness. I nearly bought a shovel myself. I and I don't have a window box, let alone a garden. They just look so attractive and ingeniously engineered when you haven't seen one for a bit. My moment came when a slightly broader range of shops opened in a street not far from my apartment. The first man back in business was the owner of a military bookstore. I couldn't really see anything I wanted, but the strength of the urge to be a consumer again took me by surprise. I walked out of the shop after a happy 15 minutes of browsing without touching. Proud owner of an aircraft manual called Bulgarian fighter colours 1919-1948, I have always clung to the view that no knowledge is ever entirely wasted. But no book has ever come closer to undermining that belief. I take some comfort from the fact that the title feels like a ready made subject for a mastermind specialist round should I decide to enter in retirement. The book sits beside me as I type a souvenir of the day we began to emerge from confinement here in Brussels. It has been a long, slow process and it's not finished yet. The brilliant white blossoms of our thousands of horse chestnut trees came and went against the thickening and darkening green of the leaves. More shops are open now. I've been to the dentist and I've had what remains of my hair cut. Cafes, bars and restaurants are for the moment still reduced to offering only a takeaway service. Brussels won't seem normal until they begin to set out their outdoor tables and open their doors again. One restaurant I see on my daily walk still displays rather poignantly the dishes of the day from the last time they were permitted to trade. If they weather the economic shock of the lockdown, I hope they offer the same dishes again to celebrate. I've been looking forward to them, but I'll have to wait. The gates of the paradise of our old lives have begun to swing open, but they're not really open yet.
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Kevin Connolly and that's it from us today. We'll be back next Saturday morning as usual. Do join us.