← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
March 26, 2011
00:28:05
Crisis in the Eurozone -- Chris Morris in Brussels says we're ignoring it at our peril.
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Chris Morris
You're listening to a download from the BBC. It's from our own correspondent and it's
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Kate Ady
introduced by Kate Ady.
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Narrator/Presenter
Today, crisis in the eurozone. They're protesting against austerity and not just in London. Two contrasting opinions of Saudi Arabia, a land where women are pampered and privileged, or the biggest women's prison in the world. Black uniformed vigilantes prepare to advance on a gypsy town in eastern Hungary. And we meet Pinky, Ballsy, Girly, Peanut and a man called Babe. We're in the Philippines asking what's in a name? Trades unions are expecting hundreds of thousands to take part in today's march in London against the government's austerity programme. It comes after 18 months of turmoil involving debt crises in a number of countries across Europe. A summit meeting which ended in Brussels last night was supposed to have seen the unveiling of a grand plan to save the European single currency, the euro. Some progress apparently was made, but much of the talking was instead about Libya. Chris Morris says the battle for the Eurozone doesn't always make the news, but it's of huge importance.
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Chris Morris
No fly zone or eurozone tsunami or sovereign debt. Put like that, it's hardly surprising that the crisis consuming Europe's common currency has faded from the headlines in recent weeks. It can't compete with the life and death drama of the extraordinary events which have rocked our world since the beginning of the year. If things go on like this in Libya. In Japan, foreign news budgets will be following Greece and Ireland in seeking urgent financial assistance. But the crisis in the Eurozone hasn't gone away, and this week was a useful reminder that we ignore it at our peril. One train of thought here in Brussels is that we're about 18 months into a three year window in which the single currency will either stand or just perhaps fall. The new chapter this week unfolded on a bright sunny day in Lisbon where the Portuguese Parliament voted down a package of austerity measures, tax rises, spending cuts, which the government and most of the rest of the European Union said was tough but necessary. Bitter medicine. I was sitting outside Parliament that afternoon waiting for the vote which forced the Prime Minister to hand in his resignation. And it didn't take long to realize that something odd was afoot. First of all, a man dressed in full golfing gear and carrying a bag of clubs strode up the steps in front of the parliamentary chamber. Without much ado, he pulled out his driver, took a couple of practice swings and then whacked what I think was a dry bread roll in the general direction of the country's politicians. He saluted, put his clubs back in his bag, and wandered off down a cobbled street. A few minutes later, a group of students dressed as priests turned up to administer the government's last rites. What next, I wondered. The Portuguese Inquisition? No one expects that. People are fed up with austerity. From Portugal to Ireland to Greece, in Europe's weaker economies, it's hard to see past the prospect of living standards falling and then falling again. So in many places, they're protesting. In Portugal, hundreds of thousands of them, many from what's been called the desperate generation, better educated than their parents but with precious few jobs on offer. Is the rest of Europe sympathetic? Does it want to extend a helping hand? In many countries, the answer seems to be no. European solidarity is largely a political phenomenon, not a popular one, and voters from richer countries, from Germany to Finland to France, are wondering why they should be paying for the profligate. So Brussels is brooding because this is where they come to try to sort it all out. The euro, argued the German chancellor Angela Merkel, at the end of this week's summit, can and will survive. But member states, she added with stern disapproval, face many years of work to atone for past sins. I've lived in this city before. It was a time of euro optimism, the launch of the common currency and the Big Bang enlargement of the EU to embrace former Communist countries in Central and Eastern Europe. But it all came to a shuddering halt with the last story I covered back then, the rejection in 2005 by the French and then the Dutch of the European Constitution. So far, said the people, and then no further. And now the big story across Europe is the fear of economic decline and fall, a tale of debt and recession and the political fallout which trails in its wake. Two countries have already had to accept massive financial bailouts from European funds and the imf, and we may not yet have seen the worst in either Greece or Ireland. And now Portugal, where the outgoing prime minister and the man who may succeed him insist that it's all going to be fine. I met both of them this week, one on a plane, one in a restaurant, and for most of the time they sound unnervingly alike. Yes, we need to tighten our belts. No, we don't need a bail out. And yes, I'm the one to sort it all out. But elsewhere there is scepticism in the Portuguese spring air and a sense of resignation. I went to the university offices of the former finance minister, Luis Camposi Cunha, to ask him how likely he thought a Portuguese bailout was 100%. He said with a sigh, is that enough?
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Narrator/Presenter
And that was Chris Morris the so called Arab Spring hasn't shown much sign of blossoming in Saudi Arabia. There have been small anti government protests in the east of the country, but the big cities Riyadh and Jeddah have been quiet. King Abdullah did go some way towards heading off dissent when he announced recently a 23 billion pound package of pay rises, subsidies and gifts for his people. Yet calls for reform haven't gone away. Sue Lloyd Roberts, who's just back from the kingdom, says women in particular face discrimination, but they're not expecting change anytime soon.
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Sue Lloyd Roberts
Imagine a country where half the population, I'll call them blacks, can't drive or even work without permission from the other half, whom I shall call whites. Where young blacks aren't allowed to go to school, travel or marry without permission of the whites, and where the blacks are victims of underage marriage and polygamy while a white only has to say I divorce you three times to get rid of a black for life and if he wants keep their children. Of course I'm talking about women and men in Saudi Arabia, but to call them blacks and whites is not far from the truth. In a country where temperatures reach over 50 degrees centigrade in the summer, women are required to wear the all covering black abaya outside at all times. Black attracts heat while the men wear white women which reflects heat. It's as if misogyny is found in the very fabric of the country. I was prompted to go there by a Saudi woman I met who's studying in the UK and who told me her country was the biggest woman's prison in the world. She's divorced and hasn't seen her two children for five years. She gave me a list of contacts who all seemed to melt away as soon as I reached the oil rich desert kingdom. The trouble is women explain. We're all too busy fighting the little battles to dare speak out about the bigger outrages. If we did, the religious conservatives who rule the country would silence us and even the little battles would be lost. I met 20 year old Dina, who's a revolutionary in the workplace. She presents a radio show for teenagers and sits in the same studio as a man, something which was unheard of a few years ago. Outside broadcasting it's very rare for women to work alongside men. What does she say to the teenager who contacts her show to ask how to meet members of the opposite sex? I tell her that's impossible. She says it's not in our culture, nor is it in the Saudi culture, to allow women to serve in shops. Reem, who's a 38 year old college lecturer in finance, has started a campaign to allow women to work in lingerie shops. It's uncomfortable and embarrassing, she says, to have to buy a bra from a man. I know there are more urgent problems in the country, she admits, but at least I'm trying to win some dignity and jobs for women. Their problems, say the women, are men who are wedded to traditions and customs which keep a woman totally dependent on her guardian, that is her father and after she gets married, her husband. If a woman is divorced, she may even have to ask her son for permission to travel. And then there are the women themselves. Radha Youssef calls her campaign. My guardian knows what is best for me. That is, she wants to leave things as they are. She says the guardian rules suit women like herself. With money and a private driver at her disposal, Saudi women are pampered and privileged, she says. What about the women who want to work and can't because they can't drive to get to work? I ask. A woman who needs to work won't be able to afford to buy a car, she answers, bringing an end to our conversation. In one of my more surreal moments in Saudi Arabia, I found myself one night riding on the back of a motorbike as the guest of the Jeddah chapter of the Saudi Harley Davidson Club. I'd spotted them setting out and asked for a ride. It was a good thing that the morality police didn't see us. We might all have been lashed. But after the ride, and assuming that they might think differently from other Saudi men, I asked them why they didn't take their wives out for a ride. Just because we tell our women that they have to stay at home doesn't mean that they don't have rights, one of them said. My. My wife can eat, she can drink and be protected by me. If she wants to work, she can. But only with my permission. I decided to make my own way back to the shopping mall where Saudi women like Ream, the college lecturer, spend their evenings. She's given up on the battle for real change. I doubt that I'll see it in my lifetime, she says. I can only hope that things might get better for my daughters.
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Narrator/Presenter
Sue Lloyd Roberts and you can see the film she made in Saudi Arabia on Newsnight on BBC two on Tuesday evening. The government in Hungary has announced it is to take action against paramilitary groups who are said to have mounted a Campaign of intimidation against gypsies in various parts of the country. One group, which is affiliated to the far right political party Jobbik, has announced plans to occupy the town of Hyder had haze, where it says crime committed by Roma people is running out of control. Nick Thorpe, who's in the town, says the Roma there are frightened, and the local mayor is concerned about the vigilante's plans.
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Nick Thorpe
It's cold in Balint Bernhardt's kitchen, but the silverware radiates a glow of success unusual in Roma homes. A row of championship cups won by Balint's stepson, a boxer, 19 years old, a tall, pale faced youth in a photograph, his head in protective gear, his gloves almost touching the camera. The next big fight is in June, he says, in Germany. He's out there now, training. Balin sees the question in my eyes, his son doesn't look very Roma. We're six brothers and sisters, he explains slowly, to make sure I understand. And five of us have married Hungarians. That's shorthand for non Roma. How does he feel about the fact that his town has been picked by the Hungarian far right as the next place to impose law and order on his allegedly unruly people? They should neither kindle fires, he says, nor pour oil on the flames. If they do come, he'll organize a counter demonstration. Contingency plans are already in place. Relations with the police are good, says Mr. Bernhardt, the deputy leader of the Roma at county level. But unemployment is huge and the Roma feel humiliated. Work for the local council, like street sweeping and grass cutting, has been halved to just four hours a day for those lucky enough to get it. And now the council have made welfare payments dependent on keeping your house and yard clean. Officials come poking around, checking the toilets and bathrooms. He says one of his neighbours lost his unemployment money because they found dog excrement in the yard. The town of 13,000 people stretches out below the striking twin towers of the Calvinist church, which is painted, rather surprisingly, lemon yellow. There's little sign of spring and a sharp northerly wind sends pedestrians hurrying home before another rain squall to tidy single storey houses, each with a small garden. There are regular white buses bound for Debreczen, half an hour away. The coffee shop closes early, the apple pie not as fresh as I had hoped. The local parliamentary deputy of the far right party, Joppik, is 32, meets me in the main square. He's keen to talk, even poses for a photograph in his black uniform with the words Civil Guard for a more beautiful future in big letters on the back. On the side of his car is the emblem of Hungary's ancient red and white striped flag with a turul superimposed on it, a mythical bird which guided the Magyar tribes to what is now Hungary. Mr. Ruby offers a rather different view on life in Haidu Hodha's of increasing robberies, violent attacks and child prostitutes along Route 4, which passes the town on its way to the east. There are also fewer police than before, he alleges. Public order has ceased to exist. It was only when his own vigilantes were set up eight months ago that the theft of timber from the nearby forest fell drastically. His vigilante group is bringing in reinforcements from all over Hungary, he says, to alert the government to the problem. What is the difference between his men and the Hungarian Guard, a group in almost identical uniforms, disbanded by the courts for terrorizing the Roma? He smiles disarmingly. The guard protected Hungarian traditions, he says, and were banned because of political pressure. Our group is legal, simply there to help the police. In the sandy streets of the Roma ghetto, whole families are getting ready for church. Is there a crime problem here? Usury is a scourge, they say, a Roman mafia which gives loans, then extorts huge interest payments. But the father of one household says that since he found Jesus of Nazareth, he has avoided their attentions. It's better to be poor, he says, than to borrow. And in the kingdom of heaven we will surely be rich. The new Pentecostalist church is full of Roma for the Sunday afternoon service, and not a few Hungarians praying aloud in a fervent cacophony of prayer. There are electric guitars, a women's choir, and even a former Hungarian police major and his wife, who reads a poem aloud. The congregation erupts in applause and a chorus of Amens and hallelujahs. In his office beside the handsome church sits the young mayor, Danish Czarfordi, only elected in October. He has big plans. New roads, better sewage, and 16 new lamp posts to brighten up dark outlying streets. More discipline is needed, he admits, but he fears the vigilantes will paint his town black as a nest of crime and ethnic tension. Leaving town, I see no less than three police cars parked at strategic places. The state seems suddenly keen to reclaim its monopoly on public order.
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Narrator/Presenter
Nick Thorpe In Hungary, naming your child is usually a rather straightforward affair. In this country, there aren't that many among Radio 4 listeners at least, who deviate from the hardy perennials currently Sophie and Jack, Isabel and Harry, Lily and Joshua. But in The Philippines. This sort of unoriginal thinking must be considered very boring. As Kate McGowan explains, names there are a riot of invention.
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Kate McGowan
On my first day in Manila, I walked down to the local cafe and was served by a smiling young girl who wore a name badge entitled Bum Bum. I did a double take, then smiled back, deciding it was probably a joke. But if so, it's a joke that practically the whole country seems to be in on. Since then, I've met a Bambi, three Bogies, several Girlies, a Peanut, a Barbie A and a middle aged man called Babe. These names are found in all sectors of society. Sometimes they're nicknames, sometimes genuine first names, but they're always what people are referred to on a day to day basis. Even the President isn't spared. His real name is Benigno Aquino, but almost everyone here calls him Noinoy. Two of his sisters are called Pinky and Ballsey. No one seems to see the need to ask why. Neither does anyone question the integrity of Joker Arroyo, one of the country's most respected senators. That's his real first name. Apparently he got it because of his father's fondness for playing cards. Joker's brother is called Jack, and it seems perfectly natural to Filipinos that the boxer Manny Pacquiao should express his love for the British royal family by naming his daughter Queen Elizabeth. So why do so many Filipinos have such odd and even inappropriate names? This isn't a translation issue. Most people speak English well, or well enough to know that Bum Bum, for example, isn't exactly on the rest of the Anglophile world's list of most popular baby names. I rather tentatively brought the subject up at a dinner party full of lawyers, academics and business people. Many of them were surprised. They'd simply never thought of these names as having any kind of negative connotation. But once we'd started discussing it, they did agree that, to outsiders at least, it all might sound a bit strange. Soon a heated debate began. Perhaps it was because of the propensity of Filipinos to have large, tight knit families. Some of them said a man called Babe, or Honey Boy, for instance, is probably the youngest member of that generation in the family. It suited him when he was two years old. Now he's a slightly overweight businessman in his 50s. Why change it? But nicknames aren't always given when people are young. The former president, Joseph Estrada, is more commonly known as Erap, a name he acquired in his 20s. When spelt backwards, erap becomes pare, which means mate or buddy in the national Language, Tagalog. Other guests thought that nicknames came about because of a need for individuality. People here often have the same Christian names as their parents. Former congressman Ace Barbers, who, like Joker Arroyo, obviously had a card player in the family, has the Christian name Robert, but so do his father and all his brothers. He clearly hasn't found it too much of a problem, though he's named his four sons Robert too. Nicknames must be essential in their house. The conversations soon turn to the fact that the Philippines is a melting pot of different cultures. And perhaps that's what's led to these strange names. The President himself is a good example. His full Christian name is Benigno Simeon Coanco. Names which are Spanish, Hebrew and Chinese respectively. His nickname Noinoi is the only part that's truly Filipino. A well used adage here is that The Philippines spent 400 years in a convent, then 50 years in Hollywood, referring to Spanish, then American colonial rule. The Spanish introduced the concept of surnames. In fact, they issued a decree in 1849 that everyone had to have a surname. So even today most surnames are Spanish. But the main thing Spain gave to the Philippines was Catholicism, and with it tens of thousands of newly christened Marias and Joses. With the Americans came names like Butch, Buffy and Junior, and the propensity to shorten everything if at all possible. Perhaps it's the combination of these two influences which has led to names like Jejo Ma, short for Jesus, Joseph, Mary. The current vice president is called Jejomar Binhai. Even the large Chinese community here hasn't escaped this national name game. Their surnames are often a form of Anglicised Chinese, but sometimes the Philippine penchant for fun shines through. I've heard of a Van Gogh go spelt G O God, a John F, Kenneth D and an Ivan Ho. But there are some names that just defy explanation. Why would you call your children after the days of the week or your favourite desserts? To many Filipinos, a better question to ask is why wouldn't you? I've been living here for a while now and I've got used to all these names. When I'm introduced to a dinky or a dunce or read about people called Bing and Bong, it seems almost normal. If anything, I rather like the fact that Filipinos are self assured enough to use these names, no matter how odd they sound or how senior the person's public role. But my assimilation isn't quite complete. While I think it's great that Bum Bum can wear her name Badge with pride. I'm not quite ready to adopt a Philippine nickname myself just yet.
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Narrator/Presenter
And that's Kate McGowan, clinging to her name in Manila, the Netherlands. Next. It's one of our nearest neighbours, yet it remains something of an enigma. We know it for its tulips, windmills and of course, for Amsterdam, a city of canals and fine art, as well as cannabis cafes and red light district. Its royal family we will doubtless be seeing over here next month for the marriage of Prince William to Kate Middleton. Their royals, we've been led to believe, are a modern lot. They don't like being ferried around in ornate carriages or huge black limousines. They prefer bikes. Or do they? Gabriel Gatehouse believes times may be changing.
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Kate Ady
Speaking Dutch is probably one of my least useful skills. Not only do all Dutch people speak impeccable English, but when, as an Englishman, you try to dazzle them with a sudden, unaccented burst of their native tongue, they always seem singularly unimpressed. That certainly was the case when I contacted the Royal Press Office in the Hague to try to arrange an interview with Princess Maxima. Maxima is the Lady Di of the Netherlands. She is young, intelligent and good looking, married to Crown Prince Willem Alexander, heir to the Dutch throne. My opening gambit was in English. I wanted to establish my credentials as a bona fide reporter from the British Broadcasting Corporation as part of a series of short pieces looking at European royalty. Would the princess consider a brief interview? When the answer came back a no, I thought that perhaps a few choice words in Dutch might change their minds. I was, I said, hoping to paint a picture of an open and laid back Dutch royal family, a modern monarchy for a famously egalitarian European nation, the answer was still helas. Alas, no. Her Royal Highness would not be speaking to the BBC at this time. Neither would any other member of the Dutch royal family. Never mind. I can take a rejection from a princess. And they were kind enough to invite us along to an event in Amsterdam at which Maxima would be the guest of honor. Just no interviews. So along we went. A producer, a cameraman and myself. The royal minders positioned us in a roped off area outside the entrance to a large warehouse building on Amsterdam's waterfront. Maximus swept up to the front door in a convoy of black Audis with motorcycle outriders. No bikes for this princess. Hocheit hoch heit, your highness, the photographers called out, hoping for a smile from the princess as she glided along the red carpet. When I moved to The Netherlands in 1979, Queen Juliana was on the throne. She famously insisted on being called me Frau de Koningin, or Mrs. Queen. My mother recalls being at the theatre in Amsterdam a few years later, milling amongst the crowd in the foyer before a performance, when somebody tapped her on the shoulder and asked politely if she'd move aside so that the Queen could get through. Things seemed to have changed. As Maxima was leaving, I thought I'd give it one more go. From my roped off position, I asked the Princess if she could spare a few moments for the BBC. She herself was perfectly willing and came over to speak. But her minders, well, they really minded. After one question, the royal press officer cut our conversation short and the Princess was bundled off into her Audi. He was furious. This wasn't the agreement, he fumed. The Dutch press looked a little embarrassed. It seemed I'd committed an unforgivable breach of protocol. I spoke to one veteran of the local royal press corps there, who told me that Mrs. Queen had long ago been replaced with your Highness, and that while he couldn't swear that no senior member of the royal family had ridden a bike in the last three decades, he also couldn't recall seeing them do so. Afterwards, I went for a little bike ride myself through some of the familiar streets I remember from my childhood. Much is still the same as it was when I lived there, the slender 17th and 18th century gabled houses lining the canals looking ever so slightly wonky. But back then, many of those beautiful buildings were communal squats, places where Amsterdam's students, artists and radicals could live for free in the faded splendor of a bygone mercantile age. Today, most have been turned into swanky canalside apartments, for sale or to rent and at exorbitant prices. Outside the royal palace on Dam Square, I met Jean Tilly, himself a former squatter. Thirty years ago he'd been among a group of anarchist anti royalists protesting against the coronation of the current Queen Beatrix. Those were heady days. Amsterdammers were known for their deeply egalitarian, often radically left wing views. The protesters slogan was Gein Voning. Gein Kroning. No home, no coronation. There was a shortage of housing, and the Netherlands, they felt, should not be spending money on a lavish royal ceremony. One of Tilly's friends had thrown a smoke bomb into the crowd as the new monarch waved from the balcony. Riot police later used tear gas and batons to disperse the demonstrators. Today, Tilly told me, such lack of reverence towards the royal family would be unthinkable. Dutch society has changed. It's more prosperous and less egalitarian, he said. These days, the Dutch like their royals to be a bit more regal. For the first time during our conversation, Tilly was at a loss to find the right English word, just as it was in the 17th century. Amsterdam, he said, has become Brchelck again. Bircheluc is a very Dutch concept. It means civil, bourgeois middle class. Those language skills came in useful after all.
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Narrator/Presenter
Of course they did. Gabriel Gatehouse in Amsterdam, bringing this multilingual edition to a close. There'll be more from our own correspondence next Saturday morning. Do join us. Goodbye.