← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
March 3, 2012
00:28:02
'A revolution with almost no co-ordination or planning. ' That was Ian Pannell's as he...
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- [00:00]
A
Hello from Bush House in London, home to From Our Own Correspondent. You can hear the World Service edition of our programme by going to the From Our Own Correspondent website. But this is a download of the latest broadcast on Radio 4. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Today, the farmers, mechanics, greengrocers and students now taking up arms in Syria. Gales of laughter as we talk politics to three opposition leaders in Burma. Free at last after long prison sentences. We meet a Kenyan man who, after a hard day's work, comes home to 49 children and find out how the Internet's brought love to a remote beach in Costa Rica. European leaders emerged from their summit in Brussels yesterday warning that those responsible for what they called the appalling crimes in Syria will be held to account. And last night, the UN Secretary General, Ban Ki Moon, told the UN General assembly in New York that the Syrian authorities had committed clear and widespread crimes against their civilian population. An aid convoy yesterday was prevented from entering the besieged suburb of Baba Amer in the city of Homs. The district has been shelled by government forces for weeks and many people have died. Conditions are said to be dire, with snow and freezing temperatures, no electricity and no heating fuel. Stocks of food, water and medical supplies are all said to be running low. Away from Homs, Syria's third city, it is hard to assess the extent of the rebellion against President Al Assad. Ian Pannell has just spent eight days in the rural north of the country, close to the border with Turkey.
- [01:39]
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I am a fish out of water. The teacher looked up from his worn copy of the Collins Book of English Idioms, grinned and nodded to me for approval at his use of the vernacular. I tried to explain that it should be like a fish out of water. But as my grasp of Arabic has barely moved beyond polite greetings, menus and taxi directions, it seemed a little churlish to try too hard to correct him. For the last two nights, the same group of men had come to visit us and to practice their English on the BBC team. Sitting cross legged on a thin mattress, huddled around a paraffin stove, they poured through the dictionary before hitting upon the idiom they thought best described their current situation. I am a fish out of water. They all nodded together in agreement. What they meant, of course, was that they were on uncharted and dangerous ground. They'd all grown up and grown old with the same party, government and family in control of the country. But now they were living in a town that had dared to defy Damascus and declare its allegiance to the opposition, where the green white and black flag of independence flew in the central square and where armed rebels, not the Syrian government, patrolled the streets. Those we met were united in a common cause, the overthrow of what they regard as a brutal and repressive regimental. But it felt as though each place was going through its own small revolution with almost no coordination or planning with others. And although the army was on the offensive nearby, there was no sense of panic or planning. Indeed, when it was thought an attack was imminent, we watched one rebel fighter play cards for seven hours with his friends as if there was nothing to worry about. Have you got a plan? I asked. He shrugged, and increasingly bad tempered at what he called the bad luck of the cards. He told us not to worry, they'd be fine. We were taken under the wing of one local family and a bright young man called Musab. It's not his real name. Names and locations need to be changed to offer some protection to those who helped, fed and sheltered us, and to those who were willing to speak out. Mousab, with his broken English, sleek black hair and easy smile, became our lifeline. The agriculture student was full of jokes and questions about the outside world. He was ever insistent that we eat another meal of kebabs, hummus and bread and Dr. Just one more glass of hot sweet tea. His kindness and generosity were humbling, as was the risk his family were willing to take to protect us. But the compact was clear. After 40 years of near silence, they'd found their voice, and for them, freedom of speech meant not just being able to say what you want, but also having the right to be heard. We were thanked almost everywhere we went for bearing witness to what was taking place. Of course, not everyone supports a rebellion. Some are afraid that sectarian and religious differences in the country will open up into divisions, that minorities won't be protected. Others worry that hardline Islamic extremists are trying to take over the country, and many of those who've prospered under the Assad regime fear they'll lose everything if the rebels have their way. But with our view of the country limited by official refusals to allow us to report freely, we we were unable to meet such people. Instead, we talked to ordinary men taking to arms a motley bunch of farmers, mechanics and greengrocers. Over the nights, we talked about many things with Musab and his family, yet there was usually little discussion about politics. He'd studied hard and hoped to marry and have children in the next few years and would lead a good, clean life. But he said he lived in a country without opportunities. And so he attended the anti government rallies taking part in the town square and joined the calls for change. But Musab was if anything, a thinker, not a fighter. Until the day the army arrived. We were woken up early by the sound of artillery shells slamming into the town. The rumours had been true and the Syrian army was advancing. My last glance of Musab as we were hustled into a car to take us out of town was him being handed a pistol. He took the silver handgun and tucked it into his belt. People have watched what has happened elsewhere and they know what their government is capable of. Syria is now a country at war and ordinary men like Musab are being forced to take sides and take up arms.
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That was Ian Panel. And while the run down rural towns and villages of northern Syria are in various stages of rebellion, it's a very different picture in the capital, Damascus. Britain and France may have closed down their embassies, but there are few obvious signs that a revolution is underway. What protests there have been have been confined to the suburbs and have usually been ended swiftly and violently by the security forces. James Harkin, just back from Damascus, says. It's clear though, that international sanctions are starting to leave their mark on everyday life.
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Once upon a time, a walk along the souk in Alhamediyya, Damascus most imposing indoor market, was an opportunity for quiet reflection. Even apart from the tantalizing smells and the atmosphere, the place is as big as an aircraft hangar with a striking high pockmark roof which seems to stretch to infinity. Now, however, it's a shop window on a newer kind of local culture, the deafening roar of scores of mini generators which the stall holders need to power up their shops. The place is littered with them, bright yellow or dark red, embossed with brand names like Suzuki, as if a fleet of lawnmower engines had come alive and were running the show. It's not far from the truth. Even in relatively tranquil central Damascus, electricity is now in short supply. Two or three times a day, there are long par cuts. Damascus stallholders are adapting in more ways than one. Among the ingenious replicas of designer watches and the gorgeous sweetmeats are equally sought after new items. Candles? Your correspondent was presented with one at his hotel on his first night after an outage made the walk up the steep staircase to bed even more precarious than usual. It didn't stop him falling flat on his face on the stone stairs, sustaining several bruised ribs and an aching hip. Even candles, however, aren't as cheap as they used to be before this conflict saw Syria ostracized by much of the world community. A pack of candles would cost five Syrian pounds, now it's 15. And a weekly shop, which would a year ago have cost 500 Syrian pounds, now costs a thousand. Most deleterious of all is the hike in the price of heating oil, or mazid. It's been snowing in Syria, and many of the country's poor can't afford to buy it. Even those who can sometimes stand in long queues waiting for it, only to find that by the time their turn comes, the supplies run out. How are Damascene's coping? Well, if the miserable deadness of many of the city's usual hot spots, streets in Babsharki, Bab Tuma and around the Umayyad mosque is anything to go by. Some are simply staying at home. Others are taking refuge in the coffee bars. One hidden away establishment in the Suruja area was full with gaggles of young men and women smoking shisha and flirting with each other. When the room suddenly turned pitch black, there was a loosh murmur of general approval. Many of the shops are staying open, even in the dark. Across the road from the hotel and the barbers, I saw a row of brave customers sitting, waiting to have their hair cut by candlelight. Damascenes, however, are relatively lucky. In much of the rest of the country, the electricity is cut off 12 hours out of 24. Some are living without any power at all. There's no doubt that for now, Damascus remains firmly under government control. The place is a citadel, with military checkpoints everywhere. But the amount of poverty is growing, thanks in part to international sanctions. One small businessman friend, a man with no political sympathies on either side, thinks all this is going to do the opposition no favours now. People don't care about pro Assad, anti Assad, he told me. They just want to eat. He's lost 50% of his salary in the last year, he says, as capital has flowed out of the country. And what money he does have doesn't buy what it once did. Some businessmen are angry with the government, but more, he says, are playing a waiting game or taking their money abroad. It's particularly frustrating for those financiers, many of them Saudi Arabia, who put huge sums of money into the Syrian tourism industry in the years before the crisis. Back then, tourism looked to be advancing in leaps and bounds. Now it lies in ruins of the wrong kind. Ask regime economists about all this and they're likely to be bullish. Even though Syria has suffered from drought recently. They'll say this year brought a bumper crop. The keywords Just like in the bad old days under the current president's father, Hafez Our Self Reliance. Over breakfast just before I left for the airport on Thursday, my businessman friend beamed with pride as he told me he just bought a mini generator for his flat. We're used to this, you know, he told me. But he in fact is in the minority. A full 60% of Syrians are under 25. They want a better life of the kind that they see on Facebook and on cable tv. And now they're taking increasing risks to speak out against the regime. And not even a bumper crop or the promise of their own mini generator is going to buy them off.
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James Harkin Back now from Damascus, they're campaigning in Burma for elections, being seen in the wider world as a test of the authorities newfound commitment to democracy. The Burmese government, as part of a program of reforms, has already released hundreds of political prisoners. The the most prominent were leaders of a group known collectively as the 88th generation of students. Now in their late 40s, these were the dissidents who led street protests to demand an end to military dictatorship. So how do they feel about the country's new nominally civilian regime and its promises for the future? Rachel Harvey has been in Burma, finding out.
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I don't know quite what I was expecting, but certainly not regular peals of uninhibited laughter. Minkoneng's gruff guffaws come in bursts. Tae Tsui's chuckles are infused with the low pitched gravel of a heavy smoker. Cocoji dissolves into wheezy giggles. Together, these self described comrades of Burma's long struggle for democracy form a harmonious male chorus of amusement, though after all they've been through. Quite how they manage to find so much to laugh about is a mystery. Over the past two decades, these three men have been arrested and imprisoned several times. They've endured torture and long periods in solitary confinement. Their most recent incarceration was imposed for joining the monk led protests in 2007, which became known as the Saffron Revolution. In January, Minkoneng, Tai Choi and Kokoji were set free by Burma's new civilian led but still military backed government, the latest in a series of reformist steps which many predict will soon lead to sanctions being lifted. The 88 generation leaders were imprisoned by a military regime that has, on the face of it, been consigned to history. But many of the same men responsible for what Minkoneng calls his bitter suffering still hold positions of power today. We can forgive, but we can't forget, he told me. Sitting cross legged on the floor of a simple home on the outskirts of Rangoon, I was struck by the absence of anger within the three men. Throughout our movement, we've always called for national reconciliation, ta t explained. We believe that revenge is a trap for our future, for our country's future. Within the years of terrible abuse, there were occasional moments of compassion. Kokoji told me of the day the prison guards announced he would be allowed to attend his mother's funeral. He didn't even know she'd died. I was so shocked, he says, his eyes opening wide, as if even now, years later, it seems incomprehensible. Prisoners given permission to travel outside the jail would normally be handcuffed and put in leg irons. But Kokoji told me his guards let him go to the funeral unencumbered. It was an act of sympathy, he said. Every time I talk about this experience, it makes me cry. The 88 generation have been released into a changing world as reforms take hold, as well as political prisoners being released, some exiles are returning to Burma, and Aung San SUU Kyi is running for a seat in Parliament. So could Minkoneng Kokoji and Tae T', a, also admired leaders of the democracy movement, be tempted to follow a similar path? It's too early to talk like that, cocoji said firmly. But what will you do then? I asked. Well, we're almost 50 years old, so we can't go on like this, like a student movement anymore, he replied, provoking one of the many bouts of laughter that peppered our discussion. We are trying to change direction, kokoji said more seriously. Some of us are interested in social work, some in politics, but always under the same umbrella. But you still haven't answered my question, I said. Will you form a political party of your own? You've asked it again. Kokoji cried with an incredulous but warm smile. It is a good question, Ta Ts' chipped in mischievously, clearly enjoying his friend's discomfort. In the face of my persistent probing, the eventual answer was a careful maybe, probably, but not yet. We are prepared to participate in the future political process, tae Tsui explained. But we're only now at the liberalization phase, not yet real transition. So for the time being, the 88 generation will support Aung San Suu Kyi and her party. They are in effect, leaving the way clear for now, watching and waiting to see whether Aung San SUU Kyi's gamble of running for parliament pays off. Can she be as effective a campaigner within the official political system as she has been outside it? Has the reform process now built enough momentum that there really is no turning back? Do the three men sitting on the floor of a suburban Rangoon, still adjusting to their newfound freedom, feel generally optimistic or nervous about their country's future? Minkoneng, famous for his poetic style of oratory, delivered a typically enigmatic reply. It's like a fish in a glass of water, he told me. Is the glass half empty or half full? It doesn't matter. The question should be, is it enough for the fish to live in? We have to deal with reality, and
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that's Rachel Harvey now. We always hear that the world's getting smaller every day. There's hardly anywhere now that's unexplored, and few places where you can be out of touch for long. It means, of course, that adventures aren't what they once were. There aren't many places left where you can still go, wow, I had no idea it was like this. But I'm pleased to report that this new world of connectivity has at least been of assistance to some of those who need to conduct affairs of the heart, as Hugh Cordy has been discovering
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in Central America, Playa Nancite is a bit different this year. It's still one of Costa Rica's most remote spots, but it no longer has the same sense of isolation. The change is certainly not obvious. Getting here requires the same effort. An hour's drive along a deeply rutted and muddy track, only passable in a four wheel drive with a winch, followed by a 40 minute hike over a very steep hill. The beach itself is also unchanged. Olive ridley turtles still nest here in their thousands, undisturbed by poachers but hunted by jaguars who occasionally patrol the beaches at night. Sadly, there's also little difference to the huge quantities of plastic strewn across the high tide mark, which washes up onto the golden sands from distant South Pacific islands. No change has come invisibly through the airwaves. Last year you could just about get a mobile phone signal if you were standing in the right spot. But now you can sit on Nancite's beach and connect to the Internet. Don't get me wrong, I'm as much a slave to the World Wide Web as the next person. But I can't help feeling a little sad at this development. It may be a cliche, but there's no doubt that technology makes the world feel a smaller and less interesting place. It shrinks the distances between countries and merges cultures. For me, real adventure travel doesn't just come from the journey itself, but from feeling cut off from one's normal way of life, a situation that forces you to accept what you find and become absorbed by it. And being isolated can also be exciting, since it often brings a frisson of risk. Unfortunately, with the unseen umbilical cord of a mobile or Internet connection, it's much more of a challenge to experience the unfamiliar and leave the familiar behind. In short, adventures aren't quite so, well, adventurous. Take Ernest Shackleton's heroic Antarctic feat, one of the greatest adventure stories of all time. One wonders whether it would have even happened had the Internet been around in his day. He and his men certainly wouldn't have embarked on one perilous journey after another if they'd been able to let someone know where they'd been stranded. Back on Nancite, the the Internet had an immediate impact on me. Every day I found myself repeating that well known mantra of the 21st century I must check my emails. When I could have been walking through the forest looking for wildlife, beach combing, or even swinging gently in a hammock under sunbathing iguanas, I was huddled over my computer, trying to keep sand out of the keyboard and glare off the screen as I communicated with people back home. And more often than not, cursing the connection speeds. It's a funny old thing. Last year I was perfectly content without any Internet. This year it's annoyingly slow. Not everybody feels the same way as I do about the developments on Nancite. Wilbert Matamoros, for one, is delighted. He spent over a year in Nancite, mostly on his own, logging the comings and goings of the nesting olive ridley turtles. Each night he walks up and down Nancyte's stretch of beach, counting, measuring and tagging them. Recently he came across a jaguar eating a turtle. Rather than backing away, he crept closer and videoed the action, using his torch as a light. It was an exciting moment, and one he was keen to share with his girlfriend over 5,000 miles away. With the Internet, he had uploaded pictures of the event before dawn. For the last five years, Wilbert from Costa Rica has been going out with an English girl called Jenny Neave. They met while working on another turtle project and have stayed together despite only seeing each other for between two and six months a year. When I ask Wilbert what the secret of their success is, he says, talking. Until the Internet arrived, he talked to Jenny virtually every day from his mobile. Half the time she would call him, the other half he phoned her. Unfortunately, that sort of love didn't come cheap. It was costing Wilbert nearly half of his $500 a month salary. Now, with the Internet and Skype, communication is free, which means that they can talk for as long or as often as they like. And the money he saves, he can spend on actually seeing Jenny. Of course, I don't begrudge Wilbert and Jenny their newfound freedoms. But romance aside, Nancite's Internet highlights the paradox of this kind of technology. You crave more of it, but deep down you know you'd be happier with a lot less.
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Hugh Cordy on the seashore in Costa Rica now, can you imagine getting 40 children ready for school every day? And if that seems tough, how would you fancy paying all their school fees as well? We've been to the Ngong Hills outside Nairobi to find a Kenyan woman who does just that. Six years ago, Rachel Gisheer decided to take in an orphan child. Another followed soon after, then another, and then another, and before long, the Dream Children's Home was born. Catherine Fellowes used to be a regular visitor when she was working for the BBC in Nairobi. She has just been back and has learned that Rachel, who once told her she'd take in no more children, has in fact added another nine to her family.
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A slip of a child in a green school dress, white socks and black shoes settles herself noiselessly onto the sofa next to me. Within minutes she's asleep, her cropped head resting on my arm, but not before she's gazed at me with such melting dark eyes that for a moment I feel exactly as Rachel must have done. Her headmaster and a teacher brought her here, and when I heard her story, I couldn't say no, she says Rachel herself is the child of a single mother who grew up in poverty on a coffee plantation in rural Kenya. Maureen is the 49th child to have captured her heart and the newest arrival at the Dream Home. Rachel guesses what I'm thinking and gives me one of her most winning smiles. When anyone comes here with a story of a child who is suffering, I forget every other consideration. Maybe I need someone to stop me. But it won't be Stephen. He is as soft as I am. Stephen, Rachel's husband, is a gentle giant of a man. He's a teacher in a school for the deaf. After a day teaching woodwork, he boards one of Nairobi's packed Matatu minibuses, and an hour and a half of traffic jams later, he arrives home to the shouts and bustle of 49 more children. Then he leads prayers in the corrugated iron building which used to house his sitting room. It's now filled with half size plastic chairs and the walls are papered with finger paintings. I have to admit this was not my idea. It was Rachel's dream. Stephen tells me we struggled for two years before she persuaded me to let her bring in the first child. Little did I know by now I would be the father of so many. Ironically, perhaps they only have three children of their own because Stephen was determined not to have more children than he could provide for. Rachel and I and the sleeping Maureen are in the new sitting room. It's the heart of a fine stone house and is used for receiving a stream of well wishers. They're served the same sweet, milky Kenyan tea that we are drinking. It was people like this who built this new home, as well as the new dormitories and the three classrooms that have gone up since my last visit. Church members bring bags of clothes. A local grain mill donates a few kilos of flour. A neighbour prunes the tomato plants in the new polytunnel. Eucalyptus trees now line the steep red mud approach road. Someone has put up swings and a slide in the yard and there's a colourful mural at the gate. Though Nairobi is home to hundreds of foreign aid organizations, so far Rachel's support has come almost entirely from individuals and Kenyan businesses. Like most of the children at the dream home, Maureen has family. Rachel recounts a familiar story. Her father died three years ago. Her mother before that. Her teacher noticed she was coming to school hungry, wearing tattered clothes. She was living with a grandmother who was very weak and no other member of the family had come forward to help. I knock on the door of the older girl's dormitory. Margaret Wangoi is carefully packing a brand new metal trunk. She's done well in her exams. At the end of her primary schooling, like many Kenyan children, she will now go on to board. My grandmother brought me this trunk. She runs her fingers over the letters of her name, which is written in white paint along one side. It shows she cares for me. Then Margaret suddenly changes tack. The person who could have done more for me is my grandfather. He is a selfish man and I am not ashamed to say it. He has money. But when Rachel asked him to help me with the things I needed for school, he refused. The Kenyan government has recently stated that children's homes must have an exit plan for each child. They are only supposed to keep a child for three years. Then she should be returned to her family. What will this mean for Margaret and for Maureen. Rachel is sceptical. What miracle is supposed to take place to ensure that an old lady who brought a child here three years ago because she couldn't feed her is suddenly able to do so now? And if that child was dumped here, will she be wanted back after a few years? These are big questions that Rachel hardly has time to ponder. Night is falling and the children are hungry and have formed a jostling meal queue. The githeri, the maize and bean stew that's bubbling in the outside kitchen, must be ladled into dozens of outstretched metal plates. It's time for me to head down the hill into the city. But I've been spotted. A child runs towards me, her face beaming. It's Maureen, come to say goodbye.
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That's it. Catherine Fellows in Nairobi bringing this edition to a close. I'll be here again on Thursday and Saturday of week with more from our own correspondence. Do join us. Goodbye.