← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Please Don't Kill Our Sons
00:28:02
Around the world with correspondents' stories. In this edition: executions in - the a...
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You're about to hear from our own correspondent.
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We do two versions of the programme,
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one for the BBC World Service and
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this one's a download of the latest
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edition from BBC Radio 4. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Hello. Today, please don't kill my boy. An Australian mother pleads for her son's life as he waits to go before a firing squad in Indonesia. Mr. Modi promises billions to improve India's huge and dangerous railway network. There's a white tie dinner at the palace for the visiting Mexican president, but questions about human rights when he calls at number 10. And we find out why magical bath salts from Senegal have been arriving in the post in Dorset. Two Australian drug traffickers sentenced to death in Indonesia seem likely to be shot by a firing squad within days. The Australian Prime Minister, Tony Abbott, has said he's revolted by the prospect of the executions. He's repeatedly asked the authorities in Jakart not to enforce the death penalty. The case has soured relations between the two countries. There are eight other people, mostly foreigners, on death row in the country. They too have been convicted of narcotics offences. Indonesia has some of the harshest drug laws in the world. And Karishma Vaswani in Jakarta says the impending executions have prompted a national debate about capital punishment.
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The drug rehabilitation centre is nothing like I expected. Nestled in the foothills of the mountainous landscape surround Jakarta, it looks more like a chalet from the Sound of Music than a place where hardcore drug users come to rid themselves of their addictions. In a small room surrounded by wide glass windows, Father Mike Hillard is teaching a group of young Indonesians about repentance and forgiveness. Everyone is furiously taking notes, thumbing through well worn Bibles. In the corner is 30 year old Pramudya. He's a big burly chap who never seems to smile. He's been at the Breakthrough Mission, as it's called, for the last six years. And this is the 15th such rehab center he's attended in the last decade. My life turned into a mess, he tells me. I had no friends. My family left me. They all stopped talking to me. I just thought about how to steal from them so I could buy drugs. I lost everything. Pramodia's story isn't unique. Many of the young men I've been meeting here have been addicted to heroin or crack for most of their lives. You see me today and you think Pramodia is a big man, right? He said. At one point, I weighed 25 kilos less than this. All I could think about was the Next hit. But then he overdosed, realized he needed help and admitted himself into a rehab center. The Indonesian authorities say it's a growing problem and especially among young people. Almost every day, 40 to 50 young Indonesians die because of drug overdoses. Slamit, the chief media officer at Indonesia's narcotics agency, tells me. We have 4.5 million addicts in the country. It is a national drug emergency. These figures, hard to verify, are now being used to justify Indonesia's execution spree. Previously, if you were caught with drugs here, you knew you'd go to prison. But the death penalty was rarely enforced. The most likely outcome would be years whiled away in a tropical and overcrowded jail where you would be able to buy some small home comforts while your case went from appeal to appeal. But that all changed suddenly in January, when after four years with no executions, Indonesia started carrying out the death penalty at its notorious Nusa Kambangan prison. Convicts from Malawi, Nigeria, Vietnam, Brazil and the Netherlands were all executed, as well as one person person from Indonesia. All of them were drug traffickers. This appetite for execution appears to be driven by President Joko Widodo. He has publicly declared a war on narcotics and has turned down all clemency pleas from drug traffickers. Two Australians are amongst those who've had their appeals rejected. Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran were part of a drug smuggling ring known as the Bali Nine. They were found guilty of trafficking a decade ago. But their families insist they're different now. They are reformed men. Please don't kill my son. Cries Myuran Sukumaran's mother, to an audience of foreign journalists. Please don't kill our boys. They made a stupid mistake. But now they've changed. They've become better men. They should be given a second chance. Mayuran's mother is a sturdy, stoic figure, an Australian of Sri Lankan descent. It's clear from her anguish that she feels she's partly to blame for her son's situation. As a mother, you would never want this for your child, she tells the packed room of silent reporters, many of whom clearly are struggling to hold back their tears. But I tell you, as Mayu's mother, he has changed. He is a different person now. He shouldn't be allowed to die. But Indonesia's view is that if men like Mayuran and Andrew aren't executed, drug traffickers will continue to use this country as a transit point infecting the nation's youth. And there's no doubt most Indonesians approve of this tough policy. There are surveys every other day in the papers here which show that the majority of people are in favor of the death penalty. But there have also been calls from prominent Indonesians for the President to reconsider his position that also question the effectiveness of capital punishment. If they show they've changed, then they should be given a second chance, said Basuki Ahok Purnama, the governor of Jakarta, in a recent meeting with the media. I've told the President of my thoughts and he is a very careful man. He is considering all inputs. President Joko Widodo has a reputation for good sense and that's what Mayuran's mother is banking on. I am begging for mercy from the Indonesian President, she said. Please don't kill our sons.
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And that's Karishma Vaswani. The Tunisian authorities are cracking down on hardline Islamist groups in the country. They've arrested scores of men they say have been planning to carry out terrorist operations. Isis, the so called Islamic State is known to be trying to increase its presence throughout North Africa. There have been sporadic cross border raids from lawless pockets of neighbouring Algeria and Libya which have targeted police and security personnel inside Tunisia. And many young Tunisians have gone to Syria to link up with ISIS fighters there. But Diana Dock, who's been travelling around the country, says most Tunisians make it quite clear they do not want ISIS or other extremists gaining a foothold in their country.
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ISIS bans all forms of merrymaking, so what would it make of this? The Tunisian Dunes alive with the sound of music on my first visit since the country's Jasmine revolution, I have chanced upon Les Dunes Electronique, a three day festival of world music held in the Tunisian desert round the oasis of Nefta. Parts of the original Star wars film were shot here, but this is episode two of the festival. Building on the unexpected success of last year's inaugural event, where over 3,000 Tunisian and foreign visitors danced from noon until midnight in the vast open spaces of the Sahara. Isis, eat your heart out. Of course, February in the desert can have its surprises. And this year the 7,000 visitors had their commitment levels tested to the full. Not by an ISIS attack, but by torrential rain turning the sand into Glastonbury style muddy rivers, forcing cancellations as water and electronics mixed. Even this could not dampen the spirits of Tunisia's young at heart. As they padded good naturedly through puddles wearing plastic bags on their feet, they also enlivened the spirits of the hoteliers, restaurateurs and shop owners of the region for whom the drop in tourism over the last four years has been hard. At the nearby oasis of Touzur, traffic jams surround the famous Le Petit Prince restaurant, set on the edge of the palm groves, its surreal planetary interior is buzzing with custom, a total contrast to the previous night spent in Tunisia's mountainous interior. Then I was the sole guest of the Hotel Sufetula, overlooking the perfectly preserved Roman temples of Spaetla. Four policemen had just been shot not far away. Even there, the staff are positive. Just give us a hundred days, the manager says, and you will see. Our new government and president will fight these crazy extremists. Our period of instability is coming to an end, and tourism will return. Compared to other Arab countries, with their still ongoing revolutions, Tunisia stands out like a bright light. Why is that, when there is clearly still economic hardship, unemployment and a big rich poor divide? Tunisians themselves from all over the country give me a remarkably coherent answer, which boils down to two women and trade unions. In the capital, Tunis, most young women are unveiled, dressed so cosmopolitanly in jeans and jackets that it is hard to tell their nationality. Young men and women mix freely in the cafes of the souvenir souks in the colorful old medina, laughing and chatting comfortably in a blend of French and Arabic. Our women saved our revolution is a refrain I hear regularly from Tunisian men. When the previous Islamist government tried to change the constitution by making the role of women complementary to men, Tunisia's women, strong and emancipated, were having none of it. They thronged the streets in their thousands and staged a sit in in front of the parliament building till the government backed down and the wording reverted to equal. Tunisia's middle and working classes, male and female, have long been unusually vocal, helped by the powerful trade unions who have played such a leading role in creating modern civil associations, instilling a sense of responsibility. We think of it as normal to pay our taxes, a local shop owner explains to me in Carthage, where the modern presidential palace overlook the ancient ruins. In most Arab countries, the mentality is that only stupid people pay tax. Of course, the rich will always find ways to avoid it. But here we understand that it is like a contract. It gives us the right to make demands from the government in return. All this would be lost were ISIS to gain a foothold, and everyone knows it. In the heart of Tunisia's poorer south, at Sidi Bou Zid, a huge clay model of a fruit cart marks the spot where Mohammed Bouazizi, a thwarted fruit seller, ignited the Arab Spring by setting himself on fire. I buy some bananas and watch a march of local people demanding the government speed up the anti terrorism laws. Don't give up the fight, says the graffiti on the cart. Back at Tozer's Oasis, I visit Paradise Gardens with its hands on Zoo. The cheerful young keeper lets me hold the egg an ostrich has just laid. Then he puts Janet the scorpion on my hand, named after Michael Jackson's sister, and introduces me to Angela Merkle the horned viper, before draping a spaghetti of snakes around my neck. Are these called Isis? I ask. No, he replies. We don't allow them here.
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Diana Darke There were noisettes of Windsor Estate lamb and spiced chocolate torta on the menu at Buckingham palace on Tuesday evening. The Queen was entertaining the visiting president of Mexico and his former soap opera actress wife. Yesterday, Senhor Enrica Pena Nieto was at number 10 Downing street to hear the Prime Minister raise concerns about human rights in his country. He continues to face anger over the disappearance and apparent murder of 43 trainee teachers last September. Katie Watson in Mexico City says they're among tens of thousands of people who've gone missing in the past decade in a country where drug related violence in particular has become all too familiar.
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I'd been in the country less than a week when I was invited to dinner with some prominent businessmen here in Mexico City. Within five minutes of sitting down, I was told by the gentleman on my left that international media coverage of Mexico was woefully one sided. There's too much focus on violence, he said to me. And there's far more to Mexico than drugs. I have to agree with that. This country is full to bursting with history, tradition and culture, and that should be included in the stories we tell. Take the capital, for example. Greater Mexico City is a bustling and beautiful metropolis and home to more than 20 million people. On bad days, pollution levels are nothing to be proud of. But it's also a colorful capital with stunning architecture, street markets selling everything from mountains of avocados to second hand furniture, taco stalls on many a street corner, as well as top class restaurants and neighborhoods that can make you feel like you're in New York's West Village or leafy Paris. The problem is, I told my dining companion, is that when big news happens here in Mexico, it's very often bad news. So perhaps that's why the headlines are skewed. Take my first month here. There have been protests over the missing students, a fatal bus crash, an explosion at a maternity hospital that left several people dead and the discovery of 60 bodies near Acapulco in an abandoned funeral parlor. The latter was an interesting one. When the news came in, there was hope that perhaps these bodies were those of the missing students. They were found less than 200 miles from where they disappeared. But later it was confirmed that they were not the victims of violent crime, but in fact, victims of a morally corrupt funeral director who was thought to have done a runner after taking the relative's money for a cremation. It was almost as if people breathed a sigh of relief, as if to say, phew, thank goodness it wasn't the drug cartels, just a dodgy funeral director. But in any other country, this would still have been a shocking story. Where else could 60 bodies be left undiscovered for so many months? It was a scandal. In the past decade, around 100,000 people have been murdered here, and more than 23,000 people are missing. Speaking to a local journalist the other day, she explained that Mexicans are, in a way, numbed by the numbers. She used the word anesthetized. People may be angry, but it isn't so much of a shock. It's something that struck me when I began my journalism career here in Mexico 13 years ago. I shadowed a crime reporter for a local paper in the city of Guadalajara. They thought nothing of splashing a picture of a dead body on the front page day after day. It was a far cry from the protection that the media give the public back home. In Great Britain. People don't think of Mexico as being a country at war, but it is. My journalist friend told me the country is a conflict zone in the same way that people have to carry on their lives in the Gaza Strip. She said people get used to the killings here. But the disappearance of the 43 students in September has brought the issue of violence to the fore. It's galvanised many people who say enough is enough. These students were not part of the cartels. They got caught up in the violence in one of the country's poorest states. But there are also Mexicans who've said to me they didn't think these students were as innocent as many make them out to be. They commandeered buses to go on protests, and they meddled with the cartels. So what did they expect? For me, it's an obvious answer. They could have been arrested, called to account, but they didn't deserve to die. But people here have got used to people disappearing. In a recent report, the Mexican Human Rights Commission said it was the culture of impunity over the past few decades, that has meant that forced disappearances are still happening. The violence and insecurity in the country, according to the commission, is at such a level that human rights are seen more as a theoretical issue rather than something that's real. But real it is. And it's something the president is increasingly coming under fire for how to attract foreign companies to invest in. The opening up of the Mexican energy sector may be top of his agenda as he visits Britain. These are the biggest reforms to have happened to the industry since it was nationalized in the 1930s, and they've been hailed as a massive step forward. But for Mexico to flourish, those economic developments must surely march hand in hand with political freedoms, too.
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Katie Watson the budget's always big news here, but in India, it's massive. The papers there have been full of Prime Minister Modi's plans for the 12 months ahead. The Economic Times newspaper had 23 pages on it, 100 different articles in all. The government's proposals include spending billions on the country's rail network, which is famously one of the busiest and biggest in the world. At least 12,000 trains carry 23 million passengers every day. But Anu Anand says while India's railways may be iconic, romantic even to some, they're also decrepit and downright dangerous.
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India's rail network encompasses more than 70,000 miles of track that's nearly three times the circumference of planet Earth. Royal trains with liveried staff and plush onboard bedrooms cater to high end tourists, while the no frills poor man's chariot is often late, overcrowded and lacks water, though it does eventually get you to your destination. Through tropical beaches, snowy mountains, deserts and swampy jungles, India's railways connect every distinct and colorful corner of this country. From its swaying carriages you'll see gorgeous vistas and sometimes pass so close to crowded tenements you feel you could shake hands with the residents. But the romance of India's railways is a dreamy eyed distraction. The truth is they are ramshackle and bursting at the seams. Reform is vital but difficult. And if India did succeed in updating its vast network, millions of passengers, lives would be transformed and the country's still sluggish economy might finally pick up speed. Improving the old colonial era system, though, will be an uphill struggle. Stations stink of feces deposited by passing trains. There are few safe places to eat, even in first class, the carriages are dilapidated and mouse infested. Third class compartments in which the majority of Indians travel are overcrowded, dangerous and dirty look closely and there is more bad news. The network is perpetually running at a loss and its safety record is appalling. 15,000 Indians die annually while trying to cross tracks, according to a 2012 safety report. Another thousand die falling from crowded coaches in collisions and derailments. Yet rail remains the most popular mode of transport for poor and and even middle class Indians because it is still the most affordable. Even with the recent hike in passenger fares, tickets are heavily subsidized. Searching Online I found 53 passenger types eligible for discounts, including film technicians, research scholars and war widows. Sadly, I fit into none of these categories. So when I recently booked tickets for my family for a short trip, we paid full fare. Four seats return for a pretty reasonable 32 pounds. The double decker train was a hit with my kids, but the trays were broken, the seats unyielding. And when my 3 year old daughter announced she needed to use the loo, I knew my worst nightmare of shepherding an unsteady toddler on a moving train to a filthy bathroom was about to come true. The stink of urine was so strong it stung my eyes. I the floor was suspiciously and treacherously wet. The toilet was a hole in the floor through which we could see tracks whizzing below. Somehow we managed without touching anything. Changing a system so many people depend on will not be easy, and India's leaders know their task is difficult and sensitive. The rail network employs a staggering 1.3 million people, as well as running schools, hospitals and catering services, not to mention the tens of thousands of impoverished shoeshine boys, hoarders, touts, scavengers and beggars who rely on it for survival. When passenger fares were raised by 14% last year, there were widespread protests and the government was forced to alter its plans. Yet India's Prime Minister, Narendra Modi rightly believes that reform will ultimately give the economy a boost, helping to provide jobs India's growing young population. Indeed, a report three years ago pointed out that modernized railways could potentially contribute 2% to India's GDP. And rail is still one national asset that is potentially easier to fix. India's public health care system is awful. Government hospitals are routinely in the news for using the same needles on multiple patients and of spreading HIV and hepatitis through poorly screened blood. Education is similarly bankrupt with schools that lack teachers and toilets. But while implementing change in education and health relies on a patchwork of state and local agencies, India's railways are directly controlled by the centre. So if Mr. Modi can speed up sluggish trains, clean up urine soaked stations and improve safety. He will prove his government can not only talk about reform, but actually achieve it. And that confidence is badly needed in a country that's lost much of its shine for domestic and foreign investors alike due to its poor infrastructure and epic inefficiency.
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Anu Anand in Delhi now who do you turn to when times are hard, when there are problems which need solving? The answer depends on where you live. In the Muslim parts of West Africa, the answer might well be your marabou. He is a religious teacher or spiritual adviser with a tradition dating back centuries. Many will give advice or help with all kinds of issues. Religious, family, practical. Even with health matters. The marabu, it's said, can ward off evil and bring good luck. A fee is usually involved, of course, and these days it's more likely to be hard cash than a bowl of rice. And you can't accuse the marabou of failing to move with the times, as Jane Labousse and her Senegalese husband have been finding out. They now use email, Twitter and Skype to help them dispense their advice.
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I had expected the marabou to look the part a wizard's beard, perhaps, or unusual eyes. But Sherif was singularly normal. Light skinned, smooth chinned and spry. He wore a grey Mauritanian jalaba and reclined in bed under a wax printed cloth in an otherwise scruffy bedroom in Angor, Senegal. My husband and I were in search of good luck for a visa application. We handed the folder of documents to Sherif, who held it reverently as he murmured an assortment of prayers afterwards handing over 20,000 Seifa, about 23 pounds. I wondered if anything had changed. My husband grew up in the sun drenched fishing district of Ngor in Dakar and like most locals, turns to his marabou for spiritual guidance, advice, support and hope. He's been consulting sherif since he was 18. The peripatetic marabou is so in demand that he divides his time between southern Mauritania and Angor. There are hundreds of marabouts in Senegal. Just as an American might consult a psychotherapist, a Brit might see a counsellor or an Indian might hot foot it to his guru. The mentors of choice for any self respecting Senegalese are these mystic Muslim holy men. They specialize in spiritual guidance, health solutions, lark magic and fortune telling. Whatever your problem, whether it's money or marriage difficulties, false friends, work troubles or infertility, your marabou has a charm fit for the purpose. Last week My mother in law rang with alarming news. The family house had been maraboutay, literally maraboued, a hybrid verb I fancy is rarely used beyond Francophone West Africa. Someone had left an egg outside the front door, a bad omen if ever there was one. And she was obliged to rush to her own marabou for a counter charm. Unfortunately, if you live in N' Gor and you suffer from jealousy or ill temper, you can marabou the object of your resentment on days out, while travelling or during marital arguments. My husband ties several gris gris around his waist. Grigri are amulets worn on the body to protect one from evil, bad words and accidents. My husband's a custom made for him by sherif out of lion hide from Mali and crocodile skin from the river Niger. One contains prayers stitched into a tiny leather parcel and attached to a cord buttoned with a cowrie shell. Gris gris are worn by everyone from wrestlers to soldiers to housewives and can feature anything from monkey to snake to mouse. Now, whenever I travel, I put my doubts aside and wear my husbands lie in grigri around my waist for protection. In the past, Sheriff has prayed for our success at work and my deliverance from an unkind boss. When the boss in question handed in her resignation, it was, to say the least, unnerving. And since then I've overcome some of my scepticism. Now, after three recurrent miscarriages, why not entertain the possibility that a marabou might help? All the best marabous are on Skype these days, and Sheriff is no exception. Via Skype from our current home in Dorset, my husband and I call Sherif every week for updates on our fertility treatment. The Morning Post brings envelopes plastered with pink and green Senegalese stamps containing grigri and minuscule notes elegantly encrypted with Arabic prayers. My husband spends hours boiling them in water with ginger and honey, according to the handwritten instructions. My mother in law is as you would expect on the case. She rings with news of a fertility marabou advertising on Senegal tv and we call the hotline from England. A crackling voice at the other end informs us in French that the minimum fee would be 2 million SIFA, more than £2,000. Now that Marabou's are marketing themselves, it seems prices are rising. Her latest find is a lady marabou who charges a deposit of 40,000 SIFA plus a final payment if we successfully have a child. At just 45 pounds, it seems an affordable leap of faith. Last week, another large brown envelope dropped through the letterbox, full of mysterious paper packets, all lightly sprinkled with sand. After a Skype call for instructions, I'm told to take Am Bain, a fertility bath using the contents of the packets. Magical bath salts, if you will. Now, I've never explored anything much more alternative than yoga, but I find it strangely comforting that we have two Marabous on the case. At least I'll have tried all possibilities. And let's face it, if ever I find an egg outside our door, I'll know exactly who to call.
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Jane Labousse there, bringing magical bath salts to Dorset and this edition to a close. There'll be more stories from around the world in our program on Saturday morning. Do please join us then. Goodbye.