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From Our Own Correspondent
Prepared to Die
00:28:16
Will the Egyptian army move in to break up the camp in Cairo set up by supporters of a...
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- [00:00]
John Charles Guy
Hi. This is a download from BBC Radio. It's the latest edition of Radio 4's From Our Own correspondent and it's introduced by Kate Ady.
- [00:09]
Programme Narrator
Hello. In this programme, the children in Cairo who say they're prepared to die in their support of ousted President Morsi. We cannot forget the past, but we shouldn't dwell on it. One of the voices at a reunion in Burma of those who tried to overthrow the military 25 years ago. We learn how the conflict in Syria is bringing life back to long abandoned villages in Turkey. And there's a big prawn, a big avocado and even a big boxing crocodile. Our new man in Australia admits he's overwhelmed by the sheer size of life down under. Muslims around the world have been marking the end of the fasting month of Ramadan with the festival of Eid. For many, it's meant sharing festive meals and family days out. But in Egypt, tensions are high, with the standoff continuing between the Muslim Brotherhood, supporters of the ousted Islamist president Mohammad Morsi, and the interim military backed government. Most expect the security forces to clear the demonstrators who've set up camp around a mosque in eastern Cairo. The last confrontation ended with scores dead and injured, but Caroline Wyatt, who's in the Egyptian capital, says the thousands staging the sit in say they won't go home until Mr. Morsi is returned to power.
- [01:26]
Caroline Wyatt
With a warm smile that reveals the braces on her teeth and limpid brown eyes, 14 year old Amina is a slightly gawky teenager on the cusp of adulthood, but not quite there yet. Her hair is invisible beneath a neat headscarf and she talks with a confidence beyond her years. We are standing on plastic sheeting in a makeshift tent in the middle of what would normally be a busy Cairo dual carriageway. But now it is a protest camp bursting with families, the smell of cooking mingled with the heat of so many people crammed into a small space sleeping, washing, eating or praying. Here, Amina's English is fluent and she reminds me a little of one of my nieces when she was the same age. Perhaps that's why her words come as something of a shock when I ask if she's scared that the police might try to break up the camp soon. Without a moment's hesitation, Amina shakes her head. No, she says, still smiling sweetly. I'm not scared. I don't mind. Even if I die, it's OK because it's in a good cause, so it doesn't matter. I nod, but I am so taken aback that I don't think of the obvious questions to ask. What exactly is the cause worth dying for at the age of 14, returning a president to power? Democracy. The adults in the camp mention it often, saying democracy died in Egypt when Mr. Morsi was removed from power after massive popular demonstrations against his Islamist presidency, which many complained was turning into a new dictatorship. Amina is one of the many children at the camp. As we begin to move on through the crowd, a small boy who has been listening to her speak tugs at my shirt. I'm from Rochdale, he tells me shyly, and says he's 10, and I don't mind dying either. Now I know I'm in the middle of a world that I don't quite comprehend. We go to another tented space to meet Osama, an engineer who offers us cold drinks and a chair. He's 48, and his four children are here too, although he goes out to work each day before coming back for the evening. It's been five weeks now, with no softening of the government's position and the former president still in jail, along with many others from the Muslim Brotherhood. So what keeps bringing Osama back? We've just started to get Egypt on the right path, he explains, referring to the elections in June 2012, which Mr. Morsi won against a former prime minister from Hosni Mubarak's ousted regime. The coup last month meant a crackdown on civil liberties, and shooting unarmed women and children is not a recipe for dialogue. Then my shirt is tugged again. You ask us why we hate you all, says another man, his face very close to mine. I didn't, I respond, but that doesn't deter him. We hate you, America, for interfering in our affairs and supporting dictators in the region. But I'm English, I tell him. He continues regardless, as we make to leave. Around us, the crowd gathers again, eager to add their stories of how some of the Egyptian media have spread false rumours about the Muslim Brotherhood, calling them terrorists or claiming the camp is full of drugs or prostitution and people who cut off the fingers of suspected thieves according to Sharia law. We see no drugs or prostitution, and everywhere I look are full sets of all five fingers. But the claim and counterclaim are signs of the mistrust on all sides. In central Cairo, we talk to Heber Maraev from Human Rights Watch. She admits these are uneasy times in a country bitterly divided after the early days of hope. Now fresh darkness looms. As an Egyptian, she says, I worry that the few voice is calling for reason and for people to remember that the Brotherhood are Egyptian too, and have rights are being drowned out by those who call them terrorists with no right to life. Hers is not a popular view these days. The pyramids that shimmer in the distance through Cairo's hazy skyline are almost empty of tourists. Just seven tickets sold the other day. Many in this nation of more than 80 million want the camp cleared to draw a line beneath the Morsi era, to end the political unrest damaging her fragile economy. Although more bloodshed could have the opposite effect. After we leave the camp that night, I can't sleep. I keep wondering what will happen to Amina and the boy from Rochdale and the month old baby in his mother's arms that was thrust in front of our camera. Why do they stay, not least when in the rest of Egypt, there's little doubt the police will go in to dismantle the camp with force if needs be. In the shadow of the pyramids, the bright day is done and the stage is set for confrontation. The actors all in place. All that's unclear is when the next act begins.
- [06:01]
Programme Narrator
And that's Caroline Wyatt in Cairo. Christians have been living in Syria for hundreds of years. Today, though, they're leaving, chased away by the ongoing fighting, by sectarian violence and the fear of kidnapping. It's estimated that tens of thousands have already left the country and few have any plans to. These are Syriac Christians. They belong to one of the oldest Christian communities in the world. Many of those who've left Syria in recent months are sheltering in neighbouring Turkey, where, as Diana Darke has been finding out, they've been greeted with considerable enthusiasm.
- [06:39]
Diana Darke
Driven by a deep and humble faith. Father Joachim is a young man with a sense of destiny. He has returned from 11 years in Holland to revive his dying community high on a remote escarpment in eastern Turkey, looking south over the shimmering Mesopotamian plain. We are standing together on the terrace of his newly restored monastery. Thank God our community is alive again, he says, his face radiating out from under the distinctive black cap of his Syriac Orthodox habit. On Sundays, our church is full with worshippers from the village. You have transformed this place. I marvel, admiring the quality of the renovations. Back in the 80s, when I first came, there was no path and it took an hour to climb up here. This terrace was a vegetable patch and a local family was living in the ruins. Yes, he replies serenely. They were Yazidis. They moved in after the last monk died. They looked after the monastery very well. He adds, the thought of a Syriac Orthodox monk being grateful to Yazidis, sometimes reviled as devil worshippers by Muslims. And Christians alike was a novel one. But surprises like these come thick and fast in eastern Turkey, where the Turkish government has invested heavily over the past decade, building hydroelectric dams on the Tigris and Euphrates, extending agriculture and employment to help settle local communities, including Kurdish ones. As for the Syriac Christians, custodians of some of the earliest surviving churches in the world, this was always their homeland, the region known as Tur Ab Din, Syriac for Mountain of the Servants of God. Father Joachim guides me out of the blazing summer sun into a shady spot to sit. A young helper appears with a tray of refreshments. Once there were 80 thriving monasteries here, he tells me. This was the first founded by Moraugan St. Eugene, a 4th century pearl diver in the Red Sea who taught us the Egyptian monastic tradition. He describes without any trace of rancour, and how successive persecutions from fellow Christians, Mongols and Turks decimated their numbers, leaving just a handful of monks struggling to keep the main monasteries alive. When I returned two years ago, he continues, gently sipping his tea, I asked the government for permission to reopen the monastery, and they agreed. They paid for the new tarmac road to reach the foot of the mountain, and they paid to bring the electricity. We paid for the road to continue up here and for the restoration works. Getting permission from the government, that can't have been easy, I exclaim. It was very easy. We were invited back officially. He explains how European Union pressure has gradually forced a change in Turkish policy. The politicians now realize it is good to have us here. Rich members of our community are returning from Europe and investing their life savings. He pauses. More difficult, he elaborates, are the land disputes with our Kurdish neighbors. In some places they use our churches as stables. We are only a minority, of course, but our local MP is now a Christian from our community. He represents the Kurdish party, so maybe we can resolve our differences. I gesture down to the plain below and ask about the war in Syria, just across the border, within sight of the monastery. Are you afraid it will spill over here? Not at all, he replies. We want our brothers to come back from Syria. Most of them fled there during the First World War. They have always shared our ancient Syriac language and culture. Several of their families are living in our village. They help our church and our football team. He flashes a smile across the Turab Din. Some of the long abandoned villages are slowly coming back to life, not just with emigre families from the Syriac diaspora returning from Europe, but also with co religionists from Syria, separated by an artificial border, returning to the bosom of their community in Turkey. From a low point of just 80 families, there are now around 150. A slick Syriac staffed factory even harvests the produce of Syriac vineyards, making Syriac wines for sale in the restaurants of the new boutique hotels in the historic towns of Mardin and Midyatta. What about that smart refugee camp outside Midyat? I asked him. It looked brand new, but half empty. It is for Syriac Christians, father Joachim explains. The land was donated by a Syriac businessman like us. He hopes many Syriac Christians from Syria will come with their families and settle here. Thank God for them. He smiles again. Who could have imagined that in a remote corner of eastern Turkey, the war in Syria would be reuniting an ancient community? Only Father Joachim, perhaps.
- [11:22]
Programme Narrator
And that's Diana Darke. Commemorations have been taking place this week in Burma, which is also known as Myanmar, to mark the 25th anniversary of the mass uprising that launched the country's pro democracy movement. Many former exiles and political prisoners have taken part in the events, which have been held with the tacit approval of the current reformist government. The opposition leader, Aung Sang San SUU Kyi, paid tribute to the young students who led the demonstrations which were suppressed. With the loss of thousands of lives. She urged people to put aside hard feelings and work towards national reconciliation. Jonathan Head, who was also there, tells us the mood was conciliatory, and while some people were angry, most of those present seemed ready to work with the current government.
- [12:11]
Jonathan Head
At first glance, it could have been an ordinary student reunion. Faces lit up in sudden recognition of old friends. Jokes were exchanged over the thinning hair and thickening paunches of advancing middle age. And of course, there were memories to share. And what memories they called themselves the 88 generation, the young men and women who 25 years ago started one of the most dramatic and courageous campaigns in ever undertaken by a group of students armed with nothing more than a desire to end their country's poverty and isolation, they attempted to overthrow a military regime with a well deserved reputation for brutality. And they did it before the protests in Tiananmen Square, before the fall of communism in Eastern Europe, let alone more recent democracy movements in countries like Indonesia. As they wandered through an exhibition of old photographs, the mood seemed to darken a little. You could see them squinting, trying to recognize their younger selves in the grainy images of defiant crowds in the streets of Yangon, which was then called Rangoon. These images have never been displayed before in this city. Even a year ago, this very public commemoration could not have taken place. Yet this time, a government minister A retired general, as so many Burmese ministers still are, attended the gathering, mingling with activists who'd been jailed and sometimes tortured by the army he once served. There was no bitterness. We cannot forget the past, said one activist, but we shouldn't dwell on it. Some of them are already cooperating with the government on projects to reshape the country. What explains this forbearance in people who have every reason to hate the military and every right to demand justice for their suffering? Oddly, the answer might lie in the sheer stubbornness of Myanmar's former rulers in holding onto power for so long. Their refusal to budge despite sanctions and international isolation persuaded dissidents to explore other ways of breaking the deadlock. The long years of imprisonment or exile gave them a chance to think, and perhaps the passage of time simply softened their anger. We wanted to punish the military, said Aung Nainu, who survived a massacre in 1988 and then joined armed insurgents in the jungles along the border with Thailand. Years later, while living in exile, he reconsidered his faith in sanctions and decided they were counterproductive. Last year he came back to his country for the first time, and today he's working with the government's new peace center, negotiating a ceasefire with his former comrades in arms. You could sense the urgency among these activists who've waited so long for change. They don't want to miss this opportunity to build the better country they dreamed of 25 years ago. They fear they could lose it altogether if they threaten the still powerful armed forces with the possibility of war crimes tribunals. For the moment, just being able to talk openly about the uprising, about what they did and what they sacrificed, may be enough for its victims. Among the crowd at the anniversary event were the parents of win Moore, a 16 year old girl who was gunned down by the army in downtown Yangon. They proudly carried an enlarged print of her high school photo as they were consoled by well wishers. Winmore's last moments were captured in one of the most harrowing photographs from that time. It shows two young doctors carrying her blood soaked body to an ambulance, the shock of what they'd seen written in their faces. One of them was Kohwin Zorr. Looking at the photo with me, he described how they'd rushed out that day after hearing that the army had opened fire again and found the girl lying among the dead and wounded. She'd been struck by three bullets. Please help me, she'd managed to whisper. Windsor promised he'd save her, but she had already lost too much blood and died later in hospital. The memories of that day continued to haunt him. I asked him what happened to the other doctor in the picture. His name was Saul Wynn. He told me he committed suicide a few years later, unable to shake off his guilt over the girl and over his father's dismissal from a government job because of his involvement in the protests. Only now are we able to learn of the pain and trauma endured in silence by many thousands of people over the events that took place here 25 years ago. The desire to move on is understandable, but it's hard to imagine this country ever being at ease with itself until there's been some form of accountability for the terrible violence that was used against those young students.
- [17:03]
Programme Narrator
And that's Jonathan Head. So the talks between Mr. Cameron and his Spanish counterpart over Gibraltar this week were apparently constructive. Whether that comes as a relief to those caught up in this latest chapter of a 300-year-old row is open to question. The latest spat kicked off when boats from Gibraltar dumped concrete blocks into the sea to make a reef. The Spanish then responded at the border with lengthy checks for vehicles trying to cross over to the Rock. Some observers suggest Madrid engineered the whole incident to divert attention from troubles at home, including a corruption scandal and a battered economy. Tom Burrage says there are at least some on the Rock who believe the government back in London could be doing more for them.
- [17:49]
John Charles Guy
Apart from the blue skies and sunshine, Gibraltar is eerily British. You can eat fish and chips or a fried breakfast. The beep of the pedestrian crossings reminds you of home and you tend to pay more attention to the red phone and letterboxes and the hard hatted bobbies patrolling the beat here than you do in mainland Britain. But in more subtle ways, Gibraltar is very different. British Gibraltarians, as the born and bred locals call themselves, actually speak more Spanish to one another with their trademark lisp of an accent than they do English sometimes. Their passion for the Queen is almost fanatical, and so is their allegiance to the flag of Gibraltar as well as the Union Jack. The British flag has been like a blanket that made us feel safe, says John Charles Guy as he recounts the years when Gibraltar was shut off from the rest of Europe when Spain's then dictator Franco closed the border in 1969. 51 Stocky and straight talking, John was born in Scunthorpe but moved to the Rock when he was just nine. He recently auditioned for ITV's X Factor and he sings Sinatra's Come Fly with Me as he drives us around the Rock. First of all, I feel British, he says, but also Gibraltarian. I love the Queen Anne, William, he chuckles. Could Gibraltar ever be Spanish?
- [19:13]
John Donnison
I ask.
- [19:14]
John Charles Guy
I'd rather be dead, he calmly replies. But as John shares jokes and cigarettes with my Spanish friend and cameraman colleague whose name is also John in Spanish or Juan, and who incidentally, is from the Spanish province of Cadiz just across the border, it's clear that he has some affinity with Spanish people, if not the Spanish state. In fact, the Campo de Gibraltar, as the area just over the border in southern Spain is referred to, has strong cultural ties with Gibraltar. Despite the diplomatic disputes, the people who live in this part of the world are generally friends. And then there's the economics. Unemployment in the Campo is a whopping 36%. In Gibraltar, it's next to nothing. And so several thousand Spaniards, as well as some Brits and Gibraltarians not forgetting a smattering of Romanians, Russians, Filipinos and Moroccans join the queue every day at the border on the Spanish side to make what for many should be a very short commute across the thin strip of land onto the Rock of Gibraltar. But in the past couple of weeks, the queues have been slowed down and people in their cars have suffered in the heat. Remember, Africa is but a stone's throw away. On a clear day, you can see Morocco's Atlas Mountains towering up just over the water. A self proclaimed, indignant young Moroccan born called Zak, who doesn't want to give me his name for fear of even more hassle than he's had recently at the border, tells us that Gibraltar, as he puts it, is the only way to have money in my pocket. He lives in the Spanish border town of La Linea de la Concepcion and now has Spanish citizenship. But that doesn't mean he can fast track the queues. It's the Spaniards who suffer most, says Ray Walker, with a twang of cockney. His dad, also called Ray, owns Ray's Fish and Chips in the central square in Gibraltar town. After our battered cod chips and mushy peas and cameraman Juan's confusion about why we the British might add vinegar, we sit down for a cup of tea with Ray's sister Elizabeth, who's just returned from booking a holiday cruise around the Med. She was born in Gibraltar but was brought up in Britain. I'm very pro Gibraltarian, she says, but I'm not Gibraltarian. Elizabeth's two sons, aged 10 and 17, definitely are. We often clash, she tells me. She says she is a voice of reason when it comes to the debate over relations with Spain. However Unprompted, she condemns Britain's role in the recent dispute between Gibraltar and Spain over the waters nearby. Britain needs to pull its finger out, she says, seemingly unaware of David Cameron's self proclaimed clear and constructive phone call with his Spanish counterpart. This week, the British Prime Minister did condemn the cues and pledged his allegiance to the people on the rock. But several British Gibraltarians we've met this week, including John Charles Guy, clearly feel that diplomacy means that their British mother nation neglects them in their time of need. John's defiance leads him to another suggestion. If we didn't want to be British, we'd want to be Gibraltarians, he shouts. Give us our independence. We've stood up for ourselves without any help from anybody over all these years.
- [22:30]
Programme Narrator
Tom Berridge there in Gibraltar, Gaza may not be the most comfortable of postings. Indeed, the BBC correspondent there in 2007 was kidnapped and held captive for four months by Palestinian militants. But despite its tiny size, there's no doubting it's a territory that consistently makes the news. John Donnison was our correspondent there until recently when he packed his bags and headed off to be our man in Australia. Now, the long path from Gaza to Bondi beach is not one which has been well trod and it's proving to be a change of scene that's taking some getting used to. As John's been telling us, he's been struggling to come to terms with the size of the transition.
- [23:14]
John Donnison
Well, you've certainly got a bigger patch, one of my friends in Gaza remarked as we strolled along the beach on my final sun kissed summer evening on the shores of the Mediterranean. A little heavy of heart as I stepped around children flying kites against an ever pinkening sky. I was about to leave the pint sized Palestinian territory and set off on the interminable thrombosis inducing journey to the vast expanses of Australia. And since I touched down on the world's biggest island, jaded by jet lag and infused with insomnia, I've become somewhat obsessed with matters of size. It began with a bit of night time number crunching, which revealed to me the probably never before reported fact that Gaza would fit inside Australia no fewer than 21,366 times and you'd still have a couple of acres left over to set up a barbecue. Australia's vital statistics, to put it politely, are chunky. Gaza, meanwhile, is positively petite. Less than four miles wide at its narrowest point and just 26 miles in length. The organisers of the Gaza Marathon boast that the Strip was built to host such an event. The race covers the territory tip to toe. The course record is less than three hours. But I've recently learned that at the more extreme end of extreme sports, there is also a bunch of people who like to run across Australia. The record here on a meandering, not to mention blistering, 3000 odd mile easterly route from Perth to Sydney is 43 days. It's held by a German man, Achim Hoikimes, who's presumably rather fit and possibly clinically insane. And there are other big things too. Do bear with me if I'm beginning to sound obsessed. For Australia's general election next month, the biggest parliamentary constituency will be the Western District of Jurak. It's roughly three times the size of France, or if you want to stick to the Palestinian method of comparison, 4000 times the size of Gaza. And Australia has the world's biggest farm. The Anna Creek Ranch is a little bit larger than Wales, but with more cows. You certainly wouldn't want to be absent minded and leave your cattle prod behind in the lower field. Sun lovers can visit Ninety Mile Beach. The clue is in the title. And I've been delighted to learn that there is a whole category of tourist attractions known quite simply as as the big things of Australia. They are just that, a series of huge roadside novelty structures and sculptures dotted around the country. Imagine the excitement to be felt as you bowl along the highway towards the town of Humpty Do. Yes, you did hear me right. Only to see looming in the distance, the big boxing crocodile. An 8 metre high fiberglass crocodile squaring up to you in a full set of red gloves. Or in Queensland, in the town of Tully, where tourists can flock to sample the joy of the big golden gumboot, a gigantic yellow welly the size of a house. There are 150 or so such big things. The big prawn, the big avocado, the big paperclip. If there are more, I intend to find them. Australia's vastness, though, presents a challenge. As a journalist in Gaza, when you get word of a story, you could drive pretty much anywhere in 45 minutes. But my predecessor here in Sydney tells me he once got a call from an editor in London who asked if he could pop over to Perth to catch the end of the cricket. Sydney to Perth is a more than four hour flight, or as we've already discussed, a very long jog. With its walls, fences and watchtowers, Gaza is not a place for the claustrophobic. There are neighbourhoods with some of the highest population densities in the world. In Australia, though, agoraphobia, or fear of open spaces, is more likely to be the issue. Most people live in the coastal cities, but take the country as a whole, and there are fewer than 10 people every square mile. There's plenty of room to rattle around. And in terms of news, Gaza always punches way above its weight, usually in the headlines for the wrong reasons and often with the intractable conflict, throwing up stories many feel they've heard before. Australia, in comparison, feels refreshingly untapped, at least for me. It's a big, big, big new world waiting to be discovered.
- [28:05]
Programme Narrator
And that's it. John Donison there, coming to terms with his sizeable new patch and bringing another edition to a close. I'll be here Saturday with more correspondence stories. Do join us. Goodbye.