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From Our Own Correspondent
Tea and Cakes in Addis
00:27:58
Questions and answers beyond the headlines. Little urgency apparent as the factions in...
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David Bailey
Thank you for downloading the latest edition
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Kate Adie
of BBC Radio's from our own correspondent, the best in news and current affairs storytelling. It's introduced by Kate Ady. Hello. Today, President Putin's been talking about Ukraine, but at home, echoes of Soviet times. Russians are once again wary of speaking their minds. Bashar Al Assad talks to the BBC, but who were his answers aimed at? Who is really in charge of Syria? There's tea and cakes at a smart hotel in Addis Ababa as they talk and talk about the brutal civil war in South Sudan. 16 years in jail for the captain of the Costa Concordia. We're on the island of Gilio. What has that shipwreck done to the local economy? The extraordinary marathon negotiating session between the Russian and Ukrainian presidents and the leaders of France and Germany. It went on all night in Minsk. Shows just how difficult and intractable the crisis in Ukraine has come. There is now apparently, an agreement on a ceasefire in eastern Ukraine. Mr. Putin says the truce will start at midnight on Sunday. The French president, Monsieur Hollande, says much work remains to be done. And perhaps another great challenge to overcome is the steadily worsening relations between Russia and the West. Bridget Kendall in Moscow says many Russians now see the United States and its allies as their country's greatest enemies.
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Bridget Kendall
Russians are feeling the pinch. Some talk of salaries being frozen. Others worry that they might lose their jobs. Food prices have gone up. The ruble's value has plummeted. Some landlords and even taxi drivers in Moscow insist on being paid in dollars. So the question is, has this squeeze affected support for President Putin and his government? The euphoria overtaking Crimea has long subsided, to be replaced by by a bleak mix of bloodshed in Ukraine and an economic downturn. But I would caution those in the west who assume pressure from sanctions has been the key to bringing President Putin to the negotiating table. Belts may be tightening, but it's not clear. Russian views of their government have been radically altered. My sense is that opinions here are not shifting, but becoming more entrenched and polarized. On one side, those who six months ago were mildly irritated by the annexation of Crimea but unwilling to apportion blame, now seem more virulently anti Putin. They believe he's been using the Ukraine crisis to crack down at home, and they fear for the future. But they also feel under siege, an isolated group in a country riding a wave of patriotism. On the other side, Those loyal to Mr. Putin seem more determined than ever to support him. They take their cue from the aggressive tone adopted by Russian television. They not only accuse Kiev and the west of having fanned the war in Ukraine, they echo the Kremlin by asserting that this is just the latest crisis in a long standing Western campaign to weaken or even destroy Russia. Sanctions are part of that. And if the current ceasefire hopes fail and President Obama were to arm the Ukrainians, well, that would be further proof of it. Between these two camps, the gap is widening. Take one friend whom I shall call Galia, she said. Recently, a woman in her office looked up at a TV screen which was showing the latest report of fighting in eastern Ukraine and hissed, it's all the Americans fault. They started this. I can't stand them. Galia was surprised. The woman was young, modern, well educated and well traveled. She didn't look like a Kremlin loyalist. Galia made a mental note from now on to steer clear of politics in front of her. In fact, it seems that this is a constant calculation for those who are critical of President Putin as they go about their lives in Moscow. They have to work out who they can speak frankly to, just as we used to when this was the Soviet Union. The other day I met an acquaintance I hadn't seen for years, said Galia. I had no idea what she thought, so I skirted round the news about Ukraine and kept us safer subjects till she happened to mention that her son had got her a warm scarf to wear at an opposition rally. So then I said, krymna Nash, you too don't think Crimea is ours. And she replied, krymni Nash, Crimea does not belong to us. Thank God you think so too. And then we knew we could talk openly to each other. The polarisation over politics is also causing rifts which are destroying lifelong relationships. Another woman I spoke to, Let us call her leader, recounted a recent phone call with a former close friend from college, Marsha. They had already fallen out over the controversial female punk rock band known as Pussy Riot, who were sent to prison for daring to sing a blasphemous song in one of Moscow's biggest cathedrals. Leda thought they were funny and brave. Masha thought they had been offensive to God. Once again, their phone call ended in a quarrel. Leda happened to mention a mutual friend who was emigrating. Why should she emigrate? Asked Masha angrily. Why should anyone leave Russia? They should stay and support our country at this difficult time. And, she added defiantly, I at least, am a patriot. And Russia, it seems, is in the majority, at least according to recent opinion polls. The respected Levada center in Moscow said its latest findings suggest that anti Western sentiment in Russia is higher than it's ever been since the Soviet Union collapsed. Negative attitudes towards the United States have doubled since a year ago, now reaching a staggering 81% of those asked. Hostility towards Europeans has also doubled, now standing at 71%. A lasting peace in Ukraine might soften attitudes over time, but for the moment, President Putin probably feels secure. Leave aside a small group of pro Western elites and the Kremlin narrative that Russia has been pushed to the verge of war with the west seems to be working.
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Kate Adie
Bridget Kendall in Moscow, the Foreign Secretary wasn't impressed by Bashar Al Assad's answers when the Syrian president was questioned this week by our Jeremy Bowen. Philip Hammond said he'd waged a brutal campaign against his own people using crude and indiscriminate weapons. His forces had systematically murdered, tortured, raped and imprisoned Syrians. There must, he concluded, be a political transition to a future in which Assad has no part. The President was asked if he'd lost control. Was his army killing innocent civilians what kept him awake at night? He remained calm throughout the 25 minute grilling, courteous, sometimes smiling. So what does Jeremy make of the encounter?
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Jeremy Bowen
I've been wondering why President Bashar Al Assad said something to me that was patently not true. In the interview that we did in Damascus for the BBC, I asked him about the barrel bombs that the Syrian armed forces have been dropping on areas held by rebels, which also happen to be places where civilians live. The barrels contain a lethal cocktail of explosive and projectiles. President Assad said that the suggestion barrel bombs were killing civilians was childish. But there is plenty of video of barrel bombs being dropped and exploding. You can see some of it on the BBC website and lots of testimony from eyewitnesses. Like many others, I've seen the aftermath of attacks. In my case it was in Douma, which is a rebel held suburb of Damascus. The explosion wrecked two blocks of flats opposite each other on either side of a residential street. Barrel bombs get dropped, not aimed. That makes them an indiscriminate weapon. International humanitarian law tells belligerents to do all they can to protect the lives of civilians. Dropping unguided barrels of explosive doesn't count as trying very hard, President Assad pointed out, and of course he's right, that rebels attack government held territory and and kill civilians, often indiscriminately, he said. Death comes with war. Again, all correct, but two wrongs don't make a right. And the whole point of international humanitarian law is to regulate the use of force. So that non combatants are protected. Perhaps President Assad's remark about barrel bombs was aimed at supporters at home, as he knew the interview would be on Syrian TV and as well as the BBC. Maybe he doesn't care that outside Syria his statement would be received with what I'll call politely, skepticism. President Assad himself is extremely polite. He comes across as friendly and sincere. Perhaps the president believes what he says. Perhaps his generals tell him they don't kill civilians and he believes them. Maybe he's a cynical liar. I don't know. It's all guesswork. Ever since he inherited the job from his father, Hafez al Assad, in 2000, diplomats, journalists and anyone with an interest in Syria have spent a lot of time trying to work Bashar out. Many of the questions over the last 15 years have revolved around one central issue. Is Bashar Al Assad really in charge? At the start of his presidency, Bashar had a hard act to follow. His father was a remarkable and ruthless man. He came from a poor background, rose through the air force and the Ba'ath party, and came to power as part of a military junta in 1963. By 1970, he was in charge of the country. Since the end of French colonial rule in the 1940s, Syria had been unstable, lurching from coup to coup. Yet by the time he died, Hafez al Assad was able to pass the top job onto his son, and not even the son who'd been groomed for the job. Bashar's older brother, Bassel, was supposed to succeed his father. But in 1994, he was killed in a crash when he was driving too fast in the fog on his way to Damascus airport. Bassel was handsome, a noted equestrian and cavalry officer and head of his father's personal security. Bashar was a doctor, not a soldier. When he came to power, he was in the shadow of his older brother as well as his father. The succession wouldn't have happened like that without trusted lieutenants. So in Bashar's first few years, there were questions about whether he made the decisions or whether he was in the hands of his father's old comrades. Bashar talked about reform. He seemed to be a break with the past. Western leaders tried to befriend him. Tony Blair considered giving him an honorary knighthood. But stubbornly, President Assad wouldn't give up his opposition to Israel and his support for its enemies. I think Bashar knows what he's doing. Syria is the Assad family business, and he inherited the chairmanship. But he rules by consensus as the rest of the family and its long standing friends and associates have big stakes and a big say. From what he said to me, my best guess is that Bashar Al Assad believes very deeply that he's fighting for the survival of everything that matters to him. Human beings can use that thought to justify a great deal. As for what the rest of the world thinks about him, I don't believe he cares much.
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Kate Adie
And that's Jeremy Bowen. Peace talks have been going on almost as long as the fighting in South Sudan, where the president and his former deputy fell out pitching the country into 14 months of civil war. No one has managed to count the dead, but some estimate as many as 50,000 may have been killed. Children are fighting on both sides. There are constant reports of rape and ethnic massacre. Two million people have been forced from their homes and aid agencies are again warning that famine's on the way. Tristan McConnell's been finding out there's a stark contrast between this man made misery back home and the genteel surroundings of the plush hotel where the talks are being held.
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Tristan McConnell
There's a calculated lack of urgency at the Sheraton in Addis Ababa. The hillside hotel is a monument to luxury precisely designed to make its affluent guests feel comfortable and relaxed. An indoor fountain spills water into a decorative pool, a chandelier dangles from a double height ceiling. Heels click across marble floors and thick carpets muffle the hubbub of conversation. Staff members are immaculately dressed, polite and solicitous. In the recessed tea room at the far end of the foyer, a young woman plays inoffensive music on the piano constantly, it seems, while platters of cakes are regularly replenished. Among the international business travelers and small huddles of wealthy tourists, one contingent in particular stands out. It consists, for the most part, of plump women and staggeringly tall men, some with horizontal scarification lines running across their foreheads. Often they are to be found sprawled on sofas and armchairs, pecking at smartphones and tablets, nibbling cake, sipping tea or dozing off. These are the people tasked with bringing peace to South Sudan after more than a year of hugely destructive civil war. Rival delegations, sometimes headed by President Salva Kiir and rebel leader Riat Machar, have been meeting in Addis Ababa since January last year. The talks come under the auspices of an eight country regional bloc called EGAD that includes Ethiopia, Kenya, Sudan and Uganda. They've signed seven ceasefire agreements in 13 months, the first six broken within days or even hours. The latest ceasefire was agreed earlier this month, after huge pressure from mediators, discussions towards a broader power sharing agreement will resume soon. European countries pay for this expensive lack of progress, which has cost 15 million pounds so far. South Sudan's delegates receive a 160 pound daily allowance to ensure their attendance, a scarcely imaginable sum to many of the war's victims. In the early weeks of fighting, there were hopes of a comprehensive deal to address the root causes of the conflict and so forestall further violence. But that hope has all but evaporated and it now looks as if a return to the pre civil war status quo is the best anyone can imagine. The deal currently on the table is little more than a winding back of the clock. Keir remains president and Machar resumes his old job as his deputy. And still they can't agree. While the two sides debate the finer points of who will wield how much power, the fighting ebbs and flows and the spectre of famine looms and recedes. A fifth of South Sudan's population have been forced from their homes, half need aid and tens of thousands have been killed. War has a price, and South Sudan's leaders are happy for their people to pay it. Diplomats I met were frustrated and furious, convinced neither side is negotiating in good faith. They've never given up on the idea of solving this on the battlefield, one diplomat told me. It's about two people and their cronies fighting to steal the wealth of South Sudan, he said. IGAD is in charge of the talks, but its members own interests may trump those of peace. Uganda backs Kiev both in negotiations and with its soldiers on the ground, while Machar is widely believed to enjoy the support of Sudan to the north, sanctions have been mooted as a way to force the warring parties together. But Uganda and Kenya have close economic ties and Sudan relies on southern oil, meaning that if South Sudan suffers, they all suffer. The faltering talks are, another diplomat told me, a reflection of the circumstances of a very, very difficult conflict in a divided region. They also reflect the carelessness with which South Sudan's elites treat their people behind closed doors. Torturous negotiations are, we are told, ongoing deadlines are missed, agreement is elusive. But in the hotel bars and lounges, delegates find no shortage of common ground as they drink, chat and laugh as if they don't have a care in the world. Perhaps, one observer of the talks pointed out, they might reach a peace deal quicker if they were forced to negotiate at home in one of the squalid and often flooded United nations camps where over 100,000 of their countrymen and women shelter behind barbed wire fences. Before leaving Addis, I spoke to a diplomat who has worked in the region for years. I asked him how the South Sudan talks compared to others he'd been involved in. He replied that they most closely resembled those of Darfur. That conflict is still going on after a dozen years with no end in sight.
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Kate Adie
Tristan McConnell Three years after the cruise ship the Costa Concordia run aground off the Italian coast, the man in charge of it, Captain Francesco Schettino, was last night sentenced to 16 years in prison. 32 passengers and crew died when the ship hit rocks off the island of Giglio. Matthew Price has just been to the once quiet island to see how it's been affected by the shipwreck of the Costa Concordia.
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Matthew Price
There is a pirate's cavern on the water front in the Tuscan seaside town of Porto Santo Stefano, a cavern from whose ceilings hang Jolly Roger flags and whose middle aged owner sports wild grey hair and a hooped earring there beside the fireplace. At this time of year you can warm yourself a little while you wait for the next ferry to take you across the chilly yet sparkling waters of the Mediterranean to the island of Giglio. The pirate, it turns out, is a chef as well. He smiles little, but he certainly can cook. He also likes to talk. And talk he did when he found out where I was heading. Giglio should put up a statue of the captain of the Costa Concordia, he said. For three years they've been raking it in a perpetual summer season, all those engineers and salvage workers. Captain Schettino put Giglio on the map. The first time I took the hour long journey across to the small, tranquil island was three years ago, just after the Costa Concordia had run aground. Then I didn't know what to look out for. There was a small fleck of white on the horizon. That couldn't be the ship from this distance, could it? But it was. It drew the eye even from far out. Closer up, it dominated the view of the little fishing port. Residents stared in awe and anger from waterside houses painted pink and green and yellow and blue. But those colours seemed diminished somehow by the gleaming white alien invader, the stricken hulk lying beneath a steep rocky hillside of pine trees. You just couldn't take your eyes off it. Now, three years on, it's vanished, refloated and towed away. The two salvage platforms still at the base of the rocks will soon go too. And despite the pirate chef's claims, Giglio is not shedding a tear. One elderly man on the ferry said he couldn't be happier. The salvage workers had taken over the place but not spent the money the tourists would have. In the island's few shops, passing yachts couldn't call in anymore. The port, built 2,000 years ago by the Romans, had been sealed off and overrun by hordes of engineers. As we arrive this time, there's a loud, cheery ciao from Mauro, the local boatman who took me close to the Costa Concordia several times during the last few years. We're back to normal now, he said with a grin, his white teeth bright against a permanent tan. Last winter we had 700 workers here. Now it's like any other winter. There are 30 of us on my side of the island. I asked whether Giglio had experienced a mini economic boom thanks to the Costa Concordia. Not at all, he said. We had far fewer tourists. Day trippers came. They didn't spend anything. Yes, 10 shops close to the port did well, but many areas suffered. That's an argument that matters to the people of Giglio. They're part of a civil action being taken out against the parent company, Costa Crociere. It alleges the island lost vast amounts as a result of the shipwreck. Giglio was never normally busy in winter. But now, with the media facilities removed, the cafes and restaurants shuttered, the hustle and bustle of one of the biggest maritime salvage operations in history gone, it feels very quiet indeed. Even a rumble from the ferry engine doesn't disturb the calm. It's time to head back to the mainland. The ferry slips away from Giglio island for me, probably for one last time. The sea is choppy, the wind cold, Giglio itself a dark, half submerged oval, its smooth outline rising up out of the water, its hills silhouetted against the deepening orange and purple of the setting sun. A row of pine trees appears in sharp relief. On one slope a tower stands proud against the darkening sky. Beneath the lights of Giglio Port, where once the Costa Concordia lay, now shimmer once more in splendid isolation. And close to them on the harbor wall beneath a statue of the Virgin Mary, the only permanent reminder of the day Giglio was put on the map, a plaque bearing the names of the 32 men, women and children who died just off its coast in the cold and now inky dark waters.
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Kate Adie
And that was Matthew Price. China's in the middle of its spring festival. It's a time of year when many Chinese travel hundreds, even thousands of miles, heading home for family reunions. Some have been getting to use the high speed bullet trains for the first time Several new lines have just come into operation. The train network is set to double in size over the next five years. Enabling countries to trade directly with Central Asia and beyond to Europe is a key part of the government's economic strategy. David Bailey has been trying out one of the new lines, which connects the restive region of Xinjiang to the rest of the country.
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David Bailey
I'm not normally apprehensive before a train journey, as it's my favourite way to travel. But waiting on the platform at Urumqi in China's far northwest, I was a little uneasy. I'd reached the station through a ring of security fences set up to deter a repeat of last year's terrorist bomb attack, and in the waiting room a TV was improbably showing live coverage of the trial of a railway official charged with being responsible for a fatal crash. But as the gleaming white pencil of my train slid to a halt in front of me, any concerns faded with the anticipation of being one of the first travellers on China's newest high speed line, designed to take trains at over 200 miles an hour across the Gobi Desert and onto the Tibetan Plateau. From Urumqi, the track heads southeast between the Taklamark and Gobi deserts. On either side, I glimpsed hundreds of wind turbines stretching across the arid emptiness. I say glimpse, as they were often hidden by a steel fence that lined the track for miles on end. Unlike that at a rumchie station, this did not seem designed to keep out terrorists. Sensing my curiosity, a fellow passenger enlightened me. It stops. The train being blown over. This is the windiest place on earth. Conspiratorially leaning across, he lowered his voice. Two years ago, a train was blown over. People were killed on a train this fast, and without the fence, we will all die. At that, he laughed, and the weathered Turkic features wrinkling across his face clearly identified him as an ethnic Uighur. His English and his suit also suggested material and social success. That's a rare combination in the troubled province of Xinjiang, where many of the mainly Muslim Uyghurs consider themselves displaced and disadvantaged by immigrant Han Chinese. Many Uyghurs see the line as Beijing's way of increasing the outward flow of the region's vast mineral resources and the inward flow of yet more Han Chinese. So I was curious how my new Uyghur friend viewed the line. Sensing a shift into politics, he again leaned in and lowered his voice, but this time with genuine discretion. For me, it's very good for business. I meet more clients more often. But and he paused his eyes giving a quick flicker around the carriage to check no one was listening too closely. But it is a political route. At this he drew a curved line through the air with his finger, grinned once more, and then, obviously deciding he'd said enough, gazed away. I broke my journey at Shanshan, where the station is so new you want to look around for the box it came in. It's huge, it's vast, enormous, and almost completely deserted. Through the freezing winter haze, I could make out the unfinished tower blocks of the small and rather dull town of Shanshan. A few miles to the south, a new six lane highway sets off proudly towards it, but peters out less than halfway there. The rationale behind the line's 20 billion pound price tag is that it will bring an economic revolution to towns like Shanshan. My hotel receptionist was in no doubt that one day the town will grow to merit its vast but currently rather pointless railway station, and that that highway will be finished. This is the way of the Silk Road, she proudly reminded me, the richest trade route in history. And the leadership in Beijing who have called the line the New Silk Road are hoping for similar economic rewards half a millennium later. From Shanshan, the line takes an engineeringly challenging and curious detour through the Chilean mountains onto the Tibetan plateau before returning to the more obvious lowland route. Looking at the map, I recognized the curved line of my Uyghur friend and understood his discreet insinuation that for all its economic benefits, this is also a political route designed to demonstrate Beijing's reach into the restive provinces of both the Buddhist and the Muslim Far West. Whatever the politics, it's an extraordinary engineering triumph that crosses some of China's widest geographic and cultural divides. Even the toilets in the brand new carriages reflect a mix of old and new China. On one side there is a modern wheelchair accessible sit down loo, but on the other is a compartment with a traditional single hole in the floor, albeit in gleaming stainless steel, and with a convenient grab handle designed to ensure stability as you squat to relieve yourself at over 200 miles an hour.
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Kate Adie
And with David Bailey inspecting the facilities somewhere high on the Tibetan plateau, we reach the end of this edition. I'm here again on Saturday with more from reporters far and wide. Do join us. Goodbye.