← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
The American Dream in Trouble
00:27:44
Talking points from around the globe. In this edition, the gulf between rich and poor...
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- [00:00]
Kate Ady
You have downloaded from our own correspondent. This edition is the latest one broadcast on BBC Radio 4, and here to introduce it is Kate Ady.
- [00:10]
Narrator / Presenter
Hello. Today, going home to Mogadishu, the Somalis hoping the days of false dawns could soon be over. A startling rise in the number of New York's homeless. Is the American dream in trouble? Thousands gather in Morocco to show that music and Islam can live in harmony. And perhaps it's the way they tell them. We struggle to appreciate the sense of humour in the Faroe Islands. There has been praise this week for the courage and dedication of MPs in Somalia, for the way in which they carry on with their work despite the danger of attacks against them. Two of their colleagues were shot and killed at the weekend. The praise came from Nicholas Kay, the senior United nations official in the capital, Mogadishu, who said political progress was being made in Somalia, but there was still, as he put it, a long way to go. The same might be said about the capital city itself. And 20 years of civil war left Mogadishu in ruins. But today much of it is being rebuilt with some help from foreign investment. But Andrew Harding says the shootings there show that the security situation remains precarious.
- [01:17]
Kate Ady
The clouds were so low we missed the Runway altogether on the first attempt, swinging sharply up and out over the sea for another try. It was the first rain in months and Mogadishu airport was struggling to cope. A lake had formed on the tarmac outside the terminal. I've been flying into Mogadishu for 15 years. It's never a dull experience. I've landed during mortar fire. I've come to a warlord's private airstrip in the sand dunes outside town, and I've been here to meet hostages and to see famine. I looked out of the window at the ancient, shabby, familiar terminal building with its broken ceiling fans and crumbling ceilings. But the plane taxied past it, on through the shallow lake, and suddenly we were disembarking. There was a huge Turkish Airlines plane beside us and an airport bus, of all things, to shelter us from the rain. And then, looming ahead, a big, gleaming grey blue glass building that looked utterly out of place, like a supermodel in a sand pit. The new airport terminal is one of many official signs that Somalia is on the mend. More than on the mend, the that after two decades of anarchy, a nation is being reborn and its capital city is open for business. The militia wars, the extremists of Al Shabaab, no longer such a threat. It takes only a few seconds once you've breezed through customs, immigration and the shiny, well swept baggage hall to realize that some things haven't changed here. This is still a city of guns. Clusters of heavily armed guards in the car park ready to escort the wealthier new arrivals into town. Ugandan peacekeepers manning a motley obstacle course of concrete roadblocks outside the airport. Mogadishu itself is looking smarter these days. Solar powered street lights, lots of cranes and building work, new roads and restaurants. But the real barometer of change here for me has always been the diaspora. The anxious, optimistic, determined crowds who've come back in recent years from London, Ontario, Stockholm, Amsterdam, all hoping that the days of false dawns in Mogadishu are over. I've come to know a lot of them. There's Abukad Dahir, as skinny and cheerful as ever. He came back from Britain to help reopen Somalia Central Bank. Now he's moved on to the Foreign Ministry, working out where the country needs embassies and settling into a brand new apartment building with a penthouse view over the city. He lost a nephew recently in a bomb attack, but he said that wouldn't put him off. Quite the opposite. One of his friends, a telecom entrepreneur called Liban Igal, was even more upbeat, explaining how in two years he'd been able to reduce the number of armed guards he has to hire for his company from 60 to 6. A few blocks away, I popped in to see Ahmed Jama. He's become something of a celebrity, the chef who won't give up. His restaurants have been bombed four times by Al Shabaab. He's been targeted twice, six staff killed. I'm opening a new place up the coast next year, he told me, sitting outside his kitchen. That's if I'm still alive, he said with a laugh that seemed more forced than usual. Ahmed has always been relentlessly, beguilingly optimistic about Somalia, but you could see in his eyes that after five years here, the stress was getting to him. I suppose it's inevitable that those who've come back to Mogadishu need to believe that they've made the right choice, that Somalia is succeeding. But it's not that clear cut. I went to see Yusuf, a senior government advisor deeply committed to the arduous task of rebuilding the state from scratch and making progress, but anxiously hunting for a different car to get to work in each day in case the Islamists of Al Shabaab or anyone else track him down and kill him. Then there's Ahmed Hussain back in Somalia. After 24 years working in Sheffield, he's invested heavily in a hotel in Mogadishu. But this year it's already been attacked twice by suicide bombers, with dozens killed. They were still sweeping up the debris outside when we met, and Ahmed, a stout, cheerful man, was in a frank mood. The government's doing nothing here, he said. It needs a sea of change. I may go back to the uk. I flew out of Mogadishu a few days later, struggling to draw too many conclusions about the city's future. A fortnight later, Ahmed emailed me. I've decided to stay put, he said. The hotel has been mended and will be reopening.
- [06:05]
Narrator / Presenter
And that's Andrew Harding. Now, you might have thought that an extraordinary growth in the number of new churches in Ghana, where there are now thought to be more than 60,000 of them, might prove a boost to morality. Yet the very opposite appears to be happening. The West African country is being swamped with adverts from ministers claiming they can cure deadly diseases and make people richer and happier. But Mike Thompson says the police there are warning the public to beware of these miracle making men of God. Some may be more intent on fleecing than feeding their flock.
- [06:39]
Mike Thompson
Chief Superintendent Paul Contoma, a rather severe looking figure in his early 40s, is a man with a problem finger jabbing. He explains how Ghana is falling prey to ever more scams involving some of the nation's growing number of church pastors. These involve everything from supposed cures for cancer and blindness, divine help to get money in jobs, to selling oils claimed to have magical qualities. But the Chief Superintendent is adamant that many of those complaining of being conned have only themselves to blame. The Ghanaian public, he says, believe in miracles and want to become rich overnight. And many of the new churches perform only miracles. This is widespread here, with an estimated 60,000 church organizations in Ghana. Wherever you go, you're never far from God or reference to him anyway. Numerous self proclaimed prophets stare from gaudy billboards, car stickers and posters and megaphone wielding preachers roam the streets. Few shout louder, dress smarter or preach harder than one. Bishop Bornegus, founder and leader of the Great Fire Pentecostal International Ministry. There's nothing to suggest that this thunderous preacher is breaking the law, but I'm told that he owns several Mercedes cars, a satellite TV station and lives in a mansion. After arranging to meet him, a colleague and I climb a dusty hillside in a rather run down suburb on the outskirts of A? Kra. The higher we go, the louder a cacophony of raucous cheering and frenzied clapping becomes it spills out from a huge makeshift wooden hall spread over a clearing halfway up. And from the centre of this orgy of noise come the booming, distorted shouts of Bishop Bonegus. Clad in a dapper white shirt and neatly pressed trousers, he darts here and there clutching a microphone, arms waving, hands threshing the air. Behind him, a phalanx of young men in white tuxedos dance heads down in a circle like a stage shy boy band. Suddenly the riotous ceremony is brought to a halt by a roar from the Master of ceremonies. After some frantic digging in wallets and bags, an avalanche of notes fill the air, showering the bishop in cash confetti. Then a white gloved hand guides my colleague and me through the heaving throng to a small room at the back of the building. There, reclining in an ornate leather chair, is a smiling Bishop Bonegus. Without a flicker of self doubt, he tells us, I am a prophetic doctor because God uses me to heal the people of diseases, the crippled, the blind. But why, if God gives him such healing gifts for free, is he charging those he helps? Still smiling, the good bishop gently shakes his head at what is clearly a silly question and replies, everything in the world is money not free. If you don't pay, you don't receive. And the bishop has certainly received going by his luxury lifestyle. But how does a man of God justify getting rich at the expense of his mainly poor congregation? This latest silly question is waved away with a laugh and the flick of his hand. As a man of God, you are a king, you are a president. We are the high priests. And the high priests must enjoy, too. Such sentiments don't go down well with many ministers from more established churches like the Reverend Joseph McCarthy. Swatting away a persistent fly intent on scaling his nose, this slight, gentle looking Baptist pastor outlines the usual victims of a trend that he believes is more about making money than saving souls. The least, the last, the lost, he says. People who are finding it very difficult to make ends meet are the ones who fall prey. Not that the Reverend McCarthy thinks there's anything ridiculous, per se, about pastors curing blindness, healing cancer, or enabling the paralyzed to get up and walk. I've seen such things done, he tells me. But those who really have such powers, he adds, wouldn't ask for money. Sometimes, the Reverend told me, it isn't the pastors who heal such people, it's the people themselves. Their belief in being healed mends their bodies. It's mind over matter, a thought which left me wondering whether Bishop Bonegas might, after all, be at least indirectly responsible for more miracles than even he gives himself credit for.
- [11:39]
Narrator / Presenter
Mike Thompson there, the mayor of New York has told the city that dealing with the record number of homeless people is one of his priorities. He is offering cash handouts to landlords who take in people in need. There are 60,000 people currently registered as homeless. And while tactics similar to those being employed by Mayor Bill de Blasio are said to have worked in other American cities, some say the scheme simply lines the pockets of property owners in parts of the city. 30% of the population live below the poverty line. But the Big Apple also has the largest concentration of billionaires in the world. Golda Arthur's been taking a look at some of the contrasts in New York lifestyles.
- [12:22]
Golda Arthur
Manhattan is a sliver of an island where the price of an apartment is going in the same direction as its famous skyscrapers. But wages, not so much. So income inequality is one of the biggest stories in this city right now. So big, in fact, that it's a bit like wallpaper. You sometimes forget to pay attention to it because it's all around you. One morning recently, I headed out to do two very different interviews. The first with a charity for a story on the rise in the number of homeless people. And the other was the profile of an award winning architect for a business report. The first assignment took me to a building called the Times Square. It was once a grand hotel and the lobby still has the original marble staircases and brass trimmings. During the 80s, it fell into disrepair and now it's been renovated to house homeless people. It's run by a charity that redesigns buildings to help the homeless get back on their feet. They also provide job training, medical help and counseling. There's been a startling rise in the number of homeless families in shelters in New York, and many of them are working families living from one paycheck to another. It's a precarious existence, and it seems more people are falling through the cracks and losing their homes. I leave the marbled lobby behind to visit the rooms of this enormous residence. In stark contrast to the expansive lobby, the rooms are compact but tidy and come with a little fridge, a cooker, a tiny sink and some cupboard space. There are no trimmings here, but this is a clean slate for starting a new life. The view out of the window is of Times Square in all its high definition. Consumers glory giant screens selling expensive things to the throngs of people who can't afford them. The charity spokeswoman tells me they will soon start building a new kind of residence, one with apartments for families who aren't homeless but at risk of becoming so there's a crisis of affordable housing, a term I hear a lot here. She tells me that it's putting so much pressure on the working poor that charities are trying to catch them before they fall. The tour is done, I have my recording, and I leave Times Square for my next interview. A few subway stops away, I come to the High Line, an elevated garden walkway which runs up the western side of Manhattan. It was built from an old disused train line, and now it offers wonderful views of the Hudson River. It's one of the city's newest attractions. New buildings have popped up alongside, showcasing sleek designs for luxury living. The headline grabber here is an architect building swimming pools inside the apartments of one of these new condominiums. It's a trendy idea in Asia, and it's catching on here, since the project is still half complete. The architect meets me in a plush show apartment complete with fireplaces in the bathroom and a mirror that doubles up as a technology screen. During the interview, he shows me an artist renderings of the building's duplex and triplex penthouses. Tastefully decorated in hues of brown and grey, the apartments have high ceilings and elegant light fixtures and vistas across New York. The pictures are stunning. The price tag is even more so. A studio starts at $3 million. The penthouses go for up to 22 million. I've gone from one extreme to the other this morning, and both my interviews have somehow come together to tell one story. It occurs to me that the haves and the have nots are in the silos, never getting a peek into how the others really live. But I did today, and the yawning gap between them seems more like a chasm impossible to narrow. Next year, Americans will hear much more about income inequality on the campaign trail. Presidential candidates will be talking about high minimum wages, affordable housing, taxes on the 1%, the super wealthy. All of these are rooted in the larger issue of the gap between rich and poor. Inequality is not a new story in New York. Its history is rich with tales of men and women who came with very little, worked hard, and built a life from those efforts. But something has changed. Working hard doesn't seem to be enough anymore, and the next rung on the ladder now appears just out of reach for many. And that is where the American dream starts to look like it's in deep trouble.
- [16:53]
Narrator / Presenter
That was Golda Arthur in New York. The Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, they all flirted with the distinctive Ganawha music of North Africa. If you've missed out on it, I can tell you it's based on ancient Islamic religious songs, often performed at all night communal gatherings. There's drumming and trances, prayer and healing, poetry and dancing. Thousands of people gathered recently in the Moroccan seaside town of Essaouira for Ganawa's biggest annual event, a free festival. And Robin Denslow says that for the musicians there, it was a chance to tell the world that whatever some may say, music and Islam can coexist happily and peacefully.
- [17:34]
Robin Denslow
It's a gloriously noisy, colourful festival and it starts with a procession of Ginawa musicians through the narrow streets of the walled medina of Essoira, the ancient fishing port on the Moroccan Atlantic coast. Each ginawa group, or Islamic brotherhood, is dressed in different elaborate coloured robes. They sing, breaking off for whirling dance routines, and are accompanied by hand drums and deafening metal castanets. There may be seven or more musicians in each group and each is led by a Marlem, a Ginawa master. He leads the singing and plays the gimbri, constructed from walnut wood and skinned from the throat of a camel. It looks and sounds a bit like an ancient African bass guitar. After the procession come the concerts. They start in the evening, often don't finish until three in the morning, and take place at five locations around town. The main stage is in Muley Hassan, out towards the fishing port. This is where the best known international musicians and Genawa groups play and then often collaborate together in unique fusion sessions watched by crowds that stretch back to the sea wall and the little bars and restaurants surrounding the square. There's another stage on the beach, one on the rooftop of an old fort, and an indoor venue for intimate Ginawa sessions. It's here that Malam Abdelsam Ali Khan was playing. He lives in Essouera and makes his living as a carpenter making musical instruments, especially, of course, the gimbri. There was a time, he said, when this was considered to be slave music. It was considered to be trash. But the festival has changed all that now, said Ali Khan. We're thought to be artists and everyone knows who we are. About a third of the Marlem Canal make a living from the music alone. That was previously impossible. They are now officially recognized as musicians. The Ginawha are devout Muslims, but their religion, like their music, is something of a fusion. Their belief in the spirit world and the power of music to heal through trance ceremonies is a reminder of their links with West Africa. Ali Khan and the other masters, of course, take part in religious ceremonies or Leela, but these are not part of the festival. They last all night and involve sacrifices of a cow or a goat, he said. And we don't like to be filmed, and there should be someone there who is sick or has to get rid of bad energy. Even so, it is not uncommon for those attending the late night indoor Gnawa sessions at the festival to fall into a trance under the hypnotic power of the music. When the festival started, the aim was simple to help the Kanawha and to boost tourism. This year, it was estimated that 250,000 people visited the festival over the four days. Nearly a third of the funding for this free event is provided by the government, and the rest comes from corporate and private sponsors, according to the festival director, Neyla Tassi. Every euro put in as sponsorship generates €17 spent in Essoira, and tourism has brought more jobs. But this year the festival has a new significance, showing that music and Islam can coexist at a time when Islamic State and its supporters aim to destroy any events like this. Across the Sahara in northern Mali, the celebrated festival in the desert has been postponed since 2012 because of security concerns following the Islamist uprising. And along the Mediterranean in Libya, Islamic State militants this year burned musical instruments drums, brass and woodwind the that they'd confiscated under their interpretation of Sharia law. The Ganawa were of course horrified. They're ignorant, said Malim Ali Khan. They don't know what they're doing. They are stupid. Islam is not like that. It's peace, music, color, respect. It respects other religions. Nayla Tarzi, the festival director, saw the situation in broader terms. Born in the usa, she produces music and film events, and for her, the Ginawa festival and other events like the Fez Festival of sacred Music have come to symbolize contemporary Morocco and its place in the Islamic world. People are afraid of Islam, she said. But this kind of event shows the real Islam in Morocco, the positive Islam. When we started 18 years ago, we were criticized by the Islamists in Morocco. They didn't like the way young people were dressing or the dancing. But now some of them are in the government and and they support what we do. It's a popular event. We have to show that Islam can be different and Morocco has made this choice. Morocco is fighting back against Islamic State, she said. Definitely. And this festival is a big part of that fight back.
- [22:13]
Narrator / Presenter
Robin Denslow in Essaouira the Faroe Islands don't tend to make frequent appearances in the news Headlines. Sometimes they get a mention when they conduct their annual whale hunt, known as Grint. It's one of those occasions when the water in the bay is stained red and animal rights protesters are detained. This year, the Pharaohs enjoyed a few more minutes of fame when it proved to be one of the few places where you could see the solar eclipse. But otherwise, as Christine Finn's been finding out, life on the islands can be rather quiet, but not entirely without humour.
- [22:47]
Christine Finn
I was standing on the soil floor of Calvalho, one of the oldest houses in the Faroe Islands. John, the caretaker, whose great great great grandfather was born in that very house, was telling me a true story. There was a farmer who lived here and he had three old cows which he loved, but they were very old and frail and the other men needed to help him get them to their feet every day. He did not have enough feed to go round, but the farmer would not part with them, he loved them so much. So one night the men came and got him very drunk. And when they suggested the farmer let them slaughter a cow, he. He finally agreed. Then he said, kill them all. John was laughing at the punchline. I was mortified. John, seeing my sad expression, added, it's ok, they only took the one. But I was caught out by Faroee's humour. These islands are rugged, hard and undeniably beautiful. And the same can be said of the life and death are hard fought here. The annual pilot whale kill the grind sparks an annual controversy between islanders and outsiders. In the turfed roof cottage, the wooden walls displayed the historic tools of the kills, witnessed by generations. Standing at the lintel of the door below the house, the bay was once a prime site for whale kills. The sea turning red on this sparkling spring day. The most arresting sight was the emerald green football pitch now alongside. If these walls could talk, my musing aloud led to an invitation to spend a night under the turf roof. The first person to stay for 50 years after nights in the community of a modern hostel. This was quite literally a door into the island's past. Calvalho was usually only open to daytime visitors, so a few nights later, with a photographer friend to document the occasion, I settled down in the original pinewood bed. My skin and hair smoked after an evening of poetry and storytelling by the intoxicating peat fowler. It was cold outside. The moon was a sliver of light, dwarfed by the brilliant beams now illuminating the football pitch. Recent events had added to this island's history. The bay was known for its whale kills, but now this spot vagar is renowned as the place where, out of all the Faroe Islands, people had best witnessed the total solar eclipse. As one villager told me, everyone was coming here then the Danish meteorologists said, no, go to Torshevan. But they should have listened to our fishermen. Indeed, I was one of those. Clouded out on a hill in the Pharaoh's capital. The house was unfurnished apart from two beds, but cosy. We lit candles. John, the caretaker, had left a boiler on, apart from an electricity socket. The this was the only concession to modernity in a home dating back at least 400 years. It had been lived in, most unusually, by several widows of clergymen. One inspired a novel. The last occupant was a woman who had slept in a cupboard rather than a bed after her father had moved his new wife in. She had moved out in the 1960s, but every day she would walk back up the steep hill to this house to receive visitors, to spin wool on the wheel, to tell yarns. But if the walls were talking in this deep, peaty darkness, I couldn't exactly hear them. The oily boiler crashed, sighed and whined. I felt like I was in the engine room of a transatlantic liner. But there was a rhythm, a crash and a judder, then a pause before a clatter of what sounded like chains, but no off switch, despite my searching for one. So I smiled in the dark, the house getting its own back on, a reporter sounding it out for stories. When light broke, I found my head still full of widow's melancholy poetry. And Pete the photographer was zipped tight in his sleeping bag, coddled in layers to drown out the boiler's laments. I opened the front door and breathed in the Pharaohs. Then I remember John trying to cheer me with another story. There was a man with a very old dog which people said was at the end of its life. Oh, no. I'd inwardly groaned. And one day it followed the man to a cliff. I had prepared myself for the worst and the man fell over. But the dog grabbed him and saved his life. And so the dog was spared. So the dog's life was spared because it had saved its owner's life. Yes, life and death intimately entwined, like this house of tales and churchmen's widows, the peat smoke curling out of the chimney into the chill. Faroese morning.
- [27:33]
Narrator / Presenter
Christine Finn in the Faroe Islands, still struggling, I think, with their sense of humour. That's it. More dispatchers from around the world on Saturday morning at half past eleven. Do join us. Goodbye.