← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
The Consequences of History
00:28:00
The foreign interventionists whose actions have contributed to today's violent events...
Loading summary
Transcript12 lines
- [00:00]
A
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.
- [00:09]
B
Hello. Today the consequences of history. How the Western powers have contributed to today's violence in Iraq. The problems mount up for Kenya. Rising political tension, growing extremism. Tourism down a third this month alone. We've the story of a Burmese hijack and how it's been kept quiet for 60 years and why in south southern Spain they're celebrating an Englishman who described their town as grey and gloomily Welsh. Iraq's Prime Minister Nouri Al Maliki has rejected calls for a national salvation government to help counter the offensive by jihadist led Sunni rebels. The US has told Mr. Al Maliki that Iraq needs an administration that represents all its religious and ethnic groups. However, in his weekly television speech the Prime Minister said Iraq was facing a fierce terrorist onslaught. Fergal Keen, who reported on the U. S led invasion of Iraq in 2003 has been considering how much the west should bear responsibility for today's violence in Iraq.
- [01:16]
C
That first morning, the driver was fast asleep on the roof of the car. His snores a wall of noise rolling across the desert stillness. I couldn't sleep. He was loud enough to drown out the noise of the Bedouin who were looting the abandoned Iraqi border post. Loud enough to drown out the sound of the American commandos who occupied the post at dawn after the Bedouin had fled. That day, my first in Iraq, is forever fixed in memory. Baghdad had just fallen to the Americans. We had no idea what awaited us on the road. We saw a bloodstained and mangled coach, its occupants sent to their deaths by round after round of high calibre bullets. A bloated body on the outskirts of Baghdad. The voice of a Sunni cleric on a loudspeaker near Abu Ghraib prison calling on the people to rise up against the Americans. And we met many other citizens of Baghdad cheering those who'd liberated them from the tyranny of Saddam. But soon too we saw lawlessness and chaos and the beginnings of an alienation that would turn to rebellion. The Americans are gone now and the British. But the consequences of those early days when the pitiful failure of America and Britain to plan properly for their post war occupation are felt in every corner of this society. Much has been said by the instigators of the war and by their successors about the responsibility of Iraqis to sort out the current bloody mess. Well, yes, those who've misruled, persecuted, those who are killing others because of their Religion who refuse to negotiate or compromise. All of these people bear heavy responsibility. But any notion that this violence doesn't have roots in the history of foreign intervention, both recent and longer term, is simply wrong. In the age of Instant News, the 24 hour spin cycle, there's too little room for historical context. The truth has become what we know in the passionate debate of a particular moment, unmuddled by the ambiguities, complexities and nuances of the past. And there's the tendency to dismiss history as irrelevant because in the words of the pragmatists, we are where we are. What use is it blaming the past? But as a reporter, I'm interested in the history of intervention, not to blame, but because it tells me a lot how we came to the present pass and how inflicting further pain on the people of Iraq might be avoided. I'm writing from northern Iraq, where the oil rich region was a key point of argument as the British and French divided up Arab lands between them. In 1916, Iraq and Syria were a part of the great carve up of the Sykes Picot line, drawn on the map of the Middle east by two servants of empire, Sir Mark Sykes for Britain and Francois Georges Picot for France. The line was founded entirely on imperial interests. The Arabs. Well, nobody in power in London or France was too bothered about them or their aspirations. Promises were made and broken. And when the Arabs had the temerity to object and revolt, they were crushed with violence. What followed, we know all too well. Colonial rule that was self interested, cynical and often brutal. The rise of Arab nationalism, independence and too often dictatorship, sometimes supported by the Western powers, sometimes opposed by them. And wars, invasion, the rise of militant Sunni Islam and of Shia power in Iran and now Iraq. Now there is a school of thought which looks back at the colonial era and even the modern conflict in Iraq and says violence like we've seen would have happened anyway even if we hadn't intervened, given the tribal or religious differences in the area, given the power structures that existed. But in an age where politicians and the media relentlessly stress the notion of accountability, can this really pass? Of course, it isn't all our fault. Nothing absolves the Assads or Saddams or Bin Ladens or ISIS of their responsibility for creating hatred and and inflicting violence. But that doesn't remove the obligation, moral and historical, for foreign powers to take responsibility for their actions rather than retreat into the comforting labyrinth of the hypothetical. So this week in Iraq, seeing a 10 year old girl cry as she described losing her home, listening to the toxic sectarianism of isis. Looking into the exhausted eyes of Kurdish fighters, I believe I've been watching the consequences of history, distant and recent, and I cannot stop thinking of all that has passed. How many bitter arguments, how many thousands of dead.
- [06:10]
B
And that was Fergal Keen. A suicide bomber detonated a car bomb near an army checkpoint in Beirut earlier this week. It happened in a southern, mainly Shia Muslim suburb. Several people were injured. Previous attacks on Shia areas of Lebanon have been carried out by Sunni extremists who accuse the Shia militant group Hezbollah of fighting alongside President Bashar al Assad's troops in Syria. Monday's explosion came as regional tensions continued to grow over events in Iraq, where Sunni rebels are on the march in the country's north and east. The bomb went off as people in a nearby Palestinian refugee camp watched the World cup football on TV. Julia McFarlane was with them.
- [06:54]
D
The Palestinian camp of Burj al Barajne, the biggest in Beirut, is an urban shanty town home to about 30,000 stateless refugees. The camp of mostly Sunni Palestinians is somewhat uncomfortably marooned deep in the southern Lebanese Shia neighborhood of Dahiye. The risk of gunfights, clashes and sectarian violence makes it a place that ought to be avoided. That being said, this could just be the very best place to watch the World Cup. Unable to get jobs, unable to own property, unable to travel outside the country, the stateless refugees are in limbo. Entire generations have lived within the concrete walls here, and the days and years are spent slowly, unhurriedly. The slow burn of a cigarette, the sipping of coffee, the passing of time. Children grow to accept that they cannot be ambitious. If the old learn to accept that, their children will most likely not see the future that they had hoped for. But as I entered Bourges on the eve of the Brazil vs Cameroon match, what I saw was not a miserable slum, but a rapturous street party. In the pools of light from several pop up cafes which had erected large projection screens, children and men gathered cross legged on the floor or on plastic stools. The the green of the pitch illuminating faces alight with glee. Smoke from cigarettes mixed with the smoke from a grilled peanut stand, and the air had the tang of metal powder from fireworks, foghorns, whistles and the beat of the Arabic darbuka drum reverberated through our chests. Old men with prayer beads and teenagers with mischievous expressions were swaying their hips and dancing the dubkay, the traditional Arabic dance. My guide was Ahmed, a Palestinian in his early 30s who was born in the camp and has lived here his entire life. He led us through the noisy street into a room warm with shisha smoke, the orange glow of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. There were about eight women sitting in a circle, smoking and drinking coffee. Ya, Allah. An elderly lady cried to the heavens in mock piety, parodying a famous war cry as the others hooted with laughter. Bring victory for our men of Brazil. Her comrades leaned forward and swatted away her prayer. I am for Italy, she told me. I like macaroni. A sharp crack made me jump. A young girl of no more than four had a small bag of party crackers. She was sucking on a dummy and with small hands hurled tiny sacks of explosive powder to the cemented floor, which erupted with a pop and a flash of light. These stateless people can't cheer for Palestine, so they each adopt a team, fly its flag, sing its anthem, or as much as they know of it. Snap, snap, snap. Went the party crackers. And then, boom. A massive sound rumbling through the night over the foghorns and drumming. The little girl looked up, and as she did so, the room was plunged into darkness. What was that? I asked Ahmed after the electricity came back on. He shrugged. His face darkened. We picked our way through the cramped alleyways back to the cafes. The game was no longer showing. Now they were watching the local news station, Al Akbar. Their faces were furrowed now, serious in the lights of their mobile phones. Shortly before midnight, a lone suicide bomber had driven a Mercedes packed with explosives into a police checkpoint nearby. Oof. Exasperated sighs from the refugees. As Ahmad said grimly, every time this happens, I pray to God that it wasn't a Palestinian. It wasn't. It was a Syrian, believed to be acting alone. That didn't stop the distant and ominous sound of Lebanese army tanks clanking slowly towards the scene of the blast. Slowly, one by one, the screens flickered back to the game. The earlier jubilants had been punctured, deflated. The flags waved slowly, almost automatically, and the drumbeats had fallen silent. With resignation, the refugees turned their attention back to the game, to their precious World cup escape, which transports them all too briefly into another world.
- [11:15]
B
Julia MacFarlane in the Lebanese capital, Beirut, the Kenyan government convened an emergency security meeting to discuss the series of attacks along its coastline this week. At least five people were killed when an armed gang raided a village not far from where a series of attacks took place last week in which more than 60 people died. The Somali Islamist group Al Shabaab said it was responsible, but the authorities have blamed what they call local political groups. Andrew Harding in Mombasa says the government is under pressure to restore stability to the country and to rescue its ailing tourist industry.
- [11:54]
A
It was a reasonably thorough body search. How did I do? Said the security guard afterwards, fishing unexpectedly for a compliment. Was it properly done? If so, please tell your country it's safe to come here. We were at Kenya's Mombasa airport, the sun shining earnestly outside, gentle waves tripping over the nearby reef, cocktails and deck chairs beckoning lazily from the white beaches of the Indian Ocean. But the beckoning doesn't seem to be working so well these days. The foreign tourists are staying away. Some hotels have closed down altogether. Others have that awkward, apologetic feeling of too many waiters hovering around the one busy table, the souvenir sellers squatting in the shade outside, spotting our TV camera and worrying that we're going to scare away what's left of their business. It's never been this bad, said Sultan. It are you sure you don't want a carved elephant? Kenya is a spectacularly beautiful, dynamic democracy. The Chinese are busy building a brand new train line from Nairobi to Mombasa's busy port. There's plenty to be optimistic about here. But the country is also wrestling with some huge and increasingly pressing deep ethnic divisions, an enduring culture of impunity, corruption and the growing threat posed by homegrown militants and by Islamist fighters from neighbour Touring Somalia. I used to live in Kenya a decade ago and remember the indignant rage of local tour operators each time Britain or America issued a new travel warning and the holiday industry slumped a little further. Well, now it slumped by about a third in little more than a month, the sort of blow that few businesses can endure for long, and not something Kenya can afford either. The biggest blow came just the other day, further up the coast from Mombasa, when more than 60 people were shot dead not far from another tourist town called Lahmu. There is still confusion about exactly who carried out those attacks and why. But there is a growing sense that all of Kenya's most pressing security concerns have somehow been rolled up into one giant crisis. Somalia's Islamist militant group Al Shabaab immediately claimed responsibility for the bloodshed near Lahmu. As with last year's attack on Nairobi's Westgate shopping mall, Al Shabaab said they were simply retaliating against Kenya for sending its troops to fight in Somalia. But then Kenya's president, Uhuru Kenyatta, went on national television with a very different theory. Al Shabaab, he said, had nothing to do with the latest attacks. Instead, this was the work of unnamed locals who are stoking political and ethnic tensions. He offered no details, but went on to warn his political opponents not to divide the country or to indulge in hate speech. If it was supposed to be a statesmanlike call for unity, it seems to have backfired badly, infuriating many in an already polarized nation. Soon afterwards, I was sitting in Mombasa having coffee with a local human rights activist, Khalif Khalifa, when his phone rang. He shook his head grimly. Eight of his colleagues had just been tear gassed, beaten and arrested for staging a tiny, peaceful rally. Later the same day, I went to see the local senator, Hassan Omar, from the opposition alliance. He got a phone call too, this one telling him he was being investigated by the police for alleged hate speech. It's madness, he said. He accused the president of packing the state security services with members of his own Kikuyu tribe. This country is being Balkanized, he fumed. The coast does feel particularly vulnerable. Local communities resentful about more recent arrivals from inland, a broader sense that Muslims here are being marginalized, and real fears about the radicalization of youths and the murder, quite possibly by police, hit squads of several outspoken Muslim clerics. It was late in the afternoon by the time the judge arrived, sat down in court and began to yawn rather extravagantly. We were on the northern outskirts of Mombasa, a few hundred metres from some of the finest beach hotels. On trial, sitting under guard in a steel cage, was Germaine Grant. He's a British man arrested three years ago and accused of plotting to bomb local hotels with his accomplice, Samantha Lewthwaite. Dubbed the White Widow. She was married to one of the London 77 bombers and is now on the run, perhaps in Somalia. Mr. Grant said nothing in court as a British detective described the bomb making equipment and coded text messages the police say they found at his flat in Mombasa, four ceiling fans whisked the humid air. The judge yawned again. It's tempting to see this long winded trial as at best, a minor distraction on a continent wrestling from Nigeria to Mali to Somalia and beyond with rising extremism. But for Kenya, as for Germaine Grant, there is a lot at stake. Justice, the strength and independence of a nation's institutions, the rule of law. If Kenya can't get this one right, what chance does it have?
- [17:17]
B
Andrew Harding there? The Karen people have been rebelling against successive governments in Burma, now called Myanmar, for decades. During the long years of military rule, the generals ensured their struggle continued Largely unnoticed. Now, though, a film is being made about one particular incident back in the 1950s. The movie's called, somewhat inaccurately, as you'll hear, the World's First Hijack. It tells the story of how a group of Karen rebels seized a plane, crash landed it, and then made off into the bush with its cargo of cash. Jonah Fisher says getting the project past the censors is a sign the country's moving towards a more relaxed era.
- [17:59]
E
In the comfort of his armchair, Sojo A clenches his hand into a fist with raises it to his face and mimes pulling a grenade pin out with his teeth. 60 years may have passed, but this is clearly a story that the 87 year old has been telling, or should I say acting out ever since. He closes his eyes for a second. He's back in the moment. It's 1954 and he's just forced his way into the cockpit of a passenger plane. This is the critical moment in an audacious plot to steal a Dakota DC3 and use it to smuggle weapons. At that point, he looks up and tells me he shouted at the British pilot. One Captain A.E. hare. Im going to die for my Karen nation. What cause are you going to die for? Realizing the danger, Captain Hare capitulated. He took the map the rebels had drawn and agreed to fly them to a rendezvous point near Burma's west coast. At the time, the Karen controlled land both east and west of the capital Rangoon. And the plan was to use the plane to link the two for the next three hours. Sojaw A peered desperately at the ground below, looking for the white paper marking that would show a prepared Runway. But something had gone wrong. Maybe none of his fellow rebels had actually believed the plan would work. Hijacking in the 1950s was almost unheard of, and two of the Karen's most senior commanders had rejected the scheme outright. One of them had even called him a fool. Fool or not, Soju A was now in control of a plane with nowhere to go and with fuel running out. In desperation, the pilot attempted to bring the plane down on a deserted beach. Twice the landing was aborted before. At the third try, they came juddering down into the sand. The passengers were allowed to disembark and the hijackers then discovered that the plane was carrying some heavy metal chests. It was cash being transported between bank branches. 700,000 Burmese chat. That's about £400 in today's money, but worth an awful lot more back then. We figured it was enemy money, so we took it. Serge Or A says with a smile. The passengers and crew were allowed back on and somehow the plane managed to take off as the rebels slunk off into the bush. It's a story worthy almost of Hollywood. But under Burma's strict censorship rules for the last 50 years, you had to do what I did and go to Sojaw A's house if you wanted to hear it. The generals didn't want people finding out about plucky rebels seizing government owned planes. But now censorship of the printed word has been lifted and Sojaw A's story was published in a book last year. The title, the World's First Hijacking, is somewhat misleading. A quick search of the Internet shows there were at least four hijackings around the world before this one. Undeterred, the final touches are now being put to a film with the same slightly dodgy name. Cinema censorship is still alive and well here. Scripts have to be approved and then permission granted again when the film has been finished. For the last 11 years, Anthony, who goes by just one name, has been trying to make films that will get past the censors. It's been frustrating in the past, any reference to rebel groups was an immediate no, no. Even vague, sometimes imagined allusions were sniffed out. Anthony tells me that he wanted to call one of his films Don't Cry Mother, but it was vetoed, as it might have been an oblique reference to to pro democracy campaigner Aung San SUU Kyi. There was a time when we only made comedies as they made good money and we knew they'd make it past the censors, he said. But now there are signs that the film censors are catching up with the country's reforms. Anthony's hijacking script was approved. The Burmese army even loaned them a plane and some guns for filming. At last we can do some true stories from here. Anthony tells me the world's waiting for a good film from Myanmar. Sojo A's hijacking is certainly quite a tale. Afterwards, he managed to avoid capture for several years before becoming a Baptist minister, and then a go between in talks between the government and the rebel leadership. Incredibly, after more than 60 years, the Karen conflict is still unresolved.
- [22:31]
B
Jonah Fisher there now. If there's an author inextricably linked with the joys of the English countryside, it's surely Laurie Lee, who was born a hundred years ago today. His book, Cider With Rosie, chronicles village life as it used to be. When children gorged themselves on berries rather than Big Macs, when the cooking was done on small wood fire and the washing, when it was done at all, under a hand pump in the scullery. Today, the centenary of his birth is being marked not only in Britain, but also on the south coast of Spain. Back in the 30s, Lee walked all the way from his home in Gloucestershire to the village of Almonieca in Spain. Heather Symonds has been talking to people there about this very English author.
- [23:15]
F
Juan Manuel's eyes sparkle. Yes, he met Laurie when he came here in 89. He rubs his round belly and mimes drinking. Then he winks at me and says, chicas, chicas. Shaking his head and giggling. He speaks too fast for me to understand everything, but I get the general idea. Laurie Lee, author, poet, fiddle player, was the life and soul of the party. A drinker, a charmer and an entertainer overflowing with stories. The stories he told came from his first trip to Almanyeca, back in the 1930s. He arrived after months of walking across Spain. He had crossed through mountains echoing with the howls of wild dogs and across plains scorched by the heat of the sun. He had passed poverty stricken villages and slept in flea ridden beds. On first inspection, this town didn't impress. In his book, as I walked out one midsummer morning, he describes it as grey and gloomily Welsh. But he grew to cherish this little place, and as the Spanish Civil War erupted around it, he had to watch as it tore itself apart. Friends becoming enemies, families becoming traitors. Now the town is more peaceful. Flowers burst from window boxes in its higgledy piggledy old quarter and the cafes along the beach are never empty. But it's not without its problems. During the boom years, the construction industry took off here, but now the town is littered with abandoned building projects, the reinforced concrete skeletons of pipe dreams. In the middle of the town, through its maze of steep streets, there's an ancient castle called Castillo de San Miguel. Its walls bear the scars of many battles, the Civil War among them. And the stone structures beneath it are evidence of a history that dates back to Roman times. In the early editions of his book, Laurie uses the name of this castle as a protective fortress. He refers to the town as just Castillo, afraid of the political ramifications of giving away its true identity. But shortly before he died, Almanecker came clean and revealed that it was Castillo. A small monument was raised on the sea front, which invites locals to acknowledge a man who has immortalised their home. Juan Manuel was working as a local journalist at the time and he explained to me the importance of Laurie's book here, where much of the history of the Civil War is still unclear. Having the views of an outsider who was able to comment on both sides of the story is immensely precious. Indeed, he says, more people should be able to read Laurie's books. So a group from the Cultural Council has been translating the chapters that refer to Almanyeka. I meet one of them, Jesus Serrano. He's introduced to me in broken English as a lecturer in literature. He is what we call, they say, a mouse of the libraries. I'm stumped by that one, but after some head scratching, it comes to me. Ah, I say. You mean a bookworm? Well, the mouse is anything but mouse like. He is passionate about Laurie's books and holds one up to me, tapping it and saying how his town owes Lorry a great debt, how Laurie created this literary monument to them and their physical monument is not good enough. Spit flies from his lips and his rolled R's bounce off the walls like bullets. This week there are Saints Day celebrations in Almanyacker. For one night only, the people are allowed to camp out on the beach and have barbecues. The night sky is filled with music, and sparks fly up from the many heaps of driftwood that has set alight. Hands clap, feet dance, and faces are bright with smiles. But for some here, this week is important for another reason. It's a hundred years since the birth of Laurie Lee, and they're holding a festival to market. Speeches will be given, stories will be told, and flowers will be laid at his monument. I come from Gloucestershire, where Laurie Lee grew up. Back home we think of him as a very English writer, forever tied to the bucolic beauty of the countryside. But here, those who know his work describe him as a man filled with the Andalusian spirit, a hero for freedom at a difficult time in their history, and a soldier for democracy in the fight against the dictator Franco.
- [27:48]
B
Heather Symonds, in the Footsteps of Laurie Lee in Southern Spain, bringing this edition to a close. I'm here again with more stories from around the world on Saturday morning at half past eleven. I hope you'll join us. Goodbye.