← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
The Midnight Bus to Damascus
00:27:52
Reporters worldwide: while refugees continue to stream out of Syria in their there are...
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Transcript12 lines
- [00:00]
A
Hello from the. From our own correspondence studios at Broadcasting House in London, you've downloaded the latest edition of the programme broadcast on BBC Radio 4. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
- [00:11]
B
Hello. Today, the shock in French speaking Africa at the murder in Mali of two French radio journalists. It's confirmed an elephant really doesn't forget. And that, it seems, is causing problems for the authorities in Malaysia. A campaign in India to make the sari popular again. But can it really compete with machine washable T shirts, jeans and the drip dry business suits? And it's uncomfortable, expensive and downright dangerous. So why are people still queuing up to take the midnight bus to Damascus? The latest round of international diplomacy has failed to fix a date for the long delayed Syria peace conference, which it still hoped will take place in Geneva. The UN envoy, Lakhdar Brahimi, said divisions within the Syrian opposition had been a persistent obstacle. Much of the opposition is demanding the departure of President Assad as a precondition for any peace conference, something the authorities in Damascus reject. Meanwhile, the violence in Syria continues unchecked. Yesterday a bomb went off at the headquarters of the country's railway authority in the center of Damascus, killing at least eight people. Fifty others were injured in the explosion. For months, people in the capital were spared the daily bombings and shootings going on elsewhere in the country. But now, as Lise Doucet's been finding out, the conflict has arrived in the heart of the city.
- [01:36]
C
It's the kind of restaurant you'd find in chic neighbourhoods in many capitals, all glass and steel and white faux leather chairs. It was still warm enough to sit outside, so we did. An old Elton John song wafted through the evening air over the hubbub of conversation, sprinkled with laughter. Then suddenly, the soundtrack was shattered. At first it struck like a roll of thunder, but it was soon clear. There was a crescendo of gunfire along the next street. I looked around. No one seemed to take much notice. But then it continued. A few people stood up, uncertain what to do. Some went inside the restaurant. A few young men in jeans ran to the street to investigate. I looked through the wall of glass to the tables just inside. One woman with an elegant white headscarf sat with her fork suspended in mid air. Another man waited, his cigar held aloft. Then the young men returned. What was it? I asked Myatt. A dead person, they said as they hurried back to their table. Who died? I asked again. A soldier? A martyr? Guns were being fired in the air to mark his death. Not long after, the restaurant Sound system burst into an Arabic rendition of Happy Birthday, and a cake with flickering candles was paraded in. See, my Syrian friend said they're numb. Numb to the war around them. How, he asked, can they celebrate a birthday where every day is now a day of death? At the table next to the birthday party, a few old men played cards while others dined. People go out to a restaurant like this and play cards in the middle of dinner? I asked. Yes, he said, those who can still afford it do it to escape. Trying to escape from this life is what more and more people are doing these days in Damascus. But less than 10 miles from this restaurant, many can't escape. Neighborhoods in the suburbs of the capital are under siege. A few days earlier, we witnessed a partial evacuation as nearly 2,000 people were allowed to leave the area of Moadamiya, sealed off since March. We didn't eat bread for nine months, one woman told me, her hands trembling as a tide of people fled down the road toward waiting buses. We ate leaves and grass. These are suburbs controlled by rebel fighters who accuse the government of trying to starve them into submission. You can even see that slogan surrender or starve on some army checkpoints. But the government accuses the rebels, terrorists, as they call them, of holding people hostage. It's civilians who are suffering badly. I asked my dinner companion, a government supporter, whether most Syrians knew what was happening not far away, or had they stopped listening to the news. They know, he said, but in Syria now, there is very bad, bad and not so bad. And he added, what seemed bad yesterday doesn't seem that way today. In other words, as this war drags on, it gets worse and it descends to a level no one here would ever have imagined. For some, the only way to make it through the day is to find ways to shut it out. Syrians are still showing their famed generosity, extending aid to neighbors and strangers. But this war is now putting pressure on almost everyone. And every time I come back to Damascus, the crisis is different this time. There's still a constant crump from government artillery firing into the suburbs, but now more mortar shells have started landing inside the city centre. The government blames the rebels, but no one takes responsibility. In the past week, the fabled Hejaz railway station and the ancient citadel of Damascus both took direct hits. The damage was limited, but the impact cuts much deeper than the stone. War is now reaching the very heart of this city and its precious heritage. A year ago, Syrians mourned when the old city of Aleppo, to the north became the focus of heavy fighting. Treasured sites now lie in ruin. Do you fear it could happen here? I asked an archaeologist as we inspect the damage to the Citadel of Damascus. He paused with a long sigh. I hope not, I hope not, he said, and then even words escaped him.
- [06:00]
B
And that was Lise Doucet in Damascus. Much has been said over the last couple of years about the Syrians who fled the fighting in their country. Huge numbers have moved to neighbouring nations such as Lebanon, Turkey, Jordan, and Iraq. Some have managed to find work and satisfactory places in which to live. Others eke out an existence in crowded refugee camps. The conflict has, of course, put an end to Syria's once thriving tourist industry. It has also severed most transport links with the country. Its airports remain closed to international flights. And yet there are still people who want or need to go to Syria. Remarkably, you can still travel there by bus, as Nigel Wilson in the Jordanian capital Amman, has been finding out.
- [06:46]
D
There's still an hour to go until midnight, but a small crowd is already gathering by the bus. They're mostly women, conversing softly, circled by children playing a game of chase. Emerging from the moonless night, a crooked figure approaches the group, his shoulders sagging from the weight of the holders which he lays on the pavement. Is this one going to Damascus? He asks nobody in particular. Yes, comes a gruff reply from the driver. Mahmoud Tal, Tal, come, come. There are bags, he bellows. I've come to meet the driver, who's Syrian. His narrowed eyes project a perpetual wariness. I'm not surprised when he asks to remain anonymous. Speaking with foreign journalists is considered subversive behavior by the Assad regime, which this man relies on to make a living. It's for Syrians only, he says abruptly when I inquire about the bus's destination. After I explain I don't want a ticket myself, he relaxes slightly. I've been driving from Syria to Jordan and back for 15 years. I used to work every day, taking Jordanians, Westerners, all kinds of people. Now I drive every five days, he says, turning out his pockets to reveal their emptiness. He's one of a handful of drivers who still carry passengers around Syria and over the border to Jordan, although the crossing is sometimes closed by security forces on either side. Even now, up to four buses leave Amman for Syria on a busy day, as well as dozens of private taxis. The perilous journey might be considered vital by Syrian passengers for a number of reasons. Tonight the crooked man with the holders is returning to oversee the planting season on his farm in Daraa Province, where the uprising began. A group of seven women are visiting their elderly grandmother. But for the driver and his young assistant, Mahmoud, the motivation is simply financial survival. I've been doing this for five years. There's no work in Syria and I'm not allowed to work in Jordan, says the 18 year old, inviting me to inspect the bus up close. Here's where a bullet went in. The soldiers at the checkpoint didn't get what they wanted, so they shot at the bus as we left, he says with a defiant grin. He shows me more tiny holes where bullets have pierced the bus's brittle chassis, explaining that they don't always know who's shooting at them. He loathes the army checkpoints that the bus has to negotiate when crossing Syria, where he says soldiers demand money and rob passengers. If you have an iPhone, you better hide it well. Money, watches, jewelry. They even take lentils. The fare is now double what it was. The extra is to pay the soldiers. Are you ever afraid? I ask. Well, it's worse this year. The trouble's spread. But what I'm really afraid of is being captured and drafted into the Army. Mahmoud turned 18 recently, and like all other Syrian men of military age, he's due to complete the obligatory two years of national service. With no end to the war in sight, he worries about being forced into the bloody conflict. I don't want to fight. I'm for peace. If I'm taken by the army, they would make me stay until the end of the war. If I were to run away, they would kill me, he says gravely. At every checkpoint, I pray that they won't take me. As midnight approaches, the bus's engine chokes alive and the previously modest gathering becomes increasingly animated. Emotional farewells are accompanied by long lasting hugs and multiple kisses on the cheek. The lack of young men among the travelers seems obvious now, but I do spot two guys quietly sipping coffee a few meters removed from the throng. They're brothers from Damascus, one of whom is returning home. The elder brother, Mohammed, has a steady job in the Gulf, and as a 21 year old man, he's risking his future by going to Syria. Of course I'm worried, especially about being drafted, he says anxiously. I often speak with friends in Syria, and I follow developments on Facebook and YouTube. The bombs, battles and torture. It's not the Syria I know, and the thought of being sent to fights is frightening. But I have to visit my parents. It's been three years. By midnight, the driver's impatient and the brothers join in a final embrace before Mohammed hurries onto the Bus. Soon it's pulling away from the curb and rumbling off into the uncertain night.
- [11:22]
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Nigel Wilson. In the Jordanian capital, Amman, the French Foreign Minister Laurent Fabius says his government's sticking to plans to withdraw most of its troops from Mali, despite the killing of two French journalists there at the weekend. The French President Francois Hollande was at Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris in the early hours of Tuesday morning as the bodies of Ghislaine Dupont and Claude Velon were brought home. Paris sent in troops earlier this year to deal with rebels who'd seized parts of the north of the country. But the BBC's Thomas Fessi says the killings show that the country's still deeply unstable and a dangerous place for foreigners.
- [12:02]
E
It all happened so quickly. Ghislaine and Claude were snatched in the middle of the town of Kidal in broad daylight. Four gunmen wearing turbans drove them off and shot them dead eight miles away in the open desert. This was an abduction and a killing that neither the French nor the UN peacekeepers and soldiers from the Malian army and that several hundred troops altogether were able to prevent. This is Tuareg rebel territory too, and they also, it seems, were powerless. It's nearly 10 months since the French launched their military operation in northern Mali today. The armed militants they've been targeting may no longer have the bases here they once had, but clearly they are still dangerous. They may not do full scale battles, but they've shown that they can reach their targets and kill them. But did they really set out to kill our French colleagues? This is just one of many questions which for now at least, remain unanswered. Ghislaine was a well known voice in the French speaking parts of this continent. She'd been roving around Africa for two decades. When I was based in the Democratic Republic of Congo, I would listen to her reports about the DRC particularly carefully. She'd worked there extensively before being expelled from the country. She was very well informed, had a vast network of contacts and liked digging out stories. These sometimes sparked passionate discussions amongst US correspondents as well as others. Claude was the kind of sound engineer, radio journalist, always hope will come with them on assignment. He always knew the best way to get sound quality and was equally effective at dealing with those last minute technical meltdowns which so often seem to happen in the remotest of places. Radio is a huge medium across Africa. In many countries, people are craving independent information, while many local media just don't have the means to send reporters out to conflict zones. Just as BBC is keenly listened to in the English speaking African countries, people tune in to RFI morning, lunchtime and evening in the Francophone states. Listeners know their broadcasters names and whereabouts. Many will thank you for taking the risk of coming to their remote villages to tell the world about their plight. But of course, the armed groups are also listening. It makes every word of your report all the more sensitive. This double murder comes as a massive blow, not only because we've lost respected and well liked colleagues, but also because it seems to be an attempt to prevent reporters from doing their jobs. The war in northern Mali hasn't been an easy one to report on. From the very start, both the French and the Malian armies kept us far away from the front lines for weeks. Correspondents here had to venture into areas where they knew there was a danger of being kidnapped. It makes one anxious trying to read what's in everyone's mind, having constantly to assess the situation, the danger. Ghislaine and Claude were killed within days of the release of four French men who had been held hostage in the region for three years. The happy ending of that ordeal was overshadowed by credible reports, denied in Paris, that once again a ransom worth several million pounds had been paid for their freedom. The negotiations with the captors may have led to animosity among the different factions operating in northern Mali. Were Ghislaine and Claude killed by frustrated extremists who didn't get their share? Had their captors hoped to negotiate a large sum of cash? Hostage taking has long been a lucrative business in the Sahel region, but France had insisted it would never pay up again. Ransoms are part of a dangerous game. They open up a market for more kidnap operations and make us reporters more. More vulnerable. As a result, the killing of Ghislaine and Claude has been a real shock to the reporting community here and those of us who have spent so much time in the eerie desert heat of northern Mali. It's on everybody's mind. It could have been us. Two of my BBC colleagues were also in Kidal. They left town just three days before the tragedy happened.
- [16:38]
B
And that's Thoma Fessi. Malaysia is facing a growing problem over its elephants. And it's all because their habitat is slowly but surely disappearing. Malaysia is developing fast and the areas where the elephants used to roam are increasingly being built upon or used for agriculture. Inevitably, this means elephants and humans are coming into contact much more often than they used to. So a plan has been launched to give the creatures a new home. They are being moved to a national park here. The theory goes they'll have more space and be less likely to pose a danger to humans. But Bob Walker's been learning that people there are far from convinced that relocating them is the right thing to do.
- [17:20]
A
There were only two things that really scared our local guides tigers and elephants. When I asked them what was dangerous about the jungle, they said in all seriousness, everything. But it was the faint possibility of unwittingly stumbling across a tiger that had them slightly on edge or an elephant. The latter scenario became more of a distinct possibility with every step we took. We knew this because our radio detection receiver began to click ever more loudly, indicating that somewhere in the thick undergrowth lurked an elephant that had recently been captured near a village, tagged with GPS and radio beacons and released safely here in the national park. It seems to me there's an inherent contradiction in tracking elephants. You put a great deal of effort into finding them, but they say if you see one, then you're too close. They're known to charge humans and you can't outrun them. The advice is to find the biggest tree you can and hide behind it. We'd spent three hours hacking through overgrown logging paths, pulling leeches from our bodies, swatting away mosquitoes and running from a swarm of wild bees. The plan was to find traces of our tagged elephant, more specifically its dung, and and take samples for laboratory analysis. A team from the University of Nottingham is investigating the impact of the relocation process. Certain hormones can indicate a rise in stress levels with potentially serious consequences for the animal's health. In the weeks before, eight elephants had been captured near a village in Perak state and released 70 miles away. But there's no consensus on whether moving them is actually effective over the long term. The GPS collars have revealed that some make their way back home. Elephants, it seems, really never forget. The next day, we drove down rutted cart tracks, past half naked children playing in streams and into an Orang Asli village, the indigenous people of Malaysia. On the way, we passed electric fences designed to keep out the elephants. But many of the barriers were broken or poorly maintained. In a house made of bamboo and palm leaves, we found Andak, the head man. Over tea, he began to air a number of grievances the Orang Asli have against the government, but more specifically, the problem of elephants. His people used to be jungle nomads living off the land, with an uncanny way of finding their way through vegetation, which can leave most people disorientated and lost. But the government is encouraging the Orang Asli here to adopt a more settled lifestyle cultivating the land with the aim of tackling poverty. Each family was given 400 rubber plant saplings worth around five ringgits, each a total of £400. But then came the elephants, eating crops and destroying a few flimsy buildings. In the past, they've even attacked villagers. Once a plant is lost, Andak says, the government won't replace it. The villagers have stopped cultivating new ones. Andak admits the elephants were here first, but the problem's getting worse and his livelihood is at risk. They used to come in ones and twos, he tells me through an interpreter, and they weren't much of a problem. Now they come in herds of between 10 and 12, and they eat anything they can find. The villagers used to patrol the fields at night, but now they're too scared. What they need, he says, is some sort of buffer zone between the forest and and the village. Human elephant conflict isn't new, but the pace of agricultural change and development in Malaysia means the number of clashes is increasing. There are more plantations and logging activity is encroaching on elephant habitat. On our way back from the village, we stopped on a hillside and looked down into the valley where hundreds of tree trunks were awaiting collection. Beside me, clearly outlined in the soft mud, was the imprint of an elephant's foot. One regional wildlife official told me the translocation was the best solution for now, but then suggested they could eventually create, in his words, a kind of Jurassic park with huge fences to contain the elephants. Barriers, translocation, compensation, or just learning to live with the elephants. No one believes there's a simple solution, but there's a fear that unless the situation improves, things could take a sinister turn. Earlier this year in Malaysia's Sabah state, 10 elephants were found poisoned. That hasn't happened in Perak yet. The elephants may indeed have been here first, but my strong impression from talking to farmers is that patience is wearing thin.
- [22:09]
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Bob Walker, India's national garment, the sari has been worn for at least 4,000 years. Millions of women wear a sari and young, rich and poor, and it's still seen as a mark of femininity and grace. These days, of course, the sari faces tough competition. Who can deny the convenience of drip dry shirts? Trousers, you can machine wash and wrinkle free corporate suits. But as Anu Anand in Delhi's been finding out, a campaign to boost the popularity of the garment has revealed its surprising versatility and some strong feminist values.
- [22:44]
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I've always had a love hate relationship with the sari. When I see an Indian woman Wrapped in its silken cocoon, the elegant drape accentuating her neck, one end falling gracefully over her shoulder, silk pleats swishing as she walks. And that bare midriff both demure and suggestive. No matter what size her waistline, I desperately want to wear one. Yet faced with nine meters of fabric, I always end up hopelessly entangled and looking rather like a silky sack of potatoes. On the handful of occasions when someone else has tied a sari on me, not only have I felt like a cheat, but I found this style too constraining. Who wants to be forced to take mincing little steps? Yet, as a woman of Indian origin, I've always wanted to learn the art of sari wearing. And now that I actually live in India, there's really no excuse. Well, luckily for me and hundreds of other women, there is the sari school. I turn up one Saturday morning in my jeans and a black T shirt to find several other women, some Indian, some foreigners, taking part. The teacher is Rita Kapoor Chisti, a vivacious lady in her 60s and an ardent sari historian. She tells us she wore her first sari at the age of five and that she knows at least 188 different ways of tying one. A sari, gisty goes on, is a lifelong garment, tied tight or loose, low slung, with navel showing or over a pregnant bump. The same one will fit you from adolescence into old age. It can be worn as a dress, a sarong, as pantaloons, even shorts. What's more, she informs us, the hand woven sari industry supports tens of thousands of Indian workers in rural areas. At long last, we're given our own sari to practice with. Mine is a tissue soft cotton in spring green with a subtle gold border. A tall British woman takes a silky purple one, and the young Indian fashion design student next to me picks out a funky solid red. We learn five styles in all. The simplest involves wrapping the sari around three times, slightly higher each time to form a layered skirt. The end is then simply wrapped around the neck like a scarf or tied into a fetching bow. Very ethno chic. We learn to wear the sari as a pantaloon, as women working on farms and in fishing villages still do, as well as hip ways of pleating our saris. Pleats in the front, pleats at the back, pleats hanging over our waist and fanned out with flair, I'm told the narrow petticoat skirt usually worn under the sari. The thing that forced me to shorten my gai was actually a foreign import based on ideas of modesty that entered India in the late 19th century. Indeed, we're encouraged to forego petticoats altogether and wear our saris over trousers or just knotted at the waist. Pre colonialization, women didn't bother to iron saris either. They simply twisted them into bundles, giving them a lovely crinkly finish in the bargain. I'm no longer mincing about but striding in my gorgeous green sari, feeling in control. It's practical as well as attractive, and it makes me feel feminist rather than just feminine. Finally, we learn the most traditional sari style wrapped around the waist twice, chastely hiding our ankles, pleated in front like the folds of a flower, with the end draped over the left shoulder. For the first time in 40 years, I've managed to tie a sari completely solo, and it looks pretty good. I canvass my fellow women. Will they really adopt this garment? The British lady who works for an international organization admits throwing on trousers and a shirt will always be quicker, but she says she can't think of a more appropriate garment for the evening corporate scene in India, where dresses simply can't compete with the sari's combination of elegance and modesty. Later, flushed with the success of having gone the whole nine meters, I post a photo of myself smiling in my self tied sari on the Internet. An Indian friend, one of those amazingly brainy women who is also able to carry off a sari with everyday panache, writes back, almost there. For a moment I think, yup, stick to the trousers. Then I remember that no matter what my size, at least I know my saris will always fit me. And that is very liberating indeed.
- [27:40]
B
Annu Anand in Delhi on the sari and why it will never fall from fashion. That's it. More from correspondents, some considerably less fashionable than others on a Saturday morning. Until then, goodbye.