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From Our Own Correspondent
The Most Dangerous Job in th World?
00:28:08
Correspondents'despatches: Gabriel Gatehouse with the medical team who have collected...
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- [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 ambulance woman in Liberia with one of the most dangerous jobs in the world, the one shopping street that's thriving as a new wave of bombings hits Baghdad, the Italian city they call the cold weather Jerusalem. Why it's determined to break away from Rome and our man who goes weak at the knees if he misses breakfast on the extreme fasting traditions of Ethiopia. Could the rate of new Ebola infections actually be slowing now in Liberia, one of the worst hit countries in West Africa, there was cautious optimism from the World Health Organization yesterday, but its spokesman insisted it would be wrong to believe the virus was now under control. It said the outbreak had now claimed the lives of nearly 5,000 people in Liberia, guinea and Sierra Leone. Earlier this week, the Disasters Emergency Committee, in a televised appeal here, said it was threatening to become a health disaster. It was killing people, ripping apart health services and devastating communities. Gabriel Gatehouse is just back from Liberia.
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Lorene winces as she walks over. She's in pain. We're in the yard in front of her house. It's at the end of a quiet, sandy lane of bungalows and suburban houses. The sound of children playing basketball drifts from a nearby playground. Loreen needs this refuge of calm in her downtime because her job is one of the most dangerous and distressing in the world. As part of a three person ambulance crew, Loreen travels round Monrovia picking up Ebola patients and bringing them to special clinics for treatment. She motions to her teenage son to bring her a chair so that we can sit down while we talk. She smiles as I sit just a little further away than would be normally appropriate for having a conversation. She understands by now she's used to it. She is in close contact with Ebola every day and people want to keep their distance. Here at home, surrounded by her children and her neighbors, Loreen looks tired, almost vulnerable behind the eyes, but there's no mistaking it. This is a tough lady. Not tough as in mean, but tough in a I've seen it all, I can take whatever the job throws at me kind of way. But when Lawrence goes into those Ebola infected homes, she can look terrifying and she knows it. Every inch of skin must be covered. Behind the goggles and the mask, it's impossible to read facial expressions. Taped into her yellow gloves and white biochemical hazard suit hood up, Laureen looks like a creature out of a dystopian sci fi horror film. Loreen is a nurse. When she goes into an infected home, she is accompanied by a driver and a hygienist, a young man by the name of Zach. In their outfits, the only thing that distinguishes Zak from the other two is that vat of chlorine strapped to his back, from which she's continually spraying. Loreen explains how she injured her back. The team is called to the home of a woman who appears to be suffering from the advanced stages of the virus. Lorene goes in first. The patient is lying naked on a mattress stained with blood and vomit. Ebola is spread through contact with bodily fluids, so this is a highly dangerous environment. The patient is in a bad way. She's too weak to stand or to get dressed by herself. Loreen covers the woman in a wrap and goes round behind her to pick up her emaciated body under the arms. But suddenly, and with a ferocity that she'd not expected, the woman turns on Loreen, pushing and shoving and shouting abuse. Loreen falls over backwards onto the corner of the metal stretcher. Her first thought is her suit. A rip could have fatal consequences. She leaves the patient where she is and goes out to check for tears. Luckily, the suit is still intact. She should be safe from the virus. But she's hurt her back. Loreen says she doesn't blame the woman who attacked her. She knows and understands the fear. I've had sick patients jump out of my moving ambulance before, she says. Residents of Monrovia will occasionally catch sight of a pickup truck laden with watertight orange bags with bumping over the potholed roads of the capital. These are the bodies of the dead being driven to an anonymous site for cremation. Many believe this is the inevitable fate of anyone who enters an Ebola treatment center. That is not true. If you catch the virus, your best hope is to seek treatment and seek it fast. You can survive Ebola. In fact, many have, and they continue to do so every day. But the number of those who live is still far lower than the number of those who die. Often the last a relative will see of a loved one is them being stretchered off by what look like figures in space suits, spraying chemicals as they go. They can't see the human beings beneath the suits. I ask Loreen whether she was upset by the sight of the sick woman on the mattress. I've seen worse, she says, brushing the question aside. Lorene has collected hundreds of Ebola patients since the outbreak started. She has no idea how many of them have died. How many have survived? There'll be many more to come. If she's to continue her work, she must protect her mind as well as her body. Beneath the goggles, she wears an emotional mask too. An excess of sympathy is a luxury she cannot afford. Is she ever scared? I ask. I am not afraid, she answers. If you have too much fear, she points at her head, you will get affected.
- [05:57]
B
And that's Gabriel Gatehouse, back now from Liberia. Security forces in the Iraqi capital Baghdad say they're confident the city's not about to be overrun by fighters from the so called Islamic State. But it seems they can do little to stop the militants setting off car bombs there and carrying out suicide attacks. On average, some 500 Baghdadis are now being killed every month. But Andrew Hoskin, who's there, says despite the horror, the people and businesses of Baghdad go to extraordinary lengths to recover from those bombings as soon as they can.
- [06:33]
A
At night, at a distance of, say, 500 metres, the sound is more of a soft ba boom than a bang. There is a sickening silence followed by first the car alarms and then the sirens. Sometimes within a minute or so, for reasons that aren't clear, they there are gunshots too. Then the orange flickering glow against the darkness and a tell tale black mushroom cloud spiraling into the sky. Within half an hour like some grisly cricket score, the numbers are phoned in according to health and security sources. 12 dead, 30 injured, 30 dead, 80 injured. Of the injured, many die, but few people ask how many because sadly, the old bombings soon forgotten as the new ones take place. They happen most nights in Baghdad and people will often venture a grim guess at the number of casualties, depending on the strength of that baboom and its likely distance from where they are. All too often there will be a second device targeting onlookers and emergency services. The other day a particularly loud explosion shook our room. Not long after the phone rang. Watheek Square, the Aliusa Hotel reported a colleague, matter of fact, a suicide truck. 40 casualties so far. Another colleague, Omar, looked ashen faced a little earlier he had decided against getting a take out. I can't be bothered, he said at the time, shelving plans to visit a favourite takeaway in Wathik Square. The next morning I ventured over to the square and bumped into the owner of the Alyusia Hotel, Shihab Ahmed. The truck bomb had exploded just outside the building and the latest death toll was 31 dozens more injured. By early morning the clear up was already well under way. Stocky, podgy, sweaty Mr. Ahmed looked in need of a good night's sleep and a shave. No time to mourn the hotel security guard or the guests who had died in a blast. Mr. Ahmed seemed to be frantic in his desire not only to get back up and running, but but to obliterate any sign of the bombing carried out only hours before, undoubtedly by Islamic State. When he wasn't holding intense phone calls with builders and insurers, he was barking instructions to the workmen. Amazingly, I saw guests checking out of what was left of the reception and dragging their suit cases through all the rubble and glass and twisted metal as if it was the most normal thing in the world. It was apparent that they had been the lucky ones, probably allocated rooms at the back, and they'd obviously spent the night at the Aliusya after the attack. Well, what else were they to do? This urge to fight back against IS by getting rid of the evidence of its crimes as rapidly as possible, is very common in Baghdad. I've seen it again and again. It does nothing, of course, to counter the fact that thousands of lives are blotted out in an instant. But it speaks of a deeply felt need to restore the order of things. I visited cafes, supermarkets and markets, once the scene of carnage and destruction. Now you would never know anything had happened. After seeing Mr. Ahmed, I got talking to Ali Sajid Shakir, the owner of a small corner shop nearby. It had been badly damaged by a bomb blast across the road only three days previously, and yet he was back in business. Glass replaced, wiring renewed, shelves restocked. Clearly, is is targeting the economy of Baghdad as well as its people. The group's occupation of vast swathes north of the capital has cut supply routes and sent fuel and food costs soaring. Now goods have to be imported by sea via the southern port of Basra and then transported north to Baghdad. The government's deficit is growing daily, a crisis exacerbated not only by falling oil prices, but also by the fact that IS controls vital oil fields. Iraq's security bill is enormous and the bill for its military is mounting by the day. Its enemy may not have the same resources, but it is undoubtedly wealthy, unable to fund its military operations across two countries, as well as its relentless assault on Baghdad, its people and economy. Another insidious effect is that now many people avoid the markets, cinemas and shops, choosing small local stores, which explains why even these are now being targeted. However, I did find one business district which seemed to be thriving, albeit for the most sinister of reasons, Al Sirdoun Street. It has dozens of Shops selling wheelchairs. It's an ill wind that doesn't blow someone some good.
- [11:02]
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And that's Andrew Hoskin in Baghdad. Now, Italy only became a unified state in 1861. Perhaps that's why it has more independence movements than most countries. Umberto Bossi's Lega Nord might be the best known of them. It wants the northern regions to break away from what it says is a failing central government in Rome. In Venice, there's a separatist movement which claims the support of nearly 90% of its citizens. And further east on the Slovene border, Trieste too is staking a claim for independence. Once a part of the Austro Hungarian Empire, the city was recognized as a free state under international law after the Second World War, but was then returned to Italy. Tara Isabella Burton has been meeting some of its citizens who still believe they should go it alone.
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In a dilapidated 19th century mansion five minutes from the sea, Vito Potenza dreams of liberation. Three red flags, sporting Trieste's traditional coat of arms, hang from the windows. Another drapes the office tables. The insignia is everywhere, on pins, on mugs, on Vito's Facebook. We are fighting for the rights of the people of the free territory of Trieste, Potenza says. We are fighting against the Italian government. After all, they are under occupation. Here. Where Venetian spritz is served with Slovene cheese on wheat bread, where seaside cafes offer their cappuccinos with a side of Viennese whipped cream, many identify as Triestein first, Italian second. Where once this city was the great port of the Austro Hungarian Empire, in Piazza del Unita, three sides of the square are occupied by splendid Habsburg buildings. The fourth is C. A plaque commemorates the spot where Mussolini announced his policy of racial laws against the Jews. The Catholic Church of St. Antonio shares space on the Grand Canal with the Serbian Orthodox Church. The synagogue is two minutes away. We are a multicultural people, Potenza says. He himself is half Italian, half Croatian. His Free Territory of Trieste movement, which claims independence for the city and its hinterland, is designed to reflect that. He envisions Italian, Slovene and Croatian as joint official languages. Italy has kept our culture down for too long, he says. The fascist years of the 1920s and 30s, during which Trieste's Slavic population was subject to a program of forced italianization, are not so long ago. Potenza and his supporters believe that Trieste is legally free, not part of Italy, under international law. They cite a 1947 United Nations Security Council charter which recognized Trieste and its surroundings, including parts of what is now Croatia and Slovenia, as a free state with an official language of both Italian and Slovene, subject to the appointment of an internationally recognized governor. That free territory, however, never existed in practice. During the seven years of Trieste independence, sections of free territory were governed by Britain, America and then Yugoslavia, until the so called London Memorandum of 1954, which returned the majority of the territory to Italy. This decision, Potenza believes, amounts to unlawful invasion. For 60 years, Italy has imposed sovereignty on our people, he insists. The treaty of 1947 is the law. It is the constitution of our territory. His colleague Georgi Descovich Deschi fervently agrees. Trieste is the cold weather Jerusalem, he insists. I am culturally Italian, but I keep within myself Croatian genes, Venetian genes, Slovak genesis. This city can encompass all these characteristics in order to make itself a true center. He envisions a free Trieste as a powerful symbol for the future, where all religions, all knowledge, all art exist in unison. Trieste is truly open to the world, he says, using a Masonic term, agape, to describe his vision of togetherness. We are living in a great moment and Trieste is at the heart. It is a Trieste where Catholics celebrate, Serbian, Orthodox, Jews and Freemasons all live together. But Potenza's aims are economic as well as cultural. Trieste has an internationally important port, Potenza points out, with plenty of import taxes he sees as owed to the free territory. But the Italian government refuses to apply the law, he tells me, and collects Trieste's money. Why should the relatively prosperous Trieste fall down with Italy, which, as he sees it, is an inevitable decline? What about the majority of people in Trieste who are perfectly happy to be both Trieste and Italian? Potenza shrugs. They cannot deny the law. This project is more important, he tells me. It's only a matter of time, he adds. Over the past year, he has sent several letters and signed petitions to the United nations demanding recognition of Trieste's free status. We haven't heard back. Locals in Trieste seem likewise unimpressed. They're crazy, said a patron at one of the city's newest bars, located in the heart of what was once the Jewish ghetto. How could it ever work? Potenza and Deschi are hopeful. The Scottish referendum has opened the door for more independence movements worldwide. Still, Potenza cautions against comparing them too closely. The Scotland situation is not comparable, he says. We are not looking for independence. We are already independent. The rest of the world just has to notice.
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Tara Isabella Burton in Trieste the Chancellor George Osborne was in Berlin yesterday, meeting finance ministers from Germany, France and Italy. He said he was confident he could secure a reduction in the 1.7 billion pound bill the UK has been asked to pay by Brussels. The sum emerged as the EU recalculated the rebates, which are due to member states. And while the UK faced a demand as a result, Germany, whose economy's been doing worse than forecast, is to receive a sum of some 600 million pounds. But how exactly can you tell whether or not a country is doing well economically? After all, in Germany's case, it still has the world beating brand names, a solid national budget surplus, unemployment's coming down. Damian McGuinness, also in Berlin, believes the answer is on the wall.
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A small herd of cows lives on our street. Now, given this is the centre of Berlin, they are of course not actual living cows, but rather brightly coloured life size replicas stuck horizontally on the side of a house, peacefully grazing on a wall painted green to resemble a fake pasture. I think they're supposed to be some sort of art project, although I've never really got to the bottom of it. Instead, I view these cows as a reliable indicator of Germany's economic health. Something along the lines of cows on walls equals zero economic growth. But more about that later. Anyone trying to work out what's happening to the German economy at the moment could be forgiven for feeling just a little bit confused. One minute Germany is seen as the economic model to follow, with booming exports, low unemployment and steady economic growth. The next minute, headlines claim that Europe's largest economy could be slipping into recession. So what's going on? Well, it all started in the summer. Germany had just won the Football World Cup. Symbolic proof, it seemed, that whether on the pitch or the factory floor, no Germans really know what they're doing. And people here were even pleasantly surprised to see that during the tournament, the British papers had for once gone easy on the Nazi references. Germany's image abroad, it seemed, was improving. The dodgy jokes about the war were finally out of date. It was time instead for some respect. But then suddenly, figures came out showing that German business leaders were getting nervous about the future. But more negative stats followed. In August alone, exports dropped by almost 6%. Share prices fell, industrial production slumped. And then it all became official. It's now been confirmed that the German economy shrank slightly in the second quarter and the government in Berlin has downgraded its forecast for economic growth this year from 1.8% to 1.2%. It's partly because of the crisis in nearby Ukraine and the sanctions against Russia, which have hit German exports hard. The next date to watch out for is November 14th, when we'll find out if the economy also shrank in the third quarter, which would put Germany officially into recession. Now, a lot of British headline writers have reverted to form, revelling with what often appears to be some relish in the prospect of a German downfall. So they're not that great after all. Seems to be the tone. And critics are accusing Angela Merkel's government of obsessing over balancing the budget next year, rather than investing in the country's infrastructure to ensure future economic growth. So is Europe's economic motor spluttering to a halt? Well, what's strange is that it really doesn't feel like that here. Despite the doom laden international headlines, it's in Germany. The economy in many parts of the country feels like it's booming. Cafes and restaurants are full, new buildings are shooting up and stores are packed with shoppers eager to spend their cash. That mood is backed up by the statistics. Exports may be suffering, but consumer spending is up. It seems that any doubts that economists or business leaders have about the economy have not yet filtered down to the man and woman on the streets. Mainly because unemployment at less than 5% is low and after years of wage restraint, pay is starting to rise. So many people here feel better off than they have for years. A very different mood to a decade ago, when Germany was still struggling with the costs of reunification and was known as the sick man of Europe. And this is where my neighbours, the cows, come in. They've actually been following me round Berlin. I used to live in a very different part of town, and by bizarre coincidence, just round the corner from my old flat, those very same horizontal cows could be seen munching away on their fake grass. That neighbourhood went from cheap and funky to expensive and affluent. And the cows, along with all the elderly Berliners, got pushed out to a cheaper area and their fake pasture was replaced by a block of luxury flats. Now Berlin is booming again, so all the quirky gaps left over From World War II bombing raids are being filled in, even in my area, once a bastion of working class corner pubs. So it's only a matter of time before those neighbours get moved on again. Rocketing real estate prices leave little room for quirky art projects. But at least my bovine economic indicator helps me approach a possible downturn in a positive frame of mind. If the economy does start to stall, one consolation could well be that we'll get to keep our local cows.
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And that was Damien McGinnis in Berlin. Now, there are many reasons for fasting. Activists have long known they can attract attention to a cause and pressure authorities and government to take action. Doctors prescribe fasting for a wide range of medical conditions, from anxiety to arthritis, mental illness and obesity, and it's also a part, of course, of many religious traditions. Most faiths embrace it to some extent, but Ethiopian Orthodox Christians are among the world's most enthusiastic fasters, as James Jeffrey, a Three Meals a Day man himself, has been finding out in the capital, Addis Ababa.
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As someone who goes weak at the knees if I miss breakfast, I've long been intimidated by Ethiopian fasting traditions. Not for them giving up chocolate for Lent or eating fish instead of meat on Fridays. Ethiopian Orthodox Christians are hardcore fasters. Devoted adherents fast for around 165 to 250 days a year, every Wednesday and Friday. They abstain from all animal products, any meat, dairy and eggs. Then there are seven designated fasting periods. The two longest are Lent and Advent. During the Lent lead up to Easter, they fast for 55 consecutive days. In addition to no animal products each day they can't eat a bean or drink a drop until three in the afternoon. Some stop brushing teeth, fearful of breaking the fast by swallowing blood from bleeding gums. One morning during Lent this year, I sauntered out my front door to enjoy a cup of tea in the crisp Addis Ababa sunshine. My neighbor, an elderly widow who, like most Ethiopians her generation remains spry and trim with sculptured cheekbones, was outside too. I asked in my fumblingham Harrick if she wanted a cup. As there was still tea in the pan. She smiled and wagged her slender finger. I realized my error and retreated inside to finish my guilty brew, out of sight of my other neighbors who were fasting until the afternoon. Fasting restrictions even include alcohol and what happens in the bedroom, although apparently church doctrine doesn't forbid sexual relations during fasts, nor alcohol. Instead, it's Orthodox Christians voluntarily upping the ante. Many view fasting as punishment for the body, as everyone thinks they are a sinner, I'm told by Mehari, peering over his spectacles during his lunch break from teaching at Addis Ababa University. He clasps his hands and rests his long, skinny arms on the table as he solemnly explains the topic he adheres to. Our humanity is comprised of spirit and body. He continues to be fully human. You need a balance between both our selfish sides want to devour everything. Through fasting you learn to keep the balance. In 1991, Ethiopia's civil war culminated with a rebel army charging towards Addis Ababa and its terrified inhabitants, who fasted for three days to ward off catastrophe. The city fell to the rebels with relatively little fighting and bloodshed. The impacts of fasting nowadays range from a significant business slump for cafe and restaurant owners to an abundance of delicious vegetarian dishes to fill the meaty void. Supreme among them is bijaynatu, comprising Njera, Ethiopia's spongy pancake, like bread, topped with piles of vegetables and spicy mixtures of beans and lentils. Then there are various non dairy workarounds, such as yesom mikhiato, a fasting micyato made with soybean milk. It goes wonderfully with a bombalino, a type of dense donut without the hole and not on the banned food list. I've noticed there seem to be more funerals during the longer fasts, says a British expat living in Ethiopia since 1998. Fasting is tough on the body, especially for older people. Being married to an Ethiopian, I ask if he ever participates as a sign of solidarity. I could give up meat if only good seafood was available in Addis, he says. And I really like a bit of milk in my tea. Once fasting ends, Ethiopians catch up with gusto. Ethiopia has one of the highest meat consumption per capita rates in Africa. In the days preceding the end of a fast, herdsmen guide flocks of sheep along Addis's roads. Housewives walk by holding clucking chickens dangling by their legs, destined to become the favourite end of fasting specialty dohr wat, a type of chicken stew by mid morning Easter Sunday. Dotted along roads are piles of animal skins waiting to be sold to tannery factories. Herds of sheep nonchalantly lounge around, oblivious to their fates, while men sit at outside tables chugging beer and devouring small red cubes of raw meat, an Ethiopian specialty. Ethiopians approach to fasting appears fused with deep appreciation of communal eating. Many times I've had complete strangers, their cheeks bulging with injera and meat, wave me over to share their food. Ethiopians are generous to a fault and exceptional hosts, no matter how little they might have. Perhaps that's a lesson from fasting and going without. Either way, I can't help feeling bad for those sheep, no matter how good they taste.
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James Jeffrey there a little baffled but also a little impressed by those Ethiopian attitudes to food and to fasting. And that's us done. There'll be more fare from correspondence far and wide on Saturday. Saturday morning. I hope you'll join us then. Goodbye.