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Narrator/Host
Thanks for downloading this edition of from our own correspondent.
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BBC Radio Announcer
It's the one broadcast on BBC Radio
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Narrator/Host
4 on Saturday, November 14, 2015 and
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Main Correspondent/Narrator
it was introduced by Kate Ady on a day the news agenda is dominated by the terror attacks in Paris. More than 120 people killed, 200 injured, most of them out enjoying themselves on a Friday night in restaurants, at a football match and a rock concert. These are, of course, events which unfolded overnight and which we'll leave for another day. We can, however, start on a story that's offered joy and no little hope to a country on the other side of the world. Myanmar seems set to have its first truly civilian government in more than half a century. With the final results from last Sunday's general election still coming in, it's clear that Aung San SUU Kyi's National League for Democracy party has secured a historic victory. Already it has enough seats for a majority in the two house parliament. It can now select a president, name a cabinet and form that new administration. The country's army chief has promised to cooperate with the new government. But Jonathan Head, who's based in neighbouring Thailand and was in Myanmar for the election, says Ms. Suu Kyi's new team still faces many challenges.
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BBC Radio Announcer
I have seen too many remarkable moments of political change to believe any longer in new dawns. After all the jubilation in Myanmar over the extraordinary sight of Aung San SUU Kyi being allowed to win an election, now the really hard work begins. Not just the formidable challenge of moving a still impoverished and conflict ridden country forward with an untested party in charge, but the even bigger one of meeting the colossal expectations the Burmese people have of the woman they call the lady, while she has one hand tied behind her back. Because of all the powers the military has kept for itself, they must brace themselves for plenty of disappointments. But none of that takes away from the almost magical experience of watching people voting for the first time in their lives when it really mattered. In the long queues that formed outside polling stations in the early morning, they waited contentedly, many with umbrellas to shelter from the sun. No one complained about the two to three hours it often took to reach the ballot boxes. It is perhaps only when you've been denied the right to choose for so long that you appreciate just what a sacred act voting can be. Asked how they'd voted, some smiled and told me, that's my secret. Even after casting their ballots, they treasured the confidentiality they'd been promised. It was illuminating reporting this election with journalists from Thailand. For decades, Thailand was the prosperous neighbour where media barred from Myanmar based themselves. The Thais tended to look down on Myanmar as a backward place under a repressive and insular regime. This time, my Thai colleagues commented wistfully on the exuberance of last Sunday's vote and the contrasting atmosphere of fear and unhappiness in their own country. Last year's military coup in Thailand was welcomed by many people, not just those grateful for an end to the months of political paralysis, but a significant number who believed elected governments were no longer the answer. Three months earlier, some had even blocked an election there to prevent the party, which had won four times previously, from winning again. They'd taken the contempt for politicians you hear in so many countries to a new level by actually campaigning against democracy. Eighteen months later, Thailand is floundering. The soldiers, it turned out, had no idea how to revive a flagging economy. How could they, having spent their entire adult lives in the barracks? Instead, the generals have focused their efforts on preserving a monarchy which is going through a difficult succession crisis as the nearly 70 year reign of King Bhumibol comes to an end. So those who've said or done anything critical of the monarchy have found themselves charged under the archaic Les Majesty law. Facing military trials and long jail sentences, the prickly generals have banned protests and summoned dissenting journalists for frightening interrogations. Worst of all, a series of sinister purges against those perceived to threaten the monarchy have taken place. Last year, nine members of the family of the then wife of Crown Prince Vajra Longhorn were arrested for Les Majesty. She was forced into seclusion and her son taken away from her. A police colonel who'd also been arrested died, supposedly after falling from a building. Now another purge has begun. Three men, including a renowned fortune teller who'd been close to the prince, were arrested last month. Two of them have now died in custody. And the prince's chief bodyguard has been stripped of his royal decorations and disappeared. No one knows the real reasons for the purges. No one dares say anything at all about the Crown Prince. But there is real fear. Fear of the law, fear of unexpected death in custody, fear of what's happening to what was once one of the freer countries in Southeast Asia. During her long confinement in the dark days of military rule in Myanmar, Aung San SUU Kyi wrote, the only real prison is fear, and the only real freedom is freedom from fear. Last Sunday, as I watched the Burmese people cast their precious votes, I saw a nation released from the fear that had long imprisoned them. Replaced by joyous, bubbling hope. Much of that hope may be unrealistic, but it's still something wholesome, something shared and celebrated. It served as a reminder to those of us who've had the freedom to elect our leaders for generations what a privilege that is.
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Main Correspondent/Narrator
And that was Jonathan Head. Big changes also in Poland. For the first time since the end of communism in 1989, the country is now being ruled by a single party as opposed to a coalition. But the success of the populist National Law and Justice Party in the recent election worries some people. The defeated Prime Minister Eva Kopac, says the new administration could undermine civil liberties and threaten democracy. Economists also ask if Poland, which seems to have done well out of joining the European Union, is now turning its back on the outside world. Alex Duval Smith in Warsaw reckons her local fruit and veg lady might have the answer.
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Narrator/Host
The conversation starts over apples. Which variety to choose? Champion, Cortlandt, Lobo and Celeste, she says. All Polish. Her obvious pride in their provenance makes me realise I have to buy some indeed, that I shall never again leave this shop without a bag of Polish apples. That's how I get chatting to Panie Janina, as astute an observer of Poland as any political analyst. They the analysts are hard at work. They're trying to explain why the Poles turned their back so decisively on the Civic platform government. In eight years, with millions of euros from the European Union, the liberal coalition modernised Poland. It built roads and airport terminals and bought new trains. The investors came in great banks, superstores, assembly plants. Poland is now the sixth largest economy in the EU. Unemployment has dropped below 10%. In Warsaw, the chain cafes serve flat whites. The fashion conscious show their ankles in hip hugging skinny trousers. And that's just the men. Light floods the streets from shop windows, enticing you into the likes of H&M, Ms. And CNA. But branding is not for Pani Janina. This is just called the shop, she says of the fruit and veg business started by her parents in 1945. It's always been the shop. Let's go down to the shop. It's time to close the shop. That's how it is. Pannie Janina is 60. Her full name is Janina Zurowska Filipek. I call her Panni Janina because pannie means lady. That's just how it is. Poland's tradition of courtesy survives the rough and tumble of modernity. The shop is tiny. There's only room for one customer at a time. You sort of sidle in taking care not to catch the box of onions on one side or the bunch of bananas on the other. It's just you and Pannie Annina and her late mother, Maria, watching benignly from a black and white photograph on the wall. If people are in a hurry, they can go to Carrefour, she says. But she's piqued at the thought. Really, the supermarkets should be made to move outside cities to give the small businesses a chance. Until five years ago, Panna Janina says, the neighbourhood was all small shops, butchers, bakers, everything you needed. Now there are lots of fancy restaurants where we can't afford to eat, and foreign banks and supermarkets. Panna Yanina has lost many customers to the supermarkets. She's been up since six, when she drove to the wholesale market and picked out her produce. Many of the residents of the neighbourhood are well to do. They don't want Carrefour's Spanish Granny Smiths that look like they've been varnished. They'll pay extra for Panie Janina's apples. Poland is the world's leading apple exporter, but last year its biggest market, Russia, closed its doors in retaliation against EU sanctions over Ukraine. So buying Polish apples in Poland is like getting one up on Brussels and Moscow in one fell crunch. The new government has yet to spell out its plans, but law and justice has come to power by tapping into Poles historical fear of being overrun, be it by foreign multinationals or by Brussels or Moscow. The party's message is that the country's much vaunted economic success has mostly benefited others. Poland has become a sweatshop. Another law and justice tactic has been to appeal to the traditionalists in the Roman Catholic Church. Gay marriage and gender politics are given as examples of West European moral decay that threaten traditional values. Immigrants carry germs, was one campaign message from party leader Yaroslav Kaczyski. It was pure xenophobia, of course, but it also implied that were it not for Brussels, Poland wouldn't be compelled to take 7,000 refugees. Paninina is not afraid of foreigners. The migrants don't want to come to Poland. They want to go to rich countries like Germany, she says. But like millions of other Poles, she would like the government to pay more attention to her apples than to the low hanging fruit of international economic indicators.
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Main Correspondent/Narrator
Alex Duval Smith in Warsaw the violence in Paris overnight appears to be connected with the ongoing conflict in Syria. France is, of course, a NATO ally and part of the coalition fighting Islamic State militants there. World and regional powers are meeting in Vienna today to try to Step up diplomatic efforts to end the four year long conflict. The US Secretary of State John Kerry is there. He says the walls of mistrust remain thick and high. Quentin Somerville's just been to northeast Syria, close to the border with Iraq, where a new alliance of fighters has had some success against is.
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Quentin Somerville
Come and have a look at this, the Kardashian Arab fighters said, giggling. I should have known better. But I wandered over to the group regardless. I peered down into the serene dirt and there it was. A fleshy human jawbone. I counted the teeth. Four, no, five still attached, a coarser grin lying in the sand, crawling with ants. We were on the front line of an offensive against the Islamic State group southeast of Hasakah in Syria. The day before at the base IS, in a textbook move, had driven a car bomb towards it. The two suicide attackers were stopped by automatic gunfire and rocket propelled grenades. Before they could breach the defences, their bomb went off, killing only them. And now there was a jawbone here, a long haired scalp there and an engine block blown through a mud wall. To my left was Iraq. Just on the horizon I could see Mount Sinjar and to the south, oil wells burning. An IS ploy to disrupt the US planes which were overhead and every now and then would bomb the militants. It was day three of the Kurdish led offensive and they'd already taken considerable amounts of ground. But this wasn't just a Kurdish offensive. It was a new alliance. Syrian Christians, Arab Muslims and the forces of the Kurdish People's Protection Units. YPG for men and YPG for women. These men and women call themselves the Syrian Democratic Forces. The group was so new in fact, that we arrived just as their bright yellow SDF flags were being delivered. The Kurds and Arabs are not always the best of bedfellows. I watched as Arab fighters grumbled when a female Kurdish commander told them to take down a defensive position they'd built of bricks. Build it of dirt. If those bricks get hit, they'll hurt you, the tiny officer said. They did as they were told, but against is this combination has had some success. First there was Kobani, the town on the Turkish Syrian border, which is said it would take at all costs and then failed to do so. Kurds and Arabs then took Tel Abiyid to the east. Another bloody nose for the Islamic State after a US funded local fighter training program flopped. It cost hundreds of millions of dollars and trained only 55 fighters, most of whom were kidnapped by rival groups or deserted. America decided to give more assistance to the Arabs and Kurds. But given that the associates of the Kurdish vitals are classed as terror groups by the west and loathed by Turkey. Giving direct help, even in the fight against, is, well, tricky. So the Americans dropped 50 tons of weapons to the Arabs. Except the Kurds were the ones distributing them. After which, it seemed the weapons pretty much disappeared. We didn't see any of them at the dozens of bases we visited. I bumped into an Assyrian Christian. He quickly covered his face when he saw our TV camera. Where are your weapons from? America? I asked. No, he laughed. They're Russian. It's complicated, eh? And off he disappeared. Later I spotted him taking a new tablet computer to a Kurdish position at the front. The SDF are using them to call in airstrikes. At their grandly titled Air Coordination Center, a rooftop with a few sandbags, a puckish 22 year old was helping call in American planes with a tablet and a cheap mobile phone. Yes, it wasn't sophisticated, he says, but it worked. He'd had three strikes the day before. Perhaps he would have had more. But his mobile didn't always get a signal. And standing on that rooftop, it struck me. This war against IS has been cobbled together. There aren't armoured vehicles and helicopters. There's no heavy artillery. You don't find bases well stocked with equipment at the rear. There are barely any supply lines. But perhaps this is the way it should be. Take, for example, Afghanistan. There, after a decade and a half and billions spent, not to mention the loss of life, the Taliban are still thriving. You have to make a decision early on who is best placed to fight this, US or them? One American general who knows both wars told me recently, the Kurds and the Arabs will receive more help soon. American special forces and attack aircraft that can move low and slow over IS positions. By the end of the day, south of Hasakah, there had been five IS suicide bombs. And as I was about to leave, I could see in the distance a convoy of Islamic State pickup trucks on the horizon. With just a little more help, they might not be so bold in the future.
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Main Correspondent/Narrator
That was Quentin Somerville. Kabul is a city which has almost become used to gun attacks and bomb explosions. Many of the Afghans who've been among the migrants trying to reach Europe this summer have come from the capital. With the Taliban once more gaining ground in several parts of the country, the Americans have suspended their plans to withdraw troops from Afghanistan. Close to 10,000 US military personnel will now remain there, at least until the end of the year. But as Shaima Khalil has been finding out in Kabul not all Afghans believe the outlook for their country is bleak.
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Shaima Khalil
There is always the possibility of a bombing or an attack of some sort in Kabul, but that doesn't stop life going on. There's an air of tension, but also an everyday buzz. The commercial neighborhood of Chaernon is always bustling. On one side of the main street there is a row of beauty salons. Surprisingly, their windows all feature pictures of uncovered, immaculately made up models. Women come here not just to get their hair and nails done, but but also to get away from the outside world, from the fighting and the disapproving eyes of men. A friend takes me to one of the salons. None of the women is covered up in here, but it's their manner that strikes me the most. The way they laugh and joke and seem completely at ease in a way that's become recognizable to me, an all female environment in a male dominated society. I spot rows upon rows of different shades of pink nail polish before sitting down with Manisha Ghazamfari, one of the women working there. The first thing she notices, of course, is my hair. You really need a new haircut, she tells me, looking at my messy bun and a new color. We then talk about the salon. It's been okay, she tells me. But these bombings. She shakes her head. They're really bad for business. Women just stay at home, she says. I stay at home. And it's not just the money, manita tells me. I like coming here. I like being with other women, talking, socializing. It's our space away from everyone. So would you rather live somewhere else? I ask her. No, she says. I know it's bad, but I don't want to leave. I have a job here. My family's here. I don't want to go. Besides, she adds, I see the people who go and risk their lives trying to get to Europe. Some die, some have to come back. I don't want that. It's difficult, I know, but I think I will have a better future here. Driving through the streets of Kabul, you see one phrase displayed Sharikabul shere sulh in English. Kabul, the city of peace. Ironically, more often than not, it's painted on high walls with barbed wire and armed men standing next to it. I go to meet Hosef Hashemi. He's a 21 year old English literature student and captain of the debate team at Kabul University. He's decided to make the journey to Europe with the help of a smuggler. But you're a bright young man, well educated. You come from a well to do family. Why do you want to leave? I ask. What's the use of all that? He replies. If I can't live a proper life when I go to university, I don't know if there will be a suicide bombing and if I'll get killed. But also, there is no leadership in this country, he says. No direction, no economic prospects. What will I do here when I graduate? I then point out how dangerous the journey to Europe is. I'd rather die on the way there than in a suicide bombing here, he tells me. Many here share his overwhelming sense of despair, but some take a more hopeful view. One group of young people has started a digital campaign called Afghanistan Needs you, aiming to stop the brain drain from the country. I sit down with two of its founders, 20somethings Shakib Mohsinyar and Sharam Golzad. Shakib tells me about his childhood when the Taliban were in power, how he couldn't listen to music or play football. But you see now things are very different, he says. So much progress has been made. Afghanistan now is not Afghanistan 10 years ago. Change takes time, he says. That's what we're trying to tell young people. Jobs cannot be made in a day. Sharm, who comes from a family of businessmen, lived in Germany for a while, but now he's back in Afghanistan. He says many Afghans have unrealistic expectations of life abroad. I was in Germany and I saw Afghans begging there. It was heartbreaking. People think once they arrive in Europe, things will get better, he says. They both acknowledge that the problems of corruption, unemployment and insecurity here are all too real. When you go out in the morning, you don't know if you're coming back home in the evening, sharam says. But this is the risk we take. We do have potential. This is not the end of Afghanistan, he insists. If we take responsibility and action, we will change this country.
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Main Correspondent/Narrator
Shaima Khalil the Serbian capital, Belgrade, has seen many changes in recent years, not least the collapse of communism and the breakup of Yugoslavia. Today, the country is trying to establish a modern democracy and market economy. You can see some signs of change. Shopping malls and supermarkets look just like those in the west, even if many Serbs are unable to afford the big Western brands. But there are also visible reminders of the city's history, from the fortress once occupied by the Romans and the Ottomans to the ruins of the Defence Ministry bombed by NATO in the Kosovo War of 1999. Andrew Gray has found a place where you can't just see, but also smell something of Belgrade's history.
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Andrew Gray
I hesitate before the deep maroon shop front. The shop in a cobbled street in central Belgrade looks like it hasn't changed in decades. Little bottles of scent and old black and white photos decorate the window. A sign in gold lettering says Parfumeria Sava. I don't think I've ever been inside a perfume shop in my life, but today curiosity pushes me over the threshold. The interior is tiny. Large jars of clear and brown glass fill the shelves. Behind the counter stands a tanned man with a shock of grey hair, wearing a white coat. His name is Nenad. I tell him I'd like to know more about the shop soon. Story after story comes tumbling out. A few months ago, Nenad tells me the shop was part of a special event when Belgrade's museums stay open late into the night. This makes perfect sense, for Parfumeria Sava is not just a shop, but a living museum. And its own small story reflects the recent history of Belgrade and of Serbia. World War II came to Belgrade in 1941, when it was the capital of Yugoslavia, just a few months after Nenad's father opened his first perfume shop. Nenad disappears into the back of the shop and comes back with quite a souvenir, an old French typewriter sold to his father by a German soldier who came to buy eau de cologne. After the war, Communists took power and banned private business, so the shop had to close. But Yugoslavia later broke with the Soviet Union and pursued a more liberal brand of communism. This allowed Nenad's parents to restart their business in 1954 in the shop, where it remains more than 60 years later at 75 Kralyapetra street in the 1990s, as Yugoslavia was torn apart by nationalist wars, Nenad lost a good job as the Belgrade representative of a Croatian company and came to work in the family shop. I lived in this street more than a decade ago, after the wars had ended. What I liked about it then was the variety. There was, and still is, a shop selling timberland clothes and a modern restaurant with colourful decorations. But there was also an old picture framer, a clothes shop with a distinctly communist air, and a store that displayed machine parts in the window, although I can't imagine that one ever got much passing trade. These days, Kraliapetra street boasts high end fashion boutiques and an uber cool concept store selling designer clothes, jewellery and stationery, much of it made locally. Across the street is an ice cream parlour with exotic flavours such as sesame and lemon with basil. But luxury is beyond the reach of ordinary Belgraders, and Parfumeria Sava is still there to bring a little exoticism and sweetness into their lives. Nenad tells me there used to be 23 shops like this in the city, mixing scent on the premises. Now there's only this one. During the hour I spend there, a steady stream of customers passes through. Women on their own, a couple, a mother and her son, if they're not sure what they want. Nenad dips a pump with a long needle into one of those big glass jars, squeezes the rubber handle and sprays scent onto their arms. He sells versions of famous fragrances, but isn't allowed to use their names, so he pulls the black lid off a typewriter and taps a code onto a label instead. Nenad also produces his own fragrances, including several created specially for Belgrade's night of the museums. He sprays two for men onto my arms. One smells of citrus, the other is muskier. He asks me which one I prefer. I never wear scent, but I rather like the second one. On my last evening in Belgrade, I make it back to the shop just before closing time. Nenad tells me he'll keep the business going as long as he can at least break even. It's hard to do much more than that. He shows me a list in pencil of all the taxes and charges he has to pay. Nenad also has a couple of presents for me, two advertising leaflets for the shop from the 1950s, and a bottle of scent. He refuses to take any payment, calling it a gift from the heart. Now, radio is a wonderful medium, but there are some things even it struggles to convey. However, if you lean in a little, you might just catch the faintest whiff of Belgrade Night number two, the elusive
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Main Correspondent/Narrator
scent of bygone Belgrade. And that was Andrew Gray. We'll be here again next Saturday morning. Goodbye.