← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
The Worst Possible News
00:28:22
Despatches from reporters across the globe. Jon Donnison was in Gaza as the city came...
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- [00:00]
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This is from our own correspondent. You can access the version of the programme we make for the BBC World Service by going to BBC Online, but here's the latest edition broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and introduced by Kate Ady.
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Today, the worst possible news for a father in Gaza. Red faces for the blue helmets charged with keeping the peace in Congo. The American farmer who hopes trading influence will be a better earner than trading onions and skyscraper cleaners required. A booming economy equals new job opportunities in Ethiopia. A fragile ceasefire continues to hold in the Gaza Strip this morning One Palestinian man was shot dead by Israeli forces yesterday near the town of Khan Yunis. He was the first to be killed since the ceasefire agreement between Hamas and Israel came into effect on Wednesday night, ending a week of fighting between the two sides. Israel launched its offensive in what it said was an effort to prevent Palestinian rocket fire. John Donnison has spent the week in Gaza and was there, as one of his BBC colleagues heard, that his house had been bombed.
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My friend and colleague Jihad Mashrawi is usually the last to leave our Gaza bureau. Hard working but softly spoken, he often stays late beavering away on his laptop. He has a cool head, unflappable when others like me are flapping around him. He's a video editor and just one of our local BBC Arabic Service staff who make the office tick. But on the Wednesday before last, soon after Gaza's latest war erupted with Israel's killing of Hamas's military commander Ahmed Al Jabari, Jihad burst out of the edit suite screaming. He sprinted down the stairs, his face ripped with anguish. He'd just had a call from a friend to tell him the Israeli military had bombed his house and that his 11 month old baby boy Omar was dead. Most fathers will tell you their children are beautiful. Omar was a picture book baby, standing in what's left of his burnt out home. This week, Jihad showed me a photo on his mobile phone. It was of a cheeky, chunky, round faced little boy in denim dungarees, chuckling in a push chair, dark eyed with a fringe of fine brown hair pushed across his brow. He only knew how to smile, Jahad told me, as we both struggled to hold back the tears. He could say just two words, Baba and Mama, his father went on. Also on Jahad's phone is another photo. A hideous tiny corpse, Omar's smiling face virtually burnt off, that fine hair appearing to be melted onto his scalp. Jahad's sister in law, Heber, was also killed. We still haven't found her head, jahad said. And his brother is critically ill in hospital with massive burns. His chances are not good. Jihad has another son, Ali, 4 years old, who was lightly injured. He keeps asking where his baby brother has gone. Eleven members of the Mashrawi family lived in the tiny breezeblock house in the Sabra district of Gaza City. Five people slept in one room. The beds are now only good for charcoal. On the kitchen shelves there are rows of melted plastic jars full of spices, their shapes distorted as if reflected from a fairground mirror. And in the entrance hall, a two foot wide hole in the flimsy metal ceiling where the missile ripped through. Despite the evidence pointing towards an Israeli airstrike, some have suggested it might have been a misfired Hamas rocket. But at that time, so soon after the launch of Israel's operation, Israel's military says mortars had been launched from Gaza, but very few rockets. Mortar fire would not cause the fireball that appears to have engulfed Jihad's house. Others have said that the damage was not consistent with powerful Israeli attacks. But the BBC visited other bomb sites this week with very similar fire damage where Israel acknowledged carrying out what it called surgical strikes. Like at Jihad's home, there was very little structural damage, but the victims were brought out with massive and fatal burns. Most likely is that Omar died in one of the more than 20 bombings across Gaza and that the Israeli military says made up its initial wave of attacks. Omar was not a terrorist, of course. Every civilian death on either side, not just Omar's, is tragic. The United nations says its preliminary Investigation shows that 103 of the 158 people killed in Gaza were civilians. Of those, 30 were children, 12 of whom were under the age of 10. More than a thousand people were injured. The Israeli government spokesman, Mark Regev said every non combatant death or injury was tragic and an operational failure. In Israel too, there were casualties, four civilians and two soldiers. There were also many injuries. But the fact the Israeli ambulance service was also reporting those suffering from anxiety and bruises is an indication of the asymmetric nature of of the conflict. Jihad's baby, Omar, was probably the first child to die in this latest round of violence. Among the last was a young boy, Abdul Rahman Naim, killed by an Israeli attack just hours before the ceasefire was announced. Abdul Rahman's father, Dr. Majdi, is one of the leading specialist doctors at Gaza City's Shifa Hospital. The first he knew of his son's death was when he went to treat a patient, only to find it was his own boy. Before I left Jahad's house, leaving him sitting round a campfire with other mourners. I asked him, perhaps stupidly, if he was angry over Omar's death. Very, very angry, he said, his jaw tensing as he glanced at the photos on his phone. My thoughts, after a week where I've had very little time to think, are with Jahad and his family. Remarkably and unnecessarily, he told me his thoughts were with me and the rest of our BBC team. I'm just sorry, John, that I had to go and wasn't there to help you with your work, he said before we hugged and said goodbye.
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That's John Donnison in Gaza. The rebels who seized the Congolese town of Goma earlier this week now say they'll march on the capital, Kinshasa, if President Kabila fails to start immediate peace talks. He, on the other hand, says he'll only talk with the authority authorities in neighbouring Rwanda, which is widely believed to be backing the rebels. This morning, fresh attempts are underway to resolve the crisis, with representatives of 11 African countries holding a summit in Uganda. Gabriel Gatehouse says the week's events have not reflected well on the United nations personnel charged with keeping the peace in eastern Congo.
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Darkness was falling as we approached Goma, still then in government hands. We could see the stark outline of Mount Niragongo towering over the city. The crater of the volcano glowed red in the gloom. It seemed an ominous sign as I write this now Goma has fallen. There are rebel soldiers strolling around the grounds of our hotel, their rifles slung nonchalantly over their shoulders. This is a tranquil spot, the waters of Lake Kivu lapping against the terrace. But there is still fighting going on to the west of here. There's talk of a government counter attack. This rebellion isn't over. The rebel ranks consist mostly of mutinous soldiers from the regular Congolese army. They deserted in the spring and set up bases in the jungle covered hills where the Democratic Republic of Congo borders Rwanda and Uganda. In six months they've fought their way slowly back south towards Goma, the capital of this mineral rich region. Their numbers are thought to be small, between 2 and 3,000 men, and yet neither the Congolese army nor the UN peacekeepers could hold them off. Tuesday morning had started with a firefight on the outskirts of the city. The streets were deserted. We knew the rebels were at the gates of Goma, but we didn't know who held the airport. We drove cautiously past two army tanks parked on a roundabout. We passed a few regular soldiers. One of them waved. He seemed relaxed. Then the skies opened. As we inched our way forward, we saw a column of men approaching through the tropical downpour. We stopped. The only sounds were the battering of the raindrops and the frantic clunk, clunk of the windscreen wipers. Our driver peered ahead. Those aren't army soldiers, he said. Those are rebels. Moments later, both sides opened fire. The bullets cracked and whizzed around us as we raced back in the direction from which we'd come. By the time the rebels entered the city centre several hours later, the army had fled. The UN soldiers, part of the largest peacekeeping mission in the world, simply watched as the rebels marched past their white armored vehicles and took a victory lap around the town. I spoke later that day to a senior UN official who looked close to tears. There was sadness there, but frustration as well. In equal measure, they had been dealt an impossible hand, fighting alongside an ill disciplined Congolese army against a surprisingly well trained and well equipped enemy. Once the rebels entered town, their mandate to protect civilian life effectively rendered them impotent. The following day, the rebel leadership summoned the people of Goma to the city stadium. Policemen lined up to hand over their weapons. A colonel took to the microphone and promised order and stability, an end to corruption and terrible infrastructure. He also vowed to continue the fight. Do you want us to stop here? He thundered, or should we carry on? The stadium roared its approval, but the cheers from the crowd sounded as hollow as the colonel's promises. No one in Goma seriously believes this movement, which calls itself M23, is going to improve the atrocious, pothole ridden roads of eastern Congo. And most civilians know full well that the only people who will gain from this war between military factions are the armed groups themselves, the people who deal in the mineral and state resources they control, and the politicians, Congolese and foreign, who pull the strings. People in this part of the world have learnt to expect no protection from a man with a gun, not even if he's wearing a blue helmet. Once things had settled down, I did something I've been wanting to do ever since I first came to Congo. Look left as you drive along the airport road and you'll see the maggot eaten carcasses of three derelict aeroplanes. In the morning light, with the looming volcano as a backdrop, it's a surreal and stunning view. One has sunk backwards into a ditch, making it appear frozen in an eternally aborted takeoff. It feels like a metaphor for a rich and beautiful country, a country of unfulfilled potential. I wanted to photograph it the last time we tried to film at the airport. We'd been arrested by the Congolese army. The officer who detained us was, according to his name tag, called Adolf Hitler. He was aggressive and deeply unpleasant. Hitler isn't there anymore. The UN peacekeepers still are, and they are now supposed to be in charge. We clambered up an embankment to one of their positions to get a better view. No, said the Uruguayan officer in the blue helmet. He you can't come up here. I'm afraid. I ignored him. I thought it unlikely he would physically restrain me, and I was right. As I took my pictures, I wondered what chance there had ever been for the people of Goma who'd hoped that these troops would stand between them and the men with the guns.
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That's Gabriel Gatehouse in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The Catalonian elections tomorrow look like providing a headache for the Spanish national government. Most Catalans are expected to vote for pro independence part the region's leader will take that as a mandate for a referendum on secession, something the Madrid government opposes forcefully. Not all of Catalonia is in Spain. Part of it was ceded to France in 1659. Petroch Trelawney believes that if tomorrow's election does accelerate the drive for Catalonian independence, the authorities in Paris will have to take notice.
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In La Roc des Albert, there's a road named after Marshal Joseph Joffre, the the First World War soldier whose victories are recalled on streets from Paris to Nice. Like towns and cities across the country, Lorac has a Rue du Cateau Joyet and a Place de la Republique as well. But there's one difference. Whereas French street signs are usually blue and white, in Laroque the text is bright red, set against a rich yellow background. The colours of Catalonia. This bustling place, with a rough and ready bar sitting just around the corner from a Michelin starred restaurant and three bakers competing for business, is just a few miles from the Spanish border or to be more precise, the border with Catalonia, where a well established nationalist movement has a support base that is rapidly growing. Historically, the Principality of Catalonia straddled the modern border, but after the French beat Spain at the Battle of Dunkirk in 1658, a treaty ceded the northern parts of Catalonia to the French crown and the area has remained under the control of Paris ever since. But in Laroque and communities across the region, locals have never forgotten their heritage. The sardana, a rather languid and complicated Catalan folk dance, is performed in the Place de la Republique. And the Catalan language has never died, even though for a period it was illegal. At Claude's bar, where local wine is dispensed in brightly painted jugs filled from large plastic barrels. A group of older residents sit outside and the autumn sunshine, their conversation flipping between languages. Around 30% of the population here speak Catalan, with more than 50% able to understand it. It's just a short drive to Perpignan, the second biggest Catalan city after Barcelona. The surrealist artist Salvador Dali, born across the border in Figueres, called Perpignan's railway station the center of the world. He would sit in its cool ticket hall, seeking inspiration. A few blocks from the station are the local offices of the cdc, the Catalan political party that leads the coalition in power in Barcelona. But it's a force here as well, with 30 elected representatives, including nine mayors. The French government is too centralist, says Jordi Vera, leader of the French part of the CDC and a Perpignan city councillor. Paris is 500 miles away. Barcelona is our capital. It is much closer. When a long awaited new high speed rail link finally starts running across the border next year, the journey between the two cities will take less than an hour. In Barcelona, the CDC wants Catalonia to determine its own future away from Madrid and with independent membership of the European Union. Upwards of one and a half million marched earlier this year in support of independence. But even if Catalonia eventually becomes a sovereign state, Mr. Verra doesn't see Perpignan and the surrounding area becoming part of it. Ceding from France is not on the agenda. What we want, he says, is a new relationship so that business, trade, transport and tourism can be coordinated across the region. There is much to gain. This is one of the poorest parts of France. Catalonia is one of the richest parts of Spain. Mr. Vera asks me how I think the Scottish will vote in their referendum in 2014 before continuing. This is an historic time for the Catalan people. This region is a laboratory to test how a Europe of smaller states might work. He too, drifts between French and Catalan in his conversation. Catalan could become an official language of the European Union, he says. That would mean France would finally have to recognize it. Paris might also have to rethink what it calls this area. Currently, the department, stretching from mountainside to shining Mediterranean, is officially titled the Pyrenees Orientale. Also officially acceptable is Le Pays Catalon, the Catalan country, a rather patronizing French confection, one of the drinkers in clods tells me. Northern Catalonia is the preferred title of those who seek closer ties with Barcelona. From the outskirts of Laroque, you can look across the vineyards to Canigu the 9,000 foot mountain peak that holds special significance for Catalans. Snow has fallen overnight, but is quickly melting away. I'm told of the groups of Catalan schoolchildren brought across an international border in order to climb one of their nation's geographical icons. Why doesn't everyone speak Catalan? Asks one child, shocked at the dominance of all things French. But in recent years, more and more houses here have started displaying bright red and yellow flags. Catalan specialities take pride of place in local tratteurs. And the sardana is being danced with a new enthusiasm.
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Petroch Trelawney In French Catalonia, farming remains big business in the United States. There are more than 2 million farms there, some covering huge tracts of land. They form a vital sector of the US economy, and yet many are owned, able to flourish thanks to government subsidies. Some $20 billion are handed out to farmers every year. For them, it can mean the difference between profit and loss, as Owen Bennett Jones has been finding out on a farm in New York state.
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Back in 1903, Franz Pavolski, a 28 year old villager from Russian occupied Poland, was worried. Having just completed a compulsory stint in the Russian army, he'd been notified that the military wanted him back. So he made a decision. He would start a new life in the United States. The Ellis island immigration records show that when he arrived, he had in his pocket just $5. So whilst in Europe, conscripts fought the first and Second World Wars. Franz became frank, married and settled down 60 miles from New York. He chose a good area. The dark, rich, fertile soil up to 20ft thick, grew anything he put in it. He worked, he saved, he bought land and then cleared, sowed and harvested it. And America kept its promise, rewarding his industry. Over a hundred years later, The Pavolskies, the fourth generation now are still there. There are currently three tilling the land. They grow onions. Richard, Brian and 42 year old Chris, who with his bright green, almost fluorescent boiler suit, oily baseball cap, outgoing manner and love of Lead Zeppelin, is not your typical farmer blending into the landscape. But he is more typical of many Americans in another respect. Chris is in debt, $325,000 of it. Here's chain stores which charge $1.49 for his onions pay Chris just 15 cents. Whilst his revenue is stagnant, his costs, pesticides, fertiliser and so on keep going up. To achieve economies of scale, Chris needs to rent land on top of what he owns. But the rent is relentlessly increasing too. No one from the local community wants to be a Farm labourer. At least not at the wages Chris can pay. And finally, there's Mother Nature. In recent years, he's had floods, hail and a few weeks ago, Hurricane Sandy, which half knocked down one of his buildings. The farm has seen better days. Huge barns are filled with decrepit ex army trucks, battered cars and a couple of ancient tractors. Outside, there are heaps of rotting, acrid smelling onions, the ones not perfect enough for the chain stores. If Chris was in another industry, he'd have given up by now. But he's limping on because as well as growing onions, there's something else he can nurture. Subsidies. Over the years, he's met a dozen senators, 20 to 30 congressmen, a couple of governors and too many bureaucrats to count. On his office wall, there's a picture of President Clinton lifting up his son. And he once met Vice President Gore. Soft hands like butter, he says. If you count email and phone conversations. He's dealing with Washington every week. There's a long list of issues he wants help. Crop insurance, flood aid, immigration regulations, conservation funds, estate tax, government loan, interest rates, getting the army to dredge a nearby river, and so on. Now the Pavolsky onion farm is hardly General Motors. Each summer he temporarily employs just four. Four people, normally from Mexico. So why are the power brokers in Washington prepared to give time and sometimes resources to such a small business? Well, in rural constituencies, farming communities vote for the politicians who bring home the subsidies. And then there's the romantic resonance of the farmer in America. The hardy, self reliant men and women like Frank and his wife, who made America possible. The farmers are part of the national story and that image still carries political weight. Even so, it's unclear that Chris will be able to hand down the farm to a fifth Pavelski generation. Only if I can diversify, he says, to make it viable. So what's he thinking of? Direct sales? Farmers markets? Going organic? Multi crop production? None of those. But there is one area in which Chris reckons he's acquired marketable expertise. Lobbying. He's now trying to set up a consultancy. From trading vegetables to influence in four Generations and an American Century in which the Pavelskis have worked hard to go from plus $5 to minus 325,000, and
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that's Owen Bennett Jones. You'll have heard earlier in the programme about the continuing crisis in eastern Congo. The news from there seems depressingly familiar. The Great Lakes in turmoil, bodies on the streets once again displaced. Not at all like that new Africa we keep hearing about. A continent of opportunity, hope and increasingly prosperity too. The one which they say is replacing the old stereotype of war, desperation and poverty. One of the fastest growing of all African countries is Ethiopia, at least in terms of its economy. Mary Harper was surprised at what she found there.
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Red velvet, Caribbean Breeze, Vanilla Fever brunette. The choice was overwhelming. I was standing at the counter of a cafe in Addis Ababa and I was looking at cupcakes piled high with icing in unnatural shades of turquoise, lime green and a devastating pink. The Cupcake Delights Bakery, as it's called, was full. Smartly dressed Ethiopians sip tea and nibbled on the colorful cakes. An Indian woman swept in and placed a large order. Chinese men in business suits asked the waitress to bring them fresh fruit cocktails. Across the road, a place named the Beer Garden was also popular with the Chinese. This German owned establishment brews its own beer, which it serves in tall plastic 5 litre towers with taps at the bottom for pouring purposes. Chinese workers crowded around the tables, their faces getting redder, their voices noisier as their bellies filled with alcohol. It's partly due to the Chinese that Addis Ababa has in recent years changed out of all recognition. Like in so many parts of Africa, China, keen to get its hands on the continent's abundant natural resources, is in return building roads, railways, bridges and tower blocks. Every time I go to Addis Ababa, more tall, sparkling buildings take me by surprise and confuse my bearings. This time, in amongst the concrete shells of impressive new constructions, I saw an advert for skyscraper window cleaners. Modernity has brought with it some interesting new job opportunities. Addis Ababa is simultaneously highly globalized and seemingly stuck in a highly traditional, highly Ethiopian way of life and doing politics. The city is currently in deep mourning for Ethiopia's long standing leader, Melas Senawi, who died in August. This was a man who, despite being one of the West's great allies in Africa, found it difficult to tolerate opposition whose human rights record was poor, but whose people do not seem to be able to let him go. His funeral resembled a medieval pageant with giant umbrellas, white horses in black cloaks and tens of thousands of weeping mourners following his coffin through the streets of Addis Ababa as rain beat down on them from the grey skies above. But back now to the other world of a modern African city, my afternoon of cupcakes and beer was followed by an evening of music. The Jazamba Lounge, which opened a few years ago, is in the old ballroom of what's described as the oldest hotel in Addis Ababa. And it was here that I found another bit of almost post modern globalization. As I sat eating a perfect Italian pizza, I watched a salsa class in full swing. Cuban music soared into the night as Ethiopian teenagers sashayed around the dance floor in the red and gold of the grand old ballroom outside the Jazamba lounge, there was wild activity. In one little night club, a crowd almost exclusively male danced to reggae. In another, I was confronted almost immediately with a gyrating bottom as a prostitute swung her assets to a man seemingly more interested in his beer than her backside. Outside, there were beggars breakdancing in the dust. Yet another bar seemed to cater for large European men squeezed up against delicate local girls young enough to be their daughters. A friend told me there are probably more prostitutes per square mile in Addis Ababa than anywhere else in Africa. In the small hours of the morning, I was driven home in a battered blue and white taxi. Even at this hour, women with babies clamped to their sides tapped on the windows, begging for money. People in tattered robes crouched in long lines outside government buildings, waiting for I know not what. This new Africa I saw in Addis Ababa and have also seen in Nairobi, Dakar, Abuja and elsewhere is exciting and hopeful. But it's not the whole story. Yes, the Chinese, the Saudis, the Indians are all rushing in. Yes, there is a growing middle class that frequents shopping malls, coffee bars and pizza restaurants, much like the middle classes of Europe and the US but scratch the surface and another world exists. There are between 85 and 90 million people living in Ethiopia, and most of them can't even dream of cupcakes, let alone decide which one to choose in that charming cafe I visited in Addis Ababa.
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And with that from Mary Harper, we've reached the end of another edition. There'll be more from reporters around the world next Saturday morning. Why don't you join us? Goodbye.