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From Our Own Correspondent
Title: Stateless in Kuwait
00:28:07
Kate Adie presents reporters' despatches from across the globe. Matthew Teller meets a...
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You're listening to a download from the BBC. This is from our own correspondent. You can hear the version of the programme we make for the BBC World Service by visiting our site at BBConline. But here's the latest edition broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and introduced by Kate Ady.
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Today we're in the desert with the Bedoons of Kuwait. Why Baghdad is hoping to become the conference centre of the Middle East. We look into the mystery of Garibaldi's final resting place and hear the trials and tribulations of being a vegetarian in Bologna. Kuwait, one of the five richest countries in the world with a tiny population, is another Arab state with rumblings of dissent. Earlier this week, a Kuwaiti court sentenced a man to two years in prison for insulting the country's ruler on Twitter. There have also been a series of demonstrations since the ruling emir used emergency powers to change the voting system. In October, a human rights organisation criticised what it called the excessive force used against protesters. On the surface a country of wealth and privilege, Kuwait is also a society with tribal and class conflicts. Matthew Taylor has been talking to one ethnic group who feel rejected by their country despite government promises to address their grievances.
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The tailor leaned forward, tweaked some wild rocket off the bunch, deftly rolled it together with cardamom flavoured rice and shreds of lamb, then popped the bite size ball into his mouth. This government, he said between shoes, they are fascists. Face like sheep, heart like a wolf. In an airy tent pitched on the desert plains west of Kuwait City, I'd been greeted by a circle of plump middle aged men. After coffee, dates and tea, the 12 of us squatted on the carpeted ground for lunch together. The tailor, like the rest, was Bidoon, short for Bidoon Jinsiya, meaning without nationality. Kuwaiti in culture, language and sensibility, he was nonetheless officially stateless, lacking citizenship or rights. The Bedouin story starts in the years around 1961, when Kuwait gained independence from Britain. But how some people at that time came to be citizens while others did not remains unclear to this day. Kuwait's 1959 Nationality act granted citizenship to those able to prove residential ties extending back before 1920. This chiefly covered the urban merchant class and ruling elite, but left many excluded. The government line is that newer arrivals either tried to hoodwink officials into granting them citizenship by declaring false information or simply excluded themselves. The latter at least has the ring of truth. The concept of nationality was unfamiliar at the time, particularly for the semi nomadic Bedouin who roamed without recourse to border authorities. Amidst a climate of suspicion during the Iran Iraq war of the 1980s, Kuwait amended the Nationality act to define the Bedouin as illegal residence, expelling many. Today the Bedouin number at least 106,000 people. Though no reliable figures exist, they remain effectively barred from public education and most jobs, unable to get birth certificates or own property. The tailor at my desert lunch explained that he had to register his car and his business in the name of a Kuwaiti friend. Another man showed me a marriage document which gave his wife's nationality. As under investigation, a government committee examines individual cases. But officials like many Kuwaitis, assert that most or all of the Bedouin are foreigners who have concealed their identity to gain the material benefits of Kuwaiti citizenship. Free education, free health care, no taxes, subsidised housing, lavish unemployment benefit, a monthly food allowance and more. Rights campaigner Dr. Rana Al Abdul Razak, a director at Kuwait's Central Blood bank, highlights the role of state controlled media. We neglected the Bedoon issue because we couldn't see it, she told me. It was never discussed. She goes further, accusing the Sunni ruling elite of discriminating against the Bedoon, or many of whom are Shia. We've been taught to be selfish. Kuwaitis are very racist, she said. Such candor is rare, though most Kuwaitis shun the Bedoon, either for sectarian reasons or often through a sense of urban superiority. I drove with Bedoon activist Abdul Hakim Al Fadli to Tayma. On the outskirts of the capital, tin roofed shacks flanked an open drain flowing along broken alleyways. A patch of waste ground where Bidoon Wright's demonstrators face down the security forces. Tear gas and rubber bullets has been defiantly renamed Freedom Square. At a Diwaniyya, or social gathering in Taymar, Al Fadli explained his reliance on social media. The Arab Spring gave us the biggest motivation to believe we can do something, he said, emphasizing that the Bedoon were opposing the government, not the monarch. But, he added, we know America will not come for us. Since I met him, Al Fadli has been re arrested following a fresh round of protests and is awaiting retrial following a two year jail sentence imposed in absentia. A constitutional monarchy with an elected parliament, Kuwait is generally freer than its Gulf neighbours. Yet having ignored the Bedouin for so long, it must now deal with an entire disaffected generation. Born in poverty, raised with little or no schooling and now self educated in human rights. As across the Arab world, the status quo appears increasingly untenable. Absorbing the Bedoon into mainstream society would anger many Kuwaitis. But inaction could be costlier.
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Matthew Teller Cyril Ramaphosa has just made his maiden speech as Deputy President of the African National Congress. He reassured business leaders that the country was in good hands under President Zuma's leadership, but that greater efforts are needed to transform the lives of the poor. That South Africa is still a country facing enormous social inequality was starkly illustrated on New Year's Day when a terrifying fire swept through Cape Town's largest shanty town as wealthy South Africans were welcoming the New Year in style. In Khayelitsha township, five people lost their lives. Mark Lobel has been to investigate.
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One shrewd Capetonian I met explained the country's inequality to me in terms of food. About 10% of South Africans, that's 5 million people, consume imported goods. Amongst the other 45 million are many struggling to survive. The first group include 50,000 or so big spenders. And for some of them, their luck ran out. On New Year's Eve at a rooftop party at Cape Town's exclusive waterfront, it promised its elite guests end of the world madness. But the party was cancelled two hours before midnight. Severe winds had made it too dangerous to take place. Partying resumed elsewhere at a packed table in Cape Town's newest beach club for the privileged safely nestled in the docks away from the winds. And I watched as a large bottle of vodka arrived. It cost the same as a farm workers wages for 20 weeks. There was no such luck 30km across the city where the same high wind spread one of the deadliest fires ever to hit densely populated Khayelitsha township, the poorest part of the city. It seems that at around four hours into 2013, a man lost control of his paraffin powered barbecue when frying sausages in an electricity free area amongst the tightly knit shacks. Flames quickly spread. Five people lost their lives, including Eugenie Jolie's 26 year old cousin. She told me she didn't realize he was fast asleep in his shack as she fled. The casualties could have been much worse had thousands not already headed east for the holiday period. Imagine their shock, returning to find no house and identification documents or belongings left. Surveying the damage, two things were immediately clear. First, what many endured that night and are now having to put up with is appalling. Zukisu Aguala, who has tb, looked shocked as she recounted how she lost all her medical records, clothes and her family's birth certificates while saving her child and 89 year old mother from the fire. I found Steve Nkomombini shouting At a policeman visiting a town hall housing some of the thousands displaced. He was castigating the officer for telling him to leave his belongings there so that his identity could be processed at a neighboring site. Steve was afraid they'd be stolen if he did. So as he spoke, his wife was out begging for help to rebuild their shack. That leads to the second thing that seemed clear, how it could all so easily happen again. Shacks have already been rebuilt with state supplied wooden poles and zinc sheets and will be filled with carpets, mattresses, and painted and varnished fittings, all vulnerable to another fire. But does the sight of yellow bulldozers on the horizon signal a change? The city's executive director of safety and security thinks so. The highly energetic and fast talking Richard Bosman has sensed an opportunity in this crisis for what he calls re blocking. He's now levelling the most devastated part of the township, which housed 700 families. He wants to rebuild it in rows, leaving three meters between them for emergency vehicle access and essential services. But this new layout would mean some people would have to be relocated. That would mean lengthy negotiations with the community for their consent to break up the social networks on which they depend. They mean that, you know, you can always borrow money for a day or an onion for a meal or get a lift somewhere if you need one. Even if both sides agree with tens of thousands in the informal settlement, Mr. Bosman concedes implementing the re blocking scheme would at best take five to 10 years to complete. But the authorities are intent on pressing ahead, perhaps because they don't see another way. And both sides agree urban growth isn't slowing down. The next tragedy is unlikely to be far away. In the meantime, educating the community about what to do if there is a fire is clearly a priority. On New Year's Day, fire engines couldn't get down the main access road because people had filled it with whatever belongings they could grab from their homes. Those lucky partygoers who did celebrate New Year's Eve style started 2013 with a Facebook campaign to collect clothes for the fire victims who and the whole city was encouraged to donate. In this, at least, the two different South Africas have tried to support each other.
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Marc Lobel. Relics and reminders of the ancient world are everywhere. In Italy, it's easy to forget that the modern Italian state is actually quite young. It's only just marked its 150th birthday, and one of the central figures in the epic struggle to weld the nation together in the 19th century was the swashbuckling soldier Politician Giuseppe Garibaldi. After he died, there was much controversy about how best to honour the hero's bodily remains. And as Alan Johnston has been finding out, his actual resting place is still shrouded in mystery.
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It's a scene from a day many years ago, way back in the 1930s. There's a parade ground filled with Italian soldiers and standing in front of them on a table is a little girl, only about three years old. In her arms is the Italian flag, which he's about to present to the regiment and to the troops. She would have seemed like just the right person for the job, because this was Anita Garibaldi, the great granddaughter of Giuseppe Garibaldi. The little girl was a living link with one of the heroes of Italy's struggle for unification. She was even dressed in a tiny red shirt, like the thousand red shirted volunteer fighters who followed the General into battle. Today, decades on that parade remains one of Anita's earliest memories. She's 80 now, and it's easy to imagine that she has a look about the eyes that you've seen before in the faces of the statues of her famous relative. Anita is now the head of the Giuseppe Garibaldi foundation, which aims to promote the great man's legacy. But right now she's not only concerned with the story of his life, she's also very interested in what happened after his death. He died in 1882 at the age of 74 at his home on a small island of Sardinia. An engraving shows the General's body lying in a four poster bed, his long thick beard almost as white as the sheets around him. The soldier and the sailor stand guard and there's a queue at the door of those who are waiting to pay their respects. It's a deeply sombre, ordered scene, but actually events at that moment weren't unfolding as Garibaldi had instructed. He'd made very clear that he wanted to be cremated. He'd written that it should be done on a spot just down from his house overlooking the sea. He'd even specified which type of Sardinian wood should be used. And he'd said that his coffin should be open so that his face would be facing the sun as his pyre was set ablaze. He hoped ordinary Italians would take away his ashes and mix them with the earth of the motherland and that from them gardens might grow that would symbolize a new and better Italy. But all these last wishes were ignored. It seems to have been decided that the national hero's body couldn't just be burnt. Instead, he was buried in a tomb in. In the grounds of his home. But Garibaldi's great granddaughter, Anita, believes that that may not have been the end of the story. She believes that the general may no longer lie in his tomb, that some of his most devoted followers might just have felt compelled to carry out his last orders, that perhaps one night long ago they removed him from his grave and somewhere gave him the cremation he'd wanted. Anita says that locals on the island used to tell her that something like that had happened. And her late father, who took a huge interest in these matters, felt sure that the general had vacated his grave. And although the evidence for any spiriting away of the body may sound decidedly thin, the Giuseppe Garibaldi foundation believed it had managed to persuade the Italian government to allow an inspection of the tomb and. But before the grave could be opened, there was a change of administration. And the new authorities at the Ministry of Culture seem less than enthusiastic about this hunt for Garibaldi's bones. His great granddaughter is frustrated, but she's pressing on with her campaign. She's as determined as ever to secure permission to open the tomb and clear up the mystery. Anita argues that if the national hero isn't where he's supposed to lie, then Italians should know that. And if he is still in his tomb, then work should be done to preserve his remains properly. Anita says the original embalming of the body was a badly delayed and shoddy affair. And she argues, too, that if the tomb is opened and the general is there, then perhaps he should be moved to Rome, given an honourable resting place in the capital of the nation that he did so much to bring into being. On the other hand, perhaps Italians might decide that the time had at last come to grant their hero the funeral rites that he had desired. They might decide that it was time to cremate him at that place he'd chosen, just down from his house overlooking the sea.
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Alan Johnston. In two months, it'll be the 10th anniversary of the Iraq War. The euphoria of the ousting of Saddam Hussein has been followed by a decade defined by violence and insecurity. But Baghdad is trying hard to shake off that image. In September, the government unveiled plans for infrastructure projects worth over 50 billion pounds. And the renowned architect Zaha Hadid has been commissioned to design a landmark building for the capital. Iraq's one of the largest oil producers in the region. And it's hoped that the new Baghdad might become a magnet for foreign investors flocking to spend their money in restaurants and hotels. But Jonathan Fryer, who visited recently, had has his doubts.
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A workman in blue overalls was lying flat on his back in the unkempt grass of what a sign proclaimed to be the North Lawn. But what really caught my attention were the two lengths of rope extending diagonally upwards from his body. These led eventually to another workman suspended precariously on a plank halfway up the facade of Baghdad's Al Rashid Hotel, where he was busy cleaning the tiles. The first man, nonchalantly smoking a cigarette and apparently daydreaming, was his human anchor. The hotel was sprucing itself up to welcome guests at not one, but several international events being held in town, including the Gulf Energy Forum and an Arab League conference on Palestine. Both were taking place within Baghdad's Green Zone, the secure area that is surrounded by walls of concrete and steel and a whole series of military checkpoints coming in from the airport. It can take up to an hour to get through them all. Undaunted, the Iraqi Foreign Ministry has laid out the welcome mat assuring visitors to the city that there's nothing to fear. All the security is merely a precaution, they say. What's more, an international trade fair with exhibitors from all over the Middle East, Europe and North America has also been proclaiming the message that Baghdad is open for business. Given the immense oil wealth of the country and the amount of reconstruction that still needs to be done, there's certainly plenty of business to be negotiated there. I was attending the Arab League conference that wasn't only for its newsworthiness, given the recent UN vote on granting Palestine observer non member status, but also because it was being held in the late Saddam Hussein's main palace. I wasn't around for the downfall of President Saddam in 2003, but along with millions of other people, I'd ogled the garish opulence of his homes show on TV news footage after he was ousted from power a decade later. The main palace doesn't disappoint. Portraits of Saddam have of course been removed and a lot of the original furniture have went awol. But the principal reception room with its octagonal atrium remains a monument of self aggrandizing kitsch. Saddam saw himself as a new Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylonia, as well as believing himself to be heir to Saladin, the Muslim warrior Jerusalem from the Crusaders. And the walls of the reception room are decorated with huge murals of the Mosque of Omar and other Jerusalem landmarks. The painted ceiling depicts eight Arabian horses rearing upwards towards a pale blue sky within which there floats another depiction of the Dome of the Rock intimating the Prophet Muhammad's ascent to heaven. While the poor Iraqi Prime Minister Nuri Al Maliki was giving us participants at the Arab League conference on Palest a formal welcome, half of us were staring up at the ceiling, open mouthed. Moreover, as I later discovered, the presidential loo just outside, now available for general use, is larger than many people's sitting room, the solitary WC and bidet almost lost amongst all the exquisite marble. Back at the Al Rashid Hotel, a former British diplomat was demanding whiskey. This caused considerable consternation from our host, as since the Shia led government has been in charge, Baghdad has largely gone dry. The open air bar down the bottom of the hotel gardens lies abandoned and the Scheherazade nightclub looks even more forlorn, its sound system ripped out, bare wires snaking across the soiled carpet. The tennis courts still function, a bellboy reported cheerily. And there's always the cigar lounge. The Al Rashid Cigar Lounge, with its comfy armchairs, is indeed a refuge for foreign guests who need to wind down after a long day of speeches and the sumptuous buffet meals laid on at the so called great dinner room of Saddam's palace. In the evening, we Arab League conference participants and journalists duly gathered in the cigar lounge to swap notes. We barely raised an eyebrow when a loud bang sounded somewhere in the distance. Probably a controlled explosion, a Dutch NGO worker opined. If they see a particularly suspicious car, they blow it up. Moreover, spirits were raised when the former British diplomat turned up triumphantly bearing a bottle of Shivas Regal whiskey, courtesy of the Iraqi foreign minister himself. For all the special circumstances operational in Baghdad today, Arab hospitality hadn't let us.
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Jonathan Fryer January is a peak month for new gym memberships, as New Year resolutions to get fit coincide with the stark reality of pounds gained over the festive period. And there's a confusing array of diet advice on offer to those trying to shape up the four hour body versus the two day fast low carb, high protein versus low fat, high fibre. All of that. Anyone whose diet recommends reducing meat consumption might well be advised to to avoid a trip to northern Italy, as Danny Mitzman discovered when she moved to the region.
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One of the nicknames of my adoptive town is Bologna la Grassa Bologna the fat. The local diet's about as Mediterranean as chicken tikka masala. There's mortadella, a sausage known elsewhere as Bologna, the forefather of American Bologna. Then there's Bologna's world famous ragu, the pasta sauce we of course call bolognese this is a city where meat rules supreme. But it's not fair to single out Bologna when really the entire inland part of Emilia Romagna could be dubbed Emilia la Grassa. An hour away is Parma, the home of Parma ham. Even Modena, just 20 minutes from me, has its own porky specialities. Traditionally eaten at this time of year, this is probably the only region where you'll find a central piazza boasting a bronze statue of a porca. Forget patron saints and heroes of the unification. Round here, the pig is king. For many visitors, the meaty specialties are an attraction, but for me, from a culinary perspective, I couldn't have chosen a worse place to live. The thing is, I don't eat meat, and for a local population where high cholesterol's in their DNA and pork scratchings are considered fine charcuterie, this is beyond comprehension. They look at me with astonishment and pity. You don't eat meat? They ask with the same tone I remember using when a girl at school told me she was allergic to chocolate. You choose not to eat meat? They say, their perplexity now infused with just a hint of disgust. Well, I do eat fish, I tell them apologetically, as if to save myself from being totally shunned. I'm not a vegetarian. Vegetarianism is considered an exotic illness here, while the word vegan is almost completely unknown. In case you think I'm exaggerating, my neighbour recently asked me if I'd take part in one of her market research surveys. Danny, do you fancy doing a prosciutto cotto tasting? Prosciutto cotto is cooked ham, Gabriella. I smiled. I don't eat meat, remember? She looked at me genuinely nonplussed. But it's not meat, it's prosciutto cotto. My smile burst into a laugh. Going to a traditional restaurant or trattoria is an amusing experience too. I always know what I'm going to have. Tagliatelle with mushrooms. It's not because I have a passion for tagliatelle with mushrooms, it's just that I know it's the only meatless dish on the menu. Ok, there are ricotta filled tortelloni, but I'm not that partial to them. Unlike ordinary locals, waiting staff barely flinch when I utter my near sacrilegious phrase, I don't eat meat. Determined to appear unfazed, they chirp, no problem. Then follows a script I've heard so many times I laugh before the punchlines. Firstly, they say, no meat, but a bit of affettati misti Si. I explain that cold cuts are meat, even if the slices don't don't look like the original animal. Then they tell me plenty of their pasta dishes are vegetarian. We have homemade tortellini. They beam. I explain that even though you can't see it, the meat stuffing inside those tiny pasta packages nevertheless exists. But my favourite is when they tell me they have a delicious vegetable sauce. It's made with peas and onions. Well, there is a spot of bacon too, but just a tiny bit. You can't even taste it. That's when I stifle a chuckle and order my tagliatelle with mushrooms. And now Emilians are glorying in the meaty treats they got in their Christmas hampers. There's cotechino, a huge sausage they boil and serve with lentils on New Year's Eve. Then there's zampone, similar, but stuffed into a pig's trotter. It's a speciality of Castelnuovo Rangone, a little town near Modena which once had more pigs than people. Every winter they hold Superzampone, a festival where local sausage makers try to break their own Guinness World record for the largest zampone ever. Yes, you may have guessed it's the town with the pig monument in the piazza, right in front of the church, much to the priest's indignation. He must be a vegetarian.
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Danny Mitzman's report on the trials and tribulations of vegetarianism in Bologna, bringing this edition to a close. We're back on both Thursday and Saturday next week with more from our own correspondence. Goodbye.