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From Our Own Correspondent
Tunisia's Unfinished Business
00:28:35
Power moves in Tunis; stories from Lebanon, Barbados, Kenya and the Tokyo Olympics.
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Presenter
BBC Sounds Music Radio Podcasts Today, an
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Narrator/Reporter
eagle's eye view of Beirut with a man who wants to rebuild a better city. But could his grand plans edge some residents out of their neighbourhoods? Once they were stateless, now they're citizens. Kenya changes the lives of hundreds of people by handing out papers. One correspondent visits an impressive plantation mansion in Barbados with many historic debts still to be paid off. And a sports correspondent reveals what it's like to cover an Olympiad like no other and the challenges of getting the results in from Tokyo at all. First to Tunisia, where the political crisis which broke last weekend is still simmering. Of all the countries in North Africa and the Middle east which toppled their dictators a decade ago, only Tunisia emerged as a full multi party democracy. Its free and fair elections, featuring candidates and groups of all ideological stripes, seemed something of a miracle considering the wider region. But many Tunisians themselves don't necessarily see their country as much of a model. Two elections and numerous governments since 2011 have seen a worsening economy teetering on collapse, poorer public services and a resurfacing of police brutality. So President Kai Said's recent moves to freeze parliament and remove the prime minister were welcomed by many Tunisians. Still, the reaction from the outside world has been generally negative and fearful. Rana Geward explains why it all looks rather different from Tunis.
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Presenter
Try to recall that one big professional or personal relationship that did not quite work out. Remember the heady, euphoric days at the start, the passion for it, the promises of growth over time, feeding your hopes for the future. Then perhaps a complacent phase, playing down any disappointment or setback to avoid ruffling any feathers. But then a massive, undeniable crisis forcing a reassessment. Things irreparably fell apart. Or perhaps they did not. Last weekend it felt like we all saw Tunisia's relationship with itself and the world hit a crisis point. And as with many a relationship crisis, everyone was weighing in with their own advice, often strongly colored by their own feelings and fears. The truth is, personally, I panicked when I first saw the news. I was in bed. A ripple of fireworks forced me to sit up and strain to hear what was happening in the hot, humid night. There was a distant chant and then a car sped down the street. It was about two hours past the start of the usual nightly Covid curfew. I picked up the phone and saw my social media timeline was painted red with repeated images of the Tunisian flag. And there it was, big and in bold. The elected President invoked Article 80 of the Constitution. I had no idea what that meant. So I googled it. In short, it gave him exceptional powers in exceptional times. But he had also suspended the parliament, which the article does not say he can do, although he argued otherwise. And he dismissed the prime minister. The speaker of Parliament, Rashad Ghanoushi, called it a constitutional coup. The two men have a history. The speaker is the head of a Nahda, a moderate Islamist party, and has been the president's main rival the past year, causing a political deadlock. The night of the president's announcement, I ventured out to the main square of a suburb of Tunis to see what looked like a New Year's Eve party. Crowds of people lit flares and fireworks. They hugged each other and chanted things I cannot recall because I was distracted by how many of them were unmasked. In spite of the high Covid risks here, there were similar scenes elsewhere across the capital and the country. So what led to this? Many Tunisians argue that it was primarily party politics, corruption and years of successive ineffective governments which destroyed the country's economy and its citizens welfare. Some also believe the democratic template in its current form simply was not working for them. Since the 2011 revolution, Tunisia was often sold abroad and at home as a democratic success story because it peacefully held two elections, preserved women's rights, and avoided military interventions. Development aid poured in to support the international community's vision of what the country could look like. But as in neighboring Libya and elsewhere, the technical assistance largely focused on areas that served European and US interests, like counterterrorism, training and border patrol management to stem illegal migration. There were still repeated protests. Tunisians continued to rally for greater freedoms, better jobs and services, and above all, their future. The pandemic deepened the economic and social crisis and triggered more protests this year. Last Sunday, protesters had been out again, calling for the dissolution of parliament and government. Then the president announced his power grab, and he spoke of corruption that had worn the country down and prosecutions to come. Many Tunisians are disappointed by the reaction of foreign pundits and media which have spoken of the end of Tunisia's democratic experience, or the dimming of the region's last free hope, or the last chapter in its history. At times it all sounds a little like the emotional venting you'd hear from a wounded former partner or employee whose expectations were not met. I think the shock abroad was a bit naive, maybe even self serving. Since 2011, Tunisian youth activists and academics and jurists had never left the streets, nor did they mute their voices even in the face of police batons as well as mass arrests and intimidation. In more recent months, Tunisia's independent institutions, unions, watchdogs and academics have their own ideas on how to improve the system. They have pushed back all week and started to propose their own roadmaps out of the crisis that also address the grievances of the people. The speaker of Parliament's political party in Nahda has also called for dialogue rather than confrontation. The latest political rupture is still going on as I write. It's still being talked out and argued over by everyone involved. As in any relationship, it could end in a messy, painful and costly separation with bitter repercussions, an amicable departure, or perhaps just maybe, a chance to negotiate a new deal.
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Narrator/Reporter
Rana Jawad Next week, it'll be a year since the chemical explosion that devastated the Lebanese capital, Beirut. It was one of the largest non nuclear blasts in history. It killed more than 200 people and left over 300,000 homes homeless. The political scene is chaotic and in some areas they're still clearing away rubble and restoring wrecked houses. One of the worst hit neighbourhoods was the close knit district of Carentina, right next to the port. Survivors who've gone back to their rebuilt homes there hope its particular character can be preserved. There are also some visionary, larger scale proposals to redevelop the city. And as Tim Huell found, the new plans might not leave room for everyone.
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Tim Huell
Johnny Hawand kept chickens and rabbits. 10 chickens and about 25 rabbits. And in a roundabout way, his love of livestock saved his life. One hot day last summer, Johnny and his fiance Manal went to the beach. They had ice creams and made a detour on their way home to Beirut. Because the chickens were hungry, they had to get them a bag of feed. Back at the house, Mana was about to get out of the car when she heard a whining in the sky like a warplane. Seconds later there was another noise, far louder, indescribable, and the sky went brown. She felt herself crushed by something that somehow she fought her way free of the branches it turned out of the garden's giant eucalyptus tree toppled over. And then she was safe in Johnny's arms. They'd survived the massive blast outdoors. If they'd gone home 10 minutes earlier, they'd have been inside already, probably dead under the rubble. But they were late because of those hungry hens. Roll on. A year to now and Johnny's finally back at his house. The house he grew up in. A house with a floor for each layer of 20th century Lebanese history, the cream limestone of the Ottoman Empire. At the bottom, the the pale russet sandstone of the French Mandate period. In the middle, the grey concrete of the independent but war torn state. At the top, a year when he had to live somewhere else, while every fallen stone and shattered beam was faithfully replaced or recreated by volunteers from a local charity called Offrejois the Joy of Giving. They've restored most of Johnny's neighbourhood. A network of quiet streets fragranced with the musky odour of sun baked fig trees, the sweetness of white gardenias. Carantina's hard up against the port where the huge chemical dump blew up, close to the mangled mountains of metal that must once have been newly imported cars. But it's a harbour quarter that strangely looks inwards, not outwards. A village within the city where everyone knows everyone from Caretina. I'm invited way up above sea level for tea in a porcelain cup and delicate cardamom flavoured pastries with a man who's got a vision for post explosion Beirut. Surveying the city like a soaring eagle from his elegant villa in the hills, Elias Aswad talks about the Phoenicians, ancestors of today's Lebanese who ringed the Mediterranean with their ports, who looked outwards like perhaps no other people in history. Elias, 75 years old, dapper, charming, a third generation engineer, wants to emulate them. Did I know it was the Phoenicians who invented container shipping 3,000 years ago? He asks. They exported wine and olive oil in huge vats. Now he plans to rebuild Beirut's ruined port on a scale worthy of the Phoenicians. He wants a huge container terminal, a gateway to the whole Levant, linked seamlessly to resurrected railways that will run imports within hours to Syria, Jordan, even Iraq. And around it will rise a revived Beirut. There'll be a waterfront concert hall, iconic maritime museum, grand boulevards, associated real estate developments with apartments, accessible, he promises, to those with pockets both deep and shallow. It's a serious proposal backed by a German company, but it's not approved yet. And with Lebanon sunk in a deep political and economic crisis, it may not be soon. But what would it mean for Karantina? Elias Aswad says it wouldn't be directly affected. And to my surprise, for a man fluent in several languages, he appears not to recognize the term gentrification. But any redevelopment of the port would surely raise property prices. Johnny and his neighbours don't own their houses now, so beautifully restored for free, so mightn't landlords be tempted to sell? Manal thinks it'll become an area of fancy restaurants. I go back down the mountain, and Johnny takes me to meet his newest neighbour, Ali, who's only been in quarantine for 20 years. Ali pulls plastic chairs onto the cracked tarmac, pours an ordinary glass of tea from an old kettle and shows me his luxuriant vegetable plot. The rusticity of the scene, set against the surviving skyscrapers of downtown Beirut, plainly delights them both. Chickens peck around our feet, and what about Johnny's chickens that maybe saved his life? Eight of the 10 survived the blast, and soon, when he's built a new run, he'll bring them back from where they've been staying with a friend. But how long there'll be room for them in rebuilt Beirut is anybody's guess.
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Narrator/Reporter
Tim Whewell this November, Barbados is planning to celebrate its 55 years of independence by by becoming a republic, meaning the Queen will no longer be its head of state. It's seen as a turning point in the country's history and a chance for Barbados to move even further on from its colonial past. Other historic legacies may be harder to unpick. Though. Barbados was Britain's first slaveholding society abroad and its most profitable for a century from 16 to 1730, until the sugar grown in Jamaica began to rake in more money. Zaynab Badawi recently went to a surviving 17th century mansion in the north of Barbados, which is now a museum.
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Zaynab Badawi
One of the staff at the Jacobean house, an elegant, slim Barbadian woman, pulled me out of the room into the garden. See this tree? She said, pointing at a beautiful sandbox with dark, pointed spots, spines. It's 400 years old, 50 years older than this house. If only it could speak of what it's witnessed throughout the centuries. I had asked her how she felt about welcoming the many visitors to the house built by slave owner Benjamin Beringer in 1658. She told me that even though she'd worked there for a few years, she still felt deep discomfort at the knowledge that this splendid building and its valuable antiques, elaborate silver candelabra, delicate English coal port china were all bought with the profits from the labour of her ancestors, enslaved Africans shipped to the Caribbean during three centuries of the transatlantic slave trade. As I admired the panelled dining room, I conjured up images of the lavish meals the slave owners and their families would have enjoyed that there. The house sits in 400 acres of a former sugar plantation and a steam train transports visitors around, promising the opportunity to admire the tranquil and natural beauty of the grounds. But the attendant said she feels there is little that is peaceful or calm about the landscape. A local woman had told her that at one stage during the tour of the plantations, she'd heard the imaginary cries of children, only to later learn that this was the very spot in the fields where slave masters were known to have taken children to be raped. And indeed, for me, there was an air of malevolence that still hung around the place. Today, Barbadian political leaders and intellectuals are at the forefront of a debate about the identity and future of the Caribbean and demands for reparations for the sins of slavery. One Barbadian born historian, Professor Sir Hilary Beccles, is overseeing efforts to win reparations for the whole of the Caribbean. He believes that arguments in favour of restitution are gathering pace. There's a 10 point plan, starting with demands for a formal apology from former slave owning nations such as the uk. To date there have only been expressions of regret from the British government. An apology would trigger litigation and claims for billions of pounds in compensation. Barbadians have suffered greatly in the global economic downturn caused by Covid travel restrictions led to a 90% drop in tourism. Substantial reparations could be a huge help in securing its future. Back at the mansion, there's no mention of the slaves who toiled in the fields, apart from a display in a glass cabinet of half a dozen yellowing sheets of paper with faded brown ink. It's a slaving valuation document dated 1822. It records names such as Jeff with a column marking his value as £150, Abraham's as £90. Then a man called Ralph, too worn out to merit compensation. Discarded slaves were generally not looked after. The slave trade was abolished in 1807. A few years later, the British government took out a loan of 20 million pounds to compensate the slave owners. The men, women and children who had been enslaved had their requests for financial recompense to turned down. They were told freedom was their compensation. The eminent Barbadian historian Hilary Beckel's great great great grandparents worked on sugar plantations near that Jacobean house. We will never stop demanding justice and reparations, he told me, even if it takes us another hundred years.
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Narrator/Reporter
Zeinab Bedawi As Europe struggles with the dilemma of vaccine passports as spare a thought for the people with no kind of passport at all and not much chance of getting one either. The UN's High Commission for Refugees estimates that there are probably at least 10 million individuals worldwide with no identity or nationality documents issued by any country. Whole communities can be left stranded by history and without full rights as borders move and names change. But some countries are now deciding to make it easier to get legal status. In Kenya, hundreds of people from a community with its roots more than a thousand miles away were recently given a fresh chance. Vivian Nunes saw it all happen and heard what it meant for those affected.
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Vivian Nunes
Zefania Noel Moongani told me that he feels like a newborn baby. It's a strange thing for a 57 year old man to say, but in many ways Zefaniah's life is starting anew. We were talking on the day he was about to be presented with a national identity card, the first he's ever had in Kenya. Identity cards and birth certificates are an essential part of daily life. For accessing public services. You need one for receiving medical treatment, sitting school exams, opening a business or a bank account or to buy land. Zefania, like nearly all the other 2000 people in Kenya's Shona community, has never had any sort of official documentation. If he wanted to go to the doctor, he would have to bring someone else along who could register him in their name. In that sense, Kenya's Shona community has been invisible, non existent in the eyes of the state. But in other ways they're easy to spot girls and women in the Shona community. Here we wear distinctive headscarves made of thick lace folded and tied in a knot so the fabric flows down their backs. Some wear long lace dresses too, coloured white or pastel, shades of lilac and pale blue to symbolise peace, cleanliness and light. The dress code is part of a strict religious identity the Shona have held onto since their ancestors arrived in Kenya in the 1960s. They came from Zimbabwe, then Southern Rhodesia, the and made the journey for one reason to preach. The core of Kenya's Shona community is made up of followers of an evangelical denomination founded by a man they believed to be a prophet called Johannes Mossoe. He started the Gospel Church of God in the 1930s and he called on his followers to leave their homes, travel north and spread the word in Kenya. Those original missionaries are long gone, but their children and grandchildren stayed. As the first generation arrived with Rhodesian passports, they were registered as British subjects. But when Kenya gained independence From Britain in 1963, most were unaware that they then had a two year window to get Kenyan citizenship. Southern Rhodesia became Zimbabwe Rhodesia and then from 1980 simply Zimbabwe. But the later generations of missionaries families had no ties to Zimbabwe and no claim to Zimbabwean citizenship. Although they were born in Kenya, they were denied citizenship there too. They didn't belong to any of the ethnic groups Recognised as Kenyan on independence from Britain in 1963, they were stateless. This week, thanks to years of campaigning by human rights groups, that shadowy existence came to an end. In a white marquee on the grounds of a golf course in outer Nairobi, hundreds of members of Kenya's Shona community gathered and waited just a little longer. The government minister coming to preside over the ceremony was two hours late. Finally, though, the politician and his entourage walked up the red carpet that had been laid out on the grass and proceedings got underway. After some formal speeches and a joke from the minister asking the new citizens to remember him now that they could vote, names were called and the precious documents were finally handed out. Instantly, the mood in the drafty tent changed from nervousness to noisy celebration. The a middle aged woman collected her certificate and thrust her hands in the air, dancing with joy as she moved off the stage. The crowd broke into cheers and from then on, every newly documented citizen got a round of applause. Another woman covered her eyes with her hands, overcome by the moment and the meaning of the papers. The strength of feeling in that collapsible tent was overwhelming. When the ceremony was over and people had gathered outside, when one of the women started singing a hymn, others joined her and suddenly a chorus was singing a harmonious hosanna. It wasn't planned or staged, but it was one of those moments of spontaneous, beautiful sound that a broadcast journalist treasures. I asked Zephaniah what the first thing was that he'd do with his new status as a documented Kenyan. I'm going to rush to the bank and open an account, he said. Keep my money somewhere safe and earn interest. Previously, he'd stored it under his mattress. 22 year old Ann Chipo Nyambe has bigger plans. I'm going to further my education, go into business, she told me. I know I'm going to do great things. I used to make baskets. I couldn't get a job because everywhere you go they would ask for your id. I'm a citizen now and my life is going to change. I'm as Kenyan as all the others.
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Narrator/Reporter
Vivian Nunes there's never been a Summer Olympic Games quite like the one going on in Tokyo. Athletes are competing in largely empty stadiums with no supporters to cheer them on and only minimal applause for those who pick up medals. Most foreign fans couldn't travel to Japan and even Japanese ticket holders aren't allowed into the arena, even if they did manage to get there in person. Covid restrictions also apply to the journalists who are meant to report on the Games. Their task is even more important when the crowds of spectators aren't around to witness the sport sporting triumphs firsthand. But this time, they definitely can't just wander around, microphones in hand, looking for athletes to speak to or soak up the atmosphere inside the Olympic Village or on the streets of Tokyo. The BBC's Alex Capstick has covered more sporting contests than he'd care to remember. But this time it's different.
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Alex Capstick
There are many firsts at Tokyo 2020. The first Olympics to be postponed, the first with no fans watching. The first games with openly transgender athletes. And it's the first where every day I have to spit through a straw into a tube to test whether or not I'm infected by a deadly virus. The pressure of having to produce all that saliva on demand has at times sent me into a panic. You see, the rules here are very strict, and the BBC is making sure we stick to them. We have a Covid liaison officer. It's an important job, especially when people. Ok, it was me tick the wrong box. Mistakenly informing the authorities that I had a fever. Don't worry, it was quickly resolved. I've not been placed into quarantine. Unlike my colleagues from BBC Scotland, who spent the past two weeks tucked up inside a smallish Japanese hotel room because they'd been sitting close to a positive case on the aeroplane coming over, my arrival at Tokyo's Haneda Airport looked like a bureaucratic challenge. I was given a big piece of yellow paper with the name of my compulsory Japanese health app, ocha, written in big black letters. It soon became clear that holding it proudly in front of me smoothed my passage through a network of desks, corridors. More desks, more corridors. You get the picture. For the completion of various other forms, the reason for which I have no idea. The process should have been grim, but somehow the Japanese volunteers and officials, all of them helpful, courteous, friendly, smiling and welcoming, made me smile. After all, I had arrived to cover the biggest, most exciting sporting event on earth. A negative PCR test and freedom. Except it's not really. Not yet, anyway. Now, I don't want to sound like a whingeing journalist. No one likes that. Quite right, too. We're in a privileged position doing this job. But the rules here in Tokyo, and there are lots of them, make this gig so different. For the first two weeks, we're only allowed in our hotel and official Olympic venues. Everywhere else is out of bounds, and that includes bars, restaurants, tourist sites. Using public transport is a big no, no. Going for a run, a walk, even is on the red list. Not that there's much to do, even outside the Olympic bubble. I get the all clear on Sunday, but there's a state of emergency until the Games are over. Most places shut at 8. Driving between venues, we're not yet allowed out of our vehicle. It feels eerie, almost dystopian. There are no fans, so the streets in the Tokyo Bay area, where a lot of the venues are clustered and are really quiet and your heart does go out to the people of Tokyo. Many of them didn't want us here at all, and even those who did can't join in. But instead of complaining, the locals we've met, mainly the volunteers, are apologetic, sad that we are unable to enjoy the delights of this wonderful, vibrant city. I've heard some stories of locals treating us accredited journalists with suspicion, not trusting us to stay Covid safe. But I haven't seen that the athletes are subjected to even more severe restrictions. They're not allowed to roam for the duration of their stay. Strictly no partying outside or inside the village. Face to face conversations with the athletes is far from straightforward. There's a mandatory 2 meter distance between reporters and competitors, often in loud venues where announcements and music are still belted out for nobody's benefit. As far as I can tell, you must shout to be heard. But shouting is also banned, so you do what you can. At least the sport is compelling. It always is. Uplifting, emotional, surprising, heartbreaking. Beautiful. Despite it all, I'm glad I'm here.
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Narrator/Reporter
Alex Capstick and sadly we've run out of breath. So that's all for today. We'll be back as usual next Saturday morning, so do join us.
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Zaynab Badawi
Being a woman is so imperfect and messy. And if I can burp in all my films, I think I'd be happy.
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Vivian Nunes
Ever been called a witch? I've been called much, much worse than a witch.
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Zaynab Badawi
Do you think there is a special relationship between dogs and women? I often get asked, is he a child substitute?
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Presenter
No, he's a dog.
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Zaynab Badawi
You don't appear to have much on. No, I have my flip flops on. There was another part of my anatomy
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Presenter
with which luckily they saved. I don't know if I can say
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Zaynab Badawi
it on the radio. Yes, you can. You're on Women's Hour. Expect the unexpected. Women's Hour listen on BBC Sounds.