← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
You Can't Kill an Idea
00:28:07
Correspondents' despatches: the wealthy principality of Liechtenstein is forced to up...
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- [00:00]
Rajini Vaidyanathan
Hi.
- [00:00]
Justin Rolat
This is a download from BBC Radio.
- [00:03]
Kate Adie
It's the latest edition of Radio 4's From Our Own correspondent and it's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Narrator / Presenter
Hello. Today you cannot kill an idea. Egypt's Muslim Brotherhood on why it'll continue to be a force in the land, whatever actions taken. A new regime in Tehran. And a question Are Iranians really the world's most misunderstood people? We find the sounds made by the Vietnamese zither hard to appreciate, but enjoy free beer and a chat with a prince at a royal castle in Liechtenstein. There was a change of tactics yesterday from the supporters of the deposed Egyptian president Mohamed Morsi. There were demonstrations in Cairo and other cities, but compared to the huge turnout at earlier rallies, they were small and scattered affairs. Clashes with the huge numbers of police and soldiers on the streets were largely avoided. There are suggestions Mr. Morsi's Muslim Brotherhood has been cowed by the show of strength from the security forces, that its followers are wary of further bloodshed. Many of their leaders are now behind bars. Yet they point out theirs is a long game. They are used to being targeted by the authorities and insist they'll continue to enjoy widespread public support. Kevin Connolly is in Egypt this morning.
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Kevin Connolly
Mahmoud, my host, is apologetic. He's not receiving guests indoors at the moment, he tells me, because his apartment is in a state of chaos. He's about to get married, but there are bare walls, exposed cables and disconnected pipes everywhere. He'd been expecting the plumber, the plasterer and the electrician this week, but in the end none of them came. No one wants to be caught out of their home after the military curfew begins at seven in the evening. And suburban traffic in Cairo is so slow and so chaotic that means Most appointments after 3 or 4 o' clock are getting cancelled. We sit chatting on the balcony in the listless, airless heat of the still mid afternoon. A couple of sofa cushions, some white plastic garden furniture and an office chair stand ready for larger gatherings. Mahmoud is a supporter of the Muslim Brotherhood, and I'd come to talk about the stunning reversal of fortune the organization has suffered in the course of the last six weeks. At the start of July, after 85 years of activism, the Brothers were in power at last in Egypt, the country where they were founded at the end of the 1920s by a provincial primary school teacher called Hassan Al Banna. Now, after the sudden violence of the military crackdown on the Brotherhood, it's starting to feel, as it's felt for much of its history, like an underground organisation with its leaders in prison. Or on the run. Mahmoud, a gently spoken young man, seemed a little shocked. He had spent some time in the street protest camps demanding the reinstatement of the Islamist president, Mohammed Morsi. The violence and chaos with which those protests were crushed had left their mark on him. To help him relax, we chatted about the prospects for the coming term at the university where he teaches English literature. His first year students will be introduced to the English novel with Robinson Crusoe. I told him I had always seen the book as a thrilling adventure story about ingenuity and durability and friendship. It had honestly never occurred to me that the relationship between Crusoe and Man Friday is a metaphor for imperialist exploitation, and not a particularly subtle one at that. That is perhaps because I grew up as a citizen of a colonial power, while Mahmoud grew up in a country that was colonized. The writings of Defoe led us back more directly than I'd expected to the fortunes of the Brotherhood. After all, it started off as an underground resistance movement to British rule, and the different facets of its complex identity were there from the very start. The authorities saw it as a movement of pious but dangerous fanatics whose religious ideology provided its members with a justification for turning to the gun and the bomb. The Brothers saw themselves as sober and upright, keepers of a noble set of values. Its members were often doctors and engineers, school teachers and lawyers. They ran clinics and sports clubs, and they fed the poor. Egypt under the generals this week has been as divided as it was under the British in 1928 on exactly the same issue. Which of those twin identities most accurately reflects the nature of the Brotherhood? The organization's own television channels have been switched off, and state TV pumps out the views of the military backed government that the Muslim Brotherhood is a terrorist organization and a danger to the state. Mahmoud is not impressed. The Brothers, he tells me, have seen all of this before. The British tried to crush the organization, and so did the Egyptian presidents Nasser and Sadat and Mubarak. In their turn, its leaders were imprisoned and in some cases executed or assassinated, and it went through long periods when it sank into the shadows of Egyptian life. But it never went away. Mahmoud says proudly, you can't kill an idea with a bullet. The crackdown on the Brotherhood has shocked its members, but it's not an easy organization to crush. It has a cellular structure and there's nothing to stop its members meeting in groups of five or six to talk and pray and plan. The charitable work will go on, and so will the wait for the Brotherhood's fortunes to change again as they have changed in the past. Everyone knows that when free elections are held in Egypt again, whenever that might be, Islamists will do pretty well and they might even win again. For that reason, the military backed government may be in no hurry to allow Egyptians another chance to vote. We will see in this Cairo of curfew and confusion. Mahmoud knows he might be waiting a long time yet for that plumber and plasterer, but he might be waiting longer still for the next election here.
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Narrator / Presenter
And that was Kevin Connolly. The new Iranian president, Hassan Rouhani has said he's prepared to enter into serious negotiations with the west over his country's nuclear program. But he did warn that Washington in particular did not have a proper understanding of what was happening in Iran. Despite this, Western observers feel Mr. Rouhani's election offers a window of opportunity that business can be done with his new regime. Alistair Newton Brown, who was there recently, found people curious about the west and keen to make friends the sun had
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Kate Adie
just set below the snow capped Alboz Mountains when we passed the Berje. Azadi Hassan, my genteel driver, turns to me, pointing at it. Zee bas neh he he. I peer across manicured grass at the 45 meter high monument built to commemorate the 2500th anniversary of the Persian Empire. It's certainly unique, but I can't help think of the irony. The so called Freedom Tower is supposed to serve as a reminder of all that Iran was and all it could be. Since completion, however, it has rather served as a meeting point for those angry Iranians who complain they don't have enough freedom. Bess Yaz, I bast. Very beautiful, I reply as we turn off Azadi Square and zoom down a tree lined Tehrani Street. Hassan offers me a cigarette, explaining in broken English that he's my friend and it's best to smoke with friends in Iran. You are very welcome here, he says, flicking a zipper emblazoned with the British flag. Waiting at traffic lights, I notice a building sized portrait of Ayatollah Khomeini, the man who led the 1979 Iranian Revolution, and wonder could Iranians be the most misunderstood people on earth? Judging by the bellicose Iranian government rhetoric that we often hear in the West, I certainly wouldn't have expected to be on the friend list of a Tehrani taxi driver within 20 minutes of meeting him. Arriving at my hotel, I breathe a sigh of relief. Overall, the journey was terrifying. Thousands of buses, taxis and motorbikes imperturbably brushed aside by Hassan in a resolute effort to get me to my destination. Saeed, an Iranian friend I was due to meet for dinner, had been waiting 40 minutes for me on the street. He's a quietly spoken man, immaculately dressed with jet black hair and high cheeks. I apologize for the delay, but he's polite and unfazed. He insists I shouldn't pay my taxi fare. It's a pleasure for me to pay, he says. So I wait on the crumbling pavement as Said haggles over the price with Hasan. I try hard not to make eye contact with what feels like thousands of people staring at me from all directions. They're not intentionally making me feel awkward. It's just that since the re election of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad in 2008, Iranians are not used to seeing Westerners in the flesh. I start to feel vulnerable. What if these eyes belong to undercover Revolutionary Guards? What if they want to blame me for the economic sanctions being enforced on their country? But politics isn't the first thing on Roya's mind as she leads a group of young, stunningly dressed Tehrani women toward me. Excuse me, she says curiously in English. Where are you from? Hardly the darkly cloaked Untouchables I'd expected. Instead, they sport high heels, jeans and fashionable tunics. Their makeup is perfect, and they've deliberately adjusted their head scarves to reveal clusters of colourful hair. Australia, I reply. Oh, Australia, she conveys to her intrigued colleagues before turning back to me saying, I'm Roya. You're welcome in Iran. And as quickly as they've come, they're gone, happy to have had the opportunity to converse. Meanwhile, negotiations between Hasan and Said have finished, and before disappearing back into his worse for wear Peugeot 405, Hassan looks at me, places his hand over his heart, and says, Bes, peace be upon you and may God protect you. In the hotel, I asked Said if there was a problem over the fare. No problem at all, he says. He was very happy to meet you. I later learned that Said wasn't haggling at all. He was actually involved in a humility battle called tarof, which is a process of offer and refusal that goes on and on until the vendor humbly accepts payment. I experienced this uniquely Persian custom everywhere I travelled in Iran, and it wasn't long before I became somewhat embarrassed about my preconceived Western view of Iranians. Far from the fanaticism that I had been conditioned to expect in Iran, I encountered throughout my travels a great humility and a generous hospitality that one might have thought uncharacteristic of a people under apparent political and religious pressure. Indeed, most simply wished nothing more than for foreigners to see them as tolerant, friendly and educated. Back In Tehran, after 10 days traveling, I called upon my first driver and friend, Hassan, to transport me to the airport. He seemed genuinely pleased to hear about my experiences amongst his people, and when I tried to pay the fare, I could see in his eyes that this riot was beyond even Tarov. Please, no money, he said. Just promise to write something about your first friend in Iran.
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Narrator / Presenter
And that's Alastair Newton Brown. The American president's being asked to pardon Bradley Manning, the Army private who this week was sentenced to 35 years in prison for releasing secret documents to WikiLeaks. After the verdict, Manning said he wants to begin hormone therapy and in future, to live as a woman called Chelsea. A petition calling for a presidential pardon is being supported by Amnesty International and prepared by Manning's supporters. As Regini Vaidyanathan's been finding out, they insist he's a hero who revealed government wrongdoing and should not have been treated as an enemy of the United States.
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Rajini Vaidyanathan
The courtroom was much smaller than I'd imagined. So, too was Bradley Manning himself. A diminutive figure with cropped blond hair, he sat flanked by his lawyers, dressed in his dark army uniform, which hung off his tiny frame. Medals gleamed from the lapels of the military officials huddled in the room, a reminder that this wasn't an ordinary trial but a court martial. The only human he cared about was himself, said the military prosecutor as the case wrapped up. Throughout the trial, a group of his supporters gathered loyally at the military base in Maryland. Many wore black T shirts emblazoned with the word truth. One, an out of work secretary called Ingrid told me, sometimes whistleblowers need to break the law to expose the truth. That doesn't mean it's wrong. The trial itself was criticised for being shrouded in secrecy. No cameras or stenographers were allowed in the courtroom, and on one occasion, armed guards patrolled the media center, checking laptops to make sure we weren't using the Internet. While the court was in session, one reporter said the security was even tougher than at Guantanamo Bay. This and the more recent case of Edward Snowden, the former National Security Agency contractor who also shared classified government information, has left many people around the world wondering what should and what shouldn't be kept secret and how? Who makes the decisions. Washington apparently contains more spies than any other city in the world, and I was looking a little nervously over my shoulder as I walked into a coffee shop here for a meeting with Thomas Drake. His name might not have generated as many headlines as Manning and Edward Snowden have, but he too shared government secrets. Drake's story began when he started a new job with the National Security Agency with access to information about government surveillance programmes. He discovered some agencies were collecting the personal data of Americans and was concerned they were going too far, that it was a serious invasion of privacy. The former US Air Force pilot said he tried to raise concerns through Congress, but no one would listen. I chose to blow the whistle, I chose not to remain silent, he tells me in a softly spoken voice. I did everything I could from within the system to prevent this from happening. Drake eventually revealed details to a reporter from a local newspaper. One morning, he was confronted by the sight of FBI agents on his front lawn. The intervening months were a nightmare, he says, as he was investigated by the government, he lost his job, had his passport confiscated, couldn't even leave his neighborhood without permission, and was deemed a flight risk. Eventually, he was charged on a number of counts under the Espionage Act, a law introduced in 1917 initially to prevent Americans passing defence and security information to enemies during the First World War. In recent years, it's been used to punish leakers. The Obama administration has prosecuted more people under this law than all previous governments combined. You don't just charge an American with espionage unless they've done something really bad. It's the worst thing you can paint an American with, says Drake, looking at me intently. Unlike Manning, Thomas Drake escaped a jail sentence. He entered into a plea agreement with the government and the main charges were dropped. Maintaining he never shared any classified information, he was sentenced to a year's probation for misusing government computers and 240 hours of community service. So are there any secrets worth keeping? I ask him. Yes, he replies, but the secrets regime is far larger now than it ever was and too much information's classified. Talk to many politicians in this city and they'll say some things need to remain private for good reason and it's up to them to decide what they are. But for Thomas Drake, Bradley Manning and Edward Snowden, being whistleblowers, sharing information in what they argue is the public interest shouldn't mean they're punished as spies. Before leaving the coffee shop, Thomas Drake turns to me and says, I can't even tell you what it means to be sitting here at this table. Freedom is more precious to me now than ever because I was able to hold onto it.
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Narrator / Presenter
Rajini Vajanathan in Washington. Vietnam is now unrecognizable from the country left impoverished and isolated when the war ended in 1975. Today, the headlines are all about how to breathe new life into an economy which, after years of growth, is showing signs of faltering. An increasingly capitalist environment is presenting unique challenges for the Communist government in Hanoi. It's pushing ahead with privatization in sectors which before only knew state control and considering how to provide more jobs and put more money into the pockets of workers. But amidst all this talk of the future and the economy, there's concern that aspects of the country's past, of its cultural heritage, are being overlooked. Justin Rolat's been to meet a man determined that they, too, should have parts to play in Vietnam's future.
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Justin Rolat
It is quite rare to get an audience with Vint Bao. The 95 year old is reckoned to be one of the greatest of the country's traditional musicians and the last guardian of a form of Vietnamese music called nhak tai tho nam bo, or the music of the amateurs. He's not so mobile now, so it's his daughter who meets me at the door of his small house on a back street of Ho Chi Minh City. She leads me up to his tiny music room on the first floor. The maestro is sitting on the floor. He's a small, slight man with a sweeping mane of white hair and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. It quickly becomes clear that he hasn't lost any of his sharp or his wit. He gestures to a strange instrument beside him and offers to play. I am surprised to detect the hint of a challenge. He's told me this is his favorite instrument, the dan chan, or Vietnamese zither. It's certainly a beautiful thing. The zither is made of polished blond wood. It's about a meter long and 15 centimeters wide. The surface is convex, and it has 17 strings, each supported by two wooden bridges. The old man bends over the instrument and begins to pluck with one hand while the other presses and bends the strings. His hands move surprisingly swiftly and precisely, but the result is not what I expect. This is not beautiful music. I hear an almost random cascade of sound. There's little rhythm, and many of the notes sound to my ear, at least distinctly out of tune. As he finishes, I nod uncomfortably and try to smile appreciatively. I think he realizes I found the music difficult. You have to forget the idea of absolute pitch, he explains. He tells me Vietnamese musicians tune the instruments as they see fit, or according to the vocal range of the singers who accompany them. He says Vietnamese music is a product of the tonal nature of the Vietnamese language. A word with a high rising tone cannot be sung with a falling melody and vice versa. So melodic form have developed that allow improvised changes of notes to fit the tones of the words used, he says. That's why there's such an emphasis on what he calls ornamentation, on bending and embellishing the notes. Another reason traditional music often appears out of tune to the Western ear. That's why it's been so difficult to keep the niagtai to form alive, he says, clearly frustrated. The west displays to the Vietnamese young people its flawless instruments, its accurate notation, its varied repertoire, its orchestration and its disciplined orchestras, Finnbao has written. It's hard to get them interested in old fashioned instruments, he tells me, sweeping a hand towards the collection that adorns the walls of the small room. There are examples of the dan nuet, the two stringed moon shaped lute, the dan bao, a one stringed instrument which has a buffalo horn rod to bend the notes like a Hawaiian guitar, and the dan gao, the coconut viola. Young people have tended to see Vietnamese music as a clumsy old lady, as old fashioned, he sighs. A nation that loses its culture will number its days before losing its entire nation, he warns darkly. Given his age and what he's said, I'm anxious when I ask him about the future. But to my surprise, he breaks into a big smile and gestures towards a computer on the table behind him. I notice an expensive digital recording device beside it. I have more students than ever, he says with obvious pride. I've got pupils all over the world. It seems Vin Bao has been learning how to recruit the latest technology in his battle to preserve Vietnam's musical legacy. He says he's recorded many of the classic nhac tai to melodies, and as well as teaching people in person, he now gives lessons to over Skype. In fact, he says, our interview has overrun and he's due to give a lesson right now. I accept his offer to stay and watch. The nonagenarian is as deft with a computer keyboard as with a coconut viola. A few moments later he's chatting with a Vietnamese American woman in Texas and the zither lesson has begun. My translator has told me that Vinh Bao's music is so delicate and mournful it moves her to tears. So now I understand it a bit better. I'm keen to give it a second chance. Finn Bau bends over his instrument and plays once again. This time I think I discern a purpose amongst what had seemed a jumble of Random sounds. The music may be challenging, but the way this old man has harnessed modern technology to preserve the tradition he loves is truly impressive.
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Narrator / Presenter
Justin Rolat. And you can hear the sounds of Vinh Bao's Vietnamese zither for yourself. You'll find them on BBC online. Now, the people of tiny Liechtenstein have been recovering after their traditionally copious National Day celebrations. It's an occasion when they get a chance to have a drink, even a chat with their head of state. This is a place traditionally associated with wealth. Its citizens enjoy one of the world's highest standards of living. So you might think they haven't been too bothered by the financial crises which have been buffeting so much of the world. But Alex Marshall has been learning that even this principality, tucked away in the foothills of the Alps, is having to come to terms with the idea of austerity.
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Alex Marshall
I'm standing halfway up a mountain in a field beneath Faddu's Castle, home of the Prince of Liechtenstein, and I'm waiting for the start of one of the biggest parties of my life. But so far, the party atmosphere seems rather lacking. The country's prince, Hans Adam ii, has walked down from the castle with his son Alois, who now makes most of the princely decisions. They were accompanied by a brass band, flag bearers and dozens of women in traditional costumes, wearing hats that looked like black halos. They were applauded along the way. But as soon as they arrived in this field, Alois took the stage and gave one of the most depressing speeches I've ever heard. My German isn't exactly what you'd call fluent, but even I know enough to understand phrases like cash fro problema, reformen der Sotschal Systema and problema mit pensionkassen. Liechtenstein, it turns out, is finally being hit by the world's economic crisis. Where other countries have been struggling to balance their books for five years, Liechtenstein is only just starting to have that problem. The government has a budget deficit of 250 million Swiss francs a year and a large hole in its pension fund. The princely family, worth billions, could pay that off in a second. But it's not going to. Hard times are ahead, Alois warns. Some jobs will go. Everyone will have to do their bit. Alois says this like a father telling his children they can't have what they want for Christmas. But when he's finished, people don't walk off back down the mountain in tears. Instead, there's a playing of the national anthem, and everyone rushes up to the castle, some literally pushing and shoving to get There first. Today the gardens are open to everyone and inside there's free beer and finger food galore. If there's one place a budget isn't being slashed, it's here. Hans Adam ii, Alois and their wives walk around chatting to everyone. They take photos of children, exchange jokes with old friends and amazingly, there isn't a bodyguard in sight. I have a quick chat with Hans Adam. I probably shouldn't reveal this, but he'd already had at least three beers and was in effusive mood. The country isn't actually in a bad place, he says. Living standards are incredibly high. There's virtually no unemployment, the government's just got to balance its books and the people here are pragmatic enough to make it happen quickly. After a couple of hours, everyone heads down to Fadous itself. The town centre is little more than two streets, one containing a stamp museum. But there's music everywhere and it's soon the party. I've been promised 36,000 people, several thousand of them from Austria and Switzerland, a lot of eating and most importantly, a lot of drinking. I look for the prince, but he isn't at the hip hop and pole dance show and he's not twirling his wife around at the salsa and reggaeton stage either. So instead I visit a sausage stall being run by Doux. Doux are the enfantribes of Liechtenstein politics. In this year's election they won four of the parliament's 25 seats, benefiting from a large protest vote. I chat with Herbert Elkuch, a cross dressing mechanic with chipped red nail polish who happens to be the party's most respected mp. I expect Herbert to tell me do's against all the cuts and that no job should be lost, but he tells me the opposite. The reason DO was set up and has stormed onto the political scene is that people were fed up with the existing politicians inaction and their fear of upsetting anyone. DO have brought some fresh ideas. The party goes on until 1am but its undoubted highlight happens at 10, when everyone looks back up the mountain to the castle and a fireworks display starts up in the gardens. I could call it extravagant or amazing, but that wouldn't do it justice. It lasts about half an hour and the bangs echo around the alpine valley, making Liechtenstein sound like a war zone. The display climaxes with another playing of the national anthem and the words Vergot frst und Vaterland beamed onto the castle. It means for God, Prince and Fatherland and seems like a good motto for this Catholic country. Although perhaps they should have added and a properly balanced budget at the end.
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Narrator / Presenter
Alex Marshall sharing a beer with the royals in Liechtenstein and bringing this edition to a close. I'll be here again next Saturday with more from correspondence far and wide. Do join us. Goodbye.