Rowing Against the Tide - A career in sport and politics (19 page)

My most fascinating trip was to the Yemen on a human rights mission, for we understood that whilst most Yemeni Jews had long left to settle in Israel, there were perhaps a thousand still there in villages north of Sanaa. That exodus was quite extraordinary, for the Jewish community in the Yemen had been there for a few thousand years, and was perhaps one of the oldest in the world. Apparently in 1948 or 9 the Israelis sent some old DC10s to try to bring them to Israel. The fear was that such a primitive group would simply not board the plane. However they gathered their goats and belongings, and without fear boarded the plane, but had to be restrained from lighting cooking fires. It transpired that the “good book” had always said that one day they would return to the Promised Land on wings of eagles. For them the DC10s were just that. We had a most friendly and informative meeting with the Yemini foreign minister, Dr Abul Karim Al-Eryani, who expressed sorrow at what might be the loss of the remaining tiny Jewish community, who he referred to as Jewish Yemenis rather than Yemeni Jews, a subtle difference that was not lost on us. He spoke of the possible loss of the remaining Jewish community as a loss of 4000 years of civilisation. Accompanied by our ambassador we had a narrow escape when his heavily armoured land-rover slid over the edge on a rough road, and thankfully came to rest on a ledge that stopped before what we feared would be a tumble down into a deep gorge.

Some 100 miles north of Sanaa, we met the local Sheik who entertained us and arranged for us to visit his Jews. As ever, Greville Janner who as a member of the magic circle, could always break the ice with his tricks, and having scored a great success with the young son of the sheik, our attendance at the Sheik’s weekly feast with guests was quite something. It was a long carpet spread the length of the room, and we and other visitors sat on the floor along its length whilst food was piled on the carpet. Greville found himself as the favoured guest and sitting opposite the Sheik, whilst I, thank goodness, was well down the carpet. I was happy to eat the honey and slices of sorghum in front of me, but poor Greville had all sorts of heaven knows what fed to him by the Sheik. I’m sure it wasn’t kosher, but we were in the Sheik’s territory! We met one of the three Jewish families still living in the village, and apart from their ringlets, and the absence of any guns or knives, they were to all intents and purposes, Yemenis. Greville and I agreed to join them for their Friday night supper, and to stay for their customary evening service. Whilst they were anxious to offer traditional hospitality, we were conscious of their poverty and the inevitable simple fare provided, and so we endeavoured to take the smallest possible portions of their food without risking offence. A very old and almost blind elder, started the service, but promptly handed over to a young boy, who I don’t think was yet old enough to have been barmitvah. I found myself listening to a service I could have attended as a small boy pre-war in the Stoke Newington Synagogue, for it was the same, unchanged service for a couple of thousand years. The boy also had problems with his eyes, and Greville managed to arrange for him to come to England for an operation, which I believe was funded by an American ex-Yemeni citizen, who had helping to sustain the small remaining community in the Yemen.

We were accompanied by a truck with a mounted machine gun and crew, to another village where we were to meet another Jewish family. We stopped to seek directions from someone in the local market, who readily showed us where Sala the Jew lived. It was a Saturday, and arriving at his house, it was closed up and the large steel doors closed. Greville banged on the steel doors, and a face appeared framed in a small upper window. It for all intents and purposes it was Shylock from the Merchant of Venice! Shouting it was Shabbat, and go away, Greville finally managed to get him to understand we were Jewish and wished to pay our respects. We were let in and joined Sala and the rest of the male members of the family, in the customary post lunch chewing of quat. As ever in that part of the world, the women were not to be seen.

A short visit to the local market was instructive, for it naturally divided into separate lanes dependant on what was for sale. One lane sold little else but salt. Another farm produce, and another had a row of large containers, who’s front doors were open to display every kind of gun, AK47s, RPGs, you could wish for, and we managed to photograph a few of our party, capturing one of the containers in the background.

I had the opportunity to act as an observer in October 1988 at the plebiscite in Chile, called by Pinochet to decide whether he should serve another term on a straight forward Yes or No question. A colleague Jacques Arnold and I were sent there by the Inter-Parliamentary Union, and were joined by Dawn Primarola and George Foulkes from the Labour Party, along with journalists, some of whom were so convinced that it was either a stitch up, or that Pinochet would not accept the result if it went against him, that they had already drafted most of their reports. In addition to the delegation from the UK, observers from twenty nine other countries were welcomed by the Apainde group (Parliamentary Association for Democracy ).

Before leaving we were briefed by Mr Patrick Morgan of our South American Department, and by the Chilean Ambassador Senor Juan Carlos Delanu. We were met on arrival by Mr Jack Thompson from our embassy, and shown round central Santiago. We climbed Mount Santa Lucia, a popular recreation area where dozen of young people were doing what young people world wide will do in a public park in glorious sunshine ! It seemed a million miles away from what was to be a momentous and vital election.

Not something we’re used to in campaign procedure in the UK, but the Saturday prior to polling day, was set aside for the NO rallies and their campaign finale, and the Sunday for the SI. During these last two days of campaigning the boulevards in the city were crowded with decorated cars and floats, creating quite a carnival atmosphere. Election literature was hurled around like a New York ticker tape reception, so that at the conclusion of campaigning it could be said that you literally were walking ankle deep in paperwork. These were followed by two days where campaigning was banned, and people were left with time for quiet reflection on which way to vote.

One note of amusement arose from the recognition that there was one kind of “honking” if you were a NO supporter, and another if you supported the SI campaign. Cowards that we were, our car horn answered favourably to whichever “honk” we received. However when having answered favourably to a NO “honk”, a young person looked carefully into our car and made it plain that he recognised a bunch of middle class hypocrites. That Sunday, Patrick Morgan took us to the home of a recently returned Chilean Embassy official from London, Sr. Manuel Cardenas. We travelled on the Metro to a very pleasant outer suburb, and could not help but remark on the superb quality of the Metro system, and above all the spotless nature of the stations and trains, to a standard we could only dream of back home.

We used the two day pause to see a bit of the country, and drove up into the foothills of the Andes accompanied by Manuel and Maricruz Cadenas and Patrick Morgan. We stopped for refreshment at a wayside café, and found that the very elderly owner had a lifetime ambition to see London. His daughter brought out his treasured collection of photographs of London scenes, but we didn’t have the heart to tell him that the London of today was a very different scene to the Victorian London portrayed in his album.

We split up on polling day, and I was accompanied by Mr and Mrs Peter Holmes from our embassy to two towns, firstly to Buin some thirty miles from Santiago, and then to Rancagua ninety miles from the capital. We arrived at an all women station, and as we walked towards the polling booth, my guides heard one of the women in a derogatory way refer to us as Americans. No No Peter Holmes said, we are from England and this is a British MP. At this they immediately cried “Mrs Thatcher”, and burst into applause. Being nowhere from nowhere, the impact Mrs T had around the world could not have been better demonstrated.

The method of voting seemed much more secure and confidential than our own, for firstly women voted not just in separate polling booths, but in separate polling stations, avoiding male pressure that does affect some of our own elections. The ballot papers gave greater confidentiality, for the number on the ballot paper was removed before being handed to the voter, and the ballot box had a clear Perspex panel so that it was clear the vote had been cast and correctly boxed.

We gathered in the hotel awaiting the results, and as they came in, it was clear the answer would be No, but it was also clear that whilst the women had also voted No, they were far less anti Pinochet than the men. The journalists waited until Pinochet had publicly accepted the verdict of the people before they tore up their scripts and started again. Amongst the impressions and memories I brought back, was firstly that whatever its limitations, the outcome was clearly the wish of the Chilean people. Secondly and sadly, a distaste for those journalists representing newspapers of repute, some politicians who ought to know better, and some British students barely out of their nappies who perhaps could therefore be forgiven, who came to Chile with their slogans, prejudices, and pre-written articles announcing fraud, which of course turned out to be anything but the truth.

Jacques had been born in Brazil, and had spent much of his commercial life dealing in finance throughout South America, and called on a few old friends. I could not believe how many secure cash trucks raced from Bank to Bank, many of which had been founded by British immigrants some 100 years earlier, and I soon could spot the “suits” with their secure briefcases, also hawking cash from place to place. Jacques fancied a meal in what he called the Meats restaurant, and ordered a large steak. I wasn’t particularly hungry and agreed to have something small and light and ordered a couple of kidneys. When they arrived, I swear they must have slaughtered an elephant, for I’d never seen kidneys the size of dinner plates before. Needless to say I had an uncomfortable 24 hours before my metabolism returned to normal.

Twice during my time in the House, I was able to act as an election observer in two elections in Bangladesh in 1986 and 91. The former had been called by General Ershad, who was seeking electoral backing for his continued Presidency. Our small delegation was lead by Lord Ennals at the invitation of the People’s Commission for Free Elections, effectively their equivalence of our Law Society and Judges, and their embassy in London gave us clearance to attend. Following our arrival we received a warm welcome from leading members of some of the Parties, Awami League, Jamaat-eIslami, Jatio Samajtantrik Dal, the Bangladesh Nationalist Party and the Bangladesh Khilafat Movement. Only the Jatiya Party were not prepared to meet us.

David Ennals, a long standing friend of Bangladesh, was obviously sympathetic to the cause of the Awami League, but we agreed that we should not take sides or seek to pass opinions, but simply record what we saw at polling stations, and let the figures speak for themselves.

The ballot papers were wondrous to behold, for they displayed a large emblem of each Party, and because of the many Parties, often had to be eighteen inches long. The books of ballot papers were not perforated so that when illegally fistfuls of papers were torn out for ballot box stuffing, it was easy to see what had happened, and that the normal issue of one paper at a time had been ignored. Each Polling Station inside had rows of seats, or rather wooden planks, so that representatives of the parties could see that the process was fair and correct. It was totally ineffective in most of the stations we visited, and some of the conduct was, to put it mildly, violent. Certainly by the afternoon certain elements had clearly swung into action to frustrate free and fair elections.

I was accompanied by a barrister, and at a station around midday, the presiding officer proudly showed me his register. He claimed that only two more people were to be expected, and he would then have a 100% turnout ! I checked the register, and apart from some dubious names that my barrister noted, it was dated May 1983. I asked my interpreter to complement the presiding officer on what must have been the outstanding quality of the local health service. When this was duly passed on, to the puzzlement of my guide and the officer, I pointed out that the register was three years old, and so not one person in that small town had died ! At another I was greeted by a small boy whose hands were covered with the purple dye that was supposed to be on the one finger that had been used to vote, by pressing against the symbol of the party of his choice. He claimed to have voted many times, and looking at his hands, I had little doubt that he had.

At another, the presiding officer had locked himself in his office, because not being Bengali, was being accused of favouring some voters against others. At another, a woman was brought in on a small cart, for she had been attacked and had a gash from her hip to her knee. My last station was at the University in Dacca, and being after six o’clock, I duly noted the total electorate, and the number of votes cast at that time. My feeling was that if the returns suddenly showed a full turnout, the credibility of the election would rightly be called into question. As we were leaving the station, we were greeted by gunfire in the road outside, caused by a large group who had already trashed a polling station some mile further back. I quietly asked my guide where our Land-Rover was, and having noted the distance, said –“let’s get the hell out of here”. On returning to the hotel, we were greeted by a hilarious group of journalists who had just left a meeting called by General Ershad. He had stopped the election count, for it wasn’t coming out the way he had planned, and when journalists spoke of the malpractices at the polling stations, he complained about our delegation, though we had said nothing at that point. In any case he claimed that there had only been malpractice reported at 268 polling stations. He could not see the funny side of his remarks. We had a wash-up meeting with our hosts, and when asked, I had sadly to say their election was almost irrelevant to the majority of Bangladeshis, since we had been told that the population was growing at around two and a half million a year, that the country could no longer feed its people, and relied on 86% of its income from overseas aid. I said I felt that until they resolved that conundrum, it was unlikely any Government could obtain the willing support of its people or solve it’s problems.