Revenge of the MPs

Westminster is relishing the chance to dance on News of the World's grave.

Let us not be taken in by the horror, and the stone-faced cries of "shame!" now evinced by politicians of all stripes in Britain at the "shocking," "ghastly," behavior of News of the World and the Murdoch media empire. Let's be clear: This is not horror; it's revenge with a healthy side dish of schadenfreude.

The nature of the abusive relationship between Britain's tabloid press and its politicians was perhaps best illustrated way back in 1992. Britain had just been forced to withdraw, humiliatingly, from the European Exchange Rate Mechanism. John Major, the Conservative prime minister, called Kelvin MacKenzie, then editor of the Sun, to ask how the tabloid planned to cover the story. MacKenzie's reply has become a matter of Fleet Street legend. "Well, John, let me put it this way," said MacKenzie. "I've got a large bucket of shit lying on my desk, and tomorrow morning I'm going to pour it all over your head."

Funny? Perhaps. But also revolting, not only because of the image, but because of the sense of entitlement and zeal for bullying it revealed. This week the balance of power has, for the time being, shifted; for the first time in decades, it is the tabloid press that's on the receiving end.

And what a wallop they're taking. Rupert Murdoch's decision to withdraw his bid to purchase a majority stake in the satellite broadcaster BSkyB represents a political triumph for Ed Miliband, leader of the Labour Party. It's Miliband who has been leading the movement questioning the Australian-born media tycoon's fitness to pass the broadcast regulator Ofcom's "fit and proper" test of character for media proprietors. By the evening of Tuesday, July 12, it was clear all parties agreed that Murdoch should, at the very least, put his bid on hold pending the report of a hastily established public inquiry into the phone-hacking scandal.

But Murdoch's acquiescence also represents a sea change in British public life. Murdoch, to put it mildly, is not used to being beaten. Since he arrived in Britain in 1968, he has steadily risen to become the most influential media baron of the age -- perhaps the last remaining press baron, the like of whom will never be seen again. So it is remarkable that in the space of just seven days he has been forced to close the News of the World, his most profitable British newspaper, and now, to end his pursuit of the long-coveted BSkyB. He no longer seems capable of intimidating the political establishment by threatening to unleash the fury of his media empire. For once, the biter has been bitten.

There was a palpable sense in the House of Commons on Wednesday of Parliament fighting back -- not only on behalf of the British people, but also on behalf of themselves -- against the country's rapacious newspaper culture.

In truth, few Britons objected when the victims of tabloid zeal were the rich and famous or, even better, politicians. They were considered "fair game" -- public figures who should know that tabloid intrusion was part of the celebrity circus, the life they had chosen. It was only when the victims were revealed to also include "ordinary people," such as the family of murdered schoolgirl Milly Dowler and Afghanistan veterans that the public mood turned against the tabloid pack. Few readers harbored illusions about the nature of the papers they bought, but they preferred not to dwell on these realities. Now that it's open season on the tabloids, the public, hypocritical as ever, is happy to cheer on the flogging.

But the public outrage has given Parliament an opportunity to reassert its prerogatives and properly investigate a scandal that implicates the Metropolitan Police, politicians of all parties, and the biggest press baron of them all, Murdoch. There are few innocents on Fleet Street or at Westminster, but this, as Prime Minister David Cameron said Wednesday, has become a moment for "cleaning stables."

Although attention has largely focused on the shady activities of the Murdoch newspapers, it would be wrong to conclude that they are the only publications in the dock. Almost every major newspaper in Britain is implicated to one degree or another in the scandal. All have records of paying for information obtained by questionable means; many editors are probably quietly thankful now that they were simply not as good at it as their competitors at the News of the World and the Sun.

The practical benefit of the tabloids' special cynicism, aside from sales, was the leverage they gained over politicians. Tony Blair, recalling the way previous Labour leaders had been "monstered" by the Murdoch press, flew to Australia to ingratiate himself with News Corp. executives. Proving to Murdoch that Labour was changing and could be trusted to lead was an indispensable part of Blair's path to Downing Street. 

The Murdoch papers were not initially impressed by the Eton and Oxford-educated Cameron when he surprisingly became leader of the Conservative Party in 2005, and Cameron, in turn, initially kept his distance from the Murdoch empire. Peter Oborne, a columnist for the Daily Telegraph, has reported that Cameron's first meetings with Murdoch went poorly. According to one leading News International figure: "We told David exactly what to say and how to say it in order to please Rupert. But Cameron wouldn't play ball. I can't understand it."

The tabloids prefer winners to losers. That was one reason that they soured on John Major and backed Blair. When Gordon Brown succeeded Blair, he attempted to curry favor with News International. His wife Sarah guest-edited an edition of the News of the World's magazine; and the Browns hosted Elisabeth Murdoch, Rupert's daughter, and Rebekah Brooks, chief executive of News International and onetime News of the World editor, at Chequers, the prime minister's country mansion.

It was not until Cameron was persuaded by close associates, among them the present Chancellor of the Exchequer George Osborne, to hire Andy Coulson as his director of communications (that is, chief spin doctor) in 2007 that Murdoch's papers began to warm to the young Tory leader. Indeed, Coulson was hired for just this reason, even though he'd been compelled to resign as editor of the News of the World after an earlier scandal involving the hacking of the phones of members of the royal family. Nevertheless, Cameron insisted, Coulson deserved a "second chance" -- a decision that the prime minister now undoubtedly regrets. Cameron is fortunate that Coulson left Downing Street earlier this year, largely because he could not escape his tabloid past. Imagine how bad it would look if Coulson -- now subject to a criminal investigation himself -- was still on the prime minister's payroll.

There is no denying that the Murdoch tabloids' influence extends deep into Cameron's party. In late 2008, the papers made it clear that they would not endorse the Conservatives in the next election unless Cameron sacked Dominic Grieve, his then shadow home secretary, who was perceived by the papers as being insufficiently tough on crime. Grieve was duly moved to another portfolio in 2009, easing the path to the vital News International endorsement. In other words, the tabloids enjoyed an effective veto over a vital aspect of government policy. That dependence on Murdoch, unsurprisingly, produced resentment among politicians, which is now being expressed in all-out enmity.

Such strife between Parliament and mighty press lords is nothing new. During World War I, the press barons -- especially Lord Northcliffe, owner of the Times and the Daily Mail -- brought down Prime Minister Herbert Asquith's government after a campaign that mixed genuine investigative journalism (into munitions provision) and personal animosity. In the 1930s, Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin complained that newspapers demanding "Baldwin Must Go" sought "power without responsibility, the prerogative of the harlot throughout the ages." Lord Beaverbrook, owner of the Daily Express and later minister for aircraft production during World War II, cheerfully admitted that the main pleasure of owning newspapers was the opportunity it gave him to publish propaganda for his own views. (Prime Minister Clement Attlee dryly noted that Winston Churchill often listened to Beaverbrook's advice but was too sensible to take it.)

Many ministers of Parliament are eager now to exact some revenge. Some still bear the scars of the expenses scandal during the last parliamentary session that owed much to the Daily Telegraph's willingness to pay for stolen information. Members believed that the innocent and the blameless were pursued as relentlessly as the guilty by a press pack whose nihilism was happy to destroy any remaining public faith in the institution of Parliament itself.

In this latest scandal, Parliament isn't the only, or the primary, public institution at risk; the Metropolitan Police's relationship with the newspapers is one of the most fascinating -- and disturbing -- aspects of the scandal. As far back as 2002, News International executives told a parliamentary committee that their papers paid police officers. Yet this, like many other aspects of collusion between the press and the police, was never properly investigated.

Today, however, there is a sense that as Liberal Democrat MP Simon Hughes put it, "the sun is setting on Rupert Murdoch's British empire." That may yet prove too hasty a judgment -- Murdoch is nothing if not a survivor -- but as this story lurches from one astonishing development to another it is possible that this will be remembered as the week in which a dragon was slain and British public life changed forever. For the time being, politicians have lost their fear of the fearsome British tabloid press. Parliament has found its voice, and for the first time in decades it is the press that's afraid of the politicians. The hunters are now the hunted.


Tunisia’s Forgotten Revolutionaries

Tunisia's revolution came quickly and suddenly, but there's still much work to be done in the underdeveloped and long-neglected birthplace of the Arab Spring.

"Your time's up," alerts 25-year-old Ayman, competing for one of four computers in a dimly lit internet cafe in Regueb, a town in Tunisia's poor Sidi Bouzid governorate. He slaps Firaz, 18, and manages to draw him away from a football chatroom. "He spends too much time on there."

Ayman and Firaz deem themselves the "original" youth of a revolution that brought down Tunisia's President Zine El Abidine Ben Ali and sparked uprisings throughout the region, but not before rolling their eyes and listlessly smirking. Their daily stroll to a local café mirrors as a tour through one of Tunisia's most restive revolutionary hubs, not far from the town of Sidi Bouzid where 26-year-old fruit vendor Mohammed Bouazzi set himself on fire in protest.

Since the heady moments in January when they used the internet cafe as an information command center, dispatching updates on Facebook about police brutality and deaths, they've been idling their days away on the backstreets of a ghost town. "There's one word to describe life then and now: nothing," says Ayman, lighting his fourth cigarette of the hour. "Nothing to invest. No businesses. No land. Nothing." His words make up the refrain to Tunisia's desperately undeveloped and long-neglected interior region, the birthplace of the Arab spring. What have the revolutionaries gotten out of their revolution?

Sidi Bouzid and the other cities of the south have not seen much from their role in the revolution. The neglect of the hinterlands is nothing new, of course. During Ben Ali's 23-year rule, Tunisia focused 90 percent of its investment projects on the coastal regions, leaving the interior disproportionately underdeveloped. Unemployment in the region has increased to 18 percent, twice the rate on the coast, and while Tunisia's average national poverty rate is 18 percent, it ranges from 6 percent in Tunis to more than 30 percent in the center-west governorates.

The southern cities have long been the epicenter of violent protest against the regime. Bread riots in December 1983 in the same cities launched the most serious challenge to the Tunisian regime. If things don't improve, as seems grimly likely, rebellion may return. "Trust me, we will repeat the revolution here as soon as we can," Firaz declares, signing a petition to a Tunisian company to hire more youth from the town. "There's no dignity. We are dead."

"Are we even a part of Tunisia?" asks farmer Mohammed Hidi Bin Saleh, pointing to the only road that leads in and out of a village in the poor governorate of Kasserine. When it rains, the road's un-navigable and the children can't get to school. "We don't have faith in politics. Not before, not now. Just show us projects and development, no fancy ideas," he demands. "We'll vote for the party of bread."

The problems of the transition are not limited to the south. Seven month's after Tunisia's uprisings, the greater political tableau is blurred, giving way to a rough-sketch mosaic of confusion, distrust, and apathy. The October elections, originally slated for June, but delayed to give parties more time to organize, will appoint an assembly to rewrite Tunisia's constitution. The vacuum left by decades of autocratic rule is an uncertain space for a dizzying proliferation of political parties -- around 90 -- many lacking influential political bases or definitive programs.

Tunisians across the country worry that their leaderless and non-ideological revolution will be stolen by former Constitutional Democratic Rally (RCD) members in new clothes, or Islamists who've returned from exile. "The question isn't even how to stop the RCD from coming back," says Zied Mhirsi, Tunisian doctor and co-founder of the English-language news site "Tunisia Live." "It's how to limit their existence." He says the deposed party still make up the same faces and voices in the media, at dinner parties, and in the boardrooms.

"No one knows what's going on here," says blogger-activist Bassem Bougeurra. "On the outside, it might look like we have our act together, but it's a mess. We're still fighting for basic human rights." Just two months ago, while using a mobile phone to film officers beating a cameraman at a demonstration, Bougeuerra says he was held and tortured for two hours in a police van. "We still don't know who's truly in charge," he says, donning a ‘No to censorship' bracelet. "We have a government that's led by an old man [85-year-old interim Prime Minister Beji Caid-Essebsi] and manipulated by hidden forces."

His girlfriend, prominent blogger-activist Emna Ben Jemaa, sits at the other end of the table, tracking what she says is dwindling news coverage and increasing disinterest in the country. "People think Tunisia is this romantic love story -- a success story, the Facebook revolution," she says. "But we didn't have a revolution. It's only begun."

"You all think this came out of nowhere," says Tunisian General Trade Union (UGGT) activist Slim Rouissi. "That [Mohammed] Bouazizzi got mad one day and started it all. But we've been planning for a while." Locals and analysts alike say popular opposition had been growing the past two years, punctuated by strikes and protests throughout the region.

Rouissi claims that far from being a non-politicized symbol of frustration, the 26-year-old fruit vendor had participated in a "Day of the Land" protest in Sidi Bouzid last July in solidarity with consistent strikes across the region. "This is the region of revolution," Rouissi says, explaining how Ben Ali's family ran Tunisia like a mafia state, controlling all the land and factories, and forcing locals out of jobs. "The fire is all around and it hasn't been put out."

"Over the past 10 or more years in the region, there were streams that finally came together to form one big river of a revolution," says Chris Alexander, author of "Tunisia: Stability and Reform in the Modern Maghreb." In January 2008, the mining area of Gafsa was the epicenter of a popular uprising protesting massive layoffs by the Gafsa Phosphate Company. They cut the workforce from about 15,000 to 5,000 within a few months. But the uprising was swiftly and brutally suppressed and went unreported in state-controlled Tunisian media.

Back in 1984, Kasserine, a major industrial center 250 kilometers south of Tunis, saw youth taking to the streets as they had six months ago, demanding rollbacks in rising prices and better jobs. Gafsa later followed, with phosphate workers marching there and in the mining town of Metalaoui, where families recently clashed in a battle for jobs that left 11 dead and hundreds injured. Angry Tunisians did not need Facebook to spread the word, as riots and demonstrations spread across the whole country before being put down by force mixed with concessions on prices.

The 1984 upheavals ultimately led only to deeper authoritarian rule. Will this year's be any different in the long run? It is difficult to find much hope among in the south. Four young men sitting in a cafe along Sidi Bouzid's main road complain of widespread boredom, no transportation, and unemployment. "You came here to see the beginning?" asked Kareem Acher, a phosphate worker in Gafsa who's been out of a job since September. "Well, we haven't succeeded at anything yet."

Alexander says the main challenge during Tunisia's transition is to continue to pull together constituencies that transcend class and regional distinctions, that will unite unemployed young people in the interior with professionals on the privileged coast-line, namely in Tunis. But thus far such linkages have not been formed. Zouheir Yahyaoui, a lawyer in Gafsa who defended workers back in 2008, warns that the revolution "is a picture of a confused person at the fork of six different roads. If problems stay in Gafsa, that will be the gauge of the new government's success, of this revolution's success."

Political parties are looking to the south as elections approach. The Islamist party El Nahda has made significant inroads. In Kairouan, 78 kilometers south of Tunis, long considered the Islamic cultural capital of Tunisia and Islam's fourth holiest city, men sit across from the famous Uqaba mosque and rhapsodize about how so much, but so little has actually changed. Many talk about losing family and friends during Ben Ali's El Nahda crackdown in the late 80s, early 90s. A few in the fray are former RCD members who've reintegrated into society, now throwing their support behind the revived Islamic party.

"When the city went into a state of strike after the revolution, there were no services," Mohammed Amar, a wood-cutter, recounts. "Who rented cars to clean streets and collect trash? Nahda. Who handed out information? Nahda. Who raised money for the poor and even for the people of the Libyan revolution? Nahda."

The banned movement played an almost non-existent role in the revolution, but since Ben Ali's flight and the consequent January 30 return of exiled leader Rached Ghannouchi, al-Nahda has grown with astounding speed. They have sky-high, gleaming new headquarters in Tunis and offices in almost all the governorates. A recent survey found support for the party at just below 30 percent, almost three times that of its closest rival.

But they acknowledge they have some problems. "We've been gone for 30 years. A lot of us are old men," laughs Kamel Harbaoui, a press coordinator for the party. "But we're not hurting. Our message is clear," he says, pointing to a group of thousands, many youth, who came to see Ghannouci speak in a Tunis suburb. "No other group can say what they stand for. And when you don't stand for anything, you lose."

"Why are people scared of El Nahda? Look at me. I walk around with long hair and jeans," says 15-year-old Lina Ben Khalifa, one of several youth handing out candy at the rally. Her friend mans a table selling books and DVDs of Ghannouchi, all sold out by the end of the rally. "El Nahda is about justice, freedom, and democracy."

At a smaller rally in Hajeb l'Ajoun, 60 kilometers from Kairouan, pastries are served and floor-to-ceiling posters of Tunisian youth taking to the streets in protest garnish the lobby. "We're not on the map for most companies and parties, this is a no man's land," says Abdel Hakim Satlaoui, 32. "The high of revolution has worn off, but Nahda gives us hope." Before Ben Ali's ouster, he said supporters would surreptitiously meet but were routinely followed and harassed.

In the poor Tunis suburb of Ettadhamen, an area trade unionists say was pivotal in the interior's fight to involve Tunis in the first days of the revolution, residents remain unfazed. "El Nahda said they'd build a school here," said 45-year-old resident Nina Hadhari, buying watermelons from a vendor. "I don't really like them or politics, but that's good and there's no one else here."

Some aren't buying it. "They're playing the sympathy card," says Kairouan carpet-store owner Ali Hamza. "They want everyone to feel bad for how much they suffered. They're luring them in." Over the past months, Nahda leaders have routinely insisted they do not want to dominate the assembly and that they support democracy, and women's rights. But many secularists are not willing to take Nahda's word.

Throughout the interior, "No to El Nahda" tagging has surfaced on walls and buildings. El Nahda members and some politically inactive residents accuse liberal parties, like the Progressive Democratic Party (PDP), for coming in busloads, tagging buildings and paying residents 20 dinars a day (about $14) to join the party.

But others don't worry. Slim Bale, 60, flipping through a paper in downtown Tunis, calmly observes that "at the end of the day, Tunisians like short skirts and nice wine. El Nahda will never be successful here."

In Kasserine, one of the revolution's main flash points, the PDP is trying to appeal to "the common country man." Lawyer and PDP member Mohammed Gharsalli shuffles through party membership applications at his office where images of Saddam Hussein and Gamal Nasser hang in almost every nook, evoking lost sentiments, he says, of Arab nationalism and anti-imperialism.

"We don't have the connections to business owners or lifelines like the people in Sfax or Tunis do," he said. "The people here are disconnected and uninformed. And we're competing day and night against El Nahda."

Gharsalli traveled outside of Kasserine to Shriya, a poor farming village to meet with the elders of families who decide how the area will vote. A string of villagers approached him, railing against the lack of development projects in the greater Kasserine region, isolation, and decades of neglect. For many liberals, that's a challenge. "There is a big problem today for the liberal and secular revolutionaries to transition to political life," says Bougerra. "They know how to get people to protest in Tunis, but can't mobilize and connect with the real Tunisian streets."

But outside of Sidi Bouizid, 10 men add to the chorus, slouched in white plastic chairs at Cafe El Saafsaf, watching a slow flow of Sunday traffic. Come October, they say they probably won't vote. "We're not listening to this noise of politics. Every day, sons wait for one dinar from their fathers to buy coffee," said 32-year-old farmer Mohammed Chaker. "That's what happens here. This is the life, this is the revolution."

And on the only road between Sfax and Gafsa, 60-year-old Hend, whose white gloves are black from picking tomatoes in the field all day, says this is still the most crucial battleground. She leads a group of around 100 women who support their families by working the fields outside Macknassy, yet another town that's witnessed sporadic protests during the past two years.

"We organized protests in January, but we work in the field for five dinars a day. And what now? A second revolution? Maybe," she says, as a gaggle of women stand in the back of a pick-up truck, waiting to go home. "We're in the sun 10 hours a day...no time for the game of politics."

Lauren E. Bohn