Peter Greste and his Al Jazeera colleagues stand inside a cage during their trial. Photo: Getty.
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Egypt’s Al Jazeera verdict: the death of the free press

The three Al Jazeera journalists sentenced to seven years in jail in an Egyptian court room today should never have been tried in the first place. And yet, the day before their verdict, the US government released £338m of military aid to Egypt's repressive new rulers. 

Let’s start with the basics. The three Al Jazeera journalists sentenced to seven years in jail in an Egyptian court room today should never have been tried in the first place. There was no case against them. The Australian correspondent Peter Greste, the Canadian-Egyptian journalist Mohmmed Fahmy and their Egyptian producer Baher Mohammed were all charged with “terrorism-related offences”, including destabilising the country and supporting the Muslim Brotherhood, Egypt’s former ruling party, which was branded a terrorist organisation in December 2013.

In another context, their trial could have been a black comedy, so ridiculous was the “evidence” presented against them. Their satellite phone – standard equipment for jobbing journalists reporting on a revolution in a country where the phone lines are constantly cut – was paraded in front of a crowded court room as high-tech spy equipment. The videos screened as evidence of their covert support for the Islamist Muslim Brotherhood included a Sky News documentary on horse welfare, a BBC documentary about Somalia and a song by the Australian singer Gotye. Local media toed the government line by referring to the journalists as the “Marriot cell” after the hotel where the journalists were staying.

The only “crime” Greste, Fahmy and Mohammed can be accused of is a commitment to journalism in a country keen to suppress inconvenient truths. Since Egypt’s July 2013 revolution – which saw the replacement of Egypt’s only democratically elected but deeply unpopular president Mohammed Morsi with a military-backed government – the security forces have conducted a campaign of brutal repression. Last summer, hundreds of Morsi’s Muslim Brotherhood supporters were killed and thousands injured when security forces opened fire on protests. Since then, hundreds more have been sentenced to death, and even secular critics of Egypt’s new government face jail.

These Al Jazeera journalists reported on the bloodshed and interviewed Muslim Brotherhood members. No journalist with an interest in reporting the truth could have neglected to do so. But they faced two problems. First, from its first days in power, Egypt’s new government has sought to muzzle the media. Second, Al Jazeera is financed by Qatar – one of the biggest funders and supporters of the Muslim Brotherhood. This means the news channel – once seen as a champion of the Arab Spring because of its coverage of government atrocities and popular protests – is now loathed, by both the Egyptian government and large chunks of the public.

There is no doubt that today’s verdict is not only a personal tragedy for these journalists, but a dark day for Egypt’s revolution. It is symbolic of the Egyptian state’s disregard for freedom of press, freedom of speech and individual rights. The verdict comes just a day after 182 Muslim Brotherhood supporters were sentenced to death in a mass trial. It is tragic to remember that in 2011 hundreds of thousands of Egyptians took to the streets in defence of their freedom and to demand the overthrow of their dictator, Hosni Mubarak. This isn’t just a return to the Mubarak era – it’s much worse.

I had hoped that the international attention on the Al Jazeera trial would have put pressure on the government and judiciary to back down – but no such luck. This farcical kangaroo trial is an international embarrassment for Egypt's new rulers, but when America will still help prop them up, they don't really care. The US announced yesterday that it was unlocking the £338m of military aid to Egypt that had been frozen since Morsi’s ouster.  The US Secretary of State John Kerry visited Cairo for “candid” talks with the country’s new president, the former army chief, Abdul Fattah al-Sisi, on human rights. Evidently, however, human rights were not a high enough priority for Kerry to risk America’s relationship with Egypt and withhold aid.

Greste, Mohammed and Fahmy have already spent 177 days in jail, where they have been locked up for 23 hours a day, and been denied access to newspapers and television, or any opportunity to prepare their defence. Fahmy had been refused medical treatment for a dislocated shoulder. Other defendants in the trial said they had been beaten in custody. Last week, Greste’s brother told the Guardian that Peter found his suffering “easier to handle mentally if it’s for a cause”.

The freedom of the press was on trial in Egypt today, and it lost. 

Sophie McBain is a freelance writer based in Cairo. She was previously an assistant editor at the New Statesman.

Photo: Pablo via Creative Commons
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Is Lithuania still homophobic? My girlfriend and I held hands to find out

The Lonely Planet guide warned that for gay and lesbian travelers, "small displays of public affection can provoke some nasty responses".

It’s midnight somewhere on the greyish outskirts of Vilnius, and my girlfriend has just burst out laughing. Our Uber driver starts laughing too. Nonplussed, I scan the oppressively functional Soviet-era architecture we’re driving past for literally anything funny.

Then I see them. A series of panels above the stairway to a basement bar; photos of topless blonde men with glistening six packs. This is – as is usually the case – either a tribute to the most homoerotic scenes in Leni Riefenstahl’s Triumph of the Will, or something deliberately gay. And 99 out of 100 it’s the latter, this being no exception.

Soho Club is the most out-of-context gay venue I’ve ever seen. It sits on a poorly lit street on the edge of Lithuania’s capital, almost as if it’s been plucked out of the city centre and dumped there.

Given the staunchly Catholic and formerly communist Baltic state’s uneasy relationship with its LGBTQ community, this wouldn’t be particularly surprising.

According to the Lonely Planet guide to the Baltic States for gay and lesbian travelers, "small displays of public affection can provoke some nasty responses".

Homosexuality was only decriminalised here in 1993. And, any legislative victories aside, a 2009 poll found that attitudes amongst the population were much the same as the pre-1993 days. Eight in ten respondents considered homosexuality to be anywhere between a perversion and a disease. 

Such a gay-hostile place probably seems like an odd choice for a romantic getaway with my girlfriend, on my birthday weekend. Then again an itinerary like ours, which includes a visit to the both the Museum of the Victims of Genocide, and the Holocaust exhibition at the Jewish museum, is hardly "gondola ride in Venice" or "Eiffel Tower at sunset". This is a stark, ex-Soviet, mostly-raining introduction to being gay outside of the liberal London bubble. Which is to say: dreamy.

Having said that, Vilnius’s cobbled old town is beautiful and, compared to other more mainstream Eastern European capitals, decidedly less stag night-y. Same-sex couples, it turns out, can be drawn to a city for features other than its queer nightlife. 

On the short walk from Vilnius’s central train station to our Airbnb, we passed a mural of Donald Trump smoking a spliff and giving Vladimir Putin blowback. A definite tribute to the gay kiss between the USSR's Brezhnev and East Germany's Honecker depicted on the Berlin Wall.

It was hard to tell what this said about the area’s attitude towards queers, but it was on the side of a bar that’s blasting out Black Lips and full of Lithuanian hipsters in their twenties. Say what you like about hipsters, they are not known for gay-hate. It was difficult to imagine anyone in there giving much of a shit about our sexuality.

At the Airbnb, we were greeted by one such Lithuanian hipster. She was about 20 and seemed a little nervous speaking to us, even though her English was near fluent.

The flat – an immaculate new build – was decked out in Ikea classics. Like the bar with the homoerotic Trump/Putin mural, anywhere with a Malm just seems to radiate gay-friendliness. It’s both sterile and PC. Like the Lib Dems, or a free sachet of lube.

Our host gave us a brief lesson in how to work the flat, before saying a polite goodbye. We’d just started unpacking when there was a knock on the door. It turned out the host had done a 180.

"One last thing," she said, "Do you need an extra duvet, or are you… sharing the bed?"

OH GOD, I thought. This is it. This is the kind of shit you read about. You never do read about anything good.

"Yeah, we’re sharing," I said, feeling both – I hate to say – embarrassed about being in a same-sex relationship, and embarrassed about being embarrassed about being in a same-sex relationship.

"OK, cool. No questions!" said the host, before disappearing into the afternoon at the speed of sound.

"No questions," I repeated, "Hmm."

Just to be clear, no, this wasn’t exactly a hate crime. I’m also reluctant to judge a 20-year-old from a very religious country for – well – judging us. And anyway, maybe "no questions" meant "no judgment". Who am I to… judge?

We’d been in Lithuania for about an hour before my girlfriend and I decided to really test the water and hold hands in the street. Mostly, we were starting to wonder if we were being xenophobic by assuming Lithuanians were probably homophobic.

This, I suppose, is the point at which bigotry really starts to eat itself. Unfortunately though, almost the moment we held hands, a group of...shaven headed individuals, who wouldn’t look out of place in a modern day pogrom, walked past, staring us down as if we’d stopped there for a spot of mid-street fisting.

I made brief eye contact with one of them as I let go of my girlfriend’s hand as fast as a bottle of water at airport security.

"Oh," I said to her, when – as far as we knew – Vilnius’s only out homophobes were at a safe distance. "Yeah…" she said.

There are parts of the world – Uganda, Russia and, most recently, Chechnya –  where both socially and legislatively speaking, things are actually getting worse for queer people. But, the overarching narrative is "it gets better". Visiting anywhere with less good attitudes towards The Gays than I’m used to feels like a step back in time.

I wonder, in terms of acceptance of, say, two women holding hands, which decade in London is reflected in 2017 Vilnius. The 80s? The 70s? I’ve only been gay in London since 1989. And back then – as far as I know – I wasn’t a particularly dykey baby. 

So began a weekend-long game of political PDA. We walked through the cobbled streets of the old town, admiring baroque churches and wondering if we were allowed to be a couple near them.

Without a strict set of rules, every stranger’s glance is open to interpretation. My interpretation being, "Let’s just not make a scene, OK?", my girlfriend’s interpretation being, "Stop being paranoid and xenophobic. No one cares."

In the evening, as we sat in a busy restaurant eating zeppelins (remarkably dense Lithuanian potato dumplings, not airships) we spotted – lo and behold – what we (homophobically?) thought might be another gay couple.

Two men in their twenties stood waiting for a table. They had professionally shaped eyebrows. One of them had earrings. In Nineties terms, they were gay as fuck. At a dumpling joint in Vilnius, at ten at night, who the hell knows? And, more to the point, why the hell should they care? Well, when your relationship has been reduced – via queer invisibility – to a handholding battle, you’re kind of desperate to find another same-sex couple.

"Are they…" I said.

"They must be," she said.

"Should we…?"

"NO."

I’m not even too sure what I was asking we "should" do (speak to them? Buy them drinks? Demand a gay tour of Vilnius?), or why I was shut down without finishing my sentence. Whatever we should or shouldn’t have done, we didn’t.

But back to Soho Club. The car stops and we leave behind our bewildered and slightly too amused Uber driver. Tentatively, as if approaching an ancient Egyptian tomb by lamplight, we walk down the stairs past the muscle man panels.

The complete silence – not even interrupted by passing traffic – doesn’t exactly say "buzzing" or… "Soho". Inevitably, almost, the bar is closed. In fact, it’s arguably the most closed bar I’ve ever seen. We’ve turned up, ready to party with Lithuania’s finest gays, at a giant lead box. What’s more, we look around us and realise we’ve strayed into Murder Town.

On our way to the nearest bus stop, we pass a life-size fiberglass cow devoid of any explanation, and a lit-up poster that looks startlingly like an ad for dead babies. The streets get wider and desolate-er until we’re at a petrol station, holding hands out of pure fear. On my part at least. If this is Vilnius’s gay scene, I’d like to give it some kudos at least for quite strongly resembling a David Lynch film.

Having somehow not been sawn into pieces and turned into outsider art, we find ourselves back at Vilnius airport the next day. While idly internetting on her phone, my girlfriend notices our Airbnb host has reviewed us as guests.

"Leonore and her friend are very friendly people!" she wrote.

In all fairness, I have shared beds in Airbnbs with friends. And whether or not someone is tiptoeing around my sexuality like a puddle of something that may or may not be wee, it’s always nice to be considered friendly. And to have "friends".

Eleanor Margolis is a freelance journalist, whose "Lez Miserable" column appears weekly on the New Statesman website.

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