³ÉÈËÂÛ̳

In the week the outside world took its hardware into Libya's affairs, the UN warned the world risks forgetting a humanitarian catastrophe. World Have Your Say viewers and listeners in West Africa have been saying so for weeks.

On one level the accusations of hypocrisy make a simple point: apply the same criteria for military intervention to every country where concern for civilians exists.

Michael Binyon of The Times sat opposite me in the radio studio and was the first to say that this isn't realistic. 'No organisation can focus on all the problems going on all over the world. It simply can't be done. Countries which don't seem to be right on the doorstep of Western interests don't get the attention that countries such as Libya do.'

So if practicalities put implementing this idea out of reach, is 'this global policing approach', to use viewer Michael in Adelaide's phrase, even a useful aspiration, one that draws us closer to the best we can do?

Michael argued that 'the world will one day be more comfortable with the concept'.

Certainly, the majority of our audience has demanded military action in Libya, but now the majority criticise what's being done?

I was confused. Michael O'Hanlon wasn't. He's a national security analyst in Washington DC and saw no contradiction.

'This is to some extent a healthy process. People, even those who supported it, have understandable worries until this war ends. It's a healthy form of anxiety.'

I still wanted to know more.

'Do those of you making accusations of double-standards, want fewer or just fairer interventions?' I asked listeners, curious to see who would respond.

A young guy in Freetown called Saeed called to answer. 'This shouldn't happen at all. The punishment in Libya is bigger than the crime. No government is going to allow people to take up arms and do nothing.' Again we were back to what the criteria should be.

And what of arguably the most important criterion of all: whether those affected actually want a military helping hand.

Alassane Ouattara, the man widely believed to have won the Ivorian presidential election, has never asked for one.

John, a Nigerian refugee who's been living in Ivory Coast agrees. He was ringing from Ghana, having driven east across the border.

'Last week we left our home in Abidjan in fear of ours lives. We've lived from park to park, and now we've been brought to a UN refugee camp.'

His voice lacked energy, giving away an exhaustion that's come with the strain and effort of life at the moment.

We returned to our central theme. 'What would you like the world to do about Ivory Coast, John?'

'Just offer your prayers,' he asked. Nothing more.

Syrians, Yemenis and Bahrainis who support the anti-government protests in their countries have also joined our conversations. The idea of doing it on your own appears as potent for them as it was for Egyptians and Tunisians. They don't want the jets.

Meanwhile, the misery of those in Misrata has kept coming- heard down the scratchy and intermittent phone lines that keep us connected to those feeling Col Gaddafi's wrath. Almost all have declined to give their names.

The voice of one man in Misrata emerged from the hiss and crackle.

'Thousands were protesting against Gaddafi and suddenly when they reached the main street, snipers and tanks shot at the people. There are dead, there are injured. They've cut the electricity, we have no water, we're struggling to get to the vegetable fields around the city for food. They're surrounding us, they won't let us leave.'

Would he like foreign troops to help?

'They are welcome to come. They forget Misrata, I don't know why.' He sounded equally bemused that I'd needed to ask, and that the more coalition assistance hadn't materialised.

All of which had me casting my mind back to when I interviewed the British minister Alistair Burt in Cairo last month. Finding common ground on when and how intervene is very difficult he told me.

The point has been born out in the week that his country's submarines have fired Tomahawk missiles at Libyan targets.