om⋅buds⋅man – noun, plural - men pronunciation [om-buhdz-muh n, -man, -boo dz-, awm-, om-boodz-muh n, -man, awm-] an ombudsman is a person who acts as a trusted intermediary between an organization and some external constituency while representing the broad scope of constituent interests (Wikipedia).
At the National Council for Human Rights in Egypt, the Ombudsman Unit is known for its hands-on approach to human rights violations. Every day the office is total mayhem and excitement, as it receives human rights complaints via telephone and email. But its most powerful and effective tool are the trips that the Mobile Unit takes around the country. While the council's headquarters are located next to Tahrir Square and Garden City, two posh areas of Cairo, the Unit organizes weekly excursions to the poorest, dirtiest, and most marginalized parts of Egypt, to uncover the players in Egyptian human rights violations; namely, the victims.
The Unit's centerpiece is its little van. The van is cramped tight with human rights experts, has an AC-system that chooses to stop working during excruciatingly hot (plus 95 degrees Fahrenheit) weather, is littered with falafel wraps, juice boxes, and human rights complaints papers. It looks remarkably like the Scooby-Doo mobile. On the outside, its markings, "المجلس القومي لحقوق الإنسان" (The National Council for Human Rights) attract a lot of stares, especially as the van rocks and rolls through muddy dirt paths (they can hardly be called roads) into what one Unit member, Vivian, called, "the heart of poor Egypt."
The people here are confused. The Unit unloads from the car, sweating from the heat, downing water, but everyone is in high spirits, anticipating the day ahead: this is the best part of human rights work, getting to see the faces and mix with the personalities behind the reports that you read in the office. People sense the Unit's good-nature, and while they may have initially felt uncomfortable approaching these urbanites – men and women in jeans, slacks, and blouses, accompanied by two Americans speaking English (me, and another Yalie, Meredith Morrison, BR '11) – some of these people, in their traditional garb (headscarves and long loose jelebiyas for men), hesitantly come closer:
"Who are you?"
"We're from the National Council for Human Rights."
"So you are someone from the government?"
"No."
This is among the first questions that the unit deals with: the potential complainers are ashamed of their situation and nervous that they will be punished for discussing their issues. Moreover, as Vivian explained to me, these people generally find a haven in the Muslim Brotherhood, whose religious ideology appeals to them because, quite simply, although they may know little about politics of the organization, they believe that those who are pious must be good. The Brotherhood, opponents of President Mubarak, are found to spread rumors about the Egyptian government's authoritarian grip, abysmal torture record, disdain for the poor, and denial of the freedom of speech -- unfortunately, many of these rumors have legitimate foundations and are actually facts.
After the Unit reassures the worried passersby that the clipboards, official-looking documents, pens, and nice clothes are not, in this case, indicative of government representatives, they get down to business:
"Do you have a human right complaint you would like to report?"
"What is a human right?"
For many people, this is the first time they have heard "human" and "rights" strung together. The term is not exactly self-explanatory, and public schools here do not usually include in their syllabi a comprehensive overview of human rights. This is a world phenomenon that is seriously undermining human rights progress: people are not aware of their rights, so they do not know that instead of being ashamed, scared, or hesitant to ask for welfare, healthcare, or escape from abuse and torture, they should be confidently demanding it for themselves and others. Even as an elementary and middle school student enrolled in public school in the United States of America, a country that likes to think of itself as the greatest champion of human rights, I did not find human rights to be a part of the curriculum. And the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights is not a difficult concept to teach to an 8th grader. The Ombudsman Unit may benefit by allowing young Egyptians or other foreigners to accompany them on their travels. There is no better education than being on the scene yourself, directly interacting with people, and knowing that your presence alone, as someone willing to take the time and meet those in society who are often ignored and forgotten, makes a difference.
In any case, for Egypt's poor – those most vulnerable to violation – human rights are an unknown concept. So the Unit makes it simpler for them to understand exactly what they are concerned about:
"Well, do you have any problems?"
This question is usually answered by a sarcastic smile and a dark laugh. Problems? Yes, they have problems: a man selling fruit on the side of the street loo
king for welfare to support his three children, a woman in a similar situation who cannot even remember how many children she has (after struggling for a bit, she counts 9), another woman looking for medical care on behalf of a husband diagnosed with cancer, many unemployed looking for jobs so they can buy some food and live another day. Slowly, the people, initially suspicious, warm up to the Unit, and even tell their friends to come and share their troubles too. After about twenty minutes, the van is surrounded. Additionally, unit members dot the street are working with different groups of people: writing down contact information (some, who are illiterate, take out little pieces of paper with their phone numbers written down, or present pieces of jewelry embedded with their names, tokens to help them remember how the letters and numbers are formed), and reassuring people that miraculously, somebody does in fact care about their troubles. One overeager man, who initially told us he had nothing to share, suddenly becomes excited by the prospect of having photos taken of him on a digital camera, begins leading the whole affair. He is a busybody gathering people up and down the street, ordering them to line up and give their complaints, and pausing every so often to make sure he was being photographed. "Sarika, continue taking pictures. Please. Give him some entertainment - amuse him, " said Hagar, one of the women working with the Unit, who at this point had several people hassling her for complaints.
There are definitely more serious difficulties along the way. Meredith had an interesting experience in the first town we visited. A woman who discovered her American nationality angrily exclaimed, "All these Americans come in here and get in our business, writing reports that make us look bad – people shouldn't talk with an American here!" Another woman, refused to speak unless it was in private, under an isolated bridge, a distance away from the crowds: she did not want her community to know she was complaining, both out of fear and shame. One woman who seemed severely uncomfortable with married life began sharing her story with Meredith but was quickly hushed by her sister-in-law, who led her away from potential solace, support, and help.
This type of report, a complaint about an abusive husband, is extremely rare. Most have to do with the violation of social or economic rights: the need for welfare, medical care, jobs. I began to wonder, why no one yet had complained about crime, abuse, torture, political and civil rights issues that I had read about at the office: 2 women are raped in Egypt every hour, yet none of the women we had talked to reported sexual violence.
Vivian clarified my confusion, "These people are so afraid to talk to us even about little medical issues: they can't even tell us about their bad eyesight and how they desperately need glasses but cannot afford them, without getting scared. They are afraid, because they do not trust authority. Often times, the police come into these areas and make the situation worse: arresting the wrong people, or hurting the people who are living here. I mean, Sarika, these people are smart. Very smart. It surprises outsiders when I say this, but the poor are able to see through anyone. They grew up on the streets, and they can catch a liar. No one can trick them. It is hard to get these people to trust you. And if they can't even tell you that they need new glasses, what is the likelihood they're going to tell you the other stuff?"
Even the most conservative parts of society are included in this human rights survey. At one point in the day, we ended up in a farming village at the village chief's headquarters. We sat outside: the women of the Unit on one side of a table, the men, the chief, and his co-leaders, on the other side. The men smoked, we were served Arabic coffee and chai (tea), and every time a new man joined our group the chief would shake his hand and kiss him once, on either side of the cheek, as is tradition. The meeting was prearranged and the most orderly relaying of complaints the Unit had dealt with all day. On behalf of the entire town, the authorities of the village thoroughly discussed each complaint, which they had neatly compiled in a folder: the school was 3 kilometers from the village with no transportation making it impossible for children to attend, farmers did not receive fair payments for their produce, and there a general lack of availability and access to resources like adequate farming equipment, medicine, and social services. At times, the men would leave the table, whispering quietly and urgently among themselves, while the women remained, quietly sipping chai, trying to stay cool, and diligently copying down the complaints. In these moments especially, it felt like we were participating in some shady, underhand, mafia dealing, but it was just tradition: human rights are universal, but human rights enforcement however is dependent on culture. As we were leaving, the chief (who we later found out had two wives) insisted we stay for lunch. It turned out to be less of an invitation and more of an order, for when we politely declined, he was severely offended. So we joined him on the floor of a small room, eating cheese and bread, and sipping a traditional, Egyptian, sugary "licorice" drink (which had the appearance of a soda but couldn't possibly be, since anything even as simple as a Pepsi would be beyond this family's budget) while he recounted his family history.
The most moving part of the day, however, was in the second town we visited. As the Unit disseminates throughout the area, Vivian and I venture into a market off the side of the main street, which was not so much a street as a slab of mud littered with trash and animal feces. People are everywhere in the crowded market, living with the animals and even slaughtering and selling them right there with their bare hands. It smells like human excrement and pollution, and the heat is becoming nearly unbearable as the afternoon sun hit its peak. As we pass a beggar, Vivian turns to me with a bittersweet smile, "Look at that Sarika: a beggar begging among the poor." Instead of approaching the men on the street who are hard at work selling their goods (broken plastic toys, beef, leather, and fruits), Vivian eyes the old men and women, the children, and the young adults who hovered at the back of the markets, lurking behind stalls, and in the darkness of shade. One woman, after sharing her complaints, refers us to her friend ("You want to meet someone with troubles?" she says, "Well that woman has troubles."), the woman's friend advises us to keep walking – and pretty soon, as had happened earlier, through word of mouth, people become aware of our presence in the area. The usual crowd forms in front of the van, and each Unit member is again halted in their tracks by humble and cautious human rights complainers. But Vivian pushes on, searching, and finally – "Sarika. Here." It was like Vivian morphed into a human rights excavator, trying to uncover the darkest and cruelest secrets of her society. She finds one embodied in this old woman.
Vivian pulls me behind one fruit stall, disregarding the stares of the fruit sellers who could not fathom why two well-dressed women would want to venture into the most hellish part of the abysmal town. There, sitting on a mud rock, next to an abandoned shop that sold bicycles and some starving goats, was a very old woman in a beautiful abaya, a long dress, draping her wrinkled body. Her hair is covered, her teeth were falling out, and when Vivian greeted her with a warm, "Salaam alaiykum" (Peace be upon you, a typical Islamic greeting), the woman whispered such a weak, hoarse, and soft response that we had to sit down next to her, in the dirt and animal droppings, just to hear. While we talk, a little boy barely 3 years old ran around us barefoot, drinking soda from a plastic bag with a straw, and occasionally whacking the already dying goats with a wooden stick. The woman looks mildly interested as Vivian explains to her what the work of the Ombudsman Unit. When she finally decides to tell Vivian her troubles, it does not seem that she is doing so out of faith in the Ombudsman Unit's work or a feeling of hope that her situation would change. Instead, quite simply, this old woman just needs someone to talk to. She needs someone to give her back some dignity by listening to her and sympathizing, just so she can feel a little more human – a little more justified in her unhappiness, and not as though she is an animal who deserved no better.
Herein lies the Ombudsman Unit's greatest contribution to society: they are a group of well-educated, articulate, and determined people who are passionate about human rights and compassionate towards suffering from human rights violations. I asked Vivian what was the most difficult experience she had working with the Unit, "Once, a sick man asked me to get him medicine – he needed health care that the government hadn't yet provided. I called his house a few weeks later, and his daughter picked up the phone. He had died. I always feel so sad and guilty about this. I know I shouldn't, but I always wonder, what if I had worked a little bit harder." Despite such devastating setbacks, Vivian understands the power of an open ear, "Even if we cannot help everyone. We can listen. That's all people really want: someone from outside of their community to listen and sympathize. You have to make them feel, remind them, that you are a human being just like them; that you are not special because you have a job and a roof over your head. You just have to be human with them."
This old (she could not recall her age) woman at the back of the market found an audience in us. Her health is nonexistent: poor eyesight, zero dental care, malnutrition, weak bones, and it sounds like she may have a respiratory issue too. It was as if most days, she sat on this little mud rock hoping that someone would notice her: she seems to have given up on a bigger goal of being saved or lifted out of poverty a long time ago. Despite this, she offers us her chair and asked if we would like anything to drink. This had happened several times throughout the day. Apparently, hospitality is still a way of life for the most desperate in society. While their human dignity has been robbed, they are still able to respect the dignity of others: even if in the past, this respect has not been reciprocated and they were, instead, humiliated. She wants to show us her living arrangements. There are none. We walk down a small alley with clothes hanging from wire and doors in front of us and to the side. There is one bathroom where a goat and some dying chickens were tweeting bleakly, obscuring a small hole in the ground that apparently served as the toilet. The bedroom has crusty walls and one bed. This is all shared by three families, each made up of 6 to 7 people.
On the way back to Cairo, Vivian told me that sometimes she felt like she had "two lives." Reentering the main city and traveling between the two worlds of extreme poverty and extreme abundance can throw a person off. But it's worth it: the Ombudsman Unit will process the complaints back at the council, addressing each one individually, making the government aware of their findings, and following up on the situations with potential resolutions. The number of complaints and the difficulty any human rights organization has in moving the government to act will undoubtedly cause time lags and prevent many cases from being solved. However, while the solutions may be hard to come by, the Ombudsman Unit has won in some degree: little by little, with its efforts to increase awareness and start a dialogue, a human rights movement and culture is emerging in Egypt.
If you would like to get involved in the Ombudsman Unit and the work of the National Council for Human Rights, email your interest to Jumana Shehata (jumshehata@gmail.com).
