Palestinians on the Plane?

by Mahdi Sabbagh

As I enter the gate area in order to board, I am welcomed by the El Al Airlines’ lady standing in front of the entrance. She looks at my boarding pass and Israeli passport and tells me to go towards another lady standing in front of a different line. “It’s for standard security check” she says politely. “I already went through airport security” I respond.

She laughs and says: “This is Israeli security, it’s much better!”. I laugh along and proceed to hand the other lady my papers. The lady smiles and asks: “Where did you fly from?” I reply: “New York. It’s written on the plane ticket you’re holding” “And your final destination is Tel Aviv” “Yes.” She pauses, smiles again, and asks: “Where do you live in Israel?” “I live in Jerusalem”. She pauses again, continues “Where in Jerusalem?” I respond “Beit Hanina, in East Jerusalem”. She flips through my passport, asks me to wait on the side, takes my papers and walks to an area sealed off from the main sitting lounge with movable dividers.

The gate area fills up as more and more people check in and sit around in the waiting area. The lady comes back with my passport and asks me to follow her into the small room. She tells me that they are going to quickly scan my bags. I sit on a chair awkwardly positioned between a table and one of the dividing walls, start reading the wallpaper* magazine I had just bought, waiting for them to finish up. Three El Al staff come towards me and state that they will take my bags and jacket for a security check while one of them will give me a body search. No one had mentioned a body search when I was first told to proceed to the backroom but I play along regardless, and move into a tiny cubicle. The security man starts searching me, my arms, back, legs. He then asks me to take my shirt, shoes and belt off. He runs the cold plastic beeper around my waste and pants. The fake metallic buttons on my jeans make his machine beep. The security man gives it another try but the beeping persists. He tells me to wait, goes outside and comes back with his supervisor: “His trousers are causing a beeping, I think it’s ok”. The supervisor’s dark piercing eyes glare at me and says:

“Well, if it’s beeping, make him take his jeans off!”

The supervisor exits. The security man hesitates, but says: “I am sorry but I’m going to have to ask you to take your pants off.”

I recall friends going through similar experiences in the Tel Aviv airport but I never imagined myself in such a situation and not even in Israel or the Occupied Territories… I was still in Heathrow Airport, London! I stood still not really knowing how to respond to such a command. Should I accept the situation and comply? Is ‘please, take your pants off’ equivalent to ‘can I have your boarding pass please’ in the context of an airport security check? I start unbuttoning my pants and stop at the first button. Tense, light headed and realizing the absurdness of the situation, I look at the security man and say “This is unbelievable, are you seriously asking me to pull my pants down?” He responds very calmly: “This is just my job.” I reply: “But of course this is your job, I don’t see you asking every passenger to do the same.” He doesn’t respond. I bring myself together and think of the flight I have to catch in 30 minutes now. I focus on the systematic physical movement of unbuttoning my jeans; pulling them down for a few seconds and then pulling them back up. The operation goes by in no time. I collect my cloths and proceed into the room where my bags were being scanned. First glimpse towards my bags I realize that they had also gone through a similar experience. When I was told ‘a quick scan’ I expected someone to put my bags through an x-ray machine but instead, a lady was going through every compartment of my bag, taking out clothes, books, drawing pencils, electronics, and what have you, and dumping them into a large container. She had emptied my bag completely while I was being strip-searched.

As I approach to ask what the purpose of this procedure was, I notice the other security lady playing with my Ipod. She sees me and quickly places it down on the pile of things. The supervisor appears again with my coat and informs me that I cannot carry it with me on the plane. He says I have to leave it in my suitcase that I check in New York when I first departed. Curious about why one was not allowed to take a jacket onto an airplane I ask for an explanation. He stares at me, turns around and leaves. After a minute he comes back with my laptop stating that I also have to leave my laptop, camera and cellphone in the checked-in suitcase. I fly internationally very often and am usually aware of the typical procedures, but for a moment I wondered if there was a new law preventing me from taking anything but my clothes? Surely not. There was no way I was going to leave my laptop behind!

“I am sorry but I will not leave my laptop here. My suitecase isn’t even in the terminal yet because of the delay.”

“I’m sorry that’s how it works.”

I try to stay patient knowing that nothing I say will change the stubborn Israeli security supervisor.

“I don’t see you asking any other passenger to leave their electronics or coats behind. I don’t understand why I am going through this procedure and why I can’t keep my computer with me.”

“These are the laws, either you leave it with us and we put it in your suitcase when it arrives or you don’t get on the plane.”Several arguments later, (with the supervisor, the person who turned my bag upside down, and the person who stripped me) we do not reach an argument and the lady sitting at the entrance to the gate calls on the last passengers to board.

My flight leaves in 2 minutes. Do I do what feels right, which is to question the legality of their actions, whether this is just or ethical? Do I confront them individually? Do I ask to see a higher supervisor? Do I leave my belongings in Heathrow airport and board the plane?

I decide to end the humiliation and tell them that I would rather stay behind and catch a later flight with another airline than accept their unjust conditions and leave my belongings with them. With this decision, the questioning ends, they grab my belongings, dump them into my bag, hand it to me and send me off to the terminal. As the supervisor walks me to the exit I decide to give him a piece of my mind: “This system is unbelievably unjust. I am an Israeli citizen going back home! Out of all the Israelis going on that plane, you pick the only Arab one and make him miss his flight!” He doesn’t reply and escorts me to the exit.

I find myself walking away from the gate, towards the terminal, the ‘Departures’ screens with “Tel Aviv Flight Closing” shinning in bright red.

I walk slowly but steadily, no destination in mind. Walking as far away from the El Al staff as possible was the only thing on my mind. As I approach the main terminal, a bitter taste in my mouth, I try to assess what had just happened and realize that I put myself off that plane; that out of basic principle I had decided to end the nightmare and walk away. I had succeeded in that I was able to make a decision for my own and there was nothing they could do about it. Why did they pick me out of the line of people? Are the three staff seeing sense in what they had done? Do they truly think that pulling down my pants, checking the songs on my Ipod and asking me to leave my coat behind contribute to the ‘security’ of the airplane? I decide to keep the thinking for later and to try to catch the next flight.The British Airways staff tell me the ‘misunderstanding with El Al Airways’ was not their fault but mine because I had chosen not to depart and that there’s not much they can do but put me on stand-by for the next British Airways flight to Tel Aviv, in 12 hours!

I felt humiliated and terribly alone. There was no one I could turn to and nothing I could do in order to deal with the situation. What was I supposed to tell the British lady sitting at the counter: “I decided to get off the plane because I’d rather keep the little dignity that was left in me” “I can’t afford to leave half of my belonging behind”. “They wouldn’t let me on the plane because I am Palestinian?”

Stop.

by Sarika Arya

The stage is initially dark. A spotlight suddenly turns on Center Stage. The actress's first lines must be spoken, loud, screeching, sharp, clear, and strong, and, most importantly, coincide exactly with the turning on of the spotlight. This is a highly physical piece throughout, and may be subject to interpretation. The actress must have a full and powerful voice, but give off an ambience of weakness, exhaustion, and defeat: her physicality must be matched by strength in sound, since it will not be matched in strength of character.


JOSEPHINE: STOP! (Pause.) I screamed it. (Shorter pause. The lines are spoken quickly, clearly, frantically, without punctuation.) I screamed at the top of my lungs as I watched As I watched that soldier that solider take out Take out the gun slowly Slowly as if in slow motion Slowly Very Slowly We were walking We were walking to the fields Fields full of life Full of life Full of sweet life tea lives sugarcane bananas with mamma and sister working working Sweating working weaving Laughing working planting Resting working harvest harvest harvest Us walking walking THERE. (The lines have been building up to this moment, matched by the actress's physicality. Perhaps she is sitting then slowly rising, or walking in position then jumping forward, in a sudden movement, towards the audience. Creeping and then arriving. There is a pause.) STOP. (She points, accusingly, at the audience.) THERE. (Suddenly, in a whisper.) Gun. (At a normal sound level. Taking in mind punctuation now.) A big shiny black gun. And a boy. A soldier. Three. There were three. Pointing at Miriam, and pointing at me. And the three boys, soldiers, the men, that evil men, they destroyed Miriam and they destroyed me. But they didn't hurt themselves. They were machines. Their body had taken on the same mission as their gun. There was no separation between men and the metal. They had the same mission. One goal: capture and destroy.

(Beat. Speaking in monotone.)

I am 29 years old, and I have been raped. I have been raped again. And again. And again. And again. Another machine came to my house. He gagged me. And then he raped me. Again.

(Beat. Speaking with emotion.)

Now what? (Pause.) There is nothing left for me here. (Pause.) Everyone knows my story. (Suddenly in another moment, as if reliving a past experience.) He raped me! (Acting as someone else.) Stupid child! You spread your legs girl. You made it eaaaaasssssssy. (Still in character as the imaginary villager the actresses hisses and clicks her tongue, as if catcalling.)

(The actress, as herself now, heaves a loud, long, yet lifeless and defeated sigh that moves, shakes, and exhausts her whole body. Beat. Speaking matter-of-factly. As if unaffected by what she is saying.)

In the community, they made such fun of me that I had to leave the village and live in the forest. Today, the only thing that I can think about is that I want an abortion. I am hungry; I have no clothes and no soap. I don't have any money to pay for medical care. It would be better if I died with the baby in my womb.

(The actress is now standing in a neutral stance, center stage, with the spotlight still on her. There is a moment's silence, while she looks out into the audience. Her body remains completely still, highlighting the fact that she closes and opens her eyes – just once, without moving her head, and then – BLACKOUT.)

This monologue was inspired by an Amnesty International report on sexual and reproductive rights around the world and a true story from the Democratic Republic of Congo. The report can be viewed by downloading the PDF providing 'extra information' on this website. The story of Josephine is located on page 8.

Breaking Down Walls: On Past and Present-day Slavery

By Ashley Gutierrez

As co-Editor-in-Chief of the Yale Journal of Human Rights with Sarika, it is hard to find words to describe the excitement of seeing this blog come alive. A very special thanks to Oscar Pocasangre for his hard work in creating this; our wonderful, wonderful contributors; and everyone else who has helped that I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting - I look forward to working with all of you next school year.

I am writing from West Africa in Accra, Ghana where I am spending ten weeks of my summer. It is a country alive with such rich, rich culture and traditions, a nation inhibited by unusually friendly, respectful and perpetually smiling people. It is amazing to see, especially given the country's rough history.



Last weekend, I visited Elmina Castle, which the Portuguese built in Cape Coast, Ghana in 1482. It's a magnificent structure - straight out of the movies, with a drawbridge and cannons and tunnels. Its splendor is a direct paradox to the revolting undertakings of the past behind its walls. Elmina is the biggest slave castle in the world having administered the largest slave trade in history - in fact, the ancestors of most European Africans and African Americans today were probably shipped from that castle. I saw the dungeons where hundreds of Africans were locked for months, as they waited for the ships that would take them to Europe and its colonies. It was heartbreaking. Hundreds of slaves were crammed in these dungeons - in a space that was meant to barely fit half the number of occupants. They were fed once a day, locked in absolute darkness, and were not provided toilets or any sort of sewage system. The women were raped by soldiers, priests, and the guests of European governors. Any complaints meant being shackled and starved. People died of disease and despair daily, and their bodies were discarded indifferently. Those who survived the grueling months were those that were shipped away for trade - they were, after all, the strongest ones having survived such an ordeal. Survivors were led to a door that led straight to a ship, as the castle was situated right by the ocean: infamously called the "Door of No Return." No one has ever escaped in the history of the slave trade in that castle. Not one.

Today, less than 150 years later, Ghana is the model of democracy in West Africa and the first African American President of the United States of America is scheduled to tour the same castle in two weeks. Indeed, society has improved by leaps and bounds since the days of the Atlantic Slave Trade. Or has it?

In this very country, one does not need to look far to realize that the internal trafficking of children is one of its biggest challenges. Many Ghanaian children are trafficked from their home villages everyday to work in the fishing industry for cheap labor. This is only one of countless human injustices in this country, in this continent, in this world.

In the same way the incredible architecture of Elmina Castle masks its unspeakable inner workings from years past, are we also blinded by outwardly progressive fronts from real issues of modern day slavery? The difference between physical walls of structures like Elmina and metaphorical walls that stand erect worldwide, is that the latter are harder to break down - because most people do not know they exist.

Developing style

Recently I've been struggling with the impetus to do caricatures. I want to do abstracts and all my creativity seems to be focused on generating new abstract ideas. So I've decided to go with the flow and crate the abstracts. So, this is today's post, it's entitled emerging fire.

Other progress is I've started another acrylic painting of a street skater. I love it when the children are back at school...

I've also been writing my CV... and it isn't very long. When I consider my Occupational Therapy CV, it's laughable. Still, I have to start somewhere. Next step is choosing the pictures and emailing galleries. I've also got to decide which pictures to get made up into cards.

Israeli views on Iranian Elections

One of the most popular newspapers in Israel, Haaretz, is publishing Israeli opinions on Iranian elections. This reporter writes on how the election protests have suddenly made Iranians appear more human and humane to Israelis ordinarily jaded by news of Iran's Holocaust - denial and nuclear agenda.

Which Iran would Israel bomb?

By Zvi Bar'el, Haaretz Correspondent

Suddenly, there appears to be an Iranian people. Not just nuclear technology, extremist ayatollahs, the Holocaust-denying Ahmadinejad, and an axis of evil. All of a sudden, the ears need to be conditioned to hear other names: "'Mousawi' or 'Mousavi,' how is it pronounced exactly?"; Mehdi Karroubi; Khamenei ("It's not 'Khomeini'?"). Reports from Iranian bloggers fill the pages of the Hebrew press. Iranian commentators - in contrast to Iranian-affairs commentators - are now the leading pundits. The hot Internet connection with Radio Ran (the Persian-language radio station in Israel) is the latest gimmick. And most interesting and important is that the commentary on what is taking place in Iran is not being brought to the public by senior intelligence officers, but via images transmitted by television.

Click here to read the full article on the Haaretz website.

Remembering the Stonewall Riots

40 Years Later, Still Second-Class Americans

By Frank Rich
June 27, 2009

LIKE all students caught up in the civil rights and antiwar movements of the 1960s, I was riveted by the violent confrontations between the police and protestors in Selma, 1965, and Chicago, 1968. But I never heard about the several days of riots that rocked Greenwich Village after the police raided a gay bar called the Stonewall Inn in the wee hours of June 28, 1969 — 40 years ago today.

Click here to read the full article on The New York Times website.

At a Peace Rally for Iran on June 25th, 2009

by Kenneth Reveiz

NEW YORK - June 28, 2009

I found out about the rally through an old high school acquaintance’s Facebook status:

“PEACE RALLY FOR IRAN NEW YORK Candle Light Vigil for NEDA and all those who have been so BRAVE in IRAN. Please come and support them. Wednesday, Jun 24 - 7:00pm New York Metro Union Square NYC www.freeiranbracelet.org”

The website sells, as the Live Strong campaign did, bracelets. It plans on “donating the proceeds to Reporters without Borders, who have continuously put their lives at risk in various countries throughout the world, so that the truth can be shown to all the citizen’s [sic] in the world.”

After work—still dressed in suit and tie—I took the subway to Union Square and watched as, at around 7:10PM, under a slowly graying sky, scores of Iranians and non-Iranians stretched columns of green across the plaza. Green, of course, is the color of Islam.

“This is solidarity for Iranian people,” one woman explained in a British-schooled accent to her daughters, who were dressed like twins but weren’t twins. The shorter girl held an unlit candle, a perfect white circle.

At the edges of the expanding display of color, a bearded man held a large sign. It read “DEATH TO DICTATORS,” around which words he had pasted black-and-white computer-printed pictures of Supreme Leader Ayatollah Ali Khamenei, and President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, among others I did and didn’t recognize.

I was surprised to find opposition leader Mir-Hossein Mousavi on the poster. In fact, the bearded man was speaking to a tough-looking, white-haired police officer, complaining that he had been “pushed away” from the general demonstration. The others—one woman was near tears: “This is hurting! This is not our message!”—had been incensed by his “message of violence.” Claiming he had every right to be there as they did, it was determined that he should stand a little off to the side.

He spoke to a young woman with a tape recorder, explained that all those pictured on his poster were “basically the same,” explained that Mousavi was a hard-line dictator, no different from Ahmadinejad. I had heard one student call Ahmadinejad a “monster,” an “inhumane form of human being,” as “not deserving any kind of respect,” and “not part of Iran anymore.” I wondered if this man felt the same way about Ahmadinejad as she did, and still thought the comparison to Mousavi valid, I should have asked. In any case he spoke into the recorder with conviction, gently affirming his opinion, answering questions with the self-assurance of a serene and special truth.

An older, visibly distressed woman tried to interrupt the interview. “So aggressive—why is he so aggressive?” she asked after he and the reporter ignored her. Her husband cautioned her to not “entertain him.” I realized that, with black pen, he had scribbled into the eyes of his dictators.

There had been other rallies, in front of the United Nations building, at Union Square. This is what one tall, bespectacled redhead told me as she stretched a paper bag filled with pins to the crowd of at least a hundred.

One pin read, “NEDA Your voice will never die,” referring to a girl who was shot dead, allegedly by a Basij soldier. Videos and pictures of the brutal killing of the Iranian—now a martyr—circulate all over the Internet. “Neda” is Farsi for “voice.” A computer graphic of a dove, whose ruptured heart had plummeted centimeters below its body, accompanied the words.

The other pin read “WHERE IS MY VOTE?”

Sure enough, at the center of Union Square, which slowly grew darker, was, surrounded by a perimeter of young, white roses, a perimeter of white candles slowly being lit, which itself held down a banner, green and large: “WHERE IS MY VOTE?” with a splatter of blood; above the words were pictures of a brutalized Neda and more words: “Rest in Peace;” “Free Iran.”

As I walked back to the subway a man drew, with a compass, inky circles into a notebook.

Paul McCartney

A relatively quick sketch today, or it would have been if I hadn't done the hair black. Grey would have been better. Anyway, here's Macca! I thought I'd add a few iconic background props, a feeble excuse to draw a mini. I like minis! I thought I'd play with the features a bit. His eyes do slope, but not quite that much. I seem to have a likeness.

He looks really scared though, maybe I should bring the eyebrows down, or give him something to be scared off, like a beefburger!

Happy One Month Anniversary!

by Sarika Arya

About one month ago, the Yale Journal of Human Rights blog was born. While I crafted its first piece (FAQ: The Yale Journal of Human Rights), Oscar Pocasangre handled the web design, and through word of mouth, emails, and a lot of persistence we expanded our audience and recruited more contributors. Now, through a massive group effort – far beyond just Oscar and me – the blog has combined creative elements with academia and politics, making it a legitimate and engaging forum for human rights discussion not just for Yale students but for all sorts of people around the world -- college students, professors, human rights experts, former politicians and government officials, and even a national organization in Egypt have all sent us their best wishes and encouragement. Congratulations to all our contributors! We are in a truly happy relationship with our little web space that is making a lot of noise; so happy one month anniversary, baby, and happy reading to our followers!

Although the blog is still in its beginnings, here are some interesting facts after just one month:

407 different people have visited this blog 1,625 times.

The average time spent on the website is 3 minutes and 57 seconds.

Unsurprisingly, though interestingly enough, our map shows 0 visits from China; however, we know people have accessed the blog from China through a proxy server based out of the U.S.

In order from greatest to least visits, the countries that most frequent this site are: the United States, Egypt, the United Kingdom, Peru, Israel & the Occupied Palestinian Territories, El Salvador, Denmark, Germany, France, and Canada.

On average, 60.93% of the visits we receive everyday are from new readers.

Aw shucks, this is just great.

A very special thanks to: Oscar Pocasangre (our resident web designer and Internet mastermind) Max & the Timothy Dwight Blogspot, and Meredith Morrison for getting the ball rolling and maxing out on the publicity work.

The Danish Touch

by Sarah Sloan

I’ve been in Copenhagen for a few weeks now, and the thing that strikes me most is that it's a city that makes sense. Everything about it is considered and planned, designed with its citizens' best interest in mind. It seems engineered to keep people healthy and safe and the environment clean. Beautiful and well-kept public parks encourage people to go outside, and a well-run public transportation system makes the whole city easily accessible. Not only is it physically convenient to bike- there are paths and lanes everywhere- but also financially convenient: cars here are taxed at nearly 200% of their value. Grocery stores here simply do not provide bags; you are forced to bring your own.

The longer I’m here, the more I think about what human rights means in developed countries. It’s easy to focus on blatant abuses in war-torn and destabilized countries, but what about the more subtle abuses in Europe or the United States?

In my opinion, Denmark has excelled at upholding some of the rights from The Universal Declaration of Human Rights that are often overlooked or deemed less important than others. The Declaration guarantees the right to rest and leisure, the right to an adequate standard of living, and to just and favorable conditions of work. In this vein, Danish law states that no employer can expect anyone to work more than 37 hours a week. Working more certainly happens, but there cannot be a base assumption that it will. The Danes clearly respect life outside of work; in fact, they are required to take 6 weeks vacation. What’s more, fathers get 2 weeks off immediately after their child is born, and mothers can get up to a year off for maternity leave, which they can divide with the father: 6 months and 6 months, 7 and 5, etc. Of course, taxes are extremely high here (sometimes over 60% of one's income) but as a result, the gap between rich and poor is much less obvious here than it is in the United States. I have yet to see a truly rundown part of Copenhagen.

While the Danish system is far from perfect, I can't help thinking that the United States could learn from its example.

A Hard Truth to Learn

by Timmia Hearn Feldman

We people with a sense of “Western guilt” generally feel it is necessary to volunteer in the “developing” world, believing that such generosity will clear our consciences. So many before me have wanted to travel to parts of the world where they feel as though they can actually do some good. There is a self- sacrificial allure in abandoning all the hard won comforts of the West and roughing it in countries where poverty is normal and accepted, where we imagine starving children on the streets. We romanticize the idea of facing the horror and reality that we know exists in the developing world. Years of reading tales of poverty that we have never personally known weigh on our minds, and so we venture abroad.

When we step off planes in those fabled countries of poverty and natural beauty, we expect something to happen. We expect to find excitement. Perhaps children reaching out to us with scraggy arms, whose lives we can change with a smile, or a gift of clothing, or an English lesson. We hope to see parts of life we’ve never imagined. We think the poverty will shock us. We expect every moment of our stay to confirm our beliefs that the West has got life right. Children begging on the streets with bones sticking out of their skin, lost children needing love. But, perhaps, what ends up surprising us most, is how normal life seems, even within the context of such poverty.

Yes, some of the things we see strike horror into our hearts, but somehow it isn’t what we imagined. It’s not romantic. It’s just there.

I didn’t know what to expect when I came here to the Esther Benjamins Memorial Foundation (EBMF) refuge for street children, children whose parents are in jail and children who have been trafficked. But it wasn’t 103 relatively well-fed happy children in quite nice clothes. It wasn’t children who decidedly don’t need me, who play football (soccer) and cricket on their afternoons off and get pocket money. Here, I have met girls who are vain about their appearance and boys who are cheeky and make jokes about me behind their hands and smiles. I won’t lie that I expected to be able to make a lasting impact. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that life is just never going to be that simple, and that, alone, I do not have the kind of power to reap change in my wake.

A few weeks ago I went to the house where two of the EBMF children lived before coming here: a shack on the side of the road; a shack made of wood and mud and tin. Nirmaya and Rajkumar were both terrified on their journey to see their families, though they said nothing. When we arrived a scattering of people stood and squatted around the hut. A number of skinny children with unkempt hair, an old couple, the man with only two teeth and legs that looked like gnarled trees, and the woman without a shirt, but with a torso so withered and wrinkled that is somehow didn’t look revealing. A few young women stood around the edge. At the very center of the group sat their older sister’s uncle. The only one who looked well fed looked up only momentarily as our party approached. Nirmaya burst into the tears when we got out and stood in front of what was once her home. Her family just stared at her and her little brother, the two of them dressed in clean western clothes. Their mother wasn’t there. Their older sister went to fetch her. She came, an old looking woman with a withered face, bare feet and a belly extended by age or malnutrition. She didn’t even look at her son, but stared at Nirmaya. Silence. Then Nirmaya started yelling at her. I don’t know what she said, it was in Nepali, but it was clearly an accusation. I know that one of their older sisters was trafficked once, then reunited with her family, and trafficked a second time. No one knows where she is now. I also know that their father had died since they had last been home.

That kind of scene, the one that tears at your heart and makes you want to pull these children into your arms is what we expect when we go to volunteer for abandoned children. But that was one painful moment among so many mundane ones. When I first met Nirmaya, I thought she was a bully, and, to be honest, she is. She has no qualms pushing and bossing around children many years her junior. She grows furious if she isn’t the best at sports (which, as she storms off, instead of practicing, is generally true). There is a hardness in her eyes which knows the meaning of hatred and revenge. And who can blame her? She is stunning, with hard features, and glittering eyes out of which real intelligence and knowledge shines. About thirteen or fourteen, she hasn’t been willing to take life lying down like most of the girls here. I admire her for her spunk, but at the same time, I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know how to show her to trust, to love, to care. She has all the essentials in life: food, a warm safe bed, clothes and an education. What else can I give her? It is here, at the point where children are no longer holding out dirty skinny arms for food and clothing that the real work, the real ability to help a child do more than merely survival, exists. And it is here that there is no obvious solution.

In Nirmaya’s particular story, there has been a change since we visited her family. There is something subtly different in the way she smiles. She no longer plasters a hard smile on her face when she sees me, instead, actual happiness creases the corners of those eyes. Something changed back in front of her mother’s hut. Something changed in the moment she burst into tears and I, instead of trying to shush her like the other EBMF staff, pulled her close to me and held her, even as her shoulders remained stiff against me. Something changed as we rode back in the rickety car, as she stared out the window with hot tears in her eyes, and I reached over and squeezed her shoulder. Behind the fake, hard smile she flashed, there was something else. Gratefulness? I don’t know, but it was something. I don’t know how to gain more of Nirmaya’s trust, except to be especially kind to her and hug her as often as possible.

The thing about poverty, about terrible situations and past suffering, is that people have a streak of optimism that keeps them going. No matter how much the kids here at EBMF have suffered, they are, after all children, and children just want to laugh and have fun and be loved. Yes, we have children here who’ve been in jail, who’ve been sexually abused by fathers and strangers, and children who were found begging on streets, but one wouldn’t guess it by looking at them. A surprising number of them do have scars, but that is hardly noticeable. What shows more is their smiles, their laughter, their cheek, and their independence. Here, I am not needed. They already have a full staff, and do their own cleaning and help with cooking. I came to EBMF to help, to make an impact, to change lives. I arrived with a bravado common of Westerners in their power to right poverty and give to those less privileged. And now, every night I teach a lesson. I play with the younger children sometimes during the day. I try to give as much love as possible. Here, I’m learning the hardest lesson I’ve ever had to learn, and the most essential: that to help is never easy. That trying to fight for human rights is more than having good intentions. Far far far more. Time moves differently in the developing world. Things always happen late, even lessons in school begin slowly. Punctuality and accuracy are not common. For all the good will and desire of the children to not be lazy, and for the fact that they never complain when given extra classes, their motivation for swift learning is low. Their openness to new ideas is limited.

Of course it is. Any child would be like that. But because I came here to help, I feel like it should be different. Now that I have set aside my tarnished romantic images of poverty and aid work, I have to settle for making less of an impact than I’d hoped: for working according to the slow time here, not battling with it. Like any person who cares about human rights, I have to learn that I cannot save the world. But that doesn’t mean that it’s not worth trying my hardest to help the individual.

The Journal Remembers Michael Jackson

The Journal would like to pay tribute to Michael Jackson (August 29, 1958 - June 25, 2009) by posting our favorite Michael Jackson lyrics. These words continually give us the determination to strive for a better world by first bettering ourselves. We thank him for using music to remind us of this responsibility that we have to ourselves and to our world:

Gonna make a change
For once in my life
It's gonna feel real good
Gonna make a difference
Gonna make it right

As I turned up the collar on
My favorite winter coat
This wind is blowin' my mind
I see the kids in the street
With not enough to eat
Who am I to be blind
Pretending not to see their needs

A summer's disregard
A broken bottle top
And one man's soul
They follow each other
On the wind, ya' know
'Cause they got nowhere to go
That's why I want you to know

I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change
Na na na, na na na, na na na na

I've been a victim of
A selfish kinda love
It's time that I realize
There are some with no home
Not a nickel to loan
Could it be really me

Pretending that they're not alone

A willow, deeply scarred
Somebody's broken heart
And a washed out dream
(Washed-out dream)
They follow the pattern of the wind, ya' see
'Cause they got no place to be
That's why I'm starting with me

I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change

I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make that change

I'm starting with the man in the mirror
(Man in the mirror, oh yeah)
I'm asking him to change his ways, yeah
(Change)
No message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make the change
You gotta get it right, while you got the time
'Cause when you close your heart
(You can't close your, your mind)
Then you close your mind

(That man, that man, that man)
(That man, that man, that man)
(With the man in the mirror, oh yeah)
(That man you know, that man you know)
(That man you know, that man you know)
I'm asking him to change his ways
(Change)
No message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself then make that change

(Na na na, na na na, na na na na)
Ooh, oh yeah
Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah
(Na na na, na na na, na na na na)

Oh no
Oh no, I'm gonna make a change
It's gonna feel real good
Sure mon
(Change)
Just lift yourself
You know, you got to stop it yourself
(Yeah)
Oh, make that change
(I gotta make that change today, oh)
(Man in the mirror)
You got to, you got to not let yourself, brother oh
Yeah
You know that
(Make that change)
(I gotta make that make me then make)
You got, you got to move
Sure mon, sure mon
You got to
(Stand up, stand up, stand up)
Make that change
Stand up and lift yourself, now
(Man in the mirror)
Make that change
(Gonna make that change, sure mon)
(Man in the mirror)
You know it, you know it, you know it, you know
(Change)
Make that change


Man in the Mirror - MJ, Spring 1988

ADIDAS F50i TUNIT SOCCER BOOTS FOR 2009/10 HAVE ARRIVED

The new Adidas F50i Tunit soccer boots are now in stock in limited quantities at North America Sports. The New F50i is available in two models which are synthetic cyan and a black leather. The Adidas F50i Tunit as worn by Messi of FC Barcelona in the Champions League Final and several other players in the 2009 Confederations Cup. They are packaged with two additional F50 stud sets for hard and soft ground and a F50 stud wrench.

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A new conspiracy

I've not posted for a few days because life is taking over again...

Tuesday, delivered completed commission, client very happy, got paid. Returned home to start painting - had bought some lilies for the purpose. Received phone call, could I collect Siobhan she was feeling sick! The rest of the day was comforting her and trying to celebrate my birthday... I've had better.

Wednesday, craft day, swimming and friends husband involved in major car accident. Fortunately all involved survived and injuries relatively minor. Evening spent at A and E department...

Yesterday - I was in a non-functional state due to lack of sleep the night before. Despite this, I started some abstracts which were finally finished today. I've started another figure painting, just pencils lines so far. Hopefully I'll get some more done tomorrow.

ITALY PUMA BAG & BACKPACK ARRIVED TODAY

Official Italy Puma King equipment bags arrived today, commemorating the Confederation Cup 2009. We currently have in stock the Italia Puma King Bag, Italia Puma King Backpack and an Italia Puma King Gym Sack in limited quantities.

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Ronaldo is back in Europe

Cristiano Ronaldo is back in Lisbon from L.A !He was spotted by paparazzi cameras at Lisbon's airport, having arrived in a private jet,after landing, he jumped straight into the Ferrari. He spent his firs day back shopping and driving around with his Ferrari 599GTB.It seems like he is now going to spend some days on vacation in his native country.
He refused to talk to the press but he confirmed that his presentation for Real Madrid will be in 30 June.

Cristiano Ronaldo back from L.A. video

EXCLUSIVE: In Conversation with Dr. Boutros Boutros Ghali, Former Secretary-General of the UN

-- Contributed by Sarika Arya and Meredith Morrison

Today, the two of us sat down with Dr. Boutros Boutros Ghali (DR. BBG), the 6th Secretary General of the United Nations (January 1992- January 1997) and the current President of the National Council for Human Rights (NCHR) in Egypt. The three of us were alone on the 11th floor of the NCHR building (once the former headquarters of the Egyptian Communist Party), in his office: an intimate square room adorned with medals, certificates, books, a beautiful wooden desk, and golden curtains that drape a window overlooking the Nile River. Dr. Boutros Boutros Ghali wore an off-white linen suit, squinted his eyes, thinking hard before he answered every question, and despite his calm, soft spoken nature and 5' 5'' stature, was still able to command the room with his well-articulated and sharp opinions. In this historical, political, and all together human rights-y setting, we talked about Barack Obama, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and the best part of being Secretary General.




Q: How do you define human rights?

DR. BBG: I believe it is related to the essence of men and women – by the fact that they exist, they have basic rights. And these basic rights, which correspond to their nature, their personality, we call them human rights. By the way – human rights is a continuous process; it means every year we may have new technological inventions and new problems, which are different – like the problem of climate – and this asks us to take into consideration drastic change and the fact that this change asks us to have new human rights which correspond to this new change in the public life, in the climatic life.


Q: What are the challenges of being a quasi-governmental organization that does human rights work – rather than being an NGO – as far as the NCHR is concerned?

DR. BBG: This was decided by the United Nations, which met in a summit meeting, which was held in Vienna in 1993 and then later in other meetings, in which they asked the different member states to create national commissions to take care of and promote human rights, to promote the culture of human rights, and to assist the governments. And those commissions have only an advisory opinion. They cannot intervene; their intervention is solely in declaration.


Q: Do you think human rights are a top priority for governments? If not, how can that change?

DR. BBG: I think it depends on governments. Certain governments, for them, it is a priority; other countries have other problems. For example, illiteracy, which is, in certain countries, 50% of the population, or deep poverty – so the priority will be to overcome this illiteracy, to overcome poverty, and only then they will move to a second step, which is to protect human rights. So it depends on different governments, and it depends on different periods.
During the Cold War, the United Nations was not paying attention to human rights, and they began to pay attention to human rights and the relationship between human rights and democracy only after the end of the Cold War. But because of the Cold War, it was very difficult to make a relation between democracy and human rights, so we had more than 50% of the countries who were members of the United Nations, which did not have democratic systems, and the United Nations was not involved in promoting democracy. Because if you remember Article 2, Paragraph 7 of the Charter, it mentions that the United Nations is not allowed to interfere in the internal affairs of member states.


Q: What do you think is the relationship between democracy and human rights?

DR. BBG: Oh, there is a big correlation: we cannot have human rights without a democratic system, and we cannot have a democratic system with the protection of human rights. They are integrated together. Democracy is the system which will protect human rights.


Q: How do politics influence human rights – not only in Egypt, but also in the Middle East as a whole?

DR. BBG: I believe this is not limited to the Middle East, or to Egypt; it is seen in all parts of the world. If you have a military coup d’etat in Country A, he will not pay attention to human rights; he will just pay attention to how to reinforce his position after the military coup. Politics is related to democracy; democracy is related to human rights; human rights and democracy are related to economic development. So there is a kind of implication between those three different concepts.


Q: In your opinion, what is the greatest humanitarian concern facing Egypt today?

DR. BBG: I believe that you have many problems. First, you have a very high proportion of the population who are illiterate, so this is a concern. Secondly, that a high proportion of the population is very poor; this is a second concern. And a third concern is that the population, the 80 million Egyptians, are concentrated in only 4-5% of the territory; 95% of the territory is a desert. So how can we accomplish improvement? We need additional water and food. There is no rain in this part of the world, so this is related to the Nile Basin, and the possibility of having better cooperation between the different countries of the Nile Basin.


Q: What do you think is the greatest obstacle standing in the way of protecting human rights around the world?

DR. BBG: Again, you have not one obstacle; it depends. Supposing you have a military coup – the effect, the absence or the end of the democratic regime, is a basic obstacle here. In another country, you may have, suddenly, a terrible earthquake, and this would be the main concern. In a third country, you can have a new disease. Today, you can have the economic crisis. So you have not one obstacle. It depends on the period; it depends on the country; it depends on many elements.


Q: Can you recall an interesting story during your time as Secretary General, in which you learned something about human rights – positive or negative?

DR. BBG: I believe that what was important was the conference that was held in Vienna in 1993. There, for the first time, we were able to discuss the problem of human rights, to give a new dimension to human rights, and to show the importance of the relation between democracy and human rights. Because before there was a kind of division: democracy was related to the internal affairs of the state, so the United Nations was not allowed to intervene in the internal affairs of the state, and you had many countries which were not democratic countries. Change happened only in 1993, when we were at the end of the Cold War, and when we were able to show the profound relation between democracy and human rights.


Q: What was the best part about being Secretary General of the UN?

DR. BBG: It means you are able to succeed in an operation, like to put an end to apartheid in South Africa, and to find a solution to civil war in Mozambique or in El Salvador. This gives you a real satisfaction, that you have been able to achieve something. You may certainly have a disaster, like in Yugoslavia, and like the genocide in Rwanda, and then it is a failure. So the life is composed of success and failure. And what is important is in the case of the failure, you must still be an optimist, and in case of success, you must not exaggerate the importance of this success.


Q: What did the genocide in Rwanda teach you about the tension between intervening in the internal affairs of a country and protecting human rights?

DR. BBG: It taught me that the international community was not interested to intervene, and then that you have two kinds of conflicts. You have what I call the orphan conflicts, where the international society is not interested to intervene. Take the case of Somalia, a country which disappeared, which is a failed state, since 1990, and we are now in 2009. And you have another country, where suddenly everybody pays attention; in Yugoslavia, for example. So the real problem is that you have a kind of discrimination at the world level, between a dispute which attracts the public opinion, which obtained the intervention of the international community, and a dispute that doesn’t interest the international community, in which the international community is not ready to intervene to solve this dispute. So here again you have a kind of discrimination concerning the attitude of the international community concerning protecting international disputes, where disputes which obtain the mediation of the international community, the intervention of the United Nations, and other disputes, which, unfortunately, don’t obtain the attention of the international community and don’t obtain the intervention of the international community.


Q: Why do some cases get international attention and others don’t? What is the difference between a Yugoslavia and a Somalia?

DR. BBG: I believe that there still is a discrimination, that they pay attention to what is going on in Europe, and they pay less attention to what is going on in Africa. Still, there are, in the public mentality, first class countries and second class countries.


Q: What is your feeling about President Obama? Do you have faith in him to make progress in the Middle East peace process?

DR. BBG: I cannot give you any answer before one year.


Q: What were your thoughts on his speech that he gave in Cairo?

DR. BBG: I was there, and I was very much impressed by the speech, but as I mention, it is only a speech.


Q: How do you see the peace process moving forward, as far as Israel and Palestine are concerned?

DR. BBG: I am pessimist, maybe because of my age, because I have spent 50 years of my life trying to solve this problem, and I believe that this problem will not be solved during this generation. I have published a book, which is now adapted, with the president of Israel – Shimon Peres – and at the end of the book, which is a conversation of 20 hours, I mention: like Moses, and like Sadat, I will not see the Promised Lands.


Q: What would you recommend that we do, as students who study this and put all of our time into this?

DR. BBG: I believe that it is very important to pay attention to foreign affairs, because we will be confronted in the next years, in the next 10 years, in the next 20 years, by new events – what I call globalization – where the local problem will not be solved at the local level; it will be solved at the international level. So you who represent the young generation, you must pay attention to foreign affairs. Foreign affairs is what happens in Guatemala and Somalia, what happens in Mongolia. And try to open the window so that your country, the United States, will be more involved in international affairs. This is not only for the United States, but for all of the member states, because tomorrow, certain local problems will not be solved at the local level, but will be solved at the international level. So if you want to avoid that the solution will be imposed on you, then you have to participate in the solution of this problem, and the solution of this problem is an international solution. And to be able to be able to participate in an international solution, you need to pay attention to foreign affairs. You need this kind of education. The time that you spend here for one or two months is already a first step to help you pay attention to what is going on in Africa, in Egypt, in India, in different parts of the world. And this is my message to the young generation.

It's Something

by Timmia Hearn Feldman

“Marco.... Polo.... was ..... born....” Jaya begins giggling before she can finish reading the sentence. I’m helping her with her English homework, and like most of the girls here, she dissolves into embarrassed giggles at every inadequacy she finds in herself. Particularly when it comes to lessons. This is the first time I’ve worked privately with Jaya. She’s in class eight, one of the girls who is so shy and embarrassed to speak before the large class, that, were we in a western culture, I would grow most impatient with. However, here, where most women are married by their early twenties and never question the physical abuse of their husbands, I have nothing but worry and patience for this behavior. And though women’s rights are taken serious here at the Esther Benjamins Memorial Foundation (EBMF), the directress and assistant directress both being virtual feminists, there is still Nepali culture at large, not to mention the girls pasts, to contend with.

Jaya might be as intelligent as she is sweet, but I have no way of telling as I help her pronounce words and understand what the sentences mean. Although I have a shrewd suspicion that she could understand if only she would stop dissolving into embarrassed giggles, we make incredibly slow progress. Like most of the students here, she wants me to tell her exactly what to say, and doesn’t really understand the concept of writing a sentence of her own creation. All the students have that problem, but it is exacerbated in the girls by their tendency to doubt themselves. Teaching Jaya at this point feels like banging my head against a wall. Nevertheless, convinced that we’ll get somewhere eventually, I read the little excerpt with her for what must be the fourth time, trying, still trying, to show her how she can find the answers to the study guide questions within the text. In congruence with the mission of EBMF, I am determined to help Jaya and the other girls here gain confidence in themselves, and fully understand that submitting to abuse and second class treatment is never right.

Still, despite the decidedly modernist and progressive stand taken here on the rights of women, a full 45 out of the 65 girls here (and hence almost all the girls above the age of ten) were rescued from circuses. Now, to say that they were trafficked into circuses and were rescued sounds something like a joke. In fact, before coming here, when I explained to friends where many of the children were rescued from, they thought it was funny, and tended to assume it was some bleeding heart nonsense about rescuing kids from “bad” situations. However, in the circuses which these girls were trafficked into they were literally slaves. Woken at the crack of dawn, they would work cleaning the circus and trained for hours before being fed a small amount of food. Performing in generally three shows a day, with virtually no safety measures, the girls were never even skilled at their acts, and frequently suffered injury and illness, with no treatment. Their young bodies were displayed more as sexual objects than anything else, sometimes performing at the dead of night for an all male audience of drunken businessmen. Additionally, an unstated number were sexually abused by the circus managers. I say unstated here because their files give nothing away. Those who have been abused have only ever said it in secret. Having been sexually abused is a mark of shame in a society where a girl's purity and modesty are prized so highly. A society where marriage is a girl's purpose in life and the shame of sexual abuse would jeopardize her forever. Many of those girls came from backgrounds of sexual abuse by their own fathers and uncles. Again, stories that will never be told. It is no wonder these girls laugh behind their hands. No wonder they are always embarrassed to speak up in front of teachers. No wonder they tell me they are fine even when obviously crying.

Jaya was once a circus girl. I don’t know how many years ago she was rescued, but I don’t need to look at her file to know that the memories still affect her. Once girls come to an EBMF refuge site (there are three different sites) they are provided with safety, and at least some degree of encouragement. But they are still dealing with teachers who call them stupid in front of their peers, with memories buried deep and painful, and with the constant pressure to always act politely and pretend to be happy. I went to Jaya’s school a few weeks ago, to see the quality of English education, and though what I found didn’t surprise me, it saddened me.

Their teachers hardly know more English than the students. They teach from text books which ramble on about the average weight of camels and the various steps to reviving a person by mouth to mouth resuscitation, but scarcely bother to teach new vocabulary or to mention grammar. To make matters worse, though the students are far better behaved in class than average American students, they are so thoroughly disrespected by their teachers that my first impulse was to shove the teacher out of the room and take over myself. In the second lesson we sat in on, the teacher spent several prolonged minutes asking us how it was possible that we were teaching English to the EBMF students when they were so, “hopeless and stupid.” I responded coldly that they were certainly far from hopeless, and made sure to tell my two students in her class that she didn’t know what she was talking about and that they were both quite good at English, which, as a mater of fact, was true. But one cannot expect a student to perform well in the face of such discouragement. Now, as I work with Jaya, she keeps apologizing to me, between giggles, for being so poor at English. I tell her, rather sternly, that she should stop doubting herself and simply concentrate on her studies.

It isn’t just in the realm of the classroom that these girls find room for feeling inferior. Though it is true that they are friends with the boys, and speak to them face to face without flinching, it is also true that many of them, particularly the circus rescue girls, have none of the self confidence or self possession that all the boys and the girls who come from other backgrounds have. I went on a trek with eight students a few days ago, and as night fell on our one night away from the refuge one of the girls began to cry, another, who was sharing my tent, begged me to come to sleep early, because she was too afraid to go alone. Ghosts, they said, might attack them. The boys, though they, too, believe in ghosts, are not afraid. To them, life is still under their control. In fact, in all the boys over twelve, there is an arrogance that comes with knowing that, no mater what, they are dominant in this culture. Though they don’t exactly talk down to the girls, and are generally respectful to me during class, there is something in their manner that is not simply the cockiness of any boy, but instead a feeling of definite superiority. Though, like the girls' insecurity, instead of being infuriating individually, it is maddening on the whole. The five boys who come from circuses are proud of the gymnastic abilities they picked up. Two of them have gone on to win medals in gymnastic competitions in Kathmandu. They are not embarrassed to talk about their time in the circus. Their stories are ones that can be told. But the stories of Jaya can never be told. No matter how much I believe that truth is preferable to lies, nor how passionately I want stories of human rights abuses to be told so that the causes can be found and eradicated, the mouths of these girls, most of them young women by now, are sealed forever by a culture that teaches them to look pretty and be polite. Here all my western convictions that talking through painful truths and being allowed to cry is healing and necessary for true recovery from trauma, are of no more use than my knowledge of the Boston Tea Party. I’m learning, slowly, and certainly painfully, what so many have learned before me: that I will never really know the impact of my work here, never know if the genuine love I feel for some of the children who I’ve developed personal relationships with, will effect them in any real way. Never know if my English lessons will do more than frustrate them for a few evenings. Never know if all our talk and laughter and comparisons of culture will do more than make them shake their heads at the strangeness of the west. Never know if my love of being here is anything more than a selfish amazement of the beauty of the east, an infatuation born in so many westerners before me. But, without any certainty, I will keep trying. I bend over the little text book with Jaya, reassuring her that she isn’t “very bad” at English. Encouraging her. Pushing her to think for herself. Refusing to feed her answers. Over an hour later, snack time arrives. I usher a mentally tired Jaya from the room, drained myself. It may not be a success story, but it’s something, I tell myself as I drink my over-sweetened tea.

NEW REAL MADRID JERSEY 2009/10 HOME & AWAY JUST ARRIVED

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A Day in the Life of the Ombudsman Unit

by Sarika Arya

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 looking 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).

Twitter Solidarity

If you're on twitter, set your location to Tehran & your time zone to GMT +3.30. Iranian security forces are hunting for bloggers using location/timezone searches. The more people at this location, the more of a logjam it creates for forces trying to shut down Iranians' access to the internet. Please copy & paste & pass it on.

Banning the Burqa?

by Oscar Pocasangre

Today, while checking out the New York Times before starting my work, I stumbled upon an article that gave me a hard case of cognitive dissonance that I'm still trying to resolve. The article discussed how French President Nicolas Sarkozy is leading a campaign to ban the Muslim burqa in France on the grounds that it is demeaning and oppressive for women. Sarkozy argued that France cannot allow for women to continue being prisoners in these garments.

I wholeheartedly agree that women should not be oppressed or kept at the margin of social life. Indeed, women are entitled to be active citizens and nothing should bar them from the day to day happenings of society. But I don't know how I feel about banning a clothing garment that is intimately associated with a religion.

Isn't this - telling people what they can and cannot wear - being too invasive of personal life? Is the French government going too far? Back in 2004, it even banned conspicuous religious symbols from schools. Doesn't this go against Article 18 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights which states that "everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes freedom to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance"?

Personally, if the government of my country were to prohibit wearing crucifixes I would feel like my right to manifest and observe my religious beliefs is being violated. I know that a crucifix does not marginalize me, but wearing it is a religious tradition in Catholicism just like wearing the burqa is in Islam. While, I don't know enough about Islam and its practices to say that women who adhere to its religious traditions should wear them, I do feel that if a woman wants to wear it and feels comfortable wearing it, she should be able to.

I do not believe that it is the garment, per se, what is oppressing women. A culture of domineering males who don't allow their wives, daugthers, or sisters to express themselves freely and limit their life opportunities in many different domains is the problem that should be addressed if any change is to be made. Moreover - and I know this sounds idealistic and might border on cliché - we should all make an effort to understand the values of other cultures and religions and recognize that many times they will differ from ours.