It's Only Africa.

(Picture taken from BBC Newsnight website.)

by Kwaku Osei, Saybrook College, Yale 2010
Accra, Ghana

I don’t blog.

It’s just not something I do. I have never really felt so strongly about something that I feel the urge to write it down and share it with the world. And on the off- chance that something really gets my blood boiling, I have never felt like I have much to say. This has been my philosophy for the better part of the past few years.

So what is it, you ask, that brought me out from hiding and forced me to go against my philosophy on blogging? Oh, only some new developments in the biggest toxic dumping scandal of the 21st century that no one is talking about! I was so pissed off when I read this article; not only because the Ivory Coast is near and dear to my heart (my older brother grew up there) but also because it is yet another reminder of a global attitude towards the African continent that continues to anger, frustrate, and confuse myself, other Africans, and all human beings with any sense of empathy.



If before now, you haven't heard of the Trafigura Scandal, I encourage you to take 10 minutes to educate yourself by watching this video. For those of you with a little more time on your hands, or with more of a need to procrastinate, this video goes a bit more in depth. And if you prefer to read go here.

The initial article that I linked to (and the one that inspired me to hop into the blogosphere) basically says that emails obtained by the BBC reveal that high level executives in Trafigura, the oil company at the center of the case, knew perfectly well about the hazardous nature of the waste that they were dumping in the Ivory Coast and were perfectly aware that it might have dangerous consequences for the population living there. This discredits their previously held stance that the toxic waste couldn't possibly have caused the illnesses and deaths in the affected regions.

"The e-mails obtained by [BBC] Newsnight show that in the months before the waste was dumped the company knew about the difficulties they would face in disposing of the waste. 'This operation is no longer allowed in the European Union, the United States and Singapore" it is "banned in most countries due to the 'hazardous nature of the waste,' one e-mail warns. Another e-mail points out that "environmental agencies do not allow disposal of the toxic caustic."

This new development raises many questions. Why did Trafigura, knowing all of this, and after being prevented from treating the waste in the Netherlands, decide to move it to the Ivory Coast, a country still recovering from civil war? Why is this scandal so underrepresented in the media, and barely even reported on? How would the coverage and handling of the scandal be different if the waste had been dumped in a different country?

I think the answer to one of these “Whys?” is pretty easy to determine: Because companies, and especially oil companies, are out to make profits. This is what happens when corporations focus solely on their bottom line. Stories like just convince me that a lot of right can be done in the world if we set our goals above the bottom line, putting people over profits.

The other reason why this happened and why it's so under- reported is even more frustrating to acknowledge. After telling this story to my friend Drew Ruben (great kid, founder of Blue State Coffee; y'all should check him out) he said as horrified as he was he wasn't surprised. You see a few months ago, he had the opportunity to meet Harold Koh, former Dean of Yale Law School and current legal adviser to the United States Department of State. Ruben asked him "Why isn't more being done or said about the Darfur conflict?"

Koh’s response? "Because it's Africa."

That's the way the world thinks. It should therefore not be surprising that a company like Trafigura would feel that they can get away with injustice. We also should not be surprised that stories like this never make mainstream media.

After all, it's only Africa.

Check out Kwaku's blog, Afropolithoughts, here.

NBA Diplomacy

by Avi Kupfer,
Pierson College, Yale 2010

A strange phenomenon takes place every year during the final weeks of the professional basketball season. With playoff dreams unrealizable and no hope for salvaging a winning season, the league’s worst teams see their supporters turn against them. Many fans will root against their own losing teams because a poorer record increases the likelihood of their teams drafting higher valued players for the coming season. The National Basketball Association (NBA) lottery system is weighted so that the team with the worst record has the best chance of obtaining the highest draft pick.



The leaders of the least developed countries would make particularly cynical basketball fans. Governments of the world’s poorest nations often downplay—or far worse, hijack—their countries’ performance in a host of development categories. The UN has uncovered high ranking officials in several West African countries encouraging their subordinates to fudge numbers in every category from human development to communications and transportation.

This despicable practice has a perverse logic. The leaders of the developing world have rightly realized that wildly deflated statistics will increase aid contributions from the US and other Western nations. In countries like Sierra Leone, where more than half of the national GDP comes from foreign aid, the stakes are high. The poorest governments run on a steady stream of donations and even the most corrupt officials depend on these perpetual contributions. The result is NBA Diplomacy; diplomacy with a striking similarity to the attitudes of disparaging basketball fans.

Whitewashing official figures for the sake of aid officers is rampant in the developing world and will become the norm without a serious effort to restructure Western aid programs. Duplicitous incentives reward lack of development rather than real progress. This does far more harm than good. The US must hold governments accountable for aid funds and base future donations on tangible growth rather than pitiable development statistics. Not surprisingly, in recent years countries like Ghana, with a relatively small infusion of Western aid, have made the steadiest progress. To curb NBA diplomacy and realize concrete returns on the billions of dollars that the US invests in the developing world, we must strategically motivate governments to strengthen economic infrastructure, improve education, and stamp out corruption. Rewarding real improvement, rather than the lack of it, will make this a reality.

An HIV Remedy in Clowning & Dancing

by Cleo Handler
Yale College, SY 2012

Whenever anyone asked me what I was doing this summer, I had a hard time trying to explain. “I’m taking this class,” I’d say, “that attempts to combine theater and public health into a thorough, psychosocial approach to dealing with the HIV/AIDS epidemic and helping those affected by it.” Blank stares. “Well, uh…” I’d continue, “it’s about trying to use art to help educate people about public health…or at least to try to get a message across.” Cocked heads. “Umm… I don’t totally know yet, but it involves using theater to try to bring people’s attention to certain aspects of the epidemic, in order to allow them to more fully understand it, and possibly get them to change their deeply-rooted outlooks toward this hushed-up, stigmatized disease.” At this point, I’d be met by more looks of confusion, accompanied by glossed-over eyes. “I’m going to Africa!” I’d sputter at last, and then receive wide smiles and enthusiastic nods of approval.

Yet after all of my attempts at describing the course - which was actually called 'Arts and Public Health in Action: Study of HIV/AIDS in Swaziland'- it turned out to be even more impossible to describe than I could have ever expected. And even more incredible. This year, the agenda was to spend three weeks in Durban, South Africa, working with a socially- sensitive dance company and then two weeks in Swaziland, collaborating with groups called 'Clowns Without Borders' and 'People’s Educational Theater.' Our intention was to create and perform various clown shows for the children and, in addition, to lead after- school workshops teaching them how to make up their own plays and to engage their imaginations. And, of course, we would also be providing them with food.

In Durban, we worked with one of the first performance companies to be racially integrated at the end of the apartheid, a very talented group of dancers called Siwela Sonke (meaning “going across together” in Zulu). Together, we did a project called ‘Secrets,’ in which we interviewed local people about their secrets, especially in relation to health issues, and the embarrassment, stigma, and shame associated with being HIV- positive. We created four separate pieces involving dance, music, and poetry, based on what different people had told us about their secrets, and then performed them on the streets of Durban, as people got on and off buses all around us and gathered into an attentive, ever-growing crowd.

In Swaziland, we spent our days clowning, our evenings reading about epidemiology and public health, and our nights writing in our journals. As the country with the last remaining absolute monarchy in the world, and the country with the highest rate of HIV, Swaziland was quite an adjustment for us all. Swazi women have very limited rights and are considered perpetual minors, which means that they go from being wards of their fathers to financially, legally, and socially dependent brides. They cannot buy property or make important decisions without their husbands’ approval. The country also still places large value on the traditional notion of the dowry, or “lubuli”- the typical matrimonial price is 17 cows. Yet, while these different customs and gender- related attitudes interested us and raised many questions, they were not our main focus.

After performing our clown shows at different schools in the mornings, we led our workshops with certain students who had been identified by communities as OVCs (orphans and vulnerable children) in the afternoons. This classification was given to kids who had been seriously affected by the AIDS epidemic and, as a result, were either living with incredibly overworked and underpaid caretakers, many of whom were unrelated to them, or in child- headed households.

Being with the kids, teaching them songs and theatrical games that made them laugh, gave me a mixed feeling of hope and futility. Our project only lasted two weeks. How much could we really do? Even though we gave them food at the end of each session, how useful really were our chants and “zip-zap-zop” exercises, when they would get home and probably not eat again for the rest of that day? Although it was great to see them smile, it was hard to keep up my own smile as we drove away. One thing that gave me hope was the knowledge that, despite the fact that our program had an end- date, Clowns Without Borders would come back multiple times a year. In addition, other local organizations would do their best to help. And even if it was only for a brief amount of time, I felt sure that we had helped to make their lives a little easier, and a lot more fun.

This experience with clowning and teaching the kids made me start thinking about something that had happened a few weeks earlier, at the beginning of the trip. We had visited an HIV clinic in Durban and had gotten the chance to talk to one of the head doctors about her job. Extremely passionate, yet understandably embittered, she explained to us that the situation was grim. The epidemic had hit southern Africa hard, and did not seem to be letting up any time soon. After presenting these statements, she started to get really riled up. Her life would be a lot easier, she went on to say, if it weren’t for “that damn human rights problem.” In her opinion, the HIV epidemic could be stamped out in a few decades if the government started regulating automatic screening and treatment of all those who tested positive. “However,” she said, “there are those damn human rights issues: the right to not know your status, the right to not take medicine, the right to die, blah blah blah. This is what really stands in the way and makes the virus virtually unbeatable.”

Shocked, we stopped her right there. Was that really how she saw it? Did she truly believe that, given the rampant prevalence of the disease and the powerful stigma associated with not only having, but even just talking about being HIV positive, people really didn’t have the right to not pay it a lot of attention? And, if that were the case, was she actually advocating that, in this situation, the inalienable human right to decide whether or not to know the full facts or to take action based on individual preferences and comfort levels, be stripped away? Was she really telling us that, given the severity of the epidemic, as a contagious, ever-spreading, unchecked, and indiscriminate attacker, no one really had the right to not care?

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Or as we say in Zulu, ‘yebo.’” I have been mulling over this doctor’s thought- provoking statements ever since. In the service of public health, is it actually justifiable that the rights of the individual get sacrificed on the altar of the bigger picture? Is there a point at which personal liberties become less valuable than more global considerations, and, as a result, must bow down to them?

Well, I never thought of it that way before. Maybe this is something I need to think about some more? Yebo. Yebo, indeed.

"But shouldn't the world feel guilty about what's happening in Congo today?"

This article in 'The New York Times' is an extremely disturbing, painful, and altogether shocking read about the rape "open season" that is targeting men, women, and children in the Congo today.

Contributed by Pruittiporn Kerdchoochuen

Symbol of Unhealed Congo: Male Rape Victims

Jehad Nga for The New York Times

Clockwise from top left, Kazungu Ziwa, Shabani Lufuno, Ngabu Bita and Matata Badoda. All are Congolese men who were recently raped and agreed to be photographed.

By Jeffrey Gettleman

Published August 4, 2009

GOMA, Congo -- It was around 11 p.m. when armed men burst into Kazungu Ziwa’s hut, put a machete to his throat and yanked down his pants. Mr. Ziwa is a tiny man, about four feet, six inches tall. He tried to fight back, but said he was quickly beaten down.

“Then they raped me,” he said. “It was horrible, physically. I was dizzy. My thoughts just left me.”

Click here to read the article in its entirety on The New York Times website.

Sorcery Makes Torture A-OK!

Contributed by Judd Stern Rosenblatt

After reading about the Saudi Arabian genie- harraser, Judd forwarded this shocking article from IOL, a South African newsource. (Click here to see the article on the original website.):

Banjul - A 28-year-old man accused of stealing a man's penis through sorcery was beaten to death in the West African country of Gambia on Thursday, police said.

A police spokesperson said that Baba Jallow was lynched by about 10 people in the town of Serekunda, some 15km from the capital Banjul.

Reports of penis snatching are not uncommon in West Africa, with purported victims claiming that alleged sorcerers simply touched them to make their genitals shrink or disappear in order to extort cash in the promise of a cure.

The police spokesperson said many men in Serekunda were now afraid to shake hands, and he urged people not to believe reports of "vanishing" genitals.

Seven alleged penis snatchers were beaten to death by angry mobs in Ghana in 1997.

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.

And Now for a Human Rights Story with a Happy Ending

-- Contributed by Cristina Costantini

Seldom do human rights activists have happy stories to report! Here's one:

BREAKING: $15 Million Settlement in Wiwa vs. Shell Oil

I have to admit that I was skeptical this would happen, but it is clearly an indication of how strong the case was against Shell…

This just in from the Center for Constitutional Rights:

Settlement Reached in Human Rights Cases Against Royal Dutch/Shell

On Eve of Trial, Settlement Agreements Provide $15.5 Million for Compensation to Nigerian Human Rights Activists and to Establish Trust Fund

Today, the parties in Wiwa v. Shell agreed to settle human rights claims charging the Royal Dutch/Shell company, its Nigerian subsidiary, Shell Petroleum Development Company (SPDC or Shell Nigeria), and the former head of its Nigerian operation, Brian Anderson, with complicity in the torture, killing, and other abuses of Ogoni leader Ken Saro-Wiwa and other non-violent Nigerian activists in the mid-1990s in the Ogoni region of the Niger Delta.

Click here to read the full article by Jeremy Scahill on Rebel Reports.