Don't be a Slacktivist! [Updated]

Pat Curley of the Screw Loose Change blog writes today:

133... That's how many people sent in letters/faxes to the NYC District Attorney requesting an investigation of WTC-7, per the request from NYC-CAN. One hundred and thirty-three. I mean, let's put that in perspective. NYC-CAN claimed to have gathered 30,000 or so signatures for their ballot initiative, right? Not really quite enough to qualify for the ballot, but close.

This is 1/226th of that. And it gets worse, much worse, because that's an unfair comparison; nothing in the NYC-CAN current push says you have to live in the Big Apple.

Following on the heels of last week's idiotic attempt to get the DA to look at some videos of WTC-7's collapse, this week the Troofers are highlighting the supposed "countdowns" and "foreknowledge" as lines of investigation, featuring, no kidding, Kevin McPadden and Indira Singh.

First off Pat, it was not 30,000 signatures they gathered, it was 80,000, so no, you are not right.


So, NYC CAN was much more successful than Pat states and by his own admission should have had their initiative on the ballot. They've had weekly campaigns focused on raising awareness of WTC 7 since back in March, so it would not be surprising if the numbers have lessened, but there is no doubt that the total letters sent number in the thousands.

Here is a fax that I sent back in March to a few of the NYC Council members which destroys "debunker" talking points about Building 7. Here is an easy site from which to send free faxes. And here is a recent blog I did debunking Pat on the issue of WTC 7 foreknowledge.

The fact of the matter is, poll numbers indicate that 100 million Americans question the official 9/11 story, sometimes it's just a matter of getting people motivated. So, are we gonna let the "debunkers" get away with this!? Don't engage in slacktivism!

CHANNEL YOUR VOICE!

Update 6/15/10:

Fellow Advocates,

Thank you and congratulations! Together we finished Week 2 with 217 letters sent to the District Attorney's office.

In Week 3 let's make it our minimum goal to reach 500 letters, and in Week 4, 1000 letters! How do we do it?

If you haven't sent a letter yet, now is the time to join. You've never had an easier opportunity to take action and be heard. If you have been participating - in addition to sending your letter for Week 3 - make it your personal to goal to get just one friend to send a letter by forwarding this action alert and urging them to take action. There must be one person you can get to send a letter with you. If you can get that one person to send a letter, we will reach 500 letters this week and 1000 next week!

To help you get more people in your networks involved, the instructions have been refined, the action alert and letter are now posted on NYC CAN's Channel Your Voice page (the link is http://nyccan.org/join.php), and a Word file has been posted there for download/print.

Let's do our best to reach 500 letters this week and 1000 letters next week. The DA's office is listening!

Sincerely,

Ted Walter

Update 6/23/10:

Fellow Advocates!

Together we finished Week 3 with 221 letters sent to the District Attorney's office! It may not be 1000, but it's downright amazing when you think about the message 221 letters must send to the folks in the Special Prosecutions Bureau. 221 letters this week, on top of 217 letters last week, on top of 133 letters the week before. Wow!

The letter for Week 4 is our most important and most powerful one yet. Read it, and you'll agree. If there's one route the DA will most likely take to revealing the truth about September 11, 2001, it's the destruction of physical evidence at the WTC site.

Now is the time to take action if you haven't yet! Don't have a fax machine, an envelope or a stamp? NO PROBLEM! Go to FaxZero.com and send a fax for free by uploading your letter. The letter is only three pages so you can fax it for free!

And, in case it was unclear before, no matter where you live you can send a letter!

Thank you for never giving up hope.

Sincerely,

Ted Walter

Update 8/11/2010:

Fellow Advocates,

Thank you for all your hard work, and congratulations on a job well done! We finished Week 4 of "Wake up the DA" with 408 letters sent, bringing our grand total above 1,000 letters. Now that so many seeds have been planted with the City Council and DA - and NYC CAN continues to water them - it's time to shift our collective focus to creating the kind of political climate where those seeds can grow. Let's start with a major public awareness campaign, which we are proud to be joining several other leaders and organizations in supporting. Here it is.

Very Truly Yours,

Ted Walter

Related Info:

New Action Page at "BuildingWhat?"

NYC CAN, AE911Truth ask NYC city council to investigate WTC Building 7

Thank You Mr Curley: "Debunker" PROMOTES the "Building What?" Campaign & Pushes Discredited Material (again) to Discredit Himself.

Building What? is up...

Nuestros Desaparecidos

Contributed by Jason Ketola
GEOVISION Production Company

(San Francisco CA) OUR DISAPPEARED/NUESTROS DESAPARECIDOS is the heart-breaking chronicle of director Juan Mandelbaum’s personal search for the souls of friends and loved ones, idealistic young students and activists, who were caught in the brutal vise of the right-wing military and “disappeared” in his native Argentina during the 1976-1983 military dictatorship. OUR DISAPPEARED/NUESTROS DESAPARECIDOS will air nationally on the Emmy Award-winning PBS series Independent Lens, hosted by Terrence Howard, on Monday, September 21, 2009 at 10PM. Find your local listing here.


Mandelbaum’s quest was triggered by a recent and very painful revelation. Through a Google search, he made the terrible discovery that Patricia Dixon, a long lost girlfriend,was among the desaparecidos. Almost thirty years after he left at the height of the repression, to escape the pervasive climate of feat, Juan returned to Argentina to explore her story and the stories of other friends and loved ones who had also disappeared. He learned first-hand of the horrors that befell them and the almost 30,000 people who were kidnapped by agents of the military government, secretly detained without trial, brutally tortured and then killed, never to be seen again.



Although idealistic and involved in community organizing, Mandelbaum was not willing to join the more militant and radical groups that were recruiting many of his friends. Inspired by the Cuban revolution and the election of Chile’s Salvador Allende, the first democratically elected Socialist president in the Americas, many of his fellow students at the University’s School of Philosophy and Letters were willing to support an armed struggle for a cause they believed in passionately -- that former President Juan Peron, who had been exiled to Spain, would lead Argentina on the road of socialism. It was a hope that was quickly crushed when Peron returned in 1973, and disowned the young radicals who had fought so hard for his return. Instead, right wing death squads began to pave the way for the military regime that, after 1976, targeted thousands of leftist activists for annihilation. Over 250 of Mandelbaum’s fellow students are among the disappeared.

In OUR DISAPPEARED, NUESTROS DESAPARECIDOS, Mandelbaum meets with the parents, siblings and children of many of these old friends, piecing together their dramatic stories through reminiscences, home movies and old photos. The film also uses rare and extraordinary archival footage (including an appearance by former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger in 1977 endorsing the military president) to bring the energy and tension of the time and place to life. It is a quietly devastating story of young lives viciously ended and the unending pain suffered by their families and their country.



To learn more about the film, visit the OUR DISAPPEARED, NUESTROS DESAPARECIDOS interactive companion website (http://www.pbs.org/independentlens/ourdisappeared/) which features detailed information on the film, including an interview with the filmmaker and links and resources pertaining to the film’s subject matter. The site also features a talk back section for viewers to share their ideas and opinions, preview clips of the film, and more.

ON OCTOBER 17 ACTIVISTS WILL UNITE (in Connecticut)

by Helen Jack
Saybrook, Yale College 2012

Amnesty International student and local groups from high schools, colleges, and towns around Connecticut will be coming to Yale University on Saturday, October 17 for the Amnesty International Connecticut State Meeting. Meeting participants will spend the day attending workshops to build their organizing skills, hearing guest speakers on Amnesty's priority issues, and discussing how to better work together as a state. Guest speakers include Yale Law School lecturer Hope Metcalf, speaking about detainee abuse by US forces; Pooja Sripad, a student at the Yale School of Public Health, presenting on maternal mortality to introduce Amnesty International's new Demand Dignity Campaign; and Cynthia Gabriel, Amnesty's Field Organizer for the Northeast region. If you are interested in attending the state meeting, please email Yale Amnesty's State Meeting Coordinator Helen Jack at helen.jack@yale.edu

Check out more details of the event (via Facebook) here!

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.

One for Chechnya

This past week, an Internet blog reader, Mark S, emailed in to The Yale Journal of Human Rights with these comments - -

Why not one blog post on the murder of human rights defender Natasha Estemirova in July? Are you on top of the human rights topic or just padding your resumes? Try subscribing to HRW’s blog or reading The Economist. We need more voices speaking out for the truth and justice in repressive and dangerous places.

Natalia (Natasha) Estemirova deserves a voice here, as do the string of human rights activists who put their lives at risk in the Russian- controlled province of Chechnya. The oil- rich, predominantly Muslim region, which was formally a part of the Soviet Union, has been the sight of two wars spurred by Chechnyan separatists who believe in the creation of an independent Islamic State. In 1999, Russia fought its last war in Chechnya, capturing and completing razing the capital, Grozny, in 2000. The end of war does not bring peacetime, but rather a series of terrorist attacks in Russia and Chechnya alike. Despite announcing that they had ceased counterinsurgency operations, Russian troops continue to patrol Chechnya, instigating and provoking backlash by rebels and separatists. The resulting human rights violations are overwhelming: indiscriminate killings, forced eviction of internally displaced people, arbitrary detention, torture, poverty, lack of aid, health resources, and education, and the inhibiting of the right to life because of constant fear being caught in the crossfire, just to name a few.

In a report from April 2009, the human rights organization Amnesty International discovered that,

“… only one person has been convicted in relation to a case of enforced disappearance – and the fate of his victim remains unknown. …Victims of human rights abuses fear reprisals if they turn to the authorities, while those submitting cases to the European Court of Human Rights (ECHR) have faced reprisals ranging from threats and intimidation to disappearances.” (April 2009, Amnesty International)

The same reported highlighted the “threats to human rights activists” in the region. This threat often materializes into actual killings, with activists reporting that an ambience of wariness has settled among them, and no conversation fails to meditate on the unsettling question, “Who will be next?” In an article from the British newspaper, ‘The Times,’ a Death List summarized the most recent spawn of killings, not including last week’s murder of Zarema Sadulyeva and her husband, Alik Dzhabrailov, in Grozny where she was director of the children’s charity, Save the Generation:

Anna Politkovskaya 48, journalist and author. She had exposed human rights abuses in the North Caucasus. Shot dead in her apartment building on October 7, 2006

Stanislav Markelov 34, human rights lawyer. Was appealing against early release of a Russian military officer convicted of killing a young Chechen woman. Shot dead leaving a press conference in Moscow on January 15, 2009

Anastasia Baburova 25, journalist. Had investigated neo-Nazi groups and taken part in environmental protests. Shot dead with Markelov on January 15, 2009

Natalia Estemirova, 50, human rights activist with Memorial. She had called for Russian officials, including Vladimir Putin, to be called to account over Chechen crimes. Abducted and shot dead on July 15, 2009

At least six political opponents of the Chechnyan President Ramzan Kadyrov have also been shot dead in the past two years, in locations ranging from Vienna to Dubai. (The Times, Online)

Natasha Estemirova drew international attention to herself working tirelessly to establish accountability and cement a culture of justice in Chechnya by seeking out human rights perpetrators. Her most recent efforts concerning a series of kidnappings that lead her back to the Kremlin- backed, Chechnyan president, Ramzan A. Kadyrov. Unfortunately, the law enforcement is the both the party in power and the guilty party, as confirmed by the same Amnesty report mentioned above,

“To date the European Court of Human Rights has made rulings in about 100 cases concerning human rights violations committed in the course of the conflict in Chechnya. In most of these cases, the Court found Russia responsible for the death, torture, or enforced disappearances of people in Chechnya or for the failure to investigate such crimes.” (April 2009, Amnesty International)

Natasha was accustomed to death threats and, like many human rights activists in the region, seemed to know it was only a matter of time. Indeed, after her death, Kadyrov described Natasha as without “honor, dignity or conscience.” Taken from her front doorstep back in July, Natasha shouted her last known words, “I’m being kidnapped!” Then, she disappeared. Her body resurfaced, a gunshot in her head and chest, indicating the brutality with which she had been treated. Her killers were merciless in sending the international community a clear message.

Even Natasha’s funeral in Grozny was not without incident: as mourners followed her body through the capital, they travelled barely 200 yards before being stopped by police in camouflage who informed them that they needed a permit to march. One mourner argued back, but the officer insisted: funeral processions can turn into protests.

It seems that President Ramzan Kadyrov’s boastful statement that Chechnya would soon be “the safest place in the world,” needs revising. Soon after Natasha’s death, news that Zarema Sadulayeva, the director of Save the Generation, an organization in Grozny that works to rehabilitate and provide a safe haven for children traumatized by war was found dead in the boot of a car with her husband. There is speculation that the killings were motivated by her husband’s alleged ties to an illegal separatist group. Regardless, the organization’s apolitical work makes the killings all the more chilling and human rights defenders even more reluctant to work in the region. As Lyudmila Alexeyeva of the Moscow Helsinki rights groups put it, “She headed an NGO that saved a generation of children. They just helped disabled children and children from poor families… It just shows that anyone whose position allows them a gun can kill whoever they like.” Amazingly, Sadulayeva had been hired at Save the Generation, after the previous director Murad Muradov was arrested and killed by security services in 2005 who apparently suspected him of being an insurgent. (Murad was later cleared of these charges, a little too late.)

Natasha’s friend, Tatyana Lokshina, the deputy director of Human Rights Watch in Moscow remembered her in a piece called, 'Another Voice Silenced in Russia' that included this segment,

“Natasha was dedicated to exposing the gross misrule of Chechnya today. Among the most recent cases she publicized was that of Madina Yunusova, 20, who married a suspected Chechen militant last month. Yunusova’s husband was killed in early July. Two days later, security forces came to her house, locked her mother, father and two sisters in the adjacent shed, and used gasoline to set the house on fire. The armed men unlocked the shed as they left, and Yunusova’s family managed to put out the fire. The next day, the forces returned – this time bringing Yunusova’s body wrapped in a shroud, along with instructions to bury her ‘without noise.’

As Natasha knew, ‘noise’ is the only weapon against the grotesque abuses that civilians in Chechnya continue to suffer. She was a meticulous researcher, but she was also fierce in her determination not to submit to the fiction, so ardently purveyed by Russian Prime Minister Vladmir Putin and his circle, that Chechnya is quiet and that the problem there has been solved. It has not.

Natasha is not the first Russian human rights defender murdered this year. In January, a friend of ours, Stanislav Markelov, a prominent human rights lawyer who helped many victims of abuse in Chechnya, was shot in central Moscow. Natasha came to town for his funeral. We sat at my kitchen table talking into the wee hours… speculating about who would be next.

Now I know.

The killers… are still at large, and the Russian government has shown little political will to seriously the Russian government has shown little political will to seriously investigate the murders of rights defenders. Natasha’s death must be the moment this changes. That’s where Western governments come in. We Russians have a saying, ‘The dogs bark, and the caravan moves on.’ Europe and the United states have foundn it convenient to let Chechnya slip off the agenda in their meetings with Russian policymakers. The dogs are barking.” (Human Rights Watch, Online)

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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).