Chris Brown is Sorry

20- year old hip- hop artist, Chris Brown, has released a video apologizing for violently abusing his then girlfriend, the singer, Rihanna.



Sadly for him, he has a lot to be sorry for. According to the report filed, Chris Brown strangled Rihanna and hit her so severely that she bled from the mouth and endured several bruises.

The case highlights the prevailing problem of violence against women, and in particular domestic and dating abuse, even in developed and democratic countries like the United States. In United States, a woman is raped every 6 minutes and battered every 15 seconds. In most cases, the perpetrator knows his victim and has witnessed or personally experienced abuse in the past - Chris Brown was no exception, he saw the effects of domestic violence in his own family.

While the United States has a federal law, the Violence Against Women Act of 1994, it has not legally committed itself to the United Nations' Convention on the Elimination Against the Discrimination Against Women (CEDAW), putting it in a league of nations that includes Afghanistan, Iran, and Sudan. Although the United States has signed CEDAW, America is not bound by international law to respect women's rights, until it ratifies the convention.

Law & Order: Gaza

Not all of the havoc, destruction, and the humanitarian crisis in general that plagues Gaza is directly caused by Israelis and the Arab- Israeli conflict. And not all Gaza (or, for that matter, Palestinian) institutions have completely gone to bust either. Despite the odds against them (the daily strain of war and lack of basic human needs like water, enough food, and adequate shelter; just to name a few), The Palestinian Center for Human Rights (PCHR), a Palestinian NGO based in Gaza City, continues to document and monitor domestically- born abuse.

Contributed by Shahla Naimi
Trumbull College, Yale 2012

Press Releases
Ref: 93/2009
Date: 26 July 2009
Time: 09:00 GMT

Decision to Impose Traditional Robes and Veils on Female Lawyers in Gaza Is Illegal

Chief Justice of the High Court of Justice, Head of the Higher Justice Council in Gaza gas issued a new decision concerning the clothing of lawyers. PCHR believes that this decision constitutes a violation of the law and an unjustified intervention into lawyers' affairs. It also undermines personal freedoms and women's rights through forcing female lawyers to wear traditional robes known as "Jilbab" and veils (Hijabs).



The decision was issued on 9 July 2009 by Counselor 'Abdul Ra'ouf al-Halabi, Chief Justice of the Higher Court of Justice and Head of the Higher Justice Council, and it will enter into force on 1 September 2009. The decision orders male lawyers to wear a special uniform when appearing before courts, which includes: A vesture of black cloth known as the robe; a dark tuxedo; a while shirt; and a black necktie. According to the decision, female lawyers have to wear black cloth known as the robe; a dark suit (Jilbab, tuxedo or coat); and a scarf covering the hair.

According to the decision, male and female lawyers must wear such clothing when appearing before all regular courts.

PCHR believes that although it was based on the provisions of the Palestinian Basic Law of 2003, the Lawyers' Clothing Statute of 1930 and what it calls "common righteous norms, as mentioned in its preamble, the decision violates the constitution and the law and undermines women's rights and personal freedoms ensured by the constitution for the following reasons:


1. The Lawyers' Clothing Statute of 1930 is the legal instrument in effect concerning the clothing of lawyers, which is specifically prescribed and not open for any interpretation or what is called "common righteous norms," which is a loose clause that has ideological implications not included in the law at all.

2. The clothing of lawyers is united for both women and men without any discrimination; it includes according to the Lawyers' Clothing Statute of 1930: A vesture of black cloth; a dark suit; and white top and tie.

3. Accordingly, assigning a special uniform for female lawyers violates the Lawyers' Clothing Statute of 1930, constitutes a form of discrimination against women and undermines personal freedoms ensured by the constitution.

4. According to the Lawyers' Clothing Statute of 1930, lawyers have the right to plead without wearing the specified clothing in offices of judges and arbitrators, before district courts or before courts of investigations of suspicious deaths. So, imposing special clothing on lawyers when appearing before all regular courts violates the Statute.

5. Deciding the clothing of lawyers is not of the authority of Chief Justice of the High Court of Justice or judges, as article 26 of Professional Lawyers Act #3 of 1999 prescribes that a lawyer must appear when pleading before a court in the clothing decided by the Bar Association's bylaw. Accordingly, the clothing of lawyers is of the authority of the Bar Association. So, the decision by the Chief Justice of the High Court of Justice/ Head of the Higher Justice Council in Gaza constitutes an illegal and unjustified intervention of the Bar Association's affairs.

6. PCHR reminds that the Higher Justice Council in Gaza is unconstitutional, a fact emphasized by human rights organizations since 2007. The Council was established by the Government in Gaza in violation of the constitution, and its mandate derogates from the authorities of the Higher Judicial Council, which had been already established in accordance with the constitution.

7. Imposing a special uniform on female and male lawyers in the Gaza Strip reinforces the state of fragmentation, which means that two kinds of clothing for lawyers, one in the West Bank and the other one in Gaza, even though the unification of the Bar Association in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip has been an important national achievement in the past years.


Click here to see the same announcement on the PCHR website, its original source.

No Where to Run

by Sarika Arya

The girl was running into the police station. On the way back from work, stuck in muid-afternoon traffic, I noticed her through the window of my taxi: she was wearing a light pink hijab, a long-sleeve purple t-shirt, and jeans in spite of the heat, symbolizing her devoutness to Islam. She ran up the stairs into the white dilapidated police office, sliding past the men (she was the only woman there) who were hovering around outside – narrowly escaping touching any of them, not even allowing her body to brush them accidentally, in her rush to find sanctuary inside. But there is no guarantee that sanctuary, let alone justice, is what she got. In Egypt, the human rights culture is not so much of zero tolerance, but zero accountability.



According to a 2008 US State Department human rights report on Egypt, the Egyptian People's Assembly (the popularly-elected representatives of the Egyptian parliament), discharged 1,164 lower – ranking policemen for misconduct and abuse of power. The same report documents a shocking case in which a 13 year- old was electrocuted by a detective, a 15 year- old was tear- gassed by a policeman, and a human rights activist and her colleague were physically assaulted by a policeman in a courtroom where they were seeking justice for a torture victim. In fact, in this incident, one victim received head injuries so serious that he remained unconscious for about 30 minutes.

The total degeneration of civil society in Egypt poses a serious threat to human rights. Consider the most basic scenario: a woman walking on the street. Even a fully-covered girl is at risk for sexual harassment. According to the Egyptian Centre for Women's Rights, 69% of sexual harassment occurs on the street and 42 % in public places (22% is on the beach and 6% at the workplace.). In 2008, the Centre surveyed 1,010 Egyptian women, of whom 83% reported they had been sexually harassed. Often times, it is those who are supposed to be upholding the law: traffic wardens, policemen, soldiers – men in uniform – who are committing this abuse. An American friend of mine in Cairo recalled being whistled at by a police officer, "I turned around, and said to him in Arabic, 'Do you have any dignity? You should be ashamed of yourself. You're a policeman." He was so shocked that this blue- eyed, blond- haired, American woman was reprimanding him in Arabic, that he was ashamed. But often times it is not as easy or even safe to respond. My two girlfriends and I walked past a group of train conductors lounging in Ramses Station, only to be whistled at, tongues clicking, men muttering "You're very beautiful," over and over in Arabic. We had another uncomfortable experience when a truck full to bursting with policemen all carrying handguns rattled down the street, clicks, whistles, and catcalls following the women who passed it. If these men hadn't been speaking Arabic, I would have thought the truck was full of sick chickens: it both looked and sounded like it anyways, what with all the clucking and purring.

When civil servants are the very perpetrators of abuse, when even the courtroom – which is supposed to be a place of justice – becomes a torture chamber, and when the elected government suspiciously receives 88% of the vote, how can human rights enforcement ever be taken seriously? The total lack of accountability manifests itself in complete apathy to and acceptance of the bleak human rights situation.

Think of this: it is not uncommon for a sexually harassed woman to blame herself for the ogling stares that make her uncomfortable, the whistles that haunt her, and even the grabbing hands that may lead to her self-imposed house arrest and isolation from the rest of society.

Respect for human rights is only as strong as respect for the legal authority that mandates those rights in the first place. While Egypt has a constitution, legal restraints that technically prevent most human rights abuses from occurring, and even pro-human rights government projects (like pamphlets that use Islam to discourage sexual harassment – particularly targeting men since, according to a ECW report, 62% of men surveyed admitted to engaging in harassment), there is still a human rights- resistant mentality, especially because this has been the norm for so long. Some even classify it as lethargy: a laziness to change one's behavior; submissiveness to human rights abuse that one can not only become accustomed to but also even profit from.

My flat mate, Meredith, and I, fed-up with being unable to walk down the streets without someone nearby whispering, "Hello Seniorita," even if we looked our grungiest selves, found ourselves eating our feelings of frustration at an Italian restaurant often frequented by expats. Shortly after the waiter took our order, Abhinav and Anna, two foreigners at the table next to us, engaged us in some friendly conversation about their lives as managers (of finance and housekeeping, respectively) for a certain world-renowned five- star hotel in Cairo. (We were asked not to reveal their names or the name of the hotel, so as not to risk their jobs or give the hotel bad publicity.) Meredith and I vented a lot about our frustration at being mistreated because of our gender, wondering what could possibly be the root cause of this problem and marveling at the limited efforts undertaken to prevent it and enforce the law.

Abhinav and Anna sympathized with us. Abhinav remembered a time when a male coworker, married and in his 40s, giggled to him about a girl's cleavage. Abhinav was shocked that in a professional workspace, high school humor was considered mature and funny. Moreover, there is no guaranteed way to deter such behavior: Abhinav's predecessor was fired for reprimanding an employee over a similar issue. As it turned out, the employee's connections (despite his lowly job) were good enough to secure his boss's immediate removal.

But Abhinav had an even more shocking story for us. Here is a brief summary of the legal status of prostitution in Egypt, as described by the US State Department report about human rights in Egypt in 2008:

“Prostitution and sex tourism were illegal but continued to occur, particularly in Cairo and Alexandria. Prostitution existed in cities and in some rural areas. Sex tourism existed in Luxor and Sharm El-Sheikh. Street children were subject to prostitution. Most sex tourists came from Europe and the Gulf.”

Despite its prohibition, like so many other things in Egypt, the weak enforcement, lack of accountability, and the social norm to operate on a who-knows-who basis, means that it continues, even on the grounds of a five- star family hotel. There, married men, pimps, and the ‘goods on sale’ gather to exchange numbers, money, and make the final deals –but all under the guise of meeting new people. Amused by our amazement, Abhinav and Anna invited us to the famous casino and then the outdoor café at the hotel to do some untraditional bird- watching, “Come see for yourselves.”

It’s high season for prostitution in Egypt: Gulf men (Arabs from the oil-rich Gulf states) flock to vacation spots in the relatively cooler northern part of the Middle East, while their wives and children jet set off for fun times in Europe: shopping at Harrods, Euro Disney, and other equally liberal family alternatives. This particular 5- star hotel in the heart of Cairo is no exception to these summer patterns. Our guides, our insiders into this forbidden world, led us to the hotel casino, usually a hotspot for prostitutes and particularly non-Egyptian prostitutes, since only foreigners are allowed into the casino (gambling is illegal by Islam, which is the main influence on Egyptian law). But the casino was dead. Meredith and I became skeptical but they told us it was early, so we decided to just wait it out at the café.

The café was full of Gulf men dressed in their traditional garb, white robes (called thobes), red and white checkered headscarves encircled with black rope, smoking shisha, and sipping Turkish coffee. The ‘Gulfies’ outnumbered the other foreign visitors who were scattered across the outdoor café and Egyptian themed restaurant and enjoying the supposedly family- friendly atmosphere, oblivious to the underground red light district that was slowly evolving around them. We sat in the center of the café. Gulf men sat close by at the tables all around us, and although it was very hot and humid they looked comfortable. We waited. It was nearly 10:30pm. Suddenly, Anna nudged us, indiscreetly nodding her head towards a girl walking by, muttering, “Look, there’s one.”

Besides us strolled no, strutted, a girl with straight, shiny, black hair extensions, which framed a powdered- white face. Her eyes were entrenched in dark eyeliner and her lips were painted a bright ruby red. She wore tight jeans with sparkles embedded on the back pockets (what we came to realize was staple clothing for most of the alleged prostitutes) and a black corset on top of a thin black see- through top. Her visibly uncomfortable high heels clackity- clacked on the cement in sync with the swaying of her hips. She was an expert. It was clear that she was using the moment walking past the line of tables occupied by Gulf men, potential customers, to show-off the commodity she had to offer: to model herself. The men engaged in this window- shopping, and we watched them, their eyes following her hungrily as the waiter seated her in full view of them. In a few moments she is approached by a Gulf man who, to the unsuspecting eye would just appear to be making conversation with a fellow hotel guest (who just has some bad fashion sense) who he happens to know. But it is just an act.

In fact, much of this society wears a costume. We learn that many hotels experience a similar prostitution problem, but there is something striking about the scenery of the hotel in question. It is beautifully crafted: under gilded terraces encrusted with the Muslim star and crescent, these men, having just returned from Saturday night prays, buy some women and indulge in infidelity. They appear to be puritanical, in their sparkling white robes, they travel from the most Islamic of states, but they betray the very traditions they enforce at home without (it seems) blinking an eye, a pang of remorse, or feelings of guilt under God’s all powerful and ever watchful being.

It suddenly becomes evident that the Gulf men next to us are engaged in a telephone conversation with a lady sitting across the aisle. The woman has pencil thin eyebrows that appear to be drawn on, straight brown hair, and a corset that is squeezing her artificially enlarged breasts – “That’s one,” whispers Anna, excitedly. Throughout the conversation, the woman is making hand gestures; it is clear they are negotiating a price. Then, the phones turn off, and the man gets up, leaving his friend at the table, and makes his way straight towards her under the guise of making friendly conversation. He has a limp: one foot drags behind him, and as he nears her table he cracks a toothy smile, wipes his sweaty brow, and takes out a wallet from his back pocket. He shakes her hand in introduction, sits down, and says something that makes her bellow with laughter. They share some shisha, shake hands again, and continue talking: a deal has been struck.

The girl will sleep comfortably tonight in the hotel. Abhinav and Anna assure us that the waiters and hotel staff know exactly what’s going on. In fact, both have unintentionally brushed shoulders with prostitutes late in the night. Anna recalled a girl knocking on her door at one in the morning, mistaking it for her customer’s. Abhinav received several phone calls from a girl using the house phones in the hotel lobby late one night, selling herself via conversation, searching desperately for a customer. Unsurprisingly, most of the hotel security are in on the business: either engaging in the prostitution themselves or receiving a small commission from the prostitutes and pimps for letting them break into the hotel market and use the hotel grounds. Moreover, it would be nearly impossible for anyone to prove prostitution was even occurring: anyone could excuse the behavior as two innocent people meeting and ‘having fun.’ It could also be very dangerous for any one individual to get involved– especially if the prostitution turned out to be part of a greater sex trafficking scheme, which the police were beneficiaries of. This is not an unlikely scenario. It remains a don't ask- don't tell policy.

A very beautiful girl, who appeared to be in her twenties, with long brown hair, a tight grey t-shirt, jeans, and a black belt with the word’s ‘Fire’ encrusted on the buckle, strides over to an overweight Gulf man in jeans, green shirt, and glasses. He is sitting with a more traditionally dressed Gulfie and a young boy who is no older than her. The Gulf man in green has been whistling at her for about ten minutes, and is thrilled that he has successfully captured her attention, giving her a greasy smile when she shakes his hand as if she were businesswoman in an office instead of a prostitute trespassing in a hotel. He handles the entire transaction: it is clear that he has done this before. Despite coming from (and probably doing his utmost to promote) a culture where men and women can’t even bump into each other on the street without making one another feel uncomfortable, he has no qualms in brushing a pudgy finger across her belt, along her hip, “Shu hada ‘Fire’?” (What is this ‘Fire’?) I notice, that despite her profession, she pulls her shirt down uncomfortably, covering her exposed midriff and crossing her arms.

She’s incredibly young. No wonder she is uncomfortable. Anna tells us it is not uncommon to see fourteen and sixteen year old girls here, trying to make a dime. A woman in an abaya, a black robe traditionally worn by more religious Muslim women, walks by. Her lack of head covering, says Anna, is a surefire signal that she is actually a prostitute. Apparently it is now fashionable for prostitutes to wear some religious symbols, as it makes them even more alluring. One woman has been wondering the café relentlessly, for over an hour, looking for a buyer. Her weight is working against her: she is obese, and it is heartbreaking to watch her, her eyes desperately searching, searching, searching, circled in sad eyeliner. She looks like a lost clown.

Meredith and I ask Abhinav and Anna, What about STDs, STIs, AIDS? “Who knows?” they say. This is a dangerous, undocumented, and unregulated world, which the law enforcement itself has no shame participating in and to some extent, even facilitating and sponsoring. On the other hand, Abhinav tells us a story about a prostitute who got married. Her husband remains unaware of her past - how? Well, the general lack of sex education meant that she could turn off the lights and do anything (effectively nothing) with her young customers, and convince them it was sex, even if it wasn't. "You would think they would naturally understand that she had cheated them," Abhinav says, "But some, especially the young and uneducated, have no idea." On another occassion, Anna got word through one of her housekeepers that there was blood on the bedsheets in a hotel room. It was revealed that the room had been used by a couple who had been married in the hotel the previous night. Anna and Abhinav assumed the woman had been the unfortuante victim of violent abuse. It was later found out that the woman's new husband had mistakently sent her to the hospital because he did not realize that bleeding was possible, and even normal, when a woman loses her virgnity.

The night is drawing to an end, and we decide to stop by the casino on our way out. It’s close to midnight now, and the gambling tables are buzzing. We run into the obese woman, and she scowls at us, embarrassed that we seem to know her true identity. But she is also frustrated: two hours ago, the casino would not have carried so much competition. But now, as soon as we enter, we see two women, clearly prostitutes, chain- smoking cigarettes on the red velvet couch at the door, waiting to snag a man looking to splurge his winnings. “Enjoy Cairo,” says the doormen, smiling at us warmly as we leave, and using the traditional Islamic salutation to say goodbye, “Masalaam,” which literally means, “With peace.”

We are overwhelmed: the society is contradictory, hypocritical, disordered, has weak law enforcement but for almost thirty years has been at the mercy of an authoritarian ruler who claims to be president of a democracy, it is at once oppressive of women, but also preaches Islam, which at one point was the foremost feminist movements in the world. As we leave the hotel and the tourist police give us the eye, probably fighting the urge to whistle at us, two appropriately-dressed young girls walking quickly with their heads bowed, not speaking, we wonder – what did we expect?

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.

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.

Banning the Burqa?

by Oscar Pocasangre

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

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

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

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

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