A Change Is Coming

A Letter to My Sons: On Love and Hate

2012-02-14T14:04:00.001-05:00

Dear Alexandre, Dear Sam,

This is my first Valentine’s Day away from you. The secondaway from Mommy – the first time was way back in 1998. I was living in Ghana atthe time, and your mother sent me a Valentine's Day package from home. The package wasn’tdelivered to my apartment, so I had to pick it up at the central post office.People receiving packages had to open them for inspection in front of a postal worker.There was a lineup of people behind me, peeking over my shoulder to see what Igot. I opened the box and showed the postal worker a CD, a letter, and a pair of red boxershorts with little red and white hearts on it.

However embarrassing that situation was at the time (buteveryone smiled), I knew I was a lucky man, and I am even luckier today. Priorto meeting your Mommy, Valentine's Day, to put it simply, sucked. I never had agirlfriend on that day (reassuringly, most of my guy friends didn’t either),and any potential for having a girlfriend on or around that day was always promptlyextinguished. I can freely provide you details in about 5 years.

All you need.

I am lucky because I have love from the two of you and Mommythat defines me, that strengthens me, supports me, gets me out of bed andbrings me comfort even though I’m 9511 km away from you (more or less). Itmakes Valentine’s Day just another day as I sit here alone in my hotel room,happy.

There’s a saying that goes, “So much of what we know of lovewe learn at home." I learned a lot from your grandmother and, in a verydifferent way, from your Uncle John, and continue to learn from the two of youand Mommy. As I left you on Saturday, your emotions were bare, your silencepainful, and your tears seared right through my heart. My trips away from youare much shorter than they were ten years ago, but somehow the goodbyes are sadder.I can only attribute that to a growing love.

Sitting here in my hotel room in Amman, it’s hard for me not to think of this day withoutremembering the struggles that so many people here in the Middle East and NorthAfrica have faced over the past year. You know of the sweeping changes thattook pace in Egypt, in Tunisia, in Libya. But one year ago today, February 14,protests began in the streets of Bahrain, where my friend Abdulhadi was jailedand sentenced to life in prison. He recently wrote a letter from jail talking about his situation. He is a strong man, someone who fights hardfor the rights of others and has paid a high price for this. But he is loved,and that love manifests itself in the support that thousands of people fromaround the world have shown in pushing for his release, and the release ofother prisoners.

Bahrain is not the only place where innocent people arebeing hurt because they are standing up for their rights. The situation inSyria is getting worse every day, with the president unwilling to give up poweras his forces kill dozens of civilians every day. Tonight I spoke to my friend Amouriwho lives in Syria and he says that all six of the UN schools that operate in thecity of Homs have been closed now for three weeks because of the violence inthe streets. It’s one thing for you to have a snow day and not go to school.Can you imagine not attending school because people are being killed in thestreets?

If you think this makes no sense, you are right. I want youto always keep in mind that this is not right. Hatred will never be right. You might be confused right nowabout this kind of stupid behaviour, and as you get older, I’m sorry to say youmight find out even stupider and more hurtful things that people do. If you’relike me, this will anger you. What I’ve learned over time is that anger isoften unavoidable, but needs to be transformed. Without changing that anger, you won’t change anything. Youranger at other people’s stupidity needs to be channeled into passion and love thatis tempered by reason, into a fierce enthusiasm to stop those who do wrong toothers. Be a Superman, be a Batman – even SpongeBob stands up for what’s right. I want you to be yourself and to share, as much as you possibly can, what you know of love and learned from home. The world needs it.

Je t’aime Sam, je t’aime Alexandre.

Daddy

Young people: hope for the future? Sure thing

2012-02-02T22:16:00.000-05:00

Whew. I just googled two things: "are young people stupid," which gave me 162 million hits (!), and "young people hope for the future," which yielded 221 million hits. Not that this means much, but it's an indicator - completely unscientific, I know - that the word "hope" is linked more frequently with "young people" than stupid.

Old people like me (did I just call myself old? I meant wise) need to be reminded once in a while that the future of the human race is not doomed to extinction. I must admit when I look at the current state of human rights in the world, I wonder how we - collective we of Earth - got to this point. Also how we - the people of Earth whose rights are essentially fully realized - don't do more to help those in need. Because of this, old/wise people like me tend to look at youth/young people/anyone half my age with two things in mind: 1) we hope the smart, passionate and empathetic ones maintain their positive outlook on life and continue to make a difference in this world, and 2) we hope the stupid ones smarten up. Come on, let's be honest: when the old/wise ones look at the young stupid ones, they probably see a little bit of their own character reflected in the stupid youth. When we old/wise people tell the younger ones to smarten up, it's because we've been there, and it's not a good road to travel.

I say all this because a couple of weeks ago I met with two wonderful young persons who give me hope for the future. They're intelligent, passionate, have taken steps to travel around the world and see how less-priviledged people live, and are committed to making a difference in the lives of strangers. One of them helped organize a "comedy for a cause" event here in Montreal for an organization in Ecuador that provides education to children (United to Benefit Ecuadorian Children, International). She traveled to Ecuador last year and spent some time helping out the organization and wants to do more. The other went to Malawi last year to volunteer for an organization that helps youth (YONECO) and started Friends of YONECO, a group of like-minded individuals who are raising funds for YONECO and will travel to Malawi later this year to help the organization.

Hell, at 21 I spent my money on beer and my time watching Star Trek. I regret neither, but in retrospect, I could have done more. So a tip of the hat to Sophie and Neil, for showing us old/wise people that youth are a bright hope for the future, and they are also a reminder that the old/wise folks need to do their part as well.

Keep your trousers on, women of Malawi

2012-01-24T08:48:00.000-05:00

Last week a number of women were beaten and stripped in thestreets of Blantyre and Lilongwe because they were not wearing “traditionaldress.” Women are protesting – as they should. And let’s be honest: everyoneshould be protesting this type of vicious attack on a person’s dignity.

To the men who perpetrated this act of violence, shame onyou. Malawi is a beautiful country, a place I called home for two years andremains close to my heart. Shame on you for making this yet another story addedto the list of abuses women face around the world simply because of who theyare. I speak from having lived in Malawi for two years at a time when thegovernment was in transition from the longstanding “His Excellency the Life PresidentDr. Hastings Kamuzu Banda.” I was living in Zomba in 1994 when the lawpreventing women from wearing trousers was finally repealed. I clearly rememberwalking to town one day to buy my groceries and – gasp – I actually saw a womanwearing black trousers standing next to some men at a bottle store (bar). Ihadn’t seen a woman wearing trousers in several months – I admit I couldn’tstop staring. But that was eighteenyears ago.

I should also point out that in my first week living inMalawi, as I was walking down the main road from Zomba to Blantyre, I cameacross a boisterous group of men and women celebrating after a wedding. As pertradition, the men were wearing women’s skirts. I don’t remember any womenbeating up on the men because of the way they were dressed.

Stop it, guys. Take your anger elsewhere. It’s bad enough mynative country is doing a lame job at respecting human rights; don’t let ithappen in Malawi too. Take a cue from the preamble of the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women: “Recalling thatdiscrimination against women violates the principles of equality of rights andrespect for human dignity, is an obstacle to the participation of women, onequal terms with men, in the political, social, economic and cultural life oftheir countries, hampers the growth of the prosperity of society and the familyand makes more difficult the full development of the potentialities of women inthe service of their countries and of humanity…” Just stop it. Let them be.

Everyday rights

2012-01-21T19:18:00.001-05:00

January 22 marks the anniversary of my mother’s death. Sucks. It’sbeen four years now. But it’s not a day to mourn – at this point, being sad wouldno longer be because I mourn her, but because I’d be feeling sorry for myself.Not going to happen. If I did that, my mother – had she still been kickingaround – would tell me to stop being such a sissy.

Don't mess with me, Buster Boy.

At any rate, I want to remember her on this day by looking backat her take on human rights. She was a secretary, a receptionist, astay-at-home mom, and eventually an old woman who occasionally went bowlingand gambling with other old women. Her perception of human rights wasessentially created the same way it is for most people: learned throughexperience, not through any formal education or training on international humanrights conventions. So here’s what she knew, written up as "everyday rights" that guided her life, and if you know nothing about human rights, thinkagain, because you probably do. For each "right" below, I’ve put in references to theUniversal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) and other human rights conventions.

1. Speak up whenyou’re pissed off (Sure it’s a right. Think Art. 19 of the UDHR: “Everyonehas the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedomto hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impartinformation and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.”)

In retrospect, I realize she did this quite frequently. Ifever she felt she was not being treated fairly (by a mechanic, a salesman,anybody), she’d go on a rant in French and accuse the person of discriminatingagainst her because she had an English name. Those on the receiving end of hervitriolic attacks always ended up on the losing side of an argument andacquiescing to anything she said. Even at the ripe age of 65, she went down tothe local mall and protested with a bunch of other demonstrators and wound up speakingon the radio. I can’t remember why she demonstrated – must have been to protectthe English language of the rights of seniors – but I do remember her fiery attitudeafterwards. She was pumped at gettingmad for a cause. Her demeanour unquestionably screamed, Don’t mess with me, Buster Boy.

2. Always look afterthe best interests of the child (Think Art. 18 par. 1 ofthe Convention on the Rights of the Child: “Parents or, as the case may be, legal guardians, have the primary responsibility for the upbringing and development of the child. The best interests of the child will be their basic concern.”)

This one’s a no-brainer. She was a pit bull when it came todefending my rights and my brother’s rights. A good education, good health, enoughfood, water, you name it, there was nothing we went without. There werelimitations, however. She made me ingest an unacceptablequantity of lima beans in my youth. Every single bite was disgusting. Therehad to have been a more palatable alternative.

3. A woman can doanything a man can do (and should never be discriminated against because sheis a woman. Think Art. 1 of the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women that defines discrimination: “…'discrimination against women' shall meanany distinction, exclusion or restriction made on the basis of sex which hasthe effect or purpose of impairing or nullifying the recognition, enjoyment orexercise by women, irrespective of their marital status, on a basis of equalityof men and women, of human rights and fundamental freedoms in the political,economic, social, cultural, civil or any other field.”)

She was a single mother with two boys. No further explanation required.

4. Don't discriminate. But if you do, try your damnedest to change. (Art. 2 of the UDHR on non-discrimination: “Everyone is entitled to all the rightsand freedoms set forth in this Declaration, without distinction of any kind,such as race, colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion,national or social origin, property, birth or other status.”)

I like to believe that we – the collective we of planetEarth – are becoming gradually more tolerant and accepting of our differences.I’m more tolerant and accepting than my mother was, and hopefully my kids willbe more accepting than me. Here’s an example of the way she thought: when theRwandan genocide began in April 1994, I phoned her from my home in Malawi toreassure her I was fine. Her response: “Are you getting along well with thenatives?” I cringed at the outdated reference, but I know she meant well. It’snot to completely fault her – she was influenced by her generation while alsoshaping her own values and attitudes. When it came to accepting others, well…it was bestnot to talk about gays and lesbians; no taxi driver who was a “foreigner” couldpossibly know the streets of Montreal as well as a real Montrealer; all [insertethnic minority] were cheap; every [other ethnic minority] was smelly; [thoseothers] were rude; and as for me having a Chinese girlfriend – yikes that was aconversation-killer. The years passed and she did mellow out a lot. Perhaps mellow isn’t quite the rightword. As she learned more about different cultures, either through TV or thechanging ethnic landscape of her neighbourhood, ignorance manifested as subtle racismevolved into uncertainty, understanding, tolerance, and eventually acceptance.Most of the time.

5. Give (makingsure that you do your part so that strangers live in dignity, Art. 1 of the UDHR).

I know, giving isn’t a human right. In the final years ofher life, my mother decided to give money to charitable organizations that didhumanitarian relief work. It was the first time she’d done so. A small gestureto be sure, but it symbolized a recognition that, despite living a life with a fair amount of significant hardships, she found room to give to others less fortunate. Thegesture was Article 1 of the UDHR, plain and simple: “All human beings are bornfree and equal in dignity and rights. They are endowed with reason andconscience and should act towards one another in a spirit of brotherhood [...andsisterhood].”

So far, these everyday rights have worked just fine for me.

What’s worth blogging about in 2012?

2012-01-11T10:26:00.001-05:00

As the New Year begins, I want to take theopportunity to thank my readers. I started this blog nearly two years agohaving a vague idea about its subject matter: human rights, because that’s whatI do, and travel (the work-related kind), because I have to do that in order for thehuman rights stuff to become a reality.

You – the audience – is more diverse than I couldever have hoped for. Since the blog started in 2010, it has been viewed over 18,000 times in 122 countries (and those aren’t all my own visits). The top 30countries where this blog is viewed are listed below.

Blog visits, top 30 countries, April 2010 – January2012:

1. Canada

2. United States

3. Jordan

4. India

5. United Kingdom

6. Philippines

7. Indonesia

8. Brazil

9. Bangladesh

10. Nepal

11. South Africa

12. Tunisia

13. Palestinian Territories

14. Israel

15. Sri Lanka

16. Mauritius

17. Ireland

18. Bahrain

19. Australia

20. Malaysia

21. Pakistan

22. Egypt

23. Iraq

24. France

25. Netherlands

26. Russia

27. Lebanon

28. Ukraine

29. Senegal

30. Italy

Over the last few weeks, I have introduced newelements to the website. The site now has headings – the main blog (Home) withcurrent entries, the usual About section, my attempt at writing short, creativenon-fiction (30 stories in 30 days), some of my travel blog entries (Travelstuff), some of my favourite entries, and some blogs related to human rights inCanada. I have also consolidated the most popular entries (and my personalfavourites), the “Letters to my sons” which I started back in November 2010.These entries have been most helpful in framing and understanding my humanrights work, because they have pushed me to reflect on using a language that mychildren will understand. Dealing with human rights violations with adults isone thing; trying to explain torture, rape or killing to a child makes yourealize, even more than before, how fantastically cruel we can be towards eachother.

I hope you enjoy the changes to the website. Asalways, I welcome your feedback and comments, just send me an email. I wouldalso like to hear from you the kind of things you want to read more about – thetravel, the short stories, specific human rights issues, reflections onfacilitation, or anything else. What should I blog about?

So once again, thanks for reading, and Happy 2012!

Screw Ken, Barbie wants same-sex marriage

2012-01-09T21:02:00.004-05:00

I say good for Archie comics. In the recent Life with Archie #16, a soldier, Kevin Keller, serving in Iraq gets injured. While recovering at a hospital, he meets and falls in love with an African-American male doctor. The two tie the knot and grace the cover of the comic. This is not the same Archie I grew up with. Jughead was a moron, Veronica was nasty, and Archie always got into trouble for being generally quite stupid. All those silly Republican candidates down in the US seem to take every opportunity to promote marriage as being "only between a man and a woman" - I say give them a copy of Life with Archie to read between debates. I doubt it'll change their minds but it's worth it to see how offended they'd be.

While the acceptance of same-sex marriage is beyond what many politicians' and plenty of average dull normals would deem as morally OK, I was pleasantly surprised to see that this stuff can be addressed with young children. Leave it to a ten year-old to take the moral high ground and see same-sex marriage as simply a matter of respecting human rights. Period.

Hit the road, Ken.

Back in December, the local Amnesty International group held an essay and art context to celebrate International Human Rights Day. I helped judge the entries from Greendale Elementary. After picking winners in each category, my Amnesty colleague showed me an entry from a fifth grade girl. It was a large maquette filled with Barbies holding signs advocating for equal rights. There was the right not to be discriminated against because of colour (that was a Black Barbie holding up the sign, and she basically looked a lot like the white Barbie, including the ridiculously impossible measurements that defy reason), the right to be treated equally as a woman, and - my favourite - two Barbies expressing their right to marry each other. "We have absolute right to marry each other!" read the sign between the lovestruck dolls, a heart with an arrow drawn just below the words. They certainly looked happy. I say good for the youth of today, who seem to have no trouble understanding that when two people love each other and want to marry, they can. It's a simple as that.

The artist of the Barbie maquette won in the newly-created Outstanding Art category.

Update: The Pope says that gay marriage undermines "the future of humanity itself." As if I needed another reason not to believe in religion.

2012 - Suck it up and survive, or: reasons to be hopeful

2011-12-31T10:27:00.000-05:00

I have never been one to make (and subsequently fail to liveup to) any New Year’s resolutions. Although I would like to go to the gym oftenenough so that the cost of an average workout does not exceed the cost of acase of beer.

With a new year upon us I can best sum up my outlook as: The planet’s screwed but that shouldn’tprevent us from trying to save it, and thankfully some people are still tryingto do this but more of us should get out there and do something. I know itisn’t catchy but it’ll have to do. As I reflect on the title of this blog, AChange Is Coming, I’m reminded that change (for the better) won’t happen on itsown; people have to make it happen.

The end of the year is always an opportune time to reflecton the past and hope for a better future. This should happen every day, notonly now, but I guess most of us are too busy. Plus if all we did was reflecton the past and hope for the future, we wouldn’t be doing anything in thepresent. So as the year comes to a close I’d like to take stock of things. Ihave every intention of making this a top 10, but we’ll see if I can manage atleast five things.

Here’s what I want for 2012:

As anordinary person, I know can make a difference in this world on my own and withothers, including huge numbers of strangers who are just as pissed off at howthings are as I am. I should try harder to make a difference.

How this can happen: On my own, I could try to be an Internet sensation andmake a YouTube video of me dancing with a penguin that would go viral and makeme (or at least the penguin) popular for a week. This would make 1 millionpeople feel good for about 30 seconds or the length of the video, but I can’tmake a career out of it. So for the moment, and over the next year, I’ll try tomake a difference on my own by blogging more about things related to humanrights that bug me or interest me, that discourage me and enrage me or thatgive me hope for a better future. My Christmas wish list to Santa covered many of these issues: a Canadian government that selectively shunshuman rights violations internationally while ignoring its own actions here,including its discrimination of First Nations communities; killings, detentionsand arbitrary arrests in Syria, Bahrain, Yemen, and Egypt; African despots whohave clung on to power for too long; discrimination and violence against the LGBTIQcommunity; and Obama reneging on campaign promises such as the closure ofGuantanamo Bay. I’d add to that increasing sectarian violence worldwide,violence against women, trafficking and exploitation of children, internalconflicts around the world that kill thousands every year, violations againstmigrant workers and their families, human rights abuses by transnationalcorporations, and the shameful reality that we know we are destroying ourplanet but those in power are unwilling to make the right decisions for our ownsake and for the lives of generations to come.

OK so I didn’t quite get to five things, only one, but I like to think of it as all inclusive.

Believing in humanrights education

I believe we (collective “we” of planet Earth) can make ourlives and the lives of others better by learning about human rights, so I am afirm believer in human rights education. For many people who lead a nice lifeand don’t need to worry about having their rights egregiously violated (likeme), learning about rights is a destabilizing reality. You realize that so manyothers in this world do not have the same liberties and freedoms and ability tolive a full life of dignity. Learning about human rights violations elsewhereleaves you feeling privileged/guilty/blessed with what you’ve got, and can alsopush you to act out of empathy and respect for others to help them live a lifeas full as yours. I specifically say empathy and respect rather than sympathybecause the latter term relegates the dynamic of those who have and have not toone of pity and charity. Rights are not about charity; rights are basicobligations that states have for all of us to live equal in dignity and rights.I don’t want to help someone living in poverty because I feel sorry for them. Iwant to help them because it’s their right to live a better life, and we(collective “we” of planet Earth, but also “we” as in governments) have theability to eradicate poverty and improve the lives of millions within ourlifetimes.

Human rights education is just as essential, just as vitalfor those who live a life of dignity and equality as for those whose rights areviolated. Everyone needs to know about human rights; human rights are not just atrendy topic in university classes, human rights education is not boring (atleast it shouldn’t be); human rights education is unavoidable, it cannot beignored. The events of the past year, in particular with the Arab Spring andworldwide Occupy Movement – are a clear indication that average citizens canrise up and demand their most basic rights – freedom, life, security, equality,and are ready to sacrifice their own freedom in order to achieve these rightsfor others. The courage of ordinary people defying guns, bullets and tanks inthe streets of their hometowns to defy the oppressive despots leading theircountries should be incentive enough for the rest of us to get off ourcollective asses and express our indignation at the failure of our politicalleaders.

The most impoverishedare the strong ones

Worldwide, human rights violations affect those living inpoverty the hardest. An estimated 1.7 billion people around the world are livingin poverty – it’s an unavoidable statistic that affects everyone. I have seen,though never experienced, conditions of poverty in many parts of the world. However,the crap I see that shapes and defines people living in poverty is only apartial reality of their lives. Living in Africa for four years, I saw enoughpoverty to leave me incapable of facing it for the first two years in Malawiand give me a fair share of nightmares upon my return to Canada. But I alsoleft wondering how so many people kept going with a strength I foundremarkable. If there’s anything I want to learn from others less fortunate,it’s how they keep going with a strength of character to suck it up andsurvive. Whether through faith or will or courage or love or instinct or a mixof all that and more, the most awe-inspiring part of the human condition isfound in places where living conditions are the most deplorable and thoseoppressed are being violated by others embodying the worst of human nature.

Hope

As I look forward to a new year, I remain conflicted as Iwas last year at this time: hopeful for a better future, but discouraged by theviolence, poverty, human suffering and willful degradation of the planet. Butthe resolve of so many to stand up for their rights, to suck it up and surviveand strive for a more hopeful future where their rights are respected, pushesme a little further towards the hopeful end of the scale. That’s enough to keepme going for another year. To all of you, a happy and prosperous New Year. Achange is indeed coming.

Dear Santa, here's my human rights Xmas wish list

2011-12-21T18:57:00.001-05:00

Dear Santa,
I know you're busy this time of year. I'll spare you the usual "peace around the world" stuff I used to wish for as a kid before reality set in. Let me be brief. Here's what I'd like from you this Christmas:

Now that Harper has a majority, I realize that completely removing the Conservatives from Ottawa is an unreasonable wish. Instead, could you at least make them smarter? Let them rethink adoption of the new crime bill, scrapping the gun registry, abandoning Kyoto, and please, pretty please with sugar on top, let them respect, protect, and fulfill all human rights of the First Nation people of this land.
You might as well give the opposition NDP members of parliament a little more teeth since you'll be in the neighbourhood. Kinda went downhill after Jack left us.
Do me a big favour and get rid of president Bashar al-Assad in Syria. Government forces have killed about 5000 demonstrators this year alone, and it doesn't look as though he will have a change of heart anytime soon.
While you're in the region, could you make sure the Kingdom of Bahrain has elections for a new Prime Minister? He's been kicking around the kingdom since 1971. It seems rather excessive. I left my job after nearly ten years - you know, I liked my job, but it felt good to move on. See if he can too.
Since you'll be in Bahrain, why not release all those prisoners who have been detained since the uprisings in February? My friend Abdulhadi Alkhawaja was sentenced to life in prison - could you spring him out of jail?
I've noticed on YouTube that police officers in Egypt are getting quite good at beating the crap out of unarmed protestors. Why not give them all a training course in maintaining order without all the violence? Everyone can play nice if they try hard enough.
The Occupy movement has fizzled over the past few weeks. I'm not sure it'll go very far over the winter months, at least in places where it can get pretty cold (I know, I know: not as cold as your place). Nonetheless, could you find us (as in we the 99%) a suitably inspiring figure who will reinvigorate us and decisively and confidently lead us to action that will bring about real change? That elf of yours who wanted to be a dentist had a lot of gumption, is he free?
It's easy to forget about Mugabe down in Zimbabwe, but let's face it: he's way past his expiry date. Go ahead and cast a magic spell on him or something so he decides to fess up to the violence he caused over all these years and step down. Let democratically-elected leaders get on with the business of rebuilding that beautiful country.
Getting rid of Mugabe would also give an opportunity to bring in an era where gay rights are fully recognized as human rights. You may only be able to do so much in Zimbabwe, so if you had to focus your attention somewhere, may I suggest you go to Cameroon and Uganda for a start and have those in power change legislation criminalizing homosexuality with harsh sentences.
Now that I think of it, Yemen doesn't get as much airtime as other hotspots in the Middle East, but listen: I've got some friends there, they do good stuff to help promote girls' rights. The current climate there is not favourable to their work. President Saleh promised he'd step down. He's apparently taken leave now, so can you make sure there is a transition to a better system of governance? Maybe give all prospective leaders an Xbox or something to make them happy; it's a price worth paying.
President Obama has been a bit of a letdown lately. I don't expect him to live up to all the things he said he'd do upon entering office, but let him at least close Guantanamo Bay and give the "enemy combatants" fair trials.
There's still no snow in Montreal. It'd be nice to have a white Christmas for the kids.

Thanks Santa. Keep up the good work.

Speaking out against pieces of sh*t in Canada and abroad

2011-12-20T14:39:00.000-05:00

Matt Price of the Huffington Post recently wondered in a blog why more Canadians aren't losing it like Trudeau. The reference was to Trudeau's recent outburst in the House of Commons calling Canada's Environment Minister Peter Kent a "piece of shit." The guy who stole my wallet last month is a piece of shit; Peter Kent is not. At least he shouldn't have been called that in the House of Commons. Mr. Kent was more cowardly than shit-like. He was in no position to criticize NDP environment critic Megan Leslie for not attending the Durban climate conference. It was his government that prevented any delegates from other parties to attend the conference.

While I don't think the House of Commons is the place for such language, I applaud Mr. Trudeau for bringing more media attention to the policies and practices our government is taking, apparently without much objection from many of its citizens. The Canada that the current government is creating is not one to be proud of, from reneging on the Kyoto Protocol, cutting funding for abortions, scrapping the gun registry, passing a crime bill that will likely do more harm than good, losing a seat on the UN Security Council, and systematically marginalizing aboriginal rights. For that last one, the UN special rapporteur on indigenous peoples James Anaya contacted the Canadian government about the "dire social and economic condition" about the Attawapiskat First Nation. The response from the government's Aboriginal Affairs Minister: the special rapporteur's statement "lacks credibility." Smells like shit, and it's not coming from the UN.

How does this "lack credibility"?

Don't think this is going unnoticed, here in Canada or abroad. Fifteen years ago, I travelled to other countries and could be assured of a smile every time I said I was Canadian. Nowadays, most people frown, hesitate before speaking, and finally ask me: "What's wrong with your country now?"

There's plenty wrong with our country, but I'm also aware (and deeply thankful, but not thankful to this government) for the liberties I have. I can criticize the government because it's my right. I don't live in fear of being arrested or assaulted by the police if I say something against the government. I have freedom, I have liberty, I have freedom of expression, and I realize as I reflect on the realities in other countries that I don't exercise my freedom of expression enough. I might not get to the point where I start name-calling government officials, but I should be more vocal about the things I care about. When it comes to respecting the human rights of all Canadians (and our right to a clean environment is intricately linked to our human rights as individuals and groups), it is shameful that the government dismisses any criticisms, from opposition parties to public outcry to the United Nations, and ploughs ahead with its own agenda. This is not a Canada I am proud of. This is not my Canada.

Blatant disregard for basic human rights - Article 3 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights states we all have the right to life, liberty and security of the person - continues to tarnish progress in Canada and elsewhere in the world, even in this year of the Arab Spring. The death toll in Syria is over 5000 since protests began, violence has erupted again in Egypt following elections, and the oppression continues in Bahrain. When I think back at the year's events, as so many of us do as the year's end approaches, there is one issue above all that upsets me the most, and recent events have only made things worse. I am still angry at the arrest, imprisonment, mistreatment, and unfair trial of my friend and human rights defender Abdulhadi Alkhawaja, currently serving a life sentence in Bahrain for defending the rights of others. His daughter Zainab, clearly demonstrating very peacefully against the government at a roundabout last week, was handcuffed, dragged into a police van, and arrested. This is wrong. His arrest was wrong, her arrest is wrong; both should be free. Her lawyers were told yesterday, "What trial?" as they appeared in court. The leadership in Bahrain should think of implementing the recommendations put forward by the Bahrain Independent Commission of Inquiry. When will the violence end, when will the common denominator that bonds us all - our humanity - be enough to stop the hatred? When will those in positions of power admit to their weaknesses, mistakes, and human rights violations so we can move on with our lives and focus on bettering ourselves and helping each other rather than oppressing those who dare to speak of human rights for all?

To those who have fought to claim your own rights and protect the rights of others, I respect and envy your courage. You are the voice of the fed up, the tired, the pissed off, the oppressed, the violated, the hurt. Speak up so that more can be inspired.

Human Rights Day 2011: Kid's Talk

2011-12-09T21:06:00.001-05:00

In what has become a tradition (well, at least two years in a row), my son Sam has shown an interest in talking about human rights by creating a video and sharing it on YouTube. Last year he went solo, and this year his older brother lends his voice to a nutcracker named Oprah.

Enjoy, and happy Human Rights Day! The UN stuff is here.

“Le one stop shop pour le pick and pay” and other Mauritius realities

2011-11-28T12:26:00.001-05:00

The driver from the Prime Minister’s Office used to be abartender at Club Med and now whips around the island’s roundabouts with deftprecision and enough gusto that I’m never susceptible to the jetlag I deserve. Thankfully the occasional traffic jam lets me soak in the spectacular jagged ridges of the mountains in the distance, the lushness of the flowers inundating the roadside.

The beauty of Mauritius was absent from this morning’sbreakfast. There’s only so much fake wood paneling my eyes can take, and thishotel’s restaurant is plastered with it floor to ceiling. The weeping fruits atthe buffet table a depressing contrast to the radio announcer’s vibrant lilt.The radio ads played upon my bilingual neurons: “Le one stop shop pour le pickand pay.” Quoi?

My brain still at a loss when I am approached by anyone ofIndian descent who speaks a Parisian French that puts mybon québécois, ostie in the deserved category of verbal ruffage. Even strangerto my mind that everyone speaks Creole to each other. My mind saying this is so different, at odds with everyone else around who likely never, ever thinks that.

The day was filled with formalities both necessary andpleasant. Although it frankly sucks that the only time I wear a suit and tie iswhen the weather nudges the 30-degree mark.

It would be cliché to label Flat Stanley's friends as two-dimensional.

My bartender-cum-driver is waiting for me at the hotel by8:30 sharp. The first visit is to the Prime Minister’s Office. It’s alwayswelcoming to have people greet you who are genuinely happy to see you.Handshakes firm or gentle are exchanged followed by a discussion on my purpose onthis island: to gauge how human rights education can be integrated into secondaryschools. The PMO wants it to happen, the Commonwealth Secretariat wants it too,and the Ministry of Education, same notation. In my head, the familiar argumentthat would be a typical teacher’s reaction: I don’t have time to teach anythingextra. No problem, we can work around that. I’ll have the chance to speak tosome heads of secondary schools this Friday during a workshop I am unexpectedly facilitating. I outwardly cringed at the horror of facilitating for 200 people,but the challenge is a welcome one. Besides, the invitations had already been sent out, and I have never had my name written on such fancy paper with a dodo on it.

Sunset from Flic en Flac beach.

How often do I get the chance to sit down with a retiredjudge of the Supreme Court, among many other accolades? Another first for whichI was thankful. After informing me of what would best be called A ConciseHistory of the Legal Framework of Human Rights in Mauritius, he took me tolunch to a Chinese restaurant sitting atop an Audi dealership. Actually therestaurant was on the third floor; sandwiched in between was an art gallery.Who thinks of these things?

Zipping through traffic, we were running late on the afternoonmeetings but had plenty to talk about with Ministry of Education and theMauritius Institute of Education, which develops curriculum frameworks alongwith a many other things. Waiting in a conference room for the next group ofpeople on the day’s agenda, I sensed Flat Stanley’s unrelenting call forfreedom. Released, he found solace in the companionship of othertwo-dimensionals on a poster celebrating diversity. He was happy. A walk on the beach did everything to reinvigorate me and wonder, why the hell don't I live in a place like this? Strolling with bartender-cum-driver, we talk with an ease that belied the fact we'd met only the day before, and see a magnificent sunset that probably goes unnoticed far too often.

Goodbye Passport: The Demise of a Faithful Travelling Companion

2011-11-11T21:00:00.001-05:00

The single most disgusting thing I have seen travellers do over the years - in every airport, on every continent, people of all ages, men and women alike, from every country imaginable - has been to shove their passports in their mouths as they use both hands to find their damn boarding pass. Come on, people. Stop and think about where your passport has been. You might as well stick your tongue out and go lick the handrail of an escalator.

Thanks for the memories

I love my passport, but not so much as to chomp down on it and have all its germs seep through my lips. I felt a slight but unmistakable stab of sorrow and pain as my last passport had its edges cut off and the words "ANNULÉ CANCELLED" stamped on its first page. The most faithful of travelling companions, it has rarely left my sight while overseas, always carefully guarded in my front pocket by day or in a hotel safe or by my bedside at night. I never fully understood why some hotel managers insist on holding on to my passport until they can get it photocopied. Especially when the copier is broken. Fiercely possessive of my identity (which technically belongs to the Canadian government), I get more than a little irked when hotel staff insist on keeping my passport. The last time that happened turned out to be on my final trip with my passport, with the dim-witted hotel lackey at the reception taking away my passport and insisting he would need "for 5 minutes." After half an hour, I went to collect it. "But sir, we have not photocopied it," he said. "I don't care. I was here three months ago, go find the copy you made then." Hmph.

A well-used passport is a skeletal travel diary. The places are there, but none of the stories. Each stamp exudes a memory, or rather a multitude of memories of the locations visited, the people encountered and the (often) tedious wait at customs to get through. (Mental note: avoid JFK airport in New York at all costs.) My passport is a reflection of the last four and a half years of my life. If a stranger were to pick up my passport and flip through its pages, they would quickly figure out that I did not go on fun and sun vacations, nor was I a businessman globetrotting to financial hubs to seal deals. Stamps from Iraq, Malaysia, Lebanon, Israel, Morocco, Senegal and Indonesia might leave the person wondering what the hell I did for a living.

The stamp from Turkey (May 2008) is the most colourful of all, and the most expensive. As I stood in line to get my visa I was stunned to see that Canadians paid the highest amount of all foreign nationals for visas to enter Turkey: 60$ US. It seems that the Turkish government was not happy that the Canadian government officially recognized the Armenian genocide as just that, a genocide. That was one reason, at any rate.

The one from Iraq (November 2009) is the most unique in the collection. Landing in Kurdistan at four in the morning after three consecutive flights from Jakarta, I passed through a brand new airport that was infrequently used, and unsurprisingly quiet. With a sufficient dose of paranoia about landing in Iraq, knowing that I had additional insurance to cover my death in case of a terrorist attack, I was reasonably, but needlessly, spooked.

Ouagadougou (January 2011): it would be impossible to forget landing at night at a tiny airport that had been under construction for over a year. Dirt floors, no electricity, and airport employees with no idea what they were doing contributed to a sweaty and chaotic scene that brought back memories of the vibrant, alive, and utterly disorganized Africa I loved and loathed. The welcoming party of several friends, patiently waiting in the dark, made everything all right.

Israel (June 2011), in and out of the West Bank and Gaza: my passport was taken from me numerous times, all my luggage was searched repeatedly, I was body searched (just as repeatedly), I got hassled for having a passport with countries Israel is not chummy with, I was detained, approached by numerous guys with guns, and let's not forget those nasty dogs. Do I have to continue?

And of course there was Indonesia, several times over the last five years, each visit consuming a full page of my passport. My trips there were so frequent I could walk from the plane to the visa counter with my eyes closed. The unmistakable smell of clove cigarettes as I stepped into the terminal seeped through my nostrils and permeated my skin instantly. Perhaps owing to the frequency of my visits, I always got what I can only call a comforting feeling as I arrived at Soekarno-Hatta International Airport. It's almost as though I was coming home. When you're travelling as far from home as you can imagine, there is no feeling that is more comforting.

I bid a fond goodbye to my last passport. It has taken me safely to places I never thought I would visit, time and time again. I'll stash it somewhere in my junk at home, only to uncover it in a couple of years as I try in vain to tidy things. By then it will be a welcome surprise to see it again. As I flip through its pages, I'll be awash with memories of a life that defined me. The new one's coming in the mail next week, just in time for a new trip to a country I've never been to before: it's going to be a great start.

Travel Travails: When the driver says, "Stay in the car"

2011-10-20T22:06:00.001-04:00

Erez Crossing, Gaza side: Ain't no 7 Eleven here.

An actor in a TV show the other day said to someone, "Stay in the car." It jogged my memory of the last time someone mentioned that to me. I was at the Erez border crossing between Gaza and Israel. I'd travelled a few kilometres in the company of some UN staff in one of their vehicles, a fortified, bulletproof Land Cruiser. By the time we got to the border - on the Gaza side, patrolled by Hamas guards - the driver killed the engine, looked and me and said, "Give me your passport. Stay in the car." I did. He left.

I didn't think of the consequences if I'd stepped out. One of the UN guys did, and he was OK. He was also a weapons expert who looked like he could kick Chuck Norris' ass. I suppose I could have been used as target practice if someone really wanted to do that. It's happened before, but that was in New York City, when it used to be really dangerous. The Erez crossing was desolate, no one around for at least a kilometre with the exception of a couple of taxi drivers. Not even the Hamas guards were showing themselves, content in staying in their shack. Nonetheless, surrendering my passport in a desolate border crossing to guys with guns is one of the least comforting things that's happened to me. Not to be outdone by the Israeli Defence Forces (IDF), a few hundred metres later I was asked to stay in the car once I got to the Israeli side. The IDF are much better at intimidating people and making them squirm in their car seats. At our first stop on the Israeli side (there were several), a German Shepard hurriedly pounced on our little Fiat Punto and started sniffing its perimeter. He was duly followed by two IDF officers with large guns and ammo strapped to their bulletproof-vested chests. They had little to say other than "Stay in the car." No objections from me.

When travelling, I have generally accepted the wisdom of others who live in places where I am only a traveller. If they say, "Stay in the car," I typically listen. The expression unclogged a far more distant memory dating back to 1998. The place: the Ngorogoro Crater, Tanzania. I was on safari with my then-fiancee Carolyn and our driver Hashim. Our Land Rover was a pathetic excuse of a vehicle compared to the mighty bulletproof UN Cruiser in Gaza. The tires were bald and we paid the price: we got stuck - really, really stuck in the mud. "There's a rhino in front of us with her baby," Hashim said, pointing off into the distance. "Stay in the car." What? And miss the opportunity to be rammed by an angry rhino-mom? No way!

There's never a tow truck when you need one.

But we did stay in the car, at least for the first half hour while Hashim tried his best to claw us out of the mud. When he finally gave up that idea (bald tires + mud = stuck forever), I did venture out of the safe confines of the vehicle to hop out into the veld. Our next idea was to jump on the hood of the Rover and yell for help. And so went another half hour. The rhino and her calf were still a safe distance away, probably wondering why two guys were dancing on the hood of a beaten-up vehicle waving cloths in the air. By the time the rangers arrived toting their guns, Hashim was already giving another tumultuous effort of pulling the tires out of the mud, and we were eventually freed.

Sometimes you don't need to listen to other people's advice: it's OK to get out of the car. Just make sure there are no guns pointed at you and the rhinos are a respectable distance away. And have fun, that's what travel's all about.

Caught without a cellphone, we resort to more traditional ways of communicating. HELP!

Sometimes it's good to quit: Top five reasons why I quit my job

2011-10-01T22:35:00.000-04:00

It's been three months since I quit my job and started working on my own. Today, on what would have been my tenth year working for a small NGO, I'm taking the time to reflect on the reasons why I left. Here are the top 5. A caveat, though: don't take the following as my advice to quit your own job. The job, by the way, was as a "senior education specialist" for a human rights NGO based in Montreal. I basically wrote human rights manuals and trained people about rights. Here goes:

5. I just summed up the last ten years in two lines. That should be reason enough.

4. Flying sucks, as does everything in between flying. I took over 400 planes in over 50 trips, all flights but one were economy. I do not fit in any economy seat on any plane. I spent the equivalent of 24 days waiting in transit lounges that range in tolerance and comfort from the fifth circle of Hell to Purgatory. "Pam Am" the TV show is just that: pure fiction. Maybe it was like that in the 60s, but nowadays you basically have to disrobe in public at every airport and get felt up and down by a stranger who scolds you because you left a goddam quarter in your pocket and set off the machine. On top of that, having my entry into a country depend on some self-aggrandized idiot border guard has tested my patience on too many occasions. By the way, Israeli Defence Forces: you are just plain bad, and not good bad, just bad.

If you're going to go, go boldly.

3. Doing the same thing for what seems like forever leads to complacency and lack of creativity. Ten years ago I said to friends and family, "I'm going to be in this job for one or two years and that's it," having no idea what I would do next, but convinced I would not stay long. Until that point in my life, the longest job I'd had was two years. After nearly ten years, a lot of the work wound up being the same - that makes it hard to be motivated on a daily basis. I needed more challenges, more uncertainty. I needed to see what other skills I had which I hadn't even explored yet (and I am glad to have found them).

2. Sometimes you just have to jump and not know where the hell you're going. I left my job knowing I had guaranteed work for three months, and that was all. In the job I quit, I knew with relative certainty that I could keep the job forever, unless I did something really stupid. I worked in human rights - people are violating them everywhere! Business is good! But seriously, every once in a while you need to take a risk and leap into the unknown. I needed to break free from that security. If anything, the anxiety of not knowing what to do fuelled my passion to search for new work. The most I had going for me was a feeling that everything was going to somehow work out. And it has (so far).

1. You need to shake things up to find balance in your life and zoom in on what's important. I used to spend 2 1/2 hours in transit each day for work, five days a week. I left by 7 AM and came home before 6 PM. Now I take my children to the bus and see them off to school, work on my own schedule and greet them when their day is over at 3:45. Those 2 1/2 hours that used to be spent on the train with strangers are now spent with Boy 1 and Boy 2. I don't need anything else to convince me that what I did was right.

I'm still flying economy, though. Can't have it all.

An Idea that Shouldn't Be Revolutionary

2011-09-08T21:03:00.000-04:00

I started writing a post about development effectiveness andit depressed the hell out of me, so let me try again.

Vive la révolution!

I spoke to a human rights activist in Africa this afternoonwho told me of her organization's work in ten countries on thecontinent. “We do work at the community level,” she told me. “Our facilitatorsenable all members of the community – men, women, and children – to identifyhuman rights concerns that matter to them. The facilitators enable everyone toexpress themselves in ways they have never done before, especially the womenand children. And the difference is remarkable. Everyone is taking a sharedresponsibility to improve their lives and claim their rights. So many peoplethink this is revolutionary.”

This is all good stuff; it’s an approach I firmly believein. Too bad it’s still perceived as “revolutionary.” It shouldn’t be. Theapproach should be embedded throughout small communities around Africa andelsewhere, because it works: it’s transformative and it improves lives.

To call it revolutionary is to admit that developmenteffectiveness has not progressed at it should have in the past few years.Fourteen years ago I did similar work in Ghana. Back then, the idea of activelyengaging rights-holders to learn about and claim their rights was not new. Ithad been happening for years. To call these ideas revolutionary after a fewdecades is evidence that something’s wrong.

(Ok dear reader, it was at this point that I started writingabout mismanagement of funds, misplaced donor priorities, ineffectivestructural adjustment programs and poverty reduction strategy papers, also unwillingness to cooperate between NGOs, governments and donors. That’s when Igot depressed. So let me change the ending.)

If the notion of asking community members about their needsis revolutionary then I’m all for it. Keep this idea revolutionary for as longas you need to, until everyone is doing it. From one village to the next, Iwant people to say to themselves, “Do you know what they’re doing in that othervillage? They’re actually talking about issues that matter to them and doingsomething about it.” Or, “Do you know that the women in the other villageactually speak up and the men listen to them?” Or, “Why can’t we speak up andchange our lives the way they did over there?” Or, “Our time is now, we’ve gotsomething to say.” Come to think of it, I suppose that is revolutionary.

To learn more: Participatory learning and action, or PLA, has a long and rich history based on experiential learning. The website PLA Notes (http://www.planotes.org/) is a great resource. This is only one of many sources, but for me the ideas expressed here are what got me started in participatory approaches to education.

The Arab Spring: When will the bloodshed end?

2011-08-31T22:28:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning and walked my children to the busstop. They were so excited to go to school and play with their friends that theywanted to arrive at the stop twenty minutes early. The bus driver was punctual,I kissed my boys goodbye, walked home and read about a 14-year boy who was killed in Bahrain.

When I was fourteen I remember reading a quote in Omnimagazine by Joseph Stalin, “One death is a tragedy; a million deaths is astatistic.” So far the Arab Spring has claimed – according to Wikipedia, anyhow– anywhere from nearly 24000 to 54000 lives. The Economist offers a smaller number, excluding Libyan deaths as of July.Whatever the real number is – and I doubt anyone will ever know – there havebeen countless children like 14 year-old Ali Jawad Ahmad who were innocentvictims.

I wonder what the parents of Ali are thinking now. Are theirthoughts filled with as much anger as sorrow, as much hatred as grief? To havea son taken away like that after being hit by a gas canister must be anunbearable loss to live with. The road from an Arab Spring to an Arab Summer hasits martyrs, but why must one of them be this child? If anything positive cancome out of his untimely death, it’s to highlight the absurdity and cruelty ofthe violence being perpetrated on peaceful demonstrators. In Bahrain, whereover 30 people have lost their lives in protests since February. In Yemen whereit’s more than 200, in Libya where thousands have died, in Syria where thedeath toll is over 2200...

When will the leaders in these countries have their WTFmoment? When will they realize that by now, as long as there are people intheir countries, there will be protestors in the streets demanding change? They will not backdown. I hate to admit it, but the exit strategies led by Ben Ali in Tunisia andMubarak in Egypt are proving themselves to be exemplary in comparison to thecontinued oppression we are seeing in Syria, Bahrain, and Yemen. When worldleaders like President Obama (finally) state that “We have consistently saidthat President Assad must lead a democratic transition or get out of the way.He has not led. For the sake of the Syrian people, the time has come forPresident Assad to step aside,” you’d think Assad would listen. Then again, probably not. When Assad takesnote of how Gadhafi has fled after viciously fighting, he has to wonder whathis end game will be like.

There are far fewer protests in Bahrain than in Syria, butthe grievances, the anger, and the desire to change, is just as present, andthe same goes for Yemen.

King Hamad bin Isa al-Khalifa of Bahrain has offeredto pardon some of the protesters, but many remain in prison, like my friendAbdulhadi al Khawaja. Worse, some civilians, like Abdulhadi, were tried in a military court, amockery of justice. The independent fact-finding panel investigating alleged humanrights abuses is set to release its findings at the end of October. The panel’sindependence has been put into question seeing how the king set it up. With thedeath of Ali Jawad Ahmad, they need to critically examine police practicesduring the protests. Hopefully the panel’s recommendations will, at a minimum, describethe violations, identify the violators and propose actions for accountabilityand true reform.

The bloodshed must end. I do remember another quotefrom that Omni magazine all those years ago, this one from Aldous Huxley: “Maybe this world is another planet’s Hell.” I hope not.

Welcome to America: Guns for sale, for big kids and the lil' ones too!

2011-08-27T22:01:00.001-04:00

I have fond memories of the US. As a child, my summer vacations were often spent by the beach in Maine. The Atlantic Ocean never seemed cold as a ten year-old. It still wasn’t for my children last week, but somehow my body is completely intolerant of the ocean’s frigidity nowadays.

Thirty years after my first trip to Maine, not much seems to have changed. I can still spend hours on the beach doing essentially nothing. I am primarily surrounded by white folks. Most adults are more than a few kilos overweight. Actually a lot of people, young and old, could take it easy on the Cheetos. Plenty of people drinking Budweiser and Bud Light, which I will never understand but realize that a Bud could be a refreshing beer-substitute on a hot afternoon. Everyone’s friendly, God gets mentioned more than I’d like to hear, plenty of tattoos to be seen, a huge number of SUVs that would easily squish my car, and you can drive to your local mall to buy yourself a gun.

Don't forget the ammo!

Last week my wife read through the local newspaper from Portland Maine. A circular from Cabela’s, the “World’s Foremost Outfitter,” fell out from the middle of the paper. The first page had a doorbuster sale this Saturday: save 40$ on a 9-mm Walther P1 handgun. Flip through the pages and find a handsome selection of guns on sale this week. Want a 12-gauge “Home Defense” rifle? Look no further. Need a Beretta? Save 50$. Looking for a new Glock, or a SigSauer “carried by elite military and law-enforcement professionals?” Come to the store. Too bad the Libyan rebels don’t have a Cabela’s in downtown Tripoli, it would be handy right about now.

There are circulars advertising guns in this country? Are you serious? I was shocked when I leafed through the pages. I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was. This was not my Maine, the one where I spent my summers by the beach. This was the gun-totting Second Amendment I'll give you my gun when you take it from my cold, dead hands-cheering America I was happy to look upon with derision. And I still do.

To be fair to the folks at Cabela’s, the circular did seem to promote the store more as an outdoorsy type of store than a gun store: there are more rifles for sale than handguns. But still. It was a circular that my anti-gun Canadian proclivities bristled upon seeing.

A lot of fun for only 50 cents. Come on kids!

As I leafed through the selection of guns and ammo, my mind wandered back to an episode at a campground in Maine five years ago. My two sons woke up early, ate their porridge and wandered over to the next campsite. A young boy about their age wanted to play guns with them. My younger son said to the boy, “We’re not allowed to play with guns.” They found other ways to play together until the boy’s mother called him over for a doughnut and Coke. I remember telling my sons that guns are bad. But then again, I played with toy guns all the time as a kid.

Coming back home from the beach we stopped at a grocery store in New Hampshire. On the way out, I noticed one of the vending machines for kids that advertised “Guns N Grenades” for only 50 cents. I bellowed a hearty laugh at the sight of it. But I didn't laugh because it was funny.

The UK Riots: What's Worth Remembering

2011-08-11T16:46:00.000-04:00

There are fewer sirens tonight. Since my arrival in London earlier this week, the howl of police cars pierced the night intermittently for hours. There’s been much said of the damage done and plenty said about how citizens not involved in the violence and lootings were appalled. The time now is for bringing back a sense of normalcy and security to those who’s livelihoods were affected; it’s time to bring those responsible to justice, however muddy that path may be when handing out justice to an 11 year-old. It’s time to reflect on the causes of the riots. Divisions are already apparent among politicians in the UK. Prime Minister Cameron said that a lack of responsibility is to blame. "Young people smashing windows and stealing televisions is not about inequality," Cameron said. "When you have a deep moral failure you don't hit it with a wall of money." Some of Labour’s politicians are blaming the riots on deep inequality between Britain’s rich and poor.

Whatever the causes, it’s worth the time for politicians and average citizens to find inspiration and learn from acts of kindness and love in the face of the violence. Londoners taking to the streets with their brooms is a remarkable gesture, a citizen-led movement of such simplicity and pureness in its goal that you cannot but help but think to yourself that there is hope for this dismal human race after all.

Then there is Tariq Jahan, a man whose 21-year-old son Haroon was killed in Birmingham along with two other men defending local shops from looters. He spoke in the streets of the city and called for peace: "Today we stand here to plead with all the youth to remain calm, for our community to stand united.”

I cannot imagine the pain he is going through, losing a son from a senseless, mindless act of violence. If I were in a similar situation, I honestly don’t know if I would have been so forgiving.

The broom-toting cleaners and Mr. Jahan’s composure in the face of his son’s death reflect the deepest, strongest values that move us to lead kinder, gentler, and more peaceful lives. They show us that we can be strong and united in our repression against violence. The citizen-street-cleaners show us we can act together with a sense of purpose to do what’s right. Mr Jahan shows us that, even in light of a heinous an act committed against someone he loved dearly, violence is not an option as a form of retaliation; peace is.

When I remember my time in London during these events, I will remember these acts, I will remember these people. Their lessons are worth passing on to others.

Stop taking our children: When Palestinian children get taken in the night

2011-07-25T17:41:00.001-04:00

This is for Hatem, who wrote to me: "Please keep promoting human rights for Palestinians."

I was in the West Bank about a month ago visiting a number of primary schools schools. Entering the schools always gave me a sense of relief. They were always surrounded by thick, white concrete walls, most often covered with happy scenes of naively-painted children in their school environment: cleaning the compound, learning in class, playing sports together. Once in a while Mickey Mouse or Tom and Jerry decorated the walls for good measure.

Driving into the school compounds gave me a sense of relief because the streets outside were hardly the kind of environment a child should grow up in: filthy streets, garbage strewn everywhere, the occasional poster of a martyr brandishing a machine gun, and a depressing amount of unemployed people (mostly men) busying themselves by doing a lot of nothing.

Towards the end of my trip I visited a boys' school for the first time. As I walked into the school, there was a palpable difference in the energy compared to girls' schools: the boys were a lot noisier, the classrooms seemed to be fuller, and the students had a greater tendency to ignore me than to see me as an unusual guest. The school administration was different too: all the principals I'd met before were women. The principal of the boys' school was a scraggly man with an unkept look, an office reeking of cigarette smoke, and an annoying habit of paying more attention to his ringing mobile than to my questions. He made me feel as though my presence was an inconvenience.

"We do have a problem with one of the students," he said after putting away his phone. "He has had trouble focusing in class, and he went to the counsellor asking for help."

"What happened?" I asked.

He rested his hands on his computerless desk. "Earlier this week, the Israeli soldiers burst into his house during the night and arrested his brother. The soldiers said his brother was accused of throwing rocks at them, so they took him in the middle of the night and dragged him from his home. His family has not seen him since."

"Where did they take him?"

"To a detention centre. It happens all the time. The children are taken from their homes in the middle of the night, their hands tied, and they are not seen for days. The boy whose brother was taken has had trouble sleeping since this happened. This is what we have to deal with; these are the problems our children face. How can you talk about peace and human rights when they live in fear that they may be taken during the night? So we help his brother and his family whichever way we can, and offer our moral support."

My initial impression of the principal was turned on its head: this was not an uncaring, dispassionate man. Here was someone faced with the unreal situation of having students at his school arrested during the night and taken away from their families. In its latest newsletter, Defence for Children International (DCI) chronicles the arrest of a young boy that is likely not dissimilar the one the principal is referring to:

Saji O. (16 years)
On 7 June 2011, a 16-year-old boy from Azzun, in the occupied West Bank, is arrested by Israeli soldiers from the family home at 2:00am:
Sixteen-year-old Saji was arrested by soldiers whilst still in his bed – his hands were tied behind his back with plastic ties and blindfolded - prevented from saying goodbye to his family - punched in the stomach before being placed inside a military vehicle - verbal abuse: 'son of a whore' - transferred on the floor of the vehicle - taken to Zufin settlement - given a cursory medical check whilst still tied and blindfolded - hands started to bleed - made to sit outside in the cold for approximately 30 minutes - transferred to Huwwara Interrogation and Detention Centre - strip searched and detained with two adults, in violation of Article 37(c) of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child - transferred to Salem Interrogation Centre - interrogated - tied to a small metal chair - accused of weapon possession - denied accusation - transferred to Megiddo Prison, inside Israel, in violation of Article 76 of the Fourth Geneva Convention.

No one will ever be able to convince me that the mistreatment suffered by this boy - this child - is warranted. So far this year, over 200 Palestinian children have been detained, imprisoned and prosecuted in Israeli military courts. Organizations like B'Tselem are publishing reports (the latest one is here) and bringing cases like Saji's to the world's attention (DCI submitted a report to the UN last week). It's time to speak up, it's time to say this is not right.

Life in one-liners

2011-07-16T02:49:00.002-04:00

Below are one-liners I've heard in the past week since my trip away from home.

"I thought Daddy quit his job; why is he leaving again?"

- Boy 1's sadness at another separation.

"I made a card for you about 60 times so I'm out of ideas."

- The inscription in Boy 2's card he made for me before leaving.

"The revolution has given us freedom."

- Young man at a shop selling me water in Tunis.

"Upright your seat!!!"

- Flight attendant barking out orders to passengers, economy class, Turkish Airlines from Tunis to Istanbul

"More champagne, sir?"

- Different flight attendant, business class, same airline, Istanbul to Amman

"In Jordan, we are the most peaceful country in the region; really it is the quietest."

- Driver picking me up from the airport in Amman, one day before a protest in the city leaves several people injured.

"I love how they've redecorated the place since the bomb blast."

- Friend of mine, yesterday, upon admiring the efforts undertaken to redecorate the Landmark Hotel in Amman after it was bombed a few years ago as the Radisson.

"Be careful, honey."

- My darling wife. And yes, I always am.

Solitary travels, or why it's OK to talk to strangers

2011-07-14T18:21:00.000-04:00

You get a lot of time to think when you travel alone. I'm fine with that; I enjoy keeping to myself for the most part. In some places, like the airport in Tunis this morning, I become surrounded almost entirely by people who are different from me in so many ways: dark complexion, speaking in languages I've tried (and failed) to learn, short (well, most of them shorter than me at any rate), noisy. Parents yelling at their children, children crying because airports are no fun, girlfriends snuggling up to their aloof boyfriends, old couples comfortable ignoring each other as their read their own books. Life swirls around me as I sit, quietly looking on. I see passengers complain because they've been waiting for an hour to board their plane. In my mind, because I do get lost in my thoughts and can never shake my mathematics background, I estimate the time I've waited in airports in transit over the last ten years and it comes out to forty-two days of my life. Of that, about 47 hours were spent waiting for luggage (one of which was tonight, and to no avail; my luggage never arrived).

For all those moments of solitude, I welcome the chance for small talk with a stranger sitting next to me. This is new; as my wife will attest, I do not do small talk. I joked with her recently and told her that as a newly-minted independent consultant I have become a people person. Tremendous amounts of laughter ensued.

Waiting in Tunis, a man sat next to me, his shirt unbuttoned past his navel and proudly showcasing an overwhelming rug of chest hair. The lateness of the flight was reason enough for him to chat with me. My Quebecois French accent is a dead giveaway for most people, so he tells me how he went to Toronto once but never Montreal. When I asked him why he went Canada, he told me he met a girl on the internet. But when he saw her in person, "Elle était trop petite," and he shows with his hand how short the woman was. Despite looking like a throwback from the disco era, he was a pleasant person to talk to for a few minutes. Telling him I was revising the police training curricula in Tunisia was an easy entry into a discussion on the revolution.

Next up was Istanbul, where I knew my short connection time would prevent me from having my luggage with me tonight (and such is the case). As I forced my way to the transfer desk - oh people in a rush can be so rude at times, really - a young Australian woman was talking to an agent from Turkish Airlines. He was telling her that it was impossible for her to leave tonight, her flight was fully booked. She began crying and pleading with him. "You don't understand, it's my birthday, I have to go home!" In his poor English, he told her, "Miss, you are lucky, we are giving you a gift, you will stay in hotel and have a nice bed." But then he spoke in a way which led her to believe she would board the plane, but in fact she wouldn't. The poor girl's whole argument was that she'd be spending her birthday in a hotel instead of with her friends. I saw her a few minutes later at another desk, looking anguished. I was in a rush for my own flight, but stopped to talk to her to wish her a happy birthday.

"Do you think I'll be able to make it?" She asked me. "It doesn't look like it," I answered. I wanted to tell her that I once spent my birthday in a plane with a torn ligament, away from my family and in extreme pain, but somehow I didn't think that would make her feel any better.

And finally, the man next to me in the plane from Istanbul to Amman, clenching his stomach shortly after departure. I asked him if he wanted any Pepto-Bismol tablets, but he said he'd already taken something. As we continued to chat, it turned out he lived five minutes away from me in Montreal a few years ago. A Palestinian living in Jordan, he told me the special place that Canada has in his heart. When he migrated to Canada all those years ago, the customs officer looked at him and said, "Welcome home." And he's welcoming me to his home next week to meet his family.

I guess it's not so bad when you do talk to strangers. My beer's finished, and I'm hearing the same songs playing from the bar, here in the same hotel I was in four years ago. Go ahead, Sinatra,

I've lived a life that's full -
I've travelled each and every highway.
And more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

What you leave behind

2011-07-04T22:54:00.001-04:00

Excitement and sorrow, contemplativeness and enthusiasm, determination and uncertainty. The past week has culminated in a torrent of emotions owing to my departure from Equitas - International Centre for Human Rights Education. The card from my colleagues was a touching testament of their affections; I will miss them as much as they will miss me. And to have some write that they learned from me is especially heartwarming: it's one thing to think you're making a difference in other people's lives, it has considerable more gravitas when someone tells you.

Last call

Apart from making people laugh on occasion and designing some posters over the years, I would hope that I've managed to do what I set out to do years ago: to educate others about human rights. For a true, meaningful education about human rights, it's necessary but insufficient to learn only about human rights concepts and international human rights standards. An awareness and appreciation of the struggles that people have faced over the centuries to earn their rights in the face of violent oppression is a necessary pretext to situating our own struggles. As my colleagues wrote on a frame they gave me, quoting Paulo Freire, "Looking at the past must only be a means of understanding more clearly what and who we are so that we can more wisely build the future."

It's also essential to build an awareness that no true education is neutral - it must challenge, it must question, and it must move us forward in a meaningful process of dialogue. You don't learn about human rights because it's fun; you learn about human rights because the indignities that you either face or witness in others is deplorable, it's inhuman, and we - in the most general sense of the term "we" as a species - are better than that.

For almost a decade at Equitas, the human rights educators I had the privilege to meet and train have embodied the values we so passionately associate with human rights concepts: acceptance, equality, non-discrimination, respect, solidarity, empathy, and love. The kindness that we extend to others is no more aptly seen than through the gestures of human rights educators from around the world who have invited me to their homes, shared their pain and their passion, and shown me their part of the world they are so ardently trying to elevate to a kinder, gentler place. Their strength and resolve has been a constant source of renewal and hope for me, and for that I will forever be grateful to them.

After ten years, what I take away is far greater than what I have given. Growing up as a teenager, I became an avid reader of Isaac Asimov, who wrote science fiction stories that swept me across the galaxy. He also wrote non-fiction books on just about every subject imaginable. In my early teens, I bought one of his books on astronomy, now safely buried in my basement, in which another author and inspiration of mine, Carl Sagan, wrote that Asimov was "The great explainer of the age." Asimov had the gift of explaining the science of the universe to me back then in a way I found captivating. And the way he explained things made me realize afterwards that I had just learned with great simplicity something I had previously imagined to be too complex. Explaining - teaching, educating others - was a gift he mastered by realizing the necessity of keeping things simple, creating a sense of wonder, and understanding how people learn. Over the years his mastery of being the great explainer has been a guiding principle of my teaching. If there's anything I hope to have left behind, it's the creation of a sense of wonder which human rights educators can ignite to make this world one worth living in and worth fighting for.

We Will Not Be Silenced

2011-06-23T18:28:00.003-04:00

Yesterday's news was dire: Abdulhadi Al Khawaja, friend and human rights defender from Bahrain, had been sentenced to life in prison along with other protesters accused of plotting agains the government. A "mocking portrayal of justice," wrote the Irish Examiner. UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon urged the government in Bahrain to respect its international human rights obligations and allow those prosecuted to appeal their sentences. Even Barack Obama, known to tread delicately - wait, let me say feebly - on the subject of human rights in a country that hosts the US Fifth Fleet, said a few weeks ago, "mass arrests and brute force are at odds with the universal rights of Bahrain's citizens."

Where politicians fear to tread, it's reassuring to know that human rights defenders will move forward with purpose and with determination to fight for what's right. Dozens of human rights defenders here in Montreal for an annual human rights training program hosted by Equitas decided, of their own initiative, to demonstrate at lunchtime today to voice their condemnation at Abdulhadi's life sentence at the hands of a military court. Abdulhadi, a former program participant, was instrumental in assisting Equitas to develop a human rights education program in the Middle East and North Africa.

The voices of these participants expressing their condemnation today are no different than the voices heard in Bahrain over this injustice; they are no different from the voices of human rights defenders and average citizens from around the world angered at the government of Bahrain's oppression. The message is clear, our collective voices are strong, and we will not be silenced until justice takes precedence: Free Abdulhadi.

Related posts:
Demonstration by human rights defenders for Abdulhadi's release

Struggles for democracy, struggles for development

Letter from Abdulhadi while in prison

A Letter to My Wife: Conflicting Thoughts

2011-06-17T08:54:00.004-04:00

Dear Carolyn,

I left the hotel yesterday morning and made my way through the streets of Jerusalem. Within a few hundred metres of the hotel, I saw a pretty young woman with long, flowing blonde hair standing by the side of the road. Her right hand rested comfortably on the rifle slung over her shoulder. If Israel and Palestine were people on Facebook, their relationship status would be "it's complicated." The analogy is an understatement, but sufficiently nondescript to hold a grain of truth.

As I write these words, Cat Stevens is singing "I've seen a lot of what the world can do, and it's breaking my heart in two." This past week, traveling from Jerusalem to Gaza and from Ramallah to Jenin, I've been trying to come to grips with what this means.

I spent part of the day yesterday in Ramallah visiting schools and attending a student-led conference on human rights. The first performance was of a young group of students singing and dancing in a remarkably well choreographed number. They were singing about their rights - to be healthy, to have a good education, to be loved. The two smallest girls with butterfly wings stole the show upon entering midway through the song, arms entwined and smiling. We left the building and were greeted by a likeness of Che Guevara at the bottom of the hill.

The world I have seen this week is riddled with conflicting messages of peace and violence, love and war, tolerance and fear. Amidst all the beauty and filth, poverty and wealth, walls and fences are everywhere. There are so many of them in Israel that I'm tempted to come here and start a wall-making business, I'd be rich in no time. Walls keep people in as much as they keep others out.

The conflicting images convey unequal amounts of hope and despair. The living conditions in Gaza are among the most inhumane I have seen. The schools I visited were a welcome refuge from the rest of the landscape. If I were a child in Gaza, I would never want to grow up and leave the school. To graduate is to be flung into a life of hopelessness.

As I spoke to schoolchildren in both Gaza and the West Bank, trying to find out what they knew about human rights, their answers were strikingly different from what our boys would answer. Some responses transcend borders: I have the right to an education, I have the right to my opinion, I have the right to be heard, I have the right to a clean environment, I have the right to feel safe. But almost all of them added "I have the right to freedom" - this coming from children as young as our boys.

I know we try as hard as possible to make our children's lives as caring and as loving as we can. The parents of those children in Gaza and the West Bank are no different from us. But they are tragic victims of circumstance, acrimonious history, and powerful men oblivious to the well-being of those parents and their children. They live in a place where they are powerless to move and have little hope for a bright future for their children.

The overwhelming message from the parents, teachers, and students has been one of peace. As UNRWA's tagline states, Peace starts here. When I think of their lives, my emotions are as equally conflicted as the images I have seen: frustration, despair, anger; hope, determination, solidarity. To impress the gravity of these emotions and the significance of this situation to our children weighs heavily on my heart. When they were younger, it was easy to shield them from the injustices I witnessed. It was easy to switch off that part of my life as I saw you waiting for me at the airport and you all rushed to hug me after a trip. As our children mature, I want us to make the right choices that will passionately and critically educate them about their world. To not only appreciate the privileged lives they have, but to be sensitive and caring to those less fortunate. To not only have fun and enjoy the quality of life they deserve, but to help others reach that same level of human dignity we often take for granted. It means they may be shocked at times, they will be upset, they will ask the most basic of questions such as "Why are so many people living in poverty?" and we may struggle to answer. But we cannot shelter them forever. More than anything I want both our boys to lead the most wonderful of lives, but they cannot do so in ignorance of the world around them. In whichever way they choose to make a change in this world, I'm thankful to have you by my side as they grow.

Love always, p

A Letter to My Sons: a little bit of happiness

2011-06-14T16:59:00.001-04:00

Dear Alexandre, Dear Sam,

I’ve been in Gaza for three days now. This morning I travelled to the area of Middle Gaza to meet with teachers who were teaching human rights to children your age. What they had to say was really encouraging. Most of them did not know about human rights before, some openly said that they were afraid to teach human rights. Why teach human rights, some asked, when our rights are being violated? What difference would it make?

A lot of the teachers said there was a difference among the children they taught. The children learned to respect each other, learned to respect their teachers, made sure the school was clean, became more confident at expressing themselves to teachers when something was bothering them, and plenty of other things. They also learned that they had duties as well. For example, a child has a right to be protected from violence, but if one child sees another one being bullied in the schoolyard, they have a duty – or a responsibility – to inform the teacher of what’s happening.

A lonely sight

In the end, if you teach children about human rights, they care more for each other. And it doesn’t matter which religion you believe in, which country you call home, the colour of your skin, where you live, whether you’re a girl or a boy, how rich your parents are, or anything else that defines you that should make you care more or less for someone else. If I were to ask you what’s most important in life, you’d probably say love or happiness or family and friends.

In a place like Gaza, the poverty is so astounding that it’s hard for me to find the happiness. It’s hard to see beyond the fields filled with garbage, the unfinished or torn-down buildings, the broken cars, the dead trees, the empty stores or the pathetic wooden stands by the side of the road with merchants selling a smattering of fruits. Nothing is new, everything is worn or dirty or broken or cracked. Everything I see is faded and blurry through the shaded bulletproof window of the vehicle I’m in. There was an infant playing alone in a pile of sand in front of an unfinished building; in an instant I felt a tremendous sadness at how lonely and pitiful that little girl’s life is now, and wondered what hope she would have in the future.

Yes we are having fun.

Later on, as I walked to a mosque with my friends, I came across a group of young boys who were sliding down large sheets of metal shaped like a cut pipe used to pour concrete. Not exactly a slide like the ones you play on back home. But they were happy. They smiled as I walked by and they repeated, over and over again, “Hello! How are you? What is your name? Hello? How are you? What is your name?” I don’t think they really cared what the answers were. But they smiled as they crawled up and down their makeshift slide, and I was relieved that I’d found a little bit of happiness.

Je t’aime Alexandre, je t’aime Sam.

Daddy