Chasing The Flame

The Dignity of Aid

Samantha Power wrote in Chasing the Flame that Sergio believed “the best way for outsiders to make a dent in enhancing [individual dignity] would be to improve their linguistic and cultural knowledge base, to remind themselves of their own fallibility, to empower those who know their societies best, and to be resilient and adaptable in the face of inevitable setbacks.”  It’s sometimes easier said than done, however. Living in the United States often makes it difficult to get truly nuanced perspectives of different cultural realities, and the kind of humility that Sergio sought can easily be forgotten.

For that very reason, anyone interested in foreign aid would do well to listen to Speaking of Faith with Krista Tippet’s recent discussion with Binyavanga Wainaina, winner of the 2002 Caine Prize for African Writing, African’s most prestigious literary award; founding editor and executive director of Africa’s most well-respected literary journal, Kwani?; contributor to South Africa’s largest newspaper and director of Bard College’s Chinua Achebe Center for African Languages and Literature. It’s a strong reminder of the often unforeseen counterproductive effects of charity and the need to question easy assumptions.  How else can we try to do better?

Our Brother's (and Sister's) Keepers

For Alphonse MUTAGOMA and John Prendergast

I was reading comments to John Prendergast's recent piece, "Secretary Clinton's Opportunity to End the World's Two Deadliest Wars," published on Huffington Post when I came to this one and stopped. It read:

"Let Africa take care of Africa. We have enough to deal with now in our own country. We are *not* our foreign brother's keeper." 

It would be so easy to dismiss this sentiment and say, "Of course there are those people who believe that..." But, because I hear and read it so often, I don't think it should be ignored or neglected.  The fact is that there are too many people in this country (and, of course, others) who believe this, and some of them could be potential allies for a more inclusive and compassionate foreign policy.  I have learned a lot of things working in countries in transition such as Bosnia, Colombia, Northern Ireland, Rwanda and South Africa. One of them is the value of finding a way to "stay in the room together" as we learn to talk and listen to each other.  The recent US town hall meetings on health care reform demonstrate the ongoing challenges of this kind of work.  Democracies are, indeed, always in a state of becoming. We have to learn, develop and build upon these habits every day. 

People often learn best by experiencing something themselves or by seeing something modeled by another person.  This summer Facing History and Ourselves took a group of US students to Rwanda and, over and over again, they expressed surprise and delight at how much they had in common with their Rwandan peers.  And, over and over again, they expressed shame, disappointment and anger at a US foreign policy that allowed the Rwandan genocide to happen....and to keep going once it was clear that it had begun. The students walked through memorial sites and listened to the stories of the people they met in sadness and confusion.  The distance between them as Americans and the people they met as Rwandans had been closed.  It became increasingly impossible for them to understand the legitimacy of an argument based on national boundaries.  It sounded as foolish and thoughtless as one based on race or ethnicity.

But, everyone cannot travel the world and, of course, even some of those who do believe powerfully in the idea that what happens in your own backyard comes first.  There are some people who will never shift this position. And, as Barney Frank said at a town hall meeting on health care reform recently, "Talking to you is like talking to a dining room table." 

So, on to two people who model the principle of being and acting as our brothers' and sisters' keepers, Rwandan Alphonse MUTAGOMA and American John Prendergast.

MUTAGOMA means "one who shall not betray," and my bald-headed friend could not be better named. The son of a Hutu and a Tutsi and grandson of the same, Alphonse grew up in a village where people were dependent on each other, where good will was essential to survival.  As the genocide swept through Rwanda, Alphonse hid with his family.  As the husband of a Tutsi and the father of Tutsi children and as a southern Hutu, he, too, was at risk.  The Tutsi side of his family--save his own wife and children--were slaughtered. So were many of the Hutu, by the RPF, as these family members waited to be rescued, hoping to join their forces and put the genocidaires down. Alphonse's most bitter memory is of a neighbor girl stumbling into public view. He debated whether to risk showing himself and revealing his family's hiding place to rescue her.  He decided to stay hidden, shame burning inside him, as he watched and listened. In the end she was not harmed, but this Alphonse explains was an act of "providence," and he had "nothing to do with it." His eyes turn red when he tells this story; he grows quiet; he agonizes over every detail as if it were yesterday and not 15 years ago. And, of course, it was only yesterday.

Alphonse's belief that he is his brother's and sister's keeper is challenged daily in a country where people betrayed each other in ways that are truly unimaginable and where they continue to betray each other. Yet, he retains this belief and practices it and extends it beyond his own nation's boundaries.  When the American students arrived in Rwanda, he told them "I am your father," and to the adults, "I am your brother." And, he acted like it. For three weeks, he took care of all of us in big ways and in small. He guided children who had never traveled out of their own state through difficult moments that, in many ways, probably remain incomprehensible to them. He showed them through his own character and decision-making the lie of "all Hutu are the same" and the hope of someone who is dedicated to building bridges and helping others cross them.  He taught the children to dance and sing, to be quiet and to reflect, to respect people despite their many differences and to put kindness first. As the trip came to an end the students found ways to tell Alphonse what he meant to them, what they learned from him. They began to refer to him as "father," they hugged him, sought him out for walks and to sit together at meals, and they told him. "No one has ever been as kind to me as you." "You are the most respectful person I have ever met." "Adults have always disappointed me, and I don't trust them, but you are different. "I love you." When Alphonse heard these things, he bowed his head, took his handkerchief out of his pocket, unfolded it, removed his glasses, and wept. 

John Prendergast is an American who has become well known for his informed activism and advocacy, particularly around genocide and massive human rights violations taking place in Africa.  As the co-founder of the Enough Project, he is dedicated to developing a permanent constituency to prevent genocide and crimes against humanity.  His work is premised upon the principle that we are each other's keepers.  But, John is too well-schooled in the work of Washington to know that this argument won't make policy.  So, he has invested in showing us, as Americans, our relationships to each other across national boundaries.  Whether it's by engaging a well known person who has made this connection themselves (Don Cheadle to Darfur, Ryan Gosling to Uganda) and helping them to communicate that personal commitment and connection or by ceaselessly researching, writing and speaking himself, he has found ways to help Americans who will never travel to Darfur, the Democratic Republic of Congo, or Northern Uganda, to see these places through his eyes.  Fortunately for us, John does not romanticize or sentimentalize Africa or the fragile places in which he works in order to draw awareness and attention.  He respects the women, men and children in these countries and it shows. It is this profound respect for them and their fundamental rights to living in safety and security and with dignity in their native homes and villages which animates, indeed permeates, his work.

The question of are we our sister's keeper is one that John has addressed nearly daily over the past few months. In his effort to draw awareness to the fact that the Eastern border of the Democratic Republic of Congo has become the most dangerous place in the world for women and girls, he is making visible the direct connection among us as Americans, our use of technology (ipods, computers, cell phones) and "conflict minerals"  like tin, tungsten, tantalum and gold that help power our electronics industry. 

And, in situations like Darfur where our connection to the conflict is not as direct as in our use of technology products, John reminds us of our national commitment to the Genocide Convention, what Article II says, why it matters and what it would mean for us to honor that commitment.  

Historical sociologist Helen Fein has developed an idea that I've seen young people (and their teachers) all around the world embrace. "Universe of Obligation" describes those people to whom we feel responsible, to whom we owe amends.  I have spent enough time in conflict countries and places emerging from mass violence to know that it is fool's gold to believe that injustice can be contained, that the myth "if it's happening to them, it won't happen to me," is powerful, but still mythic, and ultimately, not much to hold onto.  Injustice anywhere truly is a threat to justice everywhere.  If I waited for someone who looked like me, believed in what I believe in, and carried the same passport to protect me when I was being attacked or threatened, I would be in for a long wait.  That's why I am particularly grateful for Alphonse MUTAGOMA, John Prendergast and people like them.  Their compassion and sense of obligation are unbounded.

And a Child Shall Lead Them...

The Washington Post published an inspiring story by Emily Wax last Thursday.

The Varanasi children’s parliament in India is creating a platform for children to express and handle their problems while at the same time providing an example of clean politics in a society where many adults are justifiably mistrustful of their elected leaders.

How to Report the Unthinkable

Increasingly, worldwide, rape and other forms of sexual violence are being recognized as serious human rights violations.  In situations of armed conflict and in fragile post-conflict countries, sexual violence is systematically employed to harm and demoralize individuals, break families apart and terrorize communities.

At the IRC, I have interviewed several humanitarian colleagues who work to combat sexual violence and provide care to survivors.  Some operate in cultures where rape entails such disgrace for a woman, clinical and psychosocial outreach must happen in secret; others in more open societies where reform is happening and perpetrators are even brought to task.

And then there is the eastern Congo, where spiraling rape is terrorizing thousands of women and girls.  I have never visited Congo, but read about and watch what is happening there in an attempt to process these horrifying acts. It is almost impossible to comprehend.

The stories of rape, mutilation and murder are unthinkable.  Women and girls are walking targets, left physically damaged and emotionally terrorized.  Accounts of what is happening are so horrendous -- so gruesomely specific -- it's almost impossible to believe.  We are told what is happening -- but why is it happening?

The reporters covering the Congo crisis today join those journalists who, in the wake of the Balkan wars and the Rwandan genocide, exposed the systematic rape that was perpetrated.  In translating the untranslatable, those journalists spurred the world to acknowledge the grave human rights violation sexual violence was.  Today, New York Times’ columnist Nick Kristof calls eastern Congo "the rape capital of the world."

For some journalists -- and for all humanitarians -- continuing to remind the world is a full-time job.  This week, as horrors raged in Congo, I had the honor of participating in a training course for 25 senior sexual violence humanitarian professionals.  The course was organized by the International Centre for Reproductive Health and the United Nations Population Fund and took place in Ghent, Belgium.  Participants included local and international NGO staff members, UN, government and academic representatives from 17 countries including East Timor, Liberia, Pakistan, Sudan, Uganda and the Democratic Republic of Congo, among others.

For a little while, far from the desperate regions they serve, these 25 humanitarians learned new techniques for responding to sexual violence.  My role:  to help them communicate with the media more effectively...  or, as my new friend Lillian Kona, a coordinator of sexual violence interventions with the UN Population Fund in Northern Uganda, put it, to "get the press on our side."

To that end, we practiced messaging, speaking with conviction and navigating the sensitivities involved when reporters want to interview rape survivors.  As part of my session, I showed a recent 60 Minutes piece hosted by CNN’s Anderson Cooper entitled “The War Against Women.”  Subject:  sexual violence in the Congo.  Airdate:  January 2008…nearly a year before the current horrors began.

When the piece was over, I resumed my place in front of the class.  Looking out at the men and women who spend their waking hours serving women just like those portrayed in the clip, I couldn’t help marveling that even they were silenced.  Silenced by the magnitude of the horrors taking place there.  For these brave humanitarians, responding to sexual violence is obviously so much more than a job.  

Bidding goodbye to my new friends, who would soon return to countries where social norms have been disrupted, where gender inequalities have been exacerbated and where -- in some cases -- rape is right now being used as a weapon of war, I couldn't help marveling at the juxtaposition.  All that time, effort and care the organizers of the course had spent teaching these humanitarian professionals new skills…all the time, effort and dedication these individuals had devoted to learning them…all that time, effort and commitment made so women and girls who have been shown an absolute lack of humanity are served better.  It's really something.

Do Painful Images Spur Action, or Apathy?

Photographer James Nachtwey recently won the esteemed TED prize for his pictures of victims suffering from extremely drug-resistant tuberculosis (XDF-TB). That is one of his images above. In his TED talk (and if you haven't visited TED's video treasure trove of "ideas worth spreading," you should), Nachtwey describes how he got the idea for this photo series when he recalled how instrumental images were in changing public perceptions of the Vietnam war and the civil rights movement. "Our political and military leaders were telling us one thing, and photographers were telling us another..." These pictures "not only recorded history, they helped change the course of history... They became part of our collective consciousness," says Nachtwey, "and as consciousness evolved into conscience, change became not only possible but inevitable."

I am torn about this project. Nachtwey has captured powerful images that portray the "ground-level experience of individuals," not just the problem of XDF-TB in the abstract. Such images put a human face on a big, esoteric problem. But, unlike civil rights or the Vietnam war, such images are perhaps the only pictures that most Americans have seen of the developing world. No one is telling the public a different story. Suffering, conflict and chaos are the reigning narrative in the American public's mind when they think about the developing world. Nachtwey takes us closer to his sufferers by supplying us with better photographs than Americans--who have grown accustomed to the standard shot of the naked, poverty-stricken child with flies in her eyes--are used to seeing on this subject. He brings us close and makes us feel, but will that feeling overwhelm Americans, who are already fed up with the problems at home, leading not to action but to paralysis in the face of so much to do? I worry that they will.

In Translation

One of Sergio’s many gifts included his ability to speak multiple languages. Perhaps more important, however, was his desire to learn new ones as he moved from country to country. Samantha beautifully captures Sergio’s commitment to "local knowledge," and his belief that "the future of the places he worked belonged to the individuals who lived there." This belief is inextricably connected to another principle: "we outsiders must bring humility and patience to our dealings in foreign lands."

People living in the wake of mass violence, including genocide, are fragile, exhausted, scared, and often angry. Outsiders represent a new series of challenges, of potential misunderstandings. Sergio understood that he had to get out of his office and into the field in order to talk to people and, more important, listen to them. In doing so, he learned that repair and reconstruction (of people, communities, and countries) is a long-term process. Schools, hospitals, and houses could be rebuilt in a matter of months, but not people.

Facing History works in many post-violence countries, including Northern Ireland, Rwanda and South Africa. What Sergio learned resonates powerfully for me in these places. In our seminars (in-depth courses), I have the privilege of participating in extended conversations. It took, however, working in translation (English to French and to Kinyarwanda) in Rwanda to appreciate how much understanding I took for granted. I had been teaching for years prior to this, first at a university and then for Facing History in the US. In Rwanda, though, as I struggled to teach key concepts (our pedagogical approach), ideas about human behavior and decision-making (what does it mean to be a bystander, a rescuer, an upstander?), I saw the limits of my previous practice and of what I thought I knew, and began to bring the process of translation to all the places I work, even when we speak the "same" language.

How We Talk About Civilian Casualties in War

A couple of weeks ago, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Adm. Mike Mullen, returned to Washington from a secretive meeting he held with his Pakistani counterpart, Gen. Ashfaq Pervez Kayani.  Perhaps in turn, American anti-Taliban military activity in the border region with Afghanistan, including in Pakistan itself, has seemed to spike in recent days (though not always with happy results on the Pakistani side, as this story demonstrates).

The growing U.S. activity in the border region, a necessary response to a resurgent Taliban basing itself there, does come at a cost, particularly as civilian deaths result from military operations.  See the recent dispute with the Afghan government and the UN over the level of casualties suffered during an August 22 raid in Herat Province (was it ninety-five? or seven?) for confirmation.  See also this morning’s Human Rights Watch report on the increase in civilian deaths in Afghanistan.

I think Adm. Mullen gets this.  On his return from meeting General Kayani, he was asked about civilian deaths and had this to say:

ADM. MULLEN: We work exceptionally hard to minimize any collateral damage. I mean, zero collateral damage is the goal. And certainly it is -- we regret it greatly when it occurs.  . . . .  we know that when collateral damage occurs, that it really does it set us back.    So we work exceptionally hard to make sure that doesn't happen.   

Q     On the larger question, though, it seems like the airpower in Iraq has been used more precisely, with smaller bombs and the ability to really minimize collateral damage in a way that has had success on the ground. That hasn't been able to -- that hasn't translated to Afghanistan.    Are you looking at that and the differences --   

ADM. MULLEN: We certainly look at, from an analytical standpoint, look at what we call the damage assessment to see how we got where we are, on the one hand. On the other hand, I've got great commanders out there. And it's their -- they make these decisions. And I'm hard-pressed to second-guess what they're doing with respect to that.   

Again they understand, and I have had this conversation with almost every commander out there, they understand that damage -- that collateral damage does to the overall mission. And they -- we -- they work, we work exceptionally hard to make sure it doesn't happen.

The Principle of Dignity: Part IV

Kigali, Rwanda - Rwanda is full of hills, villages perch on the tops of  them. After traveling up a bumpy, red-soiled road I arrived at the funeral with our mutual friend Andrew.  At least 200 hundred people were gathered, some under a shelter surrounding the four caskets, others on a small hill across from it.  I mentioned my surprise at all of the people who had come to pay their respects.   Andrew looked at me in surprise and said,  "these are the killers and the beneficiaries.  There is no one left but them in this village and for the funeral just a handful of friends who have come from Rwanda, Tanzania, and Uganda."  Those close to the family are  given a piece of purple cloth. Looking around I see that there are only a few of us clutching this symbol of the genocide.

It turned out that we buried 58 people that day. Richard was asked to read their names out loud, but when he saw how many there were, he froze. A woman standing next to him took the list and began reading the names. I looked at the people who sat on the hill. They were listening intently. Most of them had just come from work in the fields and they sat with their hoes and machetes at their sides.

When the priest offered communion, everyone took it. Then we followed the caskets to the burial site, high on the hill, and we listened to Richard tell his story. There, he told the community that he met some of the killers, that they told him what they did and that, at the time, he could not say anything to them. He said, "I am  not here to blame anyone. I am here to do what I can for my parent and that is to provide a peaceful burial. It is what every child dreams of." We tossed in dirt and flowers and then washed our hands in a common bucket.

The Principle of Dignity: Part III

Kigali, Rwanda - In April, Richard's two younger, adored and adoring brothers came to visit. They were going to hang out with and be taken care of by their older brother. Within hours of the president's plane being shot down on 6 April, the Interahamwe were at Richard's house. As a known human rights activist, he was on the top of the genocidaires' list.  He and his brothers fled with only the clothes on their backs and their toothbrushes in their pockets (because, as Richard said, they were not "beasts").  He would see them one more time before they were murdered.

When he finally made it inside the church Richard quickly befriended a 16 year old boy who reminded him of his brothers. He returned Richard's attention and kindness with the only thing he had, a clean shirt.  Just weeks later the Interahamwe  stormed into the church to pull out women to rape and men to murder.  Seeing that Richard was close to the boy, they made a show over killing him, fighting over who would get to do it.  After several minutes, they shot him in the head in front of Richard, laughing the entire time.

Richard survived the frequent Interahamwe attacks and in July he was taken away to safety by a Canadian soldier. After the genocide Richard began to rebuild his life and he continued his work in human rights. This time his focus was on protecting Hutu, making sure that no one was falsely accused in the wake of the killing.  He remained in Rwanda for  several  more years and then moved, for his safety and for a future for his new family. His father's funeral marked his first return to Rwanda since the genocide.

Editor's Note: Richard Nsanzabaganwa's own reflections on dignity can be found here. For more on Richard's story, see Karen's first and second posts here and here. She will complete her four part series on the principle of dignity on Tuesday of next week. Image used with permission from Michal Ronnen Safdie.

The Principle of Dignity: Part II

Kigali, Rwanda - The first time I traveled to Rwanda was for Richard Nsanzabaganwa's father's funeral.  I met Richard in the summer of 2000 in Ireland at the Irish Centre for Human Rights where we were both taking a course on the Rome Statute for the International Criminal Court.  The questions he asked of the lecturers were like no one else’s.  This inspired me to talk to him and I learned that he was from Rwanda and a survivor of the genocide.  He told me a bit of his story and I said I’d like to learn more.  And then he said, “I will be happy to tell you, but only when you have as much time as it takes and can really listen.”  We sat in a pub that night for five hours while he told his story.  I still have the journal in which he mapped Rwanda for me, wrote his family names, and drew his identity card. 

In 2003 Richard received a call from Rwanda saying that his father's bones had been found and that Richard could bury him.  He also learned that his father's body was part of a mass grave, and he was asked to include the other people found in the grave, perhaps four, in the funeral.  Richard agreed and he and his cousin Innocent, the only two survivors of their large family, began to make the arrangements.

(Above image used with permission from Michal Ronnen Safdie)

Volatile in, Volatile out: Dignifying Foreign Aid

In my evaluation work with clients, I often start by examining how a project's inputs affect its outputs, and, stepping back once more, whether these activities are ultimately contributing to desirable outcomes. That "outputs to outcomes" relationship is among the most difficult to measure. But it's even more difficult to take an honest look at what turns up and, sometimes, acknowledge that the outputs that are being touted are hurting the outcomes being sought.

Such is often the case with foreign assistance funding. Homi Kharas, Senior Fellow for Global Economy and Development at the Brookings Institute, recently released a study titled "Measuring the Cost of Aid Volatility." Advocates for dignified employment and social opportunities for the global poor may not immediately sit up and take notice upon reading that title. But dig down a bit; this report re-frames the "outputs to outcomes" relationship behind the international system for distributing global goodwill through foreign aid programs.

The Principle of Dignity: Part I

By Karen Murphy

Kigali, Rwanda - The first time I read Chasing the Flame, I could not stop thinking about Samantha's claim: Dignity is the Point! It made me think about Jacob Bronowski, the British mathematician and biologist, who urged his audience in the powerful documentary, The Ascent of Man, to embrace "the principle of tolerance."

"To cure ourselves of the itch for absolute knowledge and power,” says Bronowski. “We have to close the distance between the push button order and the human act. We have to touch people." As he stands in a pool of ashes at Auschwitz where many of his family members perished,  Bronowski beseeches us to give up dogma. "When people believe that they have absolute knowledge with no test in reality, this is how they behave. This is what men do when they aspire to the knowledge of gods.”

The principle of tolerance informs the work of Facing History and Ourselves,  the organization for which I am the Director of International Programs. I incorporate it in my work with educators around the world, including in Rwanda, from where I write this blog.  I have also begun to use the principle of dignity.

Before you continue reading I  invite you to take a moment to consider what that might mean...what dignity is and what it entails. Also, please consider what it is not.

When I reflect on dignity, I cannot help but think about my friend Richard Nsanzabaganwa, a human rights activist and a survivor of the Rwandan genocide.  His life prior to, during and after the genocide exemplify for me the principle of dignity in action. In my next few posts, I'll share with you Richard's story.