Quiero que sepas

Nunca lo he entendido y quiza jamas lo lograre entender--el castellano siempre ha sido para mi el idioma de las emociones. Mas facil expresarlas, mas facil entenderlas, una manera mas bella de expresar todo lo bueno y lo malo de la vida.

Cuando me llamo A. hoy para ir a ver un concierto en un pequeno cafe "sin nombre" al lado de casa me puse de acuerdo simplemente por eso ... estaba al lado de casa y no tenia otra cosa mejor que hacer.

Poco sabia yo que el "programa" llevaba un cantante muy--pero muy--conocida por America Latina. Poco sabia yo que cantaba precisamente sobre los temas sociales que mas me han formado la vida: la migracion, la pobreza, la violencia de genero, las maquiladoras, las desaparecidas, la separacion familial ... la busqueda de una vida mejor.

Me quede con cosqullias, sin palabras y con los ojos mojaditos. Sobre todo cuando canto "Quiero que sepas". No fue solo por la manera tan natural, tan sincera, tan franco en que lo contaba todo por cancion (vamos, mucho mas que en este video), sino tambien porque me hizo recordar por que, hace tantos anos, sentia tanta necesidad de dedicarme la vida a eso.

Tambien por que me hizo recordar lo lejos que estamos aqui de la realidad de tantisima gente--en nuestro cafe acogedor espolvoreado con empleados de las organizaciones internationales en Ginebra, donde todo funciona tal y como debe.

Que lindo es tener estos recordatorios inesperados para volver a ponernos los pies en la tierra. Donde pertenecen. Donde tienen que quedar.

Photography of the mind

Especially now that my long time dream of getting a "real" (i.e. digital SLR) camera has been fulfilled, I have been thinking a lot about photography ... and, more to the point, of all the images I wish I could have captured in Morocco.

As it was, we figured our visit was going to be making enough people nervous without adding cameras to the mix, which meant that in the end I brought nothing but a discreet pocket camera along that I hardly felt comfortable pulling out on more than a couple of discreet occasions.

Don't get me wrong, as a first time visitor to the beautiful country of Morocco, I was impressed--by the warmth and hospitality of her people; by the efficiency and comfort of the trains; by the organised chaos, surprising smells and bright colours of the markets; by the tantalising flavours of the tagines and mint teas. I would go back in a heartbeat.

But we weren't there to experience Morocco's beauty and wonder. We were there to give witness to the struggles, pains and hardships--the successes and small triumphs-- of the non-Moroccans living there. And as I think back now, I realise that--camera or no camera--I was taking pictures the entire time, aka the photography of the mind.

Morocco is not a country with huge numbers of migrants or refugees, and I am somewhat ashamed to admit that we went "foreigner hunting". At one point, the local office rep took us--in a discreet car, but nonetheless with obvious diplomatic license plates--to some of the poorest sectors of town.

It was here that some of my strongest images remain etched in my mind. With cars being nearly as common as a UFO in some of the poorest neighborhoods, we drove down what we later discovered to be a one way street. On one side was wasteland, on the other, a hillside covered in buildings thousands of people call home: no electricity, no running water. Together with the poorest of Moroccans, it was here that we saw migrants.

Put bluntly, I have seen far worse in terms of visible poverty. What shocked me--and what composes the photograph burned into my mind--is what we saw in that street. Wires, plastic bags, shoes ... trash, everywhere. Dozens of children doing what kids do best: playing makeshift games of soccer with balls made of taped up plastic bags, blocking off the road with small boulders for barricades that were moved as we made our way through.

And fire.

Children as young as four years old and dressed in nothing but grimy t-shirts, setting fire to anything and everything they could find along the roadside as if it were as natural as playing trucks.

It was surreal.

And as cold stares (was it contempt that we saw?) followed us as we turned for home, the fear that we three white westerners in a diplomatic car could very easily be surrounded and robbed of every penny we (didn't) have, was suddenly very real.

If there were but one more "mind image" to share, it would be of the refugees themselves.

Like many other organisations, many of the UN Refuge Agencie's assistance activities work on the basis of "vulnerability", meaning that efforts are made to try to give first priority to those who are in the most precarious of situations. This is frustrating when you consider that in all reality, the vast majority of refugees are in extremely difficult situations, and that the criteria used for determining "vulnerability" cannot be made public (you'd be amazed how many divorces suddenly take place as priority is given to single mothers; how many children have suddenly lost their parents when priority is given to unaccompanied minors, etc.).

And so it is, that I was left with two more memories frozen in time; the first, of an older (65?), and very distinguished gentleman from the DRC asking ever so poignantly:

"...Since when has begging, since when has prostitution come to be considered legitimate livelihood activities? These are not 'career options'; one who is not vulnerable would not do such things. It has come to this: we are all vulnerable here."

And the second, of a worn and weary women who looks far older than her 45 years, looking me straight on and saying:

"I have lost everything. My husband, my children, all my family were killed. I am so old that the men won't even buy my body when I try to sell myself for a meal. My skin, my lips are cracking from malnourishment. Yet they say I am not vulnerable. Maybe as I lay on my deathbed, then they will say that I am. But by then it will be too late. Then I shall not even care."

It's then that I think, who needs a camera after all?


** Photo caption: Chart used to teach illiterate citizens about the political parties in preparation for voting in the elections. Rabat, Morocco.

Moroccan desperation, Moroccan inspiration

It's been awhile. Like going on three months long while. Though certainly not for lack of potentially inspiring goings ons, I have been thoroughly uninspired. Not uninspired in the "don't know what to write" sense, I'm talking uninspired in the "if I have to look at a computer screen for even two more minutes, I am really going to lose it" sense.

But in the name of historical memory, and proof of life to family far away, maybe I'll just have to get over it and get back on the horse.

The last week and a few, have found this little lady deep amidst the mysterious wonders of Morocco. And while I wish I were referring to breathtaking mosques, heartstopping desert sands and toe clinching medina markets, my frame of reference is rather the cryptic messages of the Moroccan government in the face of hundreds of courageous, hardworking and utterly distraught refugees and migrants.

Work being confidential as it is (or as confidential as it can possibly be when you see that our every email and text message is being handily diverted and read by some "unknown" body), I will spare the details ... except for one that had me laughing all the way home. Just imagine:

You are standing at the front of the grocery store in Morocco. To your left and down the stairs, you have the "alcohol corner", where alcohol is sold only to men, and only at exorbhitent prices. In front and to your right, dozens upon dozens of shoppers porting veils, loose Muslim "street gowns" (forgive my utter lack of proper vocabulary) and Moroccan leather slippers. Blaring on the store speaker system? None other than Alan Jackson's Gone Country.

Viva Rabat.

A world of (refugee) fathers

Spending as much time as I do pouring photographs looking for the very small handful that might be usable for migration and refugee promotional materials, websites, etc., I was thoroughly impressed by a colleague's presentation at a conference the other day where he demonstrated "Google's view"-cum the "world's view" of refugees. His observations? Google the word "refugees" and this is what you'll get:

1. People moving in large masses - usually across deserts - with large bulky items, bags, etc., generally carried on their heads. Never mind most refugees have to flee "clandestinely", while a good many others travel by plane, boat, car, truck, etc. ... somehow it looks "more real" this way.
2. Refugee camps, complete with tents and the UNHCR logo plastered everywhere the eye can see. .... Fair enough, but really? The majority of the world's refugees do not live in camps at all. They live in cities and towns, living and working alongside both fellow refugees and the longtime locals. Only problem with that is that a picture of a "normal city" doesn't seem to sufficiently tug at donors' heartstrings ...
3. Madonna and child. Mothers, lots of them, looking forelorn at their potbelly malnourished children with flies in their eyes. No, fleeing from persecution and war is not a happy thing, not least for many mothers who suddenly find themselves without husband or son and who have surely witnessed and experienced more atrocities than you or I could ever imagine. But where are the images of the many (equally) forelorn men? Where are the images of children who, for all the horrors they've been through, are still the first to smile?
4. The humanitarian aid worker. As my colleague put it, "Always female. Always holding a child. And always white". Touche, Angelina, touche.

In all of the written discourse, I often find myself wishing we would stop calling them "refugees" altogether. Somehow it seems to "dehumanise" people - we forget that we are talking about men, women and children - people who are forced to flee the worst this world has to offer in the hope of finding the best the world has to offer - in the form of a helping hand. We forget that they are doctors and lawyers, professors and journalists, artists and athletes. We forget that we are not only talking about women and children; we are also talking about brothers, uncles, grandfathers and fathers.

As I celebrate my own father this Father's Day and all the many sacrifices he's made for me over the years, I can't help but think just how very unfortunate our "forgetfulness" is in failing to more quickly acknowledge the sacrifices and sufferings, hopes and dreams of our (refugee) fathers.

As we celebrate World Day of Refugees, I can't help but hope that perhaps someday soon "refugees" will be seen, first as fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters, and then as refugees. And that one day images of father and son, father and daughter ... in cities and in "normal attire" ... will tug at donors' heartstrings (and pocketbooks with as much conviction or more than the infamous barefoot mother and child.

Happy Father's Day to ALL the world's fathers!

And the winner is ...

SRI LANKA!

Apologies for the delay in revelation (whose tardiness is directly related to the phenomenon described in A day in the life of bureaucracy) but really, let's have a little chat about this ... are there no independent voters out there?? There seemed to be a serious case of follow-the-leader syndrome out there - next time, we're hiding the results until everyone has voted!

Anyhow, Sri Lanka it is, to do a bit of "site surveying" with a local NGO in order to submit a funding proposal for a project that I am uber excited about ... one focused especially on Sri Lankan migrant women and their families. While all the media coverage on Sri Lanka is looking northwards to the war region, elsewhere in the country hundreds of thousands of women - mothers, wives, sisters, daughters - are looking to all-to-often unscrupulous recruitment agencies who find them jobs as domestic workers for wealthy families in the Middle East.

Long story short, tremendous problems are borne of this ... the women find themselves at the mercy of the recruitment agencies who withhold their passports and pay, charge exorbitant fees, many women are raped by the men of the houses they clean ... only to have the wives discover their husbands' infidelity and take their rage out on the migrants, regularly burning them with irons.

Meanwhile, back home, any money that manages to make it back is more often than not not saved or spent on childrens' education as intended, but rather spent on alcohol, gambling, petty consumer goods, etc. Unemployed dads / husbands struggle with the so-called role reversal and domestic abuse and rape of young girls by their fathers and brothers is not uncommon.

Women become pregnant from having been raped abroad and are subsequently sent back to Sri Lanka, that, of course, doesn't go over well with the spouses, let alone many others in the community, and the mixed raced babies born as a result are rejected by society. Many women are shocked to find all the money they'd sent home over the last XXX years disappeared into thin air by the time they get home ... returned migrant women have the highest suicide rate of any demographic in Sri Lanka.

So what to do? We're hoping to develop public awareness programs on the potential risks involved in migrating under irregular circumstances, put together pre-departure training and orientation programs for those who choose to work abroad and their families, so that they may be prepared, offer reintegration support programs and financial management skills training for returning migrants, special programs for youth, counselling and psycho-social support, and a 24-hour information centre and hotline so that families might stay better in touch while their loved ones are working abroad.

Now we just have to hope that the funding agencies are as convinced about the idea as we are!

"It sounds rather Orwellian..."

This week and next, the UN Committee on Migrant Workers is meeting to review the extent to which (in this round of reviews) Azerbaijan, Bolivia, Colombia, El Salvador and Syria are fullfilling (or not) their obligations under the Convention on the Protection of the Rights of All Migrant Workers and Members of their Families. An interesting process at least, it provides an opportunity for NGOs and other individuals to present complaints and questions to the governments themselves about the way in which migrant rigths are being protected. What follows is admittedly an "old" newsflash (from May 2006), and yet, as we see right-winged anti-immigrant Berlusconi return to the throne in Italy today, and the way in which DNA testing is used in migration family reunification contexts, I shudder to wonder just when we may see the micro-chip suggestion brought to the table yet again ....

REPORT: COLOMBIAN PRESIDENT WOULD CONSIDER IMMIGRANT TRACKING WITH MICROCHIPS

AP Thursday May 04, 2006

BOGOTA, Colombia —

Comments attributed to Colombia's president that microchip implants could be used to track Colombians working temporarily in the U.S. drew attention — and criticism — Thursday. The alleged statement by President Alfaro Uribe dismayed some Colombians after it appeared in Colombian newspapers.

"It would be a blatant violation of human rights," said Jorge Pinilla, 50, a lawyer in Bogota. Details of Uribe's conversation last month with U.S. lawmakers were revealed by Sen. Arlen Specter of Pennsylvania in a report he read into the congressional record last week.

Specter and Sen. Jeff Sessions of Alabama met with Uribe, the United States' staunchest ally in Latin America, during their visit to Colombia on April 7-9. During the informal meeting, Specter expressed concerns about seasonal workers who immigrate to the United States to work temporarily on farms and then don't return to their country once their visa has elapsed.

"President Uribe said he would consider having Colombian workers have microchips implanted into their bodies before they are permitted to enter the United States to work on a seasonal basis," said Specter in a speech entered to the Congressional record April 25. "I doubted whether the implantation of microchips would be effective since the immigrant worker might be able to remove them."

Uribe on Thursday refused to say whether he proposed microchip implants, acknowledging only that he encouraged the senators to replace "draconian" immigration laws with a temporary work program that treats Colombian workers humanely, like one the country already shares with Spain and Canada. "If the United States, with all its technology, computers and chips, doesn't have the means to know who enters or leaves the country then where are we?" he said during an interview on City TV.

The offices of Specter and Sessions did not return calls seeking comment on their meeting with Uribe. Uribe's alleged comments, which dominated the airwaves Thursday, were unpopular with some Colombians.

"If the United States wants to prevent illegal immigrants from entering the country, they should find a better way than treating humans like animals," said Diana Lozano, an architecture student. Using microchips the size of a grain of rice to track the movement of cattle is nothing new. There has been some marketing of the microchips for human use as a way to control access to secure areas and keep tabs on some criminals, but not for immigration.

"It sounds rather Orwellian," said John Keeley, spokesman for the Center for Immigrations Studies in Washington. "In a Star Trek-kind of future, 20-40 years down the road, we might need to consider this, but it's not germane to the contemporary immigration debate." An estimated 1.5 million Colombians live in the United States and scores more have considered migrating north to escape economic hardship or the country's four-decade civil war.

Head Count 1,254

A couple of weeks ago, sitting on the floor over a typical shared tray of Senegalese yassa (rice with chicken and vegetables) I had to laugh when one of the guys I was eating with blurted out, “You know that we´re (the Senegalese) are the smartest people in Africa, right?” I´ve become all too familiar with the international and inter-ethnic rivalries in Africa that seem to come through in every conversation, but stopped short when I realized what he was getting at. “How many countries are there in Africa that have border the ocean? Dozens. And yet, we are practically that only ones making cayukos (the small ´fishing´ boats the migrants use to get to the Canary Islands (Spain))! Yep, that´s because we´re the smartest people in Africa”.

Last week alone, the number of people who made it to the Canary Islands totalled a record breaking 1,254, and what Ibrahima said is true – the production of cayukos has turned into an industry in and of itself as boats are made specifically for human trafficking and people arrive from all over Sub-Saharan Africa to catch their boat out of Senegal. Oddly enough, though, Senegal is one of the most stable countries in Africa, internationally recognized as one of the most democratic countries in the world, with relatively low poverty rates and HIV rates similar to most European countries. So why is it that thousands of the young and talented nonetheless put their lives on the line? Because the true story of what the reality is in Europe never reaches home.For every boat full of people carrying big dreams that make it safely to the islands, dozens more are lost at sea despite the high-tech GPS systems that are now being used to guide them. In fact, not long ago, local area fishermen were filing complaints against the Spanish government “because their failure to control immigration is devastating the fishing trade”. To put it “nicely”, fisherman are now literally catching more corpses in their nets on a daily basis rather than they are fish, and are turning into the front line of the maritime border control crews sent out to spot incoming migrant boats.As the summer days draw near, the cayuko arrivals once again become more frequent – so frequent, in fact, that they have almost become their own section on the nightly news. “The arrival of 93 undocumented immigrants is expected around 5.30AM tomorrow morning in the port of Tenerife …” It might as well be the week’s weather forecast. I´ve often been asked whether I see myself as working in favor of people who have broken a clear law that requires a passport and/or visa to enter the country. My question has always been why the governments that make restrictive border policies chose to “sponsor” their entries, paying them under the table to come to Barcelona and then blatantly violating their basic human rights.Then again, perhaps the question better question should be, do you believe in defending the inviolable human dignity of criminals?