When the WTO comes to town ...

I remember the WTO protests in Seattle in 2000.

I wasn't there, but I wished I was.

I remember the WTO protests in Geneva in 2009.

I am here, but (with the exception of fleeting moments of rebelliousness) I wish I weren't.

The 20 second sum-up goes something like this:

Wednesday: Glance out my office window and, low and behold, dozens of uniformed men from the Swiss army are scuttling about, building cement barricades, setting up metal fencing, hanging barbed wire. Around my office. Who knew the World Trade Organisation (WTO) Ministerial Conference was to be held in our very building?

Thursday: The fortress grows. This is getting serious. Receive "urgent notification" from the police informing that:

"A manifestation bringing together diverse groups hostile to the WTO will be taking place on Saturday... The ralley has received an advisory notice from the police but has not yet been formally authorised to carry out the proposed activities..."

Friday: Swiss army leaves; police forces come. We can no longer get anywhere near the building without showing every piece of ID known to man (and woman)... and, for that matter, every piece of ID yet UNknown to man (and woman).

Saturday: As seen in this 40 second BBC video, all hell breaks lose (for the record, that WOULD be my gym right about second 19). And I quote:

"Anti-capitalist protesters have set fire to cars, and smashed the windows of banks and cafes, during a rally in Geneva in Switzerland.

The protestors were objecting to talks being held in the city on Monday by the World Trade Organisation which protesters say works on behalf of big business and exploits the developing world."

Sunday: Supposedly more of the same. Don't know, as we remained home with post-Thanksgiving food comas. Meanwhile, the ever-so-tolerant Swiss were out voting to ban the construction of minarets (Islamic "steeples") within the country. Just another show of Swiss progressiveness (can you hear the sarcasm??)

Monday: Half hoping we weren't going to be able to get into the building for work and could just go home. No luck. Protesters have set up camp--complete with bon fires--just across the street, and spend the day singing soothing campfire songs until the evening's candle light serenade to their intimate audience of 100 riot police.


Did I mention that today, Monday, is only day ONE of the conference? Goodness only knows what tomorrow might bring ...

Confessions of a free woman

"What does the modern woman want? Where does she fit into today's world? ... In this six-hour tour-de force, master story teller Jennifer Fox lays bare her own turbulent life to penetrate what it means to be a free woman today. As her drama of work and relationships unfolds over four years, our protagonist travels to over seventeen countries to understand how diverse women define their lives when there is no map... Over intimate kitchen tables from South Africa to Russia, India and Pakistan, she initiates a groundbreaking dialogue among women, illuminating universal concerns across race, class and nationality. Part delectable soap opera, sociopolitical inquiry and narrative experiments, Flying sweeps us up into an addictive international adventure chronicled with sincerity, innovation and elegance".

- Caroline LIBRESCO, Sundance Film Festival catalogue

Haven't seen this one yet, but having seen the trailer ... and the six film festival award nominations already received ... it's high on my list of summer must see films! Check out the OFFICIAL WEBSITE for film bites and, if you're looking for good debates on women's issues, the related blog.

Winning war?

In the midst of the incessant severe-migraine-inducing-even-with-the-office-windows-closed shouting and yelling, it's all too easy it is to forget that for a great, great many, the UN is seen to be the only *potential* Earth-bound savior.

Amid political, humanitarian and Sinhalese shouts of joy that the longest running civil war ever in all of Asia has finally "come to an end", it is all too easy to forget that there are always, always two sides to the coin. For the thousands of minority Sri Lankan Tamils religiously demonstrating outside the main gates of the UN for the last four months - for the man who committed suicide burning himself alive in desperate protest against what they claim to be a government-sponsored "genocide" against their people - the end of the 25 year Sri Lankan civil war is no reason at all to celebrate.

Little wonder, then, that the 2,000 or so Tamil demonstrators "adorning" the UN main gates over the last two days were among the most passionate, most desperate this city has seen . They were already well-warmed up by 8:30 in the morning ... and don't ask me how the woman kept her voice enough to still be screaming strong at six in the afternoon.

Glass bottles and malatov cocktails thrown at the police were countered with water cannons, afternoon meetings inside the UN were interrupted again and again with security messages and requests for additional guards. Demonstrators lie strewn throughout the streets where they had lain down to block traffic - several managed to get over the main gates... trying to replace the Sri Lankan flag with the Tamil one. (Watch a video of some of the happenings HERE.)

Heaven above only knows who's right and who is wrong in this case, but "Let the Tamils live. Are we not human beings?" has been the mantra of the day(s) ... and a not-so-subtle reminder that "winning war" is always, always a matter of perspective.

Welcome to the Boys' Club

Actually, technically, I'm not sure that I can really welcome you to the Boys' Club. I'm clearly not in it myself, and even after nearly two years of riding last Sunday night trains alongside all the soldier boys, I just don't get it. I think it's fair to say that, outside of Switzerland, the name "Swiss Army" conjures up images of things like utilitarian army knives and Vatican guards and maybe, possibly, for those a little more informed, alp-hidden bunkers --- by the dozen. Inside Switzerland, however, (and from outside the Boys' Club) "Swiss Army" seems more likely to conjure up images along the lines of ....

• Shrieking the 1st time you opened the closet door and an army-issue rifle fell out on your feet. Breathing only slightly easier when it is stored under the bed.

• Beer. Cases and cases of beer ... for the on-duty guys.

• Late night Sunday train rides packed to the brim with frumpy soldiers returning to their annual 3 weeks of duty after a weekend off at home ... all in uniform, drunk and / or drinking, most often singing or chanting, and occasionally on their feet in the aisles imitating their senior officers.

• Involuntarily sitting squashed between all the above mentioned men in uniform, with your feet buried under a pile of rifles tossed haphazardly upon the floor.

• Stories of unabashed rookie hazing ceremonies.

• Summer camp, combined with an annual class reunion, and the realisation that you shouldn't feel any too bad for them - this is nothin' but mandatory national mens' bonding time.

• And last, but certainly not least, images of the honourable Swiss Army getting lost in the woods and wandering into neighboring countries ...

Then I'm told to be culturally sensitive and think this is normal.

Wild with hatred ... of racism

Sitting in sterile meeting rooms full of diplo-speak and painful (if not to say outright ridiculous) hierarchical protocol, you 've sometimes got to wonder if it's really possible to be any farther removed from the every day realities of cities, countries, towns and villages that are not quite so calm, so perfect, so proper - so well off - as Geneva.

But say the word "Durban" and all eyes start to roll, shoulders shudder and dread begins to set in on a process on racism and xenophobia that is widely perceived to have gone terribly wrong in South Africa the first time 'round... it tread such politically dangerous ground, in fact, that they've spent the last eight years reviewing it, trying to figure out how not to make the same mistakes again - and preparing for Durban II.

Today, eight years later, the beast again rose from its grave. Iranian President, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, (well-known for denying that the Holocaust every happened and calling for Isreal to be "wiped off the map") announces his attendance and is recognised by the UN as the "guest of honour", a dozen countries decide to boycott the event all together as a result, the UN plaza fills with horrendously loud (read: effective) protesters, I accomplish nothing in my office with all the noise outside, the conference room is packed to the hilt, Ahmadinejad gives his keynote speech, protesters dressed as clowns run down the aisle and chuck their noses at him, half of the governments that weren't already boycotting in the first place walk out, Nobel Laureate Elie Wiesel joins in "shame on you, shame on the UN" demonstrations packing normally surgically sterile hallways ... and this is only Day 1.

Let the diplo games begin.

As luck would have it, Marcel is also in town these days doing his yearly three-week mandatory military duty ... guarding, among others, the Israeli embassy and personal residence of the Israeli Ambassador. Except now that Swiss President has (heaven forbid!) shaken the hand of Ahmadinejad, Israel is recalling its Ambassador, effective immediately, and they've been sent to guard the Iranian embassy + President. All because two guys shook hands.

I can't say I'm any too keen on the guy myself, but really, between boycotts and handshakes, whatever happened to arguing through our differences? Isn't that what everyone went to law and diplomacy school for? Then again, I suppose it IS easier to all stomp off to our respective corners, squint our eyes shut, clamp our hands over our ears and scream "la-la-la-la-la".

Did I mention that tomorrow is International Holocaust Remembrance Day? Impeccable timing, indeed.

A day in the life of bureaucracy

Ok, so I'm not quite technologically slick enough to be able to figure out how to get the link to link with the "picture", but for a a good laugh, a great 2-minute powerpoint explanation of "a day in the life least expected" and just why bureaucratic systems are seemingly "a little slow" sometimes, click here: professional-life-3-dealing-with-a-critical-issue_2

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!

A day in the life of bureaucracy

Ok, so I'm not quite technologically slick enough to be able to figure out how to get the link to link with the "picture", but for a a good laugh, a great 2-minute powerpoint explanation of "a day in the life least expected" and just why bureaucratic systems are seemingly "a little slow" sometimes, click here: professional-life-3-dealing-with-a-critical-issue_2

Of fountains and innocence

If you ever feel the need for a little warp back in time, feel free to come to Geneva right about, oh, the first Wednesday of February when the old WWII bomb sirens are tested. Except you won't really know that it's a test, you'll just hear them begin their eery whine and your imagination will begin to run - after all, you are sitting pretty at the epicentre of all things international, many of which - at least in other parts of the world - have made many a tempting target for ill-intentioned souls.

But then you'll put and ear to the window and hear a few other things ... the other signs of spring (no complaints, but already?!), namely road construction and rambunctious protests. With the anti-Davos protests already come and gone, along with the teary-eyed evidence of the pre-preemptive use of force against banned freedom of speech and assembly, another passionate group of some sort has taken to the UN plaza and, yet again, I have no idea what they're out there for. That said, we're all giving them kudos for amassing such an impressive group and reminding us with their echoey megaphone banter that the spring protest season is on its way.

That's about when my colleague pointed out that "the police haven't even turned on the fountains yet" ... and when my innocence was shattered.

About a year ago, several dozen "fountain squirters", along with well-placed lights, were built into the ground of the plaza, making for a magical summer wonderland for all kinds of kiddies jumping over, under and through the timed fountains, never quite sure where the next one will "go off". For those of us less inclined to strip down to our skiveys, it makes for a blissful place to sit sun-side and read to the sounds of splashing fountains and yelping kiddies in the spring and summer months. It never ocurred to me that they were installed - and are subsequently turned on - to limit protest space in front of the UN.

My colleague looked at me like I was the most naive person in the world, adding only "Of course! And why do you think so many of the South East Asian cities have dozens of overpasses around the city centers? It's not for aesthetics or improved traffic flow, it's to prevent tanks from coming in too close to the capitals!"

Farewell dear innocence ...

Hear ye, hear ye: She's showing signs of life!

For those of you who haven-t yet come to Geneva and thereafter taken the near-obligatorz-by-international-city-tradition UN headquarters tour, allow me to give you a quick idea. Let's put it this waz, the UN HQ Geneva looks and feels every bit the 1929-original-building-plus-five-million-add-ons-in-the-1960s-and-70s that it is.

Add to this, then, the usual human atmosphere in the day-in-day-out routine, and you get an old, unattractive building (albeit with fantastic lake and mountain views!) filled with frowns, stern faces, courtesy smirks/smiles, security guards and x-ray scanners, mounds of documents, loads of formal protocol, and all the politically-correct diplo-speak you could ever imagine. In fact, come to think of it, usually the most exciting thing in the vicinity are the free-range peacocks whose squawking can occasionally lend a comical air to the most serious of meetings.

And so, imagine my surprise - if not outright glee - this morning when I opened the main door, only to be blasted with the noise (a first in itself!!) of music, chatter, people - hundreds of them smiling, laughing and happily setting up stands according to country - and the amazing smells of foods from every corner of the world. Gone were the suits and ties - replaced instead with traditional clothing of each country, gone were the obnoxiously conspicuous ID badges - replaced instead with signs of people's true identity, and gone were the stoic security sentinels, who were instead intermingling and enjoying the good food and entertainment just as much as anyone else. Three cheers for the annual United Nations Women's Guild International Bazaar.

Even amid my pleasant surprise and the mariachi band beginning to close in around me for a morning serenade, however, I unfortunately could not neglect the fact that I was actually not there to indulge myself to my tummy's delight as I would have liked, but rather was already running late for a meeting. And as I (quite literally ) shimmied and shaked my way through the belly dancers, salsa dancers, small children and intermingling government delegates who were conveniently (strategically?) blocking the escalators, the awestruck smile on my face was surely betraying my thoughts ...

... once again, the women have got it all right - if only we'd let them lead the way in solving the world's woes!

Relief, pride and hope for an America seen from afar

"And to all those who are watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces, to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world - our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared". - President-Elect, Barak Obama

About a month or so ago, a good friend of mine was having coffee in a little cafe in France with a friend whose shy five-year old daughter had an important question tugging at her mind the same way that she was tugging on her mom's pants. Finally, with some insistent urging from mom, she asked her big question:

"If you are American, why aren't you black?"

Such is the influence had by Obama on even the youngest generations off US shores. To those who think that Americans living abroad have "lost touch" with things back home and thus have some kind of "skewed" perspective on things, rest assured that those of us living abroad often have a crystal clear view of our country and culture.

As it happens, I live in a highly international, highly politically-charged town in which I see, first hand, the way in which the perception of America - and Americans - affects important international public policy decisions. The way it affects diplomatic relations with other countries; the way it affects funding for humanitarian and other international efforts; and the way it affects everyday relations with people on the street.

I have no expectations whatsoever that Obama, let alone anyone, will be able to simply "wave a magic wand" and fix it all. And among all the hype and high hopes, I imagine that a great many people will be profoundly disappointed by his "performance" over the course of his coming term. Yet I will be the first to admit that I did not place my bets on Obama for his position on single issues of greater or lesser importance, but rather for his potential to restore the hopes, dreams and passions of the American people and the long and terribly detrimental international credibility of a country that has so much more to offer.

"Mr. Obama's election offers most ... a sense that the imperial power capable of doing such good and such harm - a country that ... preached justive but tortured its captives, launched a disastrous war in Iraq, turned its back on the environment and greedily dragged the world into economic chaos - saw the errors of its ways over the past eight years and shifted course".

Any good business leader will tell you that even the best business plan will ultimately fail in the absence of a cohesive, dedicated and motivated human resource team. You are nothing without your people; so too, for a nation. If those you encounter abroad, those with whom you negotiate are in an undeniably interdependent global world, those living, working and studying under your flag see you as neither credible nor intelligent. It does not matter whether you are pro-life or pro-choice, pro-business or pro-worker, you will ultimately fail.

In a country with 20,000 registered US voters, and in a city where hundreds of volunteers used Skype to call voters in the US asking their support for Obama and where election night parties sold over 600 tickets in the first three days, America may well have been right here. No longer able to beat the jet lag-combined with the election coverage time change, I went to bed last night before knowing the results ... only to be awakened at 5AM this morning by someone wandering down the street yelling "Obaaammmmaaa! Obaammaaa!" And as I turned on the TV from bed to see if it was true, I couldn't help but feel a bit like a little girl at Christmas.

The Promise: For Many Abroad, an Ideal Renewed

Ethan BRONNER, NY Times - It's hard to overstate how fervently vast stretches of the globe wanted the election to turn out as it did.

How to avoid deportation, outsmart security, ride a horse, climb a volcano and nearly miss your flight ... all in 15 hours.

A model program for avoiding boredom in a mere 24 hours amidst a week of international meetings in the Philippines:

1. Take part in the covert organisation of official delegates in smuggling them out of the meetings, into matching t-shirts, past numerous caravans of military and police, into awaiting jeepneys and breaking through the police lines (5 officers deep) at a public rally where "foreigners would be deported".

2. Devise a way to outsmart the security measures (scanned barcode ID cards) at the Government meeting not once, but five times. Make the most of this little weakness by taking advantage of free massages for government officials, schmooze opportunities and excellent free food at dinner and lunch banquets - complete with beach-side/pool-side fireworks show and free tour offers.

3. Wander aimlessly around town and through endless neighborhoods and markets drawing sufficient attention as a single, white, woman so as to not dare take out the camera in most places. Laugh later when Mr. Mark Mazo (see below) says "But ma'am, you went there by yourself? You are very lucky, ma'am! Quiapo is full of snatchers!!"

4. Meet a very nice, clearly honest, "good vibe" local - Mr. Mark Mazo - and make a deal to hire him as local tour guide + driver to see the "real" Philippines. Laugh again when Mark tells you that 8AM is very late to meet; "we must meet at 5AM!" (Philippino street life seems to suggest they are early risers...)

5. Head to Lake Taal to see the volcanoes inside the freshwater lake. Lock the doors and fly by all of the many "swindlers" trying to offer us a boat ride out to the volcano ... Mark "I will protect you from the swindlers!"

6. Hire a boat to take us out to the volcano; hire horses to take us up the volcano, then peek down the hole of the crater curiously realising there is another lake with another island inside the volcano, where people swim in the sulfuric hot spring.

7. Drink buko (young coconut), eat buko, buy buko pie ... and drive some 300 kilometers through small Philippino towns of all kinds, being amazed by the sheer number of children everywhere and the fact that even the poorest looking hut houses had TVs flashing from inside.

8. Get stuck in Friday + All Soul's Day traffic ... amid jeepneys, tricycles, scooters, cars, bicycles, honking horns and sickening pollution. Realise there is no way in hell that you will be getting to the airport in time for your flight.

9. Mark Mazo: "Don't worry, ma'am, I will get you there!". Take on oncoming traffic, put on the flashers, honk incessantly, pour on the speed when you can and be terribly stuck in traffic yet again. Definitely missing your flight.

10. Mark Mazo pulls a new trick: Push all of the motorcycles out of the way, head straight into on-coming traffic, honk even more incessantly, put your whole body out the window and start screaming urgently "Emergency! Emergency!" Only later to add for the traffic controller "She's a United Nations Delegate (N.B. far from it, in fact); it's an emergency; I must get her to the airport!!" And, like the parting of the seas, traffic moves aside, our tires peel out and we arrive at the airport ... 40 minutes before flight departure.

11. Mark Mazo: "I hope you will never forget our eventful day, ma'am". No time soon, for sure ...

Of mediocre meetings and passionate protests

"Foreigners seen protesting in protest actions can be deported for violating the country's immigration laws ... Foreigners have no business joining these mass actions because it is tantamount to meddling in our country's internal affairs" - Philippine Bureau of Immigration

"The protesters brought with them placards that simply said "No to GF*D", "End labor export", "End poverty" and "Create jobs at home", all written in different languages. Is there anything subversive to the international and national interest about these?" - N.O.G.

Ever aware that choosing not to make this blog private somewhat jeopardizes my willingness to talk candidly about all things interesting, I will avoid spelling out the name of the actual global meeting that brought myself and more than 1,000 top expert foreign diplomats, trade union reps, non-profit professionals, academics, social workers and migrants to Manila, but I trust that it will be obvious for those who choose to take a peek at the PICTURES HERE and/or a few of the bazillion news articles, including, perhaps, a couple of these:

• Migrant workers not tools to save globalization
  

• Preventing protest against labor migration
  

• Passion for reason: OFWs: Expatriates with less rights
  

• Global Forum succeeded in wasting public money, protesters declare
  

• Bureau of Immigration: Foreigners joining protests to be deported

Not withstanding the one-of-a-kind hospitality and friendliness of the Philippino people that would, undoubtely, grant them the title of "World's most friendly people", the meeting was branded by thousands of military soldiers and police officers, blocked off roads, x-ray security, digital security badges, traffic escorts should you ever need to set foot outside of your (arranged) hotel or the conference centre and even security professionals to ensure that you do not inadvertently get into any trouble while making visits with Mother Nature. Thus making "escape" from the picture perfect conference world all that much more appealing.

Change scenes now to life in the streets outside the cordoned police barricades six officers deep and you have a very different picture ... one of rallies involving some 5,000 people frustrated by an opaque system that has not allowed them to participate in the conference and fearful that decisions being made behind closed doors about migration policies come at the cost of using human beings who are unable to find decent work at home as nothing more than economic bargaining chips for greedy governments.

Despite the fact that a number of media have entirely misled unknowing readers into believing that these rallies were led by "militant activists", they were light years away from being even remotely violent. Case in point, protesters went down the lines of police barricades affixing giant "Migrant rights are human rights" stickers to their riot shields and placing roses in their uniform lapels ... receiving only smiles in return. How many of those officers must also have wives, mothers, daughters, brothers working abroad?

Braving the indescribable pollution and daunting humidity, I later spent a day meandering the streets and neighborhoods of Manila. If back in the conference delegates were totally oblivious to the daily protests, they certainly had NO idea of the evident social backlash by other groups on a very local ... made clear by an array of anti-forum graffiti, posters, etc.

In a nontransparent, government-only process, removed from the United Nations and with limited intention to evaluate the process and/or produce concrete results beyond the "talk shop", the added "social oblivion factor" makes you wonder all that much more ... what the heck are we, and our leaders, doing?

An imperfect process in an imperfect world...but always, with a smile

Yet another unexpected in a life of unexpecteds, I find myself now writing tonight from those wonderful islands to the West of Vietnam and to the North of Malaysia ...

Indeed, with two weeks notice I found myself packing a bag with 25 kilos (about 50 pounds??) of books, jumping on a plane to find a flight crew wearing traditional Thai silk formal dresses serving nose-drip-inducing spicy curry airplane food (who knew airplane food could be anything other than bland!) observing the viscerally sickening mix of male passengers that left more than a lingering doubt as to whether they were headed to Southeast Asia for the beaches or the women (or, worse, the children), putsing around Bangkok just long enough to befriend a group of extraordinarily outgoing Bangladeshi's and entertain their questions as to A) who is going to win the US elections and B) whether I am Phillipina (?!), fly threw Philippino customs with only just enough time to gaze curiously as the Overseas Filipino Worker Express Lanes (I suppose one would have to hope that more than a few of the 120 Philippinos per hour who depart for jobs abroad would return at some time or another), smile bemusedly as the somewhat entertaining and quintessentially Philippino creatures that are jeepneys, and lug my obscenely heavy suitcase up the stairs of the "deluxe, five star luxury" - are we really NGOs? - hotel in Manila ... the heat and terrible humidity being the indiscriminate cause of the gallons of sweat pouring down my back. Welcome to the Philippines.

This, of course, is not the final description, but rather the beginning. But then, to be a truly accurate description of "the beginning" you would most certainly have to add the anecdote of my somewhat desperate search for a cash machine nearby the hotel, seeing as they whisked us away from the airport with such haste that that even Speedy Gonzalez would not have had time to withdraw. Thus, upon explaining to the concierge for the twentieth time that no, the ATM machines at the mall were not an option unless he cared to sponsor my transportation to GET there in the first place, he finally conceded that there was an ATM just around the corner. Happily heading for the door with my directions in hand, he adds - with what I have learned to be the Philippine epitome of politeness - "But ma'am, I would suggest you remove all of your jewelry and leave your purse in your room before you go". Mmmhhmm. Wearing no jewelry anyhow and having only my trusty Timbuktoo-nearly-impossible-to-rob bag, I thanked him for the warning and headed out.

I don't think I had walked even 10 meters when I suddenly was surrounded by six pairs of small, groping, clasp-like hands, had two small children clinging on to each of my legs in the same way we used to do to my Dad when we wanted to walk on his feet, and saw a seventh (or was is eighth?) little boy come tearing around the corner carrying an infant in his arms and running so quickly I thought the baby's head was going to be broken off. Naively, I thought something terrible had happened to the baby and he was in search of mom ... though it quickly became apparent that he was hoping his tactic would be more fruitful in producing coins from the "white lady" than that of the monkey kids. Soo, we awkwardly hobbled to the chants of "No, no money - money? money? - No, no money - money? money?" for about two blocks as I tried to figure out just how I was going to get cash from the machine in such a state, when suddenly a waiting jeepney driver simply went "tschhhh" and they all disappeared before I could even see which direction they had gone. Poverty in the Philippines ... you have to wonder, where was mom? Considering the stats here, chances are good she's off working in the Middle East or the US.

In fact, I had imagined blogging about much more than these first moments tonight, about the conference, about the protests, about the police, about the absolutely unrivaled friendliness of the Philippine people, but seeing as this has already seemed to convert itself into a mini novel I suppose we best leave it here, certainly with several a sequel to come ...

In the meantime, I leave you with this image of the day (above), anyone want to take a stab at what my later commentary to go with it will say?

White Privilege and the 2008 Election

Ok, I give in. I've been trying desperately NOT to talk politics on my blog for mere reason that I didn't care to have it "found" by unfathomable numbers of election "surveyors", but I'm finally going to bite the bullet.

I'm "borrowing" this from my friend Meghan's blog (who got it from a friend, who probably got it from a friend who got it from a friend ...) because I think it's so dang thought provoking. Maybe a few people will even leave a comment or two??

White Privilege and the 2008 Election
By Tim Wise

For those who still can't grasp the concept of white privilege, or who are constantly looking for some easy-to-understand examples of it, perhaps this list will help.

White privilege is when you can get pregnant at seventeen like Bristol Palin and everyone is quick to insist that your life and that of your family is a personal matter, and that no one has a right to judge you or your parents, because "every family has challenges," even as black and Latino families with similar "challenges" are regularly typified as irresponsible, pathological and arbiters of social decay.

White privilege is when you can call yourself a "fuckin' redneck," as Bristol Palin's boyfriend does, and talk about how if anyone messes with you, you'll "kick their fuckin' ass," and talk about how you like to "shoot shit" for fun, and still be viewed as a responsible, all-American boy (and a great son-in-law to be) rather than a thug.

White privilege is when you can attend four different colleges in six years as Sarah Palin did (one of which you basically failed out of, then returned to after making up some coursework at a community college), and no one questions your intelligence or commitment to achievement, whereas a person of color who did this would be viewed as unfit for college, and probably someone who only got in in the first place because of affirmative action.

White privilege is when you can claim that being mayor of a town smaller than most medium-sized colleges, and then Governor of a state with about the same number of people as the lower fifth of the island of Manhattan, makes you ready to potentially be president, and people don't all piss on themselves with laughter, while being a black U.S. Senator, two-term state Senator, and constitutional law scholar, means you're "untested."

White privilege is being able to say that you support the words "under God" in the pledge of allegiance because "if it was good enough for the founding fathers, it's good enough for me," and not be immediately disqualified from holding office--since, after all, the pledge was written in the late 1800s and the "under God" part wasn't added until the 1950s--while believing that reading accused criminals and terrorists their rights (because, ya know, the Constitution, which you used to teach at a prestigious law school requires it), is a dangerous and silly idea only supported by mushy liberals.

White privilege is being able to be a gun enthusiast and not make people immediately scared of you. White privilege is being able to have a husband who was a member of an extremist political party that wants your state to secede from the Union, and whose motto was "Alaska first," and no one questions your patriotism or that of your family, while if you're black and your spouse merely fails to come to a 9/11 memorial so she can be home with her kids on the first day of school, people immediately think she's being disrespectful.

White privilege is being able to make fun of community organizers and the work they do--like, among other things, fight for the right of women to vote, or for civil rights, or the 8-hour workday, or an end to child labor--and people think you're being pithy and tough, but if you merely question the experience of a small town mayor and 18-month governor with no foreign policy expertise beyond a class she took in college--you're somehow being mean, or even sexist.

White privilege is being able to convince white women who don't even agree with you on any substantive issue to vote for you and your running mate anyway, because all of a sudden your presence on the ticket has inspired confidence in these same white women, and made them give your party a "second look."

White privilege is being able to fire people who didn't support your political campaigns and not be accused of abusing your power or being a typical politician who engages in favoritism, while being black and merely knowing some folks from the old-line political machines in Chicago means you must be corrupt.

White privilege is being able to attend churches over the years whose pastors say that people who voted for John Kerry or merely criticize George W. Bush are going to hell, and that the U.S. is an explicitly Christian nation and the job of Christians is to bring Christian theological principles into government, and who bring in speakers who say the conflict in the Middle East is God's punishment on Jews for rejecting Jesus, and everyone can still think you're just a good church-going Christian, but if you're black and friends with a black pastor who has noted (as have Colin Powell and the U.S. Department of Defense) that terrorist attacks are often the result of U.S. foreign policy and who talks about the history of racism and its effect on black people, you're an extremist who probably hates America.

White privilege is not knowing what the Bush Doctrine is when asked by a reporter, and then people get angry at the reporter for asking you such a "trick question," while being black and merely refusing to give one-word answers to the queries of Bill O'Reilly means you're dodging the question, or trying to seem overly intellectual and nuanced.

White privilege is being able to claim your experience as a POW has anything at all to do with your fitness for president, while being black and experiencing racism is, as Sarah Palin has referred to it, a "light" burden.

And finally, white privilege is the only thing that could possibly allow someone to become president when he has voted with George W. Bush 90 percent of the time, even as unemployment is skyrocketing, people are losing their homes, inflation is rising, and the U.S. is increasingly isolated from world opinion, just because white voters aren't sure about that whole "change" thing. Ya know, it's just too vague and ill-defined, unlike, say, four more years of the same, which is very concrete and certain.

White privilege is, in short, the problem.

Tim Wise is the author of White Like Me (Soft Skull, 2005, revised 2008), and of Speaking Treason Fluently, publishing this month, also by Soft Skull.

Bullwinkle Assassinated!

"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.

Quantifying life

It's not the first time that I've run in to the oddities of refugee law and the way it plays out in the everday lives of everyday people.

I distinctly recall being in the office in Barcelona with two asylum seekers from the Ivory Coast, one of which - call him Bob - had been in Barcelona for some time trying to pull together enough documents to make a solid case for asylum and the other - call him George -, recently arrived, having brought all of his documents in a neatly kept folder. George was bemoaning the fact that his mother had just passed away and he was unable to return for her funeral, Bob minced no words as he told him to shut up ... "at least his mother got a funeral". Bob then leaned over and told me that it's a good thing this isn't Africa; otherwise he would kill him (George) right now.

You see, Bob's entire village, including all his family and friends, were wiped out in the genocide and, because he had fled with no notice, he had no documents - no birth or wedding certificates, no passport to show to facilitate the asylum process. George - though there is no evidence that he carried out any killings himself - was on the "guerilla" side ... the side who was told exactly what documents to bring and present so that their request for asylum in Europe would be quickly processed. When I left Barcelona, George had acquired refugee status (in 7 months, no less), while Bob was still awaiting a decision.

Needless to say, these memories came to mind when I was at a UNHCR deployee training last week, as we we lectured on the criteria for refugee status eligibility. Instigators of "crimes against humanity", for example, are never eligible to be granted refugee status. The question, however, is just HOW you define "crime against humanity".

Imagine, for instance, that you have been attacked and taken hostage by a rebel group, along with 20 others from your hometown. The rebels pull you out of the group, lead you in front of everyone, hold a gun to your head and order you to shoot the other hostages. Never, in a million years, would you dream of doing such a thing, yet the gun gets pressed harder into your temple and you make the desperate - and perhaps selfish - decision to shoot as ordered in order to save your own life. Your life is saved; you've just killed your fellow hostages; and you've just committed a "crime against humanity".

Why? Because international law has quantified lives. In a sheer game of numbers, you being shot and killed is but one life lost. You killing two, three, five, ten people means that many more lives were lost and, since it would be impossible to say who's live was more important, the decision dissolves into mere numbers. Better to lose one life than multiple. Never mind acts of self defense nor the very real possibility that the others would have been killed eventually anyhow.

Indeed, with all of our laws, standards, protocols, declarations, resolutions, decisions ... with all of our nobley intentioned legal frameworks we have attempted to protect and defend humanity, but is it really possible to fit the impossibilities of reality into stark, man-made definitions?

An open letter of the heart and mind

I think I mentioned before that I often "write" blog entries in my head ... stories of the people you meet on the street, the bizarre things you see, the cultural wives tales couldn't have imagined if you tried, memories of amazing day trips and the hard "what to do next" life choices and questions.  And yet, written as they may be in my head, they never do get written.  Forgiveness may therefore be required in light of tonight's splattering of thoughts.

• 
  
  Springtime! Geneva has changed overnight ... gone are the short, dark, depressing days of winter that relegate man, woman and child to either hibernation or mountain refugee, the lakeside tikki torch bars are up, the parks are packed with reckless scootering toddlers and happy arm-swinging couples and the magnolia trees, daffodils and tulips are in full bloom.  In many ways I find it odd ... it rains relatively rarely here and, in fact, the climate, plants, etc are otherwise strikingly similar to the Pacific Northwest, inspiring the same sense of giddy spring excitement when the air becomes fresher and the time springs forwards, and yet, I endlessly find myself wondering if I would ever be able to happily readjust to the Northwest/Swiss temperate climates ... thank God for warm sunshine and the coming long summer days!! 


• 
  
  Learning to accept.  I've mentioned this to a couple of people, and all have apparently been surprised that I would "do this", but in taking stock of my last seven months in Geneva, I've come to realize that it has been, among other things, a very important lesson in learning to accept - and savoring - things (and people!) for what they are.  Perhaps because I felt fully integrated into Spanish society, I came to Geneva hoping for the same kind of cultural experience ... become one of the locals - talk their language, take part in their community and above all, do whatever possible not to stand out as a foreigner.  This meant that I rarely, if ever, spoke English and, while I would readily talk about the US, culture, politics, etc, I knew no Americans (or other Anglo-foreigners for that matter) and made no effort whatsoever to search them out. Hoping for the same in Geneva, I realize now that, for a long time I "rejected" anything (or anyone) non-francophone, hoping to perfect my French and slip into the local community.  Seven months it's taken me to acknowledge that the local community here IS foreign, does NOT speak French and is equally well worth integrating into.  Hindsight is 20-20, they say ... hopefully I've figured it out soon enough. 


• 
  
  The Tower of Babel.  On one hand, I now laugh when someone tells me they came to Geneva to learn French.  On the other hand I laugh too, but also am endlessly amazed by the breadth of languages spoken anywhere and everywhere, the patience people have on the streets to communicate with you in one language or another (in most other cities, you're simply blown off if you can't put a sentence together logically or if your accent is "too thick"), and the thoughtlessness with which people drift in and out of languages in a single conversation. Even Marcel, Swiss himself and very used to living in an officially trilingual country, was amazed by the linguistic morphing of conversations at a party we went to recently.  Here, people who speak 6, 7, 8 languages fluently are a dime a dozen. Though I feel nowhere near fluent in French, I feel entirely competent ... this surely sounds outrageous to most, but I rarely speak French despite listening to it daily and I swear, after being here and doing nothing but listening to it for four months, I opened my mouth one day and it just came out.  No recent practice, no recent classes, it just came out.  Guess it kind of makes sense seeing that's how babies learn...


• 
  
  Chocolate.  Never, never will I get over the selection of chocolates here.  Here, telemarketers call, not to sell you insurance or tickets to the rodeo, but to survey your chocolate preferences.  Chocolate is an actual department at the department stores, with more flavours than you can possibly dream up.  Case in point, I'm munching on Frey's new dark chocolate with lemon and pepper as I type. 


• 
  
  Bureaucracy.    The UN is a monstrous institution.  Good intentioned and very much limited by the will of the governments making up its body, the phenomenal lack of institutional memory has yet ceased to amaze me.  Call it job insurance if you will, the three and four year staff rotations for both UN staff and embassy staff has effectively succeeded in creating a memory vaccuume.  Time and time again I find myself in meetings on a controversial issue or discussing some new convention or policy that someone would like to craft, only to return to my desk and find, after some digging, that the very same policy, convention, protocol, you name it was debated - by identical actors and with the very same arguments - years earlier.  Raises a sizeable question mark on the "what the heck are we doing????" and "is this even worth my time????" lines of thought.    


• 
  
  Neither here nor there.  This could, I suppose, apply to a great many things.  Age, for instance.  Happily boasting some 24 years, I feel both but a child by European standards and a well-aged adult by North American standards.  While my European friends and colleagues remind me daily that I "am still young" and that I should "be travelling, partying, studying, seeing the world", I look to my North American friends and family and see people married, some with kids, nearly all with good jobs and some money in the back pocket making "practical, adult" choices.  Never mind what my ever supportive parents must be thinking.  Likewise, I've happily put myself into a line of work that is neither here nor there ... one in which "field experience" is craved just as much as HQ positions.  Though I suppose this comes as news to all but Marcel, I recently completed training with UNHCR to be eligible for deployment to work in refugee camps ... I'm the first to say I'd love to go to "the field" and know that, age and life circumstances wise there's no better time than the present, and yet, I can't help but admit that I'm afraid of it.  Not afraid of the "going" itself or the type of work it would be, but afraid of the "humanitarian/travel bug" that has already half got me.  The best metaphor might be the movie "The Matrix" and the choice between the red or blue pills (one allowing you to happily live a ficticious life, the other to unhappily live a life based upon reality).  I would love going to the field, yet I know I would end up constantly searching like so many before me, struggling with the choice of whether to give priority to the field over meaningful relationships and constantly being antsy for the next assignment when "relieved of duty".  On one hand, then, and for as difficult as it is for most Geneva expats to believe, I want nothing more than to stay in Geneva for a few years with an interesting HQ job related to work in the field and enjoying perfectly normal and uneventful weekend activities with friends.  On the other, I wonder if I won't always regret not going to the field if "life" as most people know it creeps up on me soon .... Again, neither here nor there.    

Can we talk SAFETY for a minute?

…just one minute … please? To make one important clarification beforehand, I should like to make it very, very clear that this is not at all an anti-American, anti-government rant, but rather a “what the *&%#^ are we doing” rant. Sadly enough, for some time now, it seems that constant talk of “threats”, “terrorism” and “necessary protection” has fully become part of mainstream media brainwash mantra, thereby instilling a ‘culture of fear’ and readily convincing a large portion of the US population that constant vigilance is a necessary evil – even if it means giving up certain personal privacies.

Let’s start with the infamous Transportation Security Administration. I’ll save the new radio-active dust scanners for another time - luggage revisions when traveling? Don’t get me started. I clearly remember the first time that I was lucky enough to find the little “Notice of Baggage Inspection – Smart Security Saves Time” slip in my bag… “To protect (again, always protecting) you and your fellow passengers … some bags are opened and physically inspected”. Oops. Guess they forgot to mention that some bags are also opened and all contents dumped on the filthy ground then shoved back in again. Yup. That’s how my Vegas lucky streak began – with a suitcase full of dirty clothes and a once-nice hairdryer that looked as though it had been regurgitated by the garbage disposal.

I could go on and on with anecdotes of the way in which my baggage has been wonderfully treated by TSA, but perhaps I’ll restrain. Come back to Barcelona after spending Christmas in the States. Open my very full suitcase (which, of course, had been appropriately locked with a TSA approved lock) and, low and behold what do I find, but a small treasure chest of MENS clothes that I found their way into my bag! To some this may seem of little importance, however I was – and remain to this day – infuriated. Yes, in this case it was nothing more than stray clothes that found their way in (poor guy who arrived at his destination without much more than his birthday suit!), but if clothes can make it in, so can about anything else … including prohibited items, like, say, drugs?? When I check my baggage, I sign that everything in the bag is mine – packed by me, in my full, supervised possession since then and that I take full responsibility. So let’s just imagine, for example, that one were to pass though a customs checkpoint, reconfirm that you are the rightful owner of everything in the bag (after all, it was locked) … only to have customs open the bag in front of you, pull out some prohibited item you never knew existed and haul you off to jail. Still sound silly to complain about mystery gifts? I wrote to TSA to complain … got a standard cut and paste reply about what to do if my luggage was lost.

OK, let’s forget TSA for a minute. Last week I about screamed when I saw a big ad on a local city bus requesting that people report litter violators. Perhaps I would not have been so appalled if the message were set to a different photo – a very-close-up of a man’s eyes and the phone held to his face? A picture says a thousand words and this one spoke of nothing other than the promotion of “neighborly vigilance” … reminiscent of both the Orwellian 1984 and the historic “neighborly vigilance” that ruined so many innocent lives in communities dominated by dictatorships.

En fin, all this talk of ‘protecting’, ‘terrorism’, and ‘vigilance’ is making me sick … and scared. Just where are we headed? Towards a society dominated, manipulated and controlled by a culture of fear that breeds on insecurities and the blatant lack of trust? You know, it’s funny, for all its many ‘security’ measures, the US is currently the place where I feel least safe walking down the street at night ….