Human Rights...Big Picture Little Picture

The hubbub about China's human rights issues continues, with discussions of whether Secretary of State Clinton did or did not say the right thing in her recent speech, and did or did not give tacit approval for China to continue to do as it pleases without fear of U.S. sanction or reprisal (Are those the same thing? No, they are not. I love dictionary.com!). Now there is a State Department report on human rights worldwide in which China is broadly criticized for committing extrajudicial killings and torture, coercing confessions from prisoners and using forced labor. China's official Xinhua News Agency said the report interfered in the country's internal affairs and ignored China's achievements in human rights, which Beijing defines mainly as improvements to living standards.(1)

This sounds remarkably similar to the arguments used for a long time regarding domestic violence and child abuse. It wasn't appropriate, reform opponents argued, to interfere with the internal affairs of a family. You might even hear a similar "living standards" argument about having a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food in their bellies - as in, "so what's to complain about?"

Usually, I work in the office, but recently, I was in my room working on my laptop. Whit was out, I don't remember where, and I was here alone. Through my window, which overlooks the outdoor living area of the family below (see photo in the post entitled "Sanitation"), I heard a child crying and screaming. Frankly, this is not entirely unusual in such close quarters with all the windows open and it usually ends after a minute or so. This time, however, I also heard the mother's voice speaking loudly and continuously in the "angry mother tone" punctuated by staccato increases in the child's screaming intensity.

"Beating" children is the #1 - and it seems to me the only - form of punishment in our neighborhood and probably in most of Ghana. Beating wives is also common, but I am told it occurs "more in the north". Children's punishment seems to follow an escalation path including 1) angry and loud berating; 2) slapping any available bare skin (in the way my brother and his friends would test their endurance by holding one another's wrists and slapping forearms with just the tips of their moistened fingers to see who could withstand the stinging pain the longest); 3) slapping the back or back of the head - hard; 4) hitting with a bamboo or rattan cane - approximately 1 meter long and 1 cm. diameter (like those at right but without the handle, sold at the market from pallets containing stacked bundles of 50) - on the back, arms, legs, buttocks, etc.; and 5) additional violence depending on the level of parental rage. Step 1 seems to always be included, but skipping over any of the other steps to get to a more advanced step seems perfectly acceptable depending on the "crime". All except, perhaps, #5 are also acceptable to do to someone else's child.

So, there I was in my room, hearing a berating and, I realized, a slapping session going on in the courtyard below. After 5 minutes or so of heart-wrenching screaming and crying, I went to the window to see what the hell was really happening. Five minutes is a very long time to be on the receiving end of any punishment. What I saw was the small girl, Mamakos (also called Makos), from the downstairs family, cowering in the corner between the building and a short flight of 5 or 6 stairs while her mother yelled at her and slapped her bare skin, grabbing one wrist and then the other to slap her forearms. When Makos pulled her arms back, hugging them to herself, her mother switched to slap her bare legs, all the while delivering a rapid-fire verbal assault. When Makos attempted to pull her legs up under her, curl up and cover them with her skirt, mom switched back to her forearms or pulled up the back of her shirt to slap her bare back. The mother would pause the slapping periodically but continue the yelling. Although I could not understand the words, the emotion was clear, except I couldn't figure out the pauses. I thought maybe it was one of those "now stop crying" things but then the slapping would start up again. For another five minutes, at least, I watched the little girl scoot around the small area below my window trying to find a place to cower that would protect some part of her. And, despite, the screaming, the wailing, the crying, no other adult came to see what was happening. In a culture so inured to the screaming of children, what happens when a child really needs help?

Mamakos is three years old and attends nursery school.

I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to go down and stop it - to stand between the mother and child. But, in this culture, I am a visitor - an outsider - and beating a child is an expected responsibility of a parent. What could I do?

Finally, the mother stopped and I breathed a sigh of relief and wanted to go down and take Makos in my arms and comfort her. The mother went up the short flight of steps and through the screen door into the house, while Makos continued to hug herself in a ball, sobbing and periodically breaking into a more intense wail - of anger or indignity or renewed pain, I don't know which. Then I saw the mother come back through the screen door with a cane in her hand. She called Makos, who, like a wild and terrified animal crept up the stairs and over the threshold into an alcove beyond my view but from which I heard berate, thwack, and wail, berate, thwack, and wail for several more minutes before it ended. I was nauseated and anxious and paced my room like a caged animal myself. Throughout all of this, I couldn't bear to leave Makos "alone" and go to the other end of the building so I couldn't hear - and I couldn't stop it either.

Or could I? Should I? What was the right moral action? If something is morally wrong in one place, can it be acceptable in another? Is "morally wrong" simply a cultural agreement? Certainly there are things others think are morally wrong that I don't. And there are clearly things that I think are morally wrong that others don't. And if I do think something is morally wrong, am I honor and duty bound to stop it? Am I willing to accept that others who think something is morally wrong can forcibly stop me from doing it?

My head was spinning, my stomach was churning, and I didn't know the answers to any of these questions except the last one. Based on my experience with religious institutions, the answer is very clearly "no". But where is the line for how long and how intensely a child can be beaten by someone 5 times her size? And in a culture where beating is accepted, tolerated, and encouraged, is there still a line people think is going too far - and if so, will anyone even investigate the wailing, or notice the abuse? Can it be enforced? Is it when the skin is broken? When an arm is broken? What about when a trust is broken or a spirit is broken or a heart is broken?

So, what do you think? What would you do? Are you asking yourself what Makos did to be punished in the first place? Will that change your answers? Are there absolutes? And how does this apply to the bigger picture of international opinions about the human rights practices of nations? Be careful how you respond, you may be forced to act.
XO

Da Dis Ting

Either it took me four months to notice this - or it took that long for our agents to become comfortable enough with me to stop trying to speak perfect English. In any case, over the last couple weeks it has become so prevalent that I can't not hear it.

At home, we may say whatchamacallit, thingamajig, thingamabob, doodad, or another such fill-in, often when we can't think of the name of something or our brains are in too big a hurry or are just too lazy to find it in that big pile of data that will never make us any money.

Here in Ghana, there is a similar phrase, but it is used not just for things but for places as well and is used in sentences with the regularity of "like" or "you know", as well as when a word is not coming to mind.

This is not a new phrase. If you've traveled in the English-speaking Carribean you've likely heard it - not surprisingly since most of the slaves exported to those islands were from this part of Africa and there seems to be a strong cultural and travel linkage to Jamaica in particular. The phrase is "dis ting" or "da dis ting". Whenever I hear it, which is quite a lot these days, it makes me think of Vizzini's command from The Princess Bride: "Move the thing! And that other thing!" - or that old tease when someone asks you "where" and you say, "You know, at that spot where we were that time by the place and you saw that thing and said it reminded you of that other time we went there. You know."

So, here is a typical conversation at one of our route day meetings:

"How many new batteries have you rented?"

"I couldn't go to da dis ting yesterday because I had to travel to Akropong for da dis ting, but I rented 4 dis ting the day before." (name of some village; a funeral; batteries)

"How many adapters do you still have?"

"My dis ting's small boy stepped on da dis ting and it cracked. Should I count da dis ting?" (customer; adapter; that one)

I've arrived at the point where I generally know what is meant when this phrase is used in a sentence, even more than once. Of course, it's easier if I keep my whatchamacallit specific so that I know the whatsit of their thingamajig. You know? (question; context; response)
XO

Grand Opening

Shopping Malls. Museums. Bookstores. Yachts. Presidents.

These are the things we (Americans, Europeans, et al) think when we hear "Grand Opening" or "Christening" or "Inauguration". We probably wouldn't think of having a Grand Opening celebration with tents and ribbons and balloons and a sound system and speeches for... a pay phone... or even two.

But that's what happened today in Adawso, Eastern Region, Ghana. Yep, and it happened right on the spot where we hold our twice-weekly refresh and reconciliation meeting with two of our agents. The nerve!

Vodafone installed two solar powered pay phones that use only pre-paid calling cards. To inaugurate the phones, they rented three portable tents, a sound system, a desk (for the "Big Man" to sit behind), a few hundred chairs and apparently a couple hundred mid-teen school children to fill them. Each attendee was given a bottle of minerals (aka Coke, Sprite, or Fanta), a meat pie (from Linda Dor, our favorite meat pie place), and a calling card(!) with a couple cedis of credit on it - and, of course, regaled with a speech on the incredible mind-bending, bullet-stopping, train-racing power and value of the Vodafone phone (now, is it appropriate to just say Vodafone and not repeat the phonetically confusing phone? It would seem Vodafone might like that - to become the kleenex of the fone industry).

Anyway, where was I? So, the people were queued up to use their calling cards on the sparkling, beautifully branded, bright red fones. I, meanwhile, was wishing I had my laptop and an internet connection to check my brokerage account to see just how many Vodafone shares I own and whether purchasing a few more might be a prudent move. Turns out earnings are estimated to be up year over year in the next fiscal (how many other companies can boast as much these days) and the P/E is expected to be 7.89. An apparent bargain. However, the analysts (29 of them covering VOD!) are mixed with an average rating of HOLD. But, I wonder, have they been to the developing world?
XO

Sanitation

Every time I wash my hands, the water that rinses off them is black. This seems to be true even if I just washed them a 1/2 hour before. And I know that locals don't wash their hands nearly as often because water has to be hauled for everything as few people have running water at their homes. For instance, the compound behind us has one common cistern which seems to be filled by the city water system, but it only runs one day a week. So, they sometimes run out just before the week is up. We have two poly tanks (as described in a previous post), but two weeks ago, the city water didn't come on as scheduled, so we ran out for a couple days and, like the neighbors, had to get water from the bore hole (well) down the street. OK, we didn't carry it ourselves, but found someone to bring it for us. Nevertheless, we had bucket showers and flushed the toilet using a bucket (if you pour water in the bowl, the same pressure imbalance is created as when you press the lever and flood the bowl from the tank).

And, where does the water go after it's used? Into the open sewer, along with everyone's pee - men pee directly into the sewer as if it were a urinal, and women straddle the sewer, reach under their skirts and pull aside their underwear and pee directly into the sewer as well. Skirts seem much more practical in this light. Each compound has a couple "poo houses" where everyone, well, poos. They are more like outhouses, with doors for privacy - and one I used in a village (to pee, actually, because I'm shy) had a basket of corn cobs in the corner. OK, I'd heard of that, but seeing it was different.

Anyway, the open sewer is the recipient of pee, laundry water (laundry is done right alongside the sewer), bath water (children are soaped up and rinsed off alongside the sewer), dish water (washed alongside the sewer - you get the idea), tooth brushing water and spit, hanky-less nose blowings, and one kid's every-morning poop (he refuses to use the toilet). Oh, and the concrete courtyard of the compounds all slant toward the sewer so that rainwater will also flow into them. However, anything else round, bouncy, or slippery also rolls or slides into them. Back to the water issue - most of these things are retrieved and use of them continues, without washing.

Our kitchen and bathroom sinks also drain directly into the open sewer. Fortunately, our toilet and shower seem to go somewhere else, which is good, but since I don't know exactly where it goes, I'll hold off on giving too much praise.

The courtyard really begins to reek of urine after a couple hot days with no rain. It makes the rain that much more welcome. I think the neighbors also like it when we wash our hands and dishes a lot because the soapy water flows into the sewer and helps wash the pee "downstream".

In the villages, the issues are more profound because the areas for pee and poo are often not very well contained - so when there are torrential rains, as we had two days ago, everything washes out and runs through the village following the path of least resistance toward the nearest stream, river, swamp, pond, or gully. A number of NGO's (Non-Governmental Organizations, usually charities funded by people in developed nations) work almost entirely on village sanitation issues.

Unfortunately, all the NGO activity seems to lead to an entitlement mentality. Whenever an oburoni shows up, people expect to be given something and are unabashed about asking for/demanding it. One NGO guy told us that after he organized a community activity to dig a hole for a concrete bore hole frame the local men who helped dig wanted to be paid for their efforts. He was like, dude - we're paying to have a bore hole drilled so that you and your family and everyone in your village has safe drinking water and you want to be paid for helping!? (Ever hear of a barn raising?)

Anyway, maybe more on NGOs and entitlement vs. empowerment in another post.

XO

The Power of Music

So, several weeks ago I went to the bookstore across the street (about 1/2 the size of an airport bookstore) and bought an ABC book and a 123 book. Precious has been "reading" them with me in the mornings. She likes E for Elephant best and now gets the difference between Lion and Tiger right. But after a few times through the ABC book, she began stopping at V for Violin and holding out her left arm and playing it with the finger of her right hand. So I started doing that, too, and trying to hum/buzz like a violin at the same time, which she really liked.

The other morning our handyman came by with the ladder to check our water situation on the roof, so Precious had to scoot down the stairs to get out of the way and happened to have the books in her hand. I haven't got them back yet. This morning, she asked for the books, forgetting that they were at her house, not mine. I asked her to bring them, but she couldn't - maybe the room was locked and no adult could come open it for her right then. Anyway, she started playing the violin on her arm and wanted me to "hum". So, I did. Then I had a brainstorm...

I brought out my iPod to let her hear what a real violin sounds like. But, oops, the only thing I downloaded before living home was Mahler, Symphony No. 9. OK, Mahler is a bit intense, but she listened to 6 movements before I had to take the iPod and put it away because we were drawing quite a "grabby" crowd. Then this evening she asked for it again, playing her arm to make sure I understood. Again, she listened for 15 minutes or so, from the 9th movement to the end of the symphony. At one point, she was playing the violin on her arm and swaying to the music with her eyes closed (Remember, she is 5) like a soloist who is lost in the music.

Wow, it really pointed out to me the impact of poverty. But, in this case I don't mean on the children, although that is very real. I mean on the rest of the world. I think it's easy to think of all the education and opportunities that people in poverty miss out on and our efforts to help *them*.

But this made me think of the world picture, and how we should also think of it as helping *ourselves*. What will the world miss out on if a prodigy or future virtuoso or the child with the potential to cure cancer or negotiate world peace doesn't get the opportunity to listen to Mozart or learn the violin or travel beyond the family farm or go to secondary school, much less medical school. How do those losses reduce the amount of soul-moving music in the world, or world health, or space travel? Progress in so many areas takes years and generations to come to fruition. If some percentage of the minds or talents that could be contributing to art, music, medicine, science, or literature are unable to do so, how much more slowly do we advance as a species? (This is true of American poverty as well)

On the other hand, is that just my Western view and bias that everyone should want to be able to do those things? Watching Precious "play" the violin - I'm not sure. I guess I'd at least like everyone to have the chance to want those things if they choose. And selfishly, I think my world would be richer if they did.
XO