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Ag Shame! We Can Only Do Law Reform

By Kevin Lee Pinkoski

Law Reform and the Luxury of Legal Research:

“Ag shame!” Exclaimed one of the legal researchers who works with me at Namibia’s Law Reform and Development Commission (the LRDC). “ Wouldn’t it be nice to do legal research that wasn’t just about fixing the laws in a country.” Ag shame, the universal Namibian expression that serves as a useful response to absolutely anything, was this time employed in a negative sense. My co-worker was disappointed by the realization that necessity was ruling out luxury in legal research.

Downtown Windhoek shows how luxury may be sought after, but the colonial heritage has limited many to only necessity.

My co-worker was responding to a presentation by academics from the University of Cardiff during the first week of my internship at the LRDC. The presentation focused on what political biases may influence the decisions of members of the U.K.’s Supreme Court. When asked about the intention of the research, the academics explained that it was to “make it clear who our judges were.” It was clearly beneficial research; to know the biases of the judiciary could help both the public better scrutinize the judges and perhaps even force judges to better scrutinize themselves. But in the eyes of my co-worker, this research was a luxury to pursue. The thought that diversity in legal research is a luxury – that some countries and contexts are limited by necessity to only do legal research that evaluates whether or not the law achieves its intended outcome – is the most preponderant lesson I have learned while interning at Namibia’s LRDC.

The Necessity for Law Reform in Namibia:

Namibia is a young country. It was granted independence in 1990 from South Africa after a racially divided struggle, the consequence of years of apartheid that segregated black and coloured Namibians from the white ruling elite. In the year Namibia gained independence, the first democratic elections were held, a representative constituent assembly was elected, and a new constitution was implemented. The new constitution boldly stated the mandate for the new Namibian republic: “equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is indispensable for freedom, justice and peace… regardless of race, colour, ethnic origin, sex, religion, creed or social or economic status.” According to its new constitution, Namibia would never again treat its citizens unequally.

Independence, for Namibians, marked a new chance for a prosperous future that would benefit everyone – a stark contrast from the years of colonial administration.

Namibia’s colonial relationship with South Africa, the United Kingdom, and Germany have had a clear impact on the country’s legal framework. Colonized first by Germany at the end of the 19th Century, Namibia, then known as South West Africa, would come under the control of the United Kingdom during the First World War. After the war, a League of Nations mandate would then grant administration of South West Africa to South Africa. South African administration would continue, even after the United Nations and the International Court of Justice declared the governance illegal according to international law, until independence was won in 1990. The consequence of three separate colonial administrations was three distinct layers of law, each applied one over the top of the other – each layer retaining its applicability unless otherwise stated. Upon independence, Namibia chose to retain the validity of all previous laws unless the laws were otherwise repealed, modified, or replaced.

The colonial legacy of Namibia exposes the need for law reform. It is here where the luxury of doing diverse legal research is lost because of the urgent need for law reform. Not only do many of Namibia’s laws have a colonial legacy, and thus fail to treat all Namibians equally, but Namibia has transitioned since its independence, first attempting to consolidate the nation’s ethnic diversity through the law, then moving towards an attempt to modernize its laws to realize economic success for individuals that were otherwise limited during the years of apartheid. Law reform plays a key role in determining how laws can and should be modernized to promote the equality, prosperity, and peace ensured by the Namibian Constitution.

The Law Reform and Development Commission:

It is in this process of repeal, modification, and replacement that the Namibian LRDC plays its role; it is mandated to repeal obsolete laws, consolidate codification of the law, harmonize customary and statute law, recommend more effective laws, and enact laws to promote human rights. The LRDC exists as an office separate from any other part of the Namibian Government. This independence gives the office the ability to evaluate the potential impact and usefulness of any law from an apolitical perspective.

To achieve its mandate, the LRDC relies on its most useful tool – public consultations. The LRDC’s political independence gives it the ability to reach out to whoever it chooses. But this process hasn’t become limited to specific stakeholders or powerful groups; the LRDC fosters relationships with as much of Namibia’s population and as many distinct groups as it can, to determine the true impact and perception of the law.

Capana, Namibia’s most popular street food, involves a “farm to mouth” process, that connects farmers, meat buyers, butchers, and cooks, all to cook meat, in markets that are open from 8am to 10pm.

In many ways, Namibia is ideal for this type of an office. The country is only 2.3 million people, its small population means the government is interconnected. A large bureaucracy makes the government accessible. Political organizations are populous. People are proud of their heritage, both the places they come from and their own personal history, and as a result, communities are engaged, concerned for their wellbeing, and accountable for their achievements. Still, there are groups that are skeptical of the current political process, groups that struggle to see how their interests are being represented. It is, therefore, necessary to have government organizations, such as the LRDC, that accommodates all Namibians, regardless of their current engagement in the political process.

The LRDC seeks out and fosters relationships with stakeholders implicated by potential laws. The typical political process is reversed; instead of groups pursuing politicians and advocating for specific decisions, the LRDC reaches out to the variety of stakeholders that are needed to determine the effectiveness of the law. The LRDC develops these relationships, with close ties to the University of Namibia, traditional communities, political assemblies, municipal leaders, law reform commissions throughout the world, NGOs in Namibia, and, above all, Namibians themselves.

The LRDC’s Law Reform Process:

Headed by the dynamic Ms. Yvonne Dausab, who has had a career in private practice, in academia, and in government, the LRDC operates in consultation with the Office of the President. Appointed in 2015 directly by the President of Namibia, Dr. Hage Geingob, Ms. Dausab cooperates with the Commissioners, a select group of Namibia’s top legal professionals who, while employed elsewhere in Namibia, manage projects and provide advisory guidance. Projects are requested directly by the Office of the President, the Attorney General, and the Ombudsman. On each project, legal researchers are assigned from within the office to coordinate research and consultations. The final output of each project is an evaluation of a law’s effectiveness, its implications in Namibia, and any possible areas that could be perfected.

The Commission works like a legal consultancy, but because it is Namibian in its staffing and location, it provides a truly Namibian perspective on the law. This is necessary, especially in Africa, where legal recommendations that are deemed to be effective in another part of the world are often prescribed to African countries. While some of the most effective law firms in the world may be able to make recommendations to Namibia about the law should be, few of these recommendations can access how the law should be for Namibia. But by being in Namibia, staffed by Namibians, and connected to Namibia, the LRDC can consult within Namibia and recommend how the laws should be for Namibia.

The success of each project depends on the ability to find and include the necessary interested and implicated parties in Namibia. The New Equitable Economic Empowerment Framework project relied on country wide consultations with Namibia’s poorest citizens, marginalized business owners, and investors from all backgrounds. The Marriage Reform project relied on consultations with traditional communities whose marriage practices were the most divergent from civil marriages, as well as groups that provided support for any detrimental consequences from traditional marriages. The recommendations on Disability Law Reform synthesized the perspectives of Namibian’s with disabilities, organizations that support persons with disabilities, and institutions that struggle to assist persons with disabilities. Around the world, all of these laws exist in a functional way, but only the LRDC is able to determine how they can exist in a way that will work for Namibia and benefit Namibians.

My own work at the LRDC was directly involved in this process. Working with Ms. Dausab, the focus on my work was to prepare for stakeholder consultations, provide initial readings of proposed laws, conduct comparative legal research with other jurisdictions, and consolidate current Namibian court decisions. To support Ms. Dausab’s consultative network, my work included speech writing, analysis of stakeholder recommendations give to the office, and writing both articles and recommendations on behalf of the office. As an editor, I was tasked with editing The Law Reform and Development Commission At 25: A Quarter Century of Social Carpentry, a book on the potential of law reform in Namibia, along with numerous reports and publications. My work was diverse, reflective of the Law Reform Commission’s mandate to address all laws in Namibia.

The Chairperson of the LRDC, Ms. Dausab, addresses the Junior National Council on Child Marriages in Namibia and possible legal solutions, a catalyst moment in law reform.

Because of the Law Reform Commission’s proximity to both stakeholders and groups directly implicated by legal decisions, its influence is direct and consequential. The legislative response to child marriages in Namibia is a clear example. Ms. Dausab was asked to give a speech to the Junior National Council on the consequences of child marriages and what legal solution could be used to ending child marriages in Namibia. While only 7% of children are married before the age of 18, such marriages occur under an exemption within the law that allows children to marry with both parental consent and the approval of an officer of the Ministry of Home Affairs. After delivering the speech to the Youth Council, the Council passed a recommendation to the National Council to remove the exemption provisions. Even though the National Council was on recess, the Ministry of Gender Equality and Children announced in the following week that it would conduct both statistical research to determine where child marriages were occurring, consultations with implicated communities, and research into legal and institutional reform needed to end child marriage. As this example shows, the desire for law reform is evident across Namibia and Namibians are willing to act to ensure true equality.

Necessity over Luxury:

Legal research can be both a social necessity and an academic luxury. Since I started my studies in law, I’ve been exposed to legal research that is as diverse and complex as any academic discipline. There is research that, similar to the LRDC’s work, intends to influence the writing of the law and inform judicial decisions. But the scope of legal research is not limited to only reform. It expands to guidelines on how to support the convergence between law and other academic disciplines, its analyzes the pedagogy of teaching, and it criticizes how the discipline itself exists. This variety is a sign of a healthy academic discipline. But it is important to remember that this diversity and vitality is a luxury – one that can be afforded because of the functionality and success of the Canadian legal system.

In Namibia, the luxury of diverse legal research will only begin when the law itself has developed to a point where it exudes confidence in its own potential. Until then, the brightest legal minds in Namibia are nobly limited to the mission of law reform. Ag shame!

Criminal Justice in Cambodia: A Corridor of Illusions

Rintoul AndrewBy: Andrew Rintoul

Time and again, the Cambodian criminal justice system has proven to be an arbitrary construct built and operated at the expense of the many. Against this illusory backdrop of legitimacy resides human beings, individuals with loved ones and lives awaiting them outside prison walls. This notion thundered loudly as Tep Vanny, a mother and a daughter, was asked by the defence lawyer about the status of her family at the Court of Appeal in Phnom Penh today. The ensuing display of emotion was difficult to behold without feeling a tremendous sense of remorse and anger at the system responsible.

Tep Vanny has been detained for nearly a year, since her arrest on 15 August 2016. In February 2017, she was convicted of “intentional violence with aggravating circumstances” at the Phnom Penh Court of First Instance. The charges were based on allegations of violence against para-police during a 2013 protest near the home of the Prime Minister. During that protest, both she and numerous other protestors suffered serious injuries at the hands of the authorities. Her sentence of two-and-a-half-years’ imprisonment and US$3500 compensation to the plaintiffs remains, with the verdict from today’s appeal to be announced on 8 August 2017.

Court of Appeal, Phnom Penh

Tep Vanny is not alone. There are many who share similar experiences within the prevailing criminal justice system in Cambodia. In today’s appeal, as was the case in her first instance trial earlier this year, the burden of proof bar was non-existent. With plaintiffs and prosecution witnesses absent, there was no room for cross-examination. The submitted statements of these individuals, read aloud by the court clerk, were eerily similar and corroborated seamlessly one another. However, none presented any shred of credible evidence to prove the defendant’s guilt beyond reasonable doubt. And yet, in coming to his verdict, the presiding judge will undoubtedly consider such proceedings to have been sufficiently legitimate. In the trials I have witnessed over the past months and in the numerous cases I have examined, painfully few have demonstrated any semblance of due process or a presumption of innocence. Her case is not rare; experiences with violations to enshrined fair trial rights are shared across the board.

There are also many who share Tep Vanny’s story, those who have had their land violently removed from under their feet and those who have joined in the struggle for justice. In 2014, more than half a million people in Cambodia had been affected by land grabs since 2000, with numbers continuing to grow since then. Tep Vanny was once a resident of Boeung Kak Lake, Phnom Penh’s largest lake at the time. In 2007, the municipality of Phnom Penh announced a 99-year lease agreement with Shukaku Inc., a private development firm. The agreement, which appeared to violate multiple Cambodian laws and international obligations, gave the firm jurisdiction to fill in the lake and to develop it as a tourist destination, in exchange for US$79 million. The ensuing increase in flooding and the destruction of homes led to thousands of evictions, with only a small minority of people willingly accepting meagre compensation and many being forcibly removed and given nothing.

This struggle led to the emergence of an incredibly brave group of Boeung Kak Lake land activists who have been taking action against the authorities since. Tep Vanny has become one of the most prominent and outspoken of these activists, along with a number of other women, including 78-year old Nget Khun. I have had the privilege of speaking with Nget Khun on multiple occasions and visited her at Boeung Kak Lake last month to discuss development in the country. Speaking in Khmer, she said, “We do not reject development, but development should provide appropriate compensation and homes and family happiness.” As she was a witness for the defence in today’s appeal, her sentiment rang clearly in my mind. The continued imprisonment of an outspoken mother on spurious charges for defending her illegitimately assaulted community is not development but utter decline and injustice.

A corridor of illusions

To reiterate, Tep Vanny is not alone. She shares with many others her suffered abuses at the hands of the Cambodian criminal justice system and she shares her story with the hundreds of thousands of individuals who have been affected by unjust land grabs and evictions. Today, her usually isolated post-trial march down the courthouse halls was done with arms around her two children, who were finally allowed into the courtroom as the two-and-a-half-hour appeal came to a close. However, to ensure she did not forget where she was going and who she had upset, eight officers surrounded them, escorting her quickly away from her family into the police vehicle to take her far from home.

Challenging Narratives: Development, Duvalier, and interning at ASFC

By: Sarah Cha

“The solutions to Haiti’s suffering are usually characterized by images of engineers digging wells, construction workers building houses, and especially doctors treating the sick. But the physician most associated with Haiti relief, Dr. Paul Farmer […] places much of his hope for the country in the hands of lawyers. “The current justice system’s shortcomings […] underlie almost all of Haiti’s problems”.[1]  

I came across this passage a couple of weeks ago sitting at my desk at Avocats sans frontières Canada (ASFC), knee-deep in research on the Duvalier case. This was a case that had made international headlines in 2011 when it began and once again in 2014 with former dictator Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier’s (untimely) death. How about since then? For all intents and purposes, the case has more or less been relegated to the shelf.

I had heard little about the case before starting this internship in Québec City. While aware of Haiti’s turbulent political history, Haiti was a country whose name was much more likely to evoke thoughts of earthquakes, poverty, and cholera than it ever would dictatorship, international crimes, or impunity.

Now, given that the 29-year dictatorial reign of the Duvalier father-son duo ended in the mid-1980s and that the legal case has yet to reach trial (after over five years), maybe this isn’t so surprising.

But, this is the story of a dictator who suddenly came home in 2011 after a comfortable 25-year exile abroad – not to face justice for crimes which continue to affect Haitian society today, but instead to live lavishly among many of his former victims and their families. Personal invitations by then-President Martelly to official ceremonies, loosely-enforced house arrest, and talk of amnesty under the guise of reconciliation all effectively served to trivialize the charges of crimes against humanity and financial corruption he officially faced. As aptly remarked by Reed Brody of Human Rights Watch: “Where is the outrage we [the international community] would have if the brutal leaders of Iraq or Serbia were walking around free? We would not allow this anywhere else.”[2] Indeed, there is nothing quite like having the former dictator – the “living embodiment of ultimate impunity”[3]  – freely walking around a nation’s capital to reveal the rule of rule in a country to be little more than a myth. While Duvalier can no longer be personally prosecuted so as to provide a measure of justice to his regime’s victims, his “consorts” (similarly accused of committing countless atrocities) most certainly can.

So, what makes this case (and Haiti) different? Why were we and do we continue to be so willing to provide Haiti with lots of development aid, while distancing ourselves when it comes to prosecuting a former dictator (and members of his regime) whose very lack of accountability for crimes against humanity arguably laid the foundation for Haiti’s current pattern of impunity?[4] Where is the involvement of the U.S., so readily immersed in Haiti’s political matters for two centuries, but all of a sudden unwilling to implicate itself much beyond the provision of humanitarian relief?[5]

Given there is arguably little serious legal controversy surrounding the Duvalier case, scholar Fran Quigley believes that only political controversy is left to explain the lack of political will—both national and international—behind the case. More specifically, a “Duvalier prosecution would inevitably expose embarrassing details of the long U.S. pattern of supporting the Duvaliers financially and militarily despite awareness of the regime’s brutality and thievery.”[6] From this perspective, the lack of Western involvement in the Duvalier case can be better understood by recalling its past complicity in permitting the very same human rights violations targeted by that case to go on for as long as Duvalier was seen as being key in the fight against communism.[7]

Focusing on development aid (and promoting the narrative that features such aid as being the key solution) conveniently helps avoid delving into such messy controversy. In this light, the association of earthquakes with Haiti really couldn’t be better, for the simple reason that, unlike dictatorships, an earthquake can be seen to be a natural, unpreventable, and, most importantly, fault-free, disaster.

Here’s another related example. Both the Haiti cholera outbreak and earthquake happened in 2010, while the Duvalier case about nearly thirty years of brutal international crimes began a year later – and yet, it is the earthquake with which many associate Haiti the most. Why is that? At least part of the reason may have to do with the fact that both the cholera outbreak and the Duvalier case illustrate a crisis of accountability for past abuses in a way that the earthquake simply doesn’t. As many are now aware following the 2016 admission by the U.N. of its role in the cholera epidemic brought in by its peacekeepers, this outbreak wasn’t merely a humanitarian matter, but a human rights crisis that easily might have been and should have been avoided.

And, so, it becomes less surprising to me that earthquakes and poverty easily make it into the dominant Haitian narrative – the one casting it as “the poorest nation in the Western hemisphere”[8] – while impunity and Western complicity in the Duvalier regime’s human rights violations are easily ignored. This narrative is compelling in its simplicity, as perhaps any good narrative should be. But, it is also one that is undeniably distorted if it is meant to be a representation of the whole reality – key if the “solutions to Haiti’s suffering” (as worded by Dr. Farmer in the quote above) are to be found. No narrative that ignores a country’s geopolitical and social history can possibly be accurate. Ahistorical narratives are ultimately uninformed ones, such that representations of Haiti as a poverty-stricken, earthquake-ridden nation frankly serve to allow the same problems to continue: the same lack of accountability, the continued neo-colonial experimentation.[9] While development relief undoubtedly remains important, the aftermath of both the Duvalier regime and the cholera outbreak significantly underscore “charity’s inadequacy as a stand-in for justice”.[10]

The way I see it, by supporting victims of human rights abuses under Duvalier’s regime in demanding justice and insisting that violations not be left in the past, organizations like ASFC are helping to stitch an important but often-neglected narrative into this dominant narrative for a more complete picture of Haiti. The strategic litigation of emblematic cases like the Duvalier case is just one part of the work ASFC carries out in countries around the world, working closely with domestic lawyers on the ground to develop the human rights jurisprudence in a country. In this way, it helps to build a justice system that can help correct wrongs and to allow for a real, rather than apparent, rule of law.

Listening to the voices of Haitians demanding justice for past human rights violations and an end to the cycle of impunity – having them write the narrative of their own country – would be a good place to start.

(Another reason the passage above struck me? Given the seemingly unrelenting reminder of the limits of law as a tool for social justice – and that it just isn’t all about lawyers – that has been my law school experience (only exaggerating a bit here), seeing positive representations of lawyers and law’s potential in human rights work really just never gets old.)

 

[1] Fran Quigley, “‘Judge Him’: Pursuing Duvalier” from How Human Rights Can Build Haiti: Activists, Lawyers, and the Grassroots Campaign (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2014) at 41.

[2] Ibid at 41.

[3] Jorge Heine, “Jean-Claude Duvalier Should Be Tried for More than Corruption” The Toronto Star (5 February 2012), online: <https://www.thestar.com/opinion/editorialopinion/2012/02/05/jeanclaude_duvalier_should_be_tried_for_more_than_corruption.html>.

[4] Human Rights Watch, “Thirst for Justice: A Decade of Impunity in Haiti » 8:7(B) (September 1996), online: <https://www.hrw.org/reports/1996/Haiti.htm>.

[5] For example, commenting on Duvalier’s return, the spokesperson for the U.S. Department of State P.J. Crowley remarked that “What happens at this point forward is a matter for the people of Haiti … This is their concern, not ours”. See: <http://www.reuters.com/article/us-haiti-duvalier-usa-idUSTRE70H5WN20110118>.

[6] Quigley, supra note 1 at 39.

[7] “It’s a Shame Jean-Claude Duvalier Died a Free Man, Says Ex-UN Prosecutor” CBC News (4 October 2014), online: <http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/montreal/it-s-a-shame-jean-claude-duvalier-died-a-free-man-says-ex-un-prosecutor-1.2787931>.

[8] This dubious honour may now belong to Venezuela. See: http://www.caribbeannewsnow.com/headline-Venezuela-takes-over-from-Haiti-as-the-poorest-country-in-the-hemisphere-33573.html

[9] See interview with Gina Athena Ulysse: <http://www.aaihs.org/why-haiti-needs-new-narratives-an-interview-with-gina-athena-ulysse/>.

[10] Fran Quigley, “Haiti’s Earthquake Was Devastating. The Cholera Epidemic Was Worse.” The Nation (16 October 2015), online: <https://www.thenation.com/article/haitis-earthquake-was-devastating-the-cholera-epidemic-was-worse/>.

[11] M.R. O’Connor, “The World’s Favorite Disaster Story: One of the Most Repeated Facts about Haiti is a Lie”, Vice News Canada (13 October 2016), online: <https://news.vice.com/story/one-of-the-most-repeated-facts-about-deforestation-in-haiti-is-a-lie>.

A Kindness Is Never Wasted

Miller AilsaBy Ailsa Miller

I had a feeling I would jibe with Halifax. I’m an extrovert. I get it from my dad. My family jokes that they can’t send either of us to the grocery store without supervision because we will inevitably see someone we know, or maybe meet someone new, and come back one hour later with no milk.

Camping at Polly’s Cove. Carrots, contemplation, and oopsy we ruined an engagement photo shoot.

But here, where the pace of life is slower, I have an outlet for my chattiness. People here are extremely friendly. I have yet to meet someone from Atlantic Canada who defies this stereotype.

To illustrate, the other day while out shopping I spent a solid 15 minutes chatting with a store clerk about her work as a photographer and her travel plans. We struck up this conversation because she mistook me for a client of hers—someone she’d taken wedding photographs for—when I walked in the door. Apparently, I have a Haligonian doppelgänger named… Chastity. I’m sure that as the city grows, things will change. But at least for now, it’s pretty perfect.

What’s more, Nova Scotia is beautiful. I say this even in spite of my bias in favour of mountains. Last week, my friend took me camping for an evening at Polly’s Cove, right on the ocean side. We set up camp in a natural alcove at the base of a massive granite boulder. After a quick—and I mean extremely fast—dip in the ocean, we scrambled up some boulders to watch the sunset over the lighthouse at Peggy’s Cove then returned to our campsite to watch the full moon rise over the ocean. We sat for over an hour leaning against the granite watching and listening to the waves crash against rocks in the moonlight while fireflies flickered in the brush below us. It was enchanting. I don’t want to believe that I only have a week left in this place.

The Bay of Fundy. I was awestruck. The tide was coming in and I STILL winded myself running to the water. Never mind the deceased seal in the background.

We’ll just ignore the fact that this is my first blog post.

But since it is my first one, let me introduce you to the Centre for Law and Democracy (CLD) and what they do. The CLD is a small legal advocacy organisation that was started by Toby Mendel, a mathematician and an international expert in the right to information (RTI). He started the organisation after a long stint as Director of the law program at Article 19, an organisation that has operated in this area for years. He hired his current Senior Legal Advisor, Mike, right out of law school. They worked out of Toby’s kitchen for the first few years.

RTI refers to the right of individuals to access information from their governments and intergovernmental organisations. In other words, he’s an expert in access to information (ATI) law. RTI is often spoken about in terms of “freedom of information” and has been long been recognized as a pillar of democracy. As early as 1946, the UN General Assembly adopted Resolution 59(1) stating:

Freedom of information is a fundamental human right and … the touchstone of all the freedoms to which the UN is consecrated.[1]

Toby is pretty adamant, however, about the using the “right” language (pun intended). Article 19 of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights guarantees the “right to seek, receive and impart information”[2] as a constituent element of freedom of expression. But “Freedom of information” has only recently evolved beyond an aspiration and into a fully-fledged human right recognised by regional human rights systems,[3] international instruments,[4] and international jurisprudence.[5] In 1990, only 13 countries had ATI laws in place. That number has since increased seven-fold.

The CLD is perhaps most well known for the RTI rating they maintain (http://www.rti-rating.org/) but they also do a significant amount of direct advocacy. Both Toby and Mike are constantly jetting around the world, meeting with government officials and training bureaucrats who apply RTI laws, among other things. While they work primarily in the MENA region, Toby was recently involved in the re-draft of Sweden’s RTI legislation.

Though somewhat counterintuitive, strong democracies are often the most complacent about RTI. The quality of a country’s RTI legislation is not a direct indication of how transparent its government is. But a lack of adequate protections creates a situation ripe for abuse. It’s important that we don’t take the strength of our institutions for granted. Canada is a good example. We were one of the earliest to enact RTI legislation and were somewhat of a leader in this area. But we have failed to our laws up to date and in line with international best practices. Until this summer, the Access to Information Act had been the subject of only minor amendments. And it shows. Our system is notoriously slow and responses are often mostly or partially censored. The situation was so bad that in 2015 Information Commissioner Suzanne Legault referred to the Act as a “shield against transparency” rather than a mechanism for government accountability.[6]

Access to information is not a particularly sexy area of human rights work. It’s essentially a fight for basic institutional frameworks and bureaucratic efficiency. But I can’t overemphasize how important it is. Transparency is the core of democracy and at the heart of transparency is the right of the public to obtain and impart information about its government. Freedom of the Press, a hallmark of a free and democratic society, depends on strong protections for the right to information. The media are the most frequent users of ATI legislation. Secrecy and delays impact newsgathering and their ability to report on matters of public interest and to do so in a timely manner.

I am in admiration of Toby and Mike. They are tireless and dedicated; they devote an immense amount of energy to CLD’s work. And they never stop to question whether or not it’s worth it. This is what human rights work looks like – or at least it’s a version of it. It’s not always glamorous. You’ll write countless grant and project proposals to convince people that your work is worth supporting. You might feel distant, disconnected at times from the issues which are the subject of your work. Maybe, if you’re established in the field, you’ll get “on the ground,” so to speak, and get to meet with government officials and company executives to lobby for change; be invited to Parliamentary committee meetings to comment on incoming legislation; or even be asked to draft legislation. But working “on the ground” might mean months away from your family and friends.

Inevitably, however, you’ll feel sometimes like it’s all for nothing. Other times, you’ll feel like you’re making concessions or playing political games just to try and get things done. It might make you a bit cynical; you have to be a bit of an idealist, or what my partner calls a “grumpy idealist,” to keep going.

I think a lot of advocacy work can be compared to loosening the cap of a very tightly sealed jar. The first person to try to open it will give it everything they’ve got, but nothing will appear to have changed. It might feel just as impossible for the next person. But when someone finally gets the cap off, everyone can claim having loosened it for them! Mostly, though, everyone is just happy it’s open.

Forgive the basic analogy, but it’s one everyone can relate to. Also, I am the least creative. Ask anyone who’s ever seen me try to do art.

My experience at CLD has reaffirmed for me that there are a number of ways to contribute to our world. You don’t have to be a powerful person or big organisation to have a significant impact. What CLD lacks in size, they make up for in spirit and being smart about how and where they employ their resources. They are results oriented. They chose projects based on where they can have the greatest impact. They do a lot of work in the background. And I think there is a lot that is honourable in that.

I wear a pendant around my neck every day that symbolizes Aesop’s fable of the mouse and the lion. For those who are not familiar with the story, one day a lion is sleeping in the forest (…?). A mouse, who is basically a nobody in the animal kingdom, runs across the lion’s nose and wakes him from his slumber. The lion is not happy, so his obvious response is to kill the mouse. “Wait!” the mouse cries, “Spare me and I’ll repay you!” The lion scoffs but does the mouse a solid and lets him live. Later, the lion becomes trapped in a trophy hunter’s net. Unable to free himself, he lets out a loud roar. The mouse, hearing the lion’s roar, comes to his aid. Luckily, he is able to chew the rope loose and set the mighty lion free.

The moral of the story is that a kindness is never wasted, and even if you’re small you can still help another. Like the lion’s decision to spare the mouse’s life, or the energy the first person expended trying to open the jar, the impact of our actions is not always obvious in the short term. But that is no reason to become complacent or not to try. And just because you’re a nobody in the grand scheme of the universe doesn’t mean that your actions won’t be felt. I carry the message of the mouse and the lion with me every day. It’s a reminder to be humble, to serve others, and to remember that your work is never wasted.

[1] UN Resolution 59(1), 14 December 1946 as cited in Toby Mendel, Freedom of Information: A Comparative Legal Survey, (Paris: UNESCO, 2008), at 8.

[2] International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, 19 December 1966, 999 UNTS 171 art 19 (entered into 23 March 1976, accession by Canada 19 May 1976) [ICCPR].

[3] Toby Mendel, Freedom of Information: A Comparative Legal Survey, (Paris: UNESCO, 2008), at 9 (in particular, the Organisation of American States, Council of Europe and the African Union).

[4] Ibid at 14 (in Claude Reyes and Others v. Chile, on 19 September 2006, the Inter-American Court of Human Rights held that “in respect of the facts of the present case, the Court considers that article 13 of the Convention, in guaranteeing expressly the rights to ‘seek’ and ‘receive’ ‘information’, protects the right of every person to request access to the information under the control of the State.” See endnote 57).

[5] Toby Mendel, Freedom of Information: A Comparative Legal Survey, (Paris: UNESCO, 2008), at 17 (the Convention on Access to Information, Public Participation in Decision-Making and Access to Justice in Environmental Matters (Aarhus Convention) was the first legally binding instrument to establish “clear standards on the right to information.”)

[6] “Egregious Delays on Access to Information Must Stop”, The Star (28 June 2015), online: <https://www.thestar.com/opinion/editorials/2015/06/28/egregious-delays-on-access-to-information-requests-must-stop-editorial.html>

The Story and Relevance of Christine de Pizan (1364 – 1430)

By Monika Erzsebet Berenyi

The narratives, movements, texts and happening of the past draw us inextricably into the present, and it would be careless and limiting to conceptualize the parameters and content of the women, peace, and security agenda, so expressed by UN Security Council Resolution 1325, without revisiting the lengthy history of its progenitors. The efforts, achievements and struggles of those who fought for and forged the very ideas upon which the contemporary policy stands, continue to provide us with guidance, inspiration, and reference points – which mirror the path of our past whilst reflecting the present.

In this context, I return to the medieval era – France to be precise, and draw from the story of Christine de Pizan – a writer, historiographer, and activist, whose cunning wisdom, words and legacy – cumulatively, a representative of a watershed moment in women’s history. For those unfamiliar with de Pizan, her writings were instrumental for enabling the concept of equality for women in medieval France, and her works are considered to be among the earliest feminist writings, inclusive of novels, biography, autobiography, along with political, literary and social commentary. Here it is also important to highlight that the work of de Pizan should also be appreciated within a spectrum of other great medieval women writers, activists, warriors, and leaders – whose courage and work continues to anchor many a discussion regarding women’s rights and equality. I recount the words and actions of Christine de Pizan, thus, in company with the likes of Marie de France, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Margery Kemp, Trota of Salerno, Hildegarde of Bingen, the women troubadours, and many others. The imperative importance of and appreciation for the stories, actions and creativity of medieval women are a source of truth and inspiration to me, – which have also come to illuminate my “contemporary” workspace at Our Secure Future (One Earth Future Foundation). Encouraged to transcend space and time, from the happenings and context of medieval France to the present foothills of Boulder County, I count myself fortunate to be surrounded by individuals, who bear a consciousness and appreciation for the past. For, as history continues to show, it is our predecessors who set the tone for bringing life, energy and movement into the formation and dissemination of new policies. Thus, at Our Secure Future, we remember the story of Christine de Pizan while we face and grapple with the continued challenges of achieving equality and peacebuilding for a better future.

Christine de Pizan was born in Venice and was raised at court in Paris. In 1380, the young Christine de Pizan married Etienne du Castel – a nobleman from Picardy, who supported her passion for education, writing and advocacy. Widowed during her early 20s, she chose to continue her passion and talent for writing, supporting herself and three children, on the fruits of her labour. In sum, she may be understood, or viewed, as one of the first women in history, to have lived solely from creative endeavour.

I cite here two works, which allow me to transcend the past with the present. In The Book of the City of Ladies (Le Livre de la Cité des Dames), completed in 1405, the social importance and imperative of women’s equality in the context of relationships and partnerships is exemplified both anecdotally and metaphorically. A deeper reading of this work, or perhaps, reading between the lines, brings the notion of human security to mind, such that only through equality, can networks of sustainable and lasting peace, for society, be achieved and fortified. In this respect, I am encouraged to consider the relatively of the roots of de Pizan’s arguments, which highlight women’s independence while advocating for uniform opportunities and equal rights through a subtle and powerful approach. With clarity of vision for a better present and future, de Pizan showed how equal treatment and fairness, in everyday contexts, can improve the ebb and flow of life of equality of all. In this respect, de Pizan used the power of the written word at the intersection of the quotidian and Christian morality, coupled with a stylized ability to deploy rhetorical strategy, to illuminate and challenge societal behaviour and sources of women’s oppression. In sum, her ability to deliver a message based in gender equality, so many centuries ago, was both insightful and intuitive – and is one which echoes her visionary ability to delineate the critical role women play in the greater process of conflict prevention, conflict resolution and peacebuilding.

I also cite the work The Book of Deeds of Arms and of Chivalry (Le Livre des faits d’armes et de chevalerie), completed by 1410. This book may be conceptualized as a strategic resource for its time, as it provided a vernacular study of military strategy and warfare, coupled with a discussion on the meaning of “just” war. The work is particularly important for the perspective it provides, suggesting arguments for why and how women could be equally knowledgeable and capable as men, to the discussion of war and conflict prevention, and to the facilitation of counsel for that matter.

To conclude, Christine de Pizan conveyed her opinions with subtlety, through the medium of the written word, supported by the framework of the illuminated manuscript. In the twenty-first century, deconstructing the lessons de Pizan chose to express, the issues she addressed, and the mechanism within which she deployed her message, affirm the breadth and depth of the peace, which informed her approach to penetrating the constraints and rigidity of patriarchal society. When considering the power of documentary media, her work and integrity of character, were groundbreaking for their time, as they sounded the alarm – by way of text, image, and action with respect to the hazards, which inequality poses to society.

I am humbled by having been able to learn about the story of Christine de Pizan, by reconnecting the meaning, integrity, and relativity of her story to the work, which informs my days at Our Secure Future – affirming that justice remains a continuous work in progress.

Image from Le Livre de la Cité des dames (Christine de Pizan reading in her study). Copyright of the Bibliothèque de Genève

Following the Herd

Matyas DavidBy David Matyas

It’s a bumpy ride from Rankin to Chesterfield Inlet. A short 15 minute hop and the plane flies low. As we take off, the pilot announces that the caribou herd is off the right side. I’m sat on the left and I crane my neck. I reach for my seatbelt but as the plane pitches and I think better of it. They’re down there all right. A herd I’m told is 100,000 strong. But the hoof beats are drowned by the turbo-prop engines and my vision’s blocked by the passengers across the aisle. Over the week this story repeats itself. Rumours and sightings. But as mighty as the migration is alleged to be, I won’t manage to see the caribou.

I’m travelling to Baker Lake in the Kivalliq Region of Nunavut on the circuit court. It’s the only inland community in the Territory and sits close to the mouth of the Thelon River. Baker is about as close as you can get to the geographic centre of Canada.

For those in Montreal and Toronto who might describe “going north” to Sainte-Agathe or Huntsville, Baker Lake, at the longitudinal midpoint of the country, underscores this thinnest veneer of northern space that most Canadians occupy.

Like many communities in Nunavut, Baker Lake does not have a sitting judge or permanent courthouse. While some matters can be dealt with through teleconferences, others are served through a travelling ‘circuit court.’ Periodically, the crown and defence lawyers, court workers, clerks, translators and judge fly into communities to hold first appearances, preliminary hearings, trials or sentencings. Sometimes they even bring along a summer student, as is the case this week. It’s a migratory court that travels across the North from community to community and back again.

The days before the circuit are spent interviewing clients and meeting with the Crown. The judge and court party have not yet arrived and there is much work to prepare beforehand. Some of the individuals will be in jail by the end of the week. Others will have their matters dismissed.

Defence and crown sit to discuss those matters where a joint position may be possible and determine those issues where agreement will not be possible. Nerves and anticipation of what is to come.

In a break between meetings and research I visit the Jessie Oonark centre. The centre holds a printshop, jeweller’s studio, space for seamstresses and equipment for silk-screening.

I watch one seamstress repairing a hole in a high vis jacket. “We have an exclusive contract with the Meadowbank Mine and repair their clothing” says the gallery steward. Elsewhere, an elder is at a work station making earrings. They are shaped as Kamiks (traditional boots) and made from caribou antler. It is fine, detailed work. Her name is Martha Noah, one of Baker Lake’s accomplished artists and a collaborator of the renowned Simon Tookoome.

When the owners learn that we are in town with the circuit court they remember past court sessions, those rulings they’ve felt unfair or viewed as ill-suited for the community. Stories, nostalgia and the reservations for circuits past.

Without permanent structure, some circuit courts are held in school gymnasiums or community halls. The Baker circuit takes place in the conference room of a local lodge. As the court arrives the first day, the owner of the lodge, a man from the Shetland Islands brought to Northern Canada decades ago to work for the Hudson Bay Company, hangs flags behind the judge’s chair. A Canadian flag on one side of the judge. A Nunavut flag on the other. A room that was silent as a tundra field prepares for the rumble of matters to come.

The first morning of court is fast and busy. Lawyers and the court are trying to clear the easier matters from the docket early and push more complicated issues to latter times. Things get adjourned to the next day or the next circuit court dates in October or December. The room is full and the tempo of proceedings is high. The court workers scramble to track down those accused persons or witnesses who should be in court but have not yet appeared. The hall reverberates with the energy of the court, finally arrived.

Over the next afternoon and day, the court takes over that space. Grazing on legal matters as if it had always resided there. At times it feels like it will always be there. But, gradually it thins as cases are concluded and cleared from the docket.

By the morning of the third day only the stragglers remain. A few lingering matters cut off from the herd of issues before the court on previous days. Crippled cases impaired by missing witnesses or accused who did not show up.  Some of these may join the other cases on future circuits, others never make it past this court.

And then, just as suddenly as it arrived, the circuit court concludes. Those finished matters settling like trampled earth.

As the plane takes to the sky I look again for the caribou herd. From Baker to Chesterfield and onwards to Rankin Inlet, I cast my eyes over the landscape for signs of their passing. But the migration has past, gone with only the faintest of traces that it was ever there.

Close to Home


By Sarah Grace Ross

Unlike the majority of my fellow interns, my placement is not only within Canada, but in the very city where I was born: Toronto.

Despite having lived away from Toronto for a few years, it hasn’t taken long for me to become reacquainted with the city. From the neighbourhoods that my friends live in, to the best roti you can find, I know Toronto.

So with the start of my internship at the Canadian HIV/AIDS Legal Network, I was curious to find out what it would mean to work in human rights so close to home. My first realization during the internship was that while I know Toronto, I only know my Toronto, which is one version among millions. My internship was situated in a very different Toronto, one nested in the intersection of health and law, where I would be conducting legal research and policy advocacy for a segment of the population that, I came to realize, I didn’t know at all.

I had never met someone who was openly HIV+. Further, the only two public figures with HIV or AIDS that I could bring to mind were Freddy Mercury and Magic Johnson, a pretty short list. Fortunately, my first week at the Legal Network coincided with their annual symposium, where I met activists, mobilizers, lawyers, volunteers, and many individuals living with HIV. It became clear that while I would be working in a familiar city, everything about this job was going to feel new.

I was prepared to feel appalled at the human rights abuses of people living with HIV abroad, but as I began my first legal research projects, I realized there were many elements of living with HIV in Canada that were worse than I thought. After Russia and the United States, Canada is one of the most aggressive prosecutors of people living with HIV. Worse still, the criminal charge in non-disclosure cases is aggravated sexual assault, one of the most serious offences in the Criminal Code. Past interns have written thorough blogs about disclosure, which is when someone is legally required to disclose their HIV status prior to sexual activity. Advocates such as the Legal Network argue that the criminal justice response is heavy handed and does not reflect scientific advances regarding HIV transmission risks. Studies show that maintaining an undetectable viral load through HIV medication makes the risk of transmitting the virus effectively non-existent.

The publication’s cover photo is from the 1990 Montreal Sex Garage riots.

A few years ago, Canada’s criminal justice approach to disclosure sparked an underground, anonymous, grassroots publication titled How to Have Sex in a Police State. The publication surfaced online in 2015 and provides tips on how a person can access support from the health care system without triggering surveillance from the criminal justice system in the process. The fact that these two systems are interconnected is a huge problem; people should not have to choose between health care and privacy. Since violence, stigma, and discrimination are a reality for many people living with HIV, the publication encourages individuals to protect themselves from potential criminal charges, for example by having proof of their HIV status disclosure (such as screenshots of text messages) or even going so far as having a signed waiver for sexual partners.

There’s an often-used slogan that captures the connection between the health care and criminal justice systems: ‘take the test, risk arrest’. I heard the slogan mentioned a few times during the symposium last month, which made me suspect that the ‘police state’ described in the publication was still a reality for some people living with HIV today, even in large, arguably progressive cities like Toronto. ‘Take the test, risk arrest’ refers to the assumption that whoever is diagnosed with HIV first is presumed to have brought it into the relationship. This misattribution of infection is particularly stigmatizing for vulnerable women whose diagnosis may take place as a result of prenatal care or other routine visits to the doctor. The fear of partner retaliation upon discovering HIV or risking criminal charges related to disclosure can lead vulnerable women to seek prenatal care at very late stages in their pregnancy, to stay in an abusive relationship, or to deter testing.

I haven’t been surprised to see flagrant HIV-related human rights abuses in my international research projects. But the extent to which a segment of the Canadian population has to intentionally protect itself from the criminal justice system on a health matter gives me pause. It troubles me to imagine that in my own city, people living with HIV are, even if unintentionally, treated as a threat from which criminal laws are meant to protect. Are people living with HIV not worthy of protection too? Or an even simpler question: what does criminal law have to do with HIV anyway?  Even when a person’s viral load is undetectable due to medication and therefore untransmittable, their sexual activities are subject to surveillance. Safe sex should be about protecting the health of one’s self and partner, not about protecting one’s self from the long arm of the law.

On Oceans, Borders and Belonging

Kilburn JessyeBy Jessye Kilburn

“How inappropriate to call this planet Earth when it is clearly Ocean.” (Arthur Clarke)

Recent birthday celebrations for Québec, Canada, the US and France have made me reflect on borders and what they mean in both our imaginations and our laws. Whether marked by shoreline, waterway, fence or wall, national boundaries have a profound impact on our freedom of movement and our sense of identity.

These national holidays have induced a slight identity conflict. Though I’m thankful for Canada, how do I celebrate July 1st when the date represents 150 years of the imposition of colonial borders and a colonial state? How do I celebrate 150 years of borders that still turn away too many refugees? How am I so lucky to have a visa to work in the USA this summer, when so many others are turned away? Can I celebrate St Jean Baptiste when I’m not really québecoise, though it’s been my home for almost 7 years? And how on earth did I end up celebrating Bastille Day for the first time ever from a parking lot in downtown Denver?!

Amidst my personal reflections on borders and belonging, thoughts from my internship work on maritime governance began to seep into the mix. In a sense, oceans and waterways are what connect our nations, in contrast to the borders that divide. The root word of ‘territory’ means ‘land’ in Latin (like «terre» en français), and the concept of national territory is rooted to that of land.

Borders, territorial sovereignty, and national jurisdiction do not work as well on sea as they do on land, despite the efforts of the UN Convention on the Law of the Sea to draw various kinds of boundary lines on the world’s waters. Sparse state control and scarce state responsibility can mean both opportunity and danger for those who work and travel on the open seas.

In some ways, the sea means opportunity. The lack of state control on the world’s oceans provides the opportunity for migrants to escape desperate situations in their home countries and have the chance at claiming asylum in a new land. Oceans also provide employment to many, with fisheries and aquaculture assuring the livelihood of about 10-12 percent of the world’s population.

In other ways, the sea means danger. A lack of state control opens the door wide for human rights abuses: from fishermen on boats where labour laws are neither respected nor enforced, to a gruesome murder captured on cellphone video that still remains unprosecuted, to a coast guard shooting with impunity at migrants they were supposed to rescue, the ocean can be a dangerous place.

On the high seas, state accountability often fades into the horizon along with the shore. It is not uncommon to have a ship that is (for example) owned in China, flagged by the Bahamas, licenced to fish by the Seychelles, and crewed by a mixture of Filipinos, Indonesians and Sri Lankans. It becomes easy for states to avoid accountability when they can always point the finger at someone else, and countries less likely to exercise oversight are often the ones chosen as flag states. This makes human security at sea a trans-jurisdictional problem, in a system where responsibility is primarily state-based. Seafarers, fishermen, and migrants—usually from non-western countries—are the ones who slip through the cracks.

My slight feeling of displacement and identity disjunction around mid-summer national holidays pales in comparison to the ways in which some people’s lives move with the open seas. Researching maritime law from landlocked Colorado—just about as far as you could get from the sea in North America—I feel a sensory disconnect from those to whom these laws apply. I know the black texts of law written on the whiteness of a page, but I don’t know the colour of the stories that are woven around them.

The closest I can get is the blue of this Colorado mountain lake, although it is so far removed from the ocean. Eventually, these waters flow down through Mexico and the western US to the Pacific, where they’re joined by waters from my homeland, British Columbia, and perhaps eventually even from my adopted land, Québec. Once the fresh water has intermingled with the salt, who can tell anyway? Unlike us humans, the waters don’t get territorial.

The blue space on the map provides a beautiful metaphor for our interconnectedness, as Lights sings so eloquently:

“No matter how far we get
Oceans we are in still connect
And when the currents circle back again
They’ll carry us with them
To the arms of the same sea”

I cannot fully make sense of the ways in which our world is both globally intertwined and sharply divided, and I cannot single-handedly address all the injustice this creates. But I want to remember that—in some small way—my work here in Colorado is connected to all of it.

(And, hey McGill—when I get back to school in the fall, I swear I’ll never laugh at the word “transsytemic” ever again….except maybe at Skit Nite…)

Blog Post 1: First Lessons and Impressions

By: Sara E.B. Pierre

A few months preceding my internship, I saw a news story on my Facebook page about how the President of a small country in West Africa accepted defeat after 22 years of dictatorship, but quickly changed his mind. The President’s name was Yahya Jammeh, and the country was The Gambia – where my internship was taking place in the summer. For a long time after this news, I was not sure whether the internship would happen. In the end, Jammeh was pressured enough to accept defeat and left the country. I did some more research on him before I left for The Gambia. It was only later that I found out how the Gambians I saw on my screen, cheering him in the streets, were forced to do so every time he made a public appearance. Through my work, I started to realize how he ruined the reputation and endangered the health of those he claimed to have personally healed of AIDS, and how terrifying it must have been to live in a place where any member of your family could go missing and be tortured without ever getting any answers.

   

The first week of May I was greeted into the New Gambia. Billboards, T-Shirts and graffiti all proclaimed, “Gambia Has Decided”. I saw people selling smartphone data plans, shoes and fruit on the side of the street, I saw monkeys waiting for a safe time to cross those same streets, and I saw vultures resting on top of the street lights. I ate mangoes every day and soaked in the sun at the beach.

On my first day of work I took multiple taxis which have designated stops, kind like the public transportation system I was used to back in Montreal. After getting lost and telling the taxi driver I was working in human rights, I was dropped off at the African Human Rights Commission. This was not actually my workplace. It was, however, as I would soon come to realize, the place our complaints (“Communications”) would sometimes be sent, seeking redress for those across the continent whose rights have been violated by their government.

Some cases and presentations I have done research for include those advancing the complainant’s right to health, right to work, right to not be tortured, right to education and to freedom of expression. These, and many more, are enshrined in a Charter I have gotten more and more familiar with over the months – the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights. The part that I find most impressive about this Charter (which was set up in The Gambia itself), is that it not only protects civil, political, economic, social and cultural rights, but it also protects group rights (such as the right to a “generally satisfactory environment”), and lays out duties incumbent upon these same individuals and peoples.

After a very friendly Gambian woman helped me find my actual workplace, I realized it was only a short walk away from the Commission. We walked past the roundabout (adorably named “Turn Table”) and found The Institute for Human Rights and Development in Africa (IHDRA).

I was impressed with the pan-African non-governmental organization even before I arrived in The Gambia. Besides reading about their mission to defend, educate, and inform, what struck me most was how they included professional pictures of staff members, such as the gardener and cook, on their staff page. The idea that justice and the fight for human rights involves so much more than what superstar lawyers do is a big lesson that I am learning. At our staff meeting, we all had the chance to say what we had been working on, whether this had to do with the organization’s website, a conference someone would be presenting at, or making sure we have clean and running water. When everyone’s voice was heard, I felt there was transparency, accountability and fellowship. The value of these things cannot be dismissed because it reinforces the underlying truth that we, those who work to uplift the dignity of human beings, are not there to “save” or “fix” anyone; we are there to build safer and more just communities, and to empower people. And what a better way to project that vision than by reflecting it in the way we uplift our own neighbours?

Post #2

Caroline Lavoie

By Caroline Lavoie

Hi everyone,
In my last post, I didn’t say much about where I was actually interning this summer. So here is some information and thoughts about Morocco’s National Human Rights Council (CNDH)!

The CNDH was founded in 2011 by the King of Morocco, Mohammed VI, in the context of a significant wave of protests (known as the February 20th Movement) that took place in Morocco, inspired by the Arab Spring. Its mission is to promote and protect human rights in the country. It does so by conducting research, advising the government, cooperating with national and international human rights organisations, doing advocacy work, conducting awareness-raising activities, promoting a culture of human rights in the country and by responding to allegations of human rights violations submitted by citizens. The CNDH receives thousands of such complaints a year, about a number of different types of violations- allegations of mistreatment in detention centres and violations of the right to peaceful protest are just a few examples. The Council does not have the power to enforce human rights laws when an allegation is proven- its role is to ensure better access to justice for victims and monitor whether justice is being served.

During my internship, I noticed very little coordination and cooperation between the different departments of the CNDH. This was unfortunate for me, as I would have liked to have learned more about the institution’s procedures regarding complaints of human rights violations, which are handled by the Department of Protection. Working in the Department of Cooperation and International Relations, I felt very removed from the human rights situation ‘on the ground’ in Morocco, and had little sense of what the CNDH did to protect and promote human on a practical level. Nonetheless, this in itself was an important learning experience for me- it made me realize that ultimately, I think I prefer working in smaller organisations where I can have a more direct relationship with people affected by human rights issues.

Since I didn’t post pictures last time, I’ll end this post with a few of Rabat!

Like Montreal, the city has beautiful public art.

Street markets are very common, and active late into the night.

The beach! 

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