A truly international evening

By: Nathalie Laflamme

It’s quite hard to describe the IHRTP to someone who hasn’t experienced it themselves. At least, that’s what I told myself as I began writing this blog post.

The three weeks of the IHRTP—short for International Human Rights Training Program, which has been held by Equitas for the last 38 years—was a blur. A blur of hectic logistical arrangements, of endless tasks, of fascinating, eye-opening conversations with human rights defenders from across the globe, and sometimes—like during the International Evening—a literal blur of colourful traditional garb, dancing along to music from the opposite side of the world.

To give you a glimpse into my experience working for Equitas, I thought I would first describe what I felt was the most memorable moment of the IHRTP: the International Evening, which was held on June 15th.. On this night, participants, facilitators, Equitas staff and interns were encouraged to throw on their best traditional clothing and come to the cafeteria at John Abbott College for an evening packed with flavour and entertainment.

The evening was—to say the least—a blast. While the days spent at John Abbott College (where the IHRTP is held) had been extremely busy, and while I had had the chance to share a few sporadic meals and conversations with participants, the full impact of the program only became apparent to me when I stepped through the doors of the cafeteria during the International Evening.

For you to grasp how impressive this event was, I feel that I should first explain what the IHRTP is (note that I will speak more about my tasks and responsibilities as an Education Intern in my second blog post). The IHRTP is a three-week intensive program which is open to human rights educators from civil society organizations, regional and national institutions, and government agencies across the globe. During the program, participants mainly work in small, diverse groups, and work to transform their working methods and develop tools to increase the impact of their work. The program uses a participatory approach, allowing human rights educators to build capacities and skills by learning from one another—participants are both the teachers and the students of the IHRTP.

So, as I stepped into the cafeteria that night, and as the colours of everyone’s clothing and the smell of the dozens of different, scrumptious international foods hit me, I really saw the beauty and power of the program for the first time. I was a little late for the event as I had driven one of the IHRTP’s Resource Persons back to the airport, and of course I had managed to get lost on my way back to the college. The Resource Person and I had shared a fascinating conversation in the car involving a comparison of the legal system in Canada and Egypt, as well as a discussion concerning Canada’s Aboriginal Peoples. It truly was enlightening. But, I digress. Because of my lateness that night, I got to step into the bustling cafeteria on my own, once the event had already begun, and got to take it in in all its glory.

The Intern and Volunteer table on International Evening. Photo by Michael Cooper/Equitas.

I watched as groups of participants from the same regions took the stage after our delicious meal to perform to their favourite local songs and give us a glimpse into their worlds. I remember thinking, as I watched an incredibly pregnant participant from Haiti dance with gusto, her stomach bare, surrounded by other Haitian participants (one of whom was wearing the Haitian flag as a cape) dancing beautifully, that this truly was a unique experience.

After the participants had all performed, we sang “Happy Birthday” to Equitas—in both French and English, of course—as this year marks the organization’s 50th anniversary. After that, everyone got on the dance floor. Never in my life have I been surrounded by so many amazing dancers; it was so beautiful. There was something so unique about seeing so many people from such different places, with such different lives, come together. That night, I also learned that dancing in a circle is apparently an international social norm.

Dancing after dinner. (That’s me, in the light pink dress). Photo by Gabrielle Vendette/Equitas.

I begged AJ, the Logistics Intern who was in charge of the music that night, to add “Cotton Eye Joe” by the Rednex to the song cue. He agreed, and I somehow managed to teach that silly line dance to at least 50 different people from all over the globe. I remember dancing so enthusiastically that my right leg cramped, but I powered through. I was smiling so hard my cheeks almost cramped, too.

I am the only intern participating McGill’s International Human Rights Internships Program (IHRIP) who stayed in Montreal this summer. And yet, during that evening, I wasn’t in Montreal. I was in Morocco, in Colombia, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, in India, in the Philippines… I was everywhere, caught in an international blur. I hope this memory stays with me forever.

More dancing during Equitas’s International Evening. Photo by Gabrielle Vendette/Equitas.

Defining Equality: Namibia’s Supreme Court and the Rights of Persons with Disabilities

By Kevin Lee Pinkoski

Equality in Namibia and the Rights of Persons with Disabilities:

A young country – with a new constitution – needs an active judiciary that takes every opportunity to develop a more nuanced understanding of its constitutional principles. This is the context of Namibia, a country that, in 1990, won independence from South Africa after years of racial division implemented by apartheid, and, in the same year, adopted a new constitution. But many terms in this new constitution have yet to be comprehensively nuanced and defined through jurisprudence. As the case Alfred Mew Visser v Minister of Finance & 3 Others shows, Namibia’s judiciary continues to miss opportunities to describe both the nuances of equality as the term is present in the constitution and its relationship to the rights of persons with disability.

The nuance that is lacking from Namibian jurisprudence on equality is if the term is only limited to formal equality, where the law treats all individuals equally, or if it includes substantive equality, where the law recognizes individual differences in order to make everyone equal. Namibia’s constitution prioritizes equality, yet Namibia’s Supreme Court has failed to provide an accurate explanation of what is meant by the term in the constitution — if it is limited to just formal equality, or if it can be expanded to substantive equality. The judiciary must play an active role in addressing these ambiguities. Consequently, disabled individuals in Namibia are left without true equality.

Alfred Mew Visser v Minister of Finance & 3 Others:

The Alfred Mew Visser case is about the rights of persons with disabilities. Alfred Visser was in a severe car accident and, as a result of his injuries, he was blinded in both his eyes. Because of Namibia’s no fault insurance scheme, he was awarded damages according to The Motor Vehicles Accident FundThe Fund sets caps for damages, and Alfred Visser challenged these caps under the claim that they do not adequately provide the financial support necessary for him to live with a permanent disability. The Supreme Court did not find the case in his favour because of the financial implications of going beyond the caps established in The Fund.

Alfred Mew Visser characterizes a clear problem in the Namibian judiciary; the term equality in the Namibian constitution has not been accurately defined by Namibian jurisprudence. Yet the Supreme Court’s response inAlfred Mew Visser, ignorant of this problem, focuses only on the financial limitations of The Motor Vehicles Accident Fund. My criticism is that, regardless of the outcome of the case, the Supreme Court needs to actively seek out opportunities to elaborate and clarify Namibia’s constitutional principles. Because of this, the Supreme Court’s judgment in Alfred Mew Visser is a missed opportunity to provide a nuanced understanding of what is meant by equality – this is detrimental to Namibia’s most vulnerable populations.

Equality in the Namibian Constitution:

Strong memories of the heroes of the liberation struggle, such as Toivo ya Toivo, continue to inspire Namibians like Fazilla to fight for equality.

Reflective of years of apartheid – when inequality between race was implemented by law – Namibia’s new constitution prioritizes equality for all its citizens. The preamble to the constitution sets this mandate, affirming that “the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is indispensable for freedom, justice and peace.” Namibia, as a new country, founded itself on the principle of equality.

Namibia’s standard of equal rights for all is expanded upon in Art. 8: Human Dignity and Art. 10: Equality and Freedom from Discrimination of the Constitution. Art.8(1) states: “The dignity of all persons shall be inviolable”, and Art. 8(2)(a) elaborates: “In any judicial proceedings… before any organ of the State… respect for human dignity shall be guaranteed.” Art.10(1) reads: “All persons shall be equal before the law,” and Art.10(2) continues: “No persons may be discriminated against on grounds of sex, race, colour, ethnic origin, religion, creed or social or social status.”

The constitution and current government policy indicate an ambiguity between formal and substantive equality in Namibia. While Art. 10(1) establishes the terms of formal equality before the law, Art. 10(2) creates the potential to use the law to make all individuals equal through substantive equality.  Art 10(2) indicates the potential for substantive equality as it would be discrimination not to make individuals equal who suffer under the prohibited grounds for discrimination in Art 10(2). The emphasis on equality in both the preamble of the constitution and in Art. 8 show Namibia’s prioritization of equality for anyone within Namibia’s borders. Furthermore, Namibia has embarked on clear projects to create substantive equality for marginalized populations, such as economic empowerment initiatives and gender equality programs. There is a clear ambiguity in what is meant by equality that must be addressed by Namibia’s Supreme Court.

Neither Art. 8 nor Art. 10 provide a nuanced understanding of what is meant by equality. Because of this, Namibia’s lower courts have been limited to an understanding of equality that only evaluates the formal equality of all individuals before the law, not the substantive equality necessary to make all individuals equal. Furthermore, as Alfred Mew Visser shows, the Supreme Court has failed to take any opportunity to define any nuances to what is meant by equality as it is presented in the Namibian constitution. Because of this, Namibia has yet to create an environment of true equality for persons with disabilities.

Disability in Namibia and Alfred Mew Visser:

Although empty on the weekend, the Katatura Disability Plaza houses numerous organizations that promote equality for people with disabilities.

Namibian law defines disability as “a physical, mental or sensory impairment that alone, or in combination with social or environmental barriers, affects the ability of the person concerned to take part in education, vocational, or recreational activities.” This definition is elaborated upon to include the “loss or limitation of opportunities to take part in the normal life of the community on equal level with others due to physical or social barriers.”

The Namibian constitution does not list disability as a prohibited ground for discrimination in Art. 10(2). Thus, for disability to be adequately recognized or discussed in terms of equality, the Namibian judiciary must establish that disability is included under the prohibited grounds for discrimination in Art. 10(2).

Disability has a clear consequence on an individual’s ability to participate in society, it has a detrimental effect on the following grounds prohibited by Art. 10(2) of the constitution: social status, economic opportunity, and personal prosperity. The statistics are clear: 17.7% of urban disable persons do not attend school, 82.3% of rural disabled persons do not attend school, 42.5% of disabled persons work in agriculture and fishers, with 14.6% in elementary occupations. 70% of disabled persons live in homes without a mortgage. The reality is explicit – being disabled in Namibia is a limit on the potential of an individual to achieve success and prosperity.

In the example of Alfred Mew Visser, Alfred Visser has suffered a permanent disability because of the accident: he is blind in both eyes; he has a physical impairment that will impede his potential to participate in everyday activities and in work opportunities; he will need to learn a new system of reading. He is likely to be to be limited, as Art 10(2) of the constitution explains, to a “social status” because of his disability.

Art. 8 and Art. 10 of the Namibian constitution ensure a conducive environment to the full and equal participation for all in society, including those with disabilities. But, as was previously alluded to, because neither Art. 8 nor Art. 10 provide a comprehensive definition of what is implied by equality, the Supreme Court is required to give such an interpretation. The Alfred Mew Visser case is a clear example of a missed opportunity to give a more nuanced explanation of what is meant by equality, a missed opportunity that will be detrimental to disabled people – one of Namibia’s most vulnerable populations.

Formal Equality – Equality as applied by the Supreme Court:

Namibia’s clear wealth disparity, apparent in the village of Hoachana, is continually being addressed in the pursuit of equality.

Namibian jurisprudence has yet to provide a nuanced understanding of what is meant by equality in the Namibian constitution. The problem is that, because of the limited wording of the Namibian constitution, there is no need for courts to expand beyond an understanding of equality that is restricted to formal equality. Formal equality is established only by equality before the law. It applies blind rules to every situation, no matter what social differences may be involved. If the Namibian constitution ensures only formal equality, the Namibian Supreme Court should define that distinction. While it is possible to develop the language of formal equality in Alfred Mew Visser, it is important to recognize that the case turns on the financial limitations of The Motor Vehicle Accidents Fund, and not the issue of equality.

In Alfred Mew Visser, the court employs a view of formal equality before the law, as all claimants are held to the same limits of compensation, regardless of either their individual characteristics or the consequences of an accident. Alfred Visser’s disability can only be taken into account provided it falls under the limits of the caps established in The Motor Vehicle Accidents Fund, and it cannot be adjusted to take into account the particular needs of certain claims. The caps employ the same legal equality to all — the same formal equality before the law — and thus the court can resolve that “No distinction is made between claimants at all” since “all claimants are in the same position when it comes to the capping of their claims and are thus equal before the law.” No differentiation is made between individuals and their needs. If this is what is meant by equality in the Namibian constitution, the Supreme Court should define equality in this way in its decision.

Formal equality could, however, provide the means to address the necessary compensation required to ensure equality for disabled individuals. Since, to establish formal equality, the court adheres to “equality before the law,” it is the actual law itself that would have to change. The Motor Vehicle Accidents Fund would have to be amended to provide for a recalculation of damages for disability, for injuries that cannot be recovered from and that requires an individual to live their life in a different way. In this way, the court could still employ formal equality before the law, but the law itself would have to be expanded to provide for the necessary compensation to an individual who has been affected to a new “social status” (as Art. 10(2) of the constitution establishes) as a result of an accident. The Namibian constitution could imply formal equality in this way, but the distinction would have to be made by the Supreme Court.

The Potential for Substantive Equality in Namibia:

The Katatura Hospital is one of many public hospitals that provides medical services to Namibians.

In Alfred Mew Visser, substantive equality would imply that, because Visser has been placed in a different social status as a result of the disability incurred in the accident, the court could employ a definition of equality that allows for increased compensation. While the court establishes that The Motor Vehicle Fund ensures that “equally positioned persons are treated equally”, it fails to consider that some individuals will require more support in order to be treated equally. The reality is, as substantive equality reminds us, that the results of an accident do not leave all individuals “equal”, and that some, especially those with long term disabilities, will require more compensation. If the court had chosen to establish substantive equality as a part of the Constitution’s definition of equality, the court would allow for the law to be adapted to Alfred Visser’s specific case.

Furthermore, the court would establish the necessary precedent to employ substantive equality when necessary to ensure that the law can be adapted to provide what is needed for any individual to achieve equality. This is the missed opportunity of the Supreme Court, they failed to recognize the reality that equality before the law does not ensure that the law has equal effects on all individuals. Consequently, in order for the law to allow that all individuals can achieve equality as a result of the law, a substantive understanding of equality should be employed. Here, the Supreme Court has failed to provide for a more nuanced, and more just, understanding of equality that takes into account an individual’s unique needs. Alfred Mew Visser is thus a missed opportunity to define equality.

Conclusion:

Namibians, especially Namibia’s most vulnerable population, must again wait for the Supreme Court to develop a nuanced understanding of equality. Namibians are left with ambiguity as to if equality goes beyond formal equality to address substantive equality, thus allowing for the prohibitions on discrimination in Art. 10(2) to be extended to unlisted ground. It is, as Art. 10(1) reminds us, that “all persons shall be equal before the law” – so why stop short of protecting Namibia’s vulnerable populations?

The Supreme Court should be capable of providing the necessary jurisprudence to clarify and develop the constitution. The Supreme Court cannot be limited by state resources or policy in its decisions, it must be capable of balancing these limitations with the necessity of equality. The nuances in the term equality have yet to be defined by Namibia’s Supreme Court, and the Court continues to miss opportunities to add the necessary nuances. Defining these nuances is, after all, the role of the judiciary.

 

Assumptions revisited: the origins and meaning of the Charter

By Mark Dance

Over my summer at the Canadian Civil Liberties Association (CCLA), I’ve had the occasion to get below the surface of a few of my tacit beliefs about the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. It’s remarkable that I’d not been disabused of some of these notions over two years in law school—but maybe it’s just time outside the classroom that has started to puncture and deflate them.

My first stark realization was that the motivations for the adoption of a Charter in the first place may have been profoundly political and more specifically, fueled by a fear of Quebec Nationalism rather than a desire to elevate the rights of citizens. Joseph Heath explores these topics in greater depths in his book Enlightenment 2.0 but he paints the essential picture in a 2014 piece in the National Post:

“With the conflict between French and English growing more and more intractable, a frustrated [Pierre] Trudeau finally gave up on his old motto, [‘Reason before passion’], admitting that his faith in reason had been mistaken. ‘If they want blood and guts,’ he said, ‘I’ll give them blood and guts.’ To this end — and with varying degrees of cynicism — he set about creating a new national identity, in part by co-opting traditional French Canadian culture and imposing it at the national level. His efforts began with the aggressive promotion of the national flag (with the Parliamentary Flag Program of 1972, which gave each representative a quota of flags to be distributed to constituents), the designation of ‘O Canada’ as the new national anthem, and the creation of a national holiday (with Dominion Day being renamed ‘Canada Day’), and which culminated in the repatriation of the Constitution and the adoption of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms in 1982. All of this served to create a new Canadian identity distinct from the British one that had previously been dominant at the national level.”

On this reading, the Charter is not a principled document for the sake of individuals or communities but rather a scheme hatched by Pierre Trudeau to stave off armed revolution and the crumbling of a federation; a ‘good’ nationalist bulwark against the ‘bad’ nationalism of the FLQ.

My second jolt came when I realized that CCLA had a more complicated and nuanced relationship with the upholding of Canadians’ rights than I had originally understood. I saw this immediately when I watched and reported on a CCLA intervention about the rights of doctors to conscientiously object to performing medical procedures like doctor assisted dying—where CCLA took the position that the obligation to make effective referrals was justified—but I also gleaned it from freedom of expression cases on which I was working, where certain limits on speech were understood to be justified in the service of protecting the community from disturbing images and messages. I grasped the complications most clearly when reading an autobiography of a former CCLA general counsel, Alan Borovoy. In one of his last chapters he writes that, when the idea of a constitutionally entrenched Charter was first proposed to the CCLA,

“I was against the whole idea […] I took the position that this deference to the judiciary represented a form of tyranny. Why, I asked, should the raw value judgments of appointed judges trump those of elected politicians? After all, politicians are accountable for their judgments to the people who elect them […] I hit on a possible compromise. Instead of calling for a complete withdrawal of the proposed Charter, I borrowed a concept from the statutory Bill of Rights that then existed at the federal level: a ‘notwithstanding’ clause.”

While at first baffling that a CCLA leader would oppose the entrenchment of a Charter, I came to understand the logic both from my work at CCLA and from Borovoy’s writing. In the former case, I saw how much good s. 1 can do in the right judicial hands and how certain statutory and regulatory objectives, despite clearly infringing Charter rights, are simply good for the country from a utilitarian perspective. In the latter case, I read Borovoy’s compelling history of the US Bill of Rights, which in the 20th century was used to “strike down legislation limiting the hours of work, prescribing certain minimum wages, outlawing child labour, and regulating employment agencies”. Without limits like s. 1—or perhaps even the notwithstanding clause as a rarely invoked limiting condition—it could wind up being the individual who tyrannizes a hopeful and progressive majority.

A third eye-opening moment came from the overturning of my naïve impression that the Charter embodies democracy in some way; while it may protect voting rights and other liberties that make electoral democracy possible, a look at the history taught me just how undemocratic the Charter’s origins were. To watch Jean Chrétien, Roy McMurtry and Roy Romanow talk through the delicate dance of feds and provinces striking a deal is to see an elite cabal reprised and Machiavellian manoeuvres re-enacted.

A philosopher once wrote that “there is scarcely a commonwealth in the world whose beginnings can, in conscience, be justified”; like the absence of Indigenous people at Canada’s Confederation conference 150 years ago, the Patriation of the Constitution in 1982 was a profoundly exclusionary bit of nation building. Perhaps that sort of state of exception is necessary to get constitutions off the ground—but that doesn’t mean that it was pretty. The same philosopher wrote, in the context of the English Revolution in the 1640s, that “Charters are Donations of the Soveraign” rather than true manifestations of public will. I’d not grasped the undemocratic—or perhaps pre-democratic—origins of our own Charter until this summer.

But in addition to these observations regarding the origins, meaning and structure of the Constitution Act 1982—most of which could be understood as instances of disenchantment—this summer also sparked for me at least one surprising new source of admiration for the document.

Participating in CCLA outreach work meant that I saw high school students  thinking through the Charter for the first time. CCLA facilitators walk these young people through collisions of and justified limits upon rights and freedoms: in the case of a minor refusing to submit to a life-saving blood transfusion, is a province justified in forcing the procedure upon them? In the case of a boy bringing a ceremonial knife to school, does the right to security of the person of the other children overpower his freedom of to manifest religious conviction? Presented with each of these questions, I saw teenagers engage passionately in debate with one another. I saw them try on different standpoints and end the hour with new, richer convictions. I saw them play in the conceptual jungle gym of rights, freedoms and public powers in a way that I do not believe they could have without the Charter.

A week later, midway through July and out for a bike ride, I was reminded that the Charter can make students of us all. As I leisurely pedaled past a group of older, visibly down-and-out men in a downtown park, I caught a phrase or two of their conversation: “I don’t think the police can do that to you. I think that’s breaching the Charter of Rights. At section eight it says that…” and then I passed out of earshot.

I realized then, rolling through the cool dusk of a Toronto summer eve, that at least one of these men had space to think and a vocabulary to speak because of the Charter; he had a bridge between his experiences and the power of the law because of what is undoubtedly an aspirational and inspirational document. The main success of the Charter may after all, I thought, be a pedagogical one: it helps us think about who we are, what we deserve and what sort of society we want to live in.

After this summer, that’s certainly what it has done for me.

National Aboriginal Day at the Ottawa-Carleton Detention Centre

Madeleine MacDonaldBy Madeleine Macdonald

On National Aboriginal Day, we went to Ottawa.

Ottawa has been getting a lot of love this summer, as countless dollars have been pumped into Canada 150 celebrations. National Aboriginal Day was no exception, and celebrations were held overlooking Parliament.  Leaders, elders, and community members feasted and danced; they spoke of reconciliation and snapped photos. By all accounts, a good time was had.

Across the city, nestled among mature trees and strip malls, lies the Ottawa-Carleton Detention Centre. The OCDC is a remand facility, a sort of processing warehouse for inmates as they move through the justice system.  From pre-trial detention to conviction to sentencing to incarceration, this is where inmates stay before they arrive at the correctional facility where they will serve out sentences longer than 60 days.  But don’t be fooled by the label. Despite its innocuous name, OCDC is a maximum security facility with everything that entails: barbed wire, industrial food, strip searches, and solitary confinement.

On a beautiful, sunny summer day, a team from the Mohawk Council of Akwesasne, Akwesasne Justice Department skipped the downtown parties and schmoozing to celebrate National Aboriginal Day in prison. The percentage of aboriginal inmates at OCDC hovers around 30%, relative to 3.8% of the national population. Despite this, 2017 marked the first time a cultural celebration was held for NAD there. Increased aboriginal cultural and spiritual programming is just one of the recommendations of the OCDC Task Force, struck in March 2016 to address reports of deplorable conditions and overcrowding.   

That day, aboriginal inmates who had shown good behaviour were invited out into the yard for a surprise. Native Inmate Liaison Officer Brian David greeted them with smudging before welcoming them into the yard, which held a mid-construction sweat lodge and a circle of chairs. Our guests were treated to a feast of homemade fry bread, corn soup, and fresh strawberries. Wearing his formal Gustowah (feathered headress), Satekaronhioton Fox of Native North American Travelling College told creation stories. Joyce King, Department Director, spoke of culture and restorative principles, emphasizing the importance of knowing one’s identity. In Haudenosaunee culture, to be prepared to for death, each one must know five things: their name, clan, language, song, and their medicine.  Then, we danced.  

Singing and drumming, the men from the travelling college led and we all followed.  Shuffling behind, the women massaged the earth with their feet, just as Sky Woman massaged the dirt on Turtle’s back to create the world.  We laughed. We sang.  Just like the big shots downtown, we feasted and feted, but there were no photo ops, because cameras are contraband.  

And as we were dancing around a barbed-wire enclosed prison yard, an osprey appeared overhead in that blue and cloudless sky, soaring wide and graceful arcs. Beneath him, for a moment, we were all free.

« J’accuse Trump, j’accuse la France, j’accuse Sarkozy »

Lucas MathieuPar Lucas Matthieu

Ouagadougou (“Ouaga” pour les intimes) ressemble de plein de façons à ce à quoi l’on s’attendrait de la capitale d’un pays enclavé et sub-saharien. Le flux incessant des motocyclettes, la poussière, les gardes armés dans la rue, la pollution, la chaleur étouffante en cette saison des pluies, les maquis et leur poulet braisé : tout est en mouvement. Pas en ligne droite, vers le sacro-saint Développement, mais comme la trace d’un scooter fatigué qui crache encore, de ses zigzags, emballées, esquives suicidaires et roues arrière héroïques.

Dans cet assemblage, je suis forcé de reconnaitre, bien souvent, des restes – peu entamés – d’hégémonie française. À commencer par la langue, réappropriée certes, mais bien la même. En face de ma chambre, une vielle carte du Burkina indique encore, en légende, la superficie du pays, sa population, et son « maitre colonial » la France. Les antennes Canal+ sont partout, ma carte SIM est Orange et je paye en Francs CFA. Le Burkina Faso vient d’adopter le système LMD.  Bref, la France est omniprésente, sur le plan militaire, industriel, politique, économique, et culturel. La population Burkinabè en a tout à fait conscience . Alors que je marchais hier vers la rue passante pour trouver un maquis (bar/restaurant d’exterieurs qu’on trouve à tous les coins de rue), j’ai entendu un jeune dans un groupe qui criait « J’accuse Trump, j’accuse la France, j’accuse Sarkozy ». La nuit tombait mais ç’aurait aussi bien pu être l’Aurore.

Nous avons parlé du rôle de la France et des États-Unis dans le dispositif militaire Burkinabè et Ouest Africain en général, du système universitaire Burkinabè, des restes de la colonisation et du point de vue Burkinabè sur le la révolution technologique. Il semblait ambivalent sur ce dernier point. Il mentionna que la conquête coloniale européenne était basée sur le Progrès et la Modernité, bref, la fin de l’histoire. Il semblait convaincu de la nécessité pour l’Afrique de s’adapter et d’entamer une transition technologique – il prit notamment pour exemple la Corée du Sud et le Japon – tout en fustigeant le monopole français sur le capital social Burkinabé via la formation d’élites Africaines, l’imposition semi-camouflée su système scolaire Français et la fuite des cerveaux.

En même temps, il paraissait convaincu que la structure sociale africaine traditionnelle était responsable dans une certaine mesure de ce manque de changement. Il m’expliqua que l’écart entre les modes de fonctionnement sociétaux Africain et la rationalité occidentale ne permettait pas un tel saut. On comprend alors à quel point la domination Française agit encore ici. Il ne s’agit pas seulement de contrôler, encore aujourd’hui, les ressources des anciennes colonies. Mais, via le soft power Français, via Canal+, via Orange, via les publicités étincelantes pleines d’automobiles de luxe, montres érogènes et gratte-ciels parfumés, de créer le récit d’une Afrique immobile et coincée en étaux par ses soi-disant contradictions : culturellement, ni traditionnelle ni moderne; politiquement, ni colonisée ni indépendante; économiquement, pleines de ressource qu’elle serait incapable d’explorer.

 

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