Time Travel & Tug of War in Sofia

By Aliya Behar

The views expressed in this piece are my own.

My first few days in Sofia made it clear that walking through the city center feels like walking through time.

As you exit the bustling downtown Serdika metro station, you spot ancient Roman ruins scattered around the underground. Built directly atop of the old Roman city stand memories from the Bulgarian communist era, hastily modernized after the Regime’s fall in 1990. The contrast is unmistakeable. The 4th Century Church of Saint George stands surrounded by the Bulgarian presidency – once bearing the hammer and sickle, now the European Union flag. Just a few steps away, the golden statue of Saint Sofia – a landmark of the city center – having only recently replaced a stone monument of Lenin.

Statue of Sveta Sofia (Статуя на Света София) 

Church of Saint George surrounded by the Bulgarian presidency building











Bulgaria joined the European Union in 2007. Nonetheless, echoes from the past continue to sway the course of Bulgarian politics and public opinion. The country held three parliamentary elections last year, and now seems to be stepping towards a fourth. Just a few days ago, Slavi Trifonov – the leader of the populist There Is Such A People party – withdrew from Bulgaria’s quadripartite ruling coalition due to disagreements with the prime minister’s position on budget amendments and North Macedonia relations. Growing political instability and inflation rates due to the war in Ukraine pave the way for increased fear and uncertainty.

Monument to the Soviet Army

A protest in support of Ukraine, ending in front of the Russian embassy












This precarity feels inseparable from the tensions I’ve noticed in my day-to-day – a tug of war between old and new ideologies, ways of life, and visions for society.

Most of my time is spent in the BCNL offices, surrounded by politically engaged, socially conscious, and well-educated people who work every day to fight for the protection of civic and human rights in Bulgaria. I’ve had countless discussions about the country’s difficulties with media freedoms, rule of law, and social inclusion of minorities. I’ve learnt about how BCNL and other NGOs tackle these issues in a sustainable manner – awaiting results that may take years to attain. The passion and perseverance of my peers astonishes me every day.

Increased public resistance and flat-out rejection of these same fundamental principles astonishes me just as much. Over coffee and banitsa,[1] one of my peers told me about Bulgaria’s rejection of the Istanbul Convention on gender-based violence due to fervent public debate resulting in the Constitutional Court asserting its unconstitutionality. The Convention sought to protect women and children from domestic violence. Instead, nationalist, conservative, and religious groups subverted the public narrative, spreading fear of the Convention’s purported imposition of the “gender ideology”.[2] Fuelled by religious and nationalist dogma, public outcry ensued against Western and European interference and the erosion of traditional Bulgarian values by the Convention somehow opening the door for same-sex marriage.[3] One activist I spoke with described the propagation of conspiracy theories, creating “the narrative that the child protection strategy was empowering NGOs that were supposedly helping Norwegians take children, like, it’s a nonsense story.”

The St. Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, a landmark Bulgarian Orthodox church

These same conservative, nationalist, and far-right ideologies pervade the geography and social structure of Bulgarian society. Just a 10-minute drive outside of the modern center of Sofia reveals communities like Fakulteta. Effectively, these communities are ghettos, regrouping impoverished and socially-excluded Roma people. Homes are dilapidated, lacking adequate sewage systems, running water, and electricity.[4] I spoke with a sociologist specializing in the Bulgarian Roma community a few days ago, discussing how Roma hatred and scapegoating run rampant across Bulgarian society. I observe terrifying similarities between far-right outlooks of the “Roma Problem” to Nazi Germany’s “Jewish Question”.

A news reporter during a far-right nationalist rally in front of the presidency

One of my coworkers attributed some of the dissonance in Bulgaria to top-down approaches to democracy, human rights, and liberal values. Though Bulgaria recently joined the EU and its laws are in accordance with European standards, large portions of the population lack proper understandings of the abstract ideas of “human rights” and “fundamental freedoms”, simultaneously remaining sympathetic to its previous close ties to Russia. Fraught with an antiquated educational system and a lack of digital literacy, conspiracy theories and extremism often run unchecked.

Despite all of this, I remain inspired. Bulgarian civil society, though relatively new, is filled with passionate people – young and old – who are committed to doing good.

This past week marked the 10th annual BCNL Summer School for NGOs, uniting 19 brilliant trainees through their passions for civil society and activism. Participants gathered by the Balchik seaside for a week of intensive lectures and discussions, honing their advocacy, negotiation, and decision-making skills. They left motivated to spark positive change in their communities, equipped with the tools to do so. One participant expressed gratitude for “the opportunity to feel the power of joint efforts; the realization that there are organizations on different scales, with different missions, but we all need to work together”.

Participants in BCNL’s Summer School for NGOs exploring Queen Marie of Romania’s Balchik Palace

Throughout my short time here, I’ve spoken with activists who work every day to protect human rights and vulnerable people in the country. I’ve learnt about strategic litigation cases for the advancement of same-sex marriage and trans rights, about grassroots initiatives uniting Roma and Bulgarian youth to empower disenfranchised communities, and about the restoration of rural chitalishta.[5] As my supervisor expresses, activists and NGOs are the “immune system of democracy”. Walking through Sofia may feel like walking through time, but the hard work of civil society members paves the way for a stronger future.

Winners of BCNL’s LET’S GO competition and training for social entrepreneurship

[1] Banitsa is a traditional Bulgarian snack made of cheese and filo pastry – it’s delicious.

[2] See Zahari Iankov & Nadia Shabani, “Activizenship: Civic Space Watch Report 2021 Stories of Hope in Dark Times: Political Turbulances Affect Civic Space” (2021) at 5, online (pdf): Civic Space Watch <https://civicspacewatch.eu/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/Bulgaria.pdf>.

[3] See Isobel Squire, “Gender Ideology and the Istanbul Convention in Bulgaria” (May 2018) at 33, online (pdf): Projekter <https://projekter.aau.dk/projekter/files/281553551/Istanbul_Convention_in_Bulgaria_300518.pdf>.

[4] See Yuliya Shyrokonis, “EU citizenship, but no shoes: the Roma of Bulgaria” (20 January 2020), online: Open Democracy <https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/can-europe-make-it/eu-citizenship-no-shoes-roma-bulgaria/>.

[5] A chitalishte is, in short, a traditional community and education center. Chitalishta are the cultural and educational hearts of small Bulgarian villages.

Bogotá: A Dynamic City of Contrasts

It has been over a month since I arrived in Bogotá for my internship at Avocats Sans Frontières Canada (ASFC), and although there were some bumps in settling down, adapting to life in Colombia has been extremely rewarding. I will dedicate the first section of this blog post to my work and apartment situation, and the second half to observations and recommendations about living in Bogotá.

During the first two weeks, I found it difficult forming a routine as work in person is still only two days per week as per COVID restrictions in Colombia. I did not see my colleagues often, but they were quick to respond to any concerns I had on Whatsapp and were extremely happy to help. I have learned that it is important to be patient as I started to feel more comfortable when I finished furnishing my apartment and received research work about Colombia’s armed conflict. 

Another challenge I had during the first few weeks was my apartment. The owner and security guard were friendly and accommodating, but the building was located in an area with abandoned buildings. Many people cautioned me against walking by myself as they told me they had seen people selling drugs on the street. 

The surrounding streets of my first apartment

I eventually moved to Chapinero Alto, a hilly and upscale neighbourhood that was worlds apart from my initial residence. Nevertheless, I enjoyed having the experience of living in a not-so-safe neighbourhood vs a pristine one. 

My new neighbourhood in Chapinero Alto

An important lesson I learned at work is that not all issues can get the attention they deserve. When I first learned about ASF’s project on human trafficking, titled “No Más Trata” (No More Human Trafficking), I was interested by how Venezuelan migrants were affected by this issue. However, my colleague reminded me that the project is mainly focused on women, children, and the LGBTQ community, and the focus on migrants would be out of scope.

Colombia’s armed conflict is also complex from the multiple actors that are involved against the government, and the government itself that has also perpetrated crimes against humanity. Reading about the armed conflict to prepare for my research tasks has reminded me that often there is no black and white for who is “right” and who is “wrong”. 

Our lovely team at work


Bogotá can be a city of contrasts. The weather is infamously unpredictable, with it being warm and sunny one moment and the next, chilly and rainy. The pollution from cars is also variable depending on whether you’re on a major city road or a smaller residential one. It is also possible to get lunch for $11 000 COP (around $3.70 CAD), complete with soup and a drink, and the same menu item at a fancier restaurant for almost triple the price at $33 000 COP (around $11 CAD).

Traffic jams are common in Bogotá, being a city of around eleven million people yet not having a metro system. I have learned to avoid travelling during the peak hours when possible: 7am to 11am in the mornings, and from 5 to 8pm in the evenings. Transmilenio, the city’s bus rapid transit system, is often filled to the brim from my glances at it out from the taxi window. I have been told that Transmilenio is not quite safe to ride and that robberies are not uncommon. I recommend having multiple taxi apps such as Cabify, Taxis Libres, and Didi, as there may not always be drivers on one app. 

Traffic jam and a Transmilenio Bus in front

Making a cédula de extranjería (foreigner’s ID card) is useful for daily transactions and identification in Colombia, though an appointment is required in advance with Migración Colombia. You are also required to know your blood type as it is printed on the card. With a cédula, there is no need to carry your passport outside, and it enables you to register for services such as phone plans or points at the local supermarket and restaurants. 

Migración Colombia – the place for visas, cédulas, and all other paperwork related to staying in Colombia

Bogotá does not disappoint for adventurous eaters. Tropical fruits such as maracuyá (passion fruit), lulo, papaya, guanabaná (soursop), and granadilla can be easily found.

Fruits at the local market

Bogotá is known for soupy and hot foods, due to it having a relatively cool climate in the Andes Mountains. Ajiaco, chocolate santafereño, changua, caldo de costilla are among some of its delicacies. However, it is good to be cautious with what you eat as I got food poisoning that set me back for a week. I have heard that as Bogotá is not on the coast, seafood is not as fresh, and it is always good to check that the restaurant is reputable. 

Bogotá’s signature dish and one of my first meals in the city – ajiaco

Overall, people in Bogotá are generally friendly and willing to help even though the city can be chaotic, polluted, and dangerous at times. I have come to appreciate the city’s lifestyle and am excited to become even more familiar with the city by the end of my internship. Having read multiple books at the start of my internship, I am looking forward to putting it to use in my research work for the next two months. No matter what happens, I will remember to stay tranquilo (“calm”, “no problem”) as Colombians say and to view this city through their lens.

Traces of Transience

By Nicolas Kamran

The views expressed in this piece are my own.

I noticed two things upon first entering Iqaluit’s RCMP detachment center. First, its rather pleasant atmosphere, provided you ignore the human beings in cages. Second, the conspicuously displayed portrait of Elizabeth Windsor. In fact, I have found it nearly impossible to escape Her Majesty on a day-to-day basis. After enjoying a brisk walk down Queen Elizabeth Way to visit a client held in the RCMP detachment (emphasis on the R), I reach the courthouse where my supervising lawyer is negotiating with a Crown prosecutor. A decision will be rendered today at the Nunavut Court of Justice in the matter of Regina v AB. “All rise, the Nunavut Court of Justice is now closed for the day”. Silence. The clerks glance at one another until one lets out a hearty “God save the Queen!” The judge repeats the expression, and we all leave. It is hardly what one expects of the British Empire’s death rattle.

In recounting these details, I do not wish to describe colonialism as a mere collection of pretentious symbols. This would be missing the point entirely. In Nunavut, colonialism is the air one breathes. Permeating everything and everyone, it does what power does: grant strange and unjust realities the appearance of normalcy. Language is particularly fertile ground for this phenomenon, for the words we use frame our world. Consider how the Bush administration described obviously violent practices during the War on Terror. “Collateral damage” replaced the more accurate label of “dead civilians”, with “enhanced interrogation techniques” giving a friendlier face to “torture”. American “air support” did not “lay Iraqi fighters to rest” by tucking them into bed at night. It murdered people with bombs. And yet these terms filled up headlines for the better part of a decade, sporadically appearing in Canada on occasions where the RCMP used “lethal overwatch” to describe sniper units targeting Indigenous blockades. Again, this is what power does: it obscures patently unjust realities when said realities ground established hierarchies.

Power is why, despite having the highest suicide rate of any place on Earth, Nunavut does not have a single mental health treatment center. Power is why a single psychiatrist[1] serves a territory where ten-year-old unilingual Inuktitut-speaking children can flawlessly pronounce terms like “schizophrenia” and “fetal alcohol spectrum disorder”. Power is why Iqaluit has aviation fuel in its drinking water and an $18 million RCMP detachment center. Power is why Iqaluit has an ongoing housing crisis and a $90 million prison. Sorry, I did not mean “prison”­—I hear it is called a “healing facility” now.

An abandoned Hudson’s Bay outpost. I hear that an Inuk man bought it a few years ago.

In a sense, the situation I describe above makes writing this blog a remarkably difficult task. At the risk of saturating this text with metaphors, I find myself turning to a joke made famous by David Foster Wallace: Two young fish are swimming along, as they happen upon an older fish. The elder politely nods at them and says, “Morning, fellers, how’s the water?” The two younger fish continue swimming on for a while, until one looks over at the other and asks, “What the hell is water?”

The most obvious and crucial realities are often those hardest to see and understand; age and experience can progressively reveal them to us. Now imagine that the younger fish is tasked with writing something worthwhile about water. Of course, no one has expressly tasked me with writing about colonialism. Interns have considerable editorial freedom in this program, and it would probably be far easier to write about hiking the scenic trail to Apex and eating Narwhal for the first time. But I do not want to do that, for as important as those moments were, they do not occupy my thoughts. Colonialism occupies everything, and to spend six weeks immersed in Nunavut’s criminal justice system without discussing its defining character seems inappropriate. Even so, opining about the nature of crime and punishment after six weeks here also strikes me as comically premature. Doubtless, I swim along in the water. But I remain the younger fish. I still have much to learn and digest before I can escape Ludwig Wittgenstein’s famous injunction: “Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.”

On the topic of that about which I cannot speak, two more problems emerge. The first is that many of the more insightful stories I would like to recount from my time at Maliganik are subject to confidentiality. The second is that much of what I would like to say could adversely impact my organisation’s relationships in town. Nunavut Legal Aid’s mandate renders its services available to nearly everyone in the territory, and we work in collaboration with (and depend on) the Crown’s office, the Government of Nunavut, and all members of the judiciary. To engage in criticism, even if warranted, could be inappropriate. I will tread carefully.

Midnight in Sylvia Grinnell Territorial Park.

My job at Nunavut Legal Aid has allowed me to work at nearly every stage of the criminal justice system. I have assisted lawyers in fielding “10(b) calls”, interviewing clients in cells, preparing bail hearings, drafting memos for trial matters, putting together sentencing ranges, and even writing Charter challenges. Each task has its difficulties, and each has taught me something new about the theory and practice of criminal law. With that said, I have found no process more fascinating than bail. During my first few weeks, I accompanied lawyers to Justice of the Peace (“JP”) Court every day on bail matters. As I met our organisation’s clients for the first time, my mind turned to something I had heard while working as a group assistant for the first-year criminal justice course. Around November 2021, Professor Mugambi Jouet organised a panel of defence lawyers and prosecutors to speak to our class. I remember seeing them huddled outside the Moot Court room, each trading stories about the first time they saw someone in handcuffs. What struck me was their sense of reverence for the moment. It was as if the physical manifestation of bondage made the stakes of criminal justice seem real.

X was the first person I saw in handcuffs, and everything about them expressed fragility. Their face oscillated between anguish and anger. They could not have stood at more than five feet tall nor have weighed more than one-hundred pounds. We spoke separated by a thick glass pane, a sheriff towering outside the room “for our safety”. In twenty minutes or so, a person X had just met would be arguing for their release.

A contested bail hearing in Nunavut’s JP Court is an experience in contrast. On one hand, there are few processes more legally significant. The right to show cause is one protected in our Charter of Rights and Freedoms, and the outcome of a bail hearing is quite literally the difference between freedom and captivity. On the other hand, I have seen very little substantive law involved in any proceeding. What I have seen, mostly, are stories. Defence lawyers take what they know about the accused to construct sympathetic narratives about their lives, attempting to spin anything and everything in their favour. Crown prosecutors often rely on the alleged facts of the criminal offence and the accused’s criminal record to paint a portrait of a human being whose freedom poses a risk to public safety. JPs absorb both stories and produce a third, where they tell the accused, counsel, and the record how they reached their decision. The accused sits confused while people who did not know of their existence an hour earlier opine on their life and character. Sleek wood panels cover the courtroom walls. A golden leaf adorns the flagpole where rests our national symbol. X squirms as the sheriffs carry them back into a cell. There is hardly a more visceral sense that this system has been violently imposed on its subjects.

Some Northern dietary staples.

Preparation for the IHRIP emphasised “expecting the unexpected” and understanding how some things that are “good in theory” may be “bad in practice”. At the outset, a part of me found these points fallacious: To “expect the unexpected” is impossible and what is “bad in practice” must have some theoretical flaw. Nevertheless, I understood both points as calls for patience and adaptability when pushed outside of my comfort zone. These first weeks have unquestionably pushed me outside of my comfort zone, and I have endeavoured to uphold these values.

With that said, I struggle with being a “transient”. The latter term is one that locals typically use to designate those living and/or working in Nunavut for a short period of time. Understandably, the word has a rather negative connotation here. There is a sense in which those who are “just passing through for a job” refuse to fully engage with the culture, language, and history of the North. Worse yet, some feel that “transients” use Nunavut as a prime destination for “human rights tourism”. This phenomenon would be problematic anywhere, but its impacts are especially deep in smaller, more insular communities. A fitting metaphor is that of the tundra: Some years ago, a pipeline burst near where I live, requiring a cleanup operation of two trucks and one hour. Today, children play along the tire marks. There is a tundra that grows so slowly that everything passing over it remains embedded in the soil. Transience leaves its trace.

Tire tracks and a pipeline. Qikiqtani General Hospital looms large in the background.

My 40-hour work weeks do not feel like tourism, and I have tried my hardest to be a respectful guest in land which is not mine. Still, I recognise that the nature of this internship forces me into transience. As I document my twelve weeks here, I hope to chart my trace.

[1] See “A Primer on Nunavut”, 5th Edition, Office of the Senior Judge at 25.

Kenya 101: A practical guide for newcomers

By Noémie

It has already been four weeks since I arrived in Kenya, and I have enjoyed every bit of my time here. My internship is in a rural area of Kenya, called Kianyaga. However, I also had the chance to stay in Nairobi and experience urban Kenyan life. I decided to dedicate this blog post to providing a practical guide for future interns in Kenya, focusing on the contrast between urban and rural life in Kenya.


Urban experience in Kenya: Nairobi 

Nairobi is a very fun city. There is something for everyone. However, it does take some adjusting. To have the best experience in Nairobi, there are a few things one needs to be aware of. Here are essential lessons I have learned:


Inside of a matatu

Getting around: matatu, bolt/uber, bodaboda…

There are several modes of transportation in Nairobi. Uber does exist, alongside Bolt, which is a similar app-based taxi service. Bodabodas (motorcyclist drivers) can also be ordered by using Bolt. Finally, the streets of Nairobi are full of colourful buses called matatu. I discovered that every matatu is unique: each has a dedicated theme and is decorated according to that theme, inside and out. Some even have a playlist that fits the matatu theme. When getting inside a matatu for the first time, I realized that Canada’s public transport needs to step up its game. The only downside of matatus is the lack of indication as to their itinerary. Local friends are your only chance of knowing where you should go to take the right matatu.


Get a local SIM card

Having a local SIM card is a must for data but also as a payment method. M-Pesa is a money transfer app linked to a local SIM card. It is the main method of payment in Nairobi and is used to send money to individuals, to pay for goods at a store, or even to withdraw money.

Don’t take out your phone in the CBD (downtown area)

Nairobi is informally called Nairobbery. Pickpocketing is very common, both for tourists and locals. Kenyans will only use a non-expensive cell phone (flip phone) while walking around the city. I have very few pictures of Nairobi CBD for that reason. I once took out my cell phone in a matatu and my friend closed the window beside me as it could get snatched by someone outside.

Don’t navigate Nairobi’s CBD on your own at first.

First, you need to know where you are going. Kenyans themselves do not ask for directions from fellow Kenyans. Second, Nairobi CBD can be overwhelming. The streets are full of people, cars, matatu (public buses), and bodas (motorcycles). The general rule of Nairobi driving is: “if there is space, I go”. The concept of car lanes, one-ways, direction of traffic, or streetlights is secondary. Kenyans have mastered the art of calculating the speed of incoming traffic to be able to cross Nairobi streets. Third, you can’t take your phone out to look up directions without risking being robbed. The best way to go is to move around Nairobi CBD with a local friend until you adjust to the ways of the city.

Make local friends!

Having the help of local friends, at least at first, is very helpful. The good thing is that Kenyans are very nice people, easy-going and ready to help.

The rural experience in Kenya: Kianyaga

Kianyaga, Kirinyaga, Central Kenya

Rukenya Fall

Rural life varies greatly from urban life in Kenya. It is laid back and slow-paced. Kianyaga, where I am located, is a small town very near to Mount Kenya. Going around in bodas is my favourite activity as I can admire the scenery: driving through the forest, rivers, and waterfalls, or passing by fields of tea, coffee, banana, and rice plantations.

Mount Kenya


The first thing to know for newcomers in rural Kenya is: get ready to be noticed. Locals are very excited to talk with a muzungu (white person) and to welcome them. Walking down the streets of Kianyaga or while riding a boda, I hear locals greeting me: “Muzungu, how is you?” “Karibu Kenya (Welcome to Kenya)”. Children and adults will follow me, either to ask to touch my hair or simply to talk. Getting all this attention was overwhelming at first as I was still figuring out local customs. However, it didn’t take long before I was integrated into the community and felt very comfortable living there.

The second important element in rural Kenya is the language barrier. The official language is English, and the national language is Kiswahili. However, in rural areas, people speak the language of their tribes first, Kiswahili second and English last. In Kianyaga, the tribe language is Kikuyu.

Tea plantation

The last element about rural Kenya relates to food. Kenyans are self-sufficient in terms of food. Most will have their own chickens, at least one goat or cow, and banana and avocado trees on their properties. Most rural households will grow crops, mainly tea, coffee, maize (corn), rice, and garden vegetables. This means that I get to buy fresh products, straight out of the farms. I found it hard at first to know where to buy what I needed; there are no stores selling everything. Instead, I needed contacts for each product (eggs, farm milk, chapati, etc). Once I did get contacts for everything I needed, the freshness of the products made it worth the wait. Sometimes the products were too fresh. Here, when you want to buy chicken, it comes straight from the farm, alive, something I did not know until I bought one. Let me just say that it was an interesting afternoon.


Overall, my experiences in both rural and urban Kenya have been incredible. Kenyans will make you laugh and feel welcomed. Time is flying by, and I know that I will get to the end of my stay feeling like I wished I could have stayed longer.

An unexpected turn of events yet, invaluable lessons learnt

It has now been a bit more than half-way through my internship. I wanted to pause and reflect on everything that has brought me to this very moment and how things unfolded. If someone were to teleport me back in time and ask me whether I believed that all this would happen, I would surely have denied it.

Indeed, everything was perfectly planned. My internship was to start end of April in-person in Lima, Peru at the Instituto de Democracia y Derechos Humanos (IDEHPUCP). Being as excited as I was, I had planned every detail raging from my Airbnb accommodation to my flight there and back, as well as my luggage. Every day I would listen to the news of the country so that I would be informed and well-prepared when I would be there. Every night, I would watch documentaries on Peru, to learn more about the culture, customs, country, and places to visit. I also got in touch with locals and friends for helpful tips.

However, a real-life plot twist took me by surprise. A few days prior to my departure, violent protests including tear gases, injuries, deaths, and blocked roads emerged in the country—and specifically, very near to the region where I was going to stay. To say the least, I was devastated. Due to this turmoil and upheaval, my plans got flustered. My supervisors and locals there, advised me against travelling. Everything went up in the air. In that very moment, despite my confusion and disappointment, I knew that I had learned a very important lesson which was that I should always expect the unexpected.

Now it has already been a few weeks since my start date and I feel grateful despite the rocky beginning. I work with the Institute daily on a fixed schedule, I join meetings with them and help with multiple projects. In fact, this turn of events has not only allowed me to expect the unexpected but also to learn how to adapt to the unexpected once it happens. Further, I feel very happy for all the pre-research that I had priorly done since in some way it, allowed me to travel to Peru without actually having travelled and it helps me understand the context of the work I do.

As much as flexibility was emphasized by the organizers of the IHRIP, I would like to highlight it even further as it was the core theme of my past few weeks. I have learned first-hand what it is like to have to be flexible and do the most out of a situation you can sometimes not control.

Three main lessons I would like to engrave as I move onto the last weeks of my internship, are:

  • Expect the unexpected
  • Flexibility is key to learn how to adapt to the new normal
  • Desire to be constantly challenged

I still have much learning to do, and I am eager to keep on pursuing this process as I complete my time as an intern. With all this in mind, I cannot wait to see how much more I will have learned in just a few more weeks.

5 lessons from my first few weeks in Uganda


It’s been a few weeks since I have arrived in Uganda to work for the summer with the Center for Health, Human Rights and Development (CEHURD). It’s early days yet for all the learning still to be done, but I thought that I could sum up the first 5 big lessons I’ve experienced while here!



  1. Living in a country on the equator is hot.

In related revelations, I don’t drink nearly enough water at home in Canada. Turns out those two things are connected and required quite a bit of correction. But I am happy to report that I am used to the heat by now! Mostly.


View of Kampala from the highest point in the city – the minaret of the mosque!


  1. It’s okay to go slow while you adjust to new places.

I think that there is an instinct to want to move quickly and fill our days with all sorts of activities to ensure we are “making the most” of our time away, but taking my time to settle was the best thing for me to make the most of my experience. Prioritizing rest, balance and health is the best way for me to ensure I can engage fully in the work I am here to do. And as time has gone on, I have added more and more fun to my days and weekends as well.


The office!


  1. Human rights work necessitates a separation of your individual values and the work your do.

Last week, CEHURD hosted a Judicial Colloquium for Magistrates and other justice actors in the Ugandan legal system. It was a training day on Sexual and Reproductive Health Rights, and the work that CEHURD does to advocate and litigate in this field, particularly in the arena of maternal health. Naturally, under this umbrella is a host of controversial and challenging issues that CEHURD regularly addresses in their work, including abortion laws, sex work, LGBTQ laws, HIV health, and many other sensitive, and often personal, topics. Throughout the day, speakers and facilitators were all hammering home a specific message to the judicial actors in attendance: we are all somebody from somewhere. We all bring our own values to the table when we interact with the people around us, and without any awareness of what those values are, we risk allowing them to cloud our judgement. And when our role is to be a judge, a police officer, or any person who has a measure of control over the lives of another, that risk needs to be addressed.

I think that one of the most interesting parts of the day for me was an activity where we placed ourselves on a continuum based on our own personal beliefs in these topics. As it turns out, CEHURD employees personally believe a range of different things about abortion, sex and gender. However as an organization, those individuals advocate with such strength and commitment for Sexual and Reproductive Health Rights because they know that they are an essential component of the Right to Health. What I saw in practice was an incredibly admirable separation of individual values from the practice of human rights work. There is no denying the toll that unsafe abortions are taking on the women in Uganda, no matter what you personally might believe about it. And as an organization that focuses on human rights in healthcare, it is the health of these women that matters above your own beliefs. It was a profound moment of learning for me, and deepened my already-huge amount of respect for CEHURD and the people who work there. I hope I can continue to learn from their example about how to keep untangling my own biases from rights-based work throughout the summer and beyond.


Tracy, one of the lawyers I work with on the Strategic Litigation team.


  1. Bodas are a much more efficient means of transportation than cars.

There is something very satisfying about zipping around cars as they sit in a traffic jam. It’s the best way to get around in Kampala – just don’t forget your helmet!


My view every day while I commute to work.


  1. Lean into support systems, because you really can’t do it alone.

No matter what I might believe about my own independence, I am never reminded of my reliance on others quite so intensely as when I venture abroad. Perhaps the most recurring lesson in travelling for me is the grounding in my own vulnerability, and it seems to arise and need to be re-taught to me again and again. I am so lucky for the support system provided by IHRIP and Professor Ramanujam. I am also very grateful for the connection she provided to Arnold, a former McGill student from Kampala, who arranged for his brothers-in-law (Jacob and Kester) to pick me up from the airport and spend an entire day with me getting settled. They taught me about Mobile Money in Uganda, helped me exchange currency, get a SIM card, learn to use the boda system, get groceries, and have generally been available to help with my transition to living in Uganda. My colleagues at CEHURD have also helped me get settled, helping to arrange logistics for me, checking in on my wellbeing, and offering rides when I needed them. I have also really needed the support of loved ones at home as I transition and process my new experiences. Of course, having someone else doing their internship in Kampala has been significant for feeling connected, and exploring Uganda with Somaya has been a joy! Without all of these support systems, my experience these past few weeks would have been entirely different. It is because of them that I have felt such a sense of security, enjoyment and comfort as I settled into my new routines. So, I have been reminded by this experience once again to make my peace with being helped. Better yet, I have been reminded to lean into it. We all need help from others, especially in new spaces. Leaning into community is a part of being human, and I am grateful that this experience has served as yet another opportunity to learn that lesson.


Somaya in a market last week, when we were on a walking tour of Kampala.


I am deeply excited to continue to observe, research, reflect, explore, chat, connect, present, and socialize for the next couple months. It’s been an incredibly rich learning experience, and I am looking forward to where it will continue to go!


Matoke, the staple food of Uganda. There are truckloads everywhere!

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