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La Tunisie, le paradoxe.

Par Alix Genier

Après deux mois ici, je me suis habituée à beaucoup de choses.

L’odeur ambiante du jasmin. La conduite automobile. Les enfants qui vendent des mouchoirs et des machmoums dans la rue. Les chats partout. La nourriture épicée. Les horaires flexibles et les changements de plan. Les discussions sur le bus. Les rencontres fortuites. La lune magnifique. L’interdiction de vendre de l’alcool les vendredis. Les regards dans la rue. Les sorties jusqu’aux petites heures du matin même en semaine. Le sel de la mer. Les bouteilles de plastique partout. Et surtout, surtout, les femmes tunisiennes, leur beauté et leur force.

Faisant mon stage au sein d’une organisation travaillant pour les droits des femmes et l’implication des femmes dans les institutions politiques, je me suis imprégnée de l’essence des femmes dans ce pays. Les femmes tunisiennes sont époustouflantes et, force est d’admettre, qu’elles portent le pays sur leur dos. C’est probablement le cas de beaucoup de pays, mais je pense que ça m’a surprise énormément pour trois raisons principales.

J’avais beaucoup entendu parler de comment la Tunisie était différente, ouverte et progressive. Cela est probablement vraie si on la compare aux autres pays environnants. Les Tunisiens et Tunisiennes me rappelleraient gentiment que cela est vrai aussi par rapport à beaucoup de pays occidentaux! Avec son Code du statut personnel adopté en 1956, Bourguiba – le premier président de la Tunisie après le règne des Bey – avait propulsé la Tunisie en avant : abolition de la polygamie, égalité entre les hommes et les femmes, création de procédure judiciaire pour les demandes de divorce, autorisation de mariage avec le consentement mutuel seulement, et bien plus encore. Malheureusement, aujourd’hui, le chemin à parcourir pour les femmes reste encore grand, surtout en pratique alors que la femme tunisienne reste contrôlée et surveillée par sa famille, son entourage, son village, hommes et femmes confondus. (La campagne de sensibilisation lancée par une ancienne stagiaire de McGill avec Aswat Nissa dénonce d’ailleurs ce problème.)

Je dois admettre qu’il s’agissait de ma première fois dans un pays arabo-musulman/ dans un pays du nord du continent africain : je ne savais pas trop à quoi m’attendre pour être honnête. On entend tellement de choses sur les pays arabes dans nos médias – qui leur font trop souvent mauvaise presse – que je ne savais pas du tout ce qui m’attendrait lorsque je poserais les pieds en terre tunisienne.

J’ai été fascinée de constater, à vivre ici et à discuter avec les gens, que la majorité de la population est fière de sa religion et est en accord avec le fait que la Tunisie soit inscrite comme un État musulman dans sa toute récente Constitution (adoptée en 2014). Les Tunisiens et Tunisiennes ont (l’air d’avoir…?!) une relation particulièrement respectueuse avec la religion : autour d’une même table, au sein d’une même famille ou d’un même groupe d’amis, on retrouve des filles voilées et d’autres non. À la plage, bikini et burkini cohabitent paisiblement.

Je dois toutefois souligner que malgré cette apparence de tolérance, un grand poids pèse sur les épaules des filles tunisiennes qui doivent « être de bonnes jeunes filles, qui ne doivent ni fumer ni boire ». En d’autres mots, elles doivent être de jeunes filles aux bonnes mœurs (un terme qui, au Québec du moins, en ferait rougir plein d’un. Ou devrais-je dire : plus d’une!) Le plus choquant pour moi a été de découvrir qu’une importance IMMENSE est encore accordée à la virginité des filles.

J’ai eu la chance de discuter avec de jeunes femmes engagées en politique qui participaient au programme de l’Académie politique des femmes d’Aswat Nissa (l’un des programmes phare de l’organisation avec laquelle j’ai fait mon stage : le programme vise à offrir des formations aux jeunes femmes impliquées en politique dans le but de leur donner des outils pour qu’elles deviennent des agentes de changement, notamment pour la condition de la femme dans le pays, dans leur localité). Lors de la formation organisée sur le thème du genre, elles ont eu un grand débat sur cette question, je n’ai évidemment pas tout compris comme la discussion enflammée s’est déroulée en arabe (j’y travaille, je vous promets!), mais l’une d’elle est venue me voir pour me faire part de ce sur quoi elles avaient échangé. Un élément qui m’a énormément surprise est que dans certaines familles, la mère et la belle-mère de la jeune mariée attendent impatiemment le drap tâché au lendemain de la nuit de noce, un trésor qu’elles conserveront précieusement…

Les participantes de l’Académie politique des femmes d’aswan Nissa lors de la formation Genre et Égalité de genre.

Enfin, il s’agissait de ma première fois, avec des yeux aussi aiguisés, dans un pays où les rôles de l’homme et la femme sont aussi socialement définis. Disons simplement que j’étais très alerte aux différences et… aux injustices. Ce billet serait immensément long si je faisais la liste exhaustive de tous les exemples qui m’ont frappée.

Parlons simplement des célébrations de mariage où les hommes et les femmes ont des cérémonies de préparation différentes, des édifices à logement où seules les femmes ont le droit de vivre et d’entrer, des espaces dans les maisons qui sont réservés aux femmes, du rôle central (lire sacré) occupé par les mères et du devoir de protection de l’homme envers la femme.

Mais parlons aussi des cafés des hommes (où les femmes n’ont formellement pas le droit d’entrer), du fait que l’on retrouve dans les champs un ratio de trois, quatre ou cinq femmes qui travaillent pour un homme (lorsqu’il y a un homme…), du fait que ce sont les femmes qui doivent s’occuper de la maison et des enfants (et qu’on ne parle pas du fameux « double shift de travail »), du fait que les jeunes garçons sont tellement protégés et couvés par leur mère (au point de difficilement, à 25 ans, savoir se faire cuire des œufs ou faire seul leur sac pour le weekend), ou encore que certaines femmes doivent demander la permission à leur mari pour sortir (puisque la « place de la femme est à la maison »).

Pour moi qui a grandi dans une société plutôt égalitaire, au sein d’une famille où, malgré une répartition genrée des tâches domestiques, les hommes et les femmes jouissaient d’un statut égal et possédaient un pouvoir décisionnel, financier et social équivalent : ce fut un choc.

L’homme tunisien et la femme tunisienne ne sont, aujourd’hui encore, malheureusement pas des égaux. Ils sont différents, considérés différemment et traités différemment, pour le meilleur et pour le pire.

J’ai trouvé que la ligne était trop souvent fine entre la protection et le contrôle. J’ai trouvé qu’il était difficile de justifier que la fille devait être entourée et surveillée par son père et ses frères pour la protéger des autres prédateurs masculins.

La Tunisie est un paradoxe pour moi parce que les femmes sont autant vénérées que diminuées. Autant les femmes sont-elles présentées comme des personnes fragiles et vulnérables (ce que je peux comprendre parce qu’elles possèdent effectivement moins de moyens et sont socialement beaucoup plus limitées), autant il m’a semblé que cela était seulement de grandes excuses pour que les hommes se sentent forts entre eux. Réellement, aucune femme tunisienne n’accepte d’être vulnérable. Certaines sont soumises peut-être, d’autres résignées, d’autres encore jouent le jeu. Mais la cohésion impressionnante qui existe entre les femmes tunisiennes est fascinante. Elles partagent ce fardeau entre elles, ce qui rend les choses plus faciles, j’imagine. Elles se tiennent les coudes, rient et font de mini-révoltes contre les hommes. (J’ai aussi eu beaucoup de temps – et d’exemples ô combien intéressants! – pour cogiter sur les relations amoureuses entre les hommes et les femmes.)

Les femmes tunisiennes sont pleines d’idées, aiment leur pays, prennent soin de leurs enfants et espèrent un monde meilleur. Des jeunes élues municipales qui ont dû mener un véritable combat – au sein de leur famille tout comme au sein de leur communauté – pour parvenir à prendre cette place qui leur revient de droit, aux jeunes diplômées qui ont des projets plein la tête, en passant par les femmes des campagnes dont la subsistance dépend de trois-quatre poules et quelques arbres fruitiers, les femmes d’ici sont belles et fières. Elles ont un sourire, parfois édenté, radieux et un regard, parfois terne, intelligent. Les femmes tunisiennes savent, perçoivent et comprennent la vie. Et je plains les hommes de la Tunisie le jour où les femmes décideront qu’elles en ont assez. Façon de parler parce que, entre vous et moi, ils en seront en grande partie responsables…!

Les habitantes de cette maison nous ont offert une poignée de caroubes alors que mes amis et moi regardions leur arbre, intrigués.

Le 13 août est l’anniversaire du Code du Statut Personnel et le Jour de la Femme en Tunisie. Je souhaite dédier cet article à toutes ces femmes magnifiques que j’ai eu la chance et l’honneur de rencontrer lors de mon séjour ici.

À toutes ces femmes, je vous dis bravo et sincèrement merci. Vous me rendez fières d’être votre sœur.

La patience est un art et une vertu.

Tunis en fleur.

Alix Genier

Il y a quelque chose d’étrangement rassurant de savoir que l’on s’attable avec presque l’entièreté d’un pays. Il est 19h14 et c’est mon premier souper seule depuis que je suis arrivée en Tunisie il y a maintenant deux semaines.

Mon repas est prêt : une salade simple sans trop d’épices, un petit goût de la maison. Mais pourtant je m’abstiendrai de l’entamer avant le coucher du soleil. J’aurai le signal de départ lorsque la petite rue de mon appartement deviendra silencieuse : les enfants qui y jouent de tôt le matin à tard le soir seront rentrés avec leur famille, le son de la prière annonçant la rupture du jeûne aura retenti dans tout le quartier et j’entendrai tinter les ustensiles des maisons voisines. Le silence de la rupture du jeûne. Même si ce Dieu n’est pas le mien, il est celui de mes amis et de ceux qui seront ma famille pour les trois prochains mois.

Le Ramadan est une période de découverte pour moi : découverte d’un pays aux gens généreux et accueillants, découverte de paysages grandioses, découverte d’un soleil chaud qui nous pousse à la sieste d’après-midi, découverte des soirées vivantes. À cause du repos forcé sur la vie des gens, j’ai exploré mon quartier, ma ville et j’ai visité la campagne tunisienne. Par un besoin d’occuper mon corps et mon esprit trop habitués au rythme de vie nord-américain, je me suis retrouvée sur une ferme où j’y ai fait la rencontre d’une famille extraordinaire. Lentement, c’est un mode de vie que je découvre.

Au courant d’une balade nocturne avec ma colocataire tunisienne, elle m’a demandé ce qu’il y avait de différent ici. J’ai répondu le papier de toilette de couleur, la hauteur de marche qui est inégale, le flexible (il me fera plaisir de détailler l’utilisation du flexible dans une conversation personnelle), les coqs qui chantent à toute heure du jour et de la nuit, la beauté des bougainvilliers et la chaleur des gens. Si on ne m’a pas souhaité la bienvenue 150 fois depuis mon arrivée, c’est qu’on ne me l’a pas souhaitée une seule fois. Des gens accueillants qui possèdent une force intérieure, une combativité et un espoir profond que demain sera meilleur. La plupart des gens avec qui j’ai discuté sont déçus de la tournure des choses depuis la Révolution de Jasmin de 2011 : le taux de chômage demeure toujours élevé (12,4% chez les hommes et 22,7% chez les femmes en 2018), le coût de la vie est encore trop haut pour le salaire moyen et la nouvelle classe politique reste au service de l’élite qui s’est mise en place suite à la Révolution. Bref, c’est « bonnet blanc, blanc bonnet » comme dirait ma grand-mère. Malgré tout, les gens ont espoir que les choses changeront, que la Tunisie peut retourner à ces heures de gloire, qu’elle a toujours ce potentiel énorme. Beaucoup de gens m’ont confié avoir pensé à émigrer au Canada, mais leur patriotisme, leurs racines profondément ancrées et la vie douce et chaude de la Tunisie les a gardés ici. J’admire beaucoup cette flamme qui brulent au creux de l’âme des Tunisiens et des Tunisiennes, cette flamme que nous avons perdue par chez nous. Désillusionnés et abattus, nous sommes amers. Une autre différence entre ici et le Canada est la patience : les gens ici ont compris que cette belle Tunisie est le résultat de plusieurs ères, de plusieurs peuples et de plusieurs projets. La Tunisie n’est pas pressée, elle a tout son temps. À l’image des gens qui l’habitent.

Le Ramadan est pour les Tunisiens et Tunisiennes un exercice de patience, de foi, d’humilité et de confiance. C’est un mode de vie. Même si tous et toutes ne sont pas croyants ou pratiquants, ces valeurs sont, de mon œil d’observatrice encore lointain, le reflet de la philosophie d’un grand peuple.

Les conversations font de nouveau écho dans la rue. Les gens ont terminé de manger chorba (soupe aux tomates et à l’orge), salade méchouia (salade de piments et de tomates grillés et écrasés), briks (pâte phyllo frite farcie d’œuf, de fromage, de persil, de thon ou de viande) et tajines (ressemblant plus à une omelette espagnole qu’à son pendant marocain). Certaines familles auront peut-être sorti quelques petits gâteaux, avant-goût de l’Eïd qui aura lieu dans quelques jours. Quant à moi, mon souper terminé, j’irai rejoindre des amis à la Médina (incroyablement animée en soirée durant ce mois de Ramadan) pour siroter un fameux kahwa arbi, si délicieux et si imprononçable!

Coucher de soleil sur la plage de El Haouaria.

Zikomo, Malawi

  By: Julia Bellehumeur

 

Working in Malawi as an intern for the Equality Effect was an amazing experience.  It felt like three months flew by so quickly, yet I was there long enough to develop a strong connection to the country and the people.

Small town at the bottom of our Mt Mulanje hike

 

Poster created for the conference

As noted in my previous blog, one of the main projects I worked on in Malawi was organizing a conference, or as we called it: A capacity building workshop on challenging the corroboration rule for rape.  Quick recap: this “Corroboration Rule” is a discriminatory, colonial rule requiring women and girls to provide additional evidence specifically in cases of rape or defilement. Myself and my co-intern developed the framework for the workshop based on interviews we held with community members involved in sexual offence cases and their perspectives regarding access to justice for survivors of sexual violence, and how the Corroboration Rule factors in.

Following the creation of that framework, I started coordinating every aspect of the conference, including speakers, guests, funding, and logistics.  I learned a lot of unexpected ways to adapt my work habits to be more compatible in Malawi.  For example, Wi-Fi access in Malawi is extremely limited, and scheduling meetings that actually happen even close to on time is very unlikely. It became essential to find new methods of communication so that our work did not remain stagnant.  Instead of sending emails to judges or police officers, I would contact them via WhatsApp, or just simply show up at their offices where we were always warmly greeted.  Once I figured that out, each week I started to plan which days I would devote to taking mini-buses across the city and tracking down everyone with whom I needed to meet.

A few mini-buses driving through Blantyre

Post-yoga morning coffee

In addition to not having Wi-Fi, my office frequently experienced power outages, which meant that I would have to work from home in the evenings to have access to the free (but shoddy) Wi-Fi after 6pm.  Although this seemed like a burden at first, I eventually adapted my schedule to start some work days later after enjoying a morning coffee and a self-directed yoga session in the sun.  I would instead work later into the evening long past the 5pm sunset (until mid-July when evening-long power outages became the norm between 4pm and 9pm).  In Malawi, it became quickly apparent how important (and even sometimes enjoyable!) it is to step outside of my comfort zone and try different strategies when working on any given task.

Working from our Malawian home

The day to day of the “event planning” was so distant from my expectations of what “human rights work” would look like that after getting the hang of things in preparation for the conference, I began to question many aspects of my role.  I never expected to be running around the city between various stationary shops hunting for basic products like nametags, or finding myself negotiating printing prices in the small dingy office of a back-alley building.  I also never expected to be the person meeting one-on-one with young male lawyers who may want to fund our project, or may really just want to chat for a few hours to learn about Canada. And I definitely never expected to be taking the lead on a project as big as organizing this conference for so many people in positions of authority and power in Malawi.  When I was told I’d be heading to Malawi instead of Kenya, I thought I’d be sitting inside at a desk all day researching cases on my laptop with an embarrassing amount of google chrome tabs open. . .   The work I did instead was exciting, but confusing for reasons that I could not understand throughout the rush of it all.

High Court judges among other guests at the conference

On the day of the conference, high court judges, magistrates, lawyers, doctors, social workers, survivors, community members, legal experts, police officers, a psychologist, and a poet all gathered at the Malawi High Court to discuss the Corroboration Rule.  After each local expert’s presentation, I observed engaging group discussions that highlighted the complexities of the topic.  What struck me most was how these conversations evolved from initial discomfort and frustration between sectors, to each sector coming up with creative ways to improve access to justice for survivors of sexual violence in their own respective fields.  This interdisciplinary conversation allowed me to experience how a holistic approach can generate new strategies and perspectives to tackle complex issues.

(See the following link for a local newspaper’s perspective on the conference: http://mwnation.com/challenging-corroboration-rule/ )

Upon further reflection, I began to understand the bigger picture of what I had learned through my internship and my role in planning and attending this conference.  The people of Malawi helped me understand the importance of all the practical aspects, big and small, that go into making legal change relevant in the real world.  Finding ways to engage the community in supporting and understanding any given issue is a huge component of legal change.  Sometimes, that means printing flyers, ordering donuts, and setting up tables.  Other times, it means social workers giving presentations at a school, or to government officials.  But even once the law is changed, there is still a tremendous amount of work that goes into changing community practices and enforcing those laws.  I saw this to be particularly true in the recent banning of child marriages. The constitutional claim my organization is working on needs things like conferences and workshops, education programs, funding, and so much more for the written laws and legal arguments to have any real impact.  We need doctors, police officers, and judges alike to be on board with seeing the law evolve.  By observing the discussions at this conference, I finally understood my role in the project, the skills I developed, and the outcome of my work.

Me and my best Malawian pal, Chimz

While the culture in Malawi is so different from Canada, I realized that the principles of change in this area of law are still very applicable.  Rape myths, social stigmas, and systemic legal barriers are not all that different, although they may be on a different scale. Being open to trying new things and taking a holistic approach to human rights issues through interdisciplinary strategies is also equally important at home.

My experience on this internship was so multifaceted that I’ve been finding it hard to articulate exactly what it is that made it so special.  It’s almost overwhelming to try to dissect and identify the various elements to what I learned and what I am taking away.  I can say, however, that I have never questioned so many things in my life as when I was in Malawi; yet, I have never been so sure that this was exactly where I wanted to be in that moment.  Things came together in a chaotic but ultimately beautiful and satisfying way and I genuinely wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Zikomo & tionana, Malawi <3

 

 

My stay in Dakar

2017-Boily Audrey By Audrey Boily

Many things could be said about my brief stay in Dakar this summer. I could elaborate on the sound of the ocean or the beauty of the nearby beach, I could mention the suffocating heat and the need to sleep under a mosquito net with no fan, or I could simply describe the differing living conditions and scenery from the ones I’ve grown accustomed to in my hometown of Montreal. Truth being said, this is not what I will remember from my internship in Senegal and it is not what I would like people to focus on when describing my trip. I would rather want people to remember things hardest to verbalize; the new emotions that I learned to deal with and situations of which the beauty and power is lost when put into words.

One thing that really stood out from my experience was the loss of bearings I experienced upon arrival and during the entire length of my trip. For example, it took me two weeks to be able to identify what stop I had to get off the bus to get to work (something I do quite easily at home). At first, every building looked the same; it seemed impossible to establish clear landmarks.

It also took me time to understand where my place was within my organization, my host family and with my Senegalese friends. Means that I normally use to avoid or deal with conflicts seemed obsolete. I still had a voice and a desire to express my ideas, but didn’t always know how to do so in a constructive and respectful way. Once I understood the reasoning behind certain Senegalese habits, it became easier for me to accept them and move forward.

Another amazing part of my trip was the many different types of relationships I built with the people I met. A true sense of community existed in my neighborhood. Each family knew the others and every parent looked after the others’ children. When preparing a meal, it was always difficult to assess the quantity to prepare as in the event unexpected guests arrived around meal time, they would invariably be invited to stay and eat. With these relationships came very diverse and interesting conversations about life, religion, family, friendship and culture. The hardest part was nothing experienced during my stay, but having to leave and say goodbye to the many people that made my experience meaningful and memorable.

Les “Gardiens de la Brousse”

Lucas MathieuPar Lucas Matthieu

Le Burkina Faso connait depuis deux ans maintenant l’émergence de milices armées indépendantes dans les quatre coins du pays. Nommées « Koglweogos » (Gardiens de la brousse), ces milices se proposent comme garantes de la sécurité des populations dans les zones du pays que l’armée et la police ne parviennent pas à couvrir. L’émergence de tels groupes relève de la synergie d’un certain nombre de facteurs. Le manque de confiance des populations envers le corps politique, notamment depuis la révolution de 2015 et la période instable de transition qu’il la suivit vient se coupler avec l’incapacité du corps judiciaire à poursuivre les auteurs d’un certain nombre de crimes impunis (entre autres l’assassinat de l’ancien président Thomas Sankara et du journaliste Norbert Zongo). Par ailleurs, l’insécurité extrême à l’Est et au Nord du pays, tant au niveau des attaques à main armée sur les routes que de la menace terroriste grandissante au Sahel, a démontré l’incapacité de l’État à assurer la sécurité des citoyens Burkinabès. Un collègue me racontait l’histoire d’un commissariat de campagne, couvrant une zone immense, et n’ayant pour seul équipement qu’une mitraillette et une moto pour quinze policiers. On comprend dans ces conditions que les populations s’organisent pour gérer leur propre sécurité.

Les Kowglweogos ont le mérite d’avoir rempli leur objectif. L’insécurité dans l’Est du pays a baissé drastiquement, les attaques se font plus rares, et les Burkinabès dorment plus tranquilles. Mais cela se produit au coût du manque total de respect pour les droits des présumés voleurs. Ceux-ci sont ligotés, parfois victimes de torture ou de traitement inhumains et dégradants, et forcés à confesser leurs présumés crimes sans autres formes de procès. Une fois confessés, ils sont maltraités d’avantage , voir parfois trainés à l’arrière d’une moto dans tout le quartier pour servir d’exemple aux voleurs potentiels. Facebook regorge désormais de pĥotos de ce type, postés par les groupes Koglweogos.

 

Un post Facebook du groupe “Koglweogos du Burkina Faso”.

Ainsi, si l’intimidation de ce type est bien une force de dissuasion efficace, elle se produit en désaccord complet avec les droits de la personne. La règle de droit et le droit à un procès équitable passent à la trappe; les Koglweogos se font juges et partis, et les victimes soufrent de traitements inhumains, d’atteinte à leur intégrité physique et morale, et à leurs droits à la propriété.

Le rôle d’organisations comme le Mouvement Burkinabè des Droits des Hommes et des Peuples devient alors paradoxal. Les Koglweogos sont des structures citoyennes qui tentent de défendre leur droit à la sécurité devant la faillite de l’État à le maintenir.  En tant que tel, ils doivent, selon le MBDHP, être encouragés. Mais comment créer un discours permettant à la fois d’encourager les initiatives citoyennes et locales palliant au déficit de l’État, tout en étant forcé d’en condamner les agissant en termes de torture et de violation des droits humains ?

J’ai eu la chance de rencontrer, lors de la visite d’une des antennes du MBDHP à Koudougou, trois Koglweogos qui étaient venus demander de l’aide au MBDHP suite à l’arrestation arbitraire de trois de leurs camarades. Le groupe de Koglweogos était entré en conflit avec la communauté d’un village. L’un des villageois refusait de payer les « frais de corde » (l’amende infligée par les Koglweogos aux voleurs ) et était parvenu organiser son village pour se battre contre les Koglweogos venus réclamer les frais. Une fois sur place, le groupe de Koglweogo refusa le combat et appela la gendarmerie. Celle-ci les incita les Koglweogos à leur remettre leurs armes et à les escorter « en lieu sûr ». Au final, elle en emmena trois directement au poste pour les arrêter, et en livra cinq autres, désormais désarmés, à la population en colère. L’un d’entre eux est désormais porté disparu, et présumé mort.

Un groupe de Koglweogos

J’avais, avant cette rencontre, mis au point pour Équitas l’introduction d’un « Plan d’action » au niveau des Koglweogos. Cela m’avait permis de mettre au point un document d’une dizaine de page, expliquant la genèse de ces groupes, leurs méthodes, et les problématiques qu’ils posent en termes de droits humains. Pourtant il fallut une rencontre directe avec l’un de ces groupes pour avoir l’autre coté de l’histoire; et comprendre les rapports de force, ainsi que le sentiment d’indignation, que ces groupes aussi connaissent devant la faillite de l’État. Lors de la réunion, le premier Koglweogo qui prit la parole nous expliqua selon son point de vue, que le MBDHP et les Koglweogos recherchaient les mêmes objectifs : corriger les individus pour faire une meilleure société. Seulement, selon lui, le MBDHP utilisait les méthodes des « blancs », alors que les Koglweogos utilisaient des médhodes plus « traditionnelles ».  Mon collègue répondit qu’il comprenait, et que seul un dialogue et une compréhension commune pourraient permettre à chaque parti d’attendre ce qu’il voyait aussi comme un objectif commun, la sécurité des Burkinabès.

Cela n’a pas répondu à mes interrogations quand au paradoxes que doivent connaitre les association de défense de droits de la personne devant des groupes de ce type. Mais ce fut une bonne leçon sur l’importance d’entendre toujours les deux côtés du récit, et de savoir appréhender chaque situation dans sa nuance et sa contingence particulière. Et surtout, sur le rôle irremplaçable des organisations grassroots comme le MBDHP. Il apparait que les seuls acteurs capable d’apporter cette nuance sont ceux qui agissent sur le terrain, en connaissent les contradictions, les compromis et les rapports de forces. Rien dans le matériel et la recherche que j’avais accumulé sur le sujet jusqu’à mon entrevue n’aurait pu m’y préparer, ou me permettre de donner une réponse tranchée à un paradoxe comme la réponse à donner aux Koglweogos.

Learning to Sing: A Look Back on my Summer in Peru

Melisa DemirBy Melisa Demir

There are a number of ways that I could describe my fifteen-week journey to Peru –  an amazing adventure which often times all seems like a blur to me now.

“How was your trip?” is the most common question I’ve been faced with since my return – one that I expected, and yet still have trouble answering. “There’s not enough time in the world to tell you all about it,” I say.  Sometimes, I confess that it all went by so quickly – that it feels like I never even left.

Still, I find myself saying that my trip was busy, as I spent most of my days working hard to meet deadlines, or travelling back and forth from airports or bus stations early in the morning to get back to work on time after weekend getaways. When including it on my CV, I will probably write about how this was the summer in which I developed my research skills, perfected my Spanish, and learned about national and international human rights protection through my contributions to reports, events and other projects with the IDEHPUCP. My friends know it as the unforgettable trip where I managed to live by myself in a foreign country, made friends from all over the world, and climbed a countless amount of mountains – both physical and figurative.  

To me, this was the summer where I learned how to sing.

**

In Lima, life is always bustling – cars and busses honk through stop signs instead of actually stopping, bus drivers scream the route out of the window instead of having a formal system like we have here in Montreal, and nearly everyone listening to music fearlessly belts their hearts out as they sing along, no matter where they are.

I was shocked the first time I heard my colleague – who later became one of my best friends – singing her favourite reggaeton music in the middle of the office on my first day. I rolled my eyes and chuckled as the person behind me during the walk to the grocery store sometime early on in my trip sang and danced to his music. In Montreal, this would be seen as obnoxious and disruptive – but in Lima, it was a form of expression that had not yet become taboo or subjected to the social expectation that, in public or at work, one must be discrete. Where I was used to being expected to fit into a set of social standards, to mold into the rest of society and stay in the shadows, they would charge forward in individuality and expression, full of life and heart-warming spirit.

Walking through the streets of Magdalena del Mar on Peruvian independence day

It wasn’t long before I stopped jumping in surprise when someone in the Institute’s academica department broke the concentrated silence of the area with a few words of one of the summer’s top hits, and instead, started smiling and dancing along to their melody. Their voices and music ended up being the soundtrack to my summer, characterizing my walks home, my evening dinners with my Peruvian family as they sang “El gato nero” to their one-year-old son, and, of course, my time at work. As this aspect of Peruvian culture lost its foreignness, my initial role as the young, shy Canadian intern terrified of speaking Spanish at the risk of sounding stupid slowly morphed into one of sociability and confidence. The country that once seemed so distant from everything I knew began to transform into a home – or as my colleagues and I liked to call it, mi patria. On Peru’s independence day, I attempted to belt out their national anthem. I joined in many birthday celebrations at the office in which the entire Institute gathered around to sing “Happy Birthday” in choir around a large strawberry shortcake from the bakery down the street. Eventually, I even found myself humming along to my music as I typed.

What at first glance appeared to be an example of the care-free stereotype we often associate to Latin American culture eventually revealed itself to be a beautiful expression of happiness, confidence, and hope. A life in human rights research, I quickly realized, can be a daunting one. The nine-to-five work days, which often dragged out to nine-to-eight days during busy periods, are a constant realization of the terrible things that occur around the world, sometimes as close as within the city you work or live in. Every hour is filled with reminders that the world can be a terrible place for some, and that having the opportunity to advocate against human rights violations is a product of your privilege to not be on the other side of them. When one project ends, it’s on to the next one, dealing with similar hard realities, only with regards to a different violated right, and rarely with any assurance that the work you submitted will ever make it into the hands of a policy-maker, or even make a dent in the international hardships you are trying to alleviate. Most of the time, all you can do is hope that what you invested your heart and soul into makes a difference, even if by just raising awareness about the issues around you, and keeping pushing forward until the change you work for finally comes. And so, they sing.

**

I had never worked in human rights before my experience in Peru. I now have the utmost admiration for those who do – who dedicate their lives to making the world we live in a better place, if only for some.

On my last day of work, I submitted my final project, took pictures with my friends in the department – who I would see later for a final goodbye party – and emotionally emptied my desk. As I left, I closed the mahogany doors of the Institute behind me for the last time. I hugged Señor Ochoa, the security guard that greeted me every morning, goodbye.

During the walk home, I sang along to Ed Sheeran’s Perfect.

Perceptions, Misconceptions, and Reverse Culture Shock

Ohayon Jillianby Jillian Ohayon

Perceptions & Misconceptions

Here are some of the things that were said to me in Canada when I told people I would be spending the summer in Uganda:

“What’d you do to piss your dad off?” – My father’s (very loud and rather obnoxious) acquaintance, whom I met in the Montreal airport on my way to Uganda

“Is it for a punishment?” – My Cameroonian Uber driver in downtown Montreal

“If you can’t afford to fund the difference on your own, maybe you should get a real job in the summer instead of doing an internship in Africa.” – McGill financial advisor

***

The first thing that I’ll say is that the general Canadian public’s perception of East Africa, and Uganda in particular, seems to me a little twisted. It’s true that Uganda is one of the least developed countries in the world. There is poverty. It is hot outside most of the time. Police officers regularly walk around carrying machine guns. Most living compounds are surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. That being said, there is not crime, violence, and savagery to be found around every corner like some of my friends and family were concerned there would be. Uganda is not a dry and deathly desert land; Uganda is vibrant, lush, and beautiful.

I have also noticed some western misconceptions with regards to East Africans themselves, in that I get the sense that some people assume laziness on their part. To be clear, very few Ugandans sit around pouting, complaining about living in poverty, and waiting for some wealthy person from some wealthy country to come and dump money into their laps. Everybody is doing something pretty much all the time. I always tell people that there exists a strong sense of vitality in Uganda that I have never quite felt before in any other place that I’ve visited. In fact, Uganda was recently named the most entrepreneurial country in the world. From what I have felt and observed, it is a sense of gratitude, pride, and resilience that fuels this spirit.

I worry that the negative stereotypes about danger and disease in East Africa keep people from visiting, even just for purposes of tourism. Uganda has a lot to see. Among others, I visited Jinja (the town on the source of the Nile), Sipi Falls, Murchison Falls waterfall, and went on a safari in Murchison Falls National Park.

Roasting coffee beans, Sipi Falls

Murchison Falls National Park

Murchison Falls National Park

Murchison Falls

Murchison Falls National Park

Sipi Falls

Cave by the shore of the Nile, Jinja

Sunset over the Nile, Jinja

Reverse Culture Shock

Everybody expected me to find myself in serious culture shock upon arriving in Uganda. That didn’t happen. This might have been because I had had a few long, in-depth conversations with two expats living in Kampala before leaving Canada. It may have been because I had prepared myself to expect the unexpected. For whatever reason, I arrived in East Africa, took in the warm, sweet air that filled my senses the moment I stepped off the plane, and hit the ground running. Kampala felt like home after only a few days.

My Canadian-Ugandan friends and I at the top of the Gadaffi Uganda National Mosque overlooking Kampala

This is not to say that there does not exist a multitude of significant dissimilarities between Canada and Uganda. There are certainly many cultural and ideological differences between Canada and Uganda that make being a young, white female more difficult in the latter country. I grew used to being incessantly catcalled on a daily basis on my ten-minute walk home from work. I grew used to having locals shout “Muzungu!” at me in their attempts to get my attention to buy their products (actually, sometimes, they didn’t even want to sell me anything – they just wanted the satisfaction of gaining my attention). I also quickly became used to walking around the city hyperaware of the fact that almost everybody assumed I was in possession of deep pockets filled with American dollars. I even learned the hard way not to travel alone after dark. However, just like Uganda’s shoddy internet and temperamental electricity, all of this just became a part of the experience – and because I loved the experience so deeply, I learned to love the bad with the good.

It was the reverse culture shock that hit me the hardest.

Coming home was not easy. My departure from the full and exciting new life that had so quickly materialized before my eyes throughout my three months in Kampala was cushioned slightly by travels to Kigali, Rwanda with my close friend and IHRIP intern, Julia, as well as a four-day stopover in London, England. Nonetheless, I arrived at home in Montreal, spent a few hours with my family, and proceeded to sleep for seventeen hours straight. I think that, combined with the intense jetlag through which I had put my body, this was my subconscious way of avoiding the feelings that I knew were creeping in ever too quickly as I tried to reintegrate into a society and a life that I now felt so far away from.

It wasn’t just that I missed the beautiful friends I had made over there, or the restaurants I had been to so many times that the waiters knew me by name and even brought me a cake with the words “We are going to miss you” written in chocolate on my last night in Kampala. That was undoubtedly a part of it; but there was something more.

I had never anticipated feeling so free. This feels like a somewhat ironic sentence to write. I can imagine that someone reading this may be thinking, “Free? Really? In a country where you were shouted at every time you walked outside in public and felt afraid to walk alone at night?” Yes. Kind of. I will try to explain it as best as I can, but please bear with me, as I’m still trying to figure it all out for myself.

Kampala, with all of the shouting, traffic, pollution, and poverty that it has to offer, is imbued with a vibrant soul that is only felt by those who understand it. I know this to be true both because I have felt it firsthand and because I have spoken to many people who have enthusiastically agreed with this assertion. It probably isn’t the most beautiful city in the world. It’s not on the ocean, nor is it exactly wealthy. It is, however, a city of sunshine, red earth, many hills, and an abundance of palm trees. All of Uganda has a certain vitality to it. Whether it’s a woman braiding her daughter’s hair, a man selling fruit on the side of the road, or a child carrying water to their home in jerry cans, everybody always seems to be doing something. Rarely do they seem exhausted or miserable. In fact, to my mind, they generally seem to be much happier than the average person one might encounter in North America.

There is also a very different mentality in Uganda by contrast to Canada with regards to time. Scheduling and planning – which are essentially second nature in the western world – do not hold the same influence over Ugandans. One might often hear jokes about “Africa time.” Africa time is, for example, when you tell someone you will meet them at 10:00 AM and then only show up at noon, and nobody thinks anything of it. Rarely did a work meeting begin sooner than 45 minutes later than its set time. Again, nobody ever seemed to be particularly stressed over this. If I told a boda boda driver to pick me up in ten minutes, it was because I knew I was only going to be ready to leave in twenty. This was a significant aspect of Ugandan life that helped to feel liberated during my time there. It might have also been a part of why coming back to the western world felt like something akin to suffocation for a while.

There is also a feeling of liberation involved in being a white person in East Africa. As young females especially, whether or not we are always conscious of it, we live under the constant impression that we are being scrutinized. We aim to look a certain way, we dress in a certain way, and we even walk, sit, and stand in a certain way. Being in Uganda, I knew that I was going to be noticed and stared at no matter what I did. There was no way around that. It took me a while to get to this point, but eventually, I came to find this realization very liberating. It didn’t matter what I was wearing, how I looked, or how I walked, because people were going to stare at me either way. Since nobody there knew me previously, I was free to do and act as I pleased, and to let go of some of the unconscious stress and awareness of judgment that governs so much of my behaviour on a daily basis back home.

To be painfully honest, all of this, combined with the facts that I was on a different timezone from everybody who had ever known me and that I had limited internet connection, allowed me the space and freedom to discover parts of myself that I’m not sure I had known existed. It’s a very liberating feeling, to say the least.

***

Well, that’s about what I have to say on Uganda and its gift of reverse culture shock. Thanks for reading my blog! If you’re reading this because you’re considering visiting East Africa, I hope that my experience functions as a helpful push in that direction. Challenges will certainly present themselves from time to time, but I can guarantee that the positive aspects will far outweigh the negatives. You cannot put a price on the self growth from which you benefit when you succeed in making a home out of an unlikely and unfamiliar place. It wasn’t always easy, but it most definitely was worth it.

Safeguards – Regional and International Protections on the Rights of Children

Katerina LagasséBy Katerina Lagassé
The Adhikain Para Sa Karapatang Pambata (AKAP)[1] Child Rights Desk of the Ateneo Centre for Human Rights works with different stakeholders to advocate for children and has contributed to drafting legislation and building programming for the ASEAN region in partnership with Save the Children.

Currently, AKAP is compiling research on children and corporate social responsibility. In the ASEAN region, children are affected by adverse business practices. They may be affected either directly, by working illicitly as underage labourers, or through other means such as being relocated with their families as a result of land expropriation by corporations or the government, through forced migration due to social and or economic pressures and by being exposed to toxic substances from resource extractive industry practices.

Supporting children’s rights requires businesses to continually and diligently assess their potential human rights impacts and mitigate the issues that are identified. All ASEAN member States have ratified the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC) and continue to implement domestic laws that follow the CRC framework.[2]

There are different social, economic, and political environments in the ASEAN States which create obstacles to the effective implementation of the CRC. All ASEAN member States are parties to the ASEAN Convention Against Trafficking in Persons, Especially Women and Children. This convention recognizes the proximity of borders and promotes regional cooperation to effectively “combat trafficking in persons, especially against women and children, and to ensure just and effective punishment of traffickers […]”[3]. However, ASEAN member States are each affected differently by the impacts on children associated to business practices. As mentioned these impacts include exploitative child labour and human trafficking and other factors that result from social and economic disparity that shape vulnerable populations (migration, HIV and AIDS, Natural disasters, emerging diseases and conflict).[4]

Certain provisions of the CRC are particularly relevant to business responsibility and state protection.[5] As per the CRC, State parties  “recognize the right of the child to be protected from economic exploitation and from performing any work that is likely to be hazardous or to interfere with the child’s education, or to be harmful to the child’s health or physical, mental, spiritual, moral or social development” and are required to “take legislative, administrative, social and educational measures to ensure the implementation of the present article(s)”.[6] Recognition in particular requires providing a minimum age for employment, regulation of hours and conditions of employment, and imposing penalties or sanctions to ensure the provisions are effectively enforced.[7] States are required to protect children from sexual exploitation and sexual abuse[8], from trafficking[9], and against any form of exploitation that prejudices a child’s welfare.[10] Furthermore, States are required to implement penalties for abuses[11] and to take measures to promote the physical and psychological recovery and social reintegration of children that are considered victims of “neglect, exploitation, or abuse; torture or any other form of cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment; or armed conflicts” in order to promote the “self-respect and dignity of the child”.[12] According to the CRC, State parties are required to implement child protection measures to ensure the government fulfills their commitment. As of June 2017, Indonesia is the only ASEAN member State to launch a National Action Plan on Business & Human Rights.[13]

[1] Akap is a Filipino term that means “to embrace”.
[2] “Situation Review of Children in ASEAN: A report by UNICEF to the Association of Southeast Asian Nations” (December 2007), online: UNICEF < https://www.unicef.org/eapro/Asean_book.pdf > [UNICEF, “Situation…”].
[3] ASEAN Convention Against Trafficking in Persons, Especially Women and Children (entered into force November 21, 2015) at art 1(a), online: Interpol <https://www.google.ca/?gws_rd=ssl#q=asean+convention+on+human+trafficking+interpol >
[4] UNICEF, “Situation…”, supra note 8 at 9.
[5] See CRC, supra note 9 at arts 32, 34, 35, 36, and 39.
[6]Ibid at art 32.
[7]Ibid.
[8]Ibid at art 34.
[9]Ibid at art 35.
[10]Ibid at art 36.
[11]Ibid at art 32.
[12]Ibid at art 39.
[13] FIHRSST, “Indonesia publishes National Action Plan on Business & Human rights; first to launch NAP among Asian countries” (25 June 2017), online: Business & Human Rights Resource Centre < https://business-humanrights.org/en/indonesia-to-develop-a-national-action-plan-on-business-human-rights#c159131 >.

The Ateneo Human Rights Center (AHRC) and Human Rights Education

Katerina Lagassé By Katerina Lagassé
The Ateneo Human Rights Center (AHRC) of the Ateneo de Manila School of Law facilitates an internship program that provides an opportunity for Ateneo law students to gain experience in human rights advocacy and alternative lawyering. This program provides students with an understanding of the “vulnerable sectors of Philippine society”.[1] Throughout the year, different batches of students participate in the internship program. There are three main activities the Semestral Break Internship program (two weeks), the Summer Internship program (2 months), and the Graduate Internship Program (yearlong).[2] Subsequent to the internship, students continue to support the program and the centre by generating activities and research that supports human rights advocacy.[3] The summer program is unique because it includes a week-long immersion in an Indigenous community that is followed by an internship placement at human rights groups around the country. The mandate of these organizations ranges from addressing issues related to the environment, children, Indigenous peoples, urban poor, women, fisher folk, detention prisoners, and migrants (to name a few).[4] Each placement allows students to gain an invaluable hands-on experience that exemplifies the barriers that exist to access to justice and the importance of alternative lawyering in the Philippines context (and abroad).

In Atty. Marlon J. Manuel’s article “Lawyer with the Poor”, that is reproduced in the Training Manual for Paralegals (and interns), he deconstructs the concept of alternative lawyering. For Atty. Manuel, it is a form of lawyering that uses legal tools and works through the legal system to address social issues, but is not limited to solely providing legal aid.[5] Alternative lawyering is distinct from traditional conceptions of human rights lawyering in that it focuses on “economic, social and cultural rights rather than on civil and political rights” while “seek[ing] to effect societal change”.[6] This form of practicing the law requires understanding the precarity of social relationships and circumstances that perpetuate injustices and necessitates working with the marginalized not for them.[7] Atty. Manuel’s legal career reflects this philosophy and practice which the interns were able to witness in the documentary on the struggle of the Sumilao Farmers before commencing their internships.

Prior to departing on the immersion, students undergo the basic orientation seminar and read the Training Manual for Paralegals. During the seminar, presentations by different specialists provide a framework to understanding Human Rights in the national context. This year, the presentations included: Alternative Lawyering (Atty. Anmau Manigbas, AHRC), Legal Aid and Client Interview (Atty. Kenjie Aman, ALSC), Children’s Rights (Atty. Nica Yan, AHRC – AKAP), Refugees, Statelessness and Internally Displaced Persons (Atty. Anmau Manigbas, AHRC), The Environment and Human Rights (Usec. Ipat Luna, Department of Environment), Peasant Farms Section and Agrarian Reform, Human Trafficking – Modern Day Slavery (Atty. Vida Verzosa, International Justice Mission), Women’s Rights and Gender Sensitivity (Atty. Nayie Caga-ana, Urduja-AHRC), Indigenous Peoples’ Rights (Atty. Ma. Vicenta De Guzman, PANLIPI), Criminal Justice System (Atty. Iyok Abitria, HLFA), and Justice Reform in the Philippines  – Hustisya Natin (Atty. Tonet Ramos, Alternative Law Group).

Atty. Ma. Vicenta De Guzman’s introduction to Indigenous Peoples rights in the Philippines and the organization PANLIPI demonstrated the importance of providing paralegal trainings to Indigenous and other rural communities. In particular, PANLIPI supports and empowers indigenous communities to gain control of their Ancestral Domain and maintain their self-determination. These forms of training provide community members with the tools required to advocate for their rights and understand the legal framework which effects their rights. Each presentation contributed to unpacking the concept of alternative lawyering in the Philippines and how this form of legal practice creates valuable social networks and empowers people to advocate for their rights. The immersion experience as well as the internship placement will be carried by the students throughout their professional career regardless of what legal stream they decide to follow – as attested to by past interns and the AHRC team.

[1] Training Manual for Paralegals, A publication of the Ateneo Human Rights Center (2010), p. 101.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Ibid.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Ibid at 6.
[6] Ibid.
[7] Ibid at 8.

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.

 

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