Philosophy

My sister was a notorious tattle-teller as a child.

We figured out yesterday that she must have seen a higher purpose to her tattling though.

As we looked over our 4H record books, we came across a project she did as a 10 year old on our cousin Paige, who was 7 at the time. Katrina was evaluating her against a typical 7 year old--the first assessment she ever gave and an indicator that her current career path (clinical psychology) has deep roots.

In the conclusion, Katrina wrote the following (with no evidence to back it up, but come on, she was only a kid herself!):

"Seven year olds know right from wrong and they sometimes tattle for justice."

TATTLE FOR JUSTICE!?!

I laughed so hard I cried.

Material Support Madness

Abdi is one of the Somali refugees that I’ve stayed in touch with since my days at the Refugee Legal Aid Project in Cairo three years ago. My sister helped him learn English when she was living with me and we threw a small celebration when UNHCR recognized him as a refugee: two other Somalis, Hardee’s, and some R. Kelly.

Abdi has a gentle smile and shy eyes. He has a hearing problem and a bit of a stutter. When I was back last August, I reconnected with those same three young Somalis. Once again we went to Hardee’s and took a felucca ride on the Nile. Since then, Max has been resettled to Arizona, where he’s learning to drive and working at Walmart. Hussein won an appeal to UNHCR and is now being considered for possible resettlement, but there’s still a long road ahead.

Abdi emailed me last week to tell me the bad news—he was denied resettlement to the US. He attached the US Immigration denial letter. The form letter had the box ‘persecutor’ checked as his reason for ineligibility. I was confused, considering I’d taken his testimony and was sure there was no way Abdi had been involved in any way in the persecution of others—he was certainly the victim. On the form, written by hand, was the code related to his inadmissibility: INA.212.a.3.b. I jumped online and found the law, which relates to terrorism.

And then it became clear: the US Patriot Act was to blame.

The issue had come up at work several months ago, but only in discussion because it hasn’t directly affected our office yet. The problem stems from expanded definitions of terrorism and the concept of ‘material support,’ which makes ineligible anyone who has given support to a terrorist organization (broadly defined as any group of two or more people who bear arms with the intent to endanger the safety of any individual). What becomes most problematic is that there is no distinction made between support given willing and that which is coerced. For example, a person who gives his car keys to a rebel when a gun is pointed at his head and his life depends on it would be deemed ineligible. The law has even been used against women who have been kidnapped by militias to be used as sex slaves—their rape is considered ‘support.’ Clearly this was not the intent of the law. The very events that demonstrate persecution and qualify someone as a refugee are leading to exclusion for resettlement.

Abdi, who is from a minority, unarmed clan, was kidnapped and forced to work for a powerful militia, loading and unloading bananas for a year. On the first chance, he escaped. He did not work by choice, but because he had no choice.

There has been a lot of lobbying against this immigration law because of its implications for refugees. Just last week, Condoleezza Rice announced a waiver was available to provide an immediate remedy to a problem that most likely needs a Congressional fix. This waiver, however, is limited to ethnic Karen Burmese in a specific refugee camp in Thailand. I don’t fully understand how the government can justify acknowledging that this law is being misapplied—that a waiver option is necessary—and then discriminately apply it to only a small segment of refugees affected. They say this waiver is being used on a trial basis, but then also state that waivers for additional populations are not foreseen in the near future.

I’ve still got my Legal Aid connections back in Cairo (now AMERA) and have rallied the troops there to look into Abdi’s case. At the helm is the matriarch of refugee studies worldwide and the founder of the legal aid program there, a 70+-year-old ex-American (she denounced her citizenship during the Vietnam War…if she hadn’t then, she sure would have by now!). I’m confident that Abdi is in good hands, but am afraid those hands may be tied…

Senegal (in Words)

I left Senegal with the impression that it was a place I would like living. Two American co-workers and I were able to cover downtown Dakar on foot—it was small enough and the streets were actually sign posted at each intersection! We managed to get around by public bus and their version of a tro-tro (car rapide). I hadn’t anticipated so much rubble, but wasn’t surprised that plastic bags littered every scene—Africa’s plague. There were more beggars—some were young boys working for marabouts. Islam has a different flavor in Senegal, which I didn't get to understand very well in my short time there. One evening, from a secondary story restaurant, we saw about 20 tattered youth marching down the road in two columns, shouting Touba Touba, the name of the city where a historical Muslim leader had lived and a major Senegalese holy site.

Most of the refugees we interviewed were black African Mauritanians, expelled in 1989 by the Moors (who are considered white, but there are also black Moors who have adopted Moorish culture). The men wear big, flowy gowns in the richest colors—green, indigo, gold—with unlimited cargo space in a kangaroo pouch. Interviewing paused during Friday prayers. Our tall Pulaar-English interpreter wore a red Islamic hat and with his purple gown and curly graying beard, looked like he belongs in the next Harry Potter movie. The Mauritanians are beautiful people--something about their cheeks and the shimmer in their eyes. Though most women loosely cover their hair, they’d whip out a breast in the middle of an interview for a fussy baby.

Sunday was our day off, so we took a ferry 20 minutes to Ile de Goree. I’d say it was a cute, colorful island, only that seems inappropriate given its history in relation to the slave trade. It had been overrun by crafts and peddlers, but weaving through narrow alleys between brightly painted houses with blooming flowers and 2nd story balconies, it's possible to imagine that must be what Greece is like.

In the afternoon, while wandering Dakar's back streets, we heard drumming from a tent set up in the middle of the block and went to investigate. At first, we assumed it was a marriage. There were 3 or 4 young women wearing black satin dresses with gold flowers up one side. Their tall headdresses were stiff black mesh also accented by gold. Their eyes were made up with gold at an angled swoop that somehow insinuated an evil stepsister. Women took turns dancing a wild, loose dance, often scrunching up their faces or puckering lips and crossing their eyes. It was a baby ceremony and if this were Ghana, the dancing and fish faces would have been to scare away evil spirits. In Senegal, I’m not sure. The women dressed in black were the aunties and always took the floor when there were no other dancers coming forward. The people didn’t seem to pay much attention to us—I think that if we’d been in Ghana, we would have been pulled to the center and made to dance for their amusement.

More than once, when walking down the street together, Senegalese men attempted to strike up conversations with us. At first we’d ignore him or give a curt answer or tell him that we were in the middle of a conversation. Twice, this lead to accusations that we were racist and didn’t want to talk to a black man. It's a clever tactic, because it is bound to ellicit a reaction--possibly even a conversation because the white person doesn't want such a claim to seem true. The second time this happened to us, my colleague shouted back at the man that he only wanted to talk to us because we were white and that he was the racist.

Over the week, we hit up all the major markets, sometimes more than once. Arriving at one directly from work, we were hungry and knew we’d need to find something to have energy for the shopping ahead. At one street corner, we stumbled upon the familiar cast iron pot full of boiling oil and I fell in love. It looked like yam, but tasted like sweet potato (the orange kind). It may have been yucca (which a google search just confirmed was cassava?!). I was sadly unsuccessful in attempts to find it again! As we got two, then two more, than another two, the Senegalese sitting nearby smiled as they watched us.

The food was a fabulous change from what I can get in Ghana: couscous, fresh fish, yassa sauce (lemon and onions), thiebu djen (the national dish of Senegal with fish stewed in tomato sauce and served with djolof rice cooked with tomato). There was also a discovery that bissap is the same as the karkade/hibiscus goodness I loved in Egypt. And I happily sipped at a sample of the juice from the fruit of a Baobob tree.

More photos here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/49751577@N00/

Senegal in Pictures

More pictures

A Concert In Dakar

Papa Wemba is everything a performer should be.

He bounded onto stage in a powder blue ¾ length sleeved rain poncho. He wore gorilla gloves---leather with a 6 inch strip of fur. The band of fluff on his hat matched. Under his poncho we could catch a glimpse—when he’d do a little hop—of black pajama pants with white polka dots.

He’d start each song with a jumping jack move or else an air guitar.

Later, when the poncho came off, we saw a white t-shirt pulled snug over his belly with a red amoeba shaped flower.

Turns out that his back-up singer, a French woman with brilliantly red hair, is married to my coworker’s friend from the rural Tennessee commune (not cult) where they grew up. She had been touring with Ivorian Reggae artist Alpha Blondy and more recently got hooked up with Papa Wemba, the king of Congolese music. She hasn’t been able to travel much since she gave birth and my coworker had the chance to meet up with her old friend and his new baby, who were along for the ride.

This concert had been advertised on posters, billboards and TV, but no start time was ever announced. In Ghana, a time would be stated but the event would have started hours late. We didn’t know how to interpret the non-time of Senegal. We got to the stadium at 9:30pm and by some stroke of luck, the music started within 5 minutes of our arrival; the tickets had 6pm stamped on them.

Senegal is surprisingly chilly in their cold season (for someone used to 90 degree humid weather!). After shivering in the half empty stadium, we decided to go to the parking lot to get something warm to drink. Amber and I were distracted by loud music coming from a nearby building and went to investigate. A DJ and three others were in the upstairs room when “Mr. Lonely” came on. The song was overplayed this time last year in Ghana, but by now I get happily nostalgic when I hear it. We began dancing and immediately warmed up, prepared to go listen to more opening acts.

Duggy Tee, a Senegalese hip hop artist with his own back-up break dancer, came on after Papa Wembe’s big act. It was after 2 am at that point, so we were fading from days of working overtime.

West African music recommendations: Papa Wemba, Duggy Tee, Ishamel Lo, and Baba Maal. Let me know if you want me to burn you a CD!