Human Rights

Lesbians “are a small minority” “who don’t adhere to the prevails of nature.”

These are the remarks made by a Committee member on the Committee on the Elimination of Discrimination against Women (CEDAW).  CEDAW is an independent body of experts tasked to implement the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women.

The meeting, held on July 16, brought together a number of NGOs concerned about discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender.

Astonishingly, the Committee member then implied that NGOs were bringing forward “false-issues” that “have no basis on international law.”  The Committee member then said that sexual orientation and gender discrimination would not be recognized in the committee’s text nor work.

Such derogatory remarks made by a member of CEDAW is of serious concern.  Homophobia has no place in society and much less so in an organization that espouses anti-discrimination ideals.

Indeed, article 2 of CEDAW explicitly states the absolute prohibition of discrimination in all its forms against women.  While these remarks do not reflect the whole of CEDAW it is nevertheless depressing that one of its members believes  lesbians are the exception to article 2.

Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, Human Rights First,  Center for Women’s Global Leadership and International Service for Human Rights have all signed a letter (pdf), addressed to Ms Dubravka Simonovic
Chairperson of CEDAW, condemning the remarks.

For well over two generations the aftermath of the Rwandan genocide continues to haunt large swathes of the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). In the east DRC, a campaign of rape and violence against women and children goes largely uncontested, despite a massive deployment of 17,000 UN troops (MONUC), and despite a call on all parties to respect the Goma agreement. Now the UN Security Council is on a ten day tour of Sudan, Chad, Cote d’Ivoire, DRC, and Nairobi (to discuss Somalia). Here is one of the many issues it needs to address.

The remnants of the Hutu extremists in the DRC, murderers and so-called soldiers, proliferate in an environment of impunity. Rape, torture, sexual slavery, and violence of these extremists is devastating thousands. Nobody knows the real numbers but in 2005 in South Kivu alone, 14,200 confirmed cases were recorded by the UN Office of Human Rights in Sud-Kivi – and the following year - 27,000.

Then, last Thursday, the International Criminal Court (ICC) prosecutors dropped all charges of sexual violence in relation to the DRC. Germain Katanga and Mathieu Ngudjolo, two militias leaders, charged with sexual slavery, may walk free. ICC judges are excluding women’s statements, interview notes and transcripts from being used against the two rapists. The reason – prosecutors, fearing for the personal safety of the witnesses, relocated the women living in danger in Ituri to an undisclosed location without going through the usual bureaucratic procedures outlined by the ICC registry…

Female genital mutilation is a human rights violation. Some undergo the procedure as infants, others as teenagers. According to the World Health Organization, anywhere between 100 to 140 million girls and women have undergone this procedure. Below is an article I wrote in 2005 while in Tanzania, it is a story of two women standing their ground against FGM. The names of the daughter and mother have been changed to protect their identities.

Tanzania - August 2005. The sun beating down hard on the baked soil, rows of limp corn bow their heads as if in reverence to the ominous melting peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro in the background. The old taboos are cast. Fear is in the watery eyes of 15-year old Vallery who stands along with her mother under the sparse shade of an acacia.

A day earlier in a run down office building along the outskirts of Moshi, Bassilla Renju-Urasa, Executive Director of NAFGEM(an association of women against female genital mutilation) says, “Though outlawed in 1988, FGM is still practiced in some tribes in the Kilimanjaro Region. The so-called reasons behind this practice are diverse. They believe it facilitates birth and is hygienic. But the real reason and the saddest one of all is sexual control.”

Not an hour later, 70-year old village informant Kikund Cha leads me by the hand to the Moshi bus terminal. Crammed inside a mini-bus (locally referred to as dala-dalas), hawkers push their goods through the cracked windows. The dala-dala ideally seats 9, I count 23.

Kikund speaks Kiswahili and a local dialect, both of which I don’t understand. But she arrived at NAFGEM that same morning from the remote area of Tindigani, desperately pleading for an investigation into a 15-year old girl threatened by FGM.

In 1996, the Tanzania Demographic Health Survey concluded that 81% of the Arusha Region practiced FGM, 37% in the Kilimanjaro Region. The Tindigiani high district is nestled in the Kilimanjaro Region and although most tribes in the area have either stopped or never performed FGM, the Kamba tribe seems to be the exception.

Off road, the drive continues through the countryside until finally, four hours later we arrive at the village market, followed by a two hour walk to Chekimaji where Kikund leads me to a hut. A short while later, 54-year old Bakari Samiji Mdee greets me in English, offers me tea and the story unfolds. Arrangements are to be made and news spreads of the white man’s arrival. I am to meet with Vallery the following day.

Secondary education in Tanzania costs 120.000 Tsh/year (around 100 USD). Sent off to secondary school in Dar-es-Salaam, Vallery returned to her village when her father died. A retired schoolteacher, he supported his family through savings and with a small government pension was able to pay for his daughter’s education. After his death, his social welfare stopped and the family finds itself without income. They now belong to Vallery’s uncle whose ideas of home planning are firmly rooted in tradition.

Tradition has it that when a man dies, his brother inherits his wife. Miriam refuses to become a concubine. The furious uncle withdraws Vallery from school in November 2004 and decides to marry her off but first she must under go the procedure. Vallery writes a letter threatening to kill herself if forced to succumb to her uncle’s wishes. With no income and no man as head, they rely on will and conviction. They turn to UVITA, a local CBO headed by Bakari for help. In turn, UVITA notifies NAFGEM.

The following day, another long walk through the valley. Dirt paths intersect and given the sparse vegetation, one can see far. In the distance, silhouettes of trees seem to dance as the waves of heat emanate from the ground up. Bakari explains that we are to meet Vallery and her mother at a house in another village, sympathetic to their cause. For the two women it is a cloak and dagger operation. Where rumors and gossip spread quickly, the two must leave their village without suspicion.

“I’m afraid for my immediate family,” says Miriam. “I am afraid they will be poisoned for our actions. I tell my children to stay at home and not go anywhere.”

Six men and women sit on an old couch inside the house. It is cooler here but we move outside for more room underneath the acacia. A table is set up. Behind the house smoke billows as a young girl feeds the hearth with wood.

Vallery stands solemn and quiet as her mother speaks. “My daughters hate this hell,” she says referring to her other daughter Cybil. Miriam has five children, two daughters and three sons. The boys are too young to understand what is happening. The feeling of isolation and helplessness coupled with the threats are taking their toll. She recently received an anonymous letter threatening her children if she doesn’t comply.

Though officially outlawed, Vallery has little recourse to the law. The authorities turn a cold shoulder at her plight and she is visibly afraid. Close to an hour later, conversation over, the two women begin their trek home. We part in opposite directions, the long walk back heightens the sense of isolation. Behind us, the two women like the distant trees appear to dance on the horizon in the engulfing and bone drying heat. It is a sad dance of silence.

Pain carries along with it a burden, sometimes visible, sometimes hidden. You and I both understand this, we have all experienced it. And undoubtedly, we too have used it to our advantage, feigning strength while at our weakest.

From Hammurabi’s Code to the New Testament to the Quran, women, indentured servants, and homosexuals have historically been excluded from the divine dignities of morals imposed.

And so in the relative safety of Kurdistan in northern Iraq, a story has surfaced of a young woman who was nearly beaten to death and is now hiding in a women’s shelter in the northeastern city of Sulaimaniyah. “They started to beat me without even letting me speak,” she said.

Her uncles, brothers and her father took their turns until she fell slumped unconscious, bleeding profusely with a broken hand. Her crime - she spoke candidly of love, romance and sex. Her boyfriend secretly recorded the conversation on his mobile phone. He passed it onto a friend who then passed it on to her family and the “honor” killing ensued. Remarkably, she survived.

Boyfriends, partners, husbands, are making secret mobile phone recordings of their wives or girlfriends in Iraq and Kurdistan. Some women are undoubtedly blackmailed, others just killed. In Kurdistan, the first reported case was in 2004. Mobile footage of a 17 year-old girl having sex was circulated. She was dead two days later.

Her story however is not unique. Either more women are suffering from honor killings or those who are surviving are somehow finding the courage to speak out and make their case heard. The official Kurdish count stands at 106 cases in 2005 to 266 in 2006 though it is probable most cases go unreported.

In a 2005 address to the Council on Foreign Relations, President George Bush had this to say about Mosul – “In places like Mosul and Najaf, residents are seeing tangible progress in their lives. They’re gaining a personal stake in a peaceful future, and their confidence in Iraq’s democracy is growing. The progress of these cities is being replicated across much of Iraq — and more of Iraq’s people are seeing the real benefits that a democratic society can bring.”

Two years later, bystanders applauded and recorded with their mobiles as men stoned to death a teenage girl. This was on a street in Bashiqa, a small town near Iraq’s second largest city of Mosul.