After a preliminary meeting in August, Oxfam brought together a number of key organizations in January, including World Wide Fund for Nature (WWF), Wildlife Conservation Society (WCS), and PACT Cambodia. The groups reviewed proposed oil and mining projects and discussed ways to ensure that future revenues contribute to sustainable development in the region.
In recent months, companies from the US, China, and Australia have scrambled to obtain mining rights in Cambodia, a country rich in untapped resources. BHP Billiton, Southern Gold, Oxiana, Chevron, and other companies have signed deals with the government to explore indigenous lands, including protected forests, for minerals such as bauxite, gold and copper and offshore areas for oil and gas.
"The rapid pace of the development means that we might not have a say about if it happens, but more how it happens," said Warwick Browne, a program officer in Oxfam America's East Asia office.
The future revenues from the extraction of resources could add up to several billions of dollars a year in the near future, according to estimates by local organizations. That amount is expected to dwarf Cambodia's current economy, which is currently based on foreign aid, agriculture, and garment manufacturing.
With that sort of cash influencing the government's actions, Oxfam and other non-governmental organizations say they will have to act as watchdogs over the burgeoning extractive industries, making sure that the affected indigenous people get a say in the whole development process—and if and when oil and mining projects should even move forward on their ancestral lands.
"Now they're just exploring, but it's important to get people involved early on. By participating, we want to avoid environmental, social, and cultural impacts," said Chhith Sam Ath, executive director of The NGO Forum on Cambodia, an Oxfam partner. "We also want to empower communities to have some decision-making power."
NGOs have long played an important role in advocating for Cambodian people and their rights over natural resources. Back in the early 1980s, when the country began rebuilding after the devastating reign of the Khmer Rouge, groups like WWF and WCS began their campaign to conserve the forests of the northeast highlands, those threatened then by a sudden influx of illegal logging, and now by the extraction of minerals.
The organizations made the issue a zero-sum game, said Joe Walston, country program director for WCS. There was little conversation about how logging revenue could help Cambodia, only about how it would hurt the affected ethnic communities and biodiversity. With mining, the groups need to think more broadly and consider how mining could actually fuel the economy, Walston said.
The biggest challenge for Cambodia will be avoiding the "resource curse." when countries rich in resources are essentially cursed by their bounty instead of blessed by it. Unable to translate their resources into a strong economy, some countries actually become poorer when large-scale mineral, gas, and oil companies generate export revenues that are either squandered or misused.
"Oxfam and its partners need to engage with the government and corporations to make sure that affected communities are not left worse off," Browne said. "At the same time, Cambodia needs to follow best practices and international standards so that oil, gas, and mining can be managed in a just and equitable way."
]]>We were there, together with Angel Chavez, one of Oxfam America’s humanitarian officers, to gather stories about Oxfam’s work with alpaca herders. They had suffered serious losses in 2004 when a severe winter storm killed many of the wooly creatures that are the backbone of the local economy. So vital are these camel cousins to the well-being of the families scattered across the mountains that many of the shelters they have built for the animals are superior to their own mud-brick and stone homes.
The income from alpaca wool—softer than cashmere when it’s cleaned, spun, and woven—feeds and clothes families, buys them medicine, and helps cover the occasional extraordinary expense. Without the few hundred dollars herders earn each year from the sale of the wool, life in these barren, thin-aired mountains would not be possible for them. And for many, it’s the only life they have ever known, helping to account for Peru’s position as the world’s top producer—by far—of alpaca wool.
About 80 percent of the wool now on the market comes from this South American country; Bolivia produces another 15 percent; and the rest comes from a smattering of countries including Australia, Switzerland, and England. So you would think, given Peru’s dominance in the industry, that the work of these Caylloma herders would guarantee their families a measure of security. Not so.
There, at nearly 16,000 feet above sea level, nothing is certain: The cold kills, and changing weather patterns are robbing the region of the rain it needs for mountain pastures to grow. Life is hard, and people are very poor.
Oxfam’s work with Proyección has been to help Caylloma herders find ways to buffer themselves against future disasters by improving pastureland; planting barley to serve as an emergency reserve for their animals; and developing an early alert system, including the installation of a simple radio network—all at an altitude that has scared off just about every other aid group.
“Nobody has worked at this height,” said Rivera. “No one wants to come up here. Only us.”
There’s a reason: To reach Caylloma’s remote communities requires a degree of energy that would exhaust a lesser field coordinator and his team. But for Rivera, that challenge—and the need that is so evident among the families of this rugged terrain—is the inspiration that repeatedly draws him up the steep slopes to Chinosiri, Jachaña, and a handful of other hamlets.
From Arequipa, a city in southern Peru where Proyección has its offices, the drive in a pair of heavy-duty pickup trucks to the town of Caylloma took us about seven hours through rain, hail, and snow on a rutted mountain road—and that was just the first half of the journey. Following a night’s rest, we left at 6 a.m. for the three-hour climb to Chinosiri, the belly of our truck scraping the ruts as we inched around hairpin turns and splashed through streams carving gullies in the dirt track.
The snow was falling in fat, wet flakes, blanketing the mountains in white, when Rivera, in the truck ahead, pulled over and jumped out, signaling that this—of all high and remote spots—was just the place for a group picture.
“Beautiful!” he said, surveying the vast emptiness around us: no trees, no bushes, no dwellings—only mountains and more mountains with sharp rocks underfoot.
It wasn’t until I scrambled up the slippery bank to where Rivera and Chavez were already standing in the snow that I realized just how hard the work in Caylloma could be: Without the sea-level amounts of oxygen I was used to, a few quick steps at 15,748 feet high left me breathless and exhausted. Puffing hard, I slipped back down the embankment and into the truck, grateful to be sitting once again, and marveling at the stamina of my colleagues. Could I do this, like them, on a regular basis? Could anybody?
Rivera had already answered that question: No.
The air at the end of this Andean summer was cold and damp, and all of us in the pair of trucks were bundled in just about every stitch of clothing we had brought. I had on two shirts, a sweater, a fleece vest, a fleece jacket, a down vest, a windbreaker, thick wool socks, and a wool cap—just enough to keep the chill at bay.
So I was surprised to see, beyond the steamed windows of the warm truck, two boys hiking hard and fast through the mud on a slope of pasture: They had only sandals on their feet—no shoes, no socks to keep the cold away. They’re boys, I thought, and that’s what boys do: tough things.
But as we bounced along, there were others—men, women, children—all wearing sandals in the frigid air. And as the clouds swept across the sky, occasionally unleashing a shower of cold rain, some of the mountain dwellers hardly seemed to notice, and simply wrapped themselves tight in their woolen blankets and ponchos.
Jose Gonzalez Condo, who has lived all of his 39 years in the tiny community of Chinosiri, explained that he and his fellow villagers are used to the mountain weather and its variable conditions. Chinosiri is home, he said, and he likes it.
But as weather patterns have begun to change—the rains are coming late, which in turn delays the growth of pasture grasses and threatens the health of herds—raising alpacas at this altitude has become increasingly difficult, said Gonzalez. And in the recent past, there was no way to get the word out about challenging weather conditions—be they drought or cold waves—unless someone made the 30-mile trek down to Caylloma to ask for help. The only way to get there is on foot, and the walk takes a day.
Chinosiri’s new two-way radio, installed by Proyección in February, has connected this remotest of villages to the outside world. And with that connection has come the sliver of hope that a way of life for the 70 families there—and for more than 3,400 rural residents scattered across the Caylloma district—is now more secure.
]]>Devapiriam is the director of Anawim Trust, a rural development organization that undertook relief efforts when the tsunami struck the coast of Tamil Nadu, India.
“Right after the tsunami," she says, "we provided people in the area villages with food, medical aid, and then temporary shelter."
But while she and her staff labored to get aid to everyone in need, she never lost sight of the particular struggles of women and children.
"Already we were working with women and children before the tsunami, because they were the most oppressed in the community. After the tsunami, initially most rehabilitation aid was given to men, who received fishing boats," says Shanti. "So we focused on the women."
She first helped women form self-help groups—community organizations where members save, lend, and invest money together. She then provided trainings to group members in both job skills and how to run a business.
In one highly successful joint venture with Anawim Trust, three self-help groups of Dalit women have come to own fifteen 30-foot fishing boats, which they rent out to local fishermen. At an impromptu meeting on the beach of Senthilveethi in March 2007, several of the women talked about the impact boat ownership has had on their lives.
"Earlier we used to work as laborers, but now we are the owners of boats," said Devika, who like many people here goes by only one name. "Now men are working in our boats. And we have confidence that we can be the owners of more."
"Now the other boat owners respect us as owners," added Maragatham, another self-help group member.
The police, too, are paying more attention to the rights of these women.
"In the past, the police didn't respect us. They ignored our complaints," said Muthulascmi, an elderly member of a self-help group. But when a motor from one of their boats was stolen, the police responded quickly. "We got it back immediately."
And with past hurts fresh in their minds, the women have taken steps to right some old wrongs. "We feel that we treat our laborers better than we used to be treated," said Maragatham. "Laborers now prefer to work with us because we always give them their fair share."
The experience of the women of Senthilveethi illustrates the impact that gaining access to high-value assets can have on impoverished women, and why gender researcher Chaman Pincha considers it a particularly effective tool for empowering women in the wake of disasters.
In June of 2006, Pincha and a team of independent researchers undertook a study—initiated and funded by Oxfam, and managed by Anawim Trust—to help document how gender affected the experiences of tsunami survivors, the various ways tsunami aid providers have integrated gender sensitivity into their programs, and what impact those programs have had on women and men.
Collaborating with a group of ten non-governmental organizations (NGOs) that share the goal of ensuring gender equity in aid delivery, she and her team carried out discussions with tsunami survivors in 45 villages served by the NGOs in the hard-hit districts of Kanniyakumari, Cuddalore, and Nagapattinam.
The field work revealed aid efforts that had missed the mark, but Chaman and her team put greater attention on practices that can serve as models for NGOs responding to future disasters.
“It was unfortunate that for the sake of avoiding bias, we couldn't hold focus groups in the areas where Anawim Trust works," says Pincha, "because a number of their programs reflect the best practices that emerged from the study."
Training women in nontraditional trades, for example.
In a spacious, well-lit room of the Anawim production center, a young woman named Selvakani sets up a job on a printing press. After two trainings followed by two years of hands-on experience, she handles the tools and equipment with ease—cleaning and installing rollers, positioning the image plate, and then running off a stack of flyers, somehow managing to keep her sari clean throughout. She prefers this work to her other alternative—agricultural labor—and with job offers at printing companies beginning to roll in, she has given herself a foothold in a relatively secure and well-paid line of work. Selvakani enjoys telling people about her job and says they respect her unusual skills. "They say, 'it's a good job that you're doing,'" she says with a smile.
"Training women in nontraditional skills breaks stereotypes and can enhance women's self-esteem. It helps them fetch better wages, and over time helps them achieve positions of leadership," says Pincha. "It's one good strategy for aid providers who are committed to women's empowerment."
The gender study, which is now being finalized, is one of several that Oxfam has carried out in the wake of the tsunami.
"By undertaking studies that draw out the experience and perspective of community members and combining that with the knowledge that aid providers have to offer, we hope to strengthen not only Oxfam programs but also those of the aid community as a whole," says Russell Miles, Oxfam America’s Tsunami Research Program Manager. "Sometimes the results confirm our hunches, sometimes they elaborate on existing knowledge, and occasionally they surprise us."
For her part, Devapiriam is looking forward to the completion of the gender study, whose recommendations she believes will help strengthen her already-impressive array of programs for women. "It's very important to us to have a chance to learn from the best practices of other organizations."
She takes her Oxfam guests to one last gathering before they leave town. In the village of Mangalawadi, a self-help group has purchased a collection of new chairs and utensils to rent out on big occasions, and today they celebrate the launch of the new business. It is a joyful event, where in amongst the formalities, spontaneous speeches erupt.
"Before we founded the self-help groups, we never had confidence in ourselves, and we had no assertiveness," says Alli, an elderly group leader, who has helped local groups collaborate with one another. "Forming a self-help group is not such a great thing in itself. Everyone is doing it. But here we don't just focus on money. Here we have created unity."
]]>I was traveling with Ransam Mariga, Oxfam's program officer in Zimbabwe, and Bridget Masaraure and her colleagues Grace Tambo and Helen Dhliwayo from the Single Parents and Widows Support Network, our partner in Zimbabwe. Our mission that day in December was to visit a few of the 6,000 families that had received a package of seeds and other assistance, part of an agriculture recovery project designed to help them grow some food during the approaching rainy season.
Our first stop was Beatrice Masuku's household. Her homestead consisted of several small brick and mud buildings with corrugated iron or thatched roofs spread in a rough circle around a yard of baked dirt. We crowded under the shade of a tree and settled onto a few chairs and a mat. As we began to talk, several children peeked out from behind one of the small buildings, laughing in delight at the sight of the unexpected visitors.
The Masukus have eight children, and had taken in five orphans, children of Beatrice's brother. The family of 15 makes a living by farming and selling what they can of their crops. The children look after other people's cattle. It's not an easy life, made more difficult by erratic rainfall and Zimbabwe's continuing economic woes.
Beatrice Masuku brought out bags of seed to show us what she'd received, making several trips between her granary and our shady tree: plastic bags and packets of millet, pumpkin, kale, bean, and sorghum seeds filled her arms.
In previous years, when the family hadn't received seeds and times were difficult, she explained to us that she had to ask neighbors for seeds. "People would look around and see if they had any extra seed in their granaries," Masuku said. "They would sometimes not have any seeds or any money to give us." If that happened, she would go work in someone else's fields in exchange for seeds or money, and do whatever job they wanted—and she would then have to work in her own fields as well.
We followed Masuku out of the compound and down a dirt path that led to the family's fields. She showed us where she had already planted the groundnut (peanut) seeds that came in the seed package. The rest of her fields were already prepared for planting the other seeds. She explained that she is waiting until the seasonal rains begin before she plants the rest.
Farmers in most parts of Zimbabwe have no choice but to wait for rain. Few have any other means of irrigating crops. In recent years the rains have been extremely erratic, with too much rain that washes away soils followed by extended droughts. Lack of rain is now a brutal counterpoint to the economic crisis. When taken together it is very hard for most farmers to make ends meet, particularly those with chronically ill family members or caring for orphaned children.
Masuku says that the seeds she received from Oxfam and the Single Parents organization, plus a little she saved from last year's harvest, will allow the family to manage well over the year ahead—if the rains begin soon. She expressed hope that the first pumpkins would be ready soon so that the family can use the pumpkin leaves as an accompaniment for their maize meal, or sadza, the staple food in Zimbabwe.
After returning to the compound we said goodbye and piled back into the car. The group continued on to several other households as part of our monitoring of the Oxfam agricultural recovery project.
The other households had stories similar to that of the Masukus: families who have taken in orphans, some of whom are affected by chronic illness and HIV/AIDS, and all struggling to survive in a country with an inflation rate of almost 1,600 percent. The declining economy means that sometimes there are shortages of everything farmers need, and other times the prices are so high that average farmers cannot afford to buy the seeds, fertilizer, fuel, and other basic inputs to run a farm. It is a serious situation in a country dependent on agriculture.
As we sat in one compound, again under a shady tree, members of the Kanjere family of 10 told us how they occasionally receive food aid but that the delivery is sporadic—sometimes they receive nothing. However, one woman in this household talked enthusiastically about the seeds and fertilizer that came from Oxfam and Single Parents. The seeds were the best types for the dry region, she explained, and because the variety of seeds in the package help them to grow vegetables as well as grains like sorghum. The pumpkins, beans, and kale fill an important gap in the period before other grains can be harvested: "In two months we will fend for ourselves," she told us.
As we drove out of the compound, the family members returned to their seats in the doorway of their house and under the tree. Fields already prepared, there was nothing to do but wait for the rains to begin.
We ended the day with a visit to a community garden funded by Oxfam America. Community gardens help families grow vegetables in the winter season, providing enough food to survive until they can plant, grow, and harvest their next crop. The gardens require less intensive labor, which benefits those who are not physically strong, and the vegetables grown in the gardens are both nutritious and a source of income.
The garden is surrounded by a thick "fence" of prickly branches and, inside, there are many rows of long, even beds. We were visiting after most of the vegetables had been harvested for the season so many of the beds had only sparse vegetation, but the plants that remained were bright green against the dark soil.
Each garden member is given several rows to plant, and seeds for green beans, butternut squash, kale, onions, cabbage, and carrots. We stood on the packed dirt paths that divided the beds, under the hot sun, and talked to members of the garden. Each of the women and one young man we met had a difficult story to tell: being widowed, having sick children to care for, or taking care of orphaned siblings. One young ma's parents died when he was younger, leaving him in charge of his siblings. "I used to be a child heading a family, but now I am older and look after seven orphans," he said. "It's tough to look after so many orphans, and I mostly use this garden to support the children." By the end of last winter his beds were full of onions which he hoped to sell after they matured.
The garden members told us that although much of what they grew was eaten to supplement the families' staple food, sadza, they were also able to sell some vegetables. They used the income for school fees, purchase of other foods, medical expenses, and to pay for the grinding of maize. "Things are better than before because I could sell my harvest," said a young mother of two.
Since women are typically the ones interested in participating in community gardens in Zimbabwe, I asked the young man why he was a member. His response was very honest: "I am interested in gardening because of the hard times. I have a lot on my shoulders and am gardening because I have no other choice. I would rather have money to start my own business, but I also need the garden."
Emily Farr is the deployable humanitarian officer for Oxfam America in Boston. She works primarily on Oxfam's programs in Africa.
]]>A woman in her 30s looked up from the floor, directed her gaze at me, and spoke. "Señorita," she began respectfully, yet ready to speak her part. "These projects you have helped us with are good. We are growing fish, and our gardens are healthy. But, a real concern to me is education. After completing the 6th grade here in the community, where will my children go to study?" She explained that she does not want to send them away to boarding school, but that she wants them to be educated "so that they know who they are, and what they can do." She proceeded to ask us to help them build a school.
This is a big request. I had to explain that Oxfam is not in a position to build schools in every rural Amazonian village. And once built, they need to be staffed with properly paid teachers. Schools also need books, desks, chalkboards, qualified teachers and to be maintained—every year. Funding a school from outside the community can be risky. A well-meaning donor could cover some construction and other costs. But as the years go by, if there is no viable local structure to foster education, who will be responsible for the school?
However, I continued, the people of Sensa have a basic right to quality education for their children, and we would consider supporting their efforts to claim that right in collaboration with the communities farther down the river. This would involve organizing these communities, and forming allies with others outside the Urubamba river valley. In this way they could reach out to the local and national government, who are responsible for education, and advocate for decent schools that will endure.
The contrast between the poorest indigenous people in Peru and the fantastic wealth in timber, gas, and minerals coming from their lands is stark. While the local government builds fancy offices for itself down the river in Echarate with oil and gas money, villages like Sensa, where the resources are extracted, have no electricity, telephones, or health clinic.
The indigenous people in these villages do not always understand their rights to a fair portion of these revenues in the form of basic services like health care and education. And if they do, they may not have the means to verify that they are getting their fair share. They usually lack the skills and political connections to hold accountable a government that has never shown it is open to the concerns of its native peoples.
"You do not want to be beggars, saying 'We are poor, give us money. Take care of us,'" said my colleague Igidio Naveda, himself an indigenous person from the Andes of Peru and a passionate, highly experienced program officer.
"No—you are indigenous people," he continued. "You have your culture, your traditions; you love your land. You have rights and need to demand them and ensure that they are met. And your lands: these are your home. Would you walk into someone else's home and take their things, leave a mess, disrespect the place? You should demand that the loggers in the area, the gas companies, the government workers respect your rights, and knock at the door before coming in. You need to lay out the rules and make them follow them."
Heads were nodding and people began to speak to one another in their Yine language. The group became animated, some laughing, others speaking intensely, gesturing as they sat at the wooden tables.
We concluded the meeting soon thereafter, inviting a new and more ambitious funding proposal from them, developed together with the chiefs of the other three nearby communities that had participated in the current project. A proposal like this would show that the community is moving to the next level of organization: The villagers will need to coordinate the project with other communities, and create effective ways to encourage the local government to meet its obligations. They will also have to address the illegal logging and other threats to the environment coming from outside the community.
From my perspective, last year's project was a success. It helped indigenous communities manage their local biodiversity and begin to increase their food supply. That, in turn, served as a catalyst for them to become organized and collectively determine their priorities. This greatly strengthens their control over local development efforts, and increases the likelihood that new projects they pursue will succeed.
Although they may lack the advocacy skills needed to get the government to meet its obligations to educate their children immediately, we know the right organizations that can train them. Once people know their rights and are educated, they are better able to hold their leaders accountable. This knowledge and sense of empowerment can never be taken away. It is one of the best investments you can make, because it helps people learn to solve their own problems—they create a vision for the type of future they want for their village, set their own priorities, and make sure that they are met.
Hoping to reach the next community before dark, we excused ourselves from the welcoming community of Sensa, slipping down the muddy river banks to our canoe, with children trailing us on all sides, teasing each other and, laughing, no doubt at the spectacle of the four outsiders that had come to visit. The sun had moved sideways along the river and the tree tops were shining with a golden light. As the first mosquitoes of the evening reached us in our boat, we pushed off and continued downstream, eager to see what the next community had to say.
]]>So, three times a week, and sometimes more, women from the Abu Shouk and Al Salaam camps head out on four-hour treks to scavenge for fuel. If they don't come upon any trees, the women resort to clawing through the hard-packed earth to reach bits of root that they can burn instead.
But hard work is only part of their problem. Looming larger for these women is the constant threat to their safety: By venturing even a short distance outside of the camps they could face harassment, sexual assault, or even death. Since early 2003, conflict has wracked this region, forcing more than 2 million people from their homes. Many of them have sought shelter in camps like Abu Shouk and Al Salaam. But the demands of daily living—the need for wood, for jobs, for food—often require them to leave the safety of those camps.
Now, Oxfam America, together with the Sudanese Agency for Environment and Development Service (SAEDS), has launched a $132,000 program that will help thousands of displaced women stay safer in this volatile place. The agency is providing 4, 200 households with fuel-efficient stoves that, in many cases, will completely remove the need for women to hunt for wood. Two thousand of the stoves are kerosene-fueled; another 2,000 are efficient wood-burning stoves; and 200 of them use gas. The project will benefit about 25,200 people.
Women were excited about getting the stoves, said Sahar Ali, an Oxfam America program officer, who paid a monitoring visit to Abu Shouk in late January.
"Traditionally, the provision of firewood and fuel for cooking has been the responsibility of women," said Ali, in a report she filed after the visit. "There are few other sources of cooking fuel available to them."
But with the introduction of kerosene and gas, they now have other options. And the small round stoves that burn wood efficiently—as opposed to open fires—means women will need to make fewer of the dangerous scavenging trips.
Still, convincing women that gas is a smart way to cook has taken some doing, said Ali. They worried about its hazards.
"This is the first time for them using gas, and most of the houses are made from wood," said Ali. "If it burns, it burns all the camp. They said we prefer kerosene—not the gas."
The hesitancy about gas notwithstanding, the new stoves are bringing another important benefit to the region, too: some relief for the environment.
"North Darfur is mostly desert, and the few trees that provided a nearby source of cooking fuel when the camps were first created more than two years ago are all gone," said Ali in her report.
It's a trend that Ibrahim Suliman, a program coordinator for SAEDS, has watched for the past four decades as it's crept across the region.
"When I was a child, most of Darfur was covered in forest—even North Darfur," said Suliman, a native of Dar el Salaam, a small village about 30 miles south of El Fasher. But in the last 30 years, those trees and grasses have given way to desert. Why?
"Because of overgrazing," said Suliman. "Because there is no planning for animal breeding. And the firewood for cooking. And for houses—people build their houses from wood. And charcoal traders."
But with the introduction of the stoves, some of that degradation can be slowed since less wood will be needed for cooking. Suliman has even convinced his mother to switch to kerosene.
"She's very happy. It's clean," he said.
SAEDS is taking its concern for the environment a step further: It has launched a replanting project in Dar es Salaam and plans to begin a similar effort around the camps.
"Our philosophy is to restock the forest and all these things will be improved," said Suliman. "If we try to stop cutting trees and every year we try to plant many new trees, within four to five years we will be able to restock a big amount of trees. And we'll be able to at least make the environment more attractive than before and people can find grasses for their animals and be able to cultivate again. It might take a long time, but we have to start."
In Dar el Salaam, thanks to SAEDS, about 4,500 new saplings are now growing.
"In five to 10 years, I'm sure it will be green," said Suliman.
Near El Fasher, trees might also grow again. Oxfam's project with SAEDS calls for the planting of 10,000 seedlings around the camps. Families who have recently received the fuel-efficient stoves will be mobilized to do the planting.
]]>Miss Betty will be the first recipient of the Lift House, a hurricane-resistant home designed in collaboration with architecture students at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), the Terrebonne Readiness and Assistance Coalition (TRAC), and Oxfam America. Lift House prototypes could soon dot each of the bayous of Terrebonne Parish—and maybe sprout beyond them, too.
A groundbreaking, held in mid-January, capped months of design work, student and staff visits to the parish, and the hard-earned permitting required to get any new idea off the ground. On that cold gray day, on the concrete foundation where her house once stood at the base of a levee, Miss Betty found herself laughing as Reinhard Goethert, the MIT professor leading the project, handed her a present.
"We thought we'd give you a kite "to take advantage of the altitude," he said.
They were flying high at last.
The design for the house reflects both the local style and the need for the structure to withstand the assault of howling winds and hurricane flooding.
"They look like they belong down here," said Peg Case, TRAC's executive director. "We took great care in making sure MIT understood that outside is important." People in the south do much of their living outdoors on their decks.
"I assume this house will be here and that won't," added local architect E.A. Angelloz, standing on the site of the new house and pointing at its neighbor, a low-to-the-ground bungalow of indeterminate age. "Another thing people don't take into account is shifting debris. By being up, you avoid the debris. The stuff will move underneath it as opposed to through it."
And the piling foundation, designed by local engineer Joseph Kowle, will ensure that the house stays put when all that water and debris does slop by.
Materials specified for the Lift House include a cladding of Hardie Board—a fiber board impregnated with cement that is water proof and won't dent when projectiles come hurtling at it. A broad deck that wraps around the house and a roof with a generous overhang provide plenty of outdoor living space and a comfortable amount of shade.
"We're very sensitive to making sure we don't waste energy," said Goethert, who directs MIT's Special Interest Group in Urban Settlement, or SIGUS. The house will be well-insulated, well-ventilated, and made from durable materials constructed in a way that will help them last, he said. That overhanging roof, for instance, not only protects people from the sun, but it will protect the exterior walls from heavy downpours.
Some of the ideas incorporated in the design are indigenous to the area, said student Zachary Lamb, such as the large volume of attic space. The cushion of air inside serves as a natural insulator helping to keep the house below it cool.
Elevating houses was once more commonly practiced in the region than it is now, Lamb added, noting that many of the area's older houses were built off the ground. When slab foundations became the new hot thing half a century ago, Louisianans started to build them, too, setting aside their more sensible traditions—and paying the price.
MIT's original idea was to build the Lift House on the ground where teams of volunteers could work on it easily, and then hoist the completed structure onto its pilings. Affordability is one of the key objectives of the design, and, to achieve that, construction will depend heavily on volunteer labor. Goethert also points out that building the house on the ground and lifting it later is safer for everyone who might work on it.
But with this first prototype, TRAC plans to hire professional builders who traditionally work from the pilings up. Volunteers will be recruited later to help finish the interiors.
The immediate goal for the partners in this enterprise is to get all the construction kinks worked out with this first house so that future ones can be built efficiently—with volunteer hands. MIT students will evaluate the cost differentials between building on the ground and building above it. Is it cheaper to carry many loads of materials up to the top of the pilings in numerous trips as you're building, or to pay a flat fee to have the structure hoisted when it's done?
Students will also complete a report that MIT plans to share with other aid groups interested in doing similar construction work in coastal areas. The report details the lessons MIT has learned in the course of this initiative.
And what's the most important one?
"Make sure you get a (local) architect and an engineer up front," said Goethert, adding they know what the local building requirements and issues are. "It helps you make decisions."
At a camp for volunteers in Houma, La., MIT students were still wrestling with some of those decisions on groundbreaking day—and getting feedback from Gordon Case, TRAC's construction manager who has intimate knowledge of what works and won't work among the independent breed of people who live along the bayous.
What would be the best way to offer more shade on the Lift House decks?
Plants were the solution one cluster of students was exploring. They were hard at work on a design for a trellis that would support a bower of confederate jasmine climbing from the ground to the deck.
"It's an evergreen,"" explained Marika Kobel. "It flowers in the summer and turns red in the fall. It's a way to give shading without creating a structure that will rip apart in high winds."
Case listened carefully, and offered a thought.
"You have to think, too, how many people are going to want vines growing up their house," he said, hinting at a cultural difference the students might not have been aware of.
Closed tight with a central bolt, a heavy set of shutters in another part of the camp had drawn a small crowd of students. They were evaluating their handiwork, which was good enough to win Gordon's praise.
"I like the design," he said. "The way it looks. The durability. They're going to last because of the material: cedar."
Undoubtedly, durability will be one of the features Miss Betty may prize most in a house perched at the edge of a bayou whose waters stretch off to the horizon. The storm surge from hurricane Rita totally swamped her previous house.
"We want to make sure we're building a house to last," said Peg Case.
]]>Now, "the field" may sound like an exotic place, full of adventure and intrigue. As a Boston-based writer for Oxfam, that's usually what I've experienced during visits to mountain villages in China, rice farms in Cambodia, and coffee farms in Guatemala. Then I spent a week with Estela in late January, traveling to the northeast highlands of Cambodia. The trip gave me a whole new understanding of the sort of challenges Oxfam's dozens of program officers face.
People like Estela work full-time while finishing their PhDs. They leave their home countries—the Philippines, China, Australia, Vietnam—to live in poor communities. They develop not only specialized knowledge but also the people skills to share it. But beyond the impressive credentials and the wealth of experience, theirs is hard, hard work – and it requires a good deal of patience and flexibility. Luckily for Oxfam, program officers like Estela seem to genuinely enjoy what they do. In fact, it's the messy, uncomfortable, generally stressful work they like the most.
It was a Monday morning, and we were flying north in a chartered plane no bigger than a minivan. Estela was chaperoning photographer Brett Eloff and me during a trip to interview the indigenous people who live near the Sesan and Srepok rivers. We were on our way to Ratanakiri and Stung Treng, Cambodia's least populated provinces, which sit along the Vietnamese and Laotian borders. Brett sat in front with the pilot, Estela and I sat in the middle, and two other passengers sat in the back.
We passed over the snaking Mekong River, the source of life and livelihood for so many Cambodians. Dry rice fields blanketed the ground below.A thick expanse of trees gave way toa patchwork of square fishing plots on the Srepok River.
As we climbed higher, the small plane caught the wind under its wings, skidding a bit atop the clouds. Clutching my seat, I looked over at Estela who gave me an encouraging smile. It was frightening and exhilarating all at once.
Two hours later, the plane touched down on a red-dirt runway doubling as a playground. We loaded our sleeping bags and backpacks into a waiting SUV, and traveled a few miles to the local office of our partner, 3SPN. After a quick PowerPoint presentation and lunch, we were back in the SUV, four of us crammed into the backseat for the two-hour ride to a village in the Taveng District. As we nodded in and out of sleep, our driver artfully navigated the dusty roads, slowing down to maneuver around holes and bumps. By the time we arrived at the village, it was late in the afternoon and the sun was dipping in the sky.
Like many Cambodian villages, Taveng Lou was overrun by livestock. Roosters, chickens, pigs, and water buffalo wandered freely. Giant stilts held up wooden homes with thatched roofs. Children huddled in clusters and stared at outsiders, the smallest kids running around in the buff. Dirt was everywhere, except in the homes, which mothers and daughters meticulously swept clean.
With the light fading and the mosquitoes emerging, we set out on a trek to interview and photograph the villagers. I wanted to talk with the indigenous people who are struggling to maintain their lifestyle despite the construction of a dam upstream in Vietnam. The dam has polluted their drinking water, decimated their fish catch, and wiped out their rice fields.
We hiked to the Sesan River, crossing a suspended bridge rickety enough to test anyone's sense of balance. But when we got to the water, we couldn't find any fishers or farmers. The local people used to depend on the river for their livelihoods. Now, many villagers have simply moved away. Others are spending more and more time trying to supplement their incomes, going deep into the nearby forest to collect honey and rattan to sell.
Kim Sangha, the executive director of 3SPN, told us we'd have to look for people by boat. Getting to the boat, however, required scaling the muddy banks of the river. Estela and I held hands to make it down together. As we stepped into the small fishing canoe, we worried aloud about capsizing it. Before we knew it, though, we were in and on our way. The sun reflected off the water as we motored past sandbars and fishing traps.
Spotting a riverside gardener, we brought the canoe ashore and got to work. Sangha, Estela, and I interviewed the woman, who depends on the natural flow of the river to irrigate her vegetables. The water flow has been erratic since the dam construction. Her gardens have sometimes been flooded and destroyed.
After the interviews, we headed back to the village chief's home to eat and spend the night. When we got there, covered in dust, I remembered what Estela had told me before the trip. No running water in this village. No wells. No pumped water of any kind. We'd have to bathe in the Sesan River.
We walked down to the water. As I leaned against a canoe to balance myself while changing into a sarong, I realized that Estela had no intention of getting in the river. The villagers had told her too many times how dirty the water had gotten since the dams were built. Some reported getting skin diseases.
Given that this was my only source of water, though, I felt like I had no other choice. As I entered the water, Ame Tandem, another 3SPN staffer, warned me that the rocks were slippery, covered with the algae growing uncontrolled since the dams had changed the water's flow. I grabbed her hand as I slithered in. Estela watched us from the shore, using her handiwipes to clean up.
I was cold and feeling ridiculous. Then I looked up. Before me, a sky full of stars. Behind me, the sunset cast an orange glow over the horizon. It was a good way to end a very long day.
Our pocket flashlights guided us back to the village chief's house. We were tired and ready for our beds – sleeping bags under mosquito nets. But Estela informed us that the district chief and his deputy were waiting to speak with us. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But it was the culturally appropriate gesture. So, I did what Estela does every visit. I sat down and listened.
The next couple of days were more of the same, long car drives to dusty villages. Somewhere along the way I ate something I shouldn't have, maybe an undercooked vegetable, maybe something else. It was my second bout of food poisoning in five days. On top of that, I was exhausted and irritable. I told Estela I didn't know how she did this all the time.
That Thursday, CEPA, another partner organization that works with river communities, took us on our next trip. By this time, I'd had plenty of experience with the rough, unpaved roads we'd need to travel to get to the next village. So I was surprised when our driver showed up not in a four-wheel drive, but a 1980s Toyota Camry with no air conditioning. As the driver flew down the road, much faster than felt safe, we sat quietly in the backseat, sweating through our clothes. What else could we do? In these situations, Oxfam staff have to just go with the arrangements made for them.
Finally, our driver's recklessness led to the inevitable. While trying to cross a dried-up riverbed too fast, we got a flat tire. We were 11 miles from the village and in the middle of a forest. The driver had a spare, but after changing the tire, he announced that he was leaving us and would like to be paid for the gas required for his trip back home.
My patience exhausted, I started to argue. But Estela stopped me. There was nothing else we could do, she explained. It was better to just pay the man and move on. We ended up laughing in disbelief at our situation as we waited a few hours for another car to pick us up.
And, making the best of things yet again, Estela pulled her hammock out of her backpack, tied it to a tree, and took a nap.
By the time we made it back to Phnom Penh on Friday afternoon, I was cranky and feeling weak. All I really wanted to do was stumble into my hotel room, take a shower, and go to bed.
It took the weekend to get over my food illness. When I arrived at Oxfam's Phnom Penh office Monday morning, I was still shaky, and quite itchy from mosquito bites. But there was Estela, bustling about, neatly dressed in a pretty linen skirt and blouse.
She told me she was getting ready to leave for Vietnam the next day. Watching her run around the office, trying to secure her entrance visa and finalize last-minute details, I was astounded. A week in the rough had worked me over. Estela seemed invigorated by it, and eager for more.
"Going to the field keeps me energized," she explained. "I love talking to the local people, hearing their stories and experiencing their culture. No matter how difficult their situations, they always seem to not only survive, but live happily. The trips inform my work – and they remind me why I came to Oxfam in the first place."
]]>"In the run-up to an election, discussions are primarily focused on election process issues—which is necessary as it guarantees transparency and therefore social peace," said Mamadou Bitèye, Oxfam America's Regional Director for West Africa. "However, candidates must go one step further by voicing their views on the concerns of the citizens, such as poverty and economic governance issues." Biteye said the hearings are designed to "provide an objective basis for voters to decide who to elect."
The purpose of the exercise, as stated by Amacodou Diouf, vice-chair of CONGAD, is to "ensure that sustainable human development needs are addressed in the programs developed by the political organizations that seek the vote of the Senegalese people."
Some of the issues that will be addressed during the hearings include poverty, governance, economic growth strategies, gender, education, health, and agriculture.
A monitoring mechanism called Civil Society Observer will be created to monitor the actions of the new President of the Republic, and encourage him to deliver on the promises made during the election campaign.
Contacts have already been established with all candidates or their campaign boards and some of them have agreed to take part in the hearings. Hearings will be public and attended by the media, members of civil society, experts in sectoral issues, and citizens.
About 10 print and TV journalists, as well as some members of civil society, attended a ceremony to announce the Citizen Monitoring Program. Mouhamadou Mansour Seck, retired general and former ambassador of Senegal to the United States, was also present at the meeting with the journalists.
According to Ibrahima Aïdara, Governance Advisor at Oxfam America West Africa Office, "the initiative will be replicated during the legislative elections with hearings in the regions to allow citizens to question the candidates for parliament about their real concerns."
]]>Billed as the first summit between the Ethiopians who produce the coffee and the US and Canadian companies that buy it, this week's meeting showcased real unity and support for Ethiopia's efforts. Ethiopia has asserted ownership of the names of its coffees so that it can increase the coffees' value, gain more leverage, and receive an equitable price in the market. Already some companies, such as Green Mountain Coffee Roasters, have agreed to work with Ethiopia on this initiative. Their representatives showed their support by attending the meeting.
"Now that the trademarking work is becoming fruitful, many in the specialty coffee market are happy with us and accept that we want to increase our negotiating power and ensure greater returns to small farmers," said Tadesse Meskela, manager of Oxfam partner, the Oromia Coffee Farmers Cooperative Union.
As the three-hour meeting unfolded, I was struck by the achievements already realized by the Ethiopians. It was clear that everyone in the room was ready to work together to help Ethiopian farmers get an equitable share of the coffees, which have sold for as much as $26 a pound in the US. The stakeholders and coffee companies left the meeting with a "To Do" list and a promise to meet again in the coming months.
It was a tremendous achievement for Oxfam's partners, three farmer cooperative unions, to sit side-by-side with private exporters, government representatives, and foreign coffee buyers, discussing ways to improve the livelihoods of Ethiopia's coffee farmers.
During the meeting, I had the opportunity to speak about the tremendous global support Ethiopia's efforts have garnered. Since October, more than 90,000 Oxfam supporters from around the world have voiced their solidarity for Ethiopia's initiative. Through their efforts, these supporters have sent a clear message that coffee companies must recognize the legitimate right of countries and farmers to use the names of their coffees and their unique reputations to compete in global markets and realize higher incomes.
While much attention has been paid to Starbucks's unwillingness to recognize this right, I left the meeting feeling inspired. The conversation has moved from whether Ethiopia has the rightful ownership of its coffee names to how the coffee industry should recognize those rights and act accordingly.
As Ashenafi Argaw of Oxfam partner, Sidama Coffee Farmers Cooperative Union, said, "Our farmers deserve a better price than they are getting right now. Let's plan and discuss ways to get them better benefits from the market."
]]>For them, the fact that they were playing soccer together at all was what counted.
A few short years ago, school boys in Moyale—a southern Ethiopian border town where bursts of violence plague the region—would never have joined a game that teamed children from one ethnic group with those from another. The Gabra, the Borena, the Guji, the Gari—they just didn't get along.
But with assistance from Oxfam America, that dynamic has begun to change. The agency helped to plant the seed of peace at the Moyale Primary School, and its roots are now spreading throughout the district.
Through a series of three grants, Oxfam helped the Moyale Primary School, which now serves 3,000 students in grades one through eight, construct three new classroom buildings and equip them with materials, including books and computers. In conjunction with that, school officials launched a massive public education campaign, targeting parents in particular.
The message? Ethnic conflicts coupled with cultural expectations about the limited role of girls had caused enrollment in the school to plummet. A divided administrative system, with different ethnic groups aligned with each of the two divisions, had also left the school severely short of funds. The end result meant a generation of students was at risk of not being able to get the education that is so vital to their future success.
The solution? Improve the school facilities with the understanding that the buildings—and the opportunities they represent—belong to all the students and their families, regardless of their ethnicity. The school would also serve as a place for conflict resolution.
The parents embraced the idea.
"They are beside us today," said Tsegaye Desta, who recently became the coordinator of the school system after serving as the principal of the Moyale Primary School during its transition. "Before the coming of Oxfam America, the enrollment of students was very low. Now it's very high."
Work has helped pull the families together around a common cause. About 25 percent of the new construction on the school grounds has been carried out by community members, including students and their teachers.
"When they do it together, they build not only construction, they build peace," said Desta. "When there is peace and unity, it is possible to do a lot."
A small tree nursery inside the school compound has also served as a place for students to get to know each other.
"They forget about conflict. When they work in the nursery, they discuss things as friends would," added Desta.
With those new friends kicking up clouds of dust on the soccer field behind him, 15-year-old Tegalu Sale, took a break from the game to describe how things have changed since Oxfam began helping the school.
"Before the construction, there was no sitting place and not enough books," he said, sweat beading on his forehead. "We ran to the class to get a bench. The others did it too. Then, things happened."
And now?
"The conflict is minimized—and that's why we're here exercizing together," Sale said.
Besides the new construction, which has allowed class sizes to drop from as high as 120 students down to 50, the school has incorporated discussions about peace-building into its curriculum.
Teacher Aschelew Mokinnin doesn't have to look far for material for his students.
"Mostly we take the surrounding problems as an example, and the solutions—they're always discussing (those) face to face," said Mokinnin.
"There is great improvement," added Mulu Seba, an eighth-grade teacher. "The students' interaction is very nice. It's positive."
And that bodes well for students like Sale: His dreams stand a good chance of becoming true. "In the future, after I complete school, I will help myself and my family," he said. "I'd like to be a teacher or a master of a school."
]]>Onokoko was working at a human rights organization in Bujumbura, Burundi, where an ethnic conflict similar to that which tore apart Rwanda in 1994 was driving a long civil conflict. "I saw in the market Tutsi being chased by Hutu armed with knives and revolvers, they wanted to kill them. I opened the doors to my office to hide them, and people there said to me, "Gaspard, if you do that, they will kill you too," and I said to them, "let them come kill me."
And they tried. "They destroyed my house, they wanted to kill me because I was defending the lives of others," Onokoko said. "Well, they did not kill me. I am here with you."
This was just one incident in his human rights work in central Africa, which eventually led to his imprisonment in Burundi. Thanks to the intervention of foreign human rights organizations, Onokoko, a Congolese citizen, was released and eventually found refuge in Senegal 10 years ago.
He says he was never scared. "If you are fearful you cannot defend human rights. If you are scared you can't build peace and development. It is an act of courage."
A trained teacher, Onokoko turned his attention back to education. "I could hear a lot of talk about resolving conflict, but I could see in the schools there was no program of peace education and human rights," he said. "So I was one of the first to introduce [it] in the schools."
Onokoko concentrated his work in the Casamance region of southern Senegal, the scene of more than 20 years of conflict between the government and separatist rebels. In 2003 he began a collaboration with Oxfam America, and developed a primary school curriculum complete with teacher training guides, student workbooks, and other material to help teach young people about peace, human rights, and citizenship. By 2006 he had convinced the Ministry of Education to allow the curriculum to be introduced in over 200 primary schools, and started expanding the student mediator program, in which students learn to resolve conflicts, into high schools in Casamance.
"Peace education in Casamance is having very positive results," Onokoko said. "Students who used to willingly go into the bush to join the rebellion now are not interested in this—they know that peace is more important than war, and that if there is war, they can't go to school and there will be no development. Their parents are delighted that their children speak of peace, and human rights. This is very satisfying for me personally, and it is thanks to Oxfam."
Onokoko, now 51 years old, lives in less danger in Dakar, Senegal, and travels frequently to the south to promote the peace education curriculum he developed with his organization GRA-REDEP. With the recent peace agreement in Casamance there is less violence, but many challenges to peace remain, including widespread poverty and land mines.
But Onokoko is taking the long view. "To build peace you have to have a lot of patience, it takes time to change people's behavior, and change their hearts."
]]>Mamadou Diedhiou, the school's director, takes the high enrollment as a compliment. "Our school district has one of the highest levels of attendance in the country," he says proudly. "And we are building schools all the time."
Four of Diedhiou's teachers have been using the Oxfam-funded GRA-REDEP peace education curriculum for the last three years, and others are learning about it and integrating it into their classes also. The teachers are seeing a real difference in the behavior of the students at Basembo Diandy: fewer fights, more tolerance, and more engagement with the faculty on school issues. The students understand what it is to be a citizen, says Pathé Diatta, one of the teachers. "When we used to raise the flag here most students weren't interested,"" he said in the school library. "But after we taught them about citizenship, they attend the flag raising every morning."
Citizens enjoy certain rights, and this is a key lesson taught in Professor Djibril Faye's class, held in one of the concrete block buildings, where there is a charcoal outline of the African continent on the back wall. The students, roughly 40 kids between 10 and 15, can name their basic rights: the right to live in peace, the right to medical care, the right to food.
And then the big one comes up: the right to an education. The discussion revolves around why some families don't let their girls go to school, just the boys. Many students don't understand the issue completely. When asked for reasons why a father might not allow a daughter to attend school, some think it might be because there is no money for clothing, transportation, or school fees.
But that is not it. Professor Faye wants them to discover the gender dimension of this human rights issue—a basic injustice based on the roles society imposes on females. "Maybe the father wants his daughter to work around the house, so when she gets married she will know what to do," one boy suggests. The unfairness comes out clearly to the students. Now they see why girls might be more likely to be kept home from school—a violation of their right to an education.
Seynabou Sène, a slim 13-year-old student, took the lesson to heart. "Girls need to go to school," she said after the class. "If my father told me I could not go to school, I would force him to take me so I can have a better future. I want to be a teacher."
]]>As the government of Senegal stepped up its counter-insurgency campaign in Casamance, her family was touched in many ways. They were forced to move away from their home at an agricultural technical school where her father was a teacher because the campus was occupied by the military, making them a target for rebels.
"I also saw one of my cousins killed by the rebels, and another one was badly wounded," Kouka said. "So I had to live through this insecurity as the conflict unfolded." Her experience in Casamance inspired her to work on development and social justice, with peace as the focus of her efforts. "I became more aware of the conflict as I grew up and could see the serious poverty here," she said. "It was a direct impact of the conflict in Casamance."
After joining the staff at Oxfam America's office in Dakar in 2003, Kouka began working on the Control Arms campaign when it kicked off that year. In Senegal, the campaign has three goals: Support the Control Arms goal for an international arms ban treaty, push the Economic Community of West Africa States (ECOWAS) to convert its temporary moratorium on the trade in illegal arms into a binding permanent convention, and finally, get the government of Senegal to update its 1966 law on the possession of weapons to also include the trade in small arms.
Kouka and Oxfam's allies in the Control Arms campaign, including Amnesty International and the International Action Network on Small Arms, celebrated a victory in West Africa after ECOWAS voted to make the arms trade ban permanent in the region last June. And although a conference at the UN in June failed to create any meaningful progress in a global arms ban, the UN's General Assembly voted 153-1 (with 24 abstentions) in December to take up the issue in 2007, a tremendous victory for the Control Arms campaign.
The next phase of the Control Arms campaign in Senegal will involve pushing the legislature to ratify the ECOWAS convention on the illegal trade in small arms, and become one of the nine countries needed to sign the convention so it can enter into force.
Working with young people in Senegal proved crucial in the campaign to gain support for the ECOWAS ban within the Senegalese government. Pressure from young people who gathered signatures for national petitions helped make Senegal a leader in the arms convention issue in ECOWAS. "We turned our attention to working with youth, as armed conflict touches them directly," Kouka said. "That is how we came to the Senegal Boy Scout Association. In Casamance we contacted the Scout movement as well as other youth associations in Ziguinchor and Kolda."
Kouka spent numerous weekends training scouts and other youth groups in how to gather signatures for the Control Arms campaign, and working with Oxfam's partners and allies on campaign strategy and organizing. "If you work with students, or Boy Scouts, they are not available during the week—they are only available on the weekends," Kouka said.
But her commitment goes beyond just the practical—she wants to see concrete results. "I like to see work done correctly. I don't like to see things done half way. That is why I make a personal commitment, and invest so much time to do this work. I work with a lot of different partner organizations and allies, and I really want to build good relations with all of them. So whenever they need me I want to be ready to help them, so we can get this work done, whether it is on a weekend or whenever."
]]>About a dozen students came from Lycée Djinagbo in the city of Ziguinchor, a vast campus of low buildings scattered around dusty grounds bounded by withered trees and walls. On a windy day, clouds of dust blast between the buildings, obscuring the walls and students walking to class in their khaki uniforms. With nearly 4,700 students and 125 teachers, it is the biggest school in the city.
Keeping a school like this running has its challenges: The Casamance conflict has destabilized the entire region, and Lycée Djinagbo as well. There are fights between students, and problems between students and teachers. Like many high schools in Senegal, students sometimes go on strike to protest funding cuts and other school policies, making it hard to finish studies within the academic year.
Abdoulaye Sidibé, an advisor to the student mediators at Djinagbo says that the school is a bit less chaotic since students underwent the mediation training last January. "Since this program was initiated, there's a lot more stability. Fewer problems between students, between students and teachers, and between Muslims and Christians. It's partly due to the team we have here responsible for the resolution of these conflicts. When they are confronted with a conflict their first reaction is to ask themselves, 'How can I help resolve this in a peaceful manner?'"
Mamadou Lamine Diatta, a 21-year-old literature student and mediator at Djinagbo, explained how his training helped him stop a fight between two students, and teach them a lesson of nonviolence: "One student got a bad grade—and the other was teasing him; they came to blows. I broke it up and took one aside to talk it over, and to allow him to express his frustration. Then I did the same with the other. After that I brought them together—but I did not ask them to repeat their story in front of the other, so as to avoid more anger. Instead we focused on the merits of friendship and the need to tolerate one another."
Maty Thiam, one of Djinagbo's 1,876 female students, is also a trained mediator with a confidence and wisdom well beyond her 17 years. She greets visitors, looking them directly in the eye, with a firm handshake. The mediation training changed her outlook on conflict completely. "Before the training, I understood conflict existed, but I did not know it could be mediated," she explained. Thiam has keen analytical skills, which help her understand the issues and move those in conflict towards peaceful resolutions. The most important thing she has learned from the training? "It is how to listen to people in conflict to get to the heart of the problem. Always avoid telling one or the other he is right. Then create a way to resolve it to show both that they have contributed to the resolution, but also that they have both gained something from the resolution."
High school students see their training resolving school quarrels as important preparation for their professional life. Boubacar Baldé, 18, a trained student mediator at an agricultural technical school outside Ziguinchor, says he wants to create a more peaceful relationship between farmers and livestock herders, two groups who routinely come into conflict all over Africa. "I am a Fulani," he said with pride. "We are known for cattle. But we live near people who grow crops, so we struggle to find grazing lands. And there are many conflicts. My experience will help me negotiate to reserve part of the land for pasture, and the rest for growing crops, and educate villagers in ways of mediating any problems that come up."
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