She was writing her name in Chinese characters, painstakingly shaping each slope and spike, trying to remember what she learned in school.
She'd lived her 30 years in this remote village on a mountain with no official name. She was a picture of dignity in a place facing difficult times.
For generations the people on this mountain had cut and sold timber. Then, just a few years ago, the Chinese government banned logging to conserve trees.
It was an important decision for the environment, one that helped protect the watershed of Lashi Lake. But it eliminated some important interaction for the Yi people who live here. An ethnic minority who only met with the lowland Han people when they sold their timber, they risked being left behind.
To survive the logging ban, the Yi needed a plan.
Green Watershed, an Oxfam America partner, came up with one. After consulting with the villagers, they discovered potatoes could replace timber as a cash crop. And the women who formed the backbone of the community could learn to speak Mandarin and write Chinese characters so they could sell and trade the potatoes to the Han at the base of the mountain.
In May, I went to China, Cambodia, and Thailand to capture stories like these, illustrating Oxfam America's work in Asia. I had never been to the region before. Like so many in the West, I knew about the extreme poverty only from the media.
But suddenly there I was filling notebooks with the results of our work, watching village after village preserve their way of life using their own expertise:
Rice farmers in Cambodia finding a niche in the market, creating the first organic rice mill in the country. Burmese refugees studying law, risking their lives to document human rights abuses back home. Fishers living on the Tonle Sap lake measuring the impact of over-fishing and developments planned for their community.
I marveled at the dignity of these men and women. They just wanted what we all want: to make a decent a living and feed their families.
Some sought to do the work their families had done for generations, only to watch the developed world encroach on their waterways and flood plains. Some needed to diversify and adapt their way of life.
But for others, the plan was even more ambitious. Let's say these communities make enough to get by.
Then what?
Then, it turns out, Oxfam partners help them learn how to participate in development decisions. They diversify their work options and insist on better governance. They put money away and buy farm equipment, fishing boats, tuition for their kids. They build health clinics, schools, and courtyards for meetings, traditional dancing, and singing with family and friends.
In short, when poor people aren't so poor anymore, they can effectively plan for the future.
What I saw during my travels illustrated the vast range of work Oxfam and its partners do in the regions.
And surrounding it all are the many challenges—few resources, limited participation in decision-making, outside interference, droughts, floods.
But somewhere in between, the work gets done.
A woman writes her name. A village survives.
]]>I came to the delegation committed to fighting poverty wherever it exists. I also came as an Iowa farmer wanting to build solidarity among all farmers.
In Edinburgh, I experienced a global community serious about ending the kind of poverty that kills 30,000 children a day. At the concert in Edinburgh, 40,000 people, enjoying a free concert, stood on their feet and cheered as Bono told the crowd that he'd asked the most powerful world leaders to "spend your money" to end poverty. This powerful connection between democracy and government action reinvigorated my passion to make sure that Americans become part of this historic movement.
The experience of the ONE delegation provided me an opportunity to see the world with more optimistic eyes. Also, sharing this experience with some of the most impassioned and successful activists from across the United States refueled my own activist energy. Home in my office and on my farm, I've already done interviews and continue to share my experiences with family, friends, and colleagues. I will continue to advocate and fight for US agriculture policy that is fairer for farmers in both the developing world and in the rural communities of my own country.
We are living in a historic time. I want every American to understand that the citizens of Earth have the power to end life threatening poverty. I want my fellow Americans to be a part of that historic victory and not spectators. Our democracy and our great wealth give us the power to lead the fight, and I will do all I can to help Americans see the choice each ONE of us is making: to lead or to stand back and watch.
]]>Today Djimon, Sally Baden (Oxfam’s cotton expert extraordinaire) and I drove an hour and a half from Bamako to meet farmers in Fana, a cotton producing village.
When we got there, we sat with 20 of the farmers in their small village and talked with them about how they grow and harvest cotton. It was the beginning of the cotton producing cycle and the farmers had just planted the precious seeds. They said they were waiting for the rain to come. They were worried that if it didn’t come soon they would have to replant.
We could sense the farmers’ anxiety, as we watched them pray and dance to bring on the clouds.
As if out of a movie, the more we talked, the longer they prayed and danced, the darker the skies became. Our host, Keiffa Diarra, a representative to the national union of cotton farmers, laughed and said his new American friends had brought with them a gift—the rain.
Soon enough the farmers got their wish and the skies opened up, drenching us.
We ran like mad to the local school, where students had just finished their academic year, leaving behind their empty benches and desks. Djimon and I huddled together with the locals (farmers, mothers, children, goats), shouting over the lightning and talking about their struggles.
They told us they were barely getting by after the price of cotton plummeted. Just two years ago they were selling at 210 CFA ($.40) a kilo, but these days they get only about 160 CFA ($.31). Most of the farmers only make a profit of about $100 a year. It’s not enough for life’s basic necessities: educating their kids, paying for medication when they are sick, putting food on the table.
Ironically, the rain they prayed and danced for ended up flooding the village. Meanwhile, three wells in the village were incapacitated because of broken pumps. With their dwindling cotton income, the villagers said they couldn’t get enough money together to fix the pumps. That meant they didn’t have clean water, let alone water good enough for drinking.
Soon the rain overwhelmed us. The roads were wet and muddy, but rather than sleep in the dark schoolhouse with no electricity, we decided to try to get out of town.
Rather than speed away, though, we sunk. Both vehicles got stuck about a mile from the main road and we had to call for all the men from the village to help pry us out and push the car to high dry land.
We were filthy and tired and ready to get back to the dry clean hotel. Hopefully tomorrow will be a bit drier.
The next day, stifling heat replaced the rain. We drove almost three hours to the region of Bougouni. There, we were put to work on Modou Diallo’s cotton farm. Modou is also a representative of the national cotton growers union. We turned the soil to prep the land for planting. Djimon steered the hoe while two unruly donkeys pulled it along. It was about 90 degrees Fahrenheit under the blazing sun and we were working very hard. After we turned the soil, Modou explained his current situation to us.
Modou said he only made about $60 last year, after he finished paying off his farming expenses. Djimon was shaken by the conversation. He said he knew that much of the world managed to get by on just $2 a day. Modou and his family were living on just 16 cents.
Djimon said that something had to change. He said we couldn’t continue to look the other way when this kind of poverty is happening hurting so many people. You know something is wrong when the world’s richest countries and the world’s poorest countries are competing in the same market, but the rich countries aren’t playing by the rules that they themselves set.
After a two-hour, bumpy ride along a narrow road, we arrived in Kebila to meet cotton farmers who are cultivating organic and fair trade cotton. They told us that after receiving lower and lower prices each year, they had fallen into debt, which is why they decided to shift into a niche market like organic cotton.
Organic cotton doesn’t allow the expensive pesticides to enable growth but organic fertilizer that the farmers make themselves from the natural resources among them. Though this type of farming is more labor intensive, farmers can save themselves some out-of-pocket expenses by using their own natural resources to make organic fertilizer. They can also sell their cotton at a higher price when it has the organic label.
They felt organic cotton represented was one solution to their growing problems. With cotton prices dropping significantly they knew they either had to adapt, diversify, or eventually lose their land.
Because the demand isn’t as high for organic cotton as conventionally farmed cotton, they were still at a disadvantage, which meant they weren’t selling as much as they used to. But selling at a higher price allowed them to keep their jobs for the time being.
Djimon told the farmers that part of his job as a US citizen would be to start educating the public about organic and fair trade cotton to try to grow the demand. Djimon also promised that he would begin to call on our leaders to address the cotton crisis immediately.
We agreed that though prices fluctuate we must come up with a better system. We must demand a change to the rules of trade, which continue to devastate small farmers everywhere.
Djimon felt the next important step for him to take was to participate in the events going on around the G8 in Scotland. He knew that he could stand in as a representative from Africa who understood the struggles Africans are faced with. He could demand that our world leaders make a historic promise and deliver on it for Africa.
Djimon shared stories about his trip to Mali when he stood alongside the thousands of activists in Scotland from the US, Africa and Europe. At the end of the summit, G8 leaders made important progress for the world’s poorest people, by confirming debt cancellation for 18 highly indebted poor countries in Africa and doubling aid to reach $50 billion by 2010.
However, the outcome from the G8 leaders has fallen short of the hopes of Djimon and the millions around the world campaigning for a momentous breakthrough, especially on trade issues. Although some progress was made on a plan to reform the farm subsidies that keep Africa’s farmers poor, the G8 stopped short of setting an end date for scrapping these damaging subsidies.
Djimon hopes that rich countries will change their negotiating position in the trade talks in the run up to the December Hong Kong WTO ministerial, if people in poor countries are to be given a fair chance to work their way out of poverty.
]]>Oxfam shares common interests with FUNDE, especially when it comes to civil society. For example, the Make Trade Fair campaign had a very strong reception in El Salvador. And FUNDE did a lot of research on the drop in coffee prices on the international market, which helps support Oxfam's work.
A lot of the work we do around CAFTA is with Oxfam's help. Oxfam has provided support, training and capacity building—everything related to organizational development.
The difference between El Salvador and the US—we don't have subsidies like US farmers have. On the one hand, there's a highly subsidized agriculture and on the other, there's a poor economy, which doesn't have subsidies.
CAFTA would basically open our economy up to the largest economies in the world, which is the US.
Whatever affects agriculture is going to translate into socioeconomic problems. My country's economy depends on agriculture. And our ability to produce our own food depends on agriculture.
CAFTA is about more than trade. Foreign investment for example. The agreement favors protecting foreign capital. This is an agreement that really takes away the flexibility of local governments to enact policies that meet their own objectives.
In addition, it creates a very damaging relationship between investors and the state. This relationship allows the investor to sue the state if things don't go the way they want.
FUNDE works at two levels. One is the regional level in Central America, in which the CID initiative plays an important role. It allows us to coordinate actions like this one that brought us to Washington to influence Congress.
There's also the national level. There, we have a direct relationship with several organizations, unions, churches, local governments, environmental organizations, micro enterprises. We provide information to these different groups. At the same time, we try to craft proposals that reflect the interests of those sectors. For example, these organizations decided to reject CAFTA after we completed an analysis of each chapter of the agreement.
Also we have a relationship with US agencies where we present the negative effects of CAFTA. We basically demand actions to prevent, but also mitigate, what CAFTA would produce.
Every chapter of CAFTA, such as agriculture, environment, and intellectual property—basically every country has its own way of approaching these things. But, in general, we try to integrate the regional view. This allows us to work at two levels, international and national.
The problems that we face in our countries—there is just a superficial understanding. But there are differences between the Congress people. There is a lot of opposition, but many say they have not decided how they will vote.
Whatever happens, we have given them information. In the future, they cannot say that they didn't know. Because we told them.
]]>If she does, there's a chance she will be beaten or raped. If she doesn't, she won't be able to cook breakfast for her children. Even the donkey might starve. Piles of rotting carcasses along one edge of the camp are a constant reminder that many other animals have perished.
Muna isn't her real name, but the difficult choices this mother of five has to make are very real. And so are the dangers she and countless other women face each day in Darfur. In some camps, women, children, and old men make up the majority of the population. Many of the younger men have been killed in attacks.
Not collecting firewood or fodder would have other consequences as well. The first provides cash to help Muna feed her family, and the second keeps her donkey healthy enough to haul water.
Muna and her children are among the hundreds of thousands of families in Darfur who receive monthly food distributions from the World Food Program. The staple grains, a protein-rich mix of corn and soy, and cooking oil are a welcome contribution, but Muna needs a few other ingredients to prepare even the most basic meal. She sells some of the firewood in the local market to earn a few extra dinars to buy onions, tomatoes, dried okra, or chilies to supplement her family's diet. Without the firewood, she would have to sell a portion of the food ration itself in order to buy the additional items. But the amount she receives each month is already barely enough to survive.
The donkey fodder is also very important, since Muna needs her donkey to carry water from the nearby well several times a day. When that well runs dry, as it often does this time of year, she must travel even farther to fetch water. This, too, can be a perilous journey that exposes her to potential violence.
But even the camp that Muna shares with 15,000 other displaced people isn't particularly safe. The straw walls of her small compound provide some privacy, but no real protection. Her "house" is just a shelter made of sticks and plastic sheeting. Sometimes armed men come into the camp at night. They shout and laugh and fire their guns into the air, terrorizing the population.
On the day an Oxfam team arrived for a field visit, the body of a camp resident had been found near the dry riverbed on one side of town. People said he had been beaten to death during the night. The previous week, a group of men from outside the camp visited a house not far from Muna's. They beat the man who lived in the house and raped his wife.
Beyond the perimeter of the camp where Muna lives, there are other groups of people who don't seem afraid at all. Nomadic tribes continue to roam freely in this area. Some of them ride horses and camels, and some of them carry guns. They keep watch over enormous herds of cattle, camels, sheep, and goats. Their animals graze peacefully among the charred ruins of mud-brick huts in the many abandoned villages that dot the landscape.
Of course, not all nomadic tribes are affiliated with the notorious Janjaweed militias that continue to terrorize civilians throughout Darfur. But the contrast is striking: Most of the nomads the Oxfam team met in the Wadi Salih area were confident, reasonably well-fed and secure, while Muna and her neighbors are often sick and hungry, and live in constant fear.
Although people in Muna's camp can see their destroyed village in the distance, they insist that it is too dangerous to return. The armed groups prowling the countryside have effectively imprisoned the displaced Sudanese in the camp.
Retrospective mortality studies have shown that violence has been the leading cause of death in Darfur since the region plunged into conflict in February 2003. It is difficult to calculate exactly how many people have died, but one thing is dreadfully clear: The violence continues.
Every morning, in hundreds of camps and towns across Darfur, mothers like Muna get up to face yet another day filled with threats of robbery, murder, and rape. The fear is debilitating, but the options are few. After agonizing over the alternatives, Muna will go out to collect firewood and fodder. She can't afford not to.
]]>My grandmother told us that we were many, many Secoyas, between the Rio Napo and Putamayo, near the frontier with Colombia. We must have been over 8,000 there?
At the time of the Spanish conquest many people died from measles and mumps. And even when my grandma was a little girl, she had to escape into the jungle to avoid such terrible diseases. She said that nobody came to help them; people were dying in their houses, like chickens.
Then came the rubber boom. The rubber producers held the Secoyas as slaves. Many Secoyas drank poison to liberate themselves from the indignity of forced labor. Others fled deeper into the jungle.
After all this dislocation the Secoyas regrouped in about 1970. We were only 120 people. And those remaining 120 people, along with their children and grandchildren, were the ones who had to endure the impact of the oil companies. And of those 120, I was one.
This is to contextualize what is happening today. These 120 continue to suffer. Two [just] died of cancer, and eight years ago more people died of cancer. So we wonder, for those 120 native people and their descendants, if our days are numbered too; if some sickness will take us instead of a natural death. This is to say that life is uncertain now.
The oil companies have had a significant cultural impact, especially on our territory. How we used to live—naturally, that is—is no longer natural. We are experiencing the impact of many other cultures, especially from [modern-day migration]. Before we didn't need money because we had everything we needed. There were animals and fish; there was fruit, and medicines. Everything was found in the forest. But now we must go out to buy everything.
We also need to buy notebooks and school supplies. We are now surrounded by school walls in order to learn. The education beforehand for the Secoyas began at four in the morning. The elderly people in the community worked with the young people, teaching them weaving. They also told stories, legends, which taught respect for older people.
Though we agree that education should take place in the classroom, we are not in agreement that the only thing that should be taught is what the government decides should be taught. We see that we are not educating ourselves and our children in the way that our ancestors taught us. In that sense we are losing our culture. Now the youth doesn't know about our legends and our stories and our customs. And this is why now, through our own bilingual education, we are trying to reintegrate our own values, our own cultures, and our own traditions into our education.
Another great impact is on the environment. For example, we no longer have animals because one step behind the oil companies came the colonists. And every time the colonists found an animal they had to shoot it, they had to kill it. [The animals] withdrew farther and farther away. And now we no longer have territories in which we have everything we need around us; in which we can go from one side to the other. Everything has its owner. Now there are other communities—Shuar communities and Kichwa communities—which were ours before. This is a reduction of our territory. Right now we're enclosed and circumscribed by different pacts. There is one pact with the oil company; the African palm company [harvesting hearts of palm]; the colonists; even other indigenous people who have migrated here from their ancestral homes in other provinces.
What has really damaged us is the pollution in the rivers. This is really the worst part, along with the contamination in the air and the earth itself on which we cultivate our plants and our food. These are the terrible effects that have been visited upon us.
Although we talk about remediation, I think it will be difficult to repair what has been damaged. I think perhaps we will never be able to, because even though we might repair the natural environment, modern society is here among us—on our doorstep—and we will never be able to repair that.
We have seen many new sicknesses that we didn't see in our people before. We the Secoyas knew how to cure ourselves when those sicknesses were natural sicknesses. But now, with these unknown diseases, not even the best healer among us knows how to cure them. I think if we don't now have people who really know how to cure those previously unknown diseases, if we don't resolve this case against Texaco, then the very few Secoyas that remain—about 400 of us—will lose our culture and we may be finished off by sickness or disease. Or for other reasons we will disappear bit by bit. This is what I can tell you about the impact of the oil industry on the Secoya people.
Yes there is a hope for us, in the way that we have been organizing around Texaco because the Sionas, Secoyas, and Cofanes, we are the ones who have lived here in Sucumbios. We are the original owners of these territories and we have seen all of the damage that has been done here. So we organized through some friendly organizations—they came and told us about human rights—before we knew nothing about human rights. And through friends and allies the Sionas, Secoyas, Cofanes, and Kichwas started to organize in order to bring justice to this case.
We, as one part of the affected people, believe that since we have already waited 10 years [while the case languished in the United States courts]; we could wait and continue another 10 years if necessary. This is our priority. People are saying: "If we don't get this resolved, what are we doing? If we can't drink the water from our traditional sources—then what?"
So we are newly united since the case has been presented in a court here, and now we are just waiting for the judge's decisions. We are assisted by Oxfam America and other people. We feel we are engaging in common work to ensure a future for the people who are in danger of disappearing.
We can't waste time being sorry about what has happened. We have to be able to defend and exercise the same rights as Spanish-speaking mestizo people do in our own territory.
]]>It's called the West Salvation Road, and it remains unfinished. In Darfur, where nearly two years of violence have left close to one-third of the region's six million people homeless, salvation is just a dream. The rutted dirt roads that link the villages offer little hope that deliverance will come any time soon.
Darfur is not an easy place to navigate no matter what mode of transportation you choose. Heat, banditry, mud and dust, armed attacks, even little boys throwing stones—all of it conspires to make travel across Darfur slow and exhausting.
In parts of the south, up to 40 inches of rain can fall in a year, leaving sections of roads deep in sloppy silt. When it's dry, the fine sand piles in drifts across the roads, swallowing vehicles to their axles. Sometimes, the only way to get where you want to go is to put on your shoes and walk.
It was the shoes that kept catching my eye at Abu Shouk, and other temporary camps where tens of thousands of homeless people now wait out endless days. Mostly, they were slip-on sandals, leaving the wearers' heels to crack in the hot sand and their toes to cake with dust.
Were these the shoes that carried some people across sizzling plains and dried-out riverbeds on their long trek to safety? Many of the people fleeing their torched homes left on foot—and walked for days.
I look down at my boots, glad for the thick leather and lug soles insulating my feet. Could I have trekked the desert in flip-flops?
The only walking I've done is to the market—just once—a half-hour trudge through waves of red sand lapping over one of the few, and very busy, paved roads in El Fasher. Dodging the slower but heavily burdened donkeys, tiny blue and white taxis rattle past in a steady stream. Their interiors are packed with more passengers than it seems could possibly fit. But fit they do, and they don't look unhappy about it. It's better than walking.
Mostly, aid workers in this capital of North Darfur don't walk. They drive, or, more properly, are driven. It's hot, and offices and guesthouses are spread out across a city that some say numbers 200,000 people while others say is twice that. In a place without street names or house numbers, residents must be hard to count.
Driving in Darfur takes skill and patience. It helps to have a sturdy truck since miles of dirt tracks and sharp rocks take their toll on even the toughest vehicles. Breakdowns and mishaps are common. A flat tire and a smashed rear window—courtesy of a little boy tossing a stone—punctuate the round-trip expedition of an Oxfam convoy to Tawila, a town nearly two hours from El Fasher.
The better drivers know how to plow through the sandy drifts to firmer ground. Others simply get stuck, every wheel of their towering transport trucks sunk in the sand. For these drivers, patience is paramount. It could be a long time before they dig out again.
At Zam Zam station, a small trading post of thatched stalls near one of the camps for homeless people, a collection of trucks headed toward Nyala, the capital of South Darfur, has pulled off to the side of the road. Piled high with jerry cans, sacks, plastic chairs, and wooden pallets—all powdered with dust—the trucks look like they're here to stay. Banditry plagues South Darfur and the speculation is that the trucks, with their valuable cargo, dare not make the journey—yet.
So, the drivers wait, catching up on their sleep in the midday heat. One has pulled out a bed strapped to the back of his cab. Others tinker with a giant gear pried loose from the underbelly of a truck. Two watermelons cool in the shade behind one of the wheels.
Endurance, I think, must be a prized virtue among those in the Darfur driving profession.
In this poor and undeveloped place, the four-legged conveyances that compete stubbornly for street space seem more reliable than the four-wheeled variety. Donkeys don't get flats. They don't guzzle gas or require painstaking repairs or expensive new parts. All they need is food and water.
But at Kebkabiya, thousands of these precious donkeys suffered a grim fate last summer. They died of starvation, their carcasses littering the streets.
The donkeys belonged to some of the 60,000 homeless people who have streamed into Kebkabiya after being driven from their villages by the ongoing violence. It wasn't easy for people to leave the town to gather the grasses their donkeys desperately needed. In June, July, and August, the sturdy animals began to die—2,800 of them.
"It was a very big problem," recalls Esther Kabahuma, one of Oxfam's public health promoters. There were so many carcasses around that people began shoving them into the nearby riverbed to get rid of them.
"This town was stinking," adds Kabahuma.
Somehow, linking that word—stinking—to these dependable beasts sums up the sad truth of Darfur: What was good has gone bad. Even the completion of the West Salvation Road might not be enough to bring back the old Darfur.
]]>In the camps where people driven from their homes now live, they make shelters from any scraps they can find: cardboard, strips of cloth, frayed pieces of plastic. In the streets of El Fasher, the capital of North Darfur, goats nose through the slim pickings in the trash pits outside the homes, but there is little in them. Everything here seems to get used, and reused. In the market, shopkeepers wrap the produce in artfully folded bags they make from old newspapers. Tin cans morph into pitchers.
On this morning, we have been bouncing along in a Land Cruiser on the long and dusty road to Tawila, where Oxfam has been building latrines and bathing shelters at nearby Dalih camp. Mindful of the rules of this holy month, I have been trying not to take swigs from my water bottle, at least not in public. I'm parched, so when we make a brief stop at the Oxfam guesthouse I sneak a sip before climbing back into the truck—still thirsty.
Just then, an aid worker opens the door and quickly passes through a bag. Inside are four bottles of Pepsi, miraculously cold and beaded with condensation: one for each of us Westerners.
"As I said, American imperialism at work," crows one of my colleagues, twisting off the top and swallowing his drink with pure pleasure as the Land Cruiser lurches off again.
It's good. So good. Pepsi never tastes like this at home—not when you can have it whenever you want. Here, at high noon during Ramadan, it's illicit, and I savor it even more because of that-not knowing the best is yet to come.
When we finish our drinks, someone unrolls the window and, with a heave, sends one of the empty bottles flying out. To my surprise, another goes, and another.
I'm the only one left clutching a bottle, and I intend to hang on to it: How could they be trashing the place so wantonly? It's dusty and empty out there, but that's no reason to muck it up with sticky plastic bottles.
Go ahead, urge my colleagues. Toss it. It's not trash. The bottles are like treasure for the kids. They love them.
Treasure? I think of the photo I saw recently of boys in one of the camps playing with a small toy truck they had made from found parts. I remember hearing that other children save bits of plastic twine they find and weave them into jump ropes.
I unroll my window and wrestle for a second more with my own political correctness. Then, with the thrill of doing something wrong that is now suddenly right, I let go of the bottle. I have littered! Or have I recycled?
It's the latter, I'm quite sure.
"This is a bonanza to them to have these plastic bottles," explains Sally Field somewhat later. She is a public-health promoter working out of Oxfam's El Fasher office. In the courtyard near the kitchen at the office lies a heap of used plastic water bottles. I wondered at first why they were left there. Now, I understand, they have a destination—a very useful second life.
The ones the kids don't use to tote their water around in will wind up in the local market where shopkeepers fill them with the juice they squeeze and sell, says Field.
"The bottles are sacred," she adds.
"The kids come knocking on our door asking for them. They play with them," says Leslie Morris, an Oxfam staffer working on hygiene promotion in the town of Kebkabiya. "I like how they recycle things here. The last time I was in El Fasher I brought back as many of those pop bottles as I could."
Morris plans to adapt the bottles for use in the hand-washing program she is promoting. She'll punch small holes in the tops so the water can dribble out like a portable faucet.
Now that I'm tuned in, I begin to see the precious bottles everywhere: tucked under a child's arm for safekeeping, attached to a bit of wire for a toy, a circle of them planted in the hard earth as a colorful garden surround.
Knowing about the underground life of plastic bottles makes that Pepsi even sweeter—and maybe less illicit—than it was during Ramadan.
]]>I don't anticipate a lot of difficulties in the judicial inspections phase, except for the financing of the inspections. The evidence provided by the judicial inspections is the fundamental basis for the case. The evidence must be supported scientifically, and this is expensive. If there?s not enough money to carry out these tests, I anticipate serious problems, and we run the risk of losing the case.
With the legal process itself, I don't foresee difficulties because the laws determine the process that should be followed, and the Judge will make a decision based on what the law says. He needs to determine his decision according to the law.
As for the final sentence: I will reserve judgments about what I think might happen. Unfortunately our courts have weaknesses, and there are many examples of corruption and political influence and political pressures on the legal system. For example, at our conference today we just heard the delegate from Ecuador's Ministry of Foreign Commerce say that the US government asked for the Texaco case to be dropped as a condition for negotiating a free trade agreement. Although the government has publicly said they do not accept this position, we are certain that pressure will be applied to the judge to decide in favor of Texaco. And that is very dangerous because for me what is at stake is the dignity of the Ecuadorian Amazon and the dignity of the justice system.
The only thing that I hope for in the Texaco case is that justice can be done. Those of us who live here have a great opportunity to demonstrate to the rest of the country that we are men and women with rights equal to those of others.
Since I was very small, I was always searching for justice. When I was 14, and my parents migrated from Esmeraldas, where we lived before, here to Sucumbios, I worked in an African palm plantation company for four years. Afterwards I worked for an oil company, also for four years, and in both places I saw great injustices with the workers and the campesinos. I also saw grave destruction of the environment. I shared these concerns with others, and so about six young people (I was just 17 at the time) agreed, we said "we must do something about these problems." Some were colleagues from work, some were friends from school, and others were from a church youth group. So when we got together and started to take actions with protests and complaints or simply pointing out problems and suggesting solutions, I got into trouble. That was the reason they fired me from the African palm plantation company. Then the oil company threw me out for defending the rights of other workers.
And so from this experience came my dream, my idea, to become a professional. A lawyer. To defend those like myself and others who would be denied their rights, especially for rural people.
Fortunately the church supported me for about 12 years. When I was left without work in the companies, the church gave me work so that I could continue with my studies and social service. I worked with the church until about one year ago when I was hired by the Amazon Defense Front.
The first obstacle and the most important one was the economic obstacle. My parents provided education for me until [eighth grade]. From there on I had to do it on my own—to study and to work. So I worked during the day and studied at night. And when I entered the university, the church helped me by providing more than half of the tuition. That was not easy for them. And it was very difficult for me as I simply didn't have the money. Out of 10 brothers and sisters, I am the only one who finished high school, because of a lack of resources.
The group of friends that I mentioned before also helped me. And I also took other jobs. I worked for the radio doing the news, and as a professor in a distance learning program. I had to study from four until seven in the morning. Then I had to go to work until six at night. The time I had free for lunch midday I dedicated to doing news on the radio. At night I taught high school classes, so my work day was from four in the morning until 11 or 12 at night. That was how I got to this point.
]]>AWC's greatest strength is its connection to local communities. Beneficiaries for food relief are selected based on vulnerability with priority given to the elderly, the chronically ill, widows, orphans, and child-headed households. Food is distributed in the presence of the community, and people are encouraged to speak up if they feel that there is a discrepancy or injustice in the allocation system.
Local women run the impartial, apolitical food distribution system. The organization is well established and has a good reputation, and the communities themselves are directly involved in the distribution process through their AWC members and representatives.
As of early March, the breakdown among the 13,200 beneficiary families was as follows:
Individual families receive 20 kg of maize per month or 50 kg when supplies are adequate. Household size is taken into account with larger households given greater amounts. Efforts are made to deliver in each area once a month.
The system is extraordinarily successful because it places a priority on transparency, ongoing community involvement, women's control of the distribution process, the "prohibition on politics" within AWC business, non-local AWC staff monitoring, and local leadership awareness and support of the distribution process.
Zimbabwe is facing a food shortage that will most likely continue until the next harvest season in April, 2004. AWC is expanding its relief program, adding additional rehabilitation measures such as bean distributions, water pumps, and micro finance programs.
]]>The people of Seke Communal Lands, like most residents of Zimbabwe and neighboring countries, are growing desperate. People scavenge for leftover food at the local boarding schools. Among the most vulnerable are the approximately 1,500 orphans and families living in Seke whose members have HIV/AIDS. (According to UNAIDS, one in four adults in Zimbabwe is said to be infected with the virus.)
In urban centers, lines for ground corn at supermarkets wind their way around whole blocks and people often wait several days before getting any corn. Although there are no reports of mass starvation yet, there have been several cases of individual deaths from starvation. It only may be a matter of time before the numbers swell. The cases of malnutrition among children under 5-years-old have risen sharply in recent months.
Children in rural schools have fainted in class after going for days without food. No one has the strength to participate in sporting activities, so many have been canceled.
April is normally harvest time in Zimbabwe, but it means little to most peasant farmers this year. Their crops barely appeared before wilting and shriveling in a land without rain for many months.
This year's drought comes hard on the heels of last year's poor harvest, when drought was followed by torrential rains that carried away topsoil. The harvest was thin then, and no additional crops are expected until April 2003.
In normal times, Zimbabwe consumes 2 million tons of corn a year. The drought this year, described as the worst in 50 years by local farmers, has reduced that amount to only 750,000 tons. The country used to export grain and their harvests were very successful. Now, inflation is at 113 percent and the government will have to depend on foreign aid to buy food imports.
To compound the problems, Zimbabwe is bereft of friends in the international community who might come to its aid. The current food crisis is largely considered self-inflicted because the government's land reform program has severely disrupted production on commercial farms. Some districts report that the government is refusing aid to members of the political opposition who challenged President Mugabe in recent elections.
Aid agencies have begun to bring in food under the World Food Program (WFP), but so far they cannot cope with the crisis. To date, the U.S. Government (USG) has provided more than $49.5 million in emergency humanitarian assistance. In past droughts in Zimbabwe, only the most vulnerable needed assistance because there were enough grain reserves for the rest. Today, there is little or no maize meal available, even for those with the money to pay for it.
A large and highly effective Oxfam partner, the Association of Women's Clubs (AWC), recently began an assessment of people's food needs, particularly of vulnerable women and children. The AWC has more than 60,000 members around the country. They have put in an initial request for 6,000 tons of maize to supplement the diets of their members' communities until October 2002. Additional funding is essential to provide food after October for what is expected to be a far larger portion of the population in need.
To arrest the crisis this year, seeds and fertilizers must also be distributed before the next planting season in October. Without these seeds, there will be no crop next April either, and the people will continue to be dependent on external aid.
Zimbabwe's food crisis could well turn into a major humanitarian disaster without international support and a willingness to separate the needs of the people from the political problems dogging the nation. Despite the government's "anti-imperialism" rhetoric, it faces a crisis of a magnitude that can only be solved through international solidarity. The current stand-off between the government of Zimbabwe and international donors should not be allowed to prevent the provision of food assistance, as it is the ordinary people who are bearing the brunt of the crisis.
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