To Reckon With Evil

Raphael Lemkin is my new hero. And he is, perhaps, one of the most deserving humans to ever bear that title. One could argue that his zealous passion for changing the world as he saw (and felt it) was mere long-lived emotionality. Yet as Samantha Power writes, Lemkin knew the only way to stimulate changes globally was to appeal to that keystone of humanity, emotion. Too often, coldhearted and heavy handed calculations decide the fate of too many. Lemkin, though he was a lawyer and a scholar, never lost the ability to let his heart rule where it must. Power writes that “[New York Times reporters] were fond of Lemkin but recall the horror of many a correspondent and diplomat when the wild-eyed professor with steel rimmed glasses and a relentless appetite for rejection began sprinting after them in the corridors, saying ‘You and I, we must change the world.’”

Lemkin was not afraid. Morality and the Ethics of Humanity were his witness and his friend. He did succeed in changing the world, though it took all of himself and the many he touched in life. Yet like so many wonders of architecture and painted masterpieces, that which takes a lifetime to build can be undone in a day. That which Churchill called a “Crime without a name,” committed under the “barbaric fury of the Nazis” now had a fitting name, and thanks to Raphael Lemkin that name became the core of international law banning this barbarity, this crime of Genocide.

Yet for decades the United States of America didn't ratify the treaty, annuling it in the eyes of those who understand that the most powerful country in the world will neccessarily make or break international law by its decision to recognize it or not. And when the pressure mounted and the US finally did ratify it, certain Senators, among them one Mr. Orrin Hatch, made sure that the ratification was so burdened with RUDs (Reservations, Understandings, and Declarations) that the resulting dilution of the treaty carried little weight and was more of a slap in the face of humanity, and Lemkin personally, than an act of morality.

As Samantha Power wrote, “Despite graphic media coverage, American policymakers, journalists, and citizens are extremely slow to muster the imagination needed to reckon with evil.” Has the great American nation become so numb to the problems of the world that we can’t wake up? Are we lulled into a drooling slumber by the murmur of the oceans which surround and protect us from so many evils? Have time and wealth wrought a schism in our minds, dividing us from a history that once painted us as outgoing individuals and good-hearted people? Far too often, yes, yes, and yes.

Power writes that “[US leaders] brand as ‘emotional’ those US officials who urge intervention [in genocide] and who make moral arguments in a system that speaks principally in the cold language of interests.” But lest those brave few lose hope, those who still call people with a different color passport brother or sister, let us remember that “In each case [of genocide] a few Americans stood out by standing up. They did not lose sight of right and wrong, even as they were repeatedly steered to a ‘context’ [of international politics] that others said precluded action.”

Lemkin’s call to each of us is simple, humble, and unabashedly straightforward. A native Pole who was able to lecture in English within weeks of his arrival to America, he pleaded: “If women, children and old people would be murdered a hundred miles from here, wouldn’t you run to help? Then why do you stop this decision of your heart when the distance is 3,000 miles instead of a hundred?”

Before the graves in Rwanda have had time to rest; and long before the last tears were shed in Bosnia; Darfur started burning under the hellfire of Genocide. They still cry out: the women who are raped while fetching water; the children who have learned to fear the sound of hooves and airplanes as they bring fire and death; and the men who see that there are so few of them left and no one seems to care: They still cry out; though the desert and the ocean and the TV muffle their cries.

Updates

Hello from the Kgalagadi (Kalahari)!

First, the Boring Section:
Lerato (Dani) and I (Thato) are sitting on our newly acquired cheap-as-we-could-find camping chairs, directly in front of our new oscillating fan, which, sadly, provides only brief and intermittent respite from the might of the desert sun in September (late spring in the Southern hemisphere). But hey, at least we have electricity! That, of course, is one of the luxuries of Peace Corps South Africa: 99% of volunteers have electricity in at least part of their house (some only in the kitchen, and then only sometimes).

In our particular situation, we have two small adjoining rooms with one outlet each, a bed (kindly provided by our great host Mom from her own room, as the Northern Cape Department of Education has not yet provided any of the volunteers in our district with the necessary furniture, (an agreement between the Department and Peace Corps.)) Each volunteer is required to have the PC necessities: a bed, a chair, a desk, a closet/dresser, and access to drinking water within reasonable walking distance. Some of our colleagues have found that those “basics” are very loosely adhered to, if at all.

One of our friends has to walk several blocks to get to water, and even then it is laden with algae and other critters which aided him in an apropos demonstration of the human digestive function known as reverse peristalsis for all his teachers. This also happened to another one of our friends during site visit. Needless to say, they both were able to land an in-depth tour of the village clinic. As far as H2O goes, we’re one of the lucky ones. It’s a short 10 meter walk to the spout under the water storage tank in our compound, and only 20 meters to the house where there is a sink. We can use the toilet and bathtub during the day (though there is often no hot water), and at night we use the inescapable chamber bucket. We still wash our laundry by hand, but at least we have our own basins so we can soak things overnight.

Today the wind was blowing so much that while doing laundry my hands were freezing cold, even in the heat. And when we were about to cook dinner we noticed that leaving the window open even a crack leaves you with a fine layer of dust on everything in the room. So with our corrugated tin roof and no ceiling, our nice little toaster oven will have to be cooled from within, hopefully with the help of another fan if we can afford it.

Friday and Saturday were both spent scouring our shopping town for the cheapest prices on everything from rags to pots to extension cords. At about 5 or 6 PM, after the shops close, our hiking backpacks (thanks again Mom and Dad!) are bulging at the seams and our arms are completely full. We, perhaps unwisely, have opted both times to cram everything onto our laps and around our feet instead of paying for an extra seat for our stuff. Saturday’s ride back home, though not actually too long, left poor Dani sitting on one cheek the whole way and my leg jammed into the side of our bucket with no room to even get the taxi fare out of our pockets. After we dismounted and limped home we both were still sore and aching. FYI, the khumbis here, unlike in our training village, are mostly converted pickup trucks, with the former truck bed now covered with two side benches, supposedly big enough for two people on each, though I’m still skeptical, even after I’ve seen the feat with my own eyes. Somehow we always end up in the back.

I also want to mention the many names we have been called while here. Of course there are the African names, which both mean Love, given to us by our awesome host family the day we walked into their home. We now have a different surname (used in order to establish familial ties in the village, not only for integration, but also safety and security), but we kept our first African names. However, some names we’ve been given have not been as welcome. Many people, especially young children, call us “lekgoa” as we pass, which means “whitey.” Although not inherently rude, it belies not only the oddity and rarity of seeing a white person in the village, but echoes the stark, oppressive, and lingering aftereffects of Apartheid, where the color of your skin was Who You Are. Thus we have embarked on a mild campaign (which will probably last until the day we leave) to politely tell people “I am not whitey, I am Thato.” Many young children are too young to know better, but the upside is that once adults hear us say this they almost always are very understanding and call us by our names, as well as try to help their kids do the same. As I was running down the red and white dirt roads today a guy my age waved his hand and with a big smile said “Hello lekgoa!” I stopped and greeted him back, trying to correct him politely as always: “Hi! I am not whitey, I am Thato.” He paused, raised his hand again, and with an even bigger smile said, “Hello, Thato the lekgoa!” I guess you can’t win ‘em all.

Even worse, however, is when people call us “Boss.” An obvious and very depressing remnant of Apartheid, this is heard much less often, but when I hear it, my heart sinks. It always reminds me of the similarities between Apartheid and Segregation in America. And it also makes me at least a little ashamed to share the skin of so many evil people who have made their lasting and crippling mark on the world.

In many ways those around the world who share that proud African heritage are similar to the Jews. Scourged, hated, ignored, massacred, and forgotten throughout the ages, it makes you admire the mere ability to survive, much more the ability to keep some semblance of dignity under the anvil of oppressors through the ages. (One thing I’ve noticed is that, like the Jews, they have relied on a remarkable sense of humor to pull them through the tough times.)

Important to mention also is that I’ve realized more and more while here how tainted the English language is with racism. While teaching in school last month I became supremely humiliated when I used the term “Black Plague,” quickly returning to the proper term, “Bubonic Plague” as I mentally kicked myself for saying it. There are so many of these, it’s almost depressing: blacklisted, black mark, black spot, etc. And similarly, white is often used as the symbol of beauty and all things noteworthy. Just look up those words in the dictionary.

Second, the Worth Reading Section:
After re-reading the part about our living arrangements, I decided that lest I sound like I’m ungrateful, I should share that, as one of my favorite children’s books sagaciously taught, it could always be worse. Concerning housing, for example: although we have not yet seen the biggest “townships,” like Soweto, we have driven past some pretty huge ones in my eyes, which would more accurately be described as shanty towns. Township was the term the Apartheid government used as a euphemism for these modern day ghettos. They played a major role in the Anti-Apartheid struggle, after they united in spite of the extreme tribal segregation within the townships. I would encourage all to read more about them. But suffice it to say that what I have seen is heart-wrenching. Driving past, you can go for miles without seeing any other building material beside corrugated tin, most of it obviously used and salvaged at least once already. The shacks, which look scarcely big enough to hold a few large pets, let alone a family, are usually no more than 2 meters by 1.5 meters by 1.5 meters high. Looking up from those lining the road you see a vast sea of similarly disheartening and precariously standing shacks, each only a few feet from the next.

Many times already in my experience as a trainee and now PCV I have realized that no matter how many hardships and frustrations and morasses I encounter, it could always be worse. And it is, on a daily basis, for roughly 2/3 of the world’s population. If you ever want to get a taste for poverty, try living on less than $2 a day for a week. Most of us wouldn’t last. And neither do many of the 3 Billion people, many of them children, who live on that amount their whole lives (and in case you’re skeptical, these World Bank statistics are measured at purchasing power parity, so even if 1 US dollar = 7 SA Rand, that sack of flour is equally expensive for both).

And if a crumb of how the other half lives isn’t enough, take a bigger challenge: hundreds of agencies could put any donation to good use. Last I heard, the World Food Program had a campaign to feed school kids for just 19 cents a day.