Archive for category Sub-Saharan Africa
Although a global problem, torture takes shape in different ways in different contexts. Tackling it is also a local challenge, with human rights defenders asking, how does torture happen here?
PRAWA, or Prisoners Rehabilitation and Welfare Action, is a Nigerian rehabilitation and advocacy organisation and member of the IRCT. They have developed a methodology and series of programmes to prevent torture from happening in the first place, one that is nearly so obvious and simple.
In Nigeria, torture happens in prisons. It happens when people come in contact with police and prison authorities. It happens through the horrific and inhumane conditions of prisons.
There is a vast problem of crime in Nigeria, says Godwin Ugbor, a psychologist at PRAWA based in their Enugu headquarters. This is mostly related to dire poverty and hunger. While the country itself is rich from oil – one of the largest oil producers in the world – this wealth has not been distributed widely. It’s the 49th most unequal country, meaning any wealth is only held by a few.
“There is just so much hunger,” Godwin says. The result of that poverty and inequality, he explains, is rampant crime.
Furthermore, the high rate of crime in Nigeria means there is increased pressure on police services to function well and arrest perpetrators – but they suffer from the same poverty and lack of proper funding and training as the rest of the country.
“Because they don’t have the skills, they resort to torture,” he says.
So, one of PRAWA’s approaches to preventing torture – keep people out of the judicial system. Although people are sometimes implicated and tortured for crimes they never committed, the best method of prevention is to ensure that the young don’t become involved in criminal activity. Additionally, they work with the police and justice system apparatuses to bring about a human rights ethic to their work. And for those in prison, PRAWA provides psychological rehabilitation during their sentences and through the transition to public life. If most torture occurs in prisons and police lock-ups, then PRAWA rehabilitates prisoners.
Godwin has only been a psychologist for a year and a half, but he’s jumped into this work quickly, almost ‘overwhelmingly’, he says. It’s never-ending work, with prisoners and other clients calling at all hours.
“Your personal life is lost.”
Godwin started working with prisoners during an internship, one of four he had during his studies to become a psychologist.
“The system is so flawed and the conditions in prison so terrible, you develop a great deal of sympathy. It is a large group of people that really need help.”
Terrible may be an understatement. “Say they built a prison for 100, maybe 400 people will be living there. It’s extremely overcrowded. A cell for five, may have 20 people. There are bad sanitary conditions. Not good personnel working there. And really horrible food.”
Godwin says for those living under these conditions – often in long sentences or remaining there for months or years after they should be released due to flawed judicial processes – can develop chronic mental illnesses. Many prisons now have asylum cells for the mentally ill. He gets calls from them sometimes as late as 10pm, desperate for help and someone to talk to.
However, Godwin’s work has taken a turn recently to focus more on prevention – ensuring that the youth of Nigeria don’t get caught up in crime and risk arrest, becoming entangled with the judicial system and thus tortured.
The Illegal Migration Awareness Project (IMAP) trains youth and peer educators on the issues of illegal migration, a particularly relevant issue in Nigeria, Godwin says.
“Many youth want to leave the country and live without violence,” he says. But the impact of illegal migration can bring dire consequences. Many try to migrate across the desert, some dying during the journey. Others steal money, purchasing fake visas and passports and can be caught by officials. Those who make it abroad may have to resort to crime and theft to make ends meet.”
The education to peer leaders includes understanding alternatives to violence – training youth on how to handle certain situations without resorting to violence and aggression. Finally, career guidance programmes on vocational training and entrepreneurship assist youth in earning money, building a career, attending university and supporting themselves rather than turning to crime and theft.
“When I was in university, I would make shirts, shirts like this,” Godwin says while tugging at the fabric of his blue button-down. “That meant I was able to make enough money to support myself and attend school.”
It is methods like PRAWA’s that demonstrate the multi-faceted problem of torture – how problems of poverty increase one’s vulnerability to torture. And stopping torture means tackling it from all sides.
Editor’s Note: Tessa writes from the IRCT’s Sub-Saharan Africa Regional Seminar taking place in Yaounde, Cameroon.
As we’ve mentioned before, work in nongovernmental organisations (NGO – another acronym we use with ease within this little world) can use a particular language and methods that don’t really reflect to the outside world their true meaning and impact. We speak of meetings and projects with an air of great importance, but often struggle to explain why? Why is a meeting, of all things, so important and why do we focus so much on them?
This has been one of the goals of this blog – to shed some light underneath the veil of NGO-ese and the NGO methods to explain clearly, what is the impact of our work.
One the IRCT’s projects, Non-State Actors (NSA) is one such project riddled with this problem of communicating why meetings are so important.
I am writing right now from one of these meetings. I’m in Cameroon at the Sub-Saharan Africa Regional Seminar, co-hosted by the IRCT and our member Trauma Centre Cameroon (TCC). This is my first time to attend one of these meetings, and I firstly feel so privileged to be here and meet so many people within the torture rehabilitation movement; but I also feel like I’m only now beginning to understand the impact of these seminars and meetings.
This seminar has brought together 31 representatives – psychologists, counsellors, directors of centres, and social workers – from torture rehabilitation centres from all over sub-Saharan Africa. There are people here from Chad, Nigeria, Zimbabwe, Kenya, Democratic Republic of the Congo, and of course, our gracious hosts and ridiculously hard-working staff of TCC, among others.
The title of this five-day seminar is “Learning from each other.” Our goal in being here is to do just that – learn from each other’s respective experiences in rehabilitating torture survivors, gaining access to justice and preventing torture from happening in the first place.
But our first task was simply to make sure we were all OK. Working for a world without torture in sub-Saharan Africa can be a phenomenally difficult task, as one can imagine from the media. Torture here is undeniably prevalent, whether during military uprisings, former dictatorships, ongoing torture from police officers, or in post-conflict settings. And working for the rehabilitation of torture survivors can be both personally taxing for the individual and intimidating, as we have seen from the threats to human rights defenders around the world.
So, in bringing these 31 individuals together, we tried to address these issues. Presenters from various centres explained their strategies for safety as human rights defenders. Fidelis Mudimu, from Counselling Services Unit (CSU) in Zimbabwe, was among three staff members arbitrarily arrested and detained. He spoke about strategies to assess risks. For example, the greater impact of a centre’s work – bringing forth more perpetrators to account for their crimes, documenting that torture has taken place, empowering victims through rehabilitation – can of course increase the risks that human rights defenders face because they challenge the impunity of perpetrators. Knowing the impact of one’s work can keep that defender aware of when they might provoke a threat.
Taiga Wanyanja, coordinator of Mateso – Mwatikho Torture Survivors Organization in Kenya, spoke about ways in which human rights defenders can mitigate against risks. Keep abreast of not only the context in which one is working, but how it changes. Is there political unrest or upcoming elections, such as the situation in Kenya in 2008 that resulted in many incidents of torture? Make sure the office itself is safe – in a well-lit area and not isolated and easily attacked.
But human rights defenders need to be mentally safe in addition to physically safe. When working in the fight against torture, it is both understandable and a considerable risk that human rights defenders may become traumatised, burned-out or facing other mental health challenges because of the nature of their work. Secondary trauma – trauma that comes from hearing and witnessing the stories of torture and violence all day, everyday – is a problem among those in human rights work, perhaps particularly in anti-torture organisations.
So, back to meetings. What is the purposing of bringing forth all these people from all over the continent to learn these things? Because, as Fidelis said, “We are a chain. And we are only as strong as our weakest link.” It is critically important for the safety – both physical and mental safety – that everyone learns from each other. This is learning from both successes and failures, knowing what works and what doesn’t, in fighting torture within each country, context and community.
The story of Charline is one of nineteen stories collected by Grace Kagoyire and Annemiek Richters. The collection will be published in 2013 in a book under the title “Stories about death and rebirth: Life experiences of Rwandan female genocide survivors”; first in Kinyarwanda for distribution within Rwanda and subsequently in English. The English version will be supplemented by short chapters with analysis of the various themes that feature in the stories. A prepublication of a second story can be found on www.annemiekrichters.nl/rwanda. This website gives more information about the program of sociotherapy that hosted the story project.
Through the 16 Days, we have often commented on the unceasing work of activists, women’s human rights defenders, and community leaders in terms of their bravery and leadership. But what we also would like to emphasize is that these are not the only roles in which women exhibit bravery. The act of coming forward, testifying, providing these stories that we have shared through the last two weeks, and healing – coming forth for rehabilitation and reconnection with others can in fact be the bravest act for women, who often must fight deep personal and social shame as victims of violence, particularly sexual violence.
With that in mind, we would like to share the story of Charline, who was a victim of violence and sexual torture during the genocide in Rwanda. After years of ongoing gender violence and suffering, Charline joined a sociotherapy group, where she felt a change come over her whole self. Read her story of bravery, perseverance and the radical act of healing.
For fifteen years I was tortured by the man who raped me during the genocide, and then forced me to be his wife and continued to violate me. It felt like prison. After I separated from him, my wits came back to me. Before, I was always depressed, living in fear and grief. I always had headaches and nightmares. Now I have peace in my heart.
I am Charline. I was born in 1976 in the Nyarugunga sector in Kicukiro District. My parents were farmers. I lived with them up to April 1994. We were neither rich nor poor. I was born in a family of nine children, four boys and five girls. Five siblings and both my parents died during the genocide. Four of us escaped. I did not get a chance to marry a man I loved, because I was taken by force in 1994 by a neighbour who raped and married me. I live with the three children I conceived with this man.
The genocide mayhem spread everywhere. When it began, my whole family left our house in order to look for a place to hide. My sister-in-law and I went to hide at the home of our Hutu neighbour, who was a member of a Pentecostal church and was known as a reborn Christian. We spent two nights there.
On the third day, we went to a nearby primary school, thinking that it would be a safe place. We spent two days there while the war violence increased. Men who were with us advised us to look for another place to hide because things were getting worse. Since we had nowhere else to go, we took refuge in a nearby swamp where, after four days, a club of Interahamwe (1) found us hiding there.
One of those Interahamwe took me to his parents’ house. He lied to me, saying that he was going to hide me. I spent the night in that house and started to trust him. After two days, however, he began to rape me. He told me that the genocide would continue and that I should become his wife. I refused sexual intercourse with him. I continued begging him to leave me alone, wanting to go back to the swamp. He terrorised me and told me that if I would go back, he would kill me. I was afraid. The situation outside was bad. I stayed with him because I had no choice.
It was very hard to be raped and survive. No one supported me during the genocide. A man who should have helped me violated me instead.
During the fifteen years that I lived with this rapist, he terrorised me. I could not speak with him about the way my family was killed or about the death of my siblings. At each period of commemoration, I went to bed and cried until the end of the period. What was most painful is that when he found me crying he liked to tell me, “It is of no importance that Tutsis were killed.” Throughout my whole life with him I was always afraid. I never felt happiness. Since the day he took me from the swamp, I expected him to kill me. During the memorial period (2) he insulted me, as if I had no right to cry.
It was not only him who discriminated me. Everyone stigmatized me. Survivors could not talk to me. One survivor told me uwawe akuvira utamwikoreye (a dear one bleeds on you even when you are not carrying him/her). This means that my suffering was visible through the sadness on my face and it also was saddening those who observed me. Hutus used to tell my perpetrator that it was his own fault that he lived in poverty, because he married a Tutsi woman who was not able to cultivate.
Even though my sister told me to leave the rapist, I did not do it because I did not want to become a burden to anyone. On the other side, the family of this man also disliked me. As people stigmatised me, I was afraid of attending the survivors meetings because I also stigmatised myself. I felt as though I was in jail.
In 2009, this man started to behave even worse to me because I refused to sell a plot of land that had belonged to my parents. After this he said that because we were very poor, he was going to marry a rich woman. The situation was aggravated by the death of one of our four children. In 2010 the child fell sick and was hospitalised. The man refused to pay the hospital fees. During the week I spent in the hospital, he did not come to visit me. After the death of my child, it was my sister who paid the hospital. Coming home, when it was time to bury the dead body of my son, his father did not want him to be buried in what he considered to be ‘his’ plot of land, while in reality I owned half of it. He wanted to sell the whole plot in order to marry a rich woman. He told me that if I would bury the child in his land, he would kill me just like another man from our neighbourhood who had killed his wife. After I refused to bury the child in the ruins of my parents’ house, I separated from this man. My sister started to rent a house for me.
Throughout this whole period, I suffered from psychological problems. I was living in isolation, always crying. I would say that I was like a brainless person (3). A time came where I felt hate towards myself and towards everything else. I stopped going to church. I was depressed, living in fear and grief. I had always headaches and nightmares. I experienced ihahamuka (4), especially during the commemoration period. My life during this period was just crying. I was always falling ill in April. I could spend three whole days in tears. I was always quiet. I only went to commemorate once, in 2006, when we buried the remains of my brother who I loved so much, and who died at the last minute of the genocide.
Even though I was suffering, I did not go to the hospital. I was always at home. I regained my wits after my separation from that man and after I started to join other women and collaborate with them. I was no longer in that man’s prison. The separation somehow reduced the sadness and other problems I had. I had my rights back, the ones I had been deprived of for 15 years. Before, I was not even allowed to benefit from survivor supports. I was told that I was not a survivor. Now separated, I am supported like other vulnerable survivors. Today I have mutual health insurance from FARG (5), and I am on the list for direct support. I did not benefit from any counselling because I was not informed about which organisations provided counselling.
Through the grace of God, one woman who was my neighbour came to me. This woman, who later became a friend of mine, had completed fifteen weeks of sociotherapy (6). Because she had stayed near me while I was going through difficult times, I became open to her. She would advise me when I had problems. She became like my mother. I told her everything because she listened to me. After speaking about all my sorrows my heart was released. The deep thoughts I had about my life reduced. Before I spoke to her, I was always thinking about the rape I experienced and living in loneliness.
In 2011, I was invited by another female neighbour to join sociotherapy. Even though I accepted her invitation I could not see any interest in going to the meeting place every week. During the first four weeks I was wondering why I would go there all the way just for crying. Once, one of our facilitators explained to us the importance of crying. I learned that when you cry, you feel your heart being released. After understanding the significance of crying, I continued to participate. After four weeks I started to like sociotherapy. Another thing that motivated me was the game we played all together. That game showed us how a person can live in isolation, and how she can get out of it. After this game, which helped me so much, I decided not to miss any sociotherapy session. When my neighbour first invited me, I had expected to be supported through income generating activities. But I was not disappointed after realizing that my expectations were different from the aim of sociotherapy. I realised that the discussions we had within the group were important to me.
Before joining sociotherapy, I was always thinking about myself. I was always angry, and I was full of grudges. I also felt that I wanted to live alone. Surprisingly, while I was following sociotherapy, I felt changes in my whole body. The anger, thinking deeply about myself, all these symptoms disappeared. The loneliness has gone. I am no longer crying whenever as I was doing before. Another problem which has gone is the hate towards Hutus. During the fifteen years that I lived with the rapist, I had built a kind of hatred in my heart because of his wickedness towards me. The discussions we had in sociotherapy changed me. They taught me to live peacefully with others. I learned that if people sinned against me, I have to forgive them. This lesson brought peace in my heart. Being angry and bearing this hatred were gradually killing me while they, the sinners, were sleeping. I felt that I have to forgive my enemy, because forgiving brings peace in a broken heart. Since I graduated from sociotherapy, I committed myself to do whatever I can in order to live peacefully with others in the future. And then, I have a dream of having a house. After getting a house, I will work, and then develop myself further.
Although I am appreciative of sociotherapy, I do not know whether my family’s slaughterers are still alive. They were in prison; but they were released after they confessed. They confessed in prison, and later also in Gacaca (7). That is how we learnt about the death of our mother. They told that they killed my mother when she went to fetch drinking water and then threw stones at her until she died. After they confessed, I did not see them again. I did not testify against the rapist, afraid of being called a mad woman by the public. Because although my heart was full of grief and tears, neighbours knew that I was his wife. Gacaca is almost over by now. Those who looted our properties and those who destroyed our house paid our brother back. But the rapist is still walking around freely. What could I do?
Before I finish my story of change, I would advise other women who have been taken by force by a rapist to leave him if they experienced problems similar to mine. I liked that sociotherapy brought me together with other women and that it allowed me to trust myself and others again. Before I joined, I was like a small animal. When someone tried to do anything bad to me, I was reproducing this bad thing twice in return. I have changed, now, and I love other people. I had forgotten to smile like others, but, I am now a changed person and I am looking towards the future.
1. A Hutu paramilitary organisation
2. Each year in April the genocide is remembered nationwide through a range of events
3. Charline is refering to brainlessness due to a congenital disorder
4. A Kinyarwanda concept for a local form of somatic panic attacks
5. National fund for the assistance of genocide survivors
6. See for information about sociotherapy in Rwanda: http://www.annemiekrichters.nl/rwanda
7. Gacaca refers to community courts that have been the centerpiece of Rwanda’s justice and reconciliation programme
Philo Ikonya is a poet, author and journalist from Kenya
“I was a candidate in the  elections for parliament. I ran because change has to come. I am also a human rights activist. I have appeared many times on TV debate shows, so I am quite well-known to the public. A top priority for me as an MP would be to provide opportunities for the youth. Lots of youths in Kenya are disenfranchised, poor and without hope after finishing their education.
Second, I would focus on improving our health system. Because the big violence here in Kenya is poverty.
My third priority would be women. We form 52% of this country’s population. But even trying to get into a position of leadership here is very difficult.
In February 2009 I was in a small demonstration outside our parliament building. We were protesting that the government wasn’t doing anything about the food shortage. At some point a female policeman comes up to me and says: “You know I can arrest you?”. I said: “I know you can, but what have I done wrong? I am here to complain about the price of maize, and why can’t I?”
Anyway, I went to the other side of the street. Now there was only me and a young man. Suddenly the cops arrived in a small car. They got out, grabbed us and said: “Keep quiet!”. One of them was a senior policeman. He said: “Look, you keep quiet, I know you.”
I replied “I’m just talking to people. I mean, why should…” Then he hit the young man who was with me and threw him to the ground. My first thought was “I gotta run away”. Then “but if I run away he will finish this guy – he is not a public figure like me”
He beat him with his fists and with a stick. Then he came over to me and pushed me towards the car. I fell; he pulled my arm and ripped my clothes. Cameras arrived; before long there were lots of cameras. Still, the damned fellow put his arm inside my dress and pinched my breasts.
We were both thrown into the car. I was in the backseat with my companion and another policeman. The senior guy was in the front seat. He said: “Now there are no cameras here.” Then he started hitting us. On the throat, on the chin, he really punched us both. We were screaming “Stop it! Why are you doing this?? Stop it!” I thought: “My God, he is going to kill us”. He was telling the policeman next to me to beat us, but he was paralysed with fear – he didn’t touch us.
“…until you are silent…”
The window was down, so I started yelling “They are going to kill us – help! help!“. He hit me again – he kept beating us all the way to the police station. He said “I will beat you until you can’t speak anymore, until you are silent and you are under…”
“This can’t be happening to me”, I thought. I told him: “I’ve never ever been hit by a man – stop it!” But he hit me again and I yelled: “Are you going to stop when you break my jaw? What do you want? What have we done?” …But he kept on hitting us, repeating “Now the cameras are not here…” I thought he was going to finish us between here and the cells – because that’s what he was really saying.
When we got to the police station my lip was swollen and my clothes were torn. He pulled out the young man and slapped him and dragged him upstairs. I was left there. Then some of his colleagues put me in a cell.
There are horrible things going on in the cells. Every few minutes they were throwing in someone else. The few women that came in were speechless because of previous torture or harassment. One was pregnant. She couldn’t talk because women police officers had tortured her upstairs – they had threatened to put pepper in her private parts, even when she told them she was pregnant. And they beat her badly.
In the evening, they took us to another police station. They drove very fast. Three minutes down the road the cop behind me said: “You are going to die and you are going to go to hell.”
“I realised from the way they spoke that it was something they did every day to other people.”
I thought “no, they cannot do it”. And then “yes, they can do it – these things are happening in Kenya.” I realised from the way they spoke that it was something they did every day to other people. They spoke about death all the time. And they kept getting calls on their radios, always answering: “Yeah, we are very near the forest. We are taking them to the forest” and “When we get there, they will never talk again.” So I thought they were taking us somewhere else to see how much more information we had. And I thought: “What do you say when they are beating you for information but you don’t have the information they are after?”
When we got to the second police station I had no idea where we were. The station was totally deserted. I was locked up again, not knowing what was happening.
I was released sometime during the night. I found out later that IMLU had paid the bond. I don’t know how they got to know about my case. My friend Ann drove me home. I went to bed – I was in a daze, my head was zooming. My son Yusuf – he’s 13 – was sleeping. In the morning he came to my bed and was quiet. Ann had told him about my arrest. I had very dark bruises, which he saw. He was shocked. He said: “Why does it have to be you?”. In the following weeks he was very angry, traumatised.
He feels so helpless – angry at me that I put myself at risk. I tell him: “Look, I do it for you.” I try to tell him it’s not like he comes second and the country comes first. But he is very sharp – he tells me: “What really matters to you is the rest of the world, huh? And your country, not me. Where do you think I am in all this?” It is a very difficult balance.
Some time ago a friend said to me: “How can you keep on? You have a child!” Many people think like this. And it can be very painful, especially when your child is also protesting your engagement. But I tell them: “I’m in it because I have a child and my child will have children! If no one fights it, it may be my son who is picked up next time”. If all those who are afraid for their children’s safety actually did something, that would take us a long way.
I had been summoned to court at 8 am the morning after my arrest. At 3.30 the night before, I woke up and wrote the whole experience down. It was like my head was gonna burst. So many things happened so suddenly.
During the court hearings I had these very strong convulsions. All of a sudden it was as if my body needed to get rid of that had happened in the past two days. I felt like I was gonna throw up, I was gasping for air for a long time until I was able to compose myself.
After going to court I spent the whole day in the cells even though the bond had been paid. That’s because of the slow procedure, which gives many an opportunity to bribe their way out, just to get the bond papers signed. If you do not bribe, it takes much longer – even longer than it took me.
Weeks and months later
Then I was transferred to a hospital. They said I needed trauma counselling and had soft-tissue injuries. I was there for one and a half day. It was nowhere near enough. I was very affected, very traumatised. Later they would pick up the fact that my hand needed six months to heal.. much later… First I didn’t realise it, because I am very strong. But in the weeks and months after I was often teary. I didn’t like to see the colour blue because the police dress in blue. I still remember it and sometimes cry. I feel, you know, ‘why on earth…?
“I didn’t like to see the colour blue because the police dress in blue.”
When I woke up in the morning at the hospital I cried and cried and cried. All the time I thought there were policemen under the bed. I told them: “Look, I feel there is somebody under the bed, somebody dressed in blue, policemen.” And I felt so stupid afterwards. I am this person who goes on TV talking about human rights, a very strong woman, and there I am, sobbing away, claiming there are policemen under the bed!
How else has it affected me? It has made it more difficult for me to cope with all sorts of problems. And I have started becoming more cautious about what I can say. I HATE the feeling that I’ve begun to censor myself to some extent. I’m still outspoken. But I’m more cautious.
The first three nights I was out of Nairobi after my arrest I dreamt three consecutive nights of police arresting me. First, it was just the arrest. The third night it was many of us, activists, being arrested and put in one set of handcuffs. It was nightmarish. I woke up frozen, like: “My God, we’ve been arrested again, they are coming again in their blue uniforms.”
“A substantial part of you has gone.”
The thing about torture – and poverty – is that it steals a place in your mind that is meant for your development, your growth, your enjoyment. All that space is taken. It’s like you are imprisoning that space. If you are a writer, it’s your imagination. First you don’t realise it. But after some time you begin to realise it does matter. A substantial part of you has gone. There’s this gap in your creativity. You are struggling to find that space. Even just to sit down to read a book peacefully. You are reading, and then after 15 minutes you are thinking about that chap who was arrested – are they torturing him? Then your own arrest comes to play. After some time you have no space…
Where would I like to be in 10 years’ time? Well, I really want recognition for my writing. I would love to look back at a series of writings that made sense to people; that tried to bring reason at a very dark time. Things that continue speaking to people in the world.
In a completely different political system I would like to have a strong political position. In this system I don’t even want to hear about the elections in 2012. I don’t believe in this representation by 222 people who hold the country at ransom. I would like to see myself as a powerful person within a different system – a powerful position, which would still allow me to exude moral courage.
And then, it is a dream to see a torture-free society. I can’t live without freedom. Giving up freedom is like giving up being. It is everything. That’s what I would like. So that my son can look back at my life and say: “It made sense!”
Kenya, June 2009
Philo Ikonya is a poet, author and journalist from Kenya. She blogs at philoikonya.blogspot.com
While working on the 26 June Global Report, in particular on the list of States which have and have not ratified the UN Convention against Torture, I noticed something peculiar.
From the short list of States which have not ratified the Convention — of which many are microstates — three of them are members of the Portuguese-speaking community of countries, namely Angola, Guinea-Bissau and São Tomé and Príncipe.
I am Portuguese and I am from a generation of young people who want to completely break away from the hostilities that marked this group of countries in the 60s and 70s.
This generation dreams of a true community of Lusophone countries that uses the shared heritage as a tool to advance human development and cultural enrichment.
Disregard for basic human rights does not and cannot be part of this new Lusophone community, the home of nearly 250 million people, where more than a million people already exchanged their country for another in the community.
That is why I decided to write an open letter to the leaders of the CPLP (in Portuguese only), the Lusophone equivalent to the Commonwealth or the Francophonie, calling for concerted efforts towards the ratification of the Convention by the three remaining countries, so that the whole community can adhere together to the cause for a world without torture.
Fabio is a Communications Officer and Assistant Editor of Torture Journal at IRCT.
As we wrote recently, three staff members, including IRCT’s Council Member Mr Fidelis Mudimu, were arbitrarily arrested and detained by police in Harare. They were transferred to Bulawayo, 450 kilometres southwest of the capital, where fears grew over their safety.
Thanksfully, the three were released on bail the following day. However, now Mr Mudimu and colleagues Zachariah Godi and Tafadzwa Geza are facing specious charges. And, the computer that was confiscated during the police raid on the clinic has not yet been returned.
We ask our global group of supporters to please join in demanding these charges be dropped and the computer returned. Visit our petition, sign on to this call, and please, most importantly, share it with your friends and family to end the harassment of our colleagues in Zimbabwe.
As a global movement, the IRCT’s member centres aren’t only based within the world’s relatively safe, stable and prosperous countries. Many are based in countries where the rule of law is weak. These are, of course, often the countries where torture is rampant and the need for rehabilitation great.
The work done by brave men and women in such situations – the healing they carry out – is often not without personal risk.
Just this week IRCT member Counselling Services Unit in Harare, Zimbabwe found itself raided by 12 uniformed and non-uniformed police officers. The clinic was surrounded by armed riot police who threatened to fire tear gas into the building, which is also occupied by other tenants. Patients awaiting services were left unattended for four hours while the police demanded and forcibly seized confidential medical records. And five staff members were arrested.
CSU tell me that they must adhere to Environmental Compliance requirements for health facilities, following the guidelines issued by the Zimbabwe Ministry of Health. The guidelines require separation of cleaning materials for areas of ablution and areas of food storage and preparation. The cleaning utensils are clearly marked using spray paint, and the paint is stored on the premises in the work area of the janitor. It is not hidden or stored secretively and was purchased in July 2012. CSU have handed the receipts of purchase of three 250ml cans of spray paint from the local hardware store to the police. The police fixated on the finding of this paint and refused to listen to any explanation.
In spite of having a warrant limited to “material likely to deface” the police arrived with an IT expert and left with a computer – a computer for which they had no warrant to take and which contains confidential data on patients of the clinic.
It doesn’t get much lower than that: stealing the records of people who are undergoing treatment to recover from trauma is just despicable.
CSU and the IRCT are deeply worried about the lost data.
Moreover, both CSU and the IRCT are very concerned for the safety of three CSU staff – one of whom – Fidelis Mudimu – was recently elected to the Council of the IRCT. The three staff are still in illegal detention following Monday’s raid – two were released that same day. We just heard today that the three have been moved nearly 500km from Harare to detention facilities in the city of Bulawayo. The removal of the three staff to another location and the further detention order with no defined charges or substantive evidence of illegal activities constitutes serious and illegal harassment.
Bringing light to their stories is an effective way to help human rights defenders. Please read this update about them and join us in advocating for their release by sharing in your networks to bring international attention to the plight of these courageous human rights defenders — who risk their freedom everyday to help others.
Update: We have just received word from a colleague at CSU that the three were granted bail and remanded out of custody until 6 December 2012.
The day saw an unprecedented number of organisations around the world come together to mark the day, to stand in solidarity with survivors of torture and to remind the world that rehabilitation for torture survivors not only works, it is a right to which they are entitled.
As Joost Martens, IRCT Secretary-General says in his foreword to the report,
Each year, on 26 June, we pause to commemorate and honour the victims of torture, both historic and present. The day has been marked since 1988, which was the first anniversary of the United Nations Convention Against Torture, signed on 26 June 1987.
Yet today, despite its absolute prohibition, torture continues to be a global phenomenon: both physical and psychological torture is prevalent in over half the world’s countries. This is a disgrace in the twenty-first century.
Its victims are men, women – often targeted by rape and other sexual torture, and also, children. Torture victims are disproportionately from marginalised groups, in particular the poor, but also minority groups, such as ethnic, religious and sexual minorities.
The day gives us a time to pause and remember those who have suffered, and stand with those who continue to suffer, for, the effects of torture continue long after the actual act has happened.
These are some of the photos we got from 26 June events around the world:
The nearly 20-year-old democracy has yet to make torture a criminal offense
Almost 200 affidavits have been taken from arrested miners alleging they were tortured by police in detention facilities in Rustenberg, the nearest large town to the mines at the centre of recent unrest in South Africa. Yet it is a sad truth that these 200 alleged cases of torture do not represent an anomaly in modern South Africa.
The most recent report [PDF] from the Independent Police Investigative Directorate (IPID), the department tasked with the oversight over and investigations of South African police authorities, describes 797 new complaints received regarding deaths in custody over the most recent year. This is in addition to 2,493 complaints of criminal offense and 2,493 misconduct cases against the police services, including both the national South African Police Service (SAPS) and the Municipal Police Services (MPS).
These are the only readily available statistics that give some indication on the incidence of torture in South Africa — which is very often, according to Professor Peter Jordi of the Wits Law School. The reason better statistics have not been accumulated is that torture is not criminalised in South Africa’s domestic law. It is “difficult to work out the prevalence [of torture] because it is not a crime on its own,” Monica Bandeira, of the the Johannesburg-based Centre for the Study of Violence and Reconciliation (CSVR) and IRCT member, told Times Live. Rather, she said, torture cases are often defined as assault or causing grievous bodily harm.
A key problem in this re-defining of torture is that these charges do not take into account the particularly egregious nature of torture and the rights its victims have, such as full rehabilitation and compensation. However, the UN Convention Against Torture (UNCAT), which both defines torture and describes the state’s obligations in regards to allegations of torture, dictates that states shall criminalise torture in their domestic law; yet while South Africa ratified UNCAT in 1998, it has yet to make torture a criminal offense.
However, just next month the Prevention and Combating of Torture of Persons Bill [PDF], which will put the UN provisions into South African law, will come before Parliament. There have been both praises and criticisms of the bill — praise that it echoes the UNCAT in defining the perpetrators of torture as any official acting in their capacity as a state agent, which shall include teachers and state elderly care home workers; criticism that the bill also does not direct a specific agency to receive and investigate complaints of torture. Others point out that, as a result of the bill, a massive public education plan needs to be implemented to ensure people understand their rights.
Despite its shortcomings, which have been laid bare for all to see thanks to South Africa’s robust community of civil society actors, the bill should pass to ensure that, at a base minimum, torture becomes a criminal offense. Yet the implementation of the bill needs to take all valid criticisms into consideration — an independent investigative agency would need to be established and public education campaigns would be needed to ensure that people understand their rights if they ever come into contact with state authorities that abuse or torture.