12/17/2008
'Arranged' Marriages Survey - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
For this ever-so controversial issue of 'arranged marriages' - I recruited the skills and charm of fellow Ctrl.Alt.Shift reporter Emily Jane Brown (jetting in all the way from Southampton), who was just as curious as me to see what our generation thought about this complex issue. Of course we had to keep in mind, what might not run so smoothly in our upbringing, could be perfectly tolerated, perhaps even welcomed in other more traditional societies... But would our public be so objective? Here's the report:
Vox Pops: Till Death Do Us Part?
Being tied up, drugged and carted off to a foreign country to marry someone just because of your religion is surely a scenario most of us can't begin to imagine. But for some women across the globe, this daunting predicament is never a step too far from reality - on August 3rd 2008 was flown to Bangladesh and held prisoner for five months by her own parents while they planned her forced marriage to a Muslim man.
Ctrl.Alt.Shift wanted to know how our youth felt about the subject and whether they felt that traditional values and strict religious regimes could still play a part in our modern day society.
In 2007 the government brought in the Forced Marriages Act to protect victims from being trapped into marriage - with that in mind, we also asked our interviewees if they felt as though enough is being done in the UK and abroad to help those forced into marriage, to spread awareness and to give people their chance to speak up and be free.
Abdul, 22:
"I disagree with forced marriage as I think it has to be given consent by both parties and not decided by anyone else, especially not the parents of the bride and groom - though if my parents forced me to marry Beyonce Knowles I guess I wouldn't mind. Still, I don't think this issue has anything to do with religion - it's more of a cultural problem. Parents are safeguarding traditional honour and respect for religion but harming their own children in the process. I think the government need to get to the heart of the problem because just imposing the Forced Marriages Act won't solve anything. People need to be educated and given a better understanding of the help around them, especially if they feel that they are a victim."
Oli, 23:
"Forced marriages are wrong - people shouldn't be made to do something they don’t want to do. I think strict religious regimes can have a place in society today, but it depends on the person and if it is in their favour, but it’s just not for me. Despite the Forced Marriage Act I don't think enough is being done by the UK government to expose this subject. It's very hard to comment on other places such as Bangladesh as I don't know enough about it, but of course it would be nice if there was more help available to those being forced into marriage; somewhere to go, like an agency."
Read the full set of answers here
12/10/2008
Present Aid Survey - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
Here's a satirical survey reporter Ben Anderson and I conducted for Ctrl.Alt.Shift on the option of 'Present Aid' this Christmas. If I said to you, "Merrrrry Christmas! You got a child in the DRCongo a goat!) - what would be your honest reaction... and don't say 'It's the thought that counts." I'm good at detecting liars. Have a think, and for food for thought, here's our feature below:
Vox Pops: You Got Me a Goat?
"Merry Christmas. A donation has been made in your name to a farm in Kasangulu, DRCongo, for the amount of three cows and a chicken."
Now what do you say?
Buying 'charity'gifts for your family or friends, from the likes of Present Aid, can be an iffy one. It might not be exactly what you want, but then it is all in the name of a good cause. On the other hand, upon opening a virtually empty card, some might even respond with: "Why the hell didn't you stick to the list?"
We wanted to know what our youth had to say on the matter of unasked charity donations, so Ctrl.Alt.Shift took to the streets to question people’s ideal Christmas gifts.
We then asked our interviewees: "How would you feel if your loved ones made a charity donation (perhaps some money, a duck and a goat to a Kenyan struggler) in your name as a festive sentiment?" We followed that up by asking if they would ever consider doing the same thing for someone else.
Finally we tackled the subject of a 'real, meaningful gift' with charity in mind, by asking: "Do you think charity donations should be kept anonymous, or does publicising the giver taint the validity of the selfless sentiment – and does it become more about the donator than the donation?"
Siobhan, 21:
"For Christmas, ideally I’d like a car. Though, if someone made a donation in my name, I’d be happy with that, and yeah I would consider doing the same thing for someone else. Is it tainted to publicise the donator? I guess it just depends on the person and why they’re doing it. Still, you should be allowed to keep it anonymous, or put a name on it, even if it makes it more about the giver. Either way, it's a good cause, and a good gift."
Lucy, 20:
"I want a degree for Christmas. But I'd love a gift like that, I think it's a brilliant idea – especially if you don't know what you want, it'd be better than getting just another jumper. I'd do it, as I've done it before for my parents; I got them a donation (in their name) of some chickens so that an African family could become more self-sufficient. I've been to Kenya with my father at the age of nine, and after seeing the situation over there, a donation seems a much more worthwhile gift than the rubbish you can buy over here. I don't think it is necessary to name the donator, but I don't think it's a bad thing – I think it's important to recognise people doing good things and donating money, though the amount is not important."
Read the full list of answers here
Vox Pops: You Got Me a Goat?
"Merry Christmas. A donation has been made in your name to a farm in Kasangulu, DRCongo, for the amount of three cows and a chicken."
Now what do you say?
Buying 'charity'gifts for your family or friends, from the likes of Present Aid, can be an iffy one. It might not be exactly what you want, but then it is all in the name of a good cause. On the other hand, upon opening a virtually empty card, some might even respond with: "Why the hell didn't you stick to the list?"
We wanted to know what our youth had to say on the matter of unasked charity donations, so Ctrl.Alt.Shift took to the streets to question people’s ideal Christmas gifts.
We then asked our interviewees: "How would you feel if your loved ones made a charity donation (perhaps some money, a duck and a goat to a Kenyan struggler) in your name as a festive sentiment?" We followed that up by asking if they would ever consider doing the same thing for someone else.
Finally we tackled the subject of a 'real, meaningful gift' with charity in mind, by asking: "Do you think charity donations should be kept anonymous, or does publicising the giver taint the validity of the selfless sentiment – and does it become more about the donator than the donation?"
Siobhan, 21:
"For Christmas, ideally I’d like a car. Though, if someone made a donation in my name, I’d be happy with that, and yeah I would consider doing the same thing for someone else. Is it tainted to publicise the donator? I guess it just depends on the person and why they’re doing it. Still, you should be allowed to keep it anonymous, or put a name on it, even if it makes it more about the giver. Either way, it's a good cause, and a good gift."
Lucy, 20:
"I want a degree for Christmas. But I'd love a gift like that, I think it's a brilliant idea – especially if you don't know what you want, it'd be better than getting just another jumper. I'd do it, as I've done it before for my parents; I got them a donation (in their name) of some chickens so that an African family could become more self-sufficient. I've been to Kenya with my father at the age of nine, and after seeing the situation over there, a donation seems a much more worthwhile gift than the rubbish you can buy over here. I don't think it is necessary to name the donator, but I don't think it's a bad thing – I think it's important to recognise people doing good things and donating money, though the amount is not important."
Read the full list of answers here
12/05/2008
Protecting Bangladesh @ London Primark Protest - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
BAD BAD NEWS! East Ham High Street (just down the road from my home in East London) will open Europe's biggest Primark to date. All together now - WHAT THE F... You know how this line ends. Not only will this giant superstore take out many of the local, smaller, independent retailers (Bingo will be rubble, and I fear for my local Pound Express), the inevitable success of this monstrosity will only illustrate further tolerance to Primark's intolerable history of sweatshop labour - an issue I've been following for a while now.
So for now, there was no better place in London to be than at the Primark protest (coverage here) outside the TUC building (Trade Union Congress Centre); I was representing Ctrl.Alt.Shift, joining forces with various anti-sweatshop groups to breathe down the necks of Primark's shameless shareholders - all of which had little to say to our Bangladeshi friends, flown in especially from their torrid and abuse-ridden working lives to tell their story, and demand justice from the source. It was freezing (and my Mauritian blood can't handle a minor chill), but I was in good company, chanting, placard in hand alongside rebel-with-a-cause Ben Anderson and the lovely Tara Scott from Labour Behind The Label. Here's the review of the day:
Ctrl.Alt.Shift @ Primark Protest
Whether it's 29p an hour for their workers in India, or recent allegations of 7p an hour for their Bangladeshi graftsmen, activists arrived geared up and prepped to voice their outrage at Primark's exploitative and despicable policies outside the TUC building (Trade Union Congress Centre) in central London this morning - just as those in the ivory towers of the corporation sat down for their cosy AGM.
No Sweat, Labour Behind the Label, War on Want and Ctrl.Alt.Shift (among other justice-seeking organisations) were all present, placards and banners in hand, never deterred by some of Primark’s shamed shareholders trying to shoo the loud and proud protesters away.
The high street giants have made around £233 million this year. Yet according to War on Want, a pitiful amount of that sum goes towards paying the average worker in developing countries £19.16 a month. This does very little to improve the already appalling conditions (and abuse in some circumstances) of the men, women and children striving away to make those fabulous Primark sequin dresses we see in the shop window - shoppers of the UK can go home delighted with a new buy, while the majority of Primark's hustlers will walk home after a 14 hour shift to small, crowded shacks, many lacking plumbing and adequate washing facilities.
What is most frustrating about this picture is how Primark will not own up and pay dividends for what they have done. They even have the nerve to call themselves an ethical company on www.ethicalprimark.co.uk. But today proved their wool will no longer be pulled over the eyes of the good people.
Chants echoed around the TUC of "Primark! Cut the spin!" and "What do we want? Living wage! When do we want it? NOW!" When a Primark shareholder came out to hold the fort (in a feeble attempt to justify Primark's actions by claiming they were not responsible for business procedures overseas), the campaigners seized upon his distasteful words with "Quit passing the buck!" and "Use your profit to pay the workers!"
Read the full article here
So for now, there was no better place in London to be than at the Primark protest (coverage here) outside the TUC building (Trade Union Congress Centre); I was representing Ctrl.Alt.Shift, joining forces with various anti-sweatshop groups to breathe down the necks of Primark's shameless shareholders - all of which had little to say to our Bangladeshi friends, flown in especially from their torrid and abuse-ridden working lives to tell their story, and demand justice from the source. It was freezing (and my Mauritian blood can't handle a minor chill), but I was in good company, chanting, placard in hand alongside rebel-with-a-cause Ben Anderson and the lovely Tara Scott from Labour Behind The Label. Here's the review of the day:
Ctrl.Alt.Shift @ Primark Protest
Whether it's 29p an hour for their workers in India, or recent allegations of 7p an hour for their Bangladeshi graftsmen, activists arrived geared up and prepped to voice their outrage at Primark's exploitative and despicable policies outside the TUC building (Trade Union Congress Centre) in central London this morning - just as those in the ivory towers of the corporation sat down for their cosy AGM.
No Sweat, Labour Behind the Label, War on Want and Ctrl.Alt.Shift (among other justice-seeking organisations) were all present, placards and banners in hand, never deterred by some of Primark’s shamed shareholders trying to shoo the loud and proud protesters away.
The high street giants have made around £233 million this year. Yet according to War on Want, a pitiful amount of that sum goes towards paying the average worker in developing countries £19.16 a month. This does very little to improve the already appalling conditions (and abuse in some circumstances) of the men, women and children striving away to make those fabulous Primark sequin dresses we see in the shop window - shoppers of the UK can go home delighted with a new buy, while the majority of Primark's hustlers will walk home after a 14 hour shift to small, crowded shacks, many lacking plumbing and adequate washing facilities.
What is most frustrating about this picture is how Primark will not own up and pay dividends for what they have done. They even have the nerve to call themselves an ethical company on www.ethicalprimark.co.uk. But today proved their wool will no longer be pulled over the eyes of the good people.
Chants echoed around the TUC of "Primark! Cut the spin!" and "What do we want? Living wage! When do we want it? NOW!" When a Primark shareholder came out to hold the fort (in a feeble attempt to justify Primark's actions by claiming they were not responsible for business procedures overseas), the campaigners seized upon his distasteful words with "Quit passing the buck!" and "Use your profit to pay the workers!"
Read the full article here
Sweatshop Primark Survey - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
I, and my Ctrl.Alt.Shift colleagues, Kevin E G Perry and Ben Anderson, wondered if we could derail some central London xmas shoppers away from the corrupt claws of Primark (found by Panorama earlier this year to be exploiting their child and female workers in Bangladesh).
We set up a survey, and armed with facts surrounding the retail giant's sweatshop history - we hit the bustling streets to conduct our report, ingeniously titled 'Santa Hates Primark'. Here's the results:
Vox Pops: Santa Hates Primark
Ctrl.Alt.Shift went to London’s shopping mecca, Oxford Street, to chat to people about whether the appalling conditions of those who make high street clothes will influence where they will be buying their presents this Christmas time. A new report says that workers in developing countries who make clothes for Primark get paid as little as 7p an hour - this works out at about £19 a month, while workers say they would need about £45 a month just to feed their families and pay for clean water, shelter and other basics. Given that the cost of rice alone has gone up by 70% in the last two years, there's not even enough money to put food on the table.
We asked our youth where they were planning on buying the majority of their gifts this year, and followed this up by asking whether they were aware about the conditions of the people who produce Primark’s wares. We wanted to know how this made people feel, and whether it would affect their decision making when it came to choosing where to shop in the future...:
Tereza, 21:
“This Christmas I will be getting most of my stuff from shops like Zara and Topshop and I also get a lot of my clothes from charity shops. Yeah I study fashion so we are taught about how certain brands misbehave and Primark have been focused on in the past. I sympathise with the situation loads, but at the same time there is a need for work in these countries and the people need money, so that sort of gives it another perspective - I still do think they should get paid more though.”
Demonsabert, 24:
“This year I’ll be doing my Christmas shopping here on Oxford Street, probably at Topshop and Gap. I haven’t heard about people who make clothes for Primark getting 7p an hour, but I’ve heard about other places like Gap. I think it’s bad, and I try not to buy clothes that are made in China or in bad conditions, but when you’re a student you don’t have much to spend, so no, it wouldn’t stop me shopping there.”
Read the full set of comments here
We set up a survey, and armed with facts surrounding the retail giant's sweatshop history - we hit the bustling streets to conduct our report, ingeniously titled 'Santa Hates Primark'. Here's the results:
Vox Pops: Santa Hates Primark
Ctrl.Alt.Shift went to London’s shopping mecca, Oxford Street, to chat to people about whether the appalling conditions of those who make high street clothes will influence where they will be buying their presents this Christmas time. A new report says that workers in developing countries who make clothes for Primark get paid as little as 7p an hour - this works out at about £19 a month, while workers say they would need about £45 a month just to feed their families and pay for clean water, shelter and other basics. Given that the cost of rice alone has gone up by 70% in the last two years, there's not even enough money to put food on the table.
We asked our youth where they were planning on buying the majority of their gifts this year, and followed this up by asking whether they were aware about the conditions of the people who produce Primark’s wares. We wanted to know how this made people feel, and whether it would affect their decision making when it came to choosing where to shop in the future...:
Tereza, 21:
“This Christmas I will be getting most of my stuff from shops like Zara and Topshop and I also get a lot of my clothes from charity shops. Yeah I study fashion so we are taught about how certain brands misbehave and Primark have been focused on in the past. I sympathise with the situation loads, but at the same time there is a need for work in these countries and the people need money, so that sort of gives it another perspective - I still do think they should get paid more though.”
Demonsabert, 24:
“This year I’ll be doing my Christmas shopping here on Oxford Street, probably at Topshop and Gap. I haven’t heard about people who make clothes for Primark getting 7p an hour, but I’ve heard about other places like Gap. I think it’s bad, and I try not to buy clothes that are made in China or in bad conditions, but when you’re a student you don’t have much to spend, so no, it wouldn’t stop me shopping there.”
Read the full set of comments here
The Reasons I Don't Shop @ BLOODY Primark - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
"Their socks are soooo cheap!". I don't give a damn. After watching a Panorama episode exposing Primark's sweatshop labour, and their shameless attempts to conceal the evidence and stand tall as ethical retail giants - I'm forever more looking down Portbello Road's charity shops for my wallet-friendly bits and bobs.
Our consumer nature can ultimately consume us, and so I won't hate on anyone (including the shopaholic ladies in my life) not to be tempted by cheap-ass garms going a notch cheaper in the January sales - BUT I also challenge anyone to read my Ctrl.Alt.Shift follow-up report below (along with the vid above) and not feel even a spoonful of second-thought when ravaging through the racks of these corrupt superstore barons:
Feature: Bloody Primark Underwear
Getting paid pence for a 9-5, being exploited by the corporate machine, being a slave to the money-making game - it's not right, whatever continent you are standing on. But it’s even worse when the scandalous companies that rip off the non-the-wiser strugglers are sitting in our own back yard.
In June 2008, Primark was thrown under the spotlight, as BBC’s Panorama exposed the appalling conditions faced day-to-day by Indian hustlers grafting out clothes for the infamous store. Since then, Primark has taken no significant steps to alleviate the lives of these workers; they have done nothing to seize the exploitation of the women and children that keep the cogs of their dirty wheel turning. Instead, the company launched an audacious PR offensive through a new website titled www.ethicalprimark.co.uk, manufactured to convince us not to worry that their cheap-ass socks and boxers may be tainted by the hands of developing world penny-workers - well they might as well be stained with blood.
That is why organisations Labour Behind the Label and No Sweat have joined the fray, teaming up with Tara Scott and Stacey Dooley (from BBC’s reality show Blood, Sweat and T-shirts). Together they will demonstrate against the high-street giants on Friday December 5 as Primark sit down for their AGM from 10.30am at the Trades Union Congress (TUC) building, Congress Centre, 28 Great Russell Street, London WC1B 3LS – the mass of campaigners will bring the noise with hopes to shift the ignorant mindsets of Primark’s shareholders who have the power to alter the way their company operates.
Here's what 22 year old Tara, and 32 year old Labour Behind the Label campaigner Claire Milne, had to say about their upcoming publicity stunt, the cause and the opponent in the bloodied red corner - Primark:
What is the protest all about?
Claire: We want Primark to stop feeding us spin and lies. Having successfully revolutionized 'cheap' as the new black, the Primark brand has come to epitomise cheap, fast fashion and the worker exploitation that comes with it. We want Primark to come clean and start taking meaningful action to improve the lives of the workers making its clothes.
Tara: We have seen Primark is only interested in money not people, so we need to show the shareholders that consumers want the truth, not to be fooled...
Read the rest of the interview here
Our consumer nature can ultimately consume us, and so I won't hate on anyone (including the shopaholic ladies in my life) not to be tempted by cheap-ass garms going a notch cheaper in the January sales - BUT I also challenge anyone to read my Ctrl.Alt.Shift follow-up report below (along with the vid above) and not feel even a spoonful of second-thought when ravaging through the racks of these corrupt superstore barons:
Feature: Bloody Primark Underwear
Getting paid pence for a 9-5, being exploited by the corporate machine, being a slave to the money-making game - it's not right, whatever continent you are standing on. But it’s even worse when the scandalous companies that rip off the non-the-wiser strugglers are sitting in our own back yard.
In June 2008, Primark was thrown under the spotlight, as BBC’s Panorama exposed the appalling conditions faced day-to-day by Indian hustlers grafting out clothes for the infamous store. Since then, Primark has taken no significant steps to alleviate the lives of these workers; they have done nothing to seize the exploitation of the women and children that keep the cogs of their dirty wheel turning. Instead, the company launched an audacious PR offensive through a new website titled www.ethicalprimark.co.uk, manufactured to convince us not to worry that their cheap-ass socks and boxers may be tainted by the hands of developing world penny-workers - well they might as well be stained with blood.
That is why organisations Labour Behind the Label and No Sweat have joined the fray, teaming up with Tara Scott and Stacey Dooley (from BBC’s reality show Blood, Sweat and T-shirts). Together they will demonstrate against the high-street giants on Friday December 5 as Primark sit down for their AGM from 10.30am at the Trades Union Congress (TUC) building, Congress Centre, 28 Great Russell Street, London WC1B 3LS – the mass of campaigners will bring the noise with hopes to shift the ignorant mindsets of Primark’s shareholders who have the power to alter the way their company operates.
Here's what 22 year old Tara, and 32 year old Labour Behind the Label campaigner Claire Milne, had to say about their upcoming publicity stunt, the cause and the opponent in the bloodied red corner - Primark:
What is the protest all about?
Claire: We want Primark to stop feeding us spin and lies. Having successfully revolutionized 'cheap' as the new black, the Primark brand has come to epitomise cheap, fast fashion and the worker exploitation that comes with it. We want Primark to come clean and start taking meaningful action to improve the lives of the workers making its clothes.
Tara: We have seen Primark is only interested in money not people, so we need to show the shareholders that consumers want the truth, not to be fooled...
Read the rest of the interview here
12/03/2008
MC'ing @ The Vault, Winchester Uni - Ctrl.Alt.Shift Event
Life throws some major league curve balls at you sometimes, and during those moments there's really only one thing you should do - smack the ball right out the arena! And let's just say, being asked to spontaneously host a live dance show at The Vault club (Winchester Uni campus) was one of these 'curve ball' highlights of my professional life...
I was unashamedly bricking it, mostly because this was a completely unrehearsed, unscripted segment of our Ctrl.Alt.Shift gig; coming to Winchester for the first time to spread the good word of our anti-HIV stigma campaign (watch above), whilst getting all the snake bite, WKD, pound a pint-chugging students down for a bit of a boogie on the dance floor. It was a pop-locking success, until some bloody mad-moving Usher/Beyonce wannabes started battling it out - provoking my crew to initiate a dance contest (with the winner getting one of our EXCLUSIVE t-shirts and a spot in our dance show pencilled in for the new year). And who got pushed onto the mic? - Yours truly! Though I won't complain (now...), it was a riot, and for the first time in my life I got the power and the kind of rush only DJ's spinning for manic crowds get (alright, it was no Ibiza rave by far, but still, I don't plan for this to be my last spot on the frontline). Here's my review of the night for Ctrl.Alt.Shift:
Ctrl.Alt.Shift @ The Vault
Ctrl.Alt.Shift left its mark on Winchester University last night in the form of a good old raise-awareness club night, dance-off, and all round rave-up.
The Vault, in the basement of the Student Union, rumbled from the old-school hip-hop and R&B, but as the flashing lights bounced from the walls, our message for the night was illustrated: HIV stigma will not be tolerated.
This event came one day after World Aids Day, and three weeks after the Nothing to Declare campaign - which saw Ctrl.Alt.Shift take a stand outside various embassies in London, protesting against the HIV travel restriction of countries like South Korea, Saudi Arabia and Russia. The students of Winchester got a full taste of the cause as the demos were projected on the stage throughout the night.
Michelle, 21, said: "I didn’t know about the HIV travel ban, but I know now because of Ctrl.Alt.Shift. The ban is a joke, and Nothing to Declare is the best campaign I’ve ever heard about."
Twenty year old Natasha Jayatilaka was appalled and added: "I don’t think HIV status should have any relevance on where you can travel, but I think this campaign is working to change the way some people think."
Olivia Berry, 22, said: "I think the HIV travel ban shows ignorance and it seems strange that they only think about one disease. Ctrl.Alt.Shift is great - anything that raises awareness is good, especially getting young people involved."
The night was not a complete rip-roaring success, as scheduled dance act Fuzzy Logic cancelled at the eleventh hour – a major disappointment after their stunning routine at last month’s Ctrl.Alt.Shift Sadler’s Wells dance event.
Nonetheless, Winchester poppa-lockers improvised to display an array of movers and shakers in an unscripted Ctrl.Alt.Shift dance-off. With 60 seconds to impress, rude boy Biva came up trumps and won himself an exclusive Ctrl.Alt.Shift t-shirt...
Read the full article here
Note: The Winchester night of debauchery would've flopped on it's fat face had it not been for the assistance of my fellow organisers Kyla Samuel and Vishna Shah (from the uni), and Ctrl.Alt.Shift foot-soldiers Kevin Perry, Ben Anderson, Stephanie Hubbard, Jenny Archibald and Chris Mead. Big shout out the hustlers!
I was unashamedly bricking it, mostly because this was a completely unrehearsed, unscripted segment of our Ctrl.Alt.Shift gig; coming to Winchester for the first time to spread the good word of our anti-HIV stigma campaign (watch above), whilst getting all the snake bite, WKD, pound a pint-chugging students down for a bit of a boogie on the dance floor. It was a pop-locking success, until some bloody mad-moving Usher/Beyonce wannabes started battling it out - provoking my crew to initiate a dance contest (with the winner getting one of our EXCLUSIVE t-shirts and a spot in our dance show pencilled in for the new year). And who got pushed onto the mic? - Yours truly! Though I won't complain (now...), it was a riot, and for the first time in my life I got the power and the kind of rush only DJ's spinning for manic crowds get (alright, it was no Ibiza rave by far, but still, I don't plan for this to be my last spot on the frontline). Here's my review of the night for Ctrl.Alt.Shift:
Ctrl.Alt.Shift @ The Vault
Ctrl.Alt.Shift left its mark on Winchester University last night in the form of a good old raise-awareness club night, dance-off, and all round rave-up.
The Vault, in the basement of the Student Union, rumbled from the old-school hip-hop and R&B, but as the flashing lights bounced from the walls, our message for the night was illustrated: HIV stigma will not be tolerated.
This event came one day after World Aids Day, and three weeks after the Nothing to Declare campaign - which saw Ctrl.Alt.Shift take a stand outside various embassies in London, protesting against the HIV travel restriction of countries like South Korea, Saudi Arabia and Russia. The students of Winchester got a full taste of the cause as the demos were projected on the stage throughout the night.
Michelle, 21, said: "I didn’t know about the HIV travel ban, but I know now because of Ctrl.Alt.Shift. The ban is a joke, and Nothing to Declare is the best campaign I’ve ever heard about."
Twenty year old Natasha Jayatilaka was appalled and added: "I don’t think HIV status should have any relevance on where you can travel, but I think this campaign is working to change the way some people think."
Olivia Berry, 22, said: "I think the HIV travel ban shows ignorance and it seems strange that they only think about one disease. Ctrl.Alt.Shift is great - anything that raises awareness is good, especially getting young people involved."
The night was not a complete rip-roaring success, as scheduled dance act Fuzzy Logic cancelled at the eleventh hour – a major disappointment after their stunning routine at last month’s Ctrl.Alt.Shift Sadler’s Wells dance event.
Nonetheless, Winchester poppa-lockers improvised to display an array of movers and shakers in an unscripted Ctrl.Alt.Shift dance-off. With 60 seconds to impress, rude boy Biva came up trumps and won himself an exclusive Ctrl.Alt.Shift t-shirt...
Read the full article here
Note: The Winchester night of debauchery would've flopped on it's fat face had it not been for the assistance of my fellow organisers Kyla Samuel and Vishna Shah (from the uni), and Ctrl.Alt.Shift foot-soldiers Kevin Perry, Ben Anderson, Stephanie Hubbard, Jenny Archibald and Chris Mead. Big shout out the hustlers!
11/28/2008
BNP Member's List Leaked - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
How would you feel having a racist living next door to you? Or even in the same neighbourhood...? Now, it's not that hard to find out, as a BNP membership list has been leaked online. I cannot hold too many sympathies; I went through teen summer camps to university days crossing paths with kids (uni overgrown kids) calling me a "f**king chink!" to saying the very original line, "Go back to your own country!" (my blog states I'm born and bred original EAST LONDON material you morons - read it and weep). Show me a racist across the street, and you'll see me on 'Neighbours From Hell'.
However, I do not believe that anyone should have their private lives (from family members to phone numbers) leaked on the net without any sign of permission of knowledge. That's the littliest bit of sympathy the exposed BNP members get from me - that I do not comply with the breach of confidentiality. Still, Nick Griffin and his cronies will not have my vote at the next elections - a lil understanding does not equal a big bag of love. But what did the good British people think of this news...? It was something reporter Ben Anderson and I felt compelled to set out and discover for Ctrl.Alt.Shift. Here's the article:
Vox Pops: Exposure of the BNP
In recent weeks, details of BNP members have been leaked onto the internet, exposing the names, home and e-mail addresses, and telephone numbers of the group.
On the BNP website they claim that enemies continue to parrot the claim that they are a "racist party" solely because "... the BNP unashamedly addresses itself to the issues and concerns of the indigenous British population, and because it seeks to ensure that British people remain the majority population in this country."
Nevertheless, the BNP are still perceived by many as a far right-wing, extremist party with a bad rep of evoking prejudice and racism towards non-white sectors of society - so we put this question to our youth:
How do you feel about the exposure of the BNP party members?
Also, despite the storm surrounding the list, BNP Chairman Nick Griffin has rejoiced over a silver lining: "The publicity about the high quality of our membership has massively improved our image. As a direct result we had more than 100,000 visitors to our website in one 24-hour peak period, and estimate many times more than that amount never managed to get through due to the demand on our servers. Those that did succeed in getting through read nearly two thirds of a million pages. This was double the previous record..."
Friend or foe of the party, we then asked:
"In this instance, is all publicity good publicity?"
Finally we tested the consideration of human rights and freedom of speech by posing the question:
"Do you think the BNP party should be banned?"
Orsi, 17:
"I don’t think information leaking like this is a good thing for any party, especially the BNP. I’m sure many of the supporters will not want to be named. I don’t think the increased awareness will necessarily be beneficial to them, because awareness doesn’t always lead to support. I don’t think the BNP should be banned though, as no political party, whatever their views, should be banned due to freedom of speech."
Michael, 18:
"I don’t know too much about the BNP, but releasing information like this is quite dangerous, especially when there are people out there who are anti BNP who can now access all of the information surrounding these members. I think raising the publicity of a party like this is also a bad thing, as people may read up on them and take their messages the wrong way. I don’t think they should be banned though; the BNP like everyone have a right to their opinion, even if I don’t agree with what they're saying."
Read the full list of comments here
However, I do not believe that anyone should have their private lives (from family members to phone numbers) leaked on the net without any sign of permission of knowledge. That's the littliest bit of sympathy the exposed BNP members get from me - that I do not comply with the breach of confidentiality. Still, Nick Griffin and his cronies will not have my vote at the next elections - a lil understanding does not equal a big bag of love. But what did the good British people think of this news...? It was something reporter Ben Anderson and I felt compelled to set out and discover for Ctrl.Alt.Shift. Here's the article:
Vox Pops: Exposure of the BNP
In recent weeks, details of BNP members have been leaked onto the internet, exposing the names, home and e-mail addresses, and telephone numbers of the group.
On the BNP website they claim that enemies continue to parrot the claim that they are a "racist party" solely because "... the BNP unashamedly addresses itself to the issues and concerns of the indigenous British population, and because it seeks to ensure that British people remain the majority population in this country."
Nevertheless, the BNP are still perceived by many as a far right-wing, extremist party with a bad rep of evoking prejudice and racism towards non-white sectors of society - so we put this question to our youth:
How do you feel about the exposure of the BNP party members?
Also, despite the storm surrounding the list, BNP Chairman Nick Griffin has rejoiced over a silver lining: "The publicity about the high quality of our membership has massively improved our image. As a direct result we had more than 100,000 visitors to our website in one 24-hour peak period, and estimate many times more than that amount never managed to get through due to the demand on our servers. Those that did succeed in getting through read nearly two thirds of a million pages. This was double the previous record..."
Friend or foe of the party, we then asked:
"In this instance, is all publicity good publicity?"
Finally we tested the consideration of human rights and freedom of speech by posing the question:
"Do you think the BNP party should be banned?"
Orsi, 17:
"I don’t think information leaking like this is a good thing for any party, especially the BNP. I’m sure many of the supporters will not want to be named. I don’t think the increased awareness will necessarily be beneficial to them, because awareness doesn’t always lead to support. I don’t think the BNP should be banned though, as no political party, whatever their views, should be banned due to freedom of speech."
Michael, 18:
"I don’t know too much about the BNP, but releasing information like this is quite dangerous, especially when there are people out there who are anti BNP who can now access all of the information surrounding these members. I think raising the publicity of a party like this is also a bad thing, as people may read up on them and take their messages the wrong way. I don’t think they should be banned though; the BNP like everyone have a right to their opinion, even if I don’t agree with what they're saying."
Read the full list of comments here
11/14/2008
Credit Crisis Survey - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
Everyone's got money problems! And don't we all know it. However, since coming back from reporting in the Democratic Republic of Congo, I've come to realise just how much lives in our Western world really do evolve around money. In the DRC, every penny counts - money buys food rations, which in turn, keeps families alive a bit longer; there's limited (if any at all) materials to be materialistic.
I won't stand on my high horse and claim from now on I'll never treat myself again in the January sales, besides, as Biggie put it, all the cash in the world doesn't come without mo problems. But I wondered how much the youth of our nation knew of the value of a buck, and if the state in the DRC could widen their perspectives. Here's my report on the credit crisis for Ctrl.Alt.Shift:
Vox Pops: Money, Money, Money
Credit crisis, inflation, recession, bankruptcy... money = debt... It’s a vicious cycle that’s got most adolescents screaming “I’m skint, I’m broke, I’m poor son!”
Obviously the money game varies from country to city players, retail workers to the corporate levels. Still, let’s take it down to the basics: how much money do we need to be happy? It is evident that much of our culture has evolved with the mentality to work and expand, less about being stable and more about being able to indulge in pricey luxuries – I mean, do you go large in McD’s when you could go standard, or do you ever buy two of the same clothing items but in two different colours?
More often than not, we buy what we want, not what we need.
Many would complain about our national minimum wage of £5.73 per hour, but surely that’s enough to live on: bearing in mind I was told in Congo that the average wage for a worker there is around 20 pence PER DAY! Over 15 days, not a single Congolese man or woman complained about having just enough to buy bread and perhaps some luxury items of rice and plantain for the week’s worth of feasts.
So how would our youth survive on rations? We took to the streets of London to ask the following:
Do you know what the national minimum wage is? And what would you like it to be?
What is the minimum amount of money you could live on per week?
And finally, the average Congolese worker gets paid 20 pence a day. How would you handle living on such expenses?
Gulcin, 24, Holborn:
"I'm guessin' the minimum wage is around £6 or £7 an hour. Ideally though I'd like it to be around £10. I spend around £150 per week on food, shopping for clothes and transport. And as for 20 pence a day, that's crazy, that's just not possible to live on."
Danny, 18, south-east London:
"I think the minimum wage is around a fiver. It should be about £6.50. I spend roughly £300 a week, maybe a little less, for going out, rent, travel and general socialising. If had only 20 pence a day, I just wouldn't eat, I don't think I'd survive. You'd need to go out and find more work."
Read the full list of comments here
I won't stand on my high horse and claim from now on I'll never treat myself again in the January sales, besides, as Biggie put it, all the cash in the world doesn't come without mo problems. But I wondered how much the youth of our nation knew of the value of a buck, and if the state in the DRC could widen their perspectives. Here's my report on the credit crisis for Ctrl.Alt.Shift:
Vox Pops: Money, Money, Money
Credit crisis, inflation, recession, bankruptcy... money = debt... It’s a vicious cycle that’s got most adolescents screaming “I’m skint, I’m broke, I’m poor son!”
Obviously the money game varies from country to city players, retail workers to the corporate levels. Still, let’s take it down to the basics: how much money do we need to be happy? It is evident that much of our culture has evolved with the mentality to work and expand, less about being stable and more about being able to indulge in pricey luxuries – I mean, do you go large in McD’s when you could go standard, or do you ever buy two of the same clothing items but in two different colours?
More often than not, we buy what we want, not what we need.
Many would complain about our national minimum wage of £5.73 per hour, but surely that’s enough to live on: bearing in mind I was told in Congo that the average wage for a worker there is around 20 pence PER DAY! Over 15 days, not a single Congolese man or woman complained about having just enough to buy bread and perhaps some luxury items of rice and plantain for the week’s worth of feasts.
So how would our youth survive on rations? We took to the streets of London to ask the following:
Do you know what the national minimum wage is? And what would you like it to be?
What is the minimum amount of money you could live on per week?
And finally, the average Congolese worker gets paid 20 pence a day. How would you handle living on such expenses?
Gulcin, 24, Holborn:
"I'm guessin' the minimum wage is around £6 or £7 an hour. Ideally though I'd like it to be around £10. I spend around £150 per week on food, shopping for clothes and transport. And as for 20 pence a day, that's crazy, that's just not possible to live on."
Danny, 18, south-east London:
"I think the minimum wage is around a fiver. It should be about £6.50. I spend roughly £300 a week, maybe a little less, for going out, rent, travel and general socialising. If had only 20 pence a day, I just wouldn't eat, I don't think I'd survive. You'd need to go out and find more work."
Read the full list of comments here
11/11/2008
Soul: ID Interview - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
So... I'm back in the country, following a grueling 14-day reporting trip in the Democratic Republic of Congo. It was emotional and testing, and how am I welcomed back from this journalism trial/adventure? With a review job of a soul group I've never heard of - NO REST FOR THE WICKED.
But I wasn't sulking for too long, hearing how Soul: ID was made up of reps from Uganda, Rwanda and the DRC - a welcomed touch of hope and blissful unity; especially after coming back from a country that has been ravaged by a decade-long African civil war. Though now based in the Western world, Soul: ID represent that peace can be found between the most hostile of nations - and perhaps back in Africa the corrupt powers that be need to wake up and listen to the music. From the DRC to Soho, London, here's my Ctrl.Alt.Shift feature from a night of pure soul:
Ctrl.Alt.Shift @ Soul: ID
What a grotty scene - from piss-soaked alleyways to flailing, wet scaffolding, the winding streets of Soho, London, have never looked so glamorous. So thank God for Soul: ID.
Revue Bar, London was graced with a bit of TLC by this Afropean four-piece. After a largely tedious and unmemorable October 22nd, it was real nice just to chill to the organic drug of raw soul music.
Synchronised, symphony, simply brilliant. They’ve travelled the world delivering beats like ‘Is this Luv’ and ‘Sex Love and Philosophy’. The smooth movement of these grooves transformed the venue into an old-school jazz café – what a rip you couldn’t spark up in there.
The old question always appears in a review: so what was so blimmin' special about these guys? Hmmm...
Well to start with, three quarters of the Soul: ID gateau are from war-torn countries. Gorgeous songstress Tchaï hails from Burundi, super Dad’D derives from D.R.Congo and slick V comes from Rwanda, producer and drummer Urban Deep completes the group who have come to be known as ‘ambassadors of peace.’
The turbulent history of their native lands holds no resonance here. They are a compassionate unit with their ‘peace and love’ image, lyrics and mentality. Each one is proud of their background and together they are making giant strides to portray harmony beyond borders – one notable achievement came last year as Soul: ID became the first Urban Act to play live in Rwanda.
Urban Deep took some time out to tell Ctrl.Alt.Shift more about the group and their mission for a global state of musical cohesion:
What is Soul: ID all about?
There needs to be more of a break down between economic and social barriers in order to create unity in a place like Africa. With music we send out that message, we like to think we are initiators of peace for the people. We know a record won’t change the world but it can help.
Read the rest of the interview with Urban Deep here
But I wasn't sulking for too long, hearing how Soul: ID was made up of reps from Uganda, Rwanda and the DRC - a welcomed touch of hope and blissful unity; especially after coming back from a country that has been ravaged by a decade-long African civil war. Though now based in the Western world, Soul: ID represent that peace can be found between the most hostile of nations - and perhaps back in Africa the corrupt powers that be need to wake up and listen to the music. From the DRC to Soho, London, here's my Ctrl.Alt.Shift feature from a night of pure soul:
Ctrl.Alt.Shift @ Soul: ID
What a grotty scene - from piss-soaked alleyways to flailing, wet scaffolding, the winding streets of Soho, London, have never looked so glamorous. So thank God for Soul: ID.
Revue Bar, London was graced with a bit of TLC by this Afropean four-piece. After a largely tedious and unmemorable October 22nd, it was real nice just to chill to the organic drug of raw soul music.
Synchronised, symphony, simply brilliant. They’ve travelled the world delivering beats like ‘Is this Luv’ and ‘Sex Love and Philosophy’. The smooth movement of these grooves transformed the venue into an old-school jazz café – what a rip you couldn’t spark up in there.
The old question always appears in a review: so what was so blimmin' special about these guys? Hmmm...
Well to start with, three quarters of the Soul: ID gateau are from war-torn countries. Gorgeous songstress Tchaï hails from Burundi, super Dad’D derives from D.R.Congo and slick V comes from Rwanda, producer and drummer Urban Deep completes the group who have come to be known as ‘ambassadors of peace.’
The turbulent history of their native lands holds no resonance here. They are a compassionate unit with their ‘peace and love’ image, lyrics and mentality. Each one is proud of their background and together they are making giant strides to portray harmony beyond borders – one notable achievement came last year as Soul: ID became the first Urban Act to play live in Rwanda.
Urban Deep took some time out to tell Ctrl.Alt.Shift more about the group and their mission for a global state of musical cohesion:
What is Soul: ID all about?
There needs to be more of a break down between economic and social barriers in order to create unity in a place like Africa. With music we send out that message, we like to think we are initiators of peace for the people. We know a record won’t change the world but it can help.
Read the rest of the interview with Urban Deep here
11/06/2008
DRCongo: The Final Hours - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
Reading back on this, it definitely wreaks of something soppy, but hell! - this final Ctrl.Alt.Shift report from the Democratic Republic of Congo rounds up two of the most memorable weeks of my life as of yet; a trip and journey that only furthered my passion and drive raising awareness of the injustices screened from sight simply too often in the UK:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Thursday November 06, 2008
Tears and goodbyes
On our final day I think we were all feeling a bit numb about leaving this mad world of cratered roads, swarming street children, roaming HIV orphans, minimalist villages, a non-existent system... the glory of the Congo.
From sunrise the reminiscing began. Some were taking pictures and filming the surroundings just in case they forgot the sights, sounds, scent and stenches of the DRCongo. I said farewell to my gecko roommates, and Gomu, the scandalous yet lovable Del-boy salesman of our compound. With sweat ambling across my 15-day old tache, for the last time I told him "Mbongo ezalité" meaning "I don’t have any money."
To leave our mark, and show our appreciation, we held an exhibition displaying our favourite pictures which portrayed our life-changing experiences. I chose one of the Kasangulu schoolboys hanging out of the barred windows of a building that I mistook for a jail. The other portrayed a tireless cassava cutter working in the pouring rain. The walls retold our story.
By far, today's highlight was the presence of all the partners we had met over the past two weeks. All the organisations travelled, through hell, high water, rain and sardine-tin buses for an hour of us saying thank you. My group even opened with the song "We are marching in the light of God" as respectful payback to the HIV-awareness singing crew of Vorsi Congo who stunned us with their vocals last week. I would've opted for Oasis's "Stand By Me" but either way the standing ovation was well worth the rehearsals.
We gave little key-rings to our translators, exchanged emails and hugs. I told songstress Betty Mizele how much I was going to miss her, which caused her to break down in tears - trust me, that wasn't part of my plan.
Through all the emotion, tears and goodbyes, our message was clear - DRCongo was amazing, and too good of a nation to let slip into the shadows as just another war-torn hustling and struggling country. We know there is war, we have seen the poverty - but we will glorify the warmth and strength of the Congolese people who set some examples for those back home.
Have you ever seen 'The Beach', when Leonardo Di Caprio returns from months of paradise to the mundane, tedious routine of his Metropolitan life? I think we all fear that as we ready ourselves for the nine-hour haul back to the chills of London town. But it's evident we are ready to campaign and spread the word; scarred by the injustice, knowing of the war in Goma and the immanent change in history this country faces, and instilled with the passion of the people - I have a feeling the repercussions of this trip might be different from the average.
Thanks for the memories DRCongo.
This story can be sourced from here
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Thursday November 06, 2008
Tears and goodbyes
On our final day I think we were all feeling a bit numb about leaving this mad world of cratered roads, swarming street children, roaming HIV orphans, minimalist villages, a non-existent system... the glory of the Congo.
From sunrise the reminiscing began. Some were taking pictures and filming the surroundings just in case they forgot the sights, sounds, scent and stenches of the DRCongo. I said farewell to my gecko roommates, and Gomu, the scandalous yet lovable Del-boy salesman of our compound. With sweat ambling across my 15-day old tache, for the last time I told him "Mbongo ezalité" meaning "I don’t have any money."
To leave our mark, and show our appreciation, we held an exhibition displaying our favourite pictures which portrayed our life-changing experiences. I chose one of the Kasangulu schoolboys hanging out of the barred windows of a building that I mistook for a jail. The other portrayed a tireless cassava cutter working in the pouring rain. The walls retold our story.
By far, today's highlight was the presence of all the partners we had met over the past two weeks. All the organisations travelled, through hell, high water, rain and sardine-tin buses for an hour of us saying thank you. My group even opened with the song "We are marching in the light of God" as respectful payback to the HIV-awareness singing crew of Vorsi Congo who stunned us with their vocals last week. I would've opted for Oasis's "Stand By Me" but either way the standing ovation was well worth the rehearsals.
We gave little key-rings to our translators, exchanged emails and hugs. I told songstress Betty Mizele how much I was going to miss her, which caused her to break down in tears - trust me, that wasn't part of my plan.
Through all the emotion, tears and goodbyes, our message was clear - DRCongo was amazing, and too good of a nation to let slip into the shadows as just another war-torn hustling and struggling country. We know there is war, we have seen the poverty - but we will glorify the warmth and strength of the Congolese people who set some examples for those back home.
Have you ever seen 'The Beach', when Leonardo Di Caprio returns from months of paradise to the mundane, tedious routine of his Metropolitan life? I think we all fear that as we ready ourselves for the nine-hour haul back to the chills of London town. But it's evident we are ready to campaign and spread the word; scarred by the injustice, knowing of the war in Goma and the immanent change in history this country faces, and instilled with the passion of the people - I have a feeling the repercussions of this trip might be different from the average.
Thanks for the memories DRCongo.
This story can be sourced from here
11/05/2008
DRCongo: Fastest Football Skills Ever - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
No word of a lie - this Chadrac boy I met in the Democratic Republic of Congo belongs in the Premiership - and no league lower. I've had my fair share of glory days in junior and teen football camps, failing to breach the ranks at either Leyton Orient or West Ham (blame the dumpling shaped bod), but I saw quality and calibre potential rise up to the top, and so I say without doubt that the saddest part of this survivor's story is that it is unlikely Chadrac (nor his beautiful and skilled female companions at the NGO HUNO) will ever leave the borders of the DRC. Life is just not that fair to them. Here is their story which I documented for Ctrl.Alt.Shift:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Wednesday November 05, 2008
"Even if we save one child, we have made a difference."
Emile Namwira and his group move at snail-pace. On average they get about 25 regular street kids per week coming in to learn about moral, human and civic issues as well as electoral education. But as Emile says, they give and teach what would not be given or learnt otherwise.
HIV orphans from 8-18 years old are guided by Emile and his small staff. After being ignored and marginalised by society, they are sought after by HUNO, who patiently address each child, working on reunification of the families, and getting the children to react to issues in society through "talking, voting and petitions as oppose to violence, force, hostility and war." With HUNO also offering skills such as sewing and driving, as well as encouraging community service and group activities such as football, they stand tall, deterring self-destruction and teaching the basics that the Congolese street children simply don't have.
Emile introduced my team to a class of promising young girls, all trying to get their lives back on track. We stood in on a sewing lesson as they showcased their skills. Three of the girls asked about English women, before chucking marriage proposals at me (not for the first time this trip might I add). The persistent bunch disregarded the fact I was taken - 18 year old Fatou Giselle said: "That's alright, but do you want a Congolese wife?" To spare feelings, I resorted to lying, making the claim that English men didn't get married until their thirties. I'm not proud, though I had to laugh at the flattery from the girls.
The women had sown gifts for us - traditional Congolese gowns. They were remarkable, beautiful, striking garments. 16-year-old Hornnella gave me mine, before telling me how HUNO had reformed her, giving her a purpose, friends, dreams of being an engineer, as well as realistic hopes of getting married and having three kids.
As I was taking note, she threw in "And you? Do you want a Congolese baby?" To be honest, I wish I could've done more for her, but a wedding ring and a bassinet were certainly not what had in mind.
I retreated to the football pitch (dusty sectioned area) to have a kick-about with a few of the HUNO boys. Oh the humiliation! A little runt done me up leaving me looking like a fat Sunday-league pub baller. Ten nutmegs later and his lightening sandaled feet left me 4 - 0 down. I hit back with a single consolation goal for the England side, but by then the damage was done.
Pride aside, 17-year-old Chadrac took a breather and told me of how HUNO was recuperating his situation. The boy had been homeless since contracting HIV at the age of eight. He was made a garden pet by his family, not allowed near the house. When $150 went missing from the household, Chadrac was blamed and cast away like an unlucky omen.
Since then he has been living in a box, fending off other kids who beat him for having HIV, scrounging in the trash alongside rats for leftovers. Though HUNO don't have the means to accommodate him, the Ronaldo-moving street kid is being taught to drive, and is now part of a football team organised by HUNO. Nevertheless Chadrac is still a lost boy, claiming: "I didn't steal the money. I am innocent. I still don't know why I was pushed out of my home."
Before I left, I handed Chadrac my old Beckham Adidas Predator boots. They cost me little to discard, but meant ever so slightly more to the boy judging by his wide smile (even though they were three sizes too big). It was unfortunate we had to rush away in our van due to the rain and fear of mudslides. With the HUNO girls crowding around our vehicle, I could only catch a glimpse of Chadrac, who ran around the corner to wash his feet and put on the Predators, coming back just as we drove off. Through the window he gave me thumbs up.
This story can be sourced from here
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Wednesday November 05, 2008
"Even if we save one child, we have made a difference."
Emile Namwira and his group move at snail-pace. On average they get about 25 regular street kids per week coming in to learn about moral, human and civic issues as well as electoral education. But as Emile says, they give and teach what would not be given or learnt otherwise.
HIV orphans from 8-18 years old are guided by Emile and his small staff. After being ignored and marginalised by society, they are sought after by HUNO, who patiently address each child, working on reunification of the families, and getting the children to react to issues in society through "talking, voting and petitions as oppose to violence, force, hostility and war." With HUNO also offering skills such as sewing and driving, as well as encouraging community service and group activities such as football, they stand tall, deterring self-destruction and teaching the basics that the Congolese street children simply don't have.
Emile introduced my team to a class of promising young girls, all trying to get their lives back on track. We stood in on a sewing lesson as they showcased their skills. Three of the girls asked about English women, before chucking marriage proposals at me (not for the first time this trip might I add). The persistent bunch disregarded the fact I was taken - 18 year old Fatou Giselle said: "That's alright, but do you want a Congolese wife?" To spare feelings, I resorted to lying, making the claim that English men didn't get married until their thirties. I'm not proud, though I had to laugh at the flattery from the girls.
The women had sown gifts for us - traditional Congolese gowns. They were remarkable, beautiful, striking garments. 16-year-old Hornnella gave me mine, before telling me how HUNO had reformed her, giving her a purpose, friends, dreams of being an engineer, as well as realistic hopes of getting married and having three kids.
As I was taking note, she threw in "And you? Do you want a Congolese baby?" To be honest, I wish I could've done more for her, but a wedding ring and a bassinet were certainly not what had in mind.
I retreated to the football pitch (dusty sectioned area) to have a kick-about with a few of the HUNO boys. Oh the humiliation! A little runt done me up leaving me looking like a fat Sunday-league pub baller. Ten nutmegs later and his lightening sandaled feet left me 4 - 0 down. I hit back with a single consolation goal for the England side, but by then the damage was done.
Pride aside, 17-year-old Chadrac took a breather and told me of how HUNO was recuperating his situation. The boy had been homeless since contracting HIV at the age of eight. He was made a garden pet by his family, not allowed near the house. When $150 went missing from the household, Chadrac was blamed and cast away like an unlucky omen.
Since then he has been living in a box, fending off other kids who beat him for having HIV, scrounging in the trash alongside rats for leftovers. Though HUNO don't have the means to accommodate him, the Ronaldo-moving street kid is being taught to drive, and is now part of a football team organised by HUNO. Nevertheless Chadrac is still a lost boy, claiming: "I didn't steal the money. I am innocent. I still don't know why I was pushed out of my home."
Before I left, I handed Chadrac my old Beckham Adidas Predator boots. They cost me little to discard, but meant ever so slightly more to the boy judging by his wide smile (even though they were three sizes too big). It was unfortunate we had to rush away in our van due to the rain and fear of mudslides. With the HUNO girls crowding around our vehicle, I could only catch a glimpse of Chadrac, who ran around the corner to wash his feet and put on the Predators, coming back just as we drove off. Through the window he gave me thumbs up.
This story can be sourced from here
11/04/2008
DRCongo: Feminism & Gender Inequality - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
It's hard not to get heated up when I witness gender discrimination, it's even harder not to speak out when you hear it's the norm in the culture. That wasn't the intentional message of a Congolese college I visited, but that's certainly what I took from it. Unfortunately, a meeting with the students that was arranged to illustrate progression for women in the DRC, instead demonstrated how much of an uphill struggle some Congolese women still face - leaving the females in my reporting group feeling disheartened, silently feeling lucky they had not been brought up with such unjust oppression. Mr Brightside will tell you it's still great that at least the women are being supplied with education and access to schooling; in a country where good education facilities are scarce in general.
It's true, and I would never devalue how far the country has come - but it seizes to stop me cringing some of the behaviour I heard in that room. Here's my Ctrl.Alt.Shift report:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Tuesday November 04, 2008
The cause and affect of a project do not always meet in the middle. Today, that was the case as we visited the gender equality programme of CONAFED.
The dream was there. The plan was golden. Co-ordinator Roger Mukmba promised more action in the transformation of his people: "We are working towards more female leadership and less women used as inferior tools in the workplace." He stated how far the country has come, claiming Parliament decided after the war that a minimum of 30% of people in each workplace would be female, and that a type of P.S.H.E would be integrated into schools to raise awareness of gender power and equality - Roger called it a "noble wave of studies" spanning from nurseries, to universities to the workplace. He even addressed the "not so uncommon" issue of girls in school being marked down for denying sex with their professors, and how CONAFED was offering counselling and ways of campaigning against this disgraceful form of discrimination - such as having the victims wear T-shirts stating "I cannot move up to the next level of education because a professor is exploiting my rights..." (How you fit that on a T-shirt? Beats me). I was immediately cynical of how effective and slow this technique could be, but I thought I'd let Roger prove to me what leaps and bounds CONAFED were making.
Despairingly, the dream fell on its fat and naïve face as we met Congolese students at the University of IFACIC (so-called examples of CONAFED's progress). Even though we were told at the beginning that there are now 75% female students at the institution, and that CONAFED and IFACIC were encouraging women to learn and take active responsibility in society - the room wreaked of male bravado and female disempowerment. The girls seemed to huddle together, having their answers stamped on or just shushed away by the authority of their fellow male colleagues. My question of "How do women get out of a 'sex for grades' situation?" was never directly answered - tangent after tangent got me heated and impatient. My own female colleagues were stunned to an uncomfortable silence as the Congolese men regurgitated: "Women are like grass to the sheep here" and "If a woman gets raped for wearing a mini-skirt that is her own fault for wearing such clothes" - both in ignorant tones that implied 'That's just the way it is.' At the back, our Congolese translator Chris walked out, he himself appalled by the words of his countrymen.
I pressed further, desperate for a silver lining. I almost had to force one of their female students to tell me (without interruptions from the men) what the deal with sexual harassment in IFACIC was. 25 year old Santa Tembo's answer was astonishing: "six out of 10 girls are harassed here, but they cannot speak out as it will bring shame on the girl and cause her grief in society."
Read the full article here
It's true, and I would never devalue how far the country has come - but it seizes to stop me cringing some of the behaviour I heard in that room. Here's my Ctrl.Alt.Shift report:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Tuesday November 04, 2008
The cause and affect of a project do not always meet in the middle. Today, that was the case as we visited the gender equality programme of CONAFED.
The dream was there. The plan was golden. Co-ordinator Roger Mukmba promised more action in the transformation of his people: "We are working towards more female leadership and less women used as inferior tools in the workplace." He stated how far the country has come, claiming Parliament decided after the war that a minimum of 30% of people in each workplace would be female, and that a type of P.S.H.E would be integrated into schools to raise awareness of gender power and equality - Roger called it a "noble wave of studies" spanning from nurseries, to universities to the workplace. He even addressed the "not so uncommon" issue of girls in school being marked down for denying sex with their professors, and how CONAFED was offering counselling and ways of campaigning against this disgraceful form of discrimination - such as having the victims wear T-shirts stating "I cannot move up to the next level of education because a professor is exploiting my rights..." (How you fit that on a T-shirt? Beats me). I was immediately cynical of how effective and slow this technique could be, but I thought I'd let Roger prove to me what leaps and bounds CONAFED were making.
Despairingly, the dream fell on its fat and naïve face as we met Congolese students at the University of IFACIC (so-called examples of CONAFED's progress). Even though we were told at the beginning that there are now 75% female students at the institution, and that CONAFED and IFACIC were encouraging women to learn and take active responsibility in society - the room wreaked of male bravado and female disempowerment. The girls seemed to huddle together, having their answers stamped on or just shushed away by the authority of their fellow male colleagues. My question of "How do women get out of a 'sex for grades' situation?" was never directly answered - tangent after tangent got me heated and impatient. My own female colleagues were stunned to an uncomfortable silence as the Congolese men regurgitated: "Women are like grass to the sheep here" and "If a woman gets raped for wearing a mini-skirt that is her own fault for wearing such clothes" - both in ignorant tones that implied 'That's just the way it is.' At the back, our Congolese translator Chris walked out, he himself appalled by the words of his countrymen.
I pressed further, desperate for a silver lining. I almost had to force one of their female students to tell me (without interruptions from the men) what the deal with sexual harassment in IFACIC was. 25 year old Santa Tembo's answer was astonishing: "six out of 10 girls are harassed here, but they cannot speak out as it will bring shame on the girl and cause her grief in society."
Read the full article here
11/03/2008
DRCongo: HIV Projects & Freedom - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
What a hectic day in the DRC. But one that was well worth it; in a country with many regions and villages that still regard HIV as an omen, a dirty and evil virus - it was a relief to find so many projects working hard to offer those living with HIV a path back into society, via jobs and other opportunities. Here's my report for Ctrl.Alt.Shift:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Monday November 03, 2008
"I just want to be free..."
Freedom is highly underrated. The majority of us have it, in the form of schooling, parents and a community. We live, because we are allowed to live. In the DRC, one of the biggest stunts on this dream is HIV - a virus that can exile any Congolese man, woman or child into the shadows of society, and as it stands the UN estimated (in 2007) that 1.3m Congolese people are battling against this fate (including 110,000 under-14's and 143,000 pregnant women). The organisations I encountered today stated that bullshit has got to stop.
Co-ordinator Jean Lukela of RENOAC said: "We will work hard. We will change for the better." His project depicted just that objective - evolving with and for those HIV+ (such as Jean himself). Since 2002, RENOAC has liberated 2500 people living with the disease through various activities, giving computer training and jobs to those turfed for having the virus, as well as running a flour mill to produce food to the most poorly of the HIV infected - as Jean said: "Money is not given for nothing. We educate our people with HIV awareness and activities to state their value in society."
Back on the road, and I stole some time from our interpreter Solange to get her take on the HIV camps we were visiting today. Despite having lost two uncles and two aunties to the disease, she so nonchalantly proclaimed: "HIV is something you learn to deal with. It can be a standard part of life. People do not need to fear it." Her unbreakable spirit and respect for the virus gathered further substance as our day continued.
We came to OVJS to envisage the dreams of organiser Maguy Mfumu, who has developed a youth programme for those struggling with HIV. Regardless of her own HIV status, she now has 56 adolescents under her wing, (many of whom are HIV orphans living with the disease) trained in sewing and making clothes. Before we left, six of the female workers let us know how their lives had been 'normalised' with the help of Maguy and OVJS: Nadaj Balinga, 23, Soulange Ngama, 20, Benedict Mansanga, 19, Falan Mayayila, 18, Lovette Mbumbo, 18 and 17-year-old Rutt Wombo - my Congofied aspiring versions of Beyonce, Shakira, Jennifer Lopez, Rhianna, Christina Milian and Cassie. All the village girls loved to dance, sing and they were mad about clothes including the extravagant self-made ones they showed us. The difference was that Maguy's crew lived in an orphanage, fed on rations and as Nadaj stated: "If we had even £20 to spend, we would put it towards more materials, equipment and stalls to work with." Bear in mind Mariah Carey probably pays someone that much to hold her chewing gum...
Read the full article here
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Monday November 03, 2008
"I just want to be free..."
Freedom is highly underrated. The majority of us have it, in the form of schooling, parents and a community. We live, because we are allowed to live. In the DRC, one of the biggest stunts on this dream is HIV - a virus that can exile any Congolese man, woman or child into the shadows of society, and as it stands the UN estimated (in 2007) that 1.3m Congolese people are battling against this fate (including 110,000 under-14's and 143,000 pregnant women). The organisations I encountered today stated that bullshit has got to stop.
Co-ordinator Jean Lukela of RENOAC said: "We will work hard. We will change for the better." His project depicted just that objective - evolving with and for those HIV+ (such as Jean himself). Since 2002, RENOAC has liberated 2500 people living with the disease through various activities, giving computer training and jobs to those turfed for having the virus, as well as running a flour mill to produce food to the most poorly of the HIV infected - as Jean said: "Money is not given for nothing. We educate our people with HIV awareness and activities to state their value in society."
Back on the road, and I stole some time from our interpreter Solange to get her take on the HIV camps we were visiting today. Despite having lost two uncles and two aunties to the disease, she so nonchalantly proclaimed: "HIV is something you learn to deal with. It can be a standard part of life. People do not need to fear it." Her unbreakable spirit and respect for the virus gathered further substance as our day continued.
We came to OVJS to envisage the dreams of organiser Maguy Mfumu, who has developed a youth programme for those struggling with HIV. Regardless of her own HIV status, she now has 56 adolescents under her wing, (many of whom are HIV orphans living with the disease) trained in sewing and making clothes. Before we left, six of the female workers let us know how their lives had been 'normalised' with the help of Maguy and OVJS: Nadaj Balinga, 23, Soulange Ngama, 20, Benedict Mansanga, 19, Falan Mayayila, 18, Lovette Mbumbo, 18 and 17-year-old Rutt Wombo - my Congofied aspiring versions of Beyonce, Shakira, Jennifer Lopez, Rhianna, Christina Milian and Cassie. All the village girls loved to dance, sing and they were mad about clothes including the extravagant self-made ones they showed us. The difference was that Maguy's crew lived in an orphanage, fed on rations and as Nadaj stated: "If we had even £20 to spend, we would put it towards more materials, equipment and stalls to work with." Bear in mind Mariah Carey probably pays someone that much to hold her chewing gum...
Read the full article here
11/01/2008
DRCongo: On First Glance... - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
Let's call it a humbling two-week experience I'm likely to hold as a pivotal moment in my journalism career. Reporting from the DRC rejuvinated my passion and dreams for travelling, reporting from around the world, interviewing some of the most inspirational people in the poorest conditions.
We're talking serious poverty, the type you breeze past on melodramatic adverts here; with families feasting solely on a loaf of bread for the week, kids running barefoot through s**t on the streets, shacks instead of houses. But beyond that I still found more natural beauty (from the people to the surroundings) in the African country than any UK monopolised metropolitan city. And from the 10,000+ words I came back with (scribbled down shorthand in a small dusty pad), I felt the need to portray this side of the DRC - how they live and strive on, less of the sob stories and more of the success (though admittedly much easier said than done with the war and corruption in the country), and what we need to be doing here to assist their hard-fought progression. This is the first brief report I wrote for Ctrl.Alt.Shift, very early into my trip:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Sunday November 1, 2008
Seven days, 33 degree heat, 4 villages, landslides, invasive geckos and consistent rude awakenings = 1 trip to remember. Bear in mind we are only half way through this experience, I have had a pretty substantial taste of the Congo. It's the people, the culture and their mentality that has opened my eyes, and in more ways than one.
On first glance, it is hard to see kids bare foot and walking 6km to school, mothers strapping their babies on back selling plantain attached to their heads, countless young men sitting on the side of roads contemplating over what to do next...poverty and strife comes in many forms...
But please let’s not be patronising.
Two nights ago the tiny village of Nkandu welcomes us with tradish Congolese food, dancing, fables around a fireplace with shooting stars in the sky...call me soppy, but it was pretty freakin great. Such sentiments and warmth has been recurring aspects in Congo. The majority has infectious smiles; they love their country, their people, those who want it work hard, they don't complain, they have astounding faith and welcome us outsiders with open arms and a plate of foo foo.
The package looks damaged, but the inside is golden.
I wouldn’t even dare look down on these people, as some evoke such happiness and belief than seems too much of an effort back home. Do I envy their aura? I guess I do a little. Do they envy my smoking, drinking, clubbing lifestyle? It seems not so much.
Of course this is just my perception, but the Congolese folk have humbled my preconceptions of being another Westerner with all the right answers. We obviously have a lot to learn too.
As Felix, our amazing Congolese translator said:
“In your eyes of course we look poor. But in our hearts we are richer than you can imagine.”
The link to the article is here
We're talking serious poverty, the type you breeze past on melodramatic adverts here; with families feasting solely on a loaf of bread for the week, kids running barefoot through s**t on the streets, shacks instead of houses. But beyond that I still found more natural beauty (from the people to the surroundings) in the African country than any UK monopolised metropolitan city. And from the 10,000+ words I came back with (scribbled down shorthand in a small dusty pad), I felt the need to portray this side of the DRC - how they live and strive on, less of the sob stories and more of the success (though admittedly much easier said than done with the war and corruption in the country), and what we need to be doing here to assist their hard-fought progression. This is the first brief report I wrote for Ctrl.Alt.Shift, very early into my trip:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Sunday November 1, 2008
Seven days, 33 degree heat, 4 villages, landslides, invasive geckos and consistent rude awakenings = 1 trip to remember. Bear in mind we are only half way through this experience, I have had a pretty substantial taste of the Congo. It's the people, the culture and their mentality that has opened my eyes, and in more ways than one.
On first glance, it is hard to see kids bare foot and walking 6km to school, mothers strapping their babies on back selling plantain attached to their heads, countless young men sitting on the side of roads contemplating over what to do next...poverty and strife comes in many forms...
But please let’s not be patronising.
Two nights ago the tiny village of Nkandu welcomes us with tradish Congolese food, dancing, fables around a fireplace with shooting stars in the sky...call me soppy, but it was pretty freakin great. Such sentiments and warmth has been recurring aspects in Congo. The majority has infectious smiles; they love their country, their people, those who want it work hard, they don't complain, they have astounding faith and welcome us outsiders with open arms and a plate of foo foo.
The package looks damaged, but the inside is golden.
I wouldn’t even dare look down on these people, as some evoke such happiness and belief than seems too much of an effort back home. Do I envy their aura? I guess I do a little. Do they envy my smoking, drinking, clubbing lifestyle? It seems not so much.
Of course this is just my perception, but the Congolese folk have humbled my preconceptions of being another Westerner with all the right answers. We obviously have a lot to learn too.
As Felix, our amazing Congolese translator said:
“In your eyes of course we look poor. But in our hearts we are richer than you can imagine.”
The link to the article is here
10/29/2008
DRCongo: And The War Kicks Off... - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
As we sat in a remote camp in Kinshasa, news broke out that the African civil was stirring up again in Goma, east of way where we were situated. But being so far from the rumbling conflict didn't stop any of us imagining the worse - the aftermath of a war is not something I've had to get used to in Newham, London (gang crime not included). In a break-in news blog for Ctrl.Alt.Shift, here below is how the news impacted my group of reporters, and the surrounding circle of our new Congolese friends:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Wednesday October 29, 2008
Campfire, shooting stars, third world war and Fanta
Tonight we lived it up in the luxurious village of Kinkosi in the Congolese region of Bas Congo - we had a mosquito swamped hole for a toilet, giant red ants nipping at our legs, a derelict spider-filled hut for 15 of us to sleep in and all the plantain, fufu and rice a heart could desire. Sarcasm aside, it was brilliant.
We spent much of the day watching the village men catch our fish for dinner, witnessing the hard graft and tiresome routine that provides them with sufficient meals for a season. I was itching to get stuck in and help the guys soldier through, but Lord knows I'd probably fuck up the process, or just look like a sitting British duck in the mushy pits.
As the nets were gathered, 17 year old fisher-boy Balamika stated he had walked 4km bare foot to the compound in order to work and gain enough funds for his schooling in the afternoons. He said: "I enjoy my job, there's nothing bad about it. But I want to study in my spare time so I can become a builder in my village. My family and I will be disappointed if I don’t become one."
It was another glimpse of the compassion and communal pride of the Congo.
As the burning sun set (much to our lobster-skin relief), we sat around a campfire with the locals, sipping the generous donation of honey wine and ice-cold Fantas (in glass bottles!), listening to fables of olde Congolese times. Above us, shooting stars glistened, in the distance we saw flashes of distant thunder and lightening. The atmosphere was priceless - the kind that sends a shiver, and makes you reluctant to return to the gloomy, grey, smouldering shade or crap that can be London town.
The people reminded us what impact we were making and how we were held in such high regard, as our translator Betty Mizele led in a song for us strangers of the Western world. I don't know what the hell she was saying - I couldn't translate her Lingala words. But we sung for the moment, before Betty finished with a lasting solo a capella:
"Let me just sing alone,
To say how wonderful you are,
You are wonderful,
You are wonderful."
Herein lays the real riches of the Congo.
Then came the news. We were told of war breaking out in Goma, East of Congo. Word quickly spread of over 60,000 people fleeing from the conflict between the DRC military, Gen Nkunda's Tutsi rebel fighters and the Rwandan Hutus. It was a lot to take in with no access to Internet or contact with eastern offices to clarify fact beyond speculation and sensationalism.
I could not imagine the fear that would engulf our relations back home, let alone the terror that would inevitably spread across the Congo, especially for those in the war zone. It was a rude awakening to our picturesque moment around the campfire.
We all sent out texts on the emergency mobile phone. I jetted messages of love and reassurance to my family and girlfriend, letting them know that such is the colossal size of the Congo (being the third-largest country in Africa, covering 905,563 square miles, an area almost a quarter the size of the United States), we were as close to the war as London is to Moscow. Still, those details would bring little comfort.
I put my Fanta down and took a moment to reflect with a bitch-slapping realisation that Congo is about much more than songs, campfires and shooting stars. The people here have a struggle, they have beauty, they have life and they have death. We are here to bring that story home.
At the end of every day our group debriefed and had reflection time. Tonight, some prayed, some spoke, some stayed silent and meditated. Though I'm not usually one for a corny-ass song or prayer, I simply put it:
"I pray for those in Goma, and I just thank God that tonight my loved ones do not strive, fight, flee and die in war. Amen."
For the first and hopefully last time on this trip, I feel numb and I miss home.
This story can be sourced from here
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Wednesday October 29, 2008
Campfire, shooting stars, third world war and Fanta
Tonight we lived it up in the luxurious village of Kinkosi in the Congolese region of Bas Congo - we had a mosquito swamped hole for a toilet, giant red ants nipping at our legs, a derelict spider-filled hut for 15 of us to sleep in and all the plantain, fufu and rice a heart could desire. Sarcasm aside, it was brilliant.
We spent much of the day watching the village men catch our fish for dinner, witnessing the hard graft and tiresome routine that provides them with sufficient meals for a season. I was itching to get stuck in and help the guys soldier through, but Lord knows I'd probably fuck up the process, or just look like a sitting British duck in the mushy pits.
As the nets were gathered, 17 year old fisher-boy Balamika stated he had walked 4km bare foot to the compound in order to work and gain enough funds for his schooling in the afternoons. He said: "I enjoy my job, there's nothing bad about it. But I want to study in my spare time so I can become a builder in my village. My family and I will be disappointed if I don’t become one."
It was another glimpse of the compassion and communal pride of the Congo.
As the burning sun set (much to our lobster-skin relief), we sat around a campfire with the locals, sipping the generous donation of honey wine and ice-cold Fantas (in glass bottles!), listening to fables of olde Congolese times. Above us, shooting stars glistened, in the distance we saw flashes of distant thunder and lightening. The atmosphere was priceless - the kind that sends a shiver, and makes you reluctant to return to the gloomy, grey, smouldering shade or crap that can be London town.
The people reminded us what impact we were making and how we were held in such high regard, as our translator Betty Mizele led in a song for us strangers of the Western world. I don't know what the hell she was saying - I couldn't translate her Lingala words. But we sung for the moment, before Betty finished with a lasting solo a capella:
"Let me just sing alone,
To say how wonderful you are,
You are wonderful,
You are wonderful."
Herein lays the real riches of the Congo.
Then came the news. We were told of war breaking out in Goma, East of Congo. Word quickly spread of over 60,000 people fleeing from the conflict between the DRC military, Gen Nkunda's Tutsi rebel fighters and the Rwandan Hutus. It was a lot to take in with no access to Internet or contact with eastern offices to clarify fact beyond speculation and sensationalism.
I could not imagine the fear that would engulf our relations back home, let alone the terror that would inevitably spread across the Congo, especially for those in the war zone. It was a rude awakening to our picturesque moment around the campfire.
We all sent out texts on the emergency mobile phone. I jetted messages of love and reassurance to my family and girlfriend, letting them know that such is the colossal size of the Congo (being the third-largest country in Africa, covering 905,563 square miles, an area almost a quarter the size of the United States), we were as close to the war as London is to Moscow. Still, those details would bring little comfort.
I put my Fanta down and took a moment to reflect with a bitch-slapping realisation that Congo is about much more than songs, campfires and shooting stars. The people here have a struggle, they have beauty, they have life and they have death. We are here to bring that story home.
At the end of every day our group debriefed and had reflection time. Tonight, some prayed, some spoke, some stayed silent and meditated. Though I'm not usually one for a corny-ass song or prayer, I simply put it:
"I pray for those in Goma, and I just thank God that tonight my loved ones do not strive, fight, flee and die in war. Amen."
For the first and hopefully last time on this trip, I feel numb and I miss home.
This story can be sourced from here
10/28/2008
DRCongo: A Nzundu Mother's Wishes - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
An emotional day in the Democratic Republic of Congo with the Nzundu people. Here's my Ctrl.Alt.Shift report:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Tuesday October 28, 2008
From the village, for the village.
I can’t say I was too impressed by the gecko in my mosquito net this morning. The unwanted uninvited roommate crawled across my upper lip before I woke up; I initially thought my bum-fluff facial hair had transformed overnight into a long and slimy moustache.
After a cold shower with cockroaches for company, I left with the team from our compound to visit the rural Nzundu sector of Bas Congo, situated just outside the capital of Kinshasa.
My rude awakening was not sufficient preparation for our long trek following the breakdown of our vans... again! However, our group expanded as we were joined on our 5km walk by local villagers, fascinated, as ever, by us, our cameras, weird clothing, my super-peculiar eye-brow piercing and so-called "caramalised" skin colour. It was all friendly curiosity.
Onto the fields and we were given demonstrations in the Congolese art of cow-ploughing and crop-growing. The process was terribly slow, primitive and seemingly dangerous as at moments the animals looked temperamental and pulled away unpredictably. I didn't clap and applaud when the cows did their job, it seemed too patronising, but I stood, watched and smiled in appreciation of the mass amount of hard work that goes into providing food for the Nzundu people.
The local women planted seeds one-by-one into the ground, straining, sweating, smiling and waving. Fourty-four-year-old Bianu stated her five children go to school whilst she works in the fields. When I questioned her position as a struggling crop-grower, she said: "All my money goes to my kids and their education. I would not be able to afford it without this PDI (Integrated Development Programme)."
What threw me was her response to my next inquiry, as I asked about the aspirations of her children:
"They will get their education, and get more money. Then they will return to the farm and work with us, with the family and for the village."
Such a notion was incomprehensive to me. F**k that I thought. I couldn't understand the point of striving for my degree only to go back to a struggling farm. Superman had the right idea...
Then a simple discussion knocked my ignorance astray. As my colleague Sam Faulds interviewed 23-year-old Thierry, an encapsulation of Congo said: "I’ve worked on this farm for 18 years. I grow beans, I live in the village and work for my family. I do not complain. I work to improve their situation..."
It is such the Western mentality to expand, grow, leave the nest and fulfil otherworldly dreams. I was blind when I spoke to Bianu, but my greatest respects go to anyone whose dream it is to stay and plant a better life for the loved ones unable to fly.
Leaving the village, our driver Bosco blared out some Congolese music as herds of people hugged us and danced around our van. They welcomed us, and embraced us despite major indifferences and our naivety of their situation.
My friend Anita Morais commented as we drove away: "Why do we take things for granted? If people in Congo are so happy with so little, then why are we so discontent?"
Good question...
This article can be sourced here
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Tuesday October 28, 2008
From the village, for the village.
I can’t say I was too impressed by the gecko in my mosquito net this morning. The unwanted uninvited roommate crawled across my upper lip before I woke up; I initially thought my bum-fluff facial hair had transformed overnight into a long and slimy moustache.
After a cold shower with cockroaches for company, I left with the team from our compound to visit the rural Nzundu sector of Bas Congo, situated just outside the capital of Kinshasa.
My rude awakening was not sufficient preparation for our long trek following the breakdown of our vans... again! However, our group expanded as we were joined on our 5km walk by local villagers, fascinated, as ever, by us, our cameras, weird clothing, my super-peculiar eye-brow piercing and so-called "caramalised" skin colour. It was all friendly curiosity.
Onto the fields and we were given demonstrations in the Congolese art of cow-ploughing and crop-growing. The process was terribly slow, primitive and seemingly dangerous as at moments the animals looked temperamental and pulled away unpredictably. I didn't clap and applaud when the cows did their job, it seemed too patronising, but I stood, watched and smiled in appreciation of the mass amount of hard work that goes into providing food for the Nzundu people.
The local women planted seeds one-by-one into the ground, straining, sweating, smiling and waving. Fourty-four-year-old Bianu stated her five children go to school whilst she works in the fields. When I questioned her position as a struggling crop-grower, she said: "All my money goes to my kids and their education. I would not be able to afford it without this PDI (Integrated Development Programme)."
What threw me was her response to my next inquiry, as I asked about the aspirations of her children:
"They will get their education, and get more money. Then they will return to the farm and work with us, with the family and for the village."
Such a notion was incomprehensive to me. F**k that I thought. I couldn't understand the point of striving for my degree only to go back to a struggling farm. Superman had the right idea...
Then a simple discussion knocked my ignorance astray. As my colleague Sam Faulds interviewed 23-year-old Thierry, an encapsulation of Congo said: "I’ve worked on this farm for 18 years. I grow beans, I live in the village and work for my family. I do not complain. I work to improve their situation..."
It is such the Western mentality to expand, grow, leave the nest and fulfil otherworldly dreams. I was blind when I spoke to Bianu, but my greatest respects go to anyone whose dream it is to stay and plant a better life for the loved ones unable to fly.
Leaving the village, our driver Bosco blared out some Congolese music as herds of people hugged us and danced around our van. They welcomed us, and embraced us despite major indifferences and our naivety of their situation.
My friend Anita Morais commented as we drove away: "Why do we take things for granted? If people in Congo are so happy with so little, then why are we so discontent?"
Good question...
This article can be sourced here
10/27/2008
DRCongo: Children & Education - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
Millions of children and a handful of semi-decent schools does not add up in my books. Beyond the dusty feet and raggedy clothes, the young people I met in the Democratic Republic of Congo had a somewhat different glow to them; being so humble, warm, excited, and sadly blissfully unaware of how many of their guardians had lost out to a corrupt government and an ongoing African civil war. In years to come, I'll still look back at the photos, the interviews, and wonder what may have come of my Congolese brothers... though no doubt the DRC has not seen the last of this East London journalist. It is one hell of a trip, and one of my favourite days there is documented below in an article for Ctrl.Alt.Shift:
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Monday October 27, 2008
Kids and Politricks
Today on the outskirts of Kinshasa in Kasangulu, we visited an organisation that focuses on reforestation projects. I can’t lie, I found the hour-long lectures reminiscent of mundane uni days - to put it simply, the snooze-fest was pretty dry. However, the overall journey and the people I met reinforced my intrigue and passion to explore and discover the ins and outs of this fascinating nation.
In the morning, our car got stuck on a mudslide on the way up to the village’s school and medical house. The four-wheel drive made little difference. We abandoned the vehicle and marched the rest of the distance. Thank God for my Adidas Adventure trainers, as only Lord knows how the locals trek the collapsing hills in their sandals.
Twenty minutes later, and we'd found a pitiful medical centre and conference area. I saw 10 wooden chairs, two small rooms and two and a half computers. The nearby school was also in a state less than perfect. No projectors, but prehistoric blackboards, dilapidated walls, no windows, just bars and kids hanging from them like inmates in a jail cell.
I asked translator and guide Felix M'Lenda if there were any intentions to refurbish the school. I also asked if there was any money available to help the situation. The guru of west Congo said: "Yes. Of course there is money, but the people in power will not help. Not because they don’t have the money, but because they do not care. They are selfish and take care of their own needs."
I proceeded to ask Felix about the next local elections, and their part in changing the country. Sadly, after saying "I hope they make improvements" he added "but I don’t want to talk about politics anymore. It really makes me want to pull out my hair."
Politics, greed and corruption are tender subjects for a man like Felix, who is witnessing his nation fall victim to its own riches (let's please remember that DRCongo holds more than half of the world's cobalt, 30% of all diamonds, 70% of coltan - a vital ingredient in mobile phones - as well as huge deposits of gold, copper and various other minerals).
According to Felix, the developing economic relationship between the Chinese government and the Congo depicts a third world being exploited out of its resources in return for the Chinese services of roads and railways - but as Felix claims, "what good are roads without cars to drive on them?" He states the grass-roots need the funding: the Congolese children, their schools and education. However, he slouched in defeat and reluctantly called the changing economy a "fair exploitation" of his people, as they will literally take whatever they can get.
Down the road we visited an IDP (Integrated Development Programme) called COABAC, which has trained over 10,000 people in bee-keeping and honey-making. The workers rely on such a job after having their villages pillaged by rebel soldiers during the "third world war" that erupted in 1998. Having had their cars, equipment, machinery and even bikes taken from them, the project is still struggling to help maintain livelihoods.
What a piss-take it was to then have 30 glowing and promising local children run up to me, fascinated by my camera and colleagues. Each one said they loved school, they loved church and had dreams and belief that is often hard to perceive in the UK. Fourteen year old Efrem wants to be a doctor, his friend Kimia wants to flex his muscles in the bricklaying industry and the force of six year old Marly will stop at nothing until he becomes the world heavyweight wrestling champion of the world. The smallest titch of the pack was pulling around a hand-made car he had made from shiny trash - blatantly the boy belongs in the engineering pits of Formula 1.
Back down to earth, Felix reminded me: "Most of these kids will never leave Congo. Most will follow in their father's footsteps and join the family business as honey-producers, fufu makers or farmers."
He wasn't being a party-pooper, just putting the picture in its true perspective. Felix added: "You see... people want to work, people like to work. But they have no means to work and grow." Suddenly those golden Chinese roads and railways seemed so irrelevant.
This article can be sourced here
Postcards From The Edge: DRCongo
Monday October 27, 2008
Kids and Politricks
Today on the outskirts of Kinshasa in Kasangulu, we visited an organisation that focuses on reforestation projects. I can’t lie, I found the hour-long lectures reminiscent of mundane uni days - to put it simply, the snooze-fest was pretty dry. However, the overall journey and the people I met reinforced my intrigue and passion to explore and discover the ins and outs of this fascinating nation.
In the morning, our car got stuck on a mudslide on the way up to the village’s school and medical house. The four-wheel drive made little difference. We abandoned the vehicle and marched the rest of the distance. Thank God for my Adidas Adventure trainers, as only Lord knows how the locals trek the collapsing hills in their sandals.
Twenty minutes later, and we'd found a pitiful medical centre and conference area. I saw 10 wooden chairs, two small rooms and two and a half computers. The nearby school was also in a state less than perfect. No projectors, but prehistoric blackboards, dilapidated walls, no windows, just bars and kids hanging from them like inmates in a jail cell.
I asked translator and guide Felix M'Lenda if there were any intentions to refurbish the school. I also asked if there was any money available to help the situation. The guru of west Congo said: "Yes. Of course there is money, but the people in power will not help. Not because they don’t have the money, but because they do not care. They are selfish and take care of their own needs."
I proceeded to ask Felix about the next local elections, and their part in changing the country. Sadly, after saying "I hope they make improvements" he added "but I don’t want to talk about politics anymore. It really makes me want to pull out my hair."
Politics, greed and corruption are tender subjects for a man like Felix, who is witnessing his nation fall victim to its own riches (let's please remember that DRCongo holds more than half of the world's cobalt, 30% of all diamonds, 70% of coltan - a vital ingredient in mobile phones - as well as huge deposits of gold, copper and various other minerals).
According to Felix, the developing economic relationship between the Chinese government and the Congo depicts a third world being exploited out of its resources in return for the Chinese services of roads and railways - but as Felix claims, "what good are roads without cars to drive on them?" He states the grass-roots need the funding: the Congolese children, their schools and education. However, he slouched in defeat and reluctantly called the changing economy a "fair exploitation" of his people, as they will literally take whatever they can get.
Down the road we visited an IDP (Integrated Development Programme) called COABAC, which has trained over 10,000 people in bee-keeping and honey-making. The workers rely on such a job after having their villages pillaged by rebel soldiers during the "third world war" that erupted in 1998. Having had their cars, equipment, machinery and even bikes taken from them, the project is still struggling to help maintain livelihoods.
What a piss-take it was to then have 30 glowing and promising local children run up to me, fascinated by my camera and colleagues. Each one said they loved school, they loved church and had dreams and belief that is often hard to perceive in the UK. Fourteen year old Efrem wants to be a doctor, his friend Kimia wants to flex his muscles in the bricklaying industry and the force of six year old Marly will stop at nothing until he becomes the world heavyweight wrestling champion of the world. The smallest titch of the pack was pulling around a hand-made car he had made from shiny trash - blatantly the boy belongs in the engineering pits of Formula 1.
Back down to earth, Felix reminded me: "Most of these kids will never leave Congo. Most will follow in their father's footsteps and join the family business as honey-producers, fufu makers or farmers."
He wasn't being a party-pooper, just putting the picture in its true perspective. Felix added: "You see... people want to work, people like to work. But they have no means to work and grow." Suddenly those golden Chinese roads and railways seemed so irrelevant.
This article can be sourced here
10/26/2008
DRCongo: The Dreams Of A Congolese Waiter - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
What are the dreams of a young Congolese waiter, playing out the best years of his life in a war-torn country. Direct from the Democratic Republic of Congo, I found out for Ctrl.Alt.Shift:
Postcards From The Edge: DR Congo
Sunday October 26, 2008
Waitering for nothing.
On my second day in the Congo, I came across a blossoming individual in Yanny. The 23 year old waiter epitomised big dreams from small places. He resides in an impoverished sector of the nation’s capitol of Kinshasa, but with resounding faith, he plans to get his own set of wings as a pilot.
What a prime example he sets for any drop-out lay-about half-asks of our nation:
What are your dreams?
Well I would like to have my own small company one day, and to be my own boss. That would extend the funds for my studies to be a pilot, which I am training to be right now.
Where do you plan to fly off to?
I’d love to live and work in South Africa, Canada or the UK.
What about Congo?
It is not easy here. Congo is my family, but it is getting worse. The government is very slow and there is a lack of work to improve the country and help my people. At the moment, most families are living on two dollars a day, with seven or eight people living in one or two rooms. It is not enough, and it hasn’t changed in a while. However, if I am successful, I would like to return to Congo in the future and teach others to fly. It would be good for the economy.
What gives you the drive to work harder?
Religion is very important to me. God is my first father, and I believe opportunities will come if I pray and study well.
What do you do for fun?
I love basketball; I play three times a week. But it’s too expensive to be part of a team. It costs 20 dollars a month!
What about drugs, booze, girls and rock’n’roll?
Drugs? Never. It’s too much of a waste of time to get drunk. Besides, all of that costs money, and I don’t have any to spare. I need to save for my studies – I mean I don’t even have enough money to do something special for my birthday. As for girls, I do have my needs. Come on, I’m a guy!
The article can be sourced from here
Postcards From The Edge: DR Congo
Sunday October 26, 2008
Waitering for nothing.
On my second day in the Congo, I came across a blossoming individual in Yanny. The 23 year old waiter epitomised big dreams from small places. He resides in an impoverished sector of the nation’s capitol of Kinshasa, but with resounding faith, he plans to get his own set of wings as a pilot.
What a prime example he sets for any drop-out lay-about half-asks of our nation:
What are your dreams?
Well I would like to have my own small company one day, and to be my own boss. That would extend the funds for my studies to be a pilot, which I am training to be right now.
Where do you plan to fly off to?
I’d love to live and work in South Africa, Canada or the UK.
What about Congo?
It is not easy here. Congo is my family, but it is getting worse. The government is very slow and there is a lack of work to improve the country and help my people. At the moment, most families are living on two dollars a day, with seven or eight people living in one or two rooms. It is not enough, and it hasn’t changed in a while. However, if I am successful, I would like to return to Congo in the future and teach others to fly. It would be good for the economy.
What gives you the drive to work harder?
Religion is very important to me. God is my first father, and I believe opportunities will come if I pray and study well.
What do you do for fun?
I love basketball; I play three times a week. But it’s too expensive to be part of a team. It costs 20 dollars a month!
What about drugs, booze, girls and rock’n’roll?
Drugs? Never. It’s too much of a waste of time to get drunk. Besides, all of that costs money, and I don’t have any to spare. I need to save for my studies – I mean I don’t even have enough money to do something special for my birthday. As for girls, I do have my needs. Come on, I’m a guy!
The article can be sourced from here
10/25/2008
DRCongo: Sleepless In The Jungle - Ctrl.Alt.Shift
One of my earliest blogs I wrote for Ctrl.Alt.Shift about my time reporting in the Democratic Republic of Congo. I had just arrived to a very hostile reception at Kinshasa airport, and my main objectives of the day were to get used to the Congolese diet and to try and get some sleep (hard process of that can be seen with the pics below) - ALL easier said than done... Here's the feature:
Postcards From The Edge: DR Congo
Saturday October 25, 2008
Small Fish, Big Swamp
We were huddled up like a walking pack of sardines as we stumbled our way through Kinshasa airport. The long and gruelling process made the headache of Heathrow look nice and easy.
It took 30 minutes to get through customs. The sweltering heat of 29 degrees drained me, and the seven hour turbulent flight did little to help my struggling condition. To my right, an elderly American disputed a matter over with his customs officer - frustration and impatience engrossed the two lost in translation. In the end the Congolese officer demanded: "Ok!Ok! Just give me 20 dollars..." I got off lucky but learnt promptly that bribing is a common asset in the Congo, and like most, the American slipped through a 20 note to avoid any further interrogation.
Baggage claim was hustle bustle, with all preying over the conveyor belt playing the game 'when push comes to shove.' I was actually impressed that only my colleague Rebecca failed to retrieve her luggage – she would have to endure three days without the luxuries of a bendy toothbrush and minted dental floss.
Exiting the building, it was re-affirmed - this was not Hawaii; there were no gorgeous girls awaiting our arrival with flowery necklaces. In the DRC we were greeted by dozens of selling and begging children. They came thick and fast, trying to pick us off one by one, tugging on my shirt and surrounding our getaway van. Though they were never violent, they were certainly persistent, and my mind proclaimed: "Let’s go go go, let’s get out of here!" Call me uncompassionate, but what can I say - I was intimidated. I was nervous.
Praise to the Heavens, I then caught my first glimpse of the beauty of Congo: a woman carrying a hefty box of fruit on her head offered me a free banana. The frivolous sentiment was hard to refuse with her glorious smile that shone through despite the strain of her baby on board; an infant boy with dried - up saliva crusting up his cheeks, resting peacefully on his mother’s back. Nevertheless, I had to deny the offer with a quick reminder of our health and safety regulations - food from the streets was not an option for us.
The drive to our compound was as manic as the airport debacle. We moved with a herd of over-packed vehicles scuttling down the rocky roads of Kinshasa, with children hanging off the outside of vans, no sign of traffic lights and no sign of fear. My mate Teklar defined the 'good drivers' of Congo as "crazy but able." To me, it was
all streamlined anarchy.
Two hours later I moved into my en-suite room, complete with grimy shower and piss-smelling WC. It was expected really.
On my way to dinner (of beef curry, fufu, plantain and rice) I passed four men chatting in a car outside our bedrooms – two of them polishing Rambo machine guns. It was clarified later that they were our guards, although the mere thought of them patrolling beyond my door was more so unnerving than comforting.
It hit midnight before we headed back to our rooms, with handy men Teklar and Ben lending their services, devising ingenious hanger contraptions to hold up our mosquito nets. Inside the mesh I looked like a cross between Sleeping Beauty and the Golden Child. But finally I could settle in, unpack, shower and sleep... that was until my neighbours caused a racket pumping up the volume until 2:00am. Like a frigid nag I marched next door in a mission for shut-eye, finding the culprits to be the four security guards, who looked mightily peeved at being interrupted.
With no wish for suicide, I ambled back to my room. Tom Hanks eat your heart out - this is 'Sleepless in Congo.'
The full article can be sourced from here
Postcards From The Edge: DR Congo
Saturday October 25, 2008
Small Fish, Big Swamp
We were huddled up like a walking pack of sardines as we stumbled our way through Kinshasa airport. The long and gruelling process made the headache of Heathrow look nice and easy.
It took 30 minutes to get through customs. The sweltering heat of 29 degrees drained me, and the seven hour turbulent flight did little to help my struggling condition. To my right, an elderly American disputed a matter over with his customs officer - frustration and impatience engrossed the two lost in translation. In the end the Congolese officer demanded: "Ok!Ok! Just give me 20 dollars..." I got off lucky but learnt promptly that bribing is a common asset in the Congo, and like most, the American slipped through a 20 note to avoid any further interrogation.
Baggage claim was hustle bustle, with all preying over the conveyor belt playing the game 'when push comes to shove.' I was actually impressed that only my colleague Rebecca failed to retrieve her luggage – she would have to endure three days without the luxuries of a bendy toothbrush and minted dental floss.
Exiting the building, it was re-affirmed - this was not Hawaii; there were no gorgeous girls awaiting our arrival with flowery necklaces. In the DRC we were greeted by dozens of selling and begging children. They came thick and fast, trying to pick us off one by one, tugging on my shirt and surrounding our getaway van. Though they were never violent, they were certainly persistent, and my mind proclaimed: "Let’s go go go, let’s get out of here!" Call me uncompassionate, but what can I say - I was intimidated. I was nervous.
Praise to the Heavens, I then caught my first glimpse of the beauty of Congo: a woman carrying a hefty box of fruit on her head offered me a free banana. The frivolous sentiment was hard to refuse with her glorious smile that shone through despite the strain of her baby on board; an infant boy with dried - up saliva crusting up his cheeks, resting peacefully on his mother’s back. Nevertheless, I had to deny the offer with a quick reminder of our health and safety regulations - food from the streets was not an option for us.
The drive to our compound was as manic as the airport debacle. We moved with a herd of over-packed vehicles scuttling down the rocky roads of Kinshasa, with children hanging off the outside of vans, no sign of traffic lights and no sign of fear. My mate Teklar defined the 'good drivers' of Congo as "crazy but able." To me, it was
all streamlined anarchy.
Two hours later I moved into my en-suite room, complete with grimy shower and piss-smelling WC. It was expected really.
On my way to dinner (of beef curry, fufu, plantain and rice) I passed four men chatting in a car outside our bedrooms – two of them polishing Rambo machine guns. It was clarified later that they were our guards, although the mere thought of them patrolling beyond my door was more so unnerving than comforting.
It hit midnight before we headed back to our rooms, with handy men Teklar and Ben lending their services, devising ingenious hanger contraptions to hold up our mosquito nets. Inside the mesh I looked like a cross between Sleeping Beauty and the Golden Child. But finally I could settle in, unpack, shower and sleep... that was until my neighbours caused a racket pumping up the volume until 2:00am. Like a frigid nag I marched next door in a mission for shut-eye, finding the culprits to be the four security guards, who looked mightily peeved at being interrupted.
With no wish for suicide, I ambled back to my room. Tom Hanks eat your heart out - this is 'Sleepless in Congo.'
The full article can be sourced from here
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