Uganda's Rapping News Anchor Takes Her 'Beat' Seriously

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Why You Should Care

Because she’s bringing “rhyme and reason” to the people.

Adrian Brune, OZY Author

It had been a difficult week for Lady Slyke, host of Uganda’s popular NewzBeat show. The crew was planning a multipart special on agricultural entrepreneurship, requiring additional rehearsal time, and the rainy season had descended on the lush country about 50 miles from the equator. The mosquitoes had already begun their assault. Lady Slyke was stricken with malaria, making it near impossible for her to “follow the beat, follow the beat … from the studio to the street,” as she intones on the show each week.

“I am a rapper, and when I get something written — even though it is in a news format — I read it in a beat. If the writing is not rhyming, we have practice and practice until it rhymes before we do anything else,” Slyke, still recovering, says from her office. Nonetheless, Slyke and a farm-costumed crew pulled together the show, informing viewers about potential careers in agribusiness.

 When she’s not rapping the news on air, Lady Slyke designs clothing and accessories inspired by African tradition.SOURCE  COURTESY OF RAS NESTA

When she’s not rapping the news on air, Lady Slyke designs clothing and accessories inspired by African tradition.SOURCE COURTESY OF RAS NESTA

Tuning into hip-hop news is fairly foreign to Western countries. However, in Uganda, where the press remains a state-run affair and fully half of the population is under age 15, a program in which self-styled “rap-orters” broadcast with “rhyme and reason” is hitting the right note. Formerly led by Daniel Kisekka, aka Survivor, who left last year to focus on his arts career, NewzBeat is now helmed by news veteran Lady Slyke (born Sharon Bwogi). Considered Uganda’s queen of hip-hop, the 31-year-old is joined by Jay Sentino and a cast of younger artists including Zoe Kabuye, age 18 and also known as MC Loy; Zion Sheebah (Slyke’s 10-year-old daughter); and gospel rapper MC Yallah.

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With a female anchor, gender equality and women’s empowerment are at the forefront of the show’s editorial. NewzBeat also questions and counters harmful stereotypes and sociocultural norms around gender, highlighting achievements of women in typically male fields such as technology, science and business. A recent edition ran a segment on Africa’s first female disabled model; others have featured Nigeria’s first female mechanic, the Nigerian author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and South African girls launching a satellite into space.

“I love knowing. I love teaching. I teach people what I know, and we’re exchanging views while rhyming the conversation,” Slyke tells OZY. “And we have to keep talking because the news in Uganda doesn’t hit the political issues like it should. Some of our leaders are liars, some are doing their jobs, and the people need to know.”

Although Bwogi has been rapping about current events as Lady Slyke since she was 13, hosting a national news show wasn’t in her playbook until 2013, when Peripheral Vision International (PVI), a nongovernmental organization that creates advocacy media, called for an audition. PVI was looking to combine the public service announcements it had been showing in local video halls with news and music.

“The power of music is that it sidesteps some of the censorship applied to traditional journalism. And hip-hop has a power and a clarity that is often overlooked,” says Paul Falzone, the founder and executive director of PVI. “When we knew we wanted to work with hip-hop, we went to the source.”

Lady Slyke and Survivor, who served as her co-anchor and NewzBeat’s former head writer, were among the first to create and popularize “Lugaflow” — a genre of rap blending English with Luganda, the native language of Uganda, to advocate truth and change for the future of the country’s youth.

“While many traditionalists may dismiss NewzBeat as purely entertainment, it is covering a wider variety of news stories in a less restricted way than what passes for national news on the major networks,” Falzone says.

 Lady Slyke (left), Daniel Kisekka (aka Survivor) and Zoe Kabuye (aka MC Loy) at NewzBeat’s offices in Kampala. Ugandans call the team of broadcasters rap-orters — hip-hop artists turned journalists who rap the news headlines.SOURCE  ISAAC KASAMANI/AFP/GETTY

Lady Slyke (left), Daniel Kisekka (aka Survivor) and Zoe Kabuye (aka MC Loy) at NewzBeat’s offices in Kampala. Ugandans call the team of broadcasters rap-orters — hip-hop artists turned journalists who rap the news headlines.SOURCE ISAAC KASAMANI/AFP/GETTY

NewzBeat first aired in 2012 on NTV (Uganda National Television) before the station’s regular Saturday news bulletins. It has since expanded to spotlight four local, regional and international stories per week; no subject is off-limits, and a recurrent focus is news on corruption, intolerance and reproductive rights.

“I grew up hearing people do rap music; it’s in African culture,” says MC Loy, who was just 12 when she rapped for Uganda’s president, Yoweri Museveni, at an event celebrating the country’s 50 years of independence. “NewzBeat is an astonishing form of education — and it elevated hip-hop to the next level. A lot of people used to think it was from the ghetto. Now that we’re on TV delivering news, we’re respected.”

Like Loy, Slyke was spurred on to make music by a sibling after she started imitating a local DJ called Berry, who rapped and scratched records on the radio. “Whenever I heard him, I felt like rapping too,” Slyke recalls. “My sister kept on encouraging, and I kept on training until I started performing on different shows, including Berry’s.”

Slyke entered the Ugandan music scene — “a man’s world, for the most part,” she says — in the late 1990s, writing songs about her experiences, both social and political, and performing at festivals, including the Bayimba International Festival of the Arts and Breakdance Project Uganda. In 2005, when her song “Mother Africa” won best hip-hop hit at the Pearl of Africa Music Awards, Slyke was credited with being one of Uganda’s leading ladies of rap.

It’s a title she wears with pride. But these days the TV show is her main avocation. “NewzBeat is a voice for the people by the people to the people. It delivers conscious, social, educative and political news and much more.” What would she put at the top of the list?

“Eradicating malaria this week,” Slyke says, pausing for a story rhyme: “If you feel feverish, you had better get checked/ Because if it’s malaria, you might be wrecked/ This disease can still be deadly/ Your best bet is to catch it early/ And even if you don’t feel like it, take those anti-malarials to strike it … down.”

Meet the Muppet Bringing Joy to Syrian Refugees

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Because these kids need a wild-haired creature in their lives.

By Adrian Brune


Like Sesame Street’s the Merry Monster, Tonton has wild orange hair, and like Elmo, she prefers to speak in the third person. But this pint-size Muppet with the outsize personality, known for being somewhat disorganized and prone to fits of restless curiosity, doesn’t live on Sesame Street. Well, not exactly. She lives in a place called Hikayat Simsim, the Jordanian version of Sesame Street that premiered in 2003, when Tonton was just 4 (she hasn’t aged much).

Brought to life by puppeteer Fatima Amaireh, Tonton and her best pal, Juljul, along with Jiddo Simsim (Grandpa Sesame, played by Issa Sweidan), made the show one of the most popular in modern-day Jordanian television — and that was before the International Rescue Committee decided to bring Tonton and her long-distance neighbors Elmo and Grover to refugee communities across the Middle East. This past December, the MacArthur Foundation announced that it was awarding the IRC and the Sesame Workshop its 100&Change grant — $100 million for “bold solutions to critical problems of our time” — to create a comprehensive early childhood education program for displaced Syrians throughout the region.

 Tonton, a Muppet from  Hikayat Simsim,  Jordan’s local version of  Sesame Street , reads a storybook with a refugee family in Lebanon.SOURCE  TARA TODRAS-WHITEHILL/IRC

Tonton, a Muppet from Hikayat Simsim, Jordan’s local version of Sesame Street, reads a storybook with a refugee family in Lebanon.SOURCE TARA TODRAS-WHITEHILL/IRC

The IRC and Sesame Workshop have begun the initial planning of Sesame Seeds — the working title for their initiative — but already the organization promises to take aim at the toxic stress faced by refugees. “We’re known at Sesame Street to tackle the tough issues generally, but we couldn’t help but open the papers and see every day the situation of refugee children,” says Sherrie Westin, vice president of global impact and philanthropy for Sesame Workshop, the nonprofit organization associated with the PBS series.

“Giving the children ways to learn and confront their trauma and providing parents with strategies to cope with its effects, we realized, could be one of biggest undertakings in social impact — and the largest childhood intervention in the history of humanitarian response,” Westin says. Recent research has shed light on the effect of toxic stress, which floods the developing brain with dangerously high levels of stress hormones, risking permanent damage to biological and neurological systems and leaving children at severe risk for impairments that will follow them throughout their lives.

Some other nongovernmental organizations that work in the field, while not questioning the value of the program, believe there is more than one methodology to break the cycle of poverty. “That said, early childhood development is crucial in the context of displaced people in man-made and natural disasters — the best thing you can do is establish a sense of normalcy for kids affected by it,” says Scott MacMillan, a senior adviser with BRAC. “There have been wars going on; societies have been destroyed. Who is going to rebuild them? This generation? No, the children growing up in the camps now.”

Sesame Workshop and the IRC officially launched their pilot program at the 2016 World Humanitarian Summit in Istanbul. A year later, with their 100&Change funding application pending at the MacArthur Foundation, Tonton and Elmo — among other Muppets — traveled to northern Jordan to visit children at the Za’atari refugee camp, mugging for the cameras and making the media rounds with Sherrie Westin and IRC’s CEO David Miliband.

“Elmo thinks it’s important to know that everybody is the same deep down, and that’s very important,” said the furry red creature during a Facebook Live interview with CNN in October. “It was really sad because Elmo’s new friends told Elmo that they had to leave their homes because it wasn’t safe for them to stay. And that made Elmo really sad and sometimes a bit scared.”

Tonton, however, wasn’t about to let Elmo steal the show. When she danced during her visits, so did the children. And when Tonton gave big hugs, uttering her familiar catchphrase “I know, I know” in Arabic, the children hugged back.

“Tonton appeared in the tent and she was just one with the kids,” says Sarah Smith, senior director of education at the IRC. “You see kids who have been quiet or withdrawn become comfortable with the puppet, and realize as an educator of children who have been through so much and are having a hard time learning, that these characters allow them to relax and open up the opportunity to learn that’s not possible with even the best teacher.”


 Syrian children living in Bekaa, Lebanon, are excited to receive a surprise visit from Tonton.SOURCE  JACOB RUSSELL/IRC

Syrian children living in Bekaa, Lebanon, are excited to receive a surprise visit from Tonton.SOURCE JACOB RUSSELL/IRC

Two months later — and with much fanfare — the IRC and Sesame Workshop announced the grant.

To begin, Sesame Workshop will create a new Arabic version of Sesame Street for delivery through television, mobile phones and other digital platforms to equip an estimated 9.4 million refugee children with language, reading, math and socioemotional skills. Next up, Sesame Workshop and IRC will transform community sites, schools (both formal and makeshift) and other points of aid into centers stocked with storybooks, video clips and activity sheets for play-based learning.

The final component — aimed at reaching 1.5 million refugee children — consists of home visits and support sessions to connect 800,000 caregivers with health workers who will pass on Sesame Street materials, including storybooks, toys, games, mobile apps and parenting guides.

“There has been a substantial commitment to education in emergencies with political leaders and NGOs standing up and saying there is a problem here,” Smith says. “But less than 2 percent of humanitarian aid is going to education. Just stating the problem is not enough — we need people with power putting money behind those commitments.”

Tonton may not have deep pockets (or any pockets), but she has the power, together with her trailblazing sisters across the world, to help change attitudes about girls in more closed countries. These include Zari, a 6-year-old who wears a hijab and wants to become a doctor on Baghch-e-Simsim (the Afghan co-production of Sesame Street); 5-year-old Chamki, an insatiable reader on Galli Galli Sim Sim (the Hindi-language adaptation of Sesame Street); Kami, an asymptomatic, HIV-positive 5-year-old on South Africa’s Takalani Sesame; and Khokha, who dreams of becoming a writer, a police officer or an astronaut on Egypt’s Alam Simsim.

Each one a relatable character showing girls they can do, and be, more: “I know everything, everything,” Tonton proclaims with unbridled confidence, “and I am good in doing anything.”

Sexual Warfare in the Middle East Puts Men in Crosshairs

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Because men as well as women are being sexually assaulted in the Syrian conflict.

By Adrian Brune


In early 2016, the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees assigned Stanford University researcher Sarah Chynoweth a seemingly impossible task: Look into male rape and sexual torture in the Syrian conflict. Chynoweth knew that many women and girls were being targeted for rape and other sexual violence, but the agency had no data on sexual assaults against males, or even if they were happening.

Chynoweth assumed that boys and possibly a few men had been targeted in prisons or other detention centers. But she surmised that she had been sent looking for a problem that hardly existed. And even if it did, she assumed no one would talk, given that male-on-male sex is forbidden in Islamic culture.

She couldn’t have been more mistaken. Although her statistics are based on preliminary data, Chynoweth found that:

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In fact, a focus group of refugee women in Jordan estimated that 30 to 40 percent of adult men in their community had been sexually assaulted while in detention in Syria. “The accounts were heartrending and horrific. They were also abundant,” Chynoweth wrote in “We Keep It in Our Heart” — Sexual Violence Against Men and Boys in the Syria Crisis, a UNHCR report released in October. “As I met with more and more refugees, I received similar responses, and was inundated with heartbreaking stories.”

While wartime rape disproportionately affects women, sexual violence against men and boys occurs under a variety of circumstances designed to inflict deep psychological pain, especially in regions with entrenched traditional gender roles. The UNHCR report, which studied refugee asylums in Kurdistan and Lebanon as well as Jordan, identified four scenarios: conflict-related sexual torture in detention; assault against gay and bisexual men by opportunistic perpetrators; pedophilia suffered by young boys in refugee communities; and sexual exploitation of boys and men in countries of asylum.

“Sexual violence isn’t used systematically in every conflict — there is significant variance,” Chynoweth says. When taken into custody, the victimized men were subject to electric shocks, rape in stress positions with pipes and other objects, as well as beatings and point-blank shootings of the genitals. In the camps, older boys and adult men used mobile phones to photograph unsuspecting boys while they were undressing or using the bathroom and then blackmailed them into performing sexual acts. Finally, males were assaulted rather than females due to the widespread belief in these refugee communities that the rape of a male is less harmful to his reputation.

Indeed, male sexual assault can impact men just as much as women, according to psychologists and psychiatrists. In all three refugee asylums where Chynoweth conducted research, survivors isolated themselves, withdrawing from families and communities. Friends and family members of survivors used the same vocabulary — that the survivor “wanted to die,” that he had become “a different person.” The family as a whole became stigmatized, as survivors were perceived as failing in their primary roles as protectors.

Some humanitarian organizations have begun to recognize the issue and provide basic services for male survivors, mostly by including them in programs for women and girls or LGBT persons. Generally, however, nongovernmental organizations, local organizations and police may not know how to identify signs of sexual violence in males. And if authorities are not hostile or dismissive of male victims outright, they may only be attuned to anal rape rather than other forms of assault.

Due to steep cuts in U.S. aid to the 2018 international affairs budget, which affect overseas development aid and support for U.N. agencies, male survivors are not likely to receive tailored help anytime soon. Most organizations providing care to male survivors of sexual violence are local human rights groups in dangerous settings where few, if any, international humanitarian agencies operate. Many of those that do, rely on U.N. funding that has been slashed.

Nonetheless, Chynoweth says she feels “a strong duty” to ensure that these men’s voices are heard. “The impact of sexual violence ripples across families and communities — it is not just a women’s or men’s issue,” she says. “My hope is that humanitarian agencies will increasingly address it, so that services and care are put in place for all survivors in every crisis, and that the men and women I met with will someday find peace and healing.”

* Correction: An earlier version of this article misstated a statistic on unwanted sexual contact or sexual harassment among male refugees in asylum communities.

The U.S. Has a Military Presence in Almost Every Country

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 Because the U.S. may not have to go it alone on international security.

By Adrian Brune


At the recent World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, U.S. President Donald Trump reassured the assembled political and business heavyweights that “America first does not mean America alone.”

That also could be the mantra for U.S. military strategy. Despite talk of a border wall and an overall Fortress America vibe these days among some members of the American body politic, the reality is that the U.S. is intricately involved in the military affairs of the world.

According to spokesman Ken McGraw of the U.S. Special Operations Command:

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That tally includes an estimated 8,000 personnel in combat and non-combat roles as the U.S. works actively with the militaries of more than three dozen countries and funnels money and equipment to armed forces in nearly 130 nations. The tab: $20 billion per year.

This dense web of bilateral agreements poses a few challenges, including relationships with the occasional unsavory partner. Take Indonesia, for example. Recently, in Jakarta, U.S. Defense Secretary Jim Mattis laughed and smiled as Kopassus, the Indonesian Army special forces group that conducts unconventional warfare, counterterrorism and special reconnaissance, put on a show — drinking snake blood, rolling in glass, breaking bricks with their heads and walking on fire. The military spectacle culminated in a hostage-rescue exercise set to the theme song from Mission: Impossible.

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The dog-and-pony performance sent the cabinet member known as “Mad Dog” back to the Pentagon to consider improved military cooperation. One obstacle — the Leahy Law, named for U.S. Senator Patrick Leahy of Vermont. It bars U.S. assistance and training to foreign military units known to have committed gross human rights abuses. That’d be Kopassus. The Pentagon has restricted funding to the group since 1999, when Indonesia conducted what Human Rights Watch called a “scorched earth campaign” in East Timor.

“U.S. support is a pretty broad statement — we have all sorts of relationships with all sorts of different countries,” says Rachel Kleinfeld, a senior fellow at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. “Generally, they are highly mutual. Many governments want the status and the security that comes from the U.S., while the U.S. offers security guarantees to countries in exchange for not developing weapons, among many other things.”

The largest area of current operations — outside Afghanistan and the Middle East — is Africa, where about 6,000 U.S. troops are engaged in security and counterterrorism missions against al-Qaida affiliates al-Shabab, al-Qaida in the Islamic Maghreb and Boko Haram. Two-thirds of American personnel are based in Djibouti, home to the only official U.S. military base on the continent. The Defense Department has also allocated about 1,700 special forces “advising and assisting” local soldiers in battlefield guidance, although these elite warriors also take part in a broad range of missions, including retaking enemy territory and capturing terrorist leaders.

Meanwhile, the U.S. has decreased its military contributions to multilateral treaty organizations and institutions, such as NATO and the United Nations, which are better equipped to assess and manage threats, according to Michael O’Hanlon of the Center for 21st Century Security and Intelligence at the Brookings Institution. In 2015, the U.S., as a permanent member of the U.N. Security Council, contributed about $2 billion of the $8.3 billion U.N. peacekeeping budget — a tiny fraction of the $598.5 billion U.S. military budget for the same year, according to the Congressional Briefing Book. In 2017, when President Donald Trump took office, the U.S. voted to cut $150 million from its contribution to U.N. peacekeeping and bolstered its own military spending by $80 billion.

“It costs the U.S. more than $1 million per U.S. troop in Afghanistan per year,” O’Hanlon says. “The total actual U.S. cost of the Afghanistan mission now exceeds $20 billion a year.” The entire U.N. Department of Peacekeeping Operations budget is less than half that, and it funds 16 or 17 missions around the world with more than 100,000 total troops.

“It’s extremely short-sighted strategy to pull from the U.N. and put into the U.S.,” Kleinfeld says, pointing to a 2017 Rand Corporation report that found U.N. peacekeeping operations can be “an effective means of terminating conflicts, insuring against their reoccurrence and promoting democracy … and have a robust positive effect on peacebuilding outcomes … [which is] stronger when peacekeepers remain.” In other words, U.N. peacekeepers are good at their jobs, especially if they stick around.

While Mattis contemplates reinvesting in the cobra-biting Indonesian troops, Kleinfeld suggests more U.S. contributions to the U.N. in terms of money and Security Council presence — but that would entail a reversal of the Trump doctrine to date. “The U.N. is by far the best bang for the buck,” Kleinfeld says. “It tends to go to places the U.S. wants, but more cheaply and effectively and with a lot more predictable outcomes.”

Africa's Airlines Aim to Connect the Continent

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Traveling to, and around, Africa is getting easier.

By Adrian Brune


As an overseer of all security for U.N. peacekeeping missions around the world, Ken Payumo must make at least one stop each year in seven sub-Saharan African countries, from Liberia to South Sudan. When booking flights, he has several choices — none of them pretty.

To fly to the Central African Republic from Chad — neighboring countries — Payumo has to pick up a flight from Chad’s capital N’Djamena to Paris, then from Paris to Bangui, capital of the Central African Republic. Sometimes, Royal Air Maroc comes through with just a layover in Casablanca. But once in-country and ready to return to the U.S., it’s a “hodgepodge” of options, according to Payumo: Air Maroc again from Bangui to Casablanca to Paris, before he can fly into JFK. Or a two-stop flight to Newark, New Jersey, on Ethiopian Air for $1,300 — if he’s lucky.

That may finally change. Encouraged by the International Air Transport Association and the African Union, executives of African airlines are gaining ground against the red tape, high taxes and political meddling that have long held back the industry’s growth on the continent. The Single African Air Transport Market, a flagship African Union project, would allow airlines to fly intra-African routes based on economic and financial considerations, draw in potential cross-border investment and enable the free movement of Africans across the continent through visa reforms. Roadblocks remain, but there’s early evidence that the plan isn’t just a pie in the sky.

The African Union is soon expected to renew a push to implement the 1999 Yamoussoukro Decision — the key driver of the SAATM — which promotes competitive pricing, lifts capacity and frequency restraints, and permits “fifth freedom flights” that span at least three countries. Already, Ethiopian Airlines, Kenya Airways and South African Airways — the continent’s most successful – have successfully promoted fifth freedom flights in sub-Saharan Africa. And a total of 550 new airplanes to Africa are expected for delivery over the next 20 years, including 300 large, regional jets and 250 small, single-aisle aircraft.

“Success can be measured in the number of international airport connections served by multistop flights in Africa,” says Heinrich C. Bofinger, a senior transport economist with the World Bank Group who has worked on air transport in Africa. “The fifth freedom route model has become the keystone of the development of services by key African airlines — and the cornerstone strategy of some newcomers.”

Because other modes of travel are even harder, air travel has long been recognized as the most efficient transportation mode in Africa; early in decolonization, the continent had its share of airlines that gained tremendous market penetration. Air Afrique, a 1960 partnership between several African countries and Air France, served all of Francophone Africa from its headquarters in Abidjan, Ivory Coast, until 2002, when debts forced it into bankruptcy. Nigeria Airways, also one of decolonized Africa’s first airlines, survived from 1958 until 2003. Since the turn of the century, individual countries such as Ghana, Mali and Senegal in the West and Uganda in the East have aimed to establish viable national carriers under public-private partnerships, but have hit regulatory turbulence.

The airline market in Africa, and recognition of the potential for profit, have grown dramatically. Just over 10 million airline seats in Africa were offered in 2001 — 14 years later, that number more than doubled to 22.7 million and linked more African cities than ever before, according to the World Bank Group. Experts say air traffic on the continent will grow by an annual average of 5.1 percent in the next 18 years, outpacing the global projected average of 4.7 percent. “Where there is demand, service providers will appear,” Bofinger says.

Yet most sub-Saharan airlines are losing money to the heavily bankrolled Arab airlines, such as Royal Air Maroc, Qatar Airways and Emirates, according to the International Air Transport Association. Of Africa’s big three carriers, only Ethiopian Airlines posted a profit last year, while Kenya Airways and South African Airways suffered losses. Some African countries still limit the growth of airlines through taxation and costs, and the IATA wants governments “to pass laws or enact policies that encourage airlines to develop,” Alexandre de Juniac, IATA director general and CEO, recently told New Era, Zambia’s national newspaper.

The air transport sector is also still seen by many African governments as a “way to show technical accomplishment and skill,” says Bofinger. “The notion of the national flag carrier is still deeply ingrained in the politics of the air transport sector,” he says, and many governments remain reluctant to fully privatize airlines. They instead adopt policies that may not be financially sustainable, Bofinger says.

Safety, security and infrastructure also remain concerns. In 2013, the continent carried just 3 percent of global air traffic, but accounted for roughly 20 percent of the 29 accidents and 265 fatalities of commercial passenger planes worldwide. This traditionally high rate of accidents and fatalities largely has to do with the absorption of older Soviet-made aircraft, as well as the lack of independent regulatory agencies, says Elijah Chingosho of the African Airlines Association, a trade organization. The bigger airports like Addis Ababa and Nairobi lack the efficiency, effectiveness and entertainment they need to be called “gateways” for the continent, says Payumo — though Bofinger cautions against countries building grandiose airports assuming their cities are going to emerge as the next Shanghai-style hubs.

Not all these challenges are likely to evaporate anytime in the near future. But the booming demand, growing spunk shown by African airlines, the support they are receiving from bodies like the IATA, and the Pan-African reforms on the anvil promise a better future.

The new planes the major airlines are purchasing will reduce dependence on the outdated Soviet ones. And along with freeing up cross-border transport, the SAATM would establish a program to audit airlines safety and emergency features.

The green shoots of improvement are visible. In 2016, Africa did not record a single safety-related fatal airline accident. “Travelers will only patronize African airlines if safety standards are up to global standards,” says Chingosho. “The effort by various stakeholders to enhance a safety culture is yielding positive results.”

Meet the Woman Risking It All for the Perfect Shot

 Lucinda Grange: “As I sat there, the most famous city in the world below my feet, I felt like part of the city was mine. But also that the city will always have part of me.”SOURCE COURTESY LUCINDA GRANGE

Lucinda Grange: “As I sat there, the most famous city in the world below my feet, I felt like part of the city was mine. But also that the city will always have part of me.”SOURCECOURTESY LUCINDA GRANGE

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Because she’s giving you views you’d never get any other way.

By Adrian Brune


As any photographer knows, every location presents trials — light, frame, aperture, just for starters — but Lucinda Grange has taken on a different set of challenges, and honed unusual skills for negotiating her most difficult shoots, skills more typically associated with mountain goats, or spiders.

Six years ago, Grange persuaded a friend to see a dentist inside the Chrysler Building so she could get past security and climb the stairs to the roof for a jaw-dropping shot of her perched on a brutalist eagle a thousand feet above midtown Manhattan. In 2013, she propelled herself up the Williamsburg Bridge for a self-portrait peering up from the girders. And just last month, Grange went full-on amphibian to wade through knee-deep water in an abandoned Brooklyn aqueduct in search of the perfect photo. I know, I was there.

“I am up for my green card, so I am concentrating on shooting in locations where I have permission to shoot now,” she said, ducking through a graffiti-sprayed underpass as we walked underground for at least a half-mile. (When I’d asked the previous week where she’d be taking me, her only response was “high and low.”)

 Author Adrian Brune poses for Grange in a retired Long Island aqueduct once used to transport water to Brooklyn.SOURCE  COURTESY OF LUCINDA GRANGE

Author Adrian Brune poses for Grange in a retired Long Island aqueduct once used to transport water to Brooklyn.SOURCE COURTESY OF LUCINDA GRANGE

To those quick to label her a thrill-seeker, Grange briskly pushes back. “I use photography as a means of self-expression,” she says. “I believe that a person is defined by their actions and choices, and is therefore defined by the environments they choose to put themselves in — and I challenge them to reconsider those environments.” Her chosen habitat is constantly shifting, and yields surprising rewards: Times Square sign hangers framed from the top down, a ballerina pirouetting from the ladder of a West Side water tower, a shot of lower Manhattan taken across the East River, from Governors Island.

“Lucinda has found a niche and she’s soaring,” says Jain Lemos, photo editor and executive with the New York–based YPA Foundation, formerly the Young Photographers’ Alliance. “I see these shots becoming iconic for a spell, and look forward to viewing more of her lofty perspectives.”

But while the public and certain editors love Grange’s derring-do, other photographers and critics dismiss her as just another urban explorer with a Nikon and a modicum of talent. To them, she embodies a typical “Urbex” working in a tired genre — and legally ambiguous locations — that’s become overexposed in the Instagram era.

“Most of these images are taken by illegal means,” says one photo editor familiar with Grange’s work. “I’ve heard of at least two photographers dying. Not many people would want to go on record praising this genre of photography.” Just this past November, a 26-year-old Chinese “daredevil” known for posting social videos of his stunts slipped to his death from a 62-story building. Grange has been arrested once, in Northern England, and admits to a couple of narrow escapes since moving to New York.

 “I set up my camera, took off my shoes and slowly walked along the cold beams of the bridge,” Grange recalls. “Feeling my toes grip the steel, I steadily moved one foot at a time until I got to the spot where I wanted to sit for the shot.”SOURCE  COURTESY OF LUCINDA GRANGE

“I set up my camera, took off my shoes and slowly walked along the cold beams of the bridge,” Grange recalls. “Feeling my toes grip the steel, I steadily moved one foot at a time until I got to the spot where I wanted to sit for the shot.”SOURCE COURTESY OF LUCINDA GRANGE

Grange is undeterred. Growing up in the U.K., near Newcastle, the child of factory workers felt the pangs of exploration first, climbing around Yorkshire’s derelict, overgrown quarries. At 17, she picked up a camera when her grandfather died and left the family his Nikon D70.

She joined a local camera club, and began to climb “bigger things” — from chimneys to bridges and skyscrapers. When Grange headed off to college, she decided to pursue photography over mechanical design engineering. Her grandfather’s camera now sits on a shelf in her tidy one-bedroom apartment in Flushing, Queens.

While at college, she worked part time at a bar, using the money to “go on cheap weekends away and climb things or go underground,” Grange tells me over a hearty English breakfast of beans, eggs and toast before setting out on a shoot. “Not many people would climb the Brooklyn Bridge, but lots would want to see the view. By sharing my work, I’m able to take people with me — if only in their minds.”

Grange made her first visit to New York in 2011 after handing in her final assignment at the Cleveland College of Art and Design in Hartlepool, U.K. From there, she spent three months in southern Mali, where she took her graduation photo, clad in a cap and gown she had carried with her and hanging onto a rock face above the hills of sub-Saharan Africa.

Travel soon became as indispensable as her tripod. Selected by the Independent and Young Photographers’ Alliance in Britain as a 2013 rising photographer for her portrait of a woman tucked between an arch of Notre Dame Cathedral, Grange went on to Egypt, Brazil, London and back to New York, where she shot the Chrysler Building photograph for a 2014 book Outside the Lines.

 “I had a week to get into as much/as little trouble as possible, seeing the Big Apple from its core, the infrastructure that allows it to flow and function. This image shows a section of the subway, and a train flying past me, leaving the underground, to fly over the Manhattan Bridge.” SOURCE  COURTESY OF LUCINDA GRANGE

“I had a week to get into as much/as little trouble as possible, seeing the Big Apple from its core, the infrastructure that allows it to flow and function. This image shows a section of the subway, and a train flying past me, leaving the underground, to fly over the Manhattan Bridge.” SOURCE COURTESY OF LUCINDA GRANGE

When photographer Micah Beree, a former studio assistant and archivist of Annie Leibovitz, first saw Grange’s work, he assumed a man had taken the photos. “I’ve seen the others’ pictures on the Chrysler Building with the eagle heads and thought, ‘Yeah, we’ve seen that; Annie did that.’ But everybody else had their model behind the eagles and Grange is sitting dead on top,” he tells OZY. “For me, a proper photo has proper exposure, a confident use of depth of field and paints with light. She has all of that, but she also pushed the limits. To me, that is impressive.”

Once settled in New York full time, Grange started her “Backward in High Heels” project, a collection of images of female artists performing in high spaces. Inspired by a quote about Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers (“Sure, he was great, but don’t forget that Ginger Rogers did everything he did … backward and in high heels”), she set out to take photographs that “make the viewer reconsider the mental and physical capabilities of women.” What about her own? “I’ve been climbing since I was a little girl,” she says, “so I know the limits of my capabilities.”

Grange’s current obsession is “Inside Out New York,” a collection of photos for which she plans to scour the city’s hidden spaces for “views that the tourists and even most New Yorkers never see.” She’s set her sights on places like the power station beneath Grand Central Terminal, the engine room of the Staten Island Ferry and the safe at Tiffany & Co. and will soon start testing her moxie again.

“Sometimes it’s not about the conquest,” she muses. “Sometimes it’s about an unfamiliar environment, and the fun you can make of it.”

The Ultra-Runner Empowering Women in Conflict Countries

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Because running equals quicker diplomacy

By Adrian Brune


Going into the Tor de Géants — one of the world’s premier endurance races at 330 kilometers (205 miles) — this past September, Stephanie Case couldn’t get her head into the run. She cursed at the cows, cried at the medical tents and told her support team she wanted to quit. Midway through the race, she figured it out. Physically conditioned for the Tor, Case hadn’t mentally recovered from a life-threatening fall on January 1 down the Col de Malatrà, a 9,632-foot peak — leaving her with broken ribs, a collapsed lung and a liver laceration. The ultra-runner and founder of Free to Run, an NGO that empowers women and girls in conflict countries, started 2017 with her greatest challenge: recovering.

“In order to keep your sanity when you work in areas of conflict, you do have to have an ultimate belief that everything is going to be OK,” Case says. “Lying there on the side of the mountain … I was faced with the prospect of everything not being OK. The possibility of me freezing to death, bleeding internally, was very real.”

Back at the Tor, Case fought to regain focus and finished the race in fourth place. “Part of me wanted to prove wrong all of the doctors who told me I wouldn’t be able to race in the mountains for all of 2017. The other part of me was just desperate to reclaim bits of myself,” Case says.

Robbie Britton, a top runner in Chamonix, France, took Case to task on social media when she posted after her accident about pushing through her recovery. He said she was irresponsible and encouraging others to get injured. Case says it was a good discussion and her aim was to give hope to people in difficult decisions.

At 35, having completed more than 35 ultra-marathons, 20 as a top-five finisher, the Geneva-based human-rights lawyer can’t imagine her life without a 50K (or longer) race on the training calendar — for herself or her charges through Free to Run. For 2018, she has started a pilot program to train runners in the Democratic Republic of the Congo for the Rwanda Challenge Marathon, in addition to her own schedule that includes the Madeira Island Ultra Trail and another Tor des Géants.

Case’s achievements in ultra-running stand alone. But in a sport that remains male-dominated — in 2016, one-third of ultra-marathon finishers were female — she has also made important strides to increase the visibility of female athletes in areas of the world where women often get sidelined. “She definitely has crazy, and in a good way,” says Case’s mother, Ann. “I believe the same crazy has led her to work in conflict areas and persevere for her human-rights passions and beliefs.”

 When not chasing mountains, ultra-runner Stephanie Case — photographed in Gaza in 2016 — works as a human rights attorney for the United Nations.  SOURCE  COURTESY OF STEPHANIE CASE

When not chasing mountains, ultra-runner Stephanie Case — photographed in Gaza in 2016 — works as a human rights attorney for the United Nations.


On the other hand, Case’s advocacy can sometimes ruffle some running singlets. One critic, Sebastian Straten, founder of the Iran marathon, believes Case pushes too hard in delicate cultural situations that require a lighter touch: “This first marathon could open doors for Iranian women marathon runners. … If it was not for the first men-only modern marathon in Athens, there would not have been a marathon at all.”

Case never considered herself “sporty,” she says; nonetheless, the native Canadian rowed varsity crew while at college in Ontario and entered her first marathon during law school at the University of British Columbia. She thought it would be the ultimate challenge — but she felt disappointed after crossing the finish line. “I couldn’t figure out why I had trained for so many months just to participate in a race that was over in a couple of hours,” Case says. “I was searching for that feeling of really hitting the limits of your abilities and having to dig deep to go beyond. For me, that didn’t come in 26.2 miles.”


 Case runs up the Madeira Island Ultra Trail in 2017, three months after a life-threatening fall in the Italian Alps.  SOURCE  COURTESY OF STEPHANIE CASE

Case runs up the Madeira Island Ultra Trail in 2017, three months after a life-threatening fall in the Italian Alps.


She started researching longer races and found a 250-kilometer (155-mile) footrace in Vietnam. Unsure she would even finish the February 2008 race, she ended up with a first-place trophy in the women’s division, third place overall. “That’s when I realized that I might not be fast, but I was stubborn enough to outlast most of my competitors,” Case says.

After law school, Case worked at a corporate firm, did a series of international law consultancies and joined the United Nations Assistance Mission in Afghanistan in 2012. While a posting to a war zone could have curtailed some people’s running dreams, it boosted Case’s. She logged laps on a treadmill and around the UN compound in Kabul and hitched helicopter rides to train in the mountains in Western Afghanistan.

Case also started running to raise money to support a local women’s shelter. But the women didn’t want money; they wanted to run with her. A year later, she launched Free to Run, and in 2015, one of their members became the first female Afghan to run the Marathon of Afghanistan. The following year, the nonprofit sent a team from Afghanistan to RacingThePlanet in Sri Lanka.

As Case moved to another UN posting, in Gaza, before settling in Geneva with the UN Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights in 2016, she kept running, notching her first Tor de Géants, as well as the Ultra Trail Lago d’Orta, a 55-mile vertical scramble up 19,521 feet. She also backed an Iranian woman, Mahsa Torabi, as she crashed the first Iran marathon in April 2016 (women were not allowed to run), and joined her for the Iran Silk Road Ultramarathon — 155 miles circling the Dasht-e Lut Desert that August.

Emailing from Tehran, Torabi said, “I ran in that ultra-marathon because I wanted to show the power of women — that nothing could create limitations for us in reaching our aim in sports.”

Now fully recovered from her accident, Case says she has a new perspective on her life and ultra-running. “When we run, we are forced to be our authentic selves. We are stripped down to our most basic needs, and all of the noise and crap falls to the wayside,” she reflects. “It is the greatest equalizer. Out on the trail, it doesn’t matter what your background may be. All that matters is how much training you’ve put in and how committed you are to the journey.”

Why Millennials Are Signing Up for Gilded Age Clubs

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Because millennials want to feel some grandeur too.

By Adrian Brune


On Halloween afternoon, as the kids canvassed the brownstones in Park Slope, Brooklyn, Larry Berson, the head chef and general manager of the Montauk Club, directed a team of white-jacketed workers slowly transforming the mahogany-paneled bastion of wealth and privilege into a convincing haunted mansion. Feeling a financial pinch from the recently completed $2 million renovation of the late 19th-century Venetian-Gothic palace, Berson was counting on about 240 “retro nouveau lovers and gentlemen ghouls” to choose the club over myriad other haunted fetes across the five boroughs.

“People aren’t necessarily looking for the big, beautiful building anymore, although we definitely have that,” Berson says, showing off the parlor room with its Tiffany stained-glass windows. “They are looking for connections and fun events. Clubs have to change with the times, and we are changing with the times.”

Shifting demographics, corporate downsizing, Internal Revenue Service rulings that eliminated expensing club memberships … there seem to be plenty of changes threatening these relics of the Gilded Age. And yet it’s an improbable era of reinvention for private clubs — or at least the top-drawer ones in New York. Experts believe that as Gen Xers and millennials come of age, they are beginning to seek not only the panache of exclusive domains but also a connection to others and a sense of belonging. As a result, experts say, private social clubs are positioned to survive — and even thrive — in a socially fragmented age with seemingly limitless competition for social and leisure time.

“Presently, our membership rolls are stronger than they have been in decades,” says James O’Brien, a spokesperson for the New York Athletic Club, one of the most exclusive venues in the city. “Some of that is driven by the [junior member] associate class, but other classes of membership are also strong.” O’Brien points to innovations like intraclubs, or clubs within clubs, which provide specialized events and activities, from yachting to wine tasting to basketball — all within the same organization. “Combine this with the NYAC’s history and its Olympic traditions,” O’Brien adds, “and it’s an extremely attractive organization.”

Beyond New York, it can be an uphill run for many clubs, despite relaxed dress codes, permissive use of iPhones and the addition of fitness facilities. Overall, club membership is down 20 percent from 1990, according to a 2013 study by the National Club Association, a Washington lobby group, citing overbuilding, lifestyle changes and elitist reputations as factors. However, the same report — the most recent available — found that the top 10 percent of clubs are thriving.



The National Arts Club in Manhattan’s tony Gramercy neighborhood is solidly in the 10 percent. “We have fine artists as members; we have collectors as members. One of our first members was Alfred Stieglitz. Andy Warhol and Yoko Ono used to hang out here all the time, and we’re always looking for the next generation,” says Remi Koukou, the club’s event planner. The 24-year-old art history major from Boston has enlivened the 1840s Tilden mansion with exhibits such as “The Art of the App” in a ground-floor gallery, fashion parties such as the Bonnet Bash — a mishmash of cocktail mixology and millinery that’s open to the public — and location shoots for TV shows like Broad City. “It’s the 19th century in here and the 21st century out there,” says Koukou. “Now the challenge is to bridge that gap.”

In a competitive city like New York, all this has translated into a stiffer rivalry among clubs. Without the usual perks of a suburban country club — golf course, swimming pool, tennis courts and huge clubhouse — New York’s clubs are highlighting their individual assets, such as location and grand spaces, while maximizing the things all New Yorkers crave: access, good drinks and fine dining. Many have hired well-known chefs (usually French-trained) and endeavored to create sister-club relationships with shared-use facilities around the world.

 Larry Berson, head chef and general manager of the Montauk Club. SOURCE  ADRIAN BRUNE/OZY

Larry Berson, head chef and general manager of the Montauk Club. SOURCE ADRIAN BRUNE/OZY

Some have also cut dues. These clubs hue closely to the term “private” and don’t reveal membership numbers or finances, but organizations like the Metropolitan, the Union and NYAC strive to keep membership between 500 to 1,000 people, with annual dues between $350 (Montauk) and $5,000 (the Union), and initiation fees of up to $9,000 (NYAC).

“Clubs will have to work hard to achieve balance and weigh the different preferences and priorities of three generations of members: millennials, Generation X and baby boomers,” says Henry Wallmeyer, the National Club Association’s Gen X president and CEO. “Diversity is another hot-button trend, [and] not only in race and gender. People want to know when they walk in the door that there are people similar to them in interests and activities and that they will have someone with whom they can interact.”

The Gilded Age social club fervor actually started in the summer of 1836, when a number of leading New Yorkers decided to compete with the “great clubs of London, which give a tone and character to the society,” according to the Union Club’s website. They invited 250 “gentlemen of social distinction” to join the new Union Club. (The Union and Metropolitan clubs, among others, have a general “no press” policy — and many others did not respond to repeated requests for comment.)

 The West Lounge of the Metropolitan Club is one of New York City’s grandest Gilded Age ballrooms. The private club was founded in 1891 by J.P. Morgan in a snit and designed by Stanford White. SOURCE  COURTESY OF THE METROPOLITAN CLUB

The West Lounge of the Metropolitan Club is one of New York City’s grandest Gilded Age ballrooms. The private club was founded in 1891 by J.P. Morgan in a snit and designed by Stanford White. SOURCE COURTESY OF THE METROPOLITAN CLUB

But as New York City grew, so did the number of people worth knowing, and thus the clubs expanded, with a broad emphasis on the “promotion of Literature and Art,” or so says the University Club. Over the decades, they moved from stately buildings to grandiose uptown clubhouses designed by Stanford White and other beaux-arts architects, with touches by stained-glass artists like John La Farge and art by the Hudson River School masters.

Overall, Koukou says, that if her peers can “get over the idea that ‘I can’t get in anyway, so what’s the point of trying,’” they will be rewarded with an experience that is part of the cultural fabric on the city. “We’re in Gramercy, which is a little exclusive, and we also cannot allow things like tours or advertising, so the younger generation doesn’t exactly seek us out,” she says. “Once they’re here, though, they get it and come to believe, ‘Yeah, this place is really cool,’ and then they join.”

Drinking My Way to Jail in Doha

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Because no matter where you go, there you are.

By A.M. Brune


The Qatar women’s jail lay hidden far outside of Doha’s central Al Rayyan district, in a compound of 10-foot walls. The jail more closely resembled a construction site with office trailers than a fortress holding human-size cages. The approximately 50 Filipino and South Asian women blanketing the floor of the single room “cell” in my particular trailer — most likely contracted domestic workers/nannies from overseas agencies — were escorted there by niqab-adorned guards, probably just like I’d been.

But despite being a freelance journalist working a public relations gig at a foundation in Doha, I hadn’t arrived at the jail in October 2009 to expose a wrong or to write an investigative story — or even gain a necessary lesson that can come from crossing the wrong Qatari. No: I was there because I drank morning, noon and night in an Islamic country and got busted for it.

My reason for coming to Qatar two months prior was, essentially, well-intentioned escapism. Alcoholics Anonymous, as it was for me, is often the last resort for anyone who wants to quit drinking. From age 22 to 32, I had probably gone a total of 30 days without a drink, but almost as soon as I landed in my first 12-step meeting, I wanted to flee from it as fast as I could. Once I had a year of recreational AA crossed off my calendar in 2009, however, I longed for my old life.

So, I applied for and landed a job at an educational foundation in Qatar. The gig there came with free room, free transport and endless opportunities for travel and future jobs and freedom again. Most importantly, it delivered me from sober New Yorkers and the endless drudgery, pointless prattling and gun-to-temple banality of 12-step meetings. And honestly, as my family opined, what could possibly tempt me in an Islamic country, where booze was at least “haram,” if not legally banned?

Plenty, actually.

After my Qatar Airways plane touched down in Doha, my new boss took me to my new condo and presented me to some of my new, best “expat” friends, who handed me beers as soon as I crossed their thresholds. During my first day, new colleagues stopped by to offer after-work drinks. Soon I was visiting their compounds every night. Those nights evolved into an array of U.S. Embassy parties, boozy Friday brunches at the Ritz-Carlton and, finally, a three-hour, disorienting and desperate drive to the Qatar Distribution Company — the only liquor store in the country.

Only official residents of Qatar with their ID cards could purchase alcohol, and I didn’t yet have mine, so one of my new pals purchased two cases of Bud Light for me, one of which I promptly raided as soon as I arrived home the same night. The other, I left in my car for emergencies, such as dealing with my increasingly demanding boss during the horrible, clammy, anxiety-fueled brain ache of withdrawal. The blueprint I had devised for getting through a year of Planet Doha — let alone the two stipulated in my contract — was getting redrawn on a daily basis.

Hours after another Friday mimosa-filled brunch, despairing of taking a job in a hot, dusty country where I was not fitting in, I looked up the local AA and dialed. No one answered. I left a voicemail. The next day, my phone rang and a friendly British voice greeted me, listened to me recount my journey from AA in Brooklyn to AA rebellion in Qatar, and my precipitous slide back into alcohol abuse. He told me of a meeting to attend that night. “How many alcoholics in Qatar are there?” I asked, hoping there were a few people with whom I might forge a connection. About 10, he said. Ten in a country that was 80 percent expat. Not a very high percentage, I told him. “Yes, but we’re a very tightly woven bunch,” he replied.

Hardly able to find my way around the city with the endless roundabouts and royalty-named roads, I missed the meeting. Had I made it, someone might have possibly reached out and I could have grabbed a hand to safe passage. Sweating for a beer, however, I visited the W Hotel bar down the street from my condo in downtown Doha overlooking the Persian Gulf. There I met Abdulahi, the Somali bartender who would become my closest friend in Qatar, serving me beers, usually for breakfast, often lunch and, on occasion, dinner, asking no questions about my particular choice of stress relief — just my brand of beer — while amiably chatting with me.

Following one of those liquid breakfasts and subsequent drives to work, the parking lot attendant suspected something was amiss, ordered me to park and called the police. While I sat in my car, human resources tried to negotiate with a tall, hard-nosed sergeant wearing a brown uniform, knockoff Ray-Ban Aviators and a bushy moustache. I had been sick, they said. A staph infection on my leg, they explained. Antibiotics were making me seem drunk.

And all of it was true: I’d had an abscess opened and drained a week before. The sergeant almost let me go. Then he wised up and made me open the trunk. There appeared the case of contraband beer, opened, two missing.

In the end, though, the staph infection did almost actually kill me. And then it saved me. Released on bail and removed from my job, within two days — and afternoons at the downtown W’s hotel bar — the staph was in my booze-saturated bloodstream. I collapsed and was taken to a hospital, where nurses from the Philippines and India — probably sponsored by the same employment agencies as the women in jail — doted on me day and night.

A week later, under the cover of night, two human resources officials came to escort me to the airport for a flight to Dubai. We held our breath and then exhaled a sigh of relief as airport officials stamped my passport and I boarded the plane. During the flight, I ordered two beers and toasted my Middle East failure, as well as my escape from 30 days back in the prison trailer with the women whose external anguish mirrored my internal battle with alcoholism.

Instead of letting myself off with time served, however, I held myself captive to alcohol for three more years. In 2012, I sobered up. For good.

  • A.M. Brune, OZY Author

The New "Peace Corps" for Journalists

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Because bolstered local news could combat the fake stuff.

By Adrian Brune


Ben Schreckinger had just experienced the dinner most journalists would die for — especially in light of recent events — and still he was seriously considering law school.

The intrepid young reporter had spent the summer of 2013 as a fellow of the GroundTruth Project, a program to provide young journalists with foreign experience. In Schreckinger’s case, that meant traveling north up the Burma Road through Myanmar to report on the country’s reopening. Yet even as Schreckineger and his fellows were sharing a meal with freedom fighter–turned–lawmaker and Nobel laureate Aung San Suu Kyi, he remained undecided — until GroundTruth founders Charles Sennott and Kevin Grant found him in the hotel pool later that night.

“We were talking over a beer and Charlie made me promise that I would give journalism two more years,” Shreckinger, the political correspondent for GQ magazine, tells OZY. “I said, a year — that I would do another year.” It took two before Schreckinger went to Politico, where he covered the Trump campaign and then wrote for the publication’s magazine — and he still took the Law School Admission Test. But in the end, “I owe it all to that promise I made to Charlie in that pool in Burma.”

Now Sennott and Grant, former editors of the news website GlobalPost, want future Schrekingers in places like Youngstown rather than Yangon. Starting in early 2018, Report for America, a spin-off of the GroundTruth Project, plans to grant about 1,000 early-career journalists fellowships over the next five years to work for depleted news organizations in undercovered regions of the U.S. Think Teach for America with a press pass.

“Although the shrinking of newsrooms is primarily financially driven, even when local newsrooms do have the budget to hire, they have a tough time recruiting and retaining talent,” Grant says. “Our DNA is global — we’ve been pursuing the big stories around the world — but last year around election time we realized our own country was in crisis. Much as the way we would respond to a crisis in Egypt, we needed to respond to the one in the U.S.”

Hammered by the decline of print advertising, local and regional newspapers have been hemorrhaging jobs for years. A 2015 study by the American Society of News Editors reported that there were 32,900 journalists at nearly 1,400 daily newspapers — a 10.4 percent one-year decline, and down from a peak of 56,900 in 1990. (In the past two years, ASNE declined to release employment figures because of a lack of reliable data.) The remaining jobs, and new ones from digital outlets, are concentrated in coastal cities: The share of American reporting jobs that were in New York, Washington and Los Angeles went from 1 in 8 in 2004 to 1 in 5 in 2014, according to federal government figures. Even in New York, local journalism took a significant blow last week when popular websites DNAinfo, Gothamist and their offshoots were shut down by billionaire owner Joe Ricketts, in part because the journalists voted to join a union.

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“The ad-supported, for-profit model for journalism is on its way out — 95 cents of every [ad] dollar spent is going to Google or Facebook,” Grant says. “We found this with GlobalPost before GroundTruth and have the personal experience, as well as the personal sting.” GroundTruth’s solution to keep emptying newsroom cubicles full? Foundation money.

GroundTruth started as a nonprofit division of GlobalPost in 2011. In 2015 — the year after its correspondent James Foley was beheaded by ISIS terrorists in Syria — GlobalPost was acquired by Boston public media producer WGBH. Public Radio International and other public journalism brands started picking up stories from GroundTruth, which is backed by the likes of the Ford Foundation, the MacArthur Foundation and the Henry Luce Foundation.

While GroundTruth publishes on international platforms, Report for America is locally driven. It will connect young, aspiring journalists with newsrooms that request the help. RFA will pay half of a fellow’s $40,000 salary package, with the newsroom and local donors picking up the rest. The fellow will work in the local newsroom for one year; the newsroom picks up more of the tab if it keeps the journalist longer.

ProPublica, the Pulitzer Prize–winning investigative news site, and other organizations have started similar partnerships. ProPublica’s Local Reporting Network funds salary and benefits for reporters at up to six partner news organizations in cities with populations of less than 1 million.

Substantial questions remain about whether this model is sustainable. More than half of Teach for America recruits leave their initial placements in low-income schools after two years, and only 14 percent remain in their original schools by their fifth year. RFA’s backers don’t proclaim that they will save journalism, just as Teach for America can’t save education and the Peace Corps hasn’t brought about global unity. But GroundTruth did save both Schreckinger and Qainat Khan from law school.

Khan, a native of Tanzania who bailed on Northeastern Law after a year, is now on the road with GroundTruth’s Crossing the Divide project, assisting five early-career journalists from five states to report stories related to a larger national theme. “Local journalism is like providing a public service, and for me, it’s about doing meaningful work — to encounter people I would have never had a reason to encounter,” Khan says. “I’m not an economist and I don’t deal with the business side. But it makes sense to share the risk and share the cost. Perhaps collaboration will save local newsrooms. Otherwise, who are you competing with? It’s like a race to the bottom.”

Is This the End of Honor Laws that Shield Rapists from Justice?

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Because for some women, honor can be a matter of life and death.

By Adrian Brune


Noor was age 20 when she began working for Abed, first as a housekeeper, then as a nanny. One day, her 55-year-old employer, who owned a mobile phone shop in Jordan, drugged her and raped her. Realizing that the act would devastate Noor’s family, Abed pledged to marry her — his way out of a potential jail sentence, her way out of an inevitable life of shame.

“I was frightened, devastated and thought to keep silent,” Noor told investigators at the Sisterhood Is Global Institute, a women’s rights organization based in Jordan. And so at first she agreed. “But later I realized that I was pregnant, and I decided to file a complaint. I accused him of raping me.” Abed then invoked Article 308 of the Jordanian penal code, a legal loophole stipulating that rapists may be pardoned if they marry their victims and stay with them for at least three years.

Noor and Abed married. “I thought that life with my baby might make me happy, but I was very wrong; my situation deteriorated,” Noor told the investigators. “My only hope from marrying him was to make my baby safe — to register him in his father’s name.”

Rape of a woman or girl by her husband is expressly legal in at least 10 countries out of 82 recently surveyed by the women’s rights group Equality Now. In four of those 10, marital rape is expressly legal even when the wife is a child bride, and the marriage has violated minimum age of marriage laws. Moreover, in nine out of the 82 countries, so-called honor laws” enable rapists to wed their victims as a way of avoiding a trial and potential prison time. The only stipulation: The perpetrators must remain in the union for one to five years — the duration varies by country — or reach a “settlement,” financial or otherwise, with the victim or the victim’s family.

But gradually those laws are falling. In 2014, prompted by the suicide of a 16-year-old girl who swallowed rat poison after she was forced to marry her rapist, the kingdom of Morocco removed Article 475 from its penal code, a law that allowed a man convicted of statutory rape to escape punishment if he married his underage victim. Women’s groups were emboldened to start the regionwide takedown.

On July 26, the Tunisian Parliament passed legislation that outlawed violence against women, which repealed the article in the penal code that halts prosecution of a man who commits rape against a girl under age 20 if he marries her. Less than a week later, the lower house of Jordan’s “rubber stamp” Parliament revoked Article 308 cited by Abed, and two weeks after that, Lebanon’s Parliament abolished its “marry your rapist” law, although it kept marital rape and child marriage on the books.

With those decisions, women’s rights groups now have their sights on similar laws in Iraq, Kuwait and Bahrain. “Obviously, each country has its own political movement, but developments in one country do send shock waves across the region and do inspire the possibility of change,” says Samira Atallah, a senior adviser with Equality Now, one of the lead organizations acting to repeal honor laws in the Middle East/North Africa (MENA) region.

However, these groups face resistance from conservative value systems that treat women’s bodies as a social issue, century-old colonial laws that date from British, French and Ottoman occupations, and the severe stigma surrounding premarital sex — even if it’s coerced sex. “Virginity is very, very valued in these societies,” Atallah says. “Sex before marriage … makes a woman not marrying material according to society, and rape not only brings shame to women’s honor but also to the family and any prospective partner.” Opposition to such laws comes from women’s groups rising up and stating that “subjecting a woman to a life of abuse by marrying her to her abuser carries — or should carry — just as much stigma as women suffer from the crime itself,” Atallah adds.

Counter to popular perception, Sharia, or religious laws, have little to do with marry-your-rapist statutes, according to Human Rights Watch (HRW). Rather, the French Napoleonic Code of 1810, which allowed a man who kidnapped a girl to escape prosecution if he married her, and the similar Ottoman Code of 1911 weighed heavily in devising laws for former French colonies and British mandates and protectorates. Patriarchal attitudes kept such provisions in place.

 Activists in Maputo, Mozambique, march in 2014 to protest a colonial-era law included in new legislation that allows rapists to go unpunished if they marry their victims — and remain married to them for a minimum of five years.  SOURCE  JINTY JACKSON/AFP/GETTY IMAGES

Activists in Maputo, Mozambique, march in 2014 to protest a colonial-era law included in new legislation that allows rapists to go unpunished if they marry their victims — and remain married to them for a minimum of five years.


As for Jordan, over the past decade, “groups generally never came close to success, other than occasionally sending a bill to Parliament and having it stall in committee,” says Adam Coogle, a Middle East researcher at HRW. “By all accounts, the king [Abdullah II] is a fairly progressive guy, but the society is very conservative.”

Nevertheless, last year Abdullah II — informed by the Arab uprisings of 2011 — formed a royal committee to strengthen the judiciary and came out with proposals and draft laws that would satisfy a populace that’s restless in many circles. “Because they had the king’s initiative, they passed,” Coogle says.

Conversely, the removal of Jordan’s 308 clause was also supported by conservative groups such as the Muslim Brotherhood, which voted to repeal the law in order to protect themselves from women who might have used it to legitimize illicit relationships. “They came at it from a weird way — to keep a woman from crying rape if a man tried to walk away,” Coogle says.

Despite the milestone, women still face significant retaliation until the conservative attitudes surrounding sex change. “It’s the sexually related behavior that brings shame on a girl’s family,” Atallah says. “The fact that she was raped doesn’t matter. So it’s not just enough to have these [laws] repealed — enforcement, empowerment and education must happen.”

Meet the Man Who Could Be the First American Pope

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Because the first American pope might be more than a TV show.

By Adrian Brune


From the outside looking in, Pretoria, South Africa’s capital city, with its high Victorian architecture, colossal statues of Nelson Mandela and imposing, crescent-shaped Union Buildings, appears a paragon of order — the good twin to Johannesburg, its wayward brother 25 miles to the south. And yet, an assignment from the portentous halls of St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican to the smaller midcentury modern Apostolic Nunciature office and residence in one of Pretoria’s gated communities could be seen as getting put out to pasture. But consider the presidency of Jacob Zuma, who has survived seven no-confidence votes amid countless scandals, a restless electorate beset with 25 percent unemployment and a recent report on church abuse, and Pretoria is a minefield of spiritual unrest.

Into this Ascalon, on Feb. 9, 2016, walked Peter Bryan Wells, Catholic diocesan priest turned papal diplomat, and formerly the most senior American official in the Vatican — fourth in line to the pope himself.

“I’ve found that I do as much pastoral work here as anything else. I’m in Soweto saying mass in the morning and with the Dominicans for an event in the evening,” says Wells, giving a tour of his house after shepherding in guests. Pretoria is prone to carjackings and home invasions, and Wells lives in a locked community and uses a car and driver. “Most diplomatic services bring the concerns and interests of their countries. I am here for the people of the country. I am here to hear their challenges, their sufferings and joys, to take them back to the Holy Father, so he knows if he needs to use his very loud voice to help those who don’t have a very loud voice.”

As Pope Francis continues in his mission to reach out to the most marginalized communities, Wells’ five-year appointment could signify a stepping-stone to higher office. Since 1980, the number of Catholics in Africa has grown by 238 percent and is approaching 200 million, according to a 2015 report issued by the Center for Applied Research in the Apostolate, a Georgetown University–affiliated research center. And the countries under his charge — South Africa, Botswana, Lesotho, Swaziland and Namibia — present some of the biggest problems (and opportunities for salvation) in the world.

A preliminary 2017 report on the Commercialisation and Abuse of People’s Belief Systems by the South African government found that church leaders in evangelical or “storefront” churches were allegedly pouring boiling water over congregants‚ placing them in deep freezers and making them drink gasoline in a “demonstration of God’s power” before taking their money. Furthermore, Human Rights Watch has documented a general lack of faith in the government’s willingness to develop a strategy to combat the high rate of violence against women, as well as the continued underreporting of rape, even in the home.

 Archbishop Peter Wells, the Apostolic Nunciature of South Africa, practicing deed over deity by helping to plant trees in a village outside Johannesburg.SOURCE COURTESY OF ARCHBISHOP PETER WELLS

Archbishop Peter Wells, the Apostolic Nunciature of South Africa, practicing deed over deity by helping to plant trees in a village outside Johannesburg.SOURCE COURTESY OF ARCHBISHOP PETER WELLS

“South Africa is a major player on the Africa continent — and Peter has a lot of opportunity there,” says Monsignor Gregory Gier, who was Wells’ superior in the Diocese of Tulsa, Oklahoma, where Wells was ordained and spent his first five years as a priest. Looking ahead, Gier adds, “He certainly would have the qualities and the confidence to be the first American pope, but the timing isn’t quite right. Then again, no one was sure the timing was right for an Argentinian pope or a German one, either.”

Known as a charismatic yet low-profile workaholic, Wells, the former assessor for general affairs of the Holy See’s secretariat of state from 2009 to 2016, was considered in Vatican circles as the “go-to man” for world leaders from English-speaking countries who wanted the pope’s ear. During his tenure in Rome, Wells was also credited with voicing the Vatican’s position on sensitive issues, including the sex abuse controversy, same-sex unions and Francis’ sweeping effort to turn the church toward the poor and the marginalized. After Francis realized the Institute for the Works of Religion, commonly known as the Vatican Bank, needed significant reform, he enlisted Wells to rid the bank of alleged money-laundering and tax-evasion schemes. In 2014, Francis put Wells in charge of the Holy See’s Financial Security Committee to ensure that all Vatican financial transactions — from distributing church collection change to collecting rents from vast property holdings — met European bank transparency standards.

Having such professional authority and responsibility is something Wells never conceived of. Born in Guthrie, Oklahoma, the eldest of five children to moderately religious Catholic parents, Wells was always an altar server, but priesthood didn’t enter his mind until he was at university, studying premed and working with youth at the local parish. “I wanted to just be a priest in Oklahoma — you could do so much with small parishes to make them active and alive,” Wells says.

After graduating from seminary and becoming a priest, Wells entered the Pontifical Ecclesiastical Academy in 1995. As a diplomat in training, he earned a doctorate in canon law and learned the four required languages of the Vatican: Italian, French, Spanish and English.

 Pope Francis (left) congratulates newly elevated bishop, Peter Bryan Wells, during his ordination on March 19, 2016, at St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican.SOURCE  VINCENZO PINTO/AFP/GETTY IMAGES

Pope Francis (left) congratulates newly elevated bishop, Peter Bryan Wells, during his ordination on March 19, 2016, at St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican.SOURCE VINCENZO PINTO/AFP/GETTY IMAGES

Like his contemporaries around the world, Wells’ agenda is the pope’s agenda — and Francis’ papacy is focused on climate change, sustainable development and the “protection of human dignity.” But in South Africa, Wells has picked up another cause: education, especially for girls. “We see a lot of undocumented children, and it’s hard for them to get an education,” he tells OZY. “One of the main ways to get out of poverty is through education, and the church is making sure that this concern is addressed.”

As refugees from neighboring countries flood South Africa and teenage girls become pregnant — sometimes consensually, often not — and then drop out of school, Wells realizes that his tenure will involve more deed than deity. “The church here was so involved in the struggle against apartheid, always on the front lines, and now that the leadership is more indigenous and coming into its own, I believe we have a real chance to change things here,” he says.

“But with my life, I take it as it comes. The more I try to think and analyze, the more wasted energy.”

How Obstructing UN Fact-Finders Makes it Harder to Prevent Genocide

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Because what could prevent another Rwanda or Bosnia if not the U.N.?

By Adrian Brune


The United Nations was ready for Myanmar. In March, the Human Rights Council issued a resolution calling for an independent, international fact-finding mission to investigate atrocities committed by the country’s security forces against Rohingya Muslims. By late May, the president of the council had vetted and assigned three experts known as special rapporteurs. A month later they were ready to fly to Southeast Asia — an alacrity virtually unprecedented in getting a U.N. commission off the ground.

But Myanmar said no, ordering its embassies not to issue visas to the U.N. investigators. Even Aung San Suu Kyi, the de facto head of government and Nobel Laureate whose personal struggle brought democracy to Myanmar, claimed the Rohingya were responsible because they instigated armed factions. As of last week, the three inspectors, led by U.N. special rapporteur on human rights, Yanghee Lee of South Korea, were in Bangladesh refugee camps, interviewing survivors of the atrocities, trying to piece together a picture of a potential Rohingya genocide.

On Tuesday, the U.N. opened its 72nd General Assembly in New York. In this session, various committees are likely to hear multiple fact-finding reports, including the Commission of Inquiry on Syria, which has found the Syrian government responsible for the April 2017 chemical attack, and the Burundi Commission of Inquiry, which concluded that officials at the highest level, including the country’s president, committed crimes against humanity.

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In the early years, fact-finding commissions generally were accepted, since they reported on atrocities that had already taken place. But now, as the Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights attempts to sanction or prevent inhumanity in action, as in Myanmar, the rate of refusal has escalated, with those in power openly questioning the right of the U.N. to meddle in their internal affairs. “There is no way to force countries to accept a human rights mission — and even if there were, there could be security issues, people watching at all times, putting fear in the investigators and the people they are trying to help,” says Rupert Colville, an OHCHR spokesperson. “There is always political horse trading, but Myanmar is happening — just because we didn’t get in does not mean the report won’t be hugely influential.”

U.N. fact-finding missions have been around since the beginning but gained favor in the 1990s when the Security Council called for information gathering on the ethnic cleansing in the former Yugoslavia. “Since then, there has been an explosion of different types of monitoring, reporting and fact-finding missions,” says Rob Grace, a researcher with the Harvard Humanitarian Initiative. In fact, this past year marked one of the busiest for the OHCHR, as the agency issued its 60th report in the 25 years it has been responsible for generating on-the-ground information for the Security Council, General Assembly, Human Rights Council and other U.N. bodies.

Lately, though, for every successful mission, at least one is blocked, such as Myanmar; one that raises questions about political favoritism, such as Palestine, where Israel has turned away U.N. inspectors for nearly a decade; and one that is seen as window dressing, such as the Rwanda report that some human rights lawyers claim was written to fulfill a mandate, not to achieve anything substantial, like war crime convictions or reparations. Last year’s denial of a fact-finding mission to Yemen, a country in the middle of civil war between a Saudi Arabia–backed government and an Iran-backed resistance, outraged activists, who flagged Saudi Arabia’s political maneuvering within the U.N. to avoid scrutiny.

Despite their faults, these missions have become some of the U.N.’s biggest business — a job not necessarily foreseen when the international body was formed in 1945. The inquiries not only gather and verify facts but also create an historical record of events and recommend reparation to victims, according to Zeid Ra’ad Al Hussein, the U.N. high commissioner for human rights. “They deserve to be fully supported, including by receiving the cooperation they require from states, and to be adequately resourced,” he said in a recent statement.

But are they? The U.N. is trying to figure that out.

Colville, the OHCHR spokesperson, says that the agency assembles five or six commissions per year — missions that put a “huge strain on this organization, which is quite small and understaffed” — it has roughly 1,000 full-time employees to keep 195 nations in line on human rights — “but which not one person has ever said ‘what a waste of time, we should not have set this one up.’ Sometimes we even call for them — the high commissioner has a very powerful voice,” Colville says.

Indeed, on September 11, Al Hussein was in Geneva at the 36th session of the Human Rights Council, where he presented a second demand for an international inquiry on Yemen, as well as one on Venezuela. He admonished the council for being inconsistent in its creation of inquiries and member states for “defending the rights of humans elsewhere — in order to project themselves as global players, while at home openly denying the rights of their own people.”

The high commissioner has basically told the U.N., Myanmar, Syria and the rest of the world that he isn’t going away. Testifying in Geneva, Al Hussein laid out a litany of human rights abuses in nearly 40 countries. “Terrorists may attack us, but the intellectual authors of those crimes will then often sit back and watch as governments peel away at human rights protections and watch as our societies gradually unravel … toward authoritarianism and oppression,” Al Hussein said. “My vision for the work of my office has become more determined, drawing even more deeply on the lessons which come to us from our forebears: Human rights principles are the only way to avoid global war and profound misery and deprivation.”

The Shadow Society that Controls Female Bodies in Liberia

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Because females should have control over their bodies.

By Adrian Brune


The nation of Liberia has an intricate court system — comparable to that of the United States — but when 16-year-old Zaye Doe and a friend used offensive language during a disagreement last March, both had to answer to another institution: the country’s omnipresent Sande society.

The two teenagers appeared before Power Daywoe — a local female cleric and tribal leader known as a Zoe — who acted as judge, jury and enforcer. Daywoe found both girls guilty and then personally administered the sentence: forced female circumcision, also known as female genital mutilation (FGM).

For Doe, however, the punishment turned into a death sentence. Days after the makeshift trial in the bush, she died en route to the hospital due to complications arising from the circumcision. Three weeks later, according to a program officer with the NGO Women Solidarity Incorporated, Daywoe performed the rite of passage on 25 additional girls.

In many parts of Liberia, the Sande reigns supreme as a female initiation society primarily responsible for the preparation of girls from the Mende ethnic group for adulthood. It’s also an arbiter of established social norms, and the one rite of passage the Sande will not let go of is female circumcision.

“[FGM] keeps [girls] married young,” says Grace Uwizeye, the Kenya-based program officer of the End FGM campaign organized by the international NGO Equality Now. “It cuts off their education [and] keeps them in one place in their lives. When you look at the causes of this negative cycle, you realize that because of FGM, so many other issues are affecting girls.”

Last summer, with the encouragement of President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Liberia’s parliament debated legislation that would criminalize domestic violence and supposedly ban FGM. But the Zoe who promote and perform FGM hold so much sway that in roughly two-thirds of Liberia, their blessing is critical for political or social influence and as a result, had the FGM provision excised from the bill. Despite its passage last fall, it raised a furor among women’s rights campaigners worldwide.

According to Uwizeye, the proposed ban would have done little to protect Liberian girls. Circumcisionwould have been available to females 18 and older. For girls younger than 18, the legislation would have left the decision to parents or guardians. “It was a loss, but the bill wasn’t comprehensive,” Uwizeye tells OZY. “If you read it, it wasn’t banning FGM. [It] would have still been carried out on the girls who ‘consented.’ Right now, we’re at small steps.”

 Liberian President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. SOURCE  SEYLLOU/GETTY

Liberian President Ellen Johnson Sirleaf. SOURCE SEYLLOU/GETTY

Currently, UNICEF, the United Nations Population Fund and other women’s groups are canvassing villages and towns surrounding Monrovia, Liberia’s capital, to convince the Zoe that FGM not only violates international humanitarian laws, but it also impairs women medically and psychologically. According to the World Health Organization, the consequences of FGM include severe pain, especially if nerve ending are severed, excessive bleeding, shock, genital tissue swelling, fistulas and chronic urinary or genital infections.

Equality Now and other groups are proposing new legislation, which would make FGM available only to girls age 18 and older. But it’s an election year, and few Liberians will go on the record as supporting the contentious issue. Sirleaf, 78, the country’s first female president and winner of the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize for her work on women’s rights, will step down after 11 years, leaving Vice President Joseph Boakai pitted against former footballers, businessmen and ex-rebel leaders for the highest office in the land.

 Protesters during the U.N. Population Fund’s International Day of Zero Tolerance for Female Genital Mutilation, February 6, 2016. SOURCE  PACIFIC PRESS/GETTY

Protesters during the U.N. Population Fund’s International Day of Zero Tolerance for Female Genital Mutilation, February 6, 2016. SOURCE PACIFIC PRESS/GETTY

Several women’s groups have rallied behind Boakai, who is considered a progressive for serving under a woman president. But not even Sirleaf herself could surmount the entrenched power of the Sande society on many women’s issues, including FGM. “As a mother and a woman leader, the record is clear on my response to the issues of women and children, particularly in support of their economic participation, their participation in governance and their protection from violence,” Sirleaf said in an address to Parliament in January 2016 before introducing the domestic violence bill that included the FGM clause.

It’s not known exactly when or why the Sande came into existence — or, for that matter, how or why female circumcision became a right of passage. But a group called the National Council of Chiefs and Elders, formed by Sirleaf in 2012 to “to preserve, protect and foster positive Liberian traditions, cultural heritage and traditional institutions,” believes that circumcision is not solely a young woman’s choice but also the decision of chiefs and elders, parents and even the traditional cutters. As for alternatives proposed by medical and human rights groups, it can take six months or more of meetings before a community agrees to abandon FGM in favor of “nicks,” piercings or baths of milk and honey.

For now, Liberia remains deadlocked over the issue. Zaye Doe’s parents have filed a lawsuit against Power Daywoe and three associates for her death, although the family is under pressure from Zoe leaders to settle the grievance within the society. Meanwhile, local journalists such as Mae Azango, a reporter with the newspaper FrontPage Africa, have been forced into hiding for exposing the practices of the secret societies.

Still, Uwizeye of Equality Now notes progress. “When we started … in 2012 and even mentioned the word FGM during a public debate with local medical professionals, including doctors and nurses, everyone walked out,” Uwizeye says. “Now there is at least an open discussion in society about the things happening in the bush. And that is powerful.”

Arab Women's Quiet Revolution -- on the Tennis Court

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Because sports revolutions often precede social reforms.

By Adrian Brune


Motivation in sports occasionally can come from unexpected places. Consider Ons Jabeur, 22, a Muslim tennis player from Tunisia. Ranked No. 103 by the Women’s Tennis Association, she improbably found herself up a set on No. 6 Dominika Cibulkova in the second round of this year’s French Open. As Jabeur waited for her Slovakian opponent to serve, the soundtrack playing in her head belonged to … Eminem. “It depends on where I am in the match,” Jabeur tells OZY. “Sometimes ‘Beautiful,’ sometimes ‘One Shot’ helps me through.”

The unlikely mental boost from the Detroit rapper helped Jabeur surge to a 6-4, 6-3 victory over Cibulkova, her first against a top-10 player. As Jabeur hoisted the Tunisian flag for all to see at Roland Garros Stadium in Paris, the moment belonged to her country — and to Arab women around the world.

Jabeur is in the vanguard of a trailblazing quartet of Islamic players from the Middle East and North Africa who are popularizing tennis in a region where for centuries Muslim women have had to be content with playing indoor sports while sequestered from the world. Along with Jabeur, three other pros — Cagla Buyukakcay (WTA ranking, No. 158) and Ipek Soylu (No. 162), both from Turkey, and Fatma al-Nabhani (No. 473), from Oman — are trying to level the playing fields for women.

Tournaments in Qatar, Dubai, Morocco and elsewhere also have helped to increase the profile of tennis in Islamic states. Only the 26-year-old Buyukakcay, though, has come out on top in the region’s competitions, winning the Istanbul Cup in 2016. Increasingly, Islamic players are questioning why more women like them aren’t in the draws and are challenging tournament directors to start investing some of the purse money, which usually goes to foreign players, into junior programs for young women with dreams of pursuing professional tennis.

 Ons Jabeur of Tunisia bears down at the 2015 BNP Paribas Open in Indian Wells, California.SOURCE  MATTHEW STOCKMAN/GETTY

Ons Jabeur of Tunisia bears down at the 2015 BNP Paribas Open in Indian Wells, California.SOURCE MATTHEW STOCKMAN/GETTY

Prize money for women tennis players totaled $120 million in 2014, with a mere 1 percent of players pocketing 51 percent of those purses. Yet Middle Eastern players, many of whom are not among the ultra-rich, press on even as the cost of competing on the professional circuit hits about $160,000 per year. “As Arab women, we need to know that nothing is beyond our reach,” says al-Nabhani, 26, who lives and trains at home in Muscat. “Whether it is running a 10K or winning a Grand Slam, it is important we know that we can aim and achieve the highest honors. Things are changing rapidly in the Arab world, and it is time for us to ride the wave and grab the opportunities.”

Al-Nabhani rose through the junior ranks by practicing with her brothers. The reverent yet headstrong Omani wears a custom-made Nike kit, a three-quarter-sleeve top and leggings beneath her skirt. On court, she’s often seen looking for a nod of approval from her mother and coach, Hadia Mohammed, who always wears a black hijab and an abaya. Off the court, she speaks candidly about her situation, which is similar to that of other Islamic players. “It was a huge challenge being the only [woman] in the fray and doing something that hasn’t ever been heard of before in the region,” al-Nabhani says. “But I followed my passion and looked up to my brothers, who were competing. If my brothers were not there, I don’t know where I would have been.”

As a pro, al-Nabhani has so far notched four singles titles and four doubles titles on the WTA tour, in addition to competing for Oman in the 2016 Rio Olympics. But she’s still gunning for a Grand Slam appearance. Her older brother, Khalid, attributes the delay in part to a dearth of Gulf money for player development. “One of the biggest challenges is getting [sports officials] who see player development as a burden to understand that having world-ranked local players is very important for making the game popular within the country,” the elder al-Nabhani says. “I believe if the resourcesare available, [Fatma] is capable of reaching the top 100.”

 Oman’s Fatma al-Nabhani at the Dubai WTA Open in 2012. SOURCE  STR/GETTY

Oman’s Fatma al-Nabhani at the Dubai WTA Open in 2012. SOURCE STR/GETTY

That lofty perch has been within reach of Buyukakcay and Soylu, 21, who were the first Turkish women to compete in the main draw of a Grand Slam. (Both declined to comment for this article.) At the moment, only three spots separate Jabeur from becoming the first Middle Eastern woman to crack the top 100 in a generation. She kicked off the year by reaching the third round of the Australian Open, followed by a third-round appearance in the French Open. During the Wimbledon qualifiers, she beat No. 17 Asia Muhammad of the U.S. to make the main draw, but bowed out in the opening round. The Tunisian is ready to wrap up the year’s Grand Slam circuit by making a “good impression at the U.S. Open,” practicing at home when “it’s very hot so I can get used to the weather in New York.”

In June, Jabeur, who also grew up in a tennis family and competed in the 2012 and 2016 Olympics, was one of 12 players to receive a $50,000 grant from the ITF Grand Slam Development Fund, which aims to alleviate the competition costs of up-and-coming players and slot them in Grand Slam draws. “It’s one of the reasons why I’m winning matches,” Jabeur says. “It’s allowing me to relax a bit, have fun and play better.”

But not completely. Not until she channels Eminem all the way to a Grand Slam trophy. “Tunisia is a very small country, and when someone is doing well, you cannot just say you are playing for yourself,” she says. “We have a lot of successful women in Tunisia, and for me it’s an honor to be one of them and to encourage other women to believe in themselves.”

The Playwright Setting Fire to the Race Card



Because a punch in the gut usually gets people talking.

By Adrian Brune


The man at the tattoo booth looks clean-cut and friendly as he offers bystanders a selection of images to stamp on their skin. Once they step closer, however, and see that the temporary tattoos are symbols of white supremacy — the Iron Cross, SS Bolts — the attendees of 3/Fifths, a multimedia play in New York City, appear visibly unnerved.

An absorbing — and at times horrifying — interactive drama spanning three hours and several hundred square feet at the 3LD Art & Technology Center, 3/Fifthsfeatures a “noose-making” stand, a satirical “Selfies With Homies” photo booth and a video game called “Rough Ride,” in which players use controls to shake an animated van and watch as a Freddie Gray-like figure gets hurled around. Following the interactive piece, titled the “Atrocity Carnival,” audience members watch a stage production recounting the story of “SupremacyLand,” the white-power theme park they just unwittingly patronized.

 The “Reasons to Be Lynched” booth at  3/Fifths . SOURCE  COURTESY OF 3/FIFTHS / JAMES SCRUGGS

The “Reasons to Be Lynched” booth at 3/Fifths. SOURCE COURTESY OF 3/FIFTHS / JAMES SCRUGGS

In the back stands James Scruggs, surveying the mixed crowd drawn to his absurdist, incendiary social experiment. “Even in print reviews, white people … said they were uncomfortable. At first, I thought, Nice! As a Black man, I feel uncomfortable most of the time,” says Scruggs, 61, an easygoing man with a graying beard and a boyish enthusiasm for pushing boundaries. “But then I realized that anything that makes them feel uncomfortable has traditionally put a stop to the conversation, and racism is at a point where white people have to be able to talk without walking away.”

New Yorkers may be willing to engage on hot-button topics, but as Americans enter another summer in which the racial barometer ticks higher — starting with the acquittals in May and June of two police officers charged with killing Black men in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and St. Paul, Minnesota, and the armed takedown of Civil War monuments in the South — a show like 3/Fifths could inch these uneasy talks forward. Or it could further stoke the flames of discord.

 A scene from “SupremacyLand,” the staged production portion of  3/Fifths . SOURCE  COURTESY OF 3/FIFTHS / JAMES SCRUGGS

A scene from “SupremacyLand,” the staged production portion of 3/Fifths. SOURCE COURTESY OF 3/FIFTHS / JAMES SCRUGGS

And 3/Fifths — referring to the slavery and congressional representation clause in the U.S. Constitution — aggressively avoids any middle ground. From the point of entry, attendees tell a blind ticket-taker whether they want to participate in 3/Fifths as a Black or a white person — and their foreheads get marked with their chosen color. Then there’s the N word affixed to all the Black workers’ name tags. Finally, the stage play tells the story of a Black ex-convict who takes the only job he can find — at SupremacyLand.

Race holds center stage throughout, as white audience members confront the prejudice and cruelty of their ancestors while Blacks bear witness to the degradation of their people, from slavery to the present injustices of the prison industrial complex. The performance is an endurance test for the audience — and demands enormous fortitude of its actors, who spend hours simulating barbaric acts. “At the end of every night, we had to reclaim ourselves,” Scruggs says of the cast.

Scruggs grew up in blue-collar New Jersey and attended the School of Visual Arts film school in New York. After “sweeping floors at some major studios,” he eventually got hired as the technical director for Windows on the World, atop the former World Trade Center. On September 11, when 74 of his co-workers died in the terrorist attacks, he says he “decided to not be apologetic anymore and not be afraid to do my art.”

  3/Fifths  actors are made to dance in a sort of minstrel show.. SOURCE  COURTESY OF 3/FIFTHS / JAMES SCRUGGS

3/Fifths actors are made to dance in a sort of minstrel show.. SOURCE COURTESY OF 3/FIFTHS / JAMES SCRUGGS

Disposable Men, his first major show (in 2005), juxtaposed images from horror movies with the mistreatment of Black men in America. It caught the attention of New York’s experimental scene, and he went on to create multimedia productions about Black coming-of-age, celebrity worship and sexual violence for such venues as Dixon Place and the Tribeca Arts Center.

Eager to revisit the themes in Disposable Men, Scruggs used funds from an Andrew Mellon Foundation MAP grant to research African-American history and the culture of slavery, lynching and post-Reconstruction America. The experience was wrenching. “I could sit through all of the horrible photos during the day, but show a commercial with a puppy on TV and I would cry for hours,” he says.

From those efforts 3/Fifths was born, a work that breaks new ground visually and conceptually, with immersive video, performance, music and radical interactivity. What’s more, according to Kevin Cunningham, executive artistic director of 3-Legged Dog, the company that produced 3/Fifths, it is innovative because it has a social conscience but doesn’t preach — “and there are very few artists who can pull that off.” Cunningham continues: “The idea that we are post-racial — that the harms have been addressed — is a lie. James created a situation in which people who came were able to strip that away, and realize this is an urgent issue that needs to be addressed.”

 Audience members learn how to make a noose during the ”Atrocity Carnival.”SOURCE  COURTESY OF 3/FIFTHS / JAMES SCRUGGS

Audience members learn how to make a noose during the ”Atrocity Carnival.”SOURCE COURTESY OF 3/FIFTHS / JAMES SCRUGGS

It was a sentiment I heard echoed by many who attended 3/Fifths over Memorial Day weekend. “It’s an authentic representation of the marginalization of Black people throughout our history,” a Black audience member told me, though she declined to give her name. “The Black experience is still up for interpretation, while other atrocities, such as the Holocaust, are given truisms.”

Now that 3/Fifths has completed its run in New York, Scruggs, Cunningham and company hope to take the show on the road this fall to Boston, Washington, D.C., and Baltimore. For Scruggs, it would be a “dream come true” to extend the tour through the South next year; he’s currently applying for grants to make it happen.

Till then, he’s relying on audiences to push the dialogue about race forward, and he’s found voices in surprising places. “It’s the international reaction that has interested me the most,” he says. “I’ve had people from Brazil and Canada come up and say that it’s not their history, but they could completely relate … I guess 3/Fifths is universal in that every culture has someone to look down upon.”

Could This Former Soldier Help Stitch Together Peace After ISIS

 Mark Clark with Prince Feisal Ibn Al-Hussein. SOURCE  COURTESY OF GENERATIONS FOR PEACE

Mark Clark with Prince Feisal Ibn Al-Hussein. SOURCE COURTESY OF GENERATIONS FOR PEACE

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Because he’s trying to convince kids in war-torn regions to give peace a chance.

By Adrian Brune


It was nearly sundown on a summer Thursday, and Mark Clark needed a run. Exiting the lobby of the U.N. Plaza Hotel, he started at a brisk pace amid swirling thoughts of U.N. agencies, plans for the international nongovernmental organization he oversees and his wife’s impending delivery of twins. He picked up speed and completed six miles before heading back — a brief respite before work demands and fatherhood would pin him down.

But Clark, 43, the seemingly unflappable former soldier and Edinburgh-trained lawyer who leads Generations for Peace (GFP), a global peace-building initiative founded by Jordan’s Prince Feisal Ibn Al-Hussein — King Abdullah II’s younger brother — didn’t show any signs of fatigue. In fact, he was still on message as we jogged along the East River. “We aim at an understanding that peace is a process, not a destination,” Clark said, drawing from speeches he’d made to the U.N. powers that be earlier that day.

Operating under a topsy-turvy world order when he was tapped to run GFP just before the Arab Spring in 2011, Clark already had a hefty mandate in convincing youth to give peace a chance. Jump to today’s global turmoil and it’s either Clark’s perfect storm, or a tempest that could knock him and GFP off their ballast. In May, amid suicide attacks from ISIS and other fundamentalist groups in London, Kabul and Iran, the Trump administration proposed scrapping U.S. grants to programs whose missions include “countering violent extremism” (CVE) — a key area of work for GFP — to redirect money to organizations that focus exclusively on Islamic extremism.

If Clark were to incorporate an “Islam” focus to amplify GFP’s CVE projects around the world, the organization stands to receive more American dollars. But if he stays true to his conviction that “Islam is not the common thread of terrorist attacks,” Clark and groups like GFP could see their U.S. donors move toward more radical, less effective organizations.

Speaking by phone a month before Trump’s announcement, Clark stressed that violent extremism springs from “a core dynamic: the dream of a life of significance through struggle and sacrifice in comradeship.” An April study, focused on GFP’s backyard in Jordan and run by the Combating Terrorism Center at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, backs Clark’s theory. It found that economic deprivation, substandard education and the presence of radical Islamist discourse contribute to the problem, “but the fundamental concern is that Jordan’s booming youth population has no emotive attachment to Jordanian identity and thus little stake in political order.”

With satellite offices in Nigeria, Sudan, South Sudan, Somalia and Bosnia, GFP is headquartered in Amman, Jordan, a country hosting 1.4 million Syrian refugees that is also the third-largest contributor of foreign fighters to the conflicts in neighboring Syria and Iraq. To support its volunteers, GFP maintains a network of mentors providing advice and encouragement in the peace-building process. “Many other NGOs and organizations offer trainings, but do so little in follow-up that they come to be viewed as CV-building exercises to get a job or scholarship overseas,” Clark said. GFP, by contrast, builds long-term relationships with its volunteers and invests in their ongoing development.

Founded in 2007, Generations for Peace relies on a mentoring model to draw youth away from groups like ISIS, al-Qaida, Ansar al-Sharia and Hezbollah that appeal to their idealism while offering to pay them for “glamorous” jobs. GFP helps young people resist the lure of extremist indoctrination by giving them reasons to stay and make their communities more resilient and harmonious. It recruits volunteers from conflict areas and trains them in peace-building, fund-raising and community mobilization, then sends those volunteers into towns to teach teenagers about unity and collaboration through team sports or art projects. GFP then relies on those students to grow into teachers for future generations.

Clark, who was working in Iraq as an advisor to the National Olympic Committee, came to the nonprofit through a happenstance meeting with Prince Feisal, then president of the Jordan Olympic Committee. But it’s Clark’s background as a captain in the British Army that makes him a near-perfect fit for the job, according to Jean-Christophe Nothias, editor-in-chief of the Geneva-based Global Journal. Once Clark consolidated his key resources at GFP, Nothias says he conducted a “forced march” over a three-year period to scale up operations in the Middle East.

 Generations for Peace volunteers in Tripoli, Lebanon.SOURCE  COURTESY OF GENERATIONS FOR PEACE

Generations for Peace volunteers in Tripoli, Lebanon.SOURCE COURTESY OF GENERATIONS FOR PEACE

Still, there are major challenges — like Syria’s border camps, where some 80,000 refugees rely on dribs and drabs of international aid, or pay off guards so they can leave and stake a new claim with nothing but their sand-blasted U.N. tarps. Into this setting, on a Saturday in late October, three college-age GFP volunteers arrived at a community center in Mafraq, a storefront strip near Zaatari, to coach a group of Syrian and Jordanian teenage girls in the art of acceptance.

“When I first got here, I was hiding my nationality to gain friends,” said Haneen, a 16-year-old refugee from Homs, Syria. “My sister left the school because she hated it — she didn’t feel she fit in.” At this, Haneen turned to her Jordanian friend Fati, who said she came to the GFP sessions “just to see Haneen.”

Skeptics might question whether such an unlikely friendship will endure, but Clark is sold on exchanges such as these. Nothias agrees: “Asking youths rather than governments to bring about peace may sound a bit naive,” he says. “But when you face GFP’s army of young, articulate, peace-pushing volunteers, then you understand that something big is going on here.”

Can He Help Keep the World in One Piece?

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Because we need the Blue Helmets in the world’s red zones.

By Adrian Brune


In January 2014, Ken Payumo, head of the United Nations Peacekeeping compound in Bor, South Sudan, a city on the frontlines of an emerging civil war, sat in his cramped shipping container office. The previous week, thousands of people had filtered past the UN’s walls seeking safety, as government forces fought to retake the city from rebel militias. The Sudan People’s Liberation Army succeeded, and a key government official approached Payumo about surveying the camp — accompanied by 80 heavily armed soldiers looking to kill rebel sympathizers.

“As they approached, it was clear their intentions were not good,” Payumo recalls. “When I told them to lay down their weapons and their cameras and they tried to make their way past me, saying, ‘This is our country, our government; you can’t tell us where to go,’ I gave the command to close the compound.” He pauses, fidgeting with a blue peacekeeper’s helmet on a desk littered with situation reports and operation manuals from various missions. “The gates slamming shut was probably the loudest sound I’d ever heard … then the soldiers cocked their weapons at me.” Payumo can’t recall if the standoff “lasted hours or minutes,” but as soon as the military left, he called headquarters to request reinforcements at the Bor compound — and was evacuated for his own safety.

As the UN Department of Peacekeeping Operations (DPKO) prepares to close its mission in Haiti — the first of three scheduled for 2017 — while facing a new, reformist UN Secretary-General, António Guterres, and questions surrounding the murder in May of two peacekeepers in the Democratic Republic of Congo, the reputation of the Blue Helmets is at stake. Lurid tales of sexual abuse, including a sex ring exploiting Haitian children, have surfaced, along with accusations of peacekeepers causing cholera outbreaks or standing idly by during attacks, according to an internal UN report.

 Payumo pins medals on Peacekeepers in South Sudan. SOURCE KEN PAYUMO

Payumo pins medals on Peacekeepers in South Sudan. SOURCE KEN PAYUMO

Payumo, 48, chief of the Peacekeeping Operations Support Section, will not only play a hand in drawing down operations in Haiti, Liberia and the Ivory Coast, but he’ll also continue to help oversee the safety of the 86,000 UN peacekeeping troops and 20,000 civilian personnel deployed worldwide. In addition, the former New York police officer and Justice Department attorney will likely be called to assist the United Nations in rethinking its peacekeeping agenda, as Guterres considers an overhaul amid criticism and threatened U.S. funding cuts.

American taxpayers are responsible for about 28 percent of the UN DPKO budget — or $2.2 billion of the $7.87 billion department. The new U.S. Ambassador to the UN, Nikki Haley, wants more than across-the-board prioritizing, however; she has demanded a mission-by-mission review of peacekeeping.



For Payumo, the cuts will mean doing more with even less. Based in New York, he oversees security assistance, particularly crisis support management, to all UN peacekeeping missions. The UN currently has 16 operations deployed on four continents, which, Payumo estimates, is the highest number of substantial missions in the organization’s history. When any of them encounters trouble, Payumo gets the call, fielding upward of 7,500 emails per day. “[The things] that come into my inbox or [the people who] call at 2 a.m., at times they can be daunting and include major crises involving whole countries, such as South Sudan [or] the hostage-taking of UN personnel,” he says. A career that demands travel to the furthest reaches of the world and a mind capable of imagining every possible emergency scenario would exhaust many, but for Payumo, it’s “addictive.”

The son of an Iranian doctor and a Filipino nurse, Payumo arrived at the UN 17 years ago and was immediately dispatched to East Timor — one of the bloodiest peacekeeping sites at the time — to provide guidance after the colony declared independence from Indonesia. Once on the ground, he helped pick up the pieces after militias had moved village to village, burning houses to the ground, killing more than 20,000 and forcibly displacing hundreds of thousands of East Timorese.

After his stint in East Asia, the UN sent the battle-tested Payumo to South Sudan to become head of office for the oil-rich Unity State before settling Jonglei State, a region hit with some of the heaviest fighting and casualties since South Sudan became a country in 2011. “Bor’s duty station was characterized as a red state — the most hazardous and dangerous condition in peacekeeping,” says Alfred Zulu, a human rights officer stationed in South Sudan. “Yet, at any time, Ken would readily join human rights investigations in the field, something that was highly unusual for someone at his level.”

Recent research supports Payumo’s insistence that the UN DPKO does indeed help and is an important mechanism for maintaining harmony in the countries that request it. According to a study published in Peace Operations Review, the presence of a UN peacekeeping mission can reduce the risk of relapse into conflict by 75 to 85 percent. But the same study found that, despite a number of reforms, the resulting structure is no longer fit to fulfill the functions needed. Instead, the organization has become hobbled by new problems, such as fragmentation that undermines coherent action on peace-building and peacekeeping, competition between the political affairs and peacekeeping departments, and delays in mission startup.

But Payumo remains steadfast. “I can’t picture a world without the UN. All the locations where we work are bad. And without us, who tells the world what is going on?” His commitment is to a UN facing its worst crisis since 1946, with more than 20 million people threatened with starvation due to warfare in Yemen, Somalia, South Sudan and Nigeria, and five million Syrians fleeing their country’s protracted civil war. Payumo, who is married to a fellow UN worker, recently returned from Syria and described the circumstances as “surreal.”

Still, he’s quick to bring up East Timor to illustrate the UN’s capacity to rebuild countries. “We had to pick up the pieces and start a new country literally from ashes,” Payumo says. That was when he decided to remain with the organization.

Colleagues like Alfred Zulu say Payumo represents the new UN leader — a person with both diplomatic and “field experience” heading to the executive office. For his part, Payumo can’t predict the next 24 hours, let alone the next several years. “I could have never known that when I started in the UN I would go from legal adviser to security coordination for all peacekeeping,” he says.

Nor does he have a crystal ball to foresee what lies ahead: “I can’t say if the world is getting safer, but I can definitely say that the world is more complex in its issues, threats and solutions.

The United Nations Therapy Dog

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Because sometimes a little fuzzy love helps with world peace.

By Adrian Brune


It’s just after noon at the United Nations Staff Counsellor’s Office, and Chloe, the resident therapy dog, has already earned her keep — as well as that office catnap, er, pup-nap.

Since Chloe’s arrival that morning, some 10 U.N. staffers have received a quick nuzzle or kiss from the 5-year-old English bulldog, who wags her bottom half with abandon as she waddles over to greet new arrivals. While it might be a stretch to say that Chloe is more popular than the new secretary-general António Guterres, since her introduction to the U.N. in early February, she has been booked solid, visiting more than 300 employees around the Secretariat campus, during open office hours or just saying hello to stragglers who swing by hoping for a bit of C-time.

Chloe’s presence at the U.N. isn’t frivolous, argues Dawn Straiton, chief of the U.N. Staff Counsellor’s Office and a psychiatric nurse practitioner. Straiton is Chloe’s owner and handler, and handles almost all of the associated costs. According to a 2013 report commissioned by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees on its mental health and psychosocial support, 19 percent of international aid workers described clinically significant post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms. The same report indicated that 46 percent of repatriated international staff — which describes many staffers at the U.N. headquarters — suffered from moderate or high levels of PTSD symptoms, which can persist for years after field postings in high-stress environments.

“A therapist is good, but sometimes, especially when I’m busy with work, I want to clear out my head, but not by talking it out,” says Christiaan Lampinen, an editorial assistant with the U.N. Department of Public Information whose office is on the list for a Chloe visit.

A 2014 study, “Are Therapy Dogs Like Xanax?”, published in the journal Anthrozoös, asked participants to write about traumatic situations. Those who did so in the presence of a therapy dog exhibited less distress than those in a room without one. Those with a dog present also showed significant decreases in depressive symptoms after the task. For delegates from far-flung countries who often work without family, friends or pets nearby while juggling starvation prevention in Yemen and engaging nuclear North Korea, Chloe is a welcome respite.



Animals have been used in health care as far back as 1792 — in the late 1800s, Florence Nightingale wrote about using small animals in the treatment of isolated patients. Disaster Stress Relief Dog teams have responded to the aftermath of tornadoes in Oklahoma, the shootings in Newtown, Connecticut, and even at the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi. The field of animal-assisted therapy has become increasingly normal in therapeutic care over the past decades. “Thirty years ago, you would seldom hear of an animal program at a nursing home, and now you seldom hear of a nursing home without one,” says Alan Beck, director of the Center for the Human-Animal Bond at Purdue University and a pioneering researcher who helped establish the field of anthrozoology. It’s the same, he says, for child therapists.

But Beck and other therapists caution that animals’ primary purpose, especially in counseling sessions, is almost always used to “set the mood” for other interventions. The animal itself isn’t therapy, Beck says — rather, the animal functions as an aide to help the patient reach a calm state.

In the face of the Trump presidential administration, with U.N. Ambassador Nikki Haley charged with representing Donald Trump’s interests at the U.N. Security Council and other pressing meetings, Chloe could offer some calm to an international Secretariat staff who aren’t all on board with the changes — like a possible 40 percent cut in voluntary funding for key U.N. agencies, including UNICEF and the World Food Program. Add that to the normal melee of working in one of the world’s foremost governmental bodies, not to mention the scandals over the oil-for-food program and alleged sexual abuse by U.N. peacekeepers.

Ah, but Chloe is blissfully unaware of such global chaos! From an early age, Chloe was “playful and gentle” says Straiton, who adopted Chloe at the age of 3 months and regularly brought the dog to visit her father, a dementia patient at a veterans’ nursing home. Encouraged by patients and doctors, Straiton took Chloe to train as an official therapy dog — the course ensured she was ready to be petted, to meet other dogs and play nicely and to cozy up properly to kids, among other skills. A good therapy dog must be cheery, friendly and able to get along with all sorts of people — in other words, they need to outshine even most diplomats.

For the most part, the buttoned-up, well-attired staffers rushing among their offices and the conference rooms of the Le Corbusier–designed Secretariat Building are fans of Chloe. In an August 2016 survey, 85 percent of respondents said they were “neutral to strongly” supportive of animal-assisted therapy at their U.N. work location. Those who interacted with Chloe reported positive reactions such as increased happiness, decreased pain and reduced anxiety or depression. These effects lasted from a few minutes to a few hours. But as with all U.N. employees, Chloe’s contract is subject to renewal — in her case at the end of July.

And there are some critics. The U.N. should “take into account the larger dysfunction of the organization that actually makes the staff insecure and promotes [an] unhealthy working environment,” argues a political officer with the Department of Peacekeeping Operations, who cannot speak to the press on official matters.

Others would like more. How about some cats, for good measure?