Ireland v Bosnia

Here's an interesting link a friend sent me today: If it Were My Home, which compares your country of choice to another in terms of living standards, environmentalism and size, amongst other things. Sounds a bit dry when I describe it like that, but actually it's pretty cool, especially if like myself you've wandered to a few different countries and like to ponder and consider the differences to the Auld Sod.

I haven't blogged here about the utter implosion of the Irish government and economic situation lately, but trust me when I say I've been following it avidly and spewing my disgust, usually at coffee time, to the other Irish working at the Organisation. Except the truth is, things don't really seem all that bad when you pull up Ireland vs Bosnia. Maybe a little perspective is good for all of us.

It turns out that "If Bosnia and Herzegovina was my home instead of Ireland", I would have 3.3 times more chance of being unemployed, would make 85% less money, and have a 78% higher chance of dying in infancy. Then again, I'd also be using 85% less oil and 68% less electricity. Which makes little sense to me given that the air quality in Sarajevo isn't always it's greatest charm. And while I'd be spending 80.17% less money on health care if I was Bosnian, rumours about the hospitals here make me think I'd prefer to take my chances on the VHI.

That 12% unemployment rate back home doesn't look quite so drastic from this point of view.

As for perspectives, it's nothing new to say that it made me realise how tiny Ireland is... except it turns out, not that tiny at all by Bosnian standards. The only thing this has put in perspective is how ridiculous it is that a drive across Bosnia takes hours and hours longer than it would to whizz from Dublin to Cork. So I'll leave the condition of the roads here up to your imagination.

Follow Up

On Thursday, Barack Obama issued a press statement expressing his condemnation of the murder of David Kato. It stated:

"I am deeply saddened to learn of the murder of David Kato. In Uganda, David showed tremendous courage in speaking out against hate. He was a powerful advocate for fairness and freedom. The United States mourns his murder, and we recommit ourselves to David’s work."

Obviously this is encouraging; frankly I'm amazed the murder received such a high-level response in such an explicit and pro-active manner. To the best of my knowledge, none of the killings of other particularly high-profile human rights activists such as Floribert Chebeya in the DRC, Natalya Estemirova in Russia, or Betty Cariño in Mexico received presidential responses. Equally, none of these cases have resulted in any credible investigations or prosecutions. But then again, it helps to give your life for a cause that enjoys an prominent place on the liberal agenda (and I say that with the proviso that this is the only occasion on which I'll ever describe the "liberal agenda" sarcastically).

The Obama administration has long been vocally critical of the violent homophobia currently manifesting itself in Uganda and other African states including Malawi. And indeed, in Thursday's statement Obama also made reference to the fact that in the week prior to David Kato's death, "five members of the LGBT community in Honduras were also murdered". In contrast to the (justified) international hysteria about the situation in Africa, there has been almost unbroken silence on routine killings in Honduras, where gay and transgender individuals have been amongst the greatest victims of the political instability since the 2009 Coup.

I don't have any facts to back this up, but my recollection is that by the time I left Front Line in October last year, at least 30 LGBTI had been killed already in the country that year. I do remember though that around the same time there was international outcry regarding the ten media workers killed in Honduras in 2010. Obviously that too is a disaster, particularly in terms of it's impact upon press freedom, and it requires immediate attention; but the murder of three times as many individuals counts for nothing because - unlike journalists - they have been silenced by fear and societal ostracism?

I'm getting off the point. When it comes to David Kato at least, I know that I shouldn't be so cynical, but I can't help a feeling of bitterness. Obama's statement was read out during his funeral yesterday, which must have been an incredible moment for his family and friends. But that was before the pastor presiding at the service called on homosexuals to repent or "be punished by God". The dozens of LGBTI in the congregation apparently reacted angrily; the pastor was escorted from the Church; and the attendees quickly dispersed after the burial because they had been threatened with violence by neighbours. The Guardian have a good report on it here.

I can't even comment on this, to be quite honest. Simply, I am deeply saddened, and remain as uncomprehending as I was when I wrote my last post.

As is the custom in Uganda, they took him back to his home town in bury him; all things in Africa seem to come originally from "the village", and in the end, it is to the village that everyone returns. I must have passed through Namataba several times on my way to and from Jinja, but I have no recollection of the place. I imagine the women in their best gomesi; the buzzing midday heat; the matatu taxis in which they packed into to travel from Kampala. No doubt the matoke was steaming in banana leaves for the meal afterwards. I can imagine the scene as they listened to what Barack Obama had said about the man they were burying; I just have no idea what it could have meant to them.

The White House press statement on David Kato can be read in full here.

David Kato

I met David Kato in February 2010 at the Dublin Platform, a large conference for human rights defenders organised by Front Line. He was a Ugandan LGBTI activist, outspoken, forceful, loud. I think I can be honest in saying I wasn't his biggest fan - I was amongst a small army of interns and volunteers with whom he was sometimes demanding and unhelpful. But inside, in the main conference room, he described the death threats and tension and fear inherent in homosexuality in Africa.

Today I heard that yesterday afternoon, someone broke into his house in Mukono, a suburb on the road from Kampala to Jinja, and beat him to death. He was 42 years old. In the interests of impartiality and unproven facts, I should report that a police investigation is underway and the motivation for the killing has not yet been determined. But I think objectivity might today be somewhat less important than saying David Kato was bludgeoned to death with either a hammer or iron bar not only because he was gay, but because he was publicly so.

Last October, a few months after I left Kampala, a local newspaper - Rolling Stone - printed the names, photographs and home addresses of "Uganda's most notorious homos" under a headline that said "Hang Them". David Kato's picture was on the front page. He and two other activists recently won a court case ordering the newspaper to stop printing names and addresses of homosexuals. The editor of Rolling Stone today commented on the murder, condemning it and claiming that the paper's aim had not been to encourage public attacks.

"We want the government to hang people who promote homosexuality, not for the public to attack them."

Right.

I want to be able to write something insightful and incisive about this. I want to analyse and dissect and clarify the politics of this act. But I can't. I can't explain, and I can't understand. Sure, I know something about African concepts of sexuality, traditionalism and social conservatism. I could copy and paste something from Wikipedia about the central importance of Christian faith in sub-Saharan Africa, particularly of Evangelical churches, and of African believers' deep-rooted, often literal belief in the Word of God. I could try to arrange my thoughts coherently about the current trend for homosexuals as the scapegoats du jour, conveniently ostracised so that they can aid all manner of distraction from continuing social fragmentation, economic stagnation and the covert consolidation of political power.

Except that I can't do any of that, because I know the given reasons and I still don't understand. What interests me greatly about the brutal persecution of LGBTI around the world is how, really, they pose no overt or apparent challenge to authority. It is somewhat inevitable that the pro-democracy activists of Iran or the freedom of speech advocates of China will suffer; without meaning to denigrate, such repression is relatively straightforward and that type of restrictive or intimidating behaviour on the part of the State intensifies, in a logical fashion, in direct correlation to the level of threat posed to authority by the activist.

So what interests exactly do gay individuals challenge? Moral authority? Religious sentiment? Societal consensus? Obviously the emergence of a group of politically-aware, organised and motivated individuals is never in the interest of a government with authoritarian tendencies, but there are far bigger groups of mobilised activists in Uganda who march for different causes, and who pose a far larger threat to the political authorities. As for a threat to the established order, that may be a different matter of course. There are many figures of authority throughout Ugandan society other than the government whose interests may be threatened by liberalisation of societal mores and structures. Is the LGBTI movement really strong or large enough to constitute such a threat? I can't see it.

Of course, all the authority figures considered above probably fear the incremental effects that might originate with an initial loosening of anti-homosexuality laws (the floodgate principle). But it's also true to say that most African homosexuals hardly demand gay marriage right now. I simply imagine that most would be relieved just to avoid the death penalty, life in prison, or prison sentences for friends, family and colleagues who are aware of their sexual orientation.

So I don't understand. I don't understand why some individual - whoever he was (and I only presume it was a he, because of prejudices of my own that I don't fully understand either) took the matter into his own hands. I don't know why this individual thought either that David Kato needed to be silenced, to be put in his place, that a message needed to be sent to other activists, or that this was a righteous act in defence of the community.

What I do understand is the direct link between this act and the generally accepted environment of discrimination - nay, persecution - towards LGBTI that has been established in Uganda and several other African countries through the use of language, rhetoric, the media, the churches and general hysteria, which has been condoned if not actively encouraged by both political and social authority figures. I can only hope this might lead to some of the debate about accountability and responsibility which followed the Tucson shooting in Arizona. Sadly, I doubt it.

How does Giles Muhame, the editor of Rolling Stone, feel tonight? Does he believe his own statement on the case?

I feel dreadful tonight, thinking about this. For most of the afternoon I felt physically sick. My thoughts are with David Kato's family and friends, and with the LGBTI community. I don't understand.

The Corner Shop

At the bottom of my street, the road widens into triangle centred around a white marble fountain. Inscribed with Arabic script, it contains several water taps where worshippers can wash their hands on the way to the mosque. One side of the triangle is made up of a tram stop and kiosks. The other sides are lined with small shops and cafés - a couple of bakeries, a guesthouse, the nearest branch of the ubiquitous Croatian supermarket Konzum, and three small grocery stores. They're not all located on corners, but more or less they're what I would recognise as corner shops: one or two are no larger than glorified cupboards. They sell some bits and pieces of basic necessities, but nothing special. Most stay open either very late or else never close at all, and mostly they're useful for late night booze runs when house parties are threatening to collapse from various shortages of beer or cigarettes.

The guys who run two of the dingiest, darkest, miserable concrete box-like shops in Sarajevo are the epitome of what the rest of the world generally considers to be the stereotypical Balkan male. Behold, how he stands scowling at the night from the shop's low door, a step or two below the level of the street, lovingly backlit by a fluorescent tube. Burly, dressed in jeans cut square like it's still the '80s and a black leather jacket - either a ribbed wool cap pulled down over his forehead or a vaguely colourless crop of hair - he blocks the door with his arms crossed and generally dares you to enter and buy something. A few cronies usually stand nearby, all equally brusque, scowling, and dressed like it's 1992. They watch the night and the city and the passing traffic and, I have no doubt, curse most of it.

Generally I can't tell any of the guys who run these two shops apart. I get the impression that the same two or three guys are there all the time, no matter what hour of the day or night - no wonder they're grumpy - but for all I know there's a small army of curt men, probably all related to each other, who take various turns at spending their Friday nights cursing the city from their vantage point near the tram stop.

Needless to say, I prefer the one shop on the other side of the street. For a start it's above ground level, lifted somehow above the snow and slush. It looks less like a bachelor's lair and more like a functioning shop - it's even been swept out and cleaned somewhat recently, which I attribute to the woman who works there. Yes, a woman; no wonder I feel basically safer taking my business there. A large metal table outside the door holds reasonably fresh fruit and veg. If she sees me lingering outside to look the produce over, she'll come bringing paper bags and wrap up whatever I point out to her with a faltering ovaj, ovo - toi (which translates as something along the lines of "that one - no, this one! Or - maybe that one after all"). She smiles wearily back at me like an exhausted housewife. In contrast to the other shops, I also know for sure that it's always the same one guy working there. He appears to work 12 hours a day, 7 days a week. He's there on my way to work in the morning, and he's there when I come back at night. He speaks German and usually insists on saying Guten Tag to me, seeming somehow offended that I don't reply auf Deutsch. (The second spoken language in Bosnia is probably an even split between German and English - huge numbers of Bosnians went to Germany during the war and most people still have family there today).

The reason I write about this, is because this man and this woman seem to me to sum up entirely the attitude of the Bosnians you cross paths with around Sarajevo. A smile isn't enough to initially cross the barricades, and unlike many countries where even one or two words of the local language is enough to get a good reaction, you have to go to greater lengths here to prove yourself. Mostly you just have to be a regular customer. I'm not sure if it's a matter of winning someone's trust or respect. To be honest, I think partially it's just that they don't particularly see the point in bothering to be friendly if they've never seen you before.

And with working conditions appearing to be what they are - those long hours, the undoubtedly tiny wages, the shaved profit margin, the sheer tedium of it all - I can't say I blame them. It's not that there's a terrific rudeness, just that very often no one's in a particularly good mood, and there's little or no incentive to pretend otherwise. And so explains the genesis of the local assumption that bad service is just the norm around here.

Which is why it's quite nice when you begin to get a friendly greeting when you pop in. After all, it's the same people working everywhere all the time, so it only takes a matter of days before they'll start to recognise you as the foreign girl who doesn't speak a word of Bosnian but will try to say hello anyway. The lady at the kiosk from whom I buy a tram ticket whenever I sleep late and don't have time to walk to work, for instance, started to smile at me once I'd slept in three days in a row, and with a wry smile showed me the weekly ticket that would be better value for me to buy. The girls in the café near the office know my coffee order and acknowledge it with a tired smile and a nod before bringing it over. Personally I think the real root of perceived unfriendliness here is not rudeness but exhaustion. Everyone just always seems so bored, and so tired.

Yesterday I tramped into the corner shop out of the snow, laden down with heavy grocery bags which I was carrying from the bigger, better-stocked supermarket down the other end of the old town. It's easier to get heavier things like wine or sparkling water in a shop closer to home, and I like giving smaller businesses some trade. As usual, we had our little exchange of pleasantries - I often end up wishing them good morning when it's evening time or stuttering nema veze ("no worries") instead of samo malo ("hang on a second") while fumbling for change.

As usual, he asked me if I could speak German. It seems he keeps hoping I'll eventually change my mind on this matter overnight. Lots of gesturing and wiggling shoulders. Ich spreke kein Deutsch! They must have been in a more talkative mood than usual, and with the lack of German they made the only logical conclusion - "Iz Amerikanska?". This one I understood - "Ne, ne. Iz Irska". No, no. Irish.

What a the reaction! IRSKA! Great excitement. "Dublin!" I tried to gesture no, not Dublin, but it went unnoticed, because they knew Ireland all right. "Irska! Dublin! - Eurovisia!"

Well, it made me laugh. Eurovision. Bosnians apparently love Eurovision. I hope I'm still here in May so I get to join in the excitement. I'm not exactly sure how it works in a country so desperately divided on ethnic, federal and political lines, but clearly getting to compete against the neighbours whilst showcasing your own talents on a larger, aspirational European level is popular down here. So he knew Ireland because after all, we still have a good reputation left in the one sphere that none of us remembered to celebrate: cheesy Euro-pop song competitions. The really sad part of course is that the great successful run of ballads which he was referring to lasted from 1992 to about 1996; right when the crisis in the Former Yugoslavia was at it's worst. Later in the conversation he told me he used to live in Frankfurt, so I guess he used to vote for the Eurovision from Germany, but it seemed a poignant memory: his only associations of Ireland's good times being linked to Bosnia's lowest moments.

So my welcome has evolved from gloomy scowl, to hesitant scepticism, to the vague hints of a smile when I come through the door. At least - unlike across the street - they don't look exactly displeased when I come in. And I call that progress.

January Blues

It only recently occurred to me that I hadn't yet written a single word here in 2011. It's already my third week back in the funny little land of BiH, and time is slipping nicely by.

If it hasn't occurred to me to write here, it's probably - sadly - because there isn't much to report. I have a reasonably moderate case of the January Blues - crippling lack of money (even by Bosnian standards), debt (oh that unpaid gas bill!), horrible weather (I've yet to see any of the hills surrounding the city this week with fog), general apathy (my chances of ever seeing gainful employment seem to shrink by the day, they're about to FAIL to vote out the government back home - yet again - and I can't get my hair to behave the way I want it to. All pressing issues of our times, you'll agree).

Then again, a self-declared period of austerity, sobriety and seclusion does have it's benefits. It's good for the health (no public transport for me, I'm powered by foot), good for the figure (soup is more or less all I can afford to eat), good for my cultural aspirations (two books down so far), and good for my pop culture references (making January Oscar season for movies is genius).

Last weekend, thanks to the unseasonably mild weather, we also managed to make it up the mountain for a hike. Heavy snow is finally forecast for later in the week: bring it on, I'm looking forward to some skiing!