Category Archives: Social comment

May 26, 2020 · 10:55 am

The social distanced funeral and the need for primeval hugs

My Dad’s funeral was last week. It consisted of me, my four siblings and a vicar, all stood 2 metres apart in Gloucester Crematorium. The vast majority of people watched on through a live stream as the hymns and the eulogy echoed around the near empty room. The rows of empty silent pews speaking volumes about all the people who knew and loved Dad over the years who couldn’t be there.

After the funeral I have spent some time trying to answer people’s unimaginative question, “how was the funeral”? And I think this is the nearest I have come to an answer so far.

Crucially, both for coronavirus, but also for understanding what happened, there was no physical contact at the funeral at all. The vicar welcomed us with a polite nod of the head and my siblings and I all gave half smiles and weak waves back.

At the end of the service there were no hugs, no shared tears, and no sharing of marginally inappropriate anecdotes at the boozy wake. There wasn’t even the usual socially awkward British handshake (or my personal favourite, when one persona goes in for a handshake and the other a hug) from friends from Dad’s distant past. Instead there were just awkward good-byes and splodges of hand sanitizer as the next cask was wheeled in for the next small group of mourners. As we all disappeared off to our own separate lives even the warmth of sun felt inappropriate. It was a beautiful warm day and I knew the next time I would speak to my siblings it would be through a Zoom call or a shared meme on WhatsApp.

To me it felt inadequate, a poor fraction of a funeral for a man that burst at the seams of life. I wanted a festival for him, I wanted to hear first-hand about how he used to rally cars, how he spent hours preserving ancient machinery, how at one point or another he would have poured everyone there a glass of desert wine and watched expectantly for their reaction as they took the first sip.

Instead, the inadequacy compounded a hurtful sense of the inadequacy in not being able to be there to support my Dad in his final weeks of life. Instead of holding his hand in those final weeks I counted down the hours and days left of his life just 20 miles from the hospital where he rested. I still feel disproportionately grateful to the palliative care doctor who told me she sat and held his hand while she spoke to him about steam trains.

Although I answer honestly when I tell everyone “I’m fine” it is, I think, important to acknowledge that with death comes a form of psychological pain. And ritual and contact normally plays an important role is helping us all deal with that pain.

While people deal with this pain in their own personal and socially specific ways, I read that everyone uses the same regions of the brain to process this pain. To one degree or another it’s a shared experience. When we come together to mourn a death remarkably similar thought processes are occurring in all of our brains.

Crucially though, these processes are the same parts of the brain that are used to process physical pain. To deal with this, most of the world has developed a form of ritual that helps release endorphins to dampen this pain – in our society this is around the social gathering and shared embraces at a funeral.

We know that endorphins dampen, incredibly effectively, our psychological pain. That is why at funerals hugs are shared so freely when in general in British society we normally avoid that close embrace of a hug. It’s thought that these endorphins produce an opiate-like analgesic effect but just much stronger (one study suggests 18-33 times the effectiveness). We have evolved this behaviour as social creatures over millions of years. As a behaviour pattern it really isn’t dissimilar to the grooming of primates. Cuddling, with its stroking, patting and even the occasional leafing through the hair (that’s a joke) is the human form of primate grooming, and is designed to create and maintain our relationships and to soften pain. Anyone parent will know the impulsive response to hug their child equally when they fall over as when they are upset about something.

In an increasingly isolated world that has become more and more physically distanced (I had a cousin watch dad’s funeral from New Zealand), these rituals of gatherings around births, deaths and weddings are more important than ever. Sometimes a decade could pass and these are the only occasions when my extended family will have got together. These are our backstop to maintaining the loving relationships that sit as the foundation blocks to personal, family and social well-being.

That’s why I feel a funeral could and should be a time to gather and share stories of love and shared history but perhaps more importantly to be there, physically, for each other. Instead it feels like the coronavirus not only stole the last part of my Dad’s life, and indeed also the small but important role that we his children could play – to be there physically for him, but it also stole so much of the ritual that we all rely on to help us through the mourning process. In these socially distancing times, it feels like we are being asked to go against the most primeval of instincts embedded within all of us. To gather, to give and receive a hug and to share our memories.

One of the most comforting thoughts now is the promise of a gathering when “all this is over”. I know that this is unlikely to happen any time soon but the prospect of it is something to hold onto. To really say good-bye to my Dad I want warm ales on a hot day and long anecdotes about narrow-gauge railways all shared by the unusually diverse group of friends that my Dad managed to hold onto. But most of all I want a moment when everyone is deep in conversation and the booze is flowing that I can turn to someone who knew him and loved him as much as I did and hug them, and to mutter softly how much he would have loved us all being there together.

Until then I am making do with photo-albums and the incredibly lucky sensation of constantly having two children climbing over me and to be sharing this all with the most loving wife.

I know in this sense I am lucky and my heart breaks for all those in comparable situations going back to empty houses. If you are still reading this I urge you to take the time to reach out to those people living alone – I’m really OK and they might well not be. This unprecedented time isn’t just changing the basics of the modern society that we have grown so use to, but also the slowly evolved rituals that we rely on more heavily than most of us realise. There is little that can replace the importance of a hug but just letting people know you’re there for them is also important.

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Filed under Blogging, Health, Social comment

Tagged as coronavirus, covid, funeral

May 22, 2018 · 8:23 pm

A long journey…

My mum, Jackie, with her favourite cow, Emblem.

Yesterday was my mum’s funeral, the end of a long journey that started many years ago. Its initial stages were played out behind the scenes, out of sight, deep inside my mum’s mind. Unknown to any of us, friends or family, the 100 billion or so neurons in my mum’s brain started a countdown. These neurons in her brain threw out neurological branches that connected to more than 100 trillion points, allowing for thoughts and memories to be formed and recalled. Slowly, and completely silently, this number started to drop. With no fanfare, an incredibly awful and utterly incurable process began that would only begin to show itself years later.

When it did show itself, it did so relatively innocuously. It was the odd repeated question, the occasional double take, the subtlest of shifts away from engaging in conversation.

The science behind Alzheimer’s tells us that the areas of the brain most commonly affected early on are those that are used for learning and planning. I remember patiently sitting with my mum trying to explain to her how to use her new mobile phone. The simplest instructions seemingly lost in the seconds following the conversation. In retrospect I can see the folly of trying to explain, and reexplain, something new to my mum. That I failed to mitigate my own behaviour, let alone expectations, to allow for the early onset dementia is both something I regret, and something that makes me feel embarrassed.

How unequipped I was to support my mum in those initial stages leaves a deeper sadness in me now than the ending of her story. She was preparing for one of the hardest journeys of her life, and I turned up with no shoes to walk in, maps to direct me or rations to sustain us. I was woefully ill-equipped.

In retrospect, there was still so much left to celebrate at this stage and instead I was too focused on the immediate problems and challenges in front of me. The fixation on the next steps trying to ‘fix’ these problems blinkered me from spotting the wider landscape of where we were, how we got there and how much further we still had to go.

I remember asking questions about gardening and composting and getting encyclopaedic answers disguised under a subtle humble demeanour of a women with a life time of experiences not used to being asked to share them. The lack of notebook and pen in hand resonates strongly now to illustrate my own failings at the time to appreciate the delicacy of these thoughts that could dissipate at any moment.

By the time I spotted the severity of the journey ahead, my mum had been walking solo for years. Everyday a confusing challenge, walking a journey no one would chose to take. Each day trying to guide herself with sheer willpower through an ever-changing landscape.

To try to support her I took my first significant step in equipping myself for this journey. This was to read Oliver James’ book ‘Contended Dementia’. Although far from the miraculous saviour text some of its proponents make it out to be, it did set me off in the right direction. It was from this that I accepted that parts of my mum’s memory, and what makes her who she is was slipping away. I set about ‘relearning’ my relationship with my mum. This was beyond tiring and involved unlearning a lifetime of habits. My questions soon ceased to be part of our conversations. They were instead replaced with an ever-changing melody of chitter chatter which at times danced as freely as the topics that passed through her mind, while at others were strictly kept to subjects I knew to garner a positive reaction. I learnt the joy of hearing about parts of my mum’s life that were previously never mentioned and my curiosity about the patchwork of her earlier life grew. Even then though I struggled to prevent my focus returning to the ever-growing list of things we couldn’t do or talk about.

In retrospect, if I could change one thing from this whole journey, it would be to spend more time at each stage celebrating all that was left of my mum – the good, the bad and the utter complexity in between.

My mum had a fiercely proud personality, often contradictory in its nature, and a stubbornness that any mule would be proud of and in retrospect she plodded on this journey as any mule would – proudly, quietly and without complaint. She would never ask for help and would scorn the suggestion if anyone ever offered it.

And yet, in my mum’s mid-stage of dementia, I feel like I learnt new ways of interacting that allowed me to better help her. By just being with her and holding a conversation that was not threatening and didn’t highlight the missing memories I felt like, for a short period, I could carry some of the extra weight for her on this journey.

At this stage I began to spot the crucial role that emotions played. If I had a positive interaction with my mum, then I could tangibly see how these positive emotions lived on much longer than the memory of the actual interaction. Equally, if something distressed her it was clear that the anger, or hurt, or confusion would long outlast the initial problem. This moved me onto what I think of as the relentless optimism stage. Regardless of the reality I found a positive moment – the new flower that had just sprung in the garden, the fact that my wife was pregnant, that the sun was shining. The smallest of things resonated.

Again, I wish I had turned some of this optimism and positivity to all that she still had to offer at this stage instead of just distracting from all she couldn’t do. Whether or not this would have been possible I don’t know. I do know that I wish I had tried harder.

Later I would read that this importance of positivity wasn’t just my experience but one backed up by studies. One lead author of a study concluded by saying that “our findings should empower caregivers by showing them that their actions toward patients really do matter and can significantly influence a patient’s quality of life and subjective well-being”. It did for me. For some months, a year maybe, I could visit my parent’s house and let my reality melt away and interact with my mum wherever she was at that time. In her mind, if she was milking cows I would comment how good the fried breakfast was waiting for us. If she was worried about where her Dad was I quipped that I was sure he would have a good story to tell over dinner. If I didn’t know where she was in her mind I would look out of the window and say how special it was to be here at this time of year.

This is not to say it wasn’t incredibly hard work. Each visit I was constantly second guessing what was happening and trying to steer conversation away from any cracks in my mum’s memory road. I suspect though that this was just nothing compared to either her experience of living with the disease or that of my Dad’s experience living with her and for many years being her primary carer.

In the final year or so, it became harder and harder to muster these positive emotions. Verbal conversation became a less useful tool and suddenly I felt like I had slipped back to square one – back to being an unwitting bystander to my mum’s journey. At times I found ways around this. After the birth of my son, her grandson, we would sit together with her doting affection and my son performing back a series of giggles and smiles. It is hard, even after years of suffering from Alzheimer’s to not be cheered by the rapturous laugh of a baby. In the final months though we would more often than not sit in silence.

As these final months ticked by, I watched the seasons slip from one to another outside her care home window. This alone was enough to fill me with sadness to think how she once lived her whole life outdoors surrounded by animals. She was now sat in a thermostat-controlled room – I wasn’t sure of much at this stage, but I knew this was not right, and not what she would have wanted.

With the passing of the seasons so the number of neurons and connections continued to quietly drop. Basic functions disappeared but still, at times, there was the unmistakable facial expression or look that was uniquely my mum. In these last few months I spent more and more time feeling awkward and unable to help her. My weekly visits had slipped to every other week and sometimes longer and as a result the progression of her symptom became more pronounced between visits. By the end I would helplessly sit with her unsure if she knew if anyone was with her not.

Coming one time into the uncomfortably warm care home I found her slumped sideways on the chair. A member of care staff who was spoon feeding her explained to me that she had lost control of body positioning. Her eyes were glazed and focused on nothing in the distance. She weighed just over 40 kilograms. The length and severity of the journey she had been on had taken its toll.

Two days later she passed away.

When people now ask me how I am, I say I’m OK; that I feel both relieved and sad. A mix of emotions. But the more I think about it, the more I think this is the wrong question. There are much more pertinent questions to ask. How have I been for the last 8 years? How have I been throughout this long journey? At what point did I feel that the essence of my mum left leaving her body to keep on the journey? When did grief start? What have I learnt over the last 8 years? Do I feel guilty for not having done more? Do I feel proud for doing what I did? How did all those who loved mum struggle in their own ways to interact with this journey?

And then, and only then, a little for the here and now: how does it feel to be setting off on this next stage of life, on my own journey, without a mum that had, up until now, been a constant in my life?

At this stage, I’m not really sure.

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Tagged as Alzheimer's, Blog, Dementia, personal experience

January 8, 2017 · 5:42 pm

Reflections on my Mum’s advanced dementia

Sitting across from each other on slightly uncomfortable wooden chairs in the care home I watch my Mum interact with one of the staff. The young girl lays her hand on my mum’s shoulder, raises the volume of her voice slightly and asks if “everything was alright dear” and if my Mum would “like any help?”.

My mum looks up at her and smiles with wide unfocused eyes. The staff member smiles back, hovers awkwardly for a moment trying to decipherer what this blank stare means before finally she walks over to another resident. As she makes her way over to a lady sat hunched in the corner I look back at my Mum and catch just the faintest flicker of a death stare from behind her eyes. It was an unmistakable reflection of something deep within her that these days only occasionally surfaces. Today this was a split second of a “fuck off am I your dear”.

Of course, I could have imagined it, I could have simply wanted to see a bit of her old self and so read too much into a distant stare. But, in that moment I think I saw my Mum: proud, wanting to help others – not wanting to waste people’s time in being helped, and ultimately using anger as a shield to hide away from all the insecurities and uncertainties of her life.

She focuses her eyes back on me, a second of surprise or alarm gives way to a meandering anecdote about the walk she believes she had taken that morning over Dartmoor. I ask if she saw any deer and she responds that she had, but only in the distance. This follows a second of silence and a drop in her eyebrows before she asks if I was OK to count? I promise her that I was more than happy to count to which she scoffs and says she doubts it. I once again miss the nuance of her reality.

Asking questions of dementia patients often only increases distress and confusion and so I try to steer the conversation back onto safe territory and say it was a beautiful crisp winters day outside. Her eyes look at me. One, two, three. Seconds pass with no response. I try a new path. I tell her that I recently spoke with her nephew, my cousin, and that he is happy and doing well. One, two, three. Eyes wide. No response. I try three of four times more and get little in response.

I decide not to push conversation. I sit with her in the weak winter sun surrounded by the stuffy air of the car home. Silence.

In the silence my mind jumps to memories at random. I think back to my mum cutting all the fire wood for the house by hand insisting that she was perfectly happy with her bow saw and no, she didn’t want me to come around with a chainsaw. I think back to her carrying heavy trestle tables out of the local scout hut as all the other mums stood and watched. I think about her slapping down any idea or suggestion that she might in anyway need any help.

With these thoughts in mind I smile at her thinking that I might get going soon. She doesn’t smile back. The staff member approaches and puts her hand on Mum’s shoulder and, just before Mum smiles up at her, she gives her a split second of that recognisable death state. The staff member either doesn’t notice or chooses not to.

The thing I feel saddest about when I leave is that Mum has so little capacity, so little control. Despite both the care home and my family doing all they can, we are no longer able to play by her rules and there is nothing we, or she, can do about it. She is left to be looked after by others. She is clearly being looked after well but they also clearly miss the very essence of her. I don’t think I am sad that she will pass away in the coming, weeks, months, or possibly years. I am just sad that it must be like this, not on her terms.

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Tagged as Advance dementia, Care home, death, Dementia, dying, Hendri Coetzee, Living the best day ever, Living with

November 29, 2016 · 5:11 pm

The simple satisfaction of cycling into work along the River Frome into Bristol

My daily commute follows the River Frome into the centre of Bristol. Or I should say, as close as the modern infrastructure built around the river allows. Every day I pass the same weir, the same log spanning from one bank to another, the same bridge where the river finally disappears below the concrete centre forever from sight.

There is a simple satisfaction in observing how the river responds to the weather and countryside that feeds it. After heavy rains the weir can almost disappear under surging dirty brown water washed from ploughed farmers’ fields. A few days of no rain later, and you will be left with a clear trickle struggling to make it down its shallow path.

On days like today, when the temperature drops below freezing, this slow flowing river begins to freeze over altogether leaving sheets of ice floating in the river’s eddies.

Wrapped in thick coats, scarves and hats, the red flushed faces look out as the dog walkers crunch over the frozen muddy puddles. On one section of path, just south of Broom Hill the puddles perpetually sit never normally fully draining. Today though, they are iced over leaving a crisp brown path slicing through the centre of a frost filled field. The small wooden picnic bench which normally sits opposite a small outcrop of limestone perfect for some climbing in warmer months is today frozen white.

About 2 kilometres north of the city centre the River Frome emerges from the steep valley in which it has been travelling and my commute cuts up through the open expanse of Eastville Park. In these winter months, the sun rises directly to my left, beaming gently through the historic horse chestnut trees that cast long shadows over the frozen ground.

As the river fights its way through the monstrosity of modern out of town shopping my route slips alongside the equally awful piece of urban engineering – the M32, the first real reminder that you’re heading into a major city centre. From here the river dips below concrete in places and the off-road cycle route weaves between skate parks, railway bridges and underpasses.

The embedded heat in the concrete on this stage of the commute means that despite the air temperature being close to minus 4, nothing is frozen. The concrete is grey, the grass green and the sky blue.

Nothing of the surroundings for the last bit of this commute gives any hint of the weather or countryside that surrounds the city. It is then that I feel a huge sense of privilege to have such a commute. Also though, I feel a sadness that for most people, even those whose daily commute is outside of their cars, most people in Bristol would not have seen the frozen field that I cycled through this morning.

As I arrive in the office buoyed by the beauty of the seasons, I can’t help but to wonder what impact it is having on us as a society for most of us to never fully experience or appreciate the changing of the weather, seasons and nature that will always sit beyond our control.

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Tagged as Bristol, Broom Hill, Climbing, Commute, cycling, Eastville Park, Frome Valley, photography, River Frome, Snuff Mills

June 20, 2016 · 3:30 pm

I want my country’s confidence back

Picture by Jon Connell – Flickr

“I want my country back…”

This is the lazy rhetoric of the Leave campaign. I want my country back…from what, or to when, seem to be questions they are unable or unwilling to answer.

But I think I can though, so here goes.

More than anything I want my country back from the recent poisonous rhetoric of the Leave campaign. When did it become OK in this country to produce political videos depicting refugees as “vicious snakes”? At what point did it become OK to produce political videos that depict a women being raped by a political entity? At what point did it become OK to produce posters so dehumanising, degrading and despicable that they are compared to Nazi propaganda – by the Conservative Chancellor of the Exchequer?

I want this to stop. This isn’t the politics of a country that I am proud of. This is the politics of the gutter.

It hasn’t always been like this though. And that’s what I want my country to return to. Metaphorically speaking, I want my country back to that balmy summer of 2012 when the country came together around the Olympic Games to celebrate our role in the international community.

Do you remember it? Kids playing in the street, spontaneous acts of kindness, citizen ambassadors? I remember the image of Mo Farah flying the Union Jack and how it became a symbol of our nation: confident, energetic, multi-cultural, welcoming, high achieving.

After that incredible summer of the 2012 Olympic Games a study was done to explore what impact it had on our international standing. The results were clear, people from around the world saw us Brits as more “distinctive, daring, charming, energetic, trendy and authentic”.

The world came to us and we embraced them confident open arms.

Skip forward 4 years and we seem have retreated further into ourselves. Without the same confidence we have half-turned our back on our neighbours, arms crossed, protective.

So how do we get our country back to that outward looking, confident country we were all so proud to be part of?

I can tell you it is not going to come from either the mainstream Leave or Remain fear based campaigns. While the Leave camp are hell bent on dog whistling on immigration, the Remain record is stuck on the question of “what if” we leave.

I want to be asking a different question. I want to be asking what it is about the EU that has secured peace for decades, secured a higher quality of environment and worker protections. And, significantly, what was the role of the UK in that process?

When we start to dig deeper we can find a proud history. One that stretches from Churchill’s post-war vision to our leadership through the EU in tackling climate change, promoting human rights, and exporting democracy. A role in the UK plays in the EU that we can be really proud of.

This is what we must be focused on and, crucially, asking how can we look to build on these successes?

I will be voting Remain on Thursday not out of fear but because I want my country’s confidence back. I want us to reclaim that outward facing, confident and positive feeling that gripped us back in 2012. I want us to be leading not leaving the EU. I want us to remain a positive, confident, tolerant country.

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Tagged as EUref, I want my country back, Leave, referendum, Remain

December 10, 2014 · 7:32 am

Living the best day ever

This is a cross-post of an article that I wrote for the Africa edition of ehospice news reflecting on the lessons learnt from Hendri Coetzee’s book ‘Living the best day ever’.

Palliative care, by definition, is both a science and an art form that involves accepting the reality of death. What you have left when you accept this is what the profession calls ‘preserving or improving the quality of life’.

Never before though, have I been challenged to re-examine the concept of ‘quality of life’ than when reading Hendri Coetzee’s book: ‘Living the best day ever’.

Hendri Coetzee was a South African living in Uganda perpetually searching for the best day ever. This search led him to become a legend throughout the extreme sports and exploration world.

In 2004 Hendri led the first ever complete descent of River Nile from source (Lake Victoria) to sea (the Mediterranean). The 4,160 mile trip took four and a half months and crossed two war zones.

Coetzee was also the first person to run the rapids above the Nile’s Murchison Falls, a section of river filled with some of the biggest white water in the world, and holding one of the highest concentrations of crocodiles and hippos.

He would go on to complete this section of river a further seven times and he remains the only person ever to run the section by himself. He also ran large sections of the upper and lower Congo River, walked 1000 miles along the Tanzanian coast and was the first person ever to snowboard the glaciers in the Ruwenzori Mountains.

In short, his résumé was one of the most impressive in the business.

It was not, however, his outlandish adventures that makes Coetzee’s book such a challenge for anyone to read, but his burning passion for life. Deep within all of his adventures was an intertwined journey to accept the fullness of life – to be able to appreciate it to its full. Only by understanding and ultimately accepting one’s death, Coetzee believed, can we truly experience a ‘quality of life’.

Speaking to some, and by no means all, palliative care patients I have come across a stillness – a deeper happiness – that I have rarely seen elsewhere. It is a happiness that comes fundamentally from within, a spiritual or psychological wellbeing.

Does this come from an acceptance of one’s own death?

Early on in the book, when undertaking the Murchison Falls section of white water, Coetzee writes: “In our society we avoid the thought of death as if recognition alone could trigger the event. Thinking about your own death is seen as a sign that mentally, all is not well. Some people live their entire lives with the sole purpose of minimising the chances of it occurring to them, instead of preparing for the inevitable. After avoiding the issue for so long, it is almost soothing to invite death on my terms.”

Reflecting on this, I wonder how many palliative care practitioners spend their professional hours encouraging patients to think about their deaths, to make preparations and to become comfortable with the idea whilst then perpetuating the myth in their own lives that life is infinite?

I only speak for myself when I write that I am too often guilty of this self-delusion.

To live a truly high ‘quality of life’ do we have to be comfortable with the idea of our death? I don’t know.

For Coetzee though, this acceptance was clearly linked to the life he chose to lead. Writing about his desire to keep going on clearly dangerous expeditions he wrote: “Psychoanalysts may diagnose a death wish, but missions like these enhance the appreciation of life. It is no coincidence that death and rebirth are related in all forms of religion and spirituality. When you accept that you are going to die, and it will be sooner than you think, it becomes impossible to merely go through the motions.”

Even the acceptance of my own inevitable death cannot push me to actions that so invite the prospect of death earlier than it otherwise would arrive. There is too much to live for to put my life on the line in search of living just that one day to the extreme – in the search for the best day ever.

That said, it is imperative for the palliative care community to understand the full spectrum of thought that exists out there. Just as there are people who are terrified of the concept of their own passing so there are people like Coetzee that can write the following words:

“Death is coming for us all…the day we will have to face the crossing will come sooner than we think. I hope my day is many many years away, but… I don’t want to make the greatest leap in life in a vague dream. I want to have the chance to look it in the eye, to say: ‘You have had me in your sights all your life, but it’s on my terms that I come.’ Tibetans believe that one can find enlightenment at the moment of your death, as long as you prepared yourself for it during life…I have had the best day ever more times than I remember. So yes, I believe I am ready to die if that is what is needed to live as I want to.”

Hendri Coetzee was pulled from his kayak by a crocodile deep inside the Democratic Republic of the Congo and his body was never recovered.

At the end of his last ever blog entry though, after completing a section of river that many assumed impossible to kayak, he wrote: “We stood precariously on a unknown slope deep in the heart of Africa, for once my mind and heart agreed, I would never live a better day.”

I have no idea if – when it came – Hendri Coetzee was prepared for his death. It is clear though, that he lived life to the full and died in way he had to have expected.

Not many of us can say that and for that alone ‘Living the best day ever’ is worth reading. I think we can all learn something from Hendri Coetzee approach to both life and death.

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Filed under Health, Social comment, Travel, Uganda

Tagged as ehospice, Hendri Coetzee, Living the best day ever, review

October 20, 2014 · 1:41 pm

First ever self defense programme for people with Dwarfism launched

A good friend of mine and occasional contributor to Hynd’s Blog, Eugene Grant, has launched the first ever self-defence programme for people with dwarfism. This is a cross-post of his article that explains why he sees the need for such a self-defense course.

I don’t even remember where I was going. All I remember is looking to my left, distracted by a homeless man asking for change as I walked past. When I turned my head back to the front, a tall man – about 6’ 0” – was advancing aggressively in my direction, just a few feet away, his hands outstretched towards me.

I have Achondroplasia – one of the most common types of dwarfism. In 28 years, I’ve had stones thrown at my head; I’ve been chased by youths on mopeds; I’ve been grabbed and assaulted by strangers. I was frequently bullied at school. The list of instances in which I’ve been verbally abused or threatened is too long to include here.

Now, I make no assumption that my experiences are representative of other dwarfs. But I know I’m not alone.

Throughout my life, I’ve studied boxing, self-defense, and martial arts: Karate, Kick-boxing, Ninjitsu, and Tae-kwon-do, to name but a few. Growing up, these provided a valuable outlet for me as a frustrated and isolated young man, who struggled to deal positively with an environment that felt harsh and hostile towards me.

And yet, over time I realised that so many of these forms of self-defence were completely inapplicable for people with dwarfism. Even at 4’6” – hardly small for a dwarf – my hips are at the height of most people’s knees. I’m never going to get my leg up high enough to kick an attacker in the head – as you’re taught in Taekwondo. Nor, at 7 and a half stone, would I try to grab, trip, and throw him to the floor – as you might in Judo. Like most dwarfs, my arms are short – making boxing difficult (but not impossible…).

I realised that what people with dwarfism, people like me, really need is a self-defense system designed for our body types and the sorts of threats and assaults (being grabbed, picked up, bear hugged, and so on) which, sadly, some of face all too often in our daily lives.

And so SPD – Self-Protection for Dwarfs – was born.

Designed and developed by myself, under the expert guidance and instruction of Urban Warriors Krav maga Chief Instructor Kelina Cowell, SPD is a unique, practical, and applicable form of self-defense for people with dwarfism. For us, by us; tailored to the modern day environment (not the battlefields of feudal Japan!).

Of course there’s a desperate need for us as a society to re-evaluate how we treat those who are different; to think critically about how a dearth of real representations of people with dwarfism – and indeed other disabilities too – in the media perpetuate prejudices and spread stereotypes.

But as Kelina herself has said before, the world will never rid itself of violence, abuse, and discrimination. That we also need to address structural problems like poverty and inequality, social immobility and educational disadvantage, shouldn’t stop us from locking our doors at night to prevent burglars and home invaders.

Urban Warriors Self Protection for Dwarfs is a serious step forwards to helping people with dwarfism be better prepared to look after and defend themselves in times of crisis; to learn new skills and grow as individuals and as a community; and to build our self-awareness, self-esteem, and self-confidence.

To me, that’s truly empowering.

All we have to do now is to spread the word, teach and train others, and watch the movement grow.

Interested? Want to know more? For more information about Urban Warriors Self Protection for Dwarfs, Please like the Urban Warriors SPD Facebook page, follow us on the Urban Warriors SPD Twitter page, or contact us urbanwarriorsspd at gmail.com

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August 28, 2014 · 9:47 am

Book review: ‘The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry’ by Rachel Joyce

This is a copy of a book review I wrote for the UK edition of ehospice news.

If ever a fictional book has illustrated the importance of ‘spiritual care’ as an integral part of palliative care, it is Rachel Joyce’s debut novel, ‘The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry’.

Joyce’s heart-warming novel charts the unlikely story of Harold Fry. Harold is a retired Englishman who embarks on 600 mile walk from Devon to Berwick to visit an old friend who is dying of cancer. The walk, or pilgrimage, increasingly becomes interlinked with Harold’s own grief and spiritual pain as he becomes convinced that by undertaking such a walk he can not only keep his old friend alive, but also repent for the mistakes he has made in years gone by.

Although Harold’s friend Queenie is in a hospice with terminal cancer, the reader only gets brief glances at the physical, spiritual and social pain that she is experiencing. Joyce alludes to a lack of family or friends but this, it feels, is only mentioned to add impetus to the protagonist’s pilgrimage.

Indeed, it is Harold, and at times his wife Maureen, who the reader becomes best acquainted with. On a base level the reader begins to empathise with Harold’s tortured emotions towards Queenie and this only heightens throughout the walk.

From the beginning of the walk and the book the reader is aware of a pain lying just underneath the surface of Harold. Only as the walk, or as Joyce sometimes refers to it, ‘the journey’, develops do we begin to understand the nature and severity of Harold’s pain. Throughout the book one cannot help but draw parallels between Harold’s journey and other patient’s journey towards death.

What stands out in this novel though is the way Joyce cleverly explains to the reader how pain goes so much further than just the pain experienced by the patient. Friends, family and, of course, colleagues can be, and often are, effected by death and the process of dying.

Using this holistic understanding of pain, understanding it as more than just physical but also spiritual and social that can and does impact on friends and family as well the patient, Joyce takes the reader on a powerful emotional journey that is sadly too often out of reach in other novels that touch on issues related to death.

Using Harold’s well-being as an extended metaphor Joyce cleverly intertwines Harold’s hopes, emotions and fears with those of the readers and lets you experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of Harold’s walk.

The context of which this journey is undertaken – the quintessential English landscape – is, I believe, mistaken by many as being the central theme to the book. Indeed in the reviews published on The Guardian or The New York Times, the life-affirming story and the societal implications of what it means to be ‘English’ or ‘Spiritual’ in the 21st century are drawn out as key themes.

For me, these were side-issues all playing in and relating to how we understand death and the role someone’s spiritual pain can play in that process. I took from the novel, and I believe this was intended as a key theme, the universality of spiritual concern and pain – something which palliative care practitioners have been advocating about for a number of years now.

This is illustrated in the fact that the issues around spiritual pain are shown from the perspective of an atheist (Harold). Regardless of religious beliefs we all have the potential to feel spiritual well-being and of course, pain.

Even when faced with the ultimate twist in the final chapters Joyce still refuses to deviate from what I felt to be the core theme of the book – Harold’s deeply personal anguish and how this not only impacts on those around him, but also on his own ability to be at one with himself.

‘The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry’ remains one of the few fictional books I have read that deals with spiritual pain around dying adequately. This is not to say it deals with these issue comprehensively, merely that it acknowledges it to be a central part of what it is that makes us human.

It is perhaps this unlikely source of shared humanity that makes this first novel such a triumph and pleasure to read despite the difficult subjects it addresses.

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January 27, 2014 · 10:22 am

On genocide, palliative care and enduring hope

One of the many reasons I love my current job is because of the amazing people I get to interact with on a daily basis.

When working in palliative care you meet people who are being pushed both physically and emotionally and it never ceases to amaze me how people respond to these challenges with humour, courage and most of all, hope. This is true for both patients and medical practitioners.

Today I feel really honoured to have received an article from Dr Christian Ntizimira from Rwanda that marks International Holocaust Memorial Day by looking at the challenges to providing palliative care in a post genocide society.

If you accept my observation that death can push people in conventional circumstances to their limits both emotionally and physically then it is a small step to observe that genocide has the potential to rip both people and society to shreds.

But what sets Dr Christian’s article apart is not the description of how people’s lives were ripped apart and how millions were killed of displaced but how, in the aftermath of such suffering, Dr Christian has chosen to draw out a narrative of hope and courage.

If I was to draw one thing from this last year of working for the African Palliative Care Association – and more generally with palliative care practitioners – it is this optimism in the face of adversity.

Whatever happens, however bad, palliative care offers a simple framework to be able to help. I have seen this in the care patients receive right up to their last breath and Dr Christian powerfully illustrates this point in his article on genocide and palliative care.

You can read Dr Christian’s article visiting ehospice by clicking here >>>

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Tagged as genocide, International Holocaust Memorial Day, palliative care, rwanda

October 24, 2013 · 2:11 pm

On being a dyslexic

Yesterday I published on this blog a letter that I wrote to the Daily Nation newspaper about my dyslexia. I was a little surprised when people got in touch expressing their surprise that I was dyslexic.

One very well intentioned email said, “fair play mate, you aint a bad writter for a dyslexic.” I am still not sure if the email was tongue in cheek or not.

I was genuinely baffled though as to why this news would surprise someone reading my blog. As I pointed out in my letter, it is thought that one in ten of us are dyslexic – 700 million people worldwide.

Maybe one explanation could be that most people who are dyslexic remain undiagnosed and those who are diagnosed often remain in the dyslexic closet due to fear of discrimination and prejudice? The fact that I am open and frank about my dyslexia makes me fairly unusual.

My dyslexia has had, relatively speaking, a small impact on my life. This again, makes me a bit unusual.

I have a close to average severity of dyslexia and I have also been lucky in attending good quality state schools in the UK. As a result I now hold a masters degree and enjoy writing and, to a lesser extent, reading. However, it hasn’t always been this way.

I can remember in year two at school (as a 6 year old) complaining that the book they were giving me was too easy. My teacher duly gave me a harder book to read and sat with me while I read it. Inevitably, I stumbled over longer words and then forgot large passages of the book. My (generally very good) teacher’s response was to suggest I shouldn’t bite off more than I could chew and gave me back the easier set of books to read.

To varying degrees this was then a pattern of my early and secondary education. Trying to push myself and then in one way or another failing and so settling back into mediocrity.

In many ways I fulfilled a dyslexic stereotype of being quite outspoken and engaged orally in class whilst habitually under performing in written examinations. I can remember at school thinking, believing, that I was at best, an average pupil.

To a lesser extent I am still outspoken whilst still struggling to get the words in my head onto the page. Often I struggle to get words close enough for Microsoft spell checker to work out what I am trying to write. In situations where I have the time, this can be overcome by googling common phrases with the problematic word in to find the right spelling. Often however, my chosen words or means of expression are replaced with less appropriate, but easier to spell, alternatives.

All the way through school I found some things very easy and, of course, some things bloody difficult. For example, I have always been able to follow people’s arguments to their (often bonkers) logical conclusions very quickly. However, at the same time, if someone says something such as a word or a phrase that I don’t recognise I then often lose entire chunks of conversation. It is like I have no recall of what someone has just said or done.

As I am sure you could imagine, when you move into a new organisation that has its own vocabulary of acronyms and terminology this can create some difficulties.

After finishing school I went (with average grades) onto university where I scrapped a degree. I wasn’t diagnosed with dyslexia though until years later in the summer of 2008 as I was coming towards the end of my masters degree.

These “issues” I had been having all the way through school and university were finally spotted. Not by an academic but my partner who watched in a bemused bafflement as I tried (and failed) to write out a simple list. I was then lucky enough to be in an academic setting where I was (financially) supported through the various tests. Finally, after 22 years of British education, I had a diagnosis.

I cannot explain to you how good this felt. It was like a weight lifting off my shoulders.

More importantly than the diagnosis though, was the (crass) understanding of what was going on. Suddenly things dropped into place for me. It explained to me why I might have been finding some tasks so difficult and others so easy.

The diagnosis and the resulting reading on dyslexia also however brought into sharp focus how lucky I was. Whilst I ended up at university studying something I love, too many dyslexics end up in jail, taking their own life or suffering from mental health problems. A potent cocktail of ignorance, prejudice and inappropriate structures, results in perfectly able people being failed by our system.

I still maintain I am very lucky. I made it through this system despite my dyslexia because I was so lucky in other aspects of my life. I had supportive parents, great friends and a list of other sociological factors that weight your chances of success in our far from meritocratic society (skin colour, gender, sexuality, class etc etc).

And this is where I differ from most dyslexics. I loved school even if I wasn’t always very good at it. I thought school was great. I enjoyed learning and always seemed to come out with good enough grades to get me onto the next step of my education.

This experience in school (combined with a happy home life) meant that my confidence also developed (some might say too much). Time and time again though, it has been shown that one of the biggest hindrances dyslexics have is their own self-confidence which has been scarred early on in an education system which sets them up to fail.

When teachers wrote on my school report year in year out that Steve could do great things, “if only he applied himself” I thought, yeah…fair enough. I probably should work a bit harder but I am off to play football cheers. For many with dyslexia though they get this exact same comment on their report cards as they slog their guts out working twice as hard as the other kids, re-reading paragraphs, reciting lists of words to no avail. And, when they really can’t put any more effort in, and teachers chastise them for this, they come to the only conclusion left to them…that they are just not as smart as the other kids.

This, despite improvements, remains a chronic failing of our education system.

I once saw a comic describing his 1960s schooling as a dyslexic. All the way through his school life he was told he was a slow learner. Finishing this anecdote he commented, “40 years later our education system still hasn’t caught up. Dyslexics that struggle in school are the problem of the schooling system not the kids who are struggling”. After a long pause he said, “40 fucking years…and they call us the slow learners!”

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Tagged as comedy, Dyslexia, personal account, schools, story, UK

August 9, 2013 · 10:12 am

Eugene Grant: “I prefer the term dwarf”

Eugene Grant is a dwarf and the founder of the viral site EveryDayDwarfism that chronicles the day-to-day experiences of what it is like to be a dwarf in 21 century Britain. Despite his experiences, Grant is optimistic that he can contribute to changing people’s understanding of dwarfism. Steve Hynd caught up with him to find out more.

For many readers the term ‘dwarf’ is one they are not familiar with. I know some people are nervous about using it, afraid that it is derogatory. Can you tell us what the word means to you?

I personally much prefer the term ‘dwarf’ as opposed to others like ‘midget’, which many dwarfs I know find offensive. But, for me – and this is where the whole idea of political correctness becomes redundant – what’s more important are the intentions behind the terms used.

People can be ‘politically correct’ but employ such words with malicious intent; others may use quite derogatory terms without any idea or intention of insulting or hurting a person. It all depends on the way such terms are framed.

Can you tell us a little about why you set up EveryDayDwarfism?

The aim behind EveryDayDwarfism is to document and present just some of the things that I – and my partner who also has dwarfism – go through during our day or week. Its purpose is to try to make people just that little bit more aware as to the things we encounter as dwarfs.

A lot of what we experience, I would put down to stigma and discrimination still being relatively acceptable to lots of people. The whole tone of the site is not supposed to be angry or ‘martyr-ish’, but relatively neutral, matter-of-fact and informative.

It’s to say: ‘these things happen, quite regularly. I just wanted you to know’.

Within the EveryDaySexism movement, there is a strong feeling of finally ‘shouting back’. Within EveryDayDwarfism it also feels like there is quite a lot of rage, is this an important element of responding to discrimination?

It depends what you mean by rage. Rage is very important but it needs to be channelled in the right way and used very carefully.

Leaving out abuse in the form of physical violence, I think when responding to discrimination it’s vital to ask oneself: ‘what is it that I want to achieve here?’ and, more importantly, ‘how will I get this person to change the way they think and act towards me and others like me’.

Can you tell us a bit about how you coped with the attention and discrimination before you started chronicling it on EveryDayDwarfism?

It really depends on two things: the type of abuse, attention or discrimination, and the intentions behind it.

Some abuse – e.g. an individual shouting insults from a moving car – is best left ignored. What can you achieve when they’re 100 metres down the road by the time they’ve finished their sentence?

Others – the attention from a small child for example – is normally fine; although, as I wrote on the site, it’s often the reaction – or lack thereof – from the parents that is the most frustrating thing.

Some abuse though might manifest itself in the form of totally unprovoked physical violence or confrontation.

Have you been in contact with other dwarfs, how do they feel about EveryDayDwarfism? Do others relate to your experiences?

It’s very important that people don’t think that EveryDayDwarfism or my own experiences reflect those of other dwarfs; I can’t speak for them. Not even my partner.

However, I do know that lots of people like me experience such things – sometimes less so, sometimes more so.

If you had one message to the metaphorical guy in the street who tries to take a photo of you with his phone, what would it be?

Just stop, for a moment, and think: What are you doing? Why are you doing this? Why would you or your friends find that photo or film to be of any value or interest? What does that say about your character, as an adult, and how you think about and respond to people who are different? What if I was your brother, son or cousin? How would you see it then?

A bit of a long message!

You wrote for the Guardian about the portrayal of dwarfs in the media, do you see EveryDayDwarfism as an effort to counter some of that through the illustration of agency?

Not really, no. Sadly, but also deliberately, EveryDayDwarfism documents some of the negative things that happen. And in this way, there is a negative tone to the blog.

What I was trying to say in the article you mention was that there needs to be more boring, regular, neutral representation of dwarfism in the media – weather reporters, Masterchef contestants, Question Time panelists, kids on CBBC – whatever.

Basically, more portrayals of dwarfism that do not limit that person’s identity to ‘a dwarf’ but reflects what they really are: a citizen, a parent, a doctor or lawyer, a voter, someone with views, ideas, etc.

What has been the reaction of family and friends to EveryDayDwarfism, are they shocked to hear of such day-to-day encounters?

It was actually as a result of encouragement from friends to set up EveryDayDwarfism that I did.

Often friends have no idea of the things that I – and lots of others like me – encounter on a daily, weekly, monthly basis. Some have even been in situations with me when there has been abuse or something happen. Quite often, they are absolutely shocked at the way some people behave. It’s not a question of going looking for abuse or discrimination – that’s not a productive or positive way to live – it’s that, a lot of the time, this stuff finds you – seeks you out, interrupts your day, your evening, when you’re just trying to live your life. And that’s what I wanted people to realise.

www.everydaydwarfism.tumblr.com/
www.twitter.com/aneverydaydwarf

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Tagged as Dwarf, Eugene Grant, EveryDayDwarfism, Interview, Steve Hynd

June 6, 2013 · 11:00 am

The whispered words of Musa Okwonga

Part of what I do at Hynd’s blog is to try and draw to people’s attention the people, poetry and issues that are important to me.

I am fully aware how limited this platform, Hynd’s Blog, is. But still, I keep adding to this platform because if you do not dare to whisper out loud the things that are important to you, they will never be heard.

Someone who whispers with more wisdom and wit than I could ever imagine mustering is the poet and journalist, Musa Okwonga. Musa has unwittingly been on-going source of inspiration to me over the last few years.

He has a turn of phrase unmatched and yet, inexplicably, he is yet to become a household name.

Let me give you a few examples of why I think he deserves to be huge:

I spend a lot of my time trying to articulate the blight of racism in football. I struggle though, constantly, to put into words the human stories that football projects without losing the impact and influence the game holds.

In response to Roberto Carlos’ decision to walk off a pitch after a banana was thrown at him; Musa articulated these imagined thoughts of Roberto in the first person:

“I am a man first, and a footballer second. I am a grown man, not an animal, and I am not a creature on display for your entertainment. You have come to a stadium, to watch human beings play football. This is my place of work, and if you will treat it like a zoo, I will show that this pitch is not a cage, and I will leave it.”

And thus he treads that fine line that I so often miss.

A second example: Whenever I dare to whisper out loud about something personal to me such as my family or my partner I instantly clam up with dread. Exposing yourself on the internet’s oh so very social platforms, is something that I think people under-estimate. Just as standing on a stage to perform takes admirable courage, so I also think, writing about personal issues online does.

Musa, in an ever self-effacing way, manages to both perform and write about the most personal of issues with a confidence and coherence I cannot help but to admire. Here I would urge you to watch his performance of his poem, ‘Passport’.

But, it is when he integrates this personal with the overtly political does he really come into his own.

At this point, I would urge you to watch his performance of his poem, ‘Love versus Homophobia’. It is an articulate outpouring of anger at the ambivalence, arrogance and anger that some people hold for his understanding of love.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think the Vatican will be playing this on loop. Nor do I think the US or UK government’s will be listening to his latest poem, ‘Monotony’. But I leave you with this because, he has dared to whisper these words out loud not knowing who will hear them. All I can do is echo them and ask you to do the same.

This is our monotony:
They bring the most hateful of rainfalls,
And don’t make apologies:
They send storms from the jaws of a drone
To slay those who’d take the USA off its throne –
So each day, we’re preparing for rain;
For these drops not of water
But rage;
Wait –
All you’ll hear is the hum as they’re closing
A teenaged male isn’t safe in the open –
So we’ve taught them to run,
Our daughters and sons –
Taught them something most terrible:
That here in Yemen, it is never wise
To gaze up and daydream into our own skies:
This is –
The only way, we are told;
That’s not so bad as it goes:
No:
Shattered bone,
Shattered hope,
Shattered homes,
We all raise our eyes at the drones –
And so:
In many decades, our youth will explain
Why, when about town, they still walk with necks craned

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May 6, 2013 · 10:10 am

The State of Play: Education in Uganda

This is a guest post by Anya Whiteside who is the Education Advocacy Officer at the Forum for Education NGOs in Uganda (FENU). She is also my partner and her blog can be found here.

Back in 1997 Uganda was proud to lead the way in the provision of universal primary education. Enrollment boomed from just 2.5 to 8.8 million and this was seen by many as a major success.

Despite this seemingly rosy picture, Uganda is a clear example of how focus on access to education alone is not the be all and end all and is not the same as a good education.

It is generally recognised that in Uganda education is in crisis, a crisis that needs urgent action.

Although enrollment has remained high the drop-out rates in Uganda are also high. Uganda’s completion rates in primary education are only 25%. This is compared to 84% in Kenya, 81% in Tanzania and 74% in Rwanda.

Even for the minority of children who stay in school in Uganda the picture is not much better. A report recently released by the government confirms what teachers, politicians, parents and children already know; that even children who stay in school are not learning.

The NAPE report states that for P6 pupils who are at the end of primary school, only 45% of them have reached proficiency in numeracy and only 41% in literacy. As the report starkly puts it ‘less than a half of the P6 pupils have mastered most of the competencies in the P6 curriculum’.

Most worrying of all the results show that education results aren’t improving, and are worse than the results in 2009.

There is not doubt that Ugandan education faces many challenges. Uganda has the second youngest population in the world with 55% of the population under 18 years. When universal primary education was introduced children flooded in to access ‘free’ education with schools and teachers overwhelmed. There are no-where near enough teachers, classrooms, books or sanitation facilities to teach all these children.

It is not uncommon to have teachers attempting to teach classes of over 100 and children taking it in turns to use a pencil. Children often come to school without lunch and so are sat all afternoon hungrily waiting for the end of the day.

But political will is also an important element in this. The percentage share of the Uganda national budget dedicated to education has fallen from 17% in 2007/8 to 15% for 2013/14.

This situation is likely to only get worse after aid donors pulled out after allegations of corruption by the prime ministers office, leaving sizable holes in the education budget.

Funding to government primary schools comes in the form of a grant given per child, per year to each school. On average this is 5,000 Ush (about £1.25) per child per year, so it is unsurprising schools charge parents significant, often unaffordable extras for books and uniforms.

Unlike other countries, where even if they are not paid enough teachers are afforded at least some degree of respect in the local community, in Uganda teachers are considered socially at the bottom of the pile. In government primary schools teachers are paid an average of 260,000Ush a term (£65 a term).

To give you some context, VSO gives me a stipend of 895,000Ush (£223) a month which is meant to cover my basic living costs, excluding accommodation. So you can see that being a teacher is not exactly economically desirable.

When you add to that the appalling delays that teachers experience, waiting months for their salaries due to inefficiencies, it is unsurprising that teachers often don’t turn up or have additional jobs on the side.

Teachers are also not given good training and the style of teaching is extremely reliant on teaching by rote. A colleague of mine told me how she sat in on a teacher training course where the lecturer, with no irony, started by saying ‘in teaching the most important thing is to be interactive and not just talk at students’ and then proceeded to talk at the teachers for several hours.

Teachers are rarely, if ever, inspected and there is little support or ongoing training. On top of this they are blamed consistently for the poor state of education in Uganda – no wonder no one wants to be a teacher!

So is there any hope for education in Uganda?

I would argue that there is, based on all the people I have met who are dedicated to improving education. Everyone knows what the problems in education are and the buzz-word at the moment is ‘quality’ education.

The organisation I work for (FENU) helped to set up the new ‘Parliamentary forum on quality education’. A few weeks ago FENU coordinated the first ever ‘Quality Public Education Week’ which saw Anglican, Catholic and Islamic leaders (70% of schools are linked to religious institutions) come together with trade unionists and politicians. This focus on quality is important, especially as it moves away from only focusing on getting more children into school and also looks at the education those children are receiving.

There are so many different challenges to education here, and I haven’t even touched on child labour, gender inequalities, capital punishment, secondary schooling or vocational training.

Nonetheless there are inspiring people working for change, and no end to the children keen to learn if they are only given the opportunity to do so.

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Tagged as Anya Whiteside blog, Education in Uganda, education rates in Uganda, FENU, stats

March 10, 2013 · 12:26 pm

Intervening in New Delhi for International Women’s Day

This is a guest post by Angelique Mulholland. Angelique is a tireless human rights campaigner, articulate social commentator and a very good friend of mine. Please read, comment and share.

As part of my trip around Asia to find out more about women’s human rights at ground level, I have spent a week in New Delhi in the lead up to the big event in every activists’ calendar- International Women’s Day.

Within 72 hours of arriving in New Delhi, I was sexually harassed twice, both times on the Metro. With the “New Delhi gang rape” fresh in my mind, I can honestly tell you, I have felt a number of extreme emotions over this past week. Fear and anger are just two of them.

Both times, I said nothing to these men who presumed they had a right to touch me without my permission. In your head, when you imagine this happening to you, you always think you’ll fight back and give them hell. But in the reality of harassment – it doesn’t always work that way.

I am fortunate though. I am fortunate because all week I have been working for a human rights charity called Breakthrough. They understand better than anyone why it can be hard for the victim to speak up. That’s why they encourage intervention from others; both men and women. Their most successful campaign here in India is called “Bell Bajao” which in Hindi means “Ring the Bell”.

India’s biggest women’s human rights problem is not in public spaces, it’s actually in the home. The objective of the campaign is clear and effective; if you hear a woman being subjected to violence next door, then “Bell Bajao.” Get up, go next door and #RingTheBell. Intervene. Stand up for that woman. Here is one of the powerful videos, created by Breakthrough which shows how the people of India can do just that.

As I have learnt, intervening is an extremely important part of ending violence and harassment against women. Why? Because very often it is too difficult for the victims of violations just to speak out for themselves.

Why is it so hard to speak out? Why did I say nothing to these men?

I said nothing because I was shocked – beyond belief – both times. You may think I would have been prepared after all the reading I had done on the daily harassment that many women face in New Delhi – but no – I assure you, nothing prepares you for a man grabbing your breast when you innocently get off at your stop, or a man pushing himself up against you after he glimpses your shoulder when your top slips down by accident. Nothing prepares you for either of these things and shock is definitely the first emotion.

I said nothing because I was scared of the repercussions. I estimate that there is a ratio of 100 men to 1 women on the streets of Delhi. If I had shouted at either of these guys on the train, would the other men have stood up for me? Would they have laughed? Would they have understood? Would I have put myself in more danger? Would they have given a shit? I don’t know. I really don’t know…

I hope that Breakthough’s new campaign “One million men, One million promises” will galvanize men into standing up and intervening. The campaign aims to get men in India and around the world to make a promise to stand up for women’s human rights. Make a promise to intervene if they see a woman being harassed. Make a promise to tell other men who are behaving inappropriately to start behaving appropriately and with respect. Putting it simply, it’s about getting the good guys, and there are so many of them, to stand up and tell the bad guys where to go…

“One Million Men, One Million Promises” was launched on International Women’s Day at the British High Commission in New Delhi. I was there and tweeting with the digital team. Please do follow both @LeakyM and the Twitter account for the event which is @bell_bajao for updates. The hash tag is #RingTheBell.

For the women of India who are harassed and subjected to violence on a daily basis – I ask you to join the campaign and make your promise to help end this.

http://breakthrough.tv/ringthebell/

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Tagged as Angelique Mulholland, Delhi rape, Delhi sexual assault, Human rights, International Womens Day Delhi

February 20, 2013 · 8:16 am

An unemployed mother, 11 children and a council ‘eco-mansion’ – the true cost to society

My home village, Churchdown, has become the centre of a media storm. Blowing in from middle England this storm is causing lasting damage. Not just to Britain’s poorest families but to each and every one of us.

Just round the corner from the Hare and Hounds in Churchdown, one of my old haunts, lives Heather Frost. Heather is unemployed and is currently living in temporary council accommodation with her 11 children.

Cue the tabloid hysteria…

The Sun reports “A JOBLESS mum on benefits is having a £400,000 council house built for her — and her brood of ELEVEN children”

The Daily Mail goes with, “mother of 11 to get six-bedroom eco-house after moaning her TWO council homes are cramped”

While The Express analysed the events saying, “The result has instead been to create powerful incentives for irresponsible people to bring into the world very large numbers of children they cannot possibly support”

I am not here to argue the morality of having 11 children, but to comment on the media storm surrounding this story.

I hope to show how it’s inaccuracies and how it causes lasting damage not just to some of the poorest in our society but to each and every one of us.

So where to start in this quagmire of misinformation?

Virtually all media reporting of the story goes to great length to try and generalise Heather’s quite extraordinary story into an attack on our benefits system in general. The Daily Mail reports that there are over 190 families with more than 10 children and this is costing us, the taxpayer, over £11 million a year.

Of course, what the Mail describes is a fraction of the overall benefits system. These 190 households sit alongside 1.35 million other households where at least one parent claims an out of work benefit.

Ally Fogg in the Guardian points out that the £11 million that these families receive, constitutes less than one hundredth of 1% of the total benefits bill of £100bn (excluding pensions).

The cost to us…the taxpayer? Small change.

The Express tries to score come political points with it’s analysis that we now have a ‘powerful incentive’ for people to have more children.

This ‘powerful incentive’ the Express describes is referring to child benefit. This currently stands at just £20.30 a week for your first child and then an additional £13.40 a week for any further children you have.

To put this into context. Krishna News in Churchdown paid me more money per week for doing a paper round than Heather Frost gets for each of her additional children.

Additionally, two of her children are between 16 and 20 so she would only receive child benefit if they are still in full time education. Her oldest child is now 21 so is not eligible for child benefit.

Who needs facts when you write for the Express though? Little inconvenient facts like the average reproduction rate of 1.9 children for families on benefit. The almost identical reproduction rate to those not on benefits.

If there is a ‘powerful incentive’ to have children on benefits (which there isn’t) then those on benefits have yet to spot it.

Ah, but she is having a brand new £400,000 house built for her and her ‘brood’ The Sun reports. Well, keep reading and in paragraph 7 of that same story it explains how Tewksbury Council could afford this. It states, “Tewkesbury Borough Council sold a plot of land…to Severn Vale Housing association…A condition of the sale was that one of the 15 affordable properties they built on the site would be a six-bedroom home”.

The penny drops. When The Sun quotes Robert Oxley from the TaxPayers Alliance saying, “It’s scandalous that so much time and money is being spent on one custom-built house” he doesn’t actually say whether or not it is ‘tax payer’s money’ that is being spent.

These stories fuel a hatred for some of the poorest families in Britain. Regardless of how many times tabloids but the word ‘struggling’ mockingly in inverted commas, it won’t effect the fact that 1 in 5 Brits live in poverty and are struggling.

These stories though act as smokescreens. They force us to focus on how the poor are costing us rather than how poverty is costing all of us.

As we worry about the £11 million being spent on people with large families we learn to ignore the £25 billion that child poverty is costing the UK every year.

The people who suffer? Not just the 4.5 million at risk of homelessness who are currently on the housing waiting list or the 3.6 million children that are living in poverty in the UK.

In times of austerity, this media storm is costing all of us.

UPDATE: New Research out today suggest that in many UK cities over 40% of kids live in poverty.

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Filed under Gloucestershire, Homelessness, Politics, Social comment

Tagged as Churchdown, council house cost, Heather Frost, mumwith 11 children

February 19, 2013 · 5:48 am

The removal of ‘insulting’ from Public Order Act is a victory for free speech

This article was written for Left Foot Forward.

MPs have confirmed that the word ‘insulting’ will be removed from Section 5 of the Public Order Act 1986.

This is a major victory for an unlikely alliance of free speech campaigners including The Christian Institute, The National Secular Society and Rowan Atkinson.

Last month the home secretary Theresa May announced that the government was ‘not minded‘ to challenge a House of Lords amendment removing the word ‘insulting’ from Section 5 of the Public Order Act.

In the past Section 5 had been used against street preachers ‘insulting’ homosexuals and LGBT activists ‘insulting’ religious groups.

As Rowan Atkinson commented, “The clear problem of the outlawing of insult is that too many things can be interpreted as such. Criticism, ridicule, sarcasm, merely stating an alternative point of view to the orthodoxy, can be interpreted as insult”

This change in law is a victory for freedom of speech in the UK.

There remains, however, an important limiting role for the law to play. That role is to provide protection to those who are victims of threatening or abusive behaviour.

In 2011 I blogged saying that, “We all hold the right to live without fear or intimidation. This has to be legally separated, however, from being ‘insulted”.

The distinction has finally been acknowledged by the government and the change in the law later in the year is now just a formality.

It is worth noting, though, that even with this change in law, the discussion about what constitutes threatening behaviour compared to ‘insulting’ behaviour will remain. There is a considerable grey area around what the law should interpret to be ‘threatening’ and what it should view as merely ‘insulting’.

For example, ‘My Tram Experience’ – a video showing a vile torrent of racist abuse on a south London tram – sparked two very different interpretations.

I thought her behaviour was threatening and therefore called for her arrest, while bloggerSunny Hundal argued that she was simply being insulting.

With the change in law however, the police are some way towards having a clear distinction to follow. We are no longer asking them to be the judge of what behaviour is deemed ‘insulting’, at least.

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Filed under Celebrity, Human rights, Media, Politics, Social comment

Tagged as Human rights, insulting, is it illegal to insult someone, Left Foot Forward, Public Order Act 1986, Section 5, Steve Hynd, Sunny Hundal

July 3, 2012 · 4:32 pm

A British identity crisis in Palestine

Sat side by side, 7 internationals looked on into a dimly lit room. Four swedes, one Norwegian and two Brits huddled together on a worn out sofa that was creaking under the collective weight. Our host, Ahmed Jaber welcomed us into his house which was due for demolition any time in the coming days. He was anxious and he eyes darted between us. As is customary he started by asking his guests to introduce themselves:

Swede 1: “My name is Alex, I am from Sweden”
Ahmed: “You are welcome and thank you for everything you and your country is doing”
Swede 2: “My name is” etc etc
Ahmed: (laughing) “Your country does so much, they send many people”

The perceived comedy in this situation is amplified as a third and then fourth person introduce themselves as Swedish. Eventually though the introductions moved on:

Norwegian: “My name is Helene and I am from Norway”
Ahmed: “You are welcome and thank you for all that your country has done – apart from Oslo of course” (Cue a little bit more laughter)
Me: “My name is Steve and I am from Britain”
Ahmed: “Oh” (awkward silence) “You know this is all your fault, do you know about Balfour”

I smiled, nodded and let the proceeding silence, accompanied as it was with a wee bit of awkwardness fill the room.

This awkward “you know it is all the British fault” moment wasn’t a new experience for me. Believe or not, a couple of centuries of imperialistic foreign policy have left some less than positive impressions around the world. Almost a century later most Palestinians have not forgiven our then Foreign Secretary, Lord Balfour, for offering Zionists a homeland in what was then British Mandate Palestine.

What makes the Israel/Palestine conflict different though is that both sides seem to hate the British – our history does not lend itself to friendship with either side.

Things could be worse though, I could be German. A German colleague I worked closely with regularly had the uncomfortable situation of being told by Palestinians, “I love Germany, Hitler was great but he should have finished the job”. How do you respond to that? On occasion I responded saying, “please don’t joke about such things” knowing all too well that many were not joking.

These experiences left me with a minor identity crisis. Was I English, British, White, Christian, European or what? I tried a couple of times, “my name is Steve and I am from the people’s free republic of Gloucestershire” but this was invariably met with a look of confusion.

The problem is that I don’t feel very “British” – I have little or no connection with 50% of Britain (Wales and Northern Ireland). My father’s Scottish and I have a ginger beard as a result, but I don’t feel very Scottish. Yet, in many ways I have more in common with my Scottish family than I do with most people living in England. This is without starting on the sociological question of what makes someone “English/Scottish/British”.

I don’t have anything in common with Balfour other than the fact that we were born on the same Island. This connection, nearly a century later, is enough to define my relationship with a Palestinian man whose house was about to be knocked down by the “Israeli Defence Force”. Somewhere in this anecdote there is all the material you need for illustrating just how mad the concept of nationalism is.

Throughout the meeting with Ahmed I sensed hostility towards me. I might have been being over sensitive but I know from experience that the hatred of the role Britain played in Palestine’s history is part of the modern national psyche. Ahmed’s darting eyes spent the rest of the meeting occasionally fixing themselves on others in the room, but interestingly never me.

My name is Steve, I was born in Gloucester hospital, I like cups of tea and walks in the countryside. If this makes me English/British then so be it but I don’t feel it.

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Tagged as Britain in Palestine, British Identity, England, Palestine

May 17, 2012 · 2:18 pm

24 hours in Hebron

18:00 I arrived in Hebron repeating the simple instruction over in my head “get out of the bus at Happy Bunny Restaurant”. However many times I said it in my head I just couldn’t quite bring myself to mutter these words out loud. Inevitably the time came when the driver turns and questions, “where”? I respond, “Err…Happy…Bunny…restaurant”. He beams a smile, “of course”. I am whisked to my destination and my nights’ accommodation (a house close to the restaurant, not the restaurant itself).

22:00 Stood in the centre of the closed part of the old city in Hebron I look at some 3,000 year old remains of ‘ancient Hebron’. It looks like rocks to me, but I will concede that they look like slightly more useful rocks than the really old ones by my house in the UK (Stonehenge).

We are stood a few meters from one of the settlements in the middle of Hebron and just down the road from a Israeli family who are due to be evicted in the coming weeks (tensions are high). A soldier approaches us and asks where we are going and before I can answer looks over his shoulder and says, “oh the cave”? (or it could have been “grave”, I wasn’t sure). I, possibly foolishly, replied “yeah the crave” (hedging my bets between a cave and a grave). He then radio’s in to see if it is ok for us to go and look at the cave/grave.

After a few minutes of the soldiers having a ‘boy competition’ (defined universally as making a competition out of something that really shouldn’t be a competition, eg – hitting a balloon to each other becomes “can we hit it to each other 100 times with just our left hand” or in this case “who can shine their lazer on their rifles the furthest”) they decide that it is OK to go look at the cave/grave. We smile and walk to the dead end.

25 meters up the road and we see 6 soldiers waiting outside a military base next to the before mentioned settlement. I tried to casually scan where I was as if I of course know exactly where the cave/grave is. One soldier nods his head towards the far corner. Two options present themselves, the first is the military base and the second is a Palestinian families house. My colleague takes control and walks confidently into the Palestinian house where she knows the family. We stop and say our hellos to the family and ask about this cave/grave…apparently it is where someone from the old testament is buried and it is inside the military base. I leave the house still not sure if it is a cave or a grave but figured I had bigger fish to fry. I didn’t have the nerve or inclination to walk back out onto the street so we slump off down the path at the back of the house.

If nothing else it is nice to see the IDF trust us enough to enter into a military base unaccompanied at ten o’clock at night.

On the way home we see three Palestinians being held up at the checkpoint at the top of Shuhada Street. We stop and monitor the situation. If they are held for over 20 minutes we call the Temporary International Presence in Hebron (TIPH) for support before calling the ICRC. Inevitably the soldiers releases the men after 18 minutes. As we pass the soldiers there is an awkward acknowledgement that these were the same soldiers who had just given us permission to enter their base to see the cave/grave. I try to keep it nice and ask “is it ok to go into the ‘crave’ anytime”?. The soldier looks at me alarmed, “you want to go into the grave”?

23:00 – I fall asleep under a purple Disney duvet.

08:00 – We are up at the crack of sparrows to meet a German delegation who want to be shown around Hebron. I stay mainly quiet as my colleague waxes lyrical about Hebron in what I felt to be an impressively neutral manner. We show them around the mainly closed and divided parts of Hebron. There is one street divided by concrete bollards less than a meter high where Palestinians walk one side and Israelis the other. I wondered what on earth this form of division had to do with security.

12:30 – After everything that could be said about Hebron has been said we left the German’s to make their way pass a checkpoint into the old souq. I see at least three of them tut at the soldier on the way past. I make a conscious note that I need to work on my middle class indignation.

13:00 – I see a character walking towards me down Shuhada Street. He looks Israeli, but doesn’t look like one of the settlers living in Hebron (he’s smiling to start with). My inner suspicions are aroused though when he asks where we have just been. I pull out the leaflet I picked up by Abrahams grave (although interestingly he was also meant to have been buried in a ‘cave’ – all very confusing) and thrust it into his hands. Triumphant in the fact that I had not only been to a tourist hot spot but I had proof that I had been into the “Jewish half” of the mosque/synagogue/holy site (don’t ask…Jews and Muslims go in separate doors and can see the same grave/cave but from different sides and are separated by bullet proof glass). He looks at it and mutters he hasn’t been there yet. I am a little disappointed but crack on with conversation.

He turns out to be called Michael and lives just to the South of Tel Aviv. Apart from being a bloody nice guy he also enjoyed liberally sprinkling in words like ‘Plato’ and ‘Power Dynamics’ into conversation. In other words, he was my sort of chap. He described himself as “on the left” of Israeli politics before he rubbished the very concept of ‘left and right politics’ in Israel. He was passionately ‘Jewish’ (and trust me when I say we didn’t use this term lightly, about half of our conversation was on how to define ‘being Jewish’) and to say he was well read was an understatement. About three hours of conversation in the heat of the day later we decide to go and grab some food…he chooses the Gutnick Centre (a Jewish cafe and community centre in the centre of Hebron that is known to the International community as being ‘pro-settlers’).

On the way to lunch Michael wants to walk on the ‘Palestinian side’ of the divided street. I am interested to see what happens so don’t stop him. When we get to the soldier at the top, the soldier tells him he is “lucky to escape with his life”. Michael smiles and we go and drink coffee with some ‘dangerous’ Palestinian shop keepers. We take off our EAPPI jackets in the shop and leave them there before going into the Gutnick centre. This was to avoid provocation but we are also not allowed in wearing the vests. Dangerous pacifist peace workers? We sit down on a table opposite some soldiers and have a nice lunch.

Sometimes the word ‘surreal’ just doesn’t quite cover it.

16:30 We walk together after lunch and are about to say our goodbyes to Michael when in the distance we spot two soldiers who were completely covered in white paint. They stride past a ‘normal’ soldier who tries to stop them. The ‘white soldier’ tells him to “check with command, this operation is cleared”. I had no idea what was going on. A soldier stood with the ‘white soldiers’ turns to me and says, “it’s art…it is up to you how you interpret it”. I liked the idea and so walked with a growing crowd of both Palestinians and Israelis. The soldier now turns to me and asks if I have ever been to Jayyus, I say “yes”. He gets his phone out and shows me a picture of myself from one of the day time raids of the village I used to be based in. He smiles and clearly thinks this situation is hilarious. He asks as if reuniting with an old school mate, “how you been keeping dude”? I smile, “yeah good cheers”.

By this point we have walked to the outskirts of one of the settlements. I ask the soldier if it is ok for us to be there and the soldier and Michael respond in unison “of course”. The ‘white soldiers’ are now pretending to search a playground and I watch on in fascination. This was not something I had expected from Hebron but I was enjoying myself.

In a split second however this whole jubilant atmosphere was shattered by the one and only Anat Cohen – a notoriously aggressive settler. She came out of a house and started screaming at me (ignoring the Israelis I was with) and stamping on my ankles. As she screamed at me I felt flecks of her saliva land on my face. I consciously decide not to wipe it off because I don’t want to be accused of ‘raising my hand’. I looked over her tiny angry shoulders to the soldier looking on. He gives me a comic shrug and looks helpless. I say it is OK, and we will go. The four of us (three internationals and Michael) walk off. She (Anat Cohen) follows me pushing me in my back and shouting. The soldier walks on behind and signals to his colleague in the distance to come. The new soldier asks, “did you do anything”? I smiled and said “of course not”. The soldier tuts a knowing tut and we walk for another 200 meters with Anat Cohen following me stamping on my ankles and screaming at me. While the soldier does nothing. When we stop to enter into a ‘Palestinian only’ part of town we finally say goodbye to Michael and Anat Cohen stares at us both and takes our photos.

I feel really sad that someone could feel that much anger and hatred to a stranger that she has never met or spoken to. I feel worse though for anyone that has to put up with her day in day out.

Michael, the soldier, Anat Cohen, the history, the conflict, the division…all just 24 hours in Hebron.

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Tagged as Anat Cohen, EAPPI, Hebron, Human rights, IDF art, settlements in Hebron, White soldiers in Hebron

April 3, 2012 · 4:01 pm

Crossing the separation barrier daily – one day honey, one day onions

Stood squinting into the early morning sun a young Israeli soldier leans against the heavy metal gate that is separating the two of us and sighs. The gate is padlocked closed for what he had described to me earlier as ‘security concerns’. The soldier looks tired, worn down and wanting nothing more than a sit down. Instead he is stood talking to me. I ask him (again) why it is taking so long for the workers to pass through the agricultural gate this morning. He answers me in elaborate, almost performed Arabic, “yaum ‘asal, yaum basal” – “One day honey, one day onions”. He stares at me and meets my eye for as long as the strengthening sun will allow before retreating back to the solitude of the shade.

For the two hours preceding this conversation I had been stood watching frustrated agricultural workers waiting to cross the separation barrier to access their own farmland. The separation barrier is built predominantly through the middle of Palestinian farm land and as such was ruled to be illegal by The International Court of Justice at The Hague (in 2004).

The men are grouped in small circles, one circle lit a small fire out of rubbish and wood they have collected. Others are pacing the width of the road promenading up and down discussing the matters of the world. Others however wait with less patience.

All of the men hand in their permits to one Palestinian who has the unofficial job of keeping the peace and trying to organise what order people will pass in. The men pass in groups of 5 past the first turnstile before entering into a cabin where there papers are checked for what seems like an impossibly long time. One man who was waiting (patiently) nodded to the Palestinian holding the pile of permits and said, ‘He plays cards with those permits. You never know if you will wait 10 minutes or 2 hours”. I asked if there was any favouritism and the man responds, “it is good if we are friends”.

The first few groups of Palestinians emerge from the far side of the checkpoint and go their separate ways to their small plots of land. I look up sporadically to see what the soldiers are doing. There are normally four on duty that I can see (one to check vehicles, 2 to ‘control the crowd’ and one to stand their pointing his gun at people – or this is what I have deduced from previous times). Soldier one (who in previous groups has made an effort to look menacing) is stood in a concrete pillar box resting his chin on his semi-automatic weapon making little effort to keep his eyes open. The second (there to check vehicles) is sitting with feet up on what I have seen in the past used as a second inspection point (which doubles the speed of transit for the workers trying to cross). The final two spend most of their time talking but occasionally tell the men waiting to take a step or two back.

The four soldiers barely look up as a small fist fight breaks out over what I presumed to be a disagreement about who got to pass through the checkpoint next. The soldiers take a couple of steps closer but allow the men waiting to sort themselves out. One of the Palestinians around the fire looks up and sucks air in through his teeth. For the majority of men waiting, they stand patiently looking out at their land to the west. Staring back at them are the soldiers who wait patiently as the minuets left on their shift slip away.

What was notable about this gate monitoring was the lack of anything specific happening. The Palestinians were not tear gassed nor were the soldiers pelted with stones. There was however a low level lack of respect that materialised itself in different forms depending on what side of the locked gate you were stood. There was a understood sub-text that they were not going to make life easy for each other. This is where the power dynamics shine through.

I noticed the Palestinian men would often pretend not to hear the soldiers when they were giving orders or would take a long time to move when they were asked. The response from the soldiers is no less petty but has far more serious repercussions. As I mentioned the power dynamics between the occupied and the occupiers is not equal.

To illustrate, as the workers leave the cabin where there permits are checked the soldiers normally wave on the next group of five men through the turnstile. Today, for no explicable reasons, they waited until the workers were well clear of the gate before allowing others to come forward. This wasted crucial minuets and added to the feeling of frustration.

These small actions (or sometimes lack of actions) meant that at the end of the two hours (the gates opening times) there were over 50 men (and 40 sheep) still waiting to pass when I left the gate at 9:00am. This has serious repercussions on those who do not make it through (loss of income in a desperately poor society). I have monitored this gate many times before and have seen that proactive friendly soldiers can ensure that all men (and animals) pass through without problem and with minimal delay. Today the soldiers did their jobs, but with the minimal possible effort you can imagine.

The tired soldier at the end said that one day is like honey, while another is like onions. He made this comment with a certain fatalistic edge to his voice. What today has taught me is that if some days are like honey while others are like onions as the soldier suggests, then it is because of his choosing. Soldiers (often young conscripts) have an extraordinary amount of power and control over ordinary people’s lives. For the men who have to wake in the early hours of the morning clutching their permits to pass to their own land, days are rarely like honey.

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Tagged as EAPPI, Habla Gate, Human rights, Israel, Palestine, permits, Qalqiliya, separation barrier, Soldiers

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