The Insight Fellowship

Life following my return from India was quite busy and stressful. I got caught up in looking for a job, going to interviews, and endlessly networking, as well as working as a restaurant hostess and part-time in my father's office. Finally at the end of March, I somehow got my *dream* job: a 2007 Insight Fellowship :)

The Insight Fellowship is a year-long fellowship program sponsored by the Insight Collaborative, a non-profit mediation, training, and consulting firm. The program is designed for young professionals in the field of conflict management and its purpose is to study and promote effective conflict management, make international humanitarian contributions, and pursue personal development. The fellowship year is split up into four three-month long placements: one in Boston, one at the International Criminal Court in The Hague, and the other two are decided by the Fellows according to our interests and respective research themes (see below for a more official explanation). At this point, my year looks like this: summer in Boston, fall in The Hague, winter in Thailand and spring in Lebanon.

Over the course of the fellowship year, as part of the 'self-development' aspect of the fellowship, I will be posting weekly journals and pictures on the Insight website (as well as here on my personal blog) so you can follow my experiences of living and working abroad.

=======================

Official explanation of the Fellowship:

The Insight Fellowship Program was created in 2005 to foster a community of global-minded individuals prepared to manage conflict effectively and contribute to their local, national, and international communities. The Insight philosophy is that the ability to make positive contributions is a function of the quality of one’s communication skills, capacity for empathy, and self-understanding. To promote these qualities, one-year Insight Fellowships are awarded to exceptional individuals to:

* Study and promote effective conflict management;
* Make international humanitarian contributions; and
* Pursue self-reflection and personal development.

The Fellowship includes a $25,000 USD expense allowance to support multiple placements totaling one year, typically in three to four month blocks.
The first three-month placement is at the Boston offices of Insight Collaborative and its affiliate, Insight Partners. During this tenure in Boston, Fellows advance their understanding of the theory and practice of effective negotiation, communication, and mediation; meet pivotal figures in the field; attend workshops; receive personalized coaching; and see first-hand how international conflict management professionals operate in the academic, non-profit, and for-profit sectors.

Fellows will spend one three-month placement at the International Criminal Court in The Hague, subject to the Court’s permission. The remaining two placements of the Fellowship are divided into foreign placements proposed by the Fellow.

Sacred Cows and Beach Hippies

Maybe because it took us so long to get to Goa, my sister and I had high expectations for our time there: white sand beaches, turquoise waters, fresh seafood, a plethora of sports and activities, and a great nightlife. We were expecting a meeting place for like-minded socially conscious backpackers, an Indian Zanzibar. Perhaps we were misguided by our guidebook, or perhaps we misunderstood what Goa was all about, but we found almost none of the above. Instead, we were confronted with the grim and grimy town of Anjuna.

The streets of Anjuna are lined with small tourist-trap road shacks selling identical cheap crafts and clothing. Small herds of humpbacked cows crowd around palm trees, seeking refuge from the hot midday sun. The paths leading down to the beach are crowded with street kids begging and young men simultaneously catcalling and selling drugs. Once you finally make it onto the beach, the assault continues. Hawkers selling fruit, massages, henna, bags, and cheap sunglasses stake their claims over sections of the beach. I can imagine them having territorial disputes, “these are my white people!” History sometimes reverses itself, bizarrely leaving power dynamics intact.
Children swarm around and literally pull you into their respective shops. But any resistance to their pestering is met with wide-eyed pleading and promises of low prices. They actually grab your arm or hand, a disconcerting violation of personal space that makes me want to both slap them and adopt them and take them all home with me. I can tell my sister is struggling with these same issues, as she sits next to me furiously scribbling in her notebook.

Most of the other tourists on the beach are of the crunchy hippie variety: leathery tan skin, a smattering of tattoos and piercings, the occasional dreadlock. They lay on the sand, baked and baking in the sun, no doubt recovering from their acid trip at previous evening’s rave.


I am so turned off by this disingenuous "drink til you drop dead" scene (see sign above) that I seek out other activities. I can't stand the beach and all of those kids, so I want to avoid it altogether. Instead, we take the time to actually visit Goa. We explore the old Portuguese cities, which include highlights such as a mini replica of the St. Peter's Basilica and lots of brightly painted houses reminiscent of the Bo-Kaap neighborhood in Cape Town. I also drag my sister along to a couple of amazing 8am yoga classes, which leave us both feeling centered and happy, but incredibly sore a few hours later.

Despite the daily annoyances and unfilled expectations, I'm glad we went to Goa. Not only to be able to plant the little flag and say "I have been there," but also because it stirred up a lot of challenging questions about the clashes between privilege and poverty, the potential for socially conscious and environmentally sustainable tourism, and ultimately the responsibility of us as travelers and global citizens.

My sister's thoughts on India

A perspective from my sister and travel companion:

As a small toddler reaches out to me, with a stub as a substitute for his arm, begging for money, on the beaches of Anjuna, Goa, I feel a sudden urge to write. I have only been in India for four days now, but it feels like so much longer. Arriving in India was startling, to say the least. After having been picked up at the Kochi airport, I got my first taste of the culture, watching for an hour and a half, behind the tinted windows of the taxi, feeling rather safe and excluded. Underneath the enormous commercial billboards, portraying a dreamy life unknown to the villagers, laid the life of Kerala. Skinny men talking and walking slowly, with their button-down shirts and mundus, were surrounded by stray cows, dogs and the occasional elephants. No woman walked alone, but families and friends gathered onto motorcycles in the dangerous and crowded streets. Little stands and broken-down buildings had signs in front of them for all sorts of merchandise, but they were empty, at the exception of some lonely shelves and a wrinkled woman, hunched over on a chair, squinting at the bright light of the sun and tired of the slow business. The odor of burnt trash fills the air, as the dusty ground is littered everywhere and no garbages are in sight.
Such things I took for granted previously- why weren't there any waste baskets around? And why were so many buildings run down? These seemed like easy problems to fix and at first, I was shocked by their presence. I had prepared myself psychologically for poverty and hunger before I arrived, but did not realize that such problems entailed others, such as filth, and other more general aspects, such as the attitude of the people here. They are eager to jump on tourists and attract business, but are simultaneously discouraged and tired of sitting in the hot sun waiting for it. India has the highest rate of child labor in the world, and it was not visible at first, but only hit me on the beaches of Goa. A girl, no older than seven, tugged on my elbow and stared into my eyes: "Come to my shop. I have no expensive blankets for you. Come, you promiss?" And here I stood, privileged enough to travel so and study in college in the US, when she has already experienced the world of work, without having hit puberty, not even had the time to play and laugh. It is difficult to walk through these streets in India, watching such people, not only because of the life they lead, but due to the way they approach you. Unlike any other country I've visited, the people here touch you. They have no problem coming up to you, tugging on your clothes and following you, and most of the time, there are about three women or small children begging simultaneously. Seeing is enough- to have to feel it rub against you is atrocious. Additionally, everything is cheap: forty cents for a rickshaw across town, three dollars for a shirt, not more than ten dollars for dinner. No wonder they beg for more, and sometimes, as I bargain with a sly smile on my face and Eve at my side, I feel like I'm in the wrong: what right do I have to demand less? These people live life as a struggle, I live it as a luxury.

A little about the different places I've been: Kochi is a port, not the capital of the southern state of Kerala, but the second biggest city. A port, always filled with the smell of fresh fish and Kerala spices. Ancient Chinese fishing nets line up along the edge of the water, followed by stands selling the fish, and finally followed by restaurants. A major part of Kochi is called "Jew Town", the neighborhood in which basically the entire Jewish population of India is concentrated. There is not very much poverty in Kochi and in the surrounding parts, but the divide between the rich and the poor still remains obvious. This became clear as we passed a sumptuous mansion in a rickshaw and the driver revealed to us that it belonged to an old governmental figure. Eve, well-informed as usual, asked: "communist?" -"Yes, yes," he replied, without catching the irony of the situation. This divide is not the only one I've noticed: another is the divide between the beauty of India and its metaphorical filth. On one of the days we spent in Kerala, Eve and I first went to an elephant training camp (for religious or cultural events), where we were submerged into the countryside of Kerala, uncrowded and beautiful. Our next stop was mesmerizing: we visited waterfalls about three hours outside of Kochi. Not only was the drive into the mountains beautiful, but it was heavenly. The natural surroundings left me speechless; it is difficult to describe such beauty... let me just say that the "oneness" Buddhism searches for with nature is found here.

Our next destination, Goa, where I have been for only one night, is the party scene in India, but is far from a typical one. It is the smallest state in India, where I am reporting from, on the beach, on notepad papers taken from the bartender. Here, trance, all-night partying, and marijuana are king. There are as many locals as there are hippies. The beach is far from idyllic; the water is beige and the beach is rocky and noisy, but it does reflect the culture here. As a topless female tourist passes, I tisk: she should be more aware of the conservative culture that thrives here.
It is a fascinatingly intriguing one; marked by many different things. Genuine openness and hospitality is one of them. Men who are friends hold hands here when they walk together; it is such a delightful and pleasing sight. Another is the deep belief in a religion that prizes a sort of deep quiet and slow tranquility and oneness with body, soul and nature. But this is paired with an exuberance: mostly, the people are marked by bright smiles and colorful clothing. It is truly like nothing else I have ever seen, and as it is visible, it is very difficult to describe all the feelings I've had and everything I've seen since I've been here....
And it's only been four days. Yet, as I have said, it feels like months: I feel fully ingrained in the culture. Luckily, it has not been that long and I have much more time left to explore and discover.

A little detour

“I’m sorry but the plane is having problems. We’ll try to organize a flight in the morning, but you will have to stay here tonight. We have hotel for you.”
“No no no, you don’t know! I am very important person and I must get to Bangalore tonight!”
“Just shut up and get the hotel. People are waiting!”
“You don’t tell me to shut up! You don’t know who I am!”
“You don’t cut the line damn right!”

And so the comedic squabble proceeds as such. Argumentative Indians crowd around the desk at the humid and mosquito-infested Trivandrum airport, heads wobbling and voices raised. I feel like I’ve been caught in the middle of the famous “you kicked my dog” prank call and part of me is looking around for hidden cameras.
But this is no candid camera show. This is the reality of traveling in India. My sister and I are booked on a flight from Cochin to Bangalore, which, for some reason, stops over in Kerala’s capital of Trivandrum. Not only is it nearly 1,000km out of the way, we are missing our connecting flight to Goa and we’re stuck here overnight, if not longer. At first we are frustrated, we are tired and hungry and getting impatient with the general incompetence that seems to permeate the most basic interactions. However, after witnessing this entertaining scene, all we can do is laugh, accept the fact that we are totally powerless in this situation, pull out the deck of cards, and go with the flow…

Kerala Spices

A week in South India passed by in a flash, feeling like infinitely longer. A week slipped by, sunny and ethereal, in the comfort of a stunning lakeside resort in the company of friends. A week of luxury and insouciance, catching glimpses of the 'real' India through the windows of air-conditioned chauffeured cars. A light memory, easily forgotten when lounging by the pool, sipping a cocktail served by a discreetly courteous waiter in a crisp bright white uniform.

The state of Kerala, like the Chile of the subcontinent, lays low and narrow along India's west coast. Kerala has the highest per capita GDP and the highest standard of living in India, but a few days of travelling after New Years revealed that the state is not immune to India's glaring poverty and huge social inequalities. However, Kerala has its own brand of poverty, a reserved rural poverty, the kind that floats along the backwaters and quietly slips into coconut groves, seemingly melting away under the oppressive afternoon sun.

The urban center of Cochin bustles along, crowded and semi-chaotic, polluted and humid. Despite nearly 2 million people in the urban agglomeration, the city is not obtrusively loud and brash. In fact, Cochin, like the rest of Kerala, felt almost quiet. The normal daytime soundtrack--feet scuffling along cracked concrete sidewalks, strangers making small talk while waiting for overcrowded buses, groups of schoolgirls gossiping on their way home- is punctuated only by an intermittent and unique horn symphony; whimsically musical truck horns, the nasal beeps of auto rickshaws, the exasperated honk of a tired taxi driver.

The old city, known as Fort Cochin, has the feel of a touristy fishing village. Murders of crows caw loudly, calling out to friends perched on nearby palm trees. They mirror the beach hawkers who aggressively call out to tourists to pawn shoddily made crafts and curios. Children play cricket and football on grassy expanses under the patchy shade of centuries-old gnarly trees. Auto rickshaws half-heartedly call out to tourists, secretly hoping the prospective clients will ignore them so they can lie on backseats and nap in the shade. Cows graze on dry grass and munch on the garbage strewn along the streets. They saunter along slowly, like a quietly confused drunk weaving home at dawn. Young women gossip in Malayalam, the honeysweet syllables curling off their tongues like the hennalike curves of the unique Malayali script. If they caught me admiring their saris or peeking at their handiwork, they would shyly duck out of view behind doorways and folds of bright silk.

But away from the tourist sights in Fort Cochin, a familiar variety of poverty appears. Cheerfully colored homes are masks. The stained and chipped paint partly reveals the despair within. Old men, barely clothed in their paper-thin off-white mundus, lay folded on the sidewalk. Spindly once-loved ragdolls, abandoned and tossed aside, landing at impossible angles, the soursweet smell of their sweat mingling with day-old stale curries. Putrid urban slush, like stickysweet rice pudding or dark tree sap, dribbles thickly along the edges of old sewage canals.

But I can't help but see the underlying beauty. The bright colored gold-trimmed saris, the chocolate eyes trimmed with long lashes, the pastel sunsets... Life floating along slowly, languidly, quietly, like a broken coconut shell caught in the rivergrass.



More soon from India... With love and best wishes for 2007!!

It feels strange to be back.

Well after a very long 27 hours of travelling, during which I managed to catch a fairly nasty cold, I finally got home yesterday. I'm currently hiding up at my country house, unpacking and preparing myself to venture into the city. After nearly 7 months in East Africa, it feels strange to be back in the US. First of all, there are far too many white people and everyone is driving on the wrong side of the road. Secondly, the world just seems so quiet and tame. Nobody is walking anywhere while balancing large bundles on their heads, there's no livestock spilling into the streets, the sidewalks are so clean and rubbish-free, there are traffic lights, the power is on all the time!
And it's winter here. No snow yet, but it won't be long in coming... By 5:15, the sky is pitch black and there are almost no sounds, save the passing car that sweeps by on the perfectly smooth paved road. No roosters, no children, no distant sounds of music.
This afternoon I was exhausted and just gave up trying to do anything, the early darkness took me over and physically depressed me. I curled up in front of the fireplace with some hot cocoa and gazed down at the pekoe tattoo on my ankle... And to think, one week ago I was laying on the beach in Kendwa... I do miss TZ already, but it feels good to be home too, even if it does take a little while to get readjusted to 'civilization' :-)

Kwaheri Kilimanjaro

I sit in the Kilimanjaro airport, slow sipping an ice-cold Tusker beer and watching my last African sunset. The bright salmons and deep purple reds intensifying as the encroaching African darkness creeps across the sky. The first few stars appear, twinkling over Kilimanjaro. She has peeked out from behind the clouds to make one final appearance for me, her lightly snow capped peak just glancing out from behind the clouds.

After 7 months, I am leaving Africa. This time, not knowing if and when I will return. This continent, this place, these people have touched my soul. As I write this, the uncertainty of my return is sinking in… my throat is tightening and my grief works down to my stomach.

I hate leaving; I hate saying goodbye. It takes so little to do so much, and I’m only just getting started. I don’t know the answers, I don’t have a plan, but I do know that being home is not necessarily part of the solution. I need to be here, to feel like a part of this place, so that I can measure my effect, actually see the results of the work I am doing. New York is hard; I feel like giving up on trying to explain this place to people who have never been and will never come.

Africa sticks to your skin, gets into your blood, circulates and settles into the deep parts of your brain and soul. Like an infection, a first love, these feelings will not simply dissipate, nor do I want them to. Any grief, the pain I will experience in my life will always been relative to the pain and grief I have witnessed here. The shock of a drought year, the decades of war, the loss of a child… My pain is nothing next to the thousand natural shocks that African flesh is heir to.

I came with the right attitude. Open eyes, open ears, open mind, open heart. I came here wanting to see and learn, not impose and change. And what, if anything, have I learned? Impossible to synthesize, probably more about myself than about any of the places I’ve been. I carry with the smiles of the Ugandan children, playing barefooted soccer in the dirt, the lingering laugh of Rwandan children, screaming upon our arrival, the singing and clapping of Congolese women, the catcalls of Zanzibari vendors on the beach… And breathtaking Kilimanjaro. Whenever this gracious old lady decides to make an appearance from behind her cloudy veil, to peek out immodestly from behind the clouds, to flaunt her curves and barely snow-capped peak, I stop. You can’t take your eyes off her. As I watch this sunset and slowly sip this beer, one thing is certain: it’s not over Africa. I’ll be back.

In the Shadow of the Volcano: Democracy and Justice in Congo

"The current situation in Congo shows that bringing democracy and justice to war-torn countries is often more meaningful for the givers than for the recipients. Holding elections and prosecuting perpetrators of mass crimes are laudable goals. However, more fundamental change—addressing problems of citizenship, ethnicity, land ownership, the theft of natural resources, and the weapons trade—is required before peace is possible and political and judicial institutions can operate effectively. The population that rebuilt Goma out of the same volcanic rock that destroyed it displayed the resilience and ingenuity of the Congolese people. As long as Congo, Africa, and the international community fail to confront the sources of conflict, however, that creativity will serve only to rebuild again and again what has been destroyed, rather than to construct a new and vibrant nation."

-Excerpt from "In the Shadow of the Volcano: Democracy and Justice in Congo," by Phil Clark. Dissent, Winter 2007

AK-47s, Volcanoes and a Brief Departure from Reality

Adrenaline hits me like an electric shock, a lightening bolt. My heart thumps against my rib cage. The reverberations echo to my toes and fingertips. My throat tightens. I clench my fists. Whatthehellisgoingon. What the hell is going on. What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On. My senses are on high alert. But, like a stalked prey, it’s too late. I hear the click of the AK-47’s safety being removed. I see men in uniform running. I smell the humidity of the Congolese pre-rainstorm air mingled with sour odor of sweat. I taste fear. It’s my own primal fear for my life, confused with the fear of those around me. We crossed the border from Rwanda into the Democratic Republic of Congo a few minutes ago and now we are surrounded by soldiers barking at us in French, nervous young men who look more inclined to shoot first and ask questions later.

Our crime was to snap a picture of an old Belgian colonial building, elegantly dilapidated and crumbling into the red clay dirt of the palm fringed property, just a few hundred meters from the banks of Lake Kivu. This building also happens to be the Goma HQ of Congolese Intelligence Agency (CIA?). We are pushed inside, forced into a small windowless room. Behind the desk sits a grim little man, not pleased with being in the office on a Saturday.

The other girls are panicking around me, filling the office with loud English arguments, trying to make sense of the situation. Inside, I am panicking with them, worse-case scenarios flashing through my mind. On the outside, the ice queen reigns, I maintain my sang-froid. As the only French-speaker, I am the group spokeswoman. The others are kicked out of the office as the chief officer begins his formal interrogation. He is arrogant and insecure, pompously inflating his own importance and the gravity of our accidental crime. He clings to the procedure and will not let this slide. Thank God I understand this, the insecurities of men and the ridiculousness of African bureaucracy. I bow to his authority, reinforce his importance, validate his work. I answer his questions and, after nearly two hours, manage to convince him that we are not spies or undercover insurgents or rebel-supporters. He chastises me repeatedly and demands that pay a “fine.” Oh, that’s what it’s all about… And here’s where the ‘cute blonde on the verge of tears’ thing helps out, as I negotiate our “fine” down from $500 to $200.

Welcome to Congo where corruption and bribery are rife and central government is a joke. The DRC is a country the size of Western Europe, covered in dense tropical jungle and chock-a-block full of lootable natural resources. Combine that with what I have termed the ‘Africurse Trifecta,’ aka serious colonial exploitation, post-colonial mismanagement and conflict, and neo-colonial abuse, then throw in small arms proliferation and ethnic grievances and you get quite the mess…. With only 300 miles of paved roads and zero infrastructure!
However, after their first ever democratic presidential and parliamentary elections in June and the run-off elections last month (thank you MONUC), it looked like things were finally sort of calming down. That is, up until the weekend I decide to go for a visit. Last Tuesday, supporters of the losing presidential candidate, Jean-Pierre Bemba, set fire to the Supreme Court and rioted in the capital Kinshasa. Then on Saturday, the day we go in for our visit, a rogue general and his dissident soldiers decide to launch a mini-rebellion about 15 miles from the city we were visiting. Not that we could possibly have known any of this because we were distracted by the anti-French protests across Rwanda.

Anyway, back to the story. After my two-hour interrogation, during which our cameras and passports were confiscated, we emerged from the building into the hot afternoon sun. While we were $200 lighter, we gained an escort, a young officer called Filo. We walked along Lake Kivu, admiring its vast expanse and craving its cool waters as the Congolese sun beat down and stung our pale skins. We passed the UN peacekeeping forces’ camps: India, Bangladesh, and South Africa… And they drove past us, perched on the backs of white pick-up trucks emblazoned with the UN logo, weapons across their laps, conspicuous blue berets cocked to the side.

Those blue berets were some of the few spots of color in the dark grays and dull browns of Goma. In 2002, more than half the city was destroyed when the Nyiragongo volcano erupted, spewing rocks and ash for miles. Hundreds of thousands of people fled across the border into Rwanda as the molten lava obliterated the city and spilled into Lake Kivu.
Four years later, Goma remains a surreal city. Craggily black lava rock still coat parts of the town. Buildings are nothing more than empty facades with people setting up stalls outside storefronts. And the volcano looms, tucked behind the mist and low-hanging clouds of the rainy season.

While the scars of the volcano are still apparent, the signs of years of pain and suffering are hidden just below the surface in this war-torn nation. As we sat around our Congolese luncheon feast of chicken and goat stew, boiled plantains, rice, beans, fufu, and ice-cold Primus beer, we spoke to some of the locals. Unfazed by the bazooka-toting soldiers escorting their boss into the restaurant, they expressed hope for the future of their young new democracy. The women even broke into song for us as we left, their voices rising above the intermittent pops of gunfire in the distance.

As we sped away, back towards the Rwandan border on our motorbike taxis, tears of regret, pain, helplessness and dozens of other muddled emotions stung my eyes. Those voices are what I am carrying with me from my day in the Congo. Not the sunburn on my shoulders, not the cuts on my feet from the sharp lava rocks, not the mud that has permanently stained my flip-flops, not the antique wooden carvings we picked up in the market, not my first near-death experience in a war zone… No, it’s the voices that will haunt me and call me back, soon I hope...

Missing the forest for the trees

My first few weeks at the ICTR, I got caught up in the frustrations of UN bureaucracy, in the petty challenges of this lumbering tribunal. Now, as my time here comes to close in a couple of weeks, I'm taking a step back. Instead of focusing on those trees, I'm finally catching the full view of the forest. My, what a forest... Full of passionate, intelligent, committed individuals from around the world, all toiling together. We want to believe that this work is making a difference, that this work has meaning outside of these four walls, that someone else cares and is paying attention. And the truth is that it does, it must matter somewhere, somehow, to someone, that here at the ICTR we convicted the first head of state for genocide, that rape and other sexual violence is now considered as a crime of genocide, that the media's incitement of ethnic hatred and violence is punishable, that all this history is now on record, and that we are challenging the culture of impunity.

Of course, there are many flaws, but the ICTR is nothing if not an experiment, the detainees our guinea pigs. The case I have been working on, known as Military 1, is one of the most high-profile cases. The four accused, Theoneste Bagosora, Gratien Kabiligi, Anatole Nsengiyumva, Aloys Ntabakuze, are the 'big bad' guys, four of the top Rwandan military leaders. They are currently standing trial for their roles as the central figures in planning, promoting, and executing genocide and other crimes against humanity. We are arguing that the 1994 genocide was partly a military coup, organized as a desperate attempt to cling to power at the end of the war with the RPF. The military stood to lose the most under the Arusha Peace Accords, and it seems their thinking went something like this, 'we must kill all Tutsi cockroaches and their politically moderate Hutu accomplices so there is no support for compromise with the RPF... and then we get to stay in power forever.' It all makes a bit more sense when viewed in the larger context of colonial and post-colonial history, Rwandan culture, and regional politics. (Too complicated to get into here, but I'm happy to recommend reading etc).

Anyway, our case has been going on for 5 years now, and it's finally coming to a close. This is our final session, but this last sprint feels slightly anti-climactic. As Kabiligi's defense team slaps together the final witnesses, the judges' assistants in Chambers are already busy writing the judgement. We are confidant that all these guys are going away forever, but then what...?

There is no glamour. There is no glory. There is no instant gratification. We're in it for the long-haul, the unrecognized long hours and weekends at work, and the chance to say 'I was here, I was a part of this.' Because no matter how boring the photocopying, no matter how unrewarding the translation work, no matter how stressful the witness preparation, the greater purpose looms. While it is easy to get lost in the details, to lose sight of this greater purpose, it can still be felt. Every time I swipe my UN badge, every time I see those 4 accused sitting at the back of the courtroom, every time I hear or read shocking and horrific witness testimony, I remember.
I remember Rwanda; the stories, the people, the faces, the children, the smell, the skulls...
And I remember that I am part of this huge undertaking, this noble, expensive, catastrophically important venture, that we can only hope is contributing to this notion we call 'international justice.'