"Six to Eight Black Men"

David Sedaris brakes down Dutch Christmas traditions...

I've never been much for guidebooks, so when trying to get my bearings in a strange American city, I normally start by asking the cabdriver or hotel clerk some silly question regarding the latest census figures. I say silly because I don't really care how many people live in Olympia, Washington, or Columbus, Ohio. They're nice enough places, but the numbers mean nothing to me. My second question might have to do with average annual rainfall, which, again, doesn't tell me anything about the people who have chosen to call this place home.

What really interests me are the local gun laws. Can I carry a concealed weapon, and if so, under what circumstances? What's the waiting period for a tommy gun? Could I buy a Glock 17 if I were recently divorced or fired from my job? I've learned from experience that it's best to lead into this subject as delicately as possible, especially if you and the local citizen are alone and enclosed in a relatively small space. Bide your time, though, and you can walk away with some excellent stories. I've heard, for example, that the blind can legally hunt in both Texas and Michigan. They must be accompanied by a sighted companion, but still, it seems a bit risky. You wouldn't want a blind person driving a car or piloting a plane, so why hand him a rifle? What sense does that make? I ask about guns not because I want one of my own but because the answers vary so widely from state to state. In a country that's become so homogenous, I'm reassured by these last touches of regionalism.

Guns aren't really an issue in Europe, so when I'm traveling abroad, my first question usually relates to barnyard animals. "What do your roosters say?" is a good icebreaker, as every country has its own unique interpretation. In Germany, where dogs bark "vow vow" and both the frog and the duck say "quack," the rooster greets the dawn with a hearty "kik-a-ricki." Greek roosters crow "kiri-a-kee," and in France they scream "coco-rico," which sounds like one of those horrible premixed cocktails with a pirate on the label. When told that an American rooster says "cock-a-doodle-doo," my hosts look at me with disbelief and pity.

"When do you open your Christmas presents?" is another good conversation starter, as it explains a lot about national character. People who traditionally open gifts on Christmas Eve seem a bit more pious and family oriented than those who wait until Christmas morning. They go to mass, open presents, eat a late meal, return to church the following morning, and devote the rest of the day to eating another big meal. Gifts are generally reserved for children, and the parents tend not to go overboard. It's nothing I'd want for myself, but I suppose it's fine for those who prefer food and family to things of real value.

In France and Germany, gifts are exchanged on Christmas Eve, while in Holland the children receive presents on December 5, in celebration of Saint Nicholas Day. It sounded sort of quaint until I spoke to a man named Oscar, who filled me in on a few of the details as we walked from my hotel to the Amsterdam train station.
Unlike the jolly, obese American Santa, Saint Nicholas is painfully thin and dresses not unlike the pope, topping his robes with a tall hat resembling an embroidered tea cozy. The outfit, I was told, is a carryover from his former career, when he served as a bishop in Turkey.

One doesn't want to be too much of a cultural chauvinist, but this seemed completely wrong to me. For starters, Santa didn't use to do anything. He's not retired, and, more important, he has nothing to do with Turkey. The climate's all wrong, and people wouldn't appreciate him. When asked how he got from Turkey to the North Pole, Oscar told me with complete conviction that Saint Nicholas currently resides in Spain, which again is simply not true. While he could probably live wherever he wanted, Santa chose the North Pole specifically because it is harsh and isolated. No one can spy on him, and he doesn't have to worry about people coming to the door. Anyone can come to the door in Spain, and in that outfit, he'd most certainly be recognized. On top of that, aside from a few pleasantries, Santa doesn't speak Spanish. He knows enough to get by, but he's not fluent, and he certainly doesn't eat tapas.

While our Santa flies on a sled, Saint Nicholas arrives by boat and then transfers to a white horse. The event is televised, and great crowds gather at the waterfront to greet him. I'm not sure if there's a set date, but he generally docks in late November and spends a few weeks hanging out and asking people what they want.

"Is it just him alone?" I asked. "Or does he come with some backup?"

Oscar's English was close to perfect, but he seemed thrown by a term normally reserved for police reinforcement.

"Helpers," I said. "Does he have any elves?"

Maybe I'm just overly sensitive, but I couldn't help but feel personally insulted when Oscar denounced the very idea as grotesque and unrealistic. "Elves," he said. "They're just so silly."
The words silly and unrealistic were redefined when I learned that Saint Nicholas travels with what was consistently described as "six to eight black men." I asked several Dutch people to narrow it down, but none of them could give me an exact number. It was always "six to eight," which seems strange, seeing as they've had hundreds of years to get a decent count.

The six to eight black men were characterized as personal slaves until the mid-fifties, when the political climate changed and it was decided that instead of being slaves they were just good friends. I think history has proven that something usually comes between slavery and friendship, a period of time marked not by cookies and quiet times beside the fire but by bloodshed and mutual hostility. They have such violence in Holland, but rather than duking it out among themselves, Santa and his former slaves decided to take it out on the public. In the early years, if a child was naughty, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would beat him with what Oscar described as "the small branch of a tree."

"A switch?"
"Yes," he said. "That's it. They'd kick him and beat him -with a switch. Then, if the youngster was really bad, they'd put him in a sack and take him back to Spain."
"Saint Nicholas would kick you?"
"Well, not anymore," Oscar said. "Now he just pretends to kick you."
"And the six to eight black men?"
"Them, too."

He considered this to be progressive, but in a way I think it's almost more perverse than the original punishment. "I'm going to hurt you, but not really." How many times have we fallen for that line? The fake slap invariably makes contact, adding the elements of shock and betrayal to what had previously been plain, old-fashioned fear. What kind of Santa spends his time pretending to kick people before stuffing them into a canvas sack? Then, of course, you've got the six to eight former slaves who could potentially go off at any moment. This, I think, is the greatest difference between us and the Dutch. While a certain segment of our population might be perfectly happy with the arrangement, if you told the average white American that six to eight nameless black men would be sneaking into his house in the middle of the night, he would barricade the doors and arm himself with whatever he could get his hands on. "Six to eight, did you say?"

In the years before central heating, Dutch children would leave their shoes by the fireplace, the promise being that unless they planned to beat you, kick you, or stuff you into a sack, Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men would fill your clogs with presents. Aside from the threats of violence and kidnapping, it's not much different from hanging your stockings from the mantel. Now that so few people have a working fireplace, Dutch children are instructed to leave their shoes beside the radiator, furnace, or space heater. Saint Nicholas and the six to eight black men arrive on horses, which jump from the yard onto the roof. At this point, I guess, they either jump back down and use the door, or they stay put and vaporize through the pipes and electrical wires. Oscar wasn't too clear about the particulars, but, really, who can blame him? We have the same problem with our Santa. He's supposed to use the chimney, but if you don't have one, he still manages to come through. It's best not to think about it too hard.

While eight flying reindeer are a hard pill to swallow, our Christmas story remains relatively simple. Santa lives with his wife in a remote polar village and spends one night a year traveling around the world. If you're bad, he leaves you coal. If you're good and live in America, he'll give you just about anything you want. We tell our children to be good and send them off to bed, where they lie awake, anticipating their great bounty. A Dutch parent has a decidedly hairier story to relate, telling his children, "Listen, you might want to pack a few of your things together before you go to bed. The former bishop from Turkey will be coming along with six to eight black men. They might put some candy in your shoes, they might stuff you in a sack and take you to Spain, or they might just pretend to kick you. We don't know for sure, but we want you to be prepared."

This is the reward for living in Holland. As a child you get to hear this story, and as an adult you get to turn around and repeat it. As an added bonus, the government has thrown in legalized drugs and prostitution--so what's not to love about being Dutch?
Oscar finished his story just as we arrived at the station. He was a polite and interesting guy--very good company--but when he offered to wait until my train arrived, I begged off, saying I had some calls to make. Sitting alone in the vast terminal, surrounded by other polite, seemingly interesting Dutch people, I couldn't help but feel second-rate. Yes, it was a small country, but it had six to eight black men and a really good bedtime story. Being a fairly competitive person, I felt jealous, then bitter, and was edging toward hostile when I remembered the blind hunter tramping off into the Michigan forest. He might bag a deer, or he might happily shoot his sighted companion in the stomach. He may find his way back to the car, or he may wander around for a week or two before stumbling through your front door. We don't know for sure, but in pinning that license to his chest, he inspires the sort of narrative that ultimately makes me proud to be an American.

Zwarte Piet

I arrived back in The Hague on Friday morning. I was away for just under two weeks, but it felt like two months in “Hague time,” a strangely accelerated reality like Narnia. Upon returning, I was not only greeted by a group of friends, but also by parade of men in blackface dressed up in colorful troubadour-like costumes.

Yes, it was exactly as strange as it sounds. But then I remembered reading something in former Fellow Jared’s journal from last year about this strange Dutch holiday tradition. In order to better understand its meaning and history, I did a little research on the internet and talked to some of my Dutch friends. There were even some heated debates over the weekend about the racist connotations of blackface and its influence on race relations in the Netherlands. In the end though, I found myself shelving the academic debate and just enjoying the festive mood of this unique celebration.

On the banks of the Danube

Yesterday was the last day of the 40-hour mediation training. Despite the challenges of translation and the judges’ busy schedules (several of them couldn’t commit to the entire 40-hours and had to come in and out), I think it went very well. In our evaluation and group debrief, they all expressed surprise and delight at how much they had learned and progressed in the short time of the training. However, for most, this was just an introductory training and I am aware of how important it is to keep these skills up. Hopefully, despite USAID leaving Croatia, there will be a way to continue training and expand mediation training across this aspiring European nation.

Rebecca and Gaby left early this morning but Ericka and I have a couple of days left in Croatia. Thanks to this extra time, Ericka and the US Embassy team were able to organize another short mediation training session, this time in Vukovar. We drove from Zagreb to Vukovar this afternoon, a short 3 hour trip across to country to the border with Serbia.

Situated on the banks of the Danube, Vukovar is a fascinating city. Hotly contested during the war with Serbia, it was essentially razed by continuous bombardment. However, unlike Dubrovnik, which experienced similar destruction, most of Vukovar has not yet been rebuilt. The scars of the war are visible on every street. Bullet holes pockmark facades. Chunks of the sidewalk are missing where mortars landed. Buildings are empty hollow shells, no windows, no doors, no roofs. Minefields still surround part of the city.

But the scars are beginning to fade. New investment is pouring in and the minefields are being cleared. Next to bombed out old buildings stand modern sleek shopping centers, hotels, a contemporary courthouse, and a new judges club. It was in this clubhouse that Ericka gave a brief presentation this evening. The judges here were just as eager to learn about mediation as the judges in Zagreb. Having experienced the worst of the war, they are all too aware of the importance of introducing a new culture of dispute resolution in Croatia.

Escape to the Dalmatian Coast

This weekend offered us a much-needed break from the hectic mediation training schedule. Rebecca, Ericka, Gaby and I decided to escape dreary, grey, and cold Zagreb and go explore the famed Dalmatian coastline. On Saturday, Gaby and Ericka rented a car and we drove across the Southern Alps over to Split. Appropriately enough, we parted ways there, and Rebecca and I continued on our journey south to Dubrovnik. We had some time before our flight so we explored the historic old centre of Split, where Diocletian, one of the late Roman emperors, built his retirement palace. In the middle of the palace ruins, stands the Split cathedral, the tower of which Rebecca and I decided to climb. About halfway up the 180-step ascent, my vertigo kicked in but Rebecca pushed me onwards and upwards and I made it to the top. The view over the harbor and city were magnificent, particularly since it was nearly sunset.

We arrived in Dubrovnik in the late evening but managed to muster up the energy to walk around the fortified town centre. The town was heavily bombarded during the war with Serbia, but since independence, it has been beautifully restored. In fact, it was so well-lit and clean that it felt a little bit like a Disney version of a fortified medieval city. Even in the low season, the town felt busy and many shops were open late to accommodate the many American and Japanese tour groups.

The next morning, Rebecca and I embarked on the long 2km walk around the ramparts. The views over the sea were spectacular and we left Dubrovnik reluctantly at the end of the afternoon:

Zagreb

The training today was exhausting. We were in the same conference room in the court for nearly eight hours, under the harsh fluorescent lights. But it was very interesting. Most of the time, I was just watching and listening to Ericka and Gaby teach. It a useful refresher in mediation skills and I even brushed up on my facilitation skills—and not only as a spectator! Ericka and Gaby asked me introduce one of the mediation exercises so I was able to participate in the training as a facilitator, even if it was just for a few minutes. The added challenge of the simultaneous translation forced me to slow down, which was very useful since one of my flaws as a facilitator is my tendency to speak too quickly.

This evening, after a full day of training, I bought a small paper cone of hot roasted chestnuts and took a long walk around Zagreb. I strolled along the cobblestone streets without a map, just guided by my curiosity and desire to experience the city. I came upon a path leading uphill and decided to follow it. After a steep climb, I stumbled upon the historic centre of Zagreb. Perched on a hill, old Zagreb offered striking views over the new part of the city. From this perspective, the city looked sprawling but still somehow quaint, despite the ugly billboards and austere Soviet architecture that dominated parts of downtown.

Mediation Training in Croatia

Having spent the past month feeling rather distant from the Insight staff in Boston, it is fortuitous timing that I should now find myself in Croatia assisting on a mediation training program. This opportunity came up during the summer thanks to Ericka Gray, who trained us in facilitation and mediation. She and Gabrielle Gropman, the former administrator of the Harvard Mediation Program, are working together with USAID and World Learning to train Croatian judges in mediation—a dispute resolution practice that is newly being introduced to the Croatian judiciary system.

Ericka brought up the possibility of the Fellows joining her as assistants during this training in Croatia and it all came together about a month ago. I arrived last night and met Rebecca at the hotel (Seisei unfortunately couldn't make it up from Kenya). We hadn't seen each other in two months and it was great to chat and catch up.

The main challenge we faced today was dealing with the simultaneous translation. Since most of the judges speak only a little English, we all wear headsets and have to deal with lags in translation, issues with the equipment, and remembering to speak very slowly to allow the translators enough time to keep up. Hopefully this won’t be too much of an impediment to the success of the training as a whole.

This morning we were up bright and early for a preparatory breakfast meeting with Ericka and Gaby, whom I was meeting in person for the first time. As we walked over to the Commercial Court building down the street, I was a bit nervous, and then I was really nervous when we arrived and we greeted by a group of 25 senior judges. But they were terribly warm and welcoming, and very excited about the training which got off to a great start. Rebecca and I mainly just assisted Ericka and Gaby—though our acting ‘skills’ were called upon for several short mediation demonstrations.

Closing In

First get your man. All the efforts to deter tyrants, warlords and genocidal murderers by setting up international tribunals will come to nothing if the suspects cannot be arrested. Without any form of enforcement mechanism of their own, most of the new courts have always known this. Yet slowly, if not surely, they are pulling in the suspects.

Germain Katanga, also known as “Simba”, is the latest catch. The alleged leader of the Patriotic Resistance Force in the north-eastern Congolese province of Ituri has been arrested and transferred to the International Criminal Court (ICC) in The Hague. He is only the second person to be handed over to the world's first permanent war-crimes court since it was set up in 2002. Thomas Lubanga Dyilo, another Congolese presumed to be a warlord, has been in the court's custody since March 2006. He was already in prison in Kinshasa, Congo's capital, when charged.

Of the seven others indicted by the ICC, four leaders of the Lord's Resistance Army, a rebel group in northern Uganda, are still on the run two years after warrants were issued for their arrest; a fifth has been killed. And the two other suspects, a Sudanese minister and a janjaweed leader, are unlikely to be caught soon, given Sudan's refusal even to recognise the court.

But Charles Taylor's impending war-crimes trial should have put the wind up a few despots. After three years of comfortable exile in Nigeria, the former Liberian president was handed over to a UN-backed Special Court last year. His trial is due to start in The Hague on January 7th.

Much has been made of the failure of the international war-crimes tribunal for ex-Yugoslavia to catch two Bosnian Serb leaders, Ratko Mladic and Radovan Karadzic. Both have been on the run for 12 years. Less has been said about the court's success in arresting all but four of the 161 men it has indicted. The Rwandan tribunal's record is only slightly less impressive. Of its 90 indicted suspects, just 14 are at large. One was caught in France last week, another in Germany last month, and the search continues for the rest.

Meanwhile, ordinary courts are showing less indulgence towards the high and mighty. Last month Chile's Supreme Court ordered the extradition to Peru of Alberto Fujimori, a former president of Peru, on charges of corruption and human-rights abuse. In Uruguay a federal appeals court confirmed charges of multiple murder against Juan María Bordaberry, the country's former president. An American court ordered the extradition of Manuel Noriega, Panama's ex-dictator, to France to serve a ten-year sentence for money-laundering. And Nuon Chea, “Brother Number 2” of the brutal Khmer Rouge regime in Cambodia in the 1970s, was arrested and handed over to the new UN-backed war-crimes tribunal in the country's capital, Phnom Penh. The noose tightens.

London (The Economist, 25 October)

Accused #2

A surprise in the office last week: the Prosecutor issued an indictment against Germain Katanga, a Congolese militia leader. He was handed over to ICC authorities last week and had his first appearance at the Court today. Somehow, I managed to negotiate a front-row seat for the hearing. It was packed with media representatives and Court staff, all eager to see our second accused in the flesh. It all felt a bit circus-like, this diminutive young man in the courtroom fishbowl. Part of me felt badly for him… He is only 27 years old and has never even met his second child, who was born while he was imprisoned in the Democratic Republic of Congo. However, once the presiding judge started reading the list of charges against him, most of my pity dissolved. He is accused of forcibly enlisting child soldiers, of kidnapping young women and girls as sexual slaves, as well as several other war crimes and crimes against humanity. As I listened to some of the details of the charges, I could not help but think back to my experiences in East and Central Africa, meeting former child soldiers in Uganda, visiting a war-torn town in Eastern Congo, hearing witness testimony at the ICTR… While man’s inhumanity to man remains shocking and disheartening, the dedication and perseverance that I have witnessed here at the Court can only bring optimism.

Feeling distant...

Thanks to Eid El-Fitr, the end of Ramadan, the Court enjoyed a long weekend break. I decided to do a bit of travelling and took the train from Amsterdam to Paris. The view along the tracks was scenic, and the three-hour ride gave me the opportunity to reflect on my time thus far in The Hague. At this point, I am struggling a bit on the professional level. The time and distance from Boston has separated me from the concepts and skills learned over the summer, and I am finding it hard to link this placement to that experience. At times, I find myself thinking that, while I am ultimately very grateful for this opportunity at the ICC, this placement does not feel like it fits into the vision of the Fellowship program. There is no defined role for us as Fellows at the Court—I have no supervisor or tasks, so it is up to me to figure out how to maximize this experience. It has not been made easier by the Prosecutor’s extremely busy schedule, which has caused his office to cancel my appointments with him. Without his guidance and due to the distance from Insight, I feel a bit abandoned. However, I suppose that this is part of the challenge of this placement—a sentiment echoed by previous Fellows in my conversations with them. While I am having difficulties, it has strengthened my ties with them and this connection helps reinforce my purpose and motivation to make the best of the situation.

And the winner is...

Bike-naming competition entries in order received:

• Donor-Cycle (from my pediatrician uncle who is worried about lack of helmets)
  
• Miss Gulch (from the Wizard of Oz)
  
• Zelda
• Gertrude
• Fritz
• WinBell (Insight reference)
  
• Gretel
• Daisy Bell
• The CTFW (The Charles Taylor Freedom Wheels)
  
• Operation Hot Mother
• Tracy Morgan's Manatee (if you don't get the reference, watch this clip)
  
• Flavor of the Week
• Jiska
• Azura (Eve's daughter)
  
• Tinkerbell
• Sally Spins
• Nina
• Wilhelmina (my street here)
  
• Mini-Eve
• Den Byke
• Toto (little dog from the Wizard of Oz)
  

And the winner is: Miss Gulch

The main reasons behind this choice are:

1. There is a Wizard of Oz theme for naming vehicles in my family (my car's name is Dorothy etc), but the person who submitted this entry did not known about that, so clearly it was destiny;
2. Miss Gulch is the evil woman from the Wizard of Oz who wants to have Toto put down. During the Oz dream sequence, she turns into the Wicked Witch of the West character; and
3. On Friday morning, my bike went evil on me and bucked me off right in front of the Court... Nothing too serious, just a bashed up knee and some bruised dignity. Thank god it was 8:45am so no one was around yet to witness my klutziness (international justice sleeps in late on Fridays). Anyway, the name is perfect for such an occasion: as suggested by the submitter, "Miss Gulch went all Wicked Witch of the West on me."