Recognising the rights of fighters
It is Human Rights Day today, and rather than talk about human rights as an abstract concept, or about their history of negotiation between East and West, I want to get right to the people who roll their sleeves up every day and take on the difficult, tiring and sometimes downright dangerous work of trying to realise our rights in a concrete sense—the human rights defenders.
It is a grand term—’human rights defenders’—but it is applied because unlike many labels, it could actually be useful. In Nepal, many will have heard of INSEC, Advocacy Forum and the National Human Rights Commission (NHRC)—human rights organisations with a national scope. But by the UN definition, an HRD is anyone who has moved beyond thinking about their own needs and actively stood up for the rights of themselves and others’. They could be your neighbour, your sister, or even you.
Across Nepal, thousands of people speak out daily on issues ranging from domestic violence to conflict disappearances, child trafficking and LGBT rights. The majority work away from Kathmandu’s limelight in districts and villages, where equal access to rights is much more of a struggle. In most cases, they do so not for money or glory, but for the sheer need to confront injustice. Bimala BK, a resident of Gulariya, Bardiya district, has been an example of this. She started out as a teenager who spoke out against the domestic and social abuse of Dalit women, which she witnessed first-hand in her village. But Bimala soon faced slander and threats from fellow villagers who perceived her actions as an affront to the social order.
At its heart, campaigning for rights is about upsetting damaging power structures. Like Bimala, HRDs usually have a series of battles to win—with families, communities, authorities—on their journeys to create change. Many people initially misunderstand the role of HRDs and believe them to be a hindrance to security—as in Nepal when HRDs lobby for accused armed group members to have fair trials rather than backroom executions. Others, who clearly understand an HRD’s role, would rather see them silenced. Consequently, this work is not without frustration, or danger. Lawyers are regularly ignored when attempting to file criminal cases in police stations—particularly if the accused is politically connected or has carried out the crime during the conflict era. If the case is ever filed, death threats may follow. Journalists reporting on human rights issues are dealt threats and blows from political party cadres or armed group members. Villagers campaigning against domestic violence or caste discrimination have to deal with angry mobs at their doors. In all these scenarios, the risks take on additional dimensions if the HRD is a woman. In recognition of this, the phrase ‘Women Human Rights Defender’ (WHRD) was coined in a seminal meeting in Sri Lanka in 2005.
That WHRDs experience threat and abuse differently to their male counterparts needs to be acknowledged in order to address it. Firstly, the social context can affect both a WHRD’s mobility and her safety. In many parts of Nepal, just by stepping out of their homes and raising their concerns in male domains, WHRDs challenge the status quo. Journalist Manika Jha, who has reported actively on cases of rape and domestic violence in Dhanusha district, is a living example of this. Jha has been threatened and attacked for her reports of shocking violence against women in the Tarai. But instead of investigating the source of this abuse, police usually advise Jha to change her behaviour, and “stay at home like a good girl”.
Then there is gendered abuse—rape becomes a potent threat where legislation and lax policing mean prosecution of criminals would be highly unlikely—and the gendered consequences of abuse, where WHRDs may be ostracised, or labelled as ‘prostitutes’ as a result of slander or attack. Defenders of LGBT rights face similar additional risks.
So what is the solution to stopping violence against HRDs and WHRDs so they can continue their work?
Recognition can really make a difference. Bimala, who faced threats in her village, slowly became known for her work. The women she helped recommended her to others. She found other WHRDs in Bardiya interested in the same work, and they formed an NGO which she now runs in Bardiya’s district capital Gulariya promoting rights for all Dalits and all women. They started joining national networks. As a result, police take more notice when she comes to them with cases and those who might want her silenced think twice, knowing that she has the respect of her community, the backing of national WHRD networks and the support of at least one international organisation.
This recognition has got to be across the board. When Aung Sang Suu Kyi was repeatedly put under house arrest during her long struggle for democracy in Burma, people mourned because they realised what had been taken from them—a vibrant voice that could contribute to change. But when reporter Manika Jha narrowly avoided being stabbed to death in her home in Janakpur in 2010, Dhanusha residents hardly paused to note the event. The police filed a case but don’t appear to have done much about investigating it. And how many people outside of Dhanusha district have ever heard of lawyer Rekha Jha? This woman has single-handedly taken on the entrenched culture of domestic abuse in the central Tarai and jokes that half of Janakpur’s jail population is there because of her.
What is less funny, however, is her self-imposed daily curfew at 6 pm borne out of fear of violent reprisals.
The government needs to publicly recognise the worth of these men and women by legitimising their work on a national stage through protective legislation. It is great that in 2009 Nepal’s Supreme Court made a landmark directive to the Government of Nepal that they should make provisions for protecting WHRDs, although this has yet to be acted upon. Further, in June this year, Nepal underwent the conclusion of its Universal Periodic Review session—a UN mechanism which analyses all countries’ human rights records and collects recommendations for a country’s improvement from other states. Despite having been presented with two strong recommendations from the US and Norway that mentioned investigation and prosecution of abuses of HRDs and WHRDs, Khanal’s government failed to commit to either of these. Instead, a statement was released saying the government is “considering adopting a special protection programme for HRDs and WHRDs.” But there was no mention that this would be included within national law or that it would stipulate actions like investigations—even if it ever actually came about. It wouldn’t take a cynic to see this as a fob off. But the way is now open for Bhattarai to show he cares about those citizens out there fighting for equality in places like Dang and Taplejung and Siraha by consulting with HRDs and WHRDs to incorporate strong, gender-sensitive HRD protection programmes into national law in 2012.
Internationally, the HRD and WHRD labels have brought good things. There is now an International Declaration on HRDs manned by a Special Rapporteur who can make recommendations to the UN, and the EU has a set of guidelines which encourage EU embassies to support HRDs. All this is well and good, but it is on the ground where the recognition is needed the most—where the likes of Manika Jha and Bimala BK do the hard graft to make a fairer Nepal for us all. The least we can do is lend them an ear, use our own voices to support them and, in doing so, forge for them a safer space in which to speak change.
Liddell has worked on human rights issues in Nepal for over two years
Posted on: 2011-12-10 09:41
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