double standard

A great op-ed in Foreign Policy written by Yoweri Museveni of Uganda on the situation in Libya. The point that really struck me was this:

Western countries always use double standards. In Libya, they are very eager to impose a no-fly zone. In Bahrain and other areas where there are pro-Western regimes, they turn a blind eye to the very same or even worse conditions. We have been appealing to the United Nations to impose a no-fly zone over Somalia -- so as to impede the free movement of terrorists linked to al Qaeda, which killed Americans on September 11th, killed Ugandans last July, and have caused so much damage to the Somalis -- without success. Why? Are there no human beings in Somalia, as there are in Benghazi? Or is it because Somalia does not have oil that is not fully controlled by the Western oil companies, as in Libya on account of Qaddafi's nationalist posture?

The comparison to the inaction of the Western powers to use the same level of humanitarian intervention in Somalia, where there has been countless human suffering over the years (as well as in Ivory Coast, which has slipped back into civil war, and does not even come up on Google News anymore). I am not defending the actions of Gadaffi; killing innocent civilians is wrong, there is no defense to this; however, what has been wrong has been the action of the West, its hypocrisy and double standards becoming increasingly transparent when seen through the light of the current display of strength in the Mediterranean.

Bed Nets and Bombs

“Why is it that the choice to express our humanitarian benevolence through the use of missiles and jets gets on the table—to the top of the agenda, even—again and again, but the choice to express it less truculently so rarely does? If our humanitarian values really set the agenda, how likely is it that the prospect of urgent military intervention would come up so often?”

-A highly interesting and thought provoking statement from an Economist article entitled, “Foreign Aid: Anti-Malarial Bed Nets Vs. F-35's.”

This statement begs the question, what are our humanitarian values, both as a nation, and as a collective group of nations that has, through historical, colonial, economical, and military means, controlled the levers of power in the world for centuries? Are there a core set of beliefs that can truly be seen, through both words and actions, as supported by the international community? And with this, is the true test of a set of beliefs and values their even implementation across a blank canvas of internationalism? Some of these questions are obviously rhetorical, but yet, the hypocrisy seen in the actions of the powerful nations of the world is startling in its bluntness and brutality. The nation of France, who just 16 short years ago shielded and armed the perpetrators of one of most vicious and bloody genocides of the 20th century (yes, I'm talking of Rwanda), is now leading the charge for the protection of civilians in Libya? The British, still reeling from the loss of their own empire, aiding another failing power in its middle east conquests (yes, im talking of Iraq), and now blasting over the skies of the Mediterranean in its Hornet fighter jets in defense of a nascent rebel army whose aims, goals, and leadership are as ambiguous as the air strikes that have defended it. I am not defending the actions of a madman, or madmen, in any way; I am a staunch defender of human rights and humanitarian intervention, but also a humanist first, a believer in bednets, not F-35's, and ethical historical action playing a larger role in our historically collective humanitarian amnesia. Granted, civil wars, bloody uprisings, and rebel armies cannot be contained by wrapping them up in bednets; however, the smallest actors on the world stage, the peons whose lives are actually held in the balance by the actions of these globalist powers, deserve a voice, and if not, deserve at the very least to live lives free of Malaria and Dengue Fever due to the employment of a $3 bed net, even as the world powers fly overhead in $2 billion fighter jets dropping $20 million guided smart bombs on $10 million tanks.

The author continues, strikingly, that, “...the 2011 budget submitted by the House slashes the State Department's budget for aid to fight malaria (and AIDS, and tuberculosis) in the developing world by billions of dollars, while leaving the budget for bombing Libya (and everything else the Defence Department does) untouched.” I won't touch this statement, its words are menacing enough on their own.

lumbini journal

3.22.11 Lumbini, Nepal

Back in Lumbini. Back in the shadow of the towering gray pagoda, the setting plains sun casting off its cool, unfinished cement facade, the dusty paths where the Buddha walked, over 2600 years ago. Yet the dust, the trees, the grass, these are all the same; evolution does not work so fast as the human mind; the solidity of the natural world, its radiance, comforts the tumbling consciousness.
Back with the birdsong, the gray clad Korean monks riding bright red Chinese bicycles, the golden Tibetan stupa, with its Buddha eyes and their knowing stare, poking through the horizon. A landscape literally littered with the Dharma. The end of a long day on the road, of 8 hours of hard bus travel, of crammed legs in tiny metal framed seats, overheated engines and frantic bus conductors pouring litre after litre of spring water in a vain attempt to cool; they should know, only time will do this, the futility of their actions blinded by repetition on the side of the dusty mountain road. I sit in the sun and watch the scene unfold, watch the passing trucks and buses, careening down the same mountain road, no guardrails and horrific drops, the unimaginable a constant companion, the mind learns to accept the inevitable over the hours of travel. Dusty bus transfers in dusty intersections where dust is the only reality; how people can spend time, can spend their lives in these spots I cannot imagine; my 15 minutes spent waiting for the new bus to depart begins to drive me mad, as I sit and choke in the afternoon heat. The Indian ladies, laden with children, golden bangles, golden earrings and nose rings, sit down on the half seat in front of me, literally dripping with colors, with hardship, with dreams I will never know. I offer their young children some dusty peanuts which they eat with the shell intact, staring at this strange white man with long legs crammed into the tiny tattered seat. I looked into the dark eyes of the young mother, holding her child casually, who was busily dismantling the peanut with its tiny brown hands; her ornamental nose ring dangling past her nostril, sari bright with color and kitsch, so young, so obviously young and burdened, despite all the beautiful ornament, I cannot stop wondering of her life in this harsh agrarian land. And then the bus stopped, as it did ever 20 feet or so, a slowly moving Nepali Thanksgiving Day Parade Float, and she, along with her young sister with her own children dangling, was simply gone, another memory, another story unknown, dreams, shadows. I am ecstatic for the simplicity and wonder of this place.

March 11, Jomsom, Nepal

Drinking a few cups of warm, milky chayng, the local millet brew, at a table filled with red cheeked, robe-clad young Mustangi monks, who have just piled out of a tractor outside the ramshackle old building and join me for their evening meal of Dhal Bhat (rice and lentils). They are returning from the winter spent in Kathmandu, away from the bone-searing artic winds that blast the Mustang region all winter and drive most of its hardy inhabitants to warmer climes. I wonder if I have passed some of these young monks before, walking the cobbled alleyways of my adopted home of Boudha, Kathmandu. The local men, huddled around the old wood fed iron stove, seeking warmth from the high-altitude cold, smile as the strange foreigner walks in, surveys the ancient room, old hand-beaten pots and pans lined up on the soot-covered walls, a low ceiling causing me to crouch and deliver my "namaste" greetings. Its just a simple day in March, the 11th, to be precise. I sit at the table, the monks simple english exhausted as they dig into their meals, and wonder, how many of these experiences, these unique, memory-piercing moments, have been crossed in my years...I ponder the moments of this life, a strange path indeed, a wonderful series of moments, stacked into the deck of life; how many are still yet to be uncovered, I ask. The wonderful mystery brings a grin to my windblown face.
It has been a wonderful 10 days back in the Himalaya, a short trip, but with enduring images; the harsh landscapes masking the cradle of such intricate culture; the ochres and reds superimposed against the barren high altitude desert peaks; the howling winds, the dusty trails, the brilliant blue skies carved against pillow white peaks, truly the abode of the snows. Without the distraction of the world, the mind is free to open, plans unfold out of the crisp mountain air, propelling my onwards. Six months in this strange land; a warm comfort in my soul.