Legacy

I wrote the story of a woman I met last week, when she was holding a talk in Munich.  Her picture is annexed - Raniah Salloum
Photo: Renate Winter copyright Special Court of Sierra Leone

A judge from Austria assists child soldiers in Sierra Leone – against all odds.

Renate Winter knows what confronting obstacles means. “Twice they tried to shoot me. Then I got six bodyguards.” Winter is a judge for the United Nations. The shootings happened when she was an international judge on the Supreme Court of Kosovo. Since 2003, Winter heads the Special Court for Sierra Leone. There, she only has one bodyguard and says she wouldn’t need him. The obstacles are of a different kind.

“In a court room, you can’t accomplish reconciliation”, Winter says. Yet, this is precisely what Sierra Leone needs after a decade-long civil war that left ten thousands dead or badly mutilated – many of them women and children. Winter adds: “If I were to describe the things that happened in Sierra Leone, you would not be able to sleep or to eat for three days”.

And how does she deal with the accounts of horror? She brushes off the question. “I’m a judge – if I couldn’t do that, I would have had to choose a different profession.” But it is not that simple. The question of how to heal Sierra Leone’s society has not left Winter’s mind.

Sierra Leone is a small country. Eleven years of civil war mean: eventually, everybody was implicated. Victims and perpetrators encounter each other on a daily basis. Add 90 percent unemployment – and reintegration becomes impossible. At the same time, Renate Winter never gives up hope.

She can’t make undone the brutality that almost 3,000 child soldiers unleashed – and experienced – in the civil war. “My youngest [defendant] was so small, he couldn’t even carry a Kalashnikov”, Winter remembers. But she can try to prevent it ever happening again.

“Legacy” is what she calls the most important accomplishment of her court. It set standards for the entire world.

Child soldiers are perpetrators and victims at the same time. They are enslaved by warlords who give them with weapons - and often drugs. It was after the warlords Renate Winter wanted to go, not after the children. With a bit of judicial creativity, her tribunal sanctioned the enlistment of child soldiers as a war crime. It also considered enforced marriages, through which warlords enslaved women, a crime against humanity – a first in the history of international law.

Renate Winter calls these achievements the tribunal’s legacy. So what about her own? Winter set up an NGO that supports former child soldiers – “female ones because nobody cared for them.” Her NGO teaches them to stitch and sow traditional garments. It also provides them with basic education - and a home. “Maybe this is my legacy”, Renate Winter says.

Legion of Extraordinary Dancers

http://www.rickey.org/

 "Legion of Extraordinary Dancers".  Their website is at http://www.thelxd.com

Try to do :)

A story about a big squirrel and a baby squirrel

As drops in the ocean

by Anastasia Poushkareva

Water is the most powerful thing in the world. I, of course, have heard this before - so much has been said and written, felt and imagined. When you stand near the shoreline or even advance to a knee-deep area, with nothing but the salty breast of the Atlantic lying before you - you subconsiously step further, as the water caresses your legs and the wind inebriates you. Only caution that is still somehow present holds you from giving yourself to the ocean, sacrificing yourself with a smile, dissipating into miniscule drops. And you walk back disappointed as the wind calls you back, but you move on.

Then you stand on a boat having distanced yourself from the seductiveness of water, watching it run headlong into the wall of civilization and retreat angrily preparing for a retaliation. The wind is teasing as ever. It playfully pulls up your shirt, and you can feel its light hands on your skin, filled with the most insane of desires.

When you step towards the nose of the boat, the wind becomes more demanding, brutal. Its hands, previously gentle, tear and slap; the mass of air, salt and bitterness crashes into you from the side of Northern Maine and plants a thousand sharp kisses. Later that night you go on a date with the ocean, and as soon as your toes touch the sand, the wind blows you away in its joyful welcome. The waves roll on excitedly as you fall on your knees and try to catch them with your hands. The water breaks away, leaving foam and a couple of polished pebbles at your feet.

There are so many shores in Massachusetts where water treats you differently like every unique lover. In some places it crashes at your feet angrily, invading your territory; but in spite of its pride, it wants to be conquered like a fearful virgin. In other, the sea puts its treasures before you like a lusty rich seducer, and you smile and let it fondle your body. In Yarmouth the ocean greets you with a roar on the very first date, but then it, charmed, finds itself timidly kissing your toes, for it has nothing to offer you except a profusion of seaweed and broken seashells. This morning, when you walked the sand trail for the last time, the water was calm and crystal clear. It still gave you a plethora of its gifts, but it had ceased asking, pleading, caressing. It lay indifferently around your ankles, brought in motion only by the movement of your feet. And you knelt beside it, trying to stir its apathy with your hands just to feel its salty love on your lips one more time. And you laughed at your human clinginess and walked away, and for a second it seemed that the ocean smiled back, but you weren't sure.

The accordionist's night

by T. Brenna.


I woke up trembling, sweating cold. The sickness, whatever it is, has taken refuge in every living cell that my beaten body has to offer. Not much of a luxury stay if I may confess. I haven’t eaten a full meal since I left home, what is it, six weeks ago? Now I find myself in this constricted gap between two buildings, where I set camp for the night. My hands shake from hunger and the scent of my sick perspiration, plus the weeks gone unwashed, prickles my nose as I write. Oh gosh, it is lonely here. I am lonely and alone. I wish it wasn’t so. Wish I could keep denying how alone and miserable and isolated I feel. At least I had been deceiving myself pretty successfully until now.


...And this? This is not exactly how I thought it would be when I left. However, I still don’t regret leaving. High school is not for me. Not for me. No. This is me. This is my life. Mine is the traveler’s life, the rolling stone. Mine is the world and I am ready to tackle anything. As long as I have my accordion and my music I’ll be alive. I’ll be fine. I’ll be happy. Well, kind of. But if it wasn’t for my music I would be dead now. I know that.

I can’t believe how awkward I’ve become. This is one thing, if there is one thing, which I would like to work on for the next few months. Why do I distrust people so much? I wasn’t like this when I left. I feel old, and I am only 16. I was not like this when I left. I guess it is not totally my fault. People are mean, nasty even. I am glad I’ve seen people’s true face: inconsiderate, selfish, superficial, selfish, stupid, did I mention selfish? Now that I know them at their lowest, nothing can surprise me, they won’t let me down anymore. No expectations. People can go fuck themselves. I have me and my music and animals that are worth way more than any human I’ve met for all I know. I’ll keep writing and playing music till the day I die. Music is my nourishment. Though I could fucking use a good meal every once in a while. Maybe even a warm bed and a nice person to talk to. Not always though. I prefer my solitude, my travels, my freedom and detachment. Priceless. Guess you’ve got to give something up, and I am willing to pay this price. I really am. I am not like the others. I am independent, a free spirit, gifted, experienced and even a little enlightened when I compare myself to others. At least I hope I am. Don’t have much going for me otherwise. I don’t think. No schooling...my only schooling is the streets, the road. No profession. Well, I guess I am a musician, though not very many people appreciate that.

I wonder what I will leave behind when I pass, will anyone remember me? Will anyone care for my accordion? Or will it go to a yard sale and rust and dust away? I truly hope my accordion finds another owner who cares for it and who loves music as much as I do. Will anyone ever find this notebook? Will this ever be read?

God, I love the stars! My music and the pitch black starry skies I’ve been able to see are enough for me to keep me here, to keep me alive. It is amazing what this does to you, traveling alone, no money, no nothing. What a humbling experience this is. Hunger, cold, loneliness, sickness, but here I am: alive and looking at the most amazing night sky anyone has ever seen, playing my favorite tune in the backdrop of my thoughts. Here I am, together with the Universe. We are one. I surrender to it. I belong to the greater thing out there. Out there and in me. I am not but a representation of the force and I have no control of this which is my life. I just float along and it is wonderful. It is beautiful.

But why? Why did I choose this? Why me? Why this? And why isn’t there anyone here to keep me company? Why do I feel so miserable? Oh gosh, I wish people were more giving, and more considerate! So at least I wouldn’t have to scavenge for food in trash cans and then I wouldn’t get sick and all would be fine. I would be happy and would leave them alone except for a chat now and then. I think I have something to give...So why can’t they give back? Isn’t my music something they can appreciate and place some value to? Fuck, I need to stop bitching! Life is good. I will get better. I want to get better. I want to be a better person, too... So much. I don’t want to be a bitchy, whiny, bitter, run-down person that no one would want to be around. God, if I get better soon, I promise to be kind to others, to be fun and funny, to be honest and giving, and to be positive and open-minded. I promise. Please make me better. God, I want to live. I just want to live my life...And share my music, and learn and travel the world. Please make me better. Sickness please be over now. I don’t want to die. Not yet. I’ll lie here cold, sick, hungry and weak. I’ll lie here and think positive. I’ll just lie here and wait. Wait for that miracle.

Working Homeless

Becky Blanton planned to live in her van for a year and see the country, but when depression set in and her freelance job ended, her camping trip turned into homelessness. In this intimate talk, she describes her experience of becoming one of America's working homeless.