Saturday, March 28, 2009
Now on Twitter
I have started twittering about the different writing and reporting I've been doing. You can check it out here.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Valentine's Day
Another article by me published on the Forbes website: this one's about the Brits spending Valentine's Day in London while their economy continues to spiral down.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Hans Beck obituary
I'm currently in London and have an article published on the Forbes website. It's about German toy maker, Hans Beck, who recently passed away. I get a buzz reading the byline!
Friendship Without Borders
My latest column for the Sticky Institute:
I first met Alice eight or nine years ago, at a Make It Up zine fair in Melbourne. My Nuances zine was traded for her Hello, handbag! zine. It was the Nuances issue which asked readers whether they would spend $2.20 on coffee or lunch. Alice e-mailed me with her response: "Coffee, coffee, coffee!" (My friend Gene later told me he felt guilty about my poverty-stricken dilemma, because he'd had both coffee and lunch.)
Alice then went on to make a beautiful zine called Frenzy, which I remember because she was talking about taking a train ride with someone special and describing the moment as feeling like a movie. This simple statement struck a chord. Her zine inspired me to make my much more personal Three Seconds series.
Alice became one of my zine friends who I saw at the National Young Writers Festival in Newcastle or Make It Up in Melbourne. Even though we only caught up in person once or twice a year, the zines became a link to each other's lives.
We ran into each other four years ago at the GB in Richmond, one of my regular hangouts at the time. Over beers and pizza, we compared our complicated love situations, study experiences and aspirations for the future. I was making zines about relationships, car crashes and my TV series-style love life. We caught up a few times at the GB, becoming friends with the bartenders, then didn't see each other again for a couple of years.
When I came back to Melbourne at the end of 2007, Alice and I decided to meet up with our other old school zinester friends: Paul, who used to make Starzine, and Tom, of Sweet Valley Zine fame. At the Lounge, we talked about ourselves, our recent lack of zine making, zines that we wanted to make but hadn't yet done so.
Alice visited Paris in January, after navigating the nightmare Spanish train system. We caught up a couple of times before I headed over to London, which is where I'm writing this column. At Chez Georges in Paris, we met up with another Australian zinester called May, who wrote about what it was like living in Cabramatta. She's now living in Paris; her zine making days feel like a distant memory.
Among the ex-pats here, zines are a rarity, with blogs the main way of keeping touch with people back home. And yet, most blogs do not have the same kind of sincerity or passion that's found in a zine. There's a real love for the zine making process which gets lost when sharing your thoughts becomes as easy as clicking the "Publish" button.
What I value about my friendship with Alice is that, despite however many years go by, we're still close. Our zines helped us to know each other at the core, including the moments which change us. We're not sure when we'll see each other next, or where, but the friendship will remain.
I first met Alice eight or nine years ago, at a Make It Up zine fair in Melbourne. My Nuances zine was traded for her Hello, handbag! zine. It was the Nuances issue which asked readers whether they would spend $2.20 on coffee or lunch. Alice e-mailed me with her response: "Coffee, coffee, coffee!" (My friend Gene later told me he felt guilty about my poverty-stricken dilemma, because he'd had both coffee and lunch.)
Alice then went on to make a beautiful zine called Frenzy, which I remember because she was talking about taking a train ride with someone special and describing the moment as feeling like a movie. This simple statement struck a chord. Her zine inspired me to make my much more personal Three Seconds series.
Alice became one of my zine friends who I saw at the National Young Writers Festival in Newcastle or Make It Up in Melbourne. Even though we only caught up in person once or twice a year, the zines became a link to each other's lives.
We ran into each other four years ago at the GB in Richmond, one of my regular hangouts at the time. Over beers and pizza, we compared our complicated love situations, study experiences and aspirations for the future. I was making zines about relationships, car crashes and my TV series-style love life. We caught up a few times at the GB, becoming friends with the bartenders, then didn't see each other again for a couple of years.
When I came back to Melbourne at the end of 2007, Alice and I decided to meet up with our other old school zinester friends: Paul, who used to make Starzine, and Tom, of Sweet Valley Zine fame. At the Lounge, we talked about ourselves, our recent lack of zine making, zines that we wanted to make but hadn't yet done so.
Alice visited Paris in January, after navigating the nightmare Spanish train system. We caught up a couple of times before I headed over to London, which is where I'm writing this column. At Chez Georges in Paris, we met up with another Australian zinester called May, who wrote about what it was like living in Cabramatta. She's now living in Paris; her zine making days feel like a distant memory.
Among the ex-pats here, zines are a rarity, with blogs the main way of keeping touch with people back home. And yet, most blogs do not have the same kind of sincerity or passion that's found in a zine. There's a real love for the zine making process which gets lost when sharing your thoughts becomes as easy as clicking the "Publish" button.
What I value about my friendship with Alice is that, despite however many years go by, we're still close. Our zines helped us to know each other at the core, including the moments which change us. We're not sure when we'll see each other next, or where, but the friendship will remain.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Josef K before the French law
I spent a week at the Palais de Justice in Paris, meeting magistrates and lawyers, reading through court files and sitting in on hearings. Before then, my experience with the legal system was fairly limited. During the first semester at the Journalism School we had taken a class in law and I also took a subject on writing press articles about court hearings. The French judiciary system is quite different to the American way and I’m not entirely sure how it works in Australia. Nevertheless, the reason why I wanted to study journalism in France was to learn about French society from the inside. The week at the courts brought to life what I’d previously known, turning crime statistics into real situations about real people. Coming face-to-face with individuals caught in a downward spiral taught me more about the world than what I could ever learn from a Wikipedia entry about the French penal code.
At times, I felt like I was living inside a Kafka novel. Every morning for the first three days, we had to report to a woman whose assistant would then take us to the section we would be observing. He led us to the offices, knocked on the door, then left us to meet with the people inside. Without him, I have no idea whether I would have been able to navigate the labyrinth of corridors and floors. And yet, even though he knew where each office could be found, I don’t think he had any idea what the purpose of each place was. The first time I was living in Paris, I saw an animated short film about a man who was hired to sit in a corridor and watch a closed door, all day long. His job was to ensure that the door never opened but he was never allowed to know what was inside. At first he thought it was futile, but as time went on, his job took on more and more meaning – it became his reason for existing. Our court guide reminded me of him.
The one thought that kept running through my head was: not everyone has access to what I was witnessing. We saw people’s futures played out in front of our eyes; court decisions that would ultimately shape the rest of their lives. Had I decided to stay in Melbourne rather than study in Paris, I would not have the same appreciation for the world as I do at the moment. Hopefully when I wake up tomorrow morning, I won’t have transformed into an insect.
At times, I felt like I was living inside a Kafka novel. Every morning for the first three days, we had to report to a woman whose assistant would then take us to the section we would be observing. He led us to the offices, knocked on the door, then left us to meet with the people inside. Without him, I have no idea whether I would have been able to navigate the labyrinth of corridors and floors. And yet, even though he knew where each office could be found, I don’t think he had any idea what the purpose of each place was. The first time I was living in Paris, I saw an animated short film about a man who was hired to sit in a corridor and watch a closed door, all day long. His job was to ensure that the door never opened but he was never allowed to know what was inside. At first he thought it was futile, but as time went on, his job took on more and more meaning – it became his reason for existing. Our court guide reminded me of him.
The one thought that kept running through my head was: not everyone has access to what I was witnessing. We saw people’s futures played out in front of our eyes; court decisions that would ultimately shape the rest of their lives. Had I decided to stay in Melbourne rather than study in Paris, I would not have the same appreciation for the world as I do at the moment. Hopefully when I wake up tomorrow morning, I won’t have transformed into an insect.
Bois de Vincennes
If you google Bois de Vincennes, you’re likely to come across touristy descriptions of the woods located on the outskirts of Paris. There’ll be images of the big lake and suggestions of recreational activities you can do there. What you won’t find, however, are stories about the purported two hundred homeless people who live there, or how Bois de Vincennes becomes a haunt for prostitutes at night.
The housing crisis in France resurfaced in the media towards the end of last year, when temperatures dipped to below freezing levels, snow fell in Paris and some of the homeless people living in the woods died. The French government wanted to ensure that all homeless people were staying in emergency shelters during times of great cold; action groups rejected this measure as a violation of an individual’s right to decide where they wanted to sleep. For them, emergency shelters did not offer a long-term solution.
The story seems to have dropped out of the media recently, but it’s still cold in Paris. The housing crisis remains an issue. I decided to go see Bois de Vincennes for myself, to discover it with my own eyes. If there really were two hundred homeless people living in the woods, where were they exactly?
My friend and I caught a metro to Porte Doree, where Paris “intra muros” ends. The city is surrounded by a freeway which marks the boundary between those living within Paris itself and those outside. It is both a physical and psychological frontier. A couple of years ago, I was working in a high school in a suburb just outside of Paris. Time and time again, my students would tell me, “This isn’t Paris. This is Bobigny.”
From the Porte Doree metro, we walked down a street with golden statues and entered Bois de Vincennes. It was a typical Sunday afternoon in a park: guys were playing soccer, tourists were taking photos, dads and sons alike were navigating remote-control toy boats across the lake.
We kept walking. We found a Buddhist temple. We saw teenage kids knitting. Rough looking dogs with big teeth came up to us, sniffing us. We kept walking.
We came across dull-coloured tents near the cemetery. Some of them were by themselves, but there was also half a dozen tents pitched together. In the middle were weathered couches, a table and some chairs. We walked around the outside of the cemetery, towards a field, and found a couple more tents. We could hear a woman inside, wailing to herself.
We decided to head back the way we came, stopping by the group of tents. It felt like an invasion of privacy being there, and yet, it was in the public domain. We kept our distance, but stood there for a few minutes, taking it in. An old man who had been walking through the cemetery saw us. He stood at the cemetery entrance, watching us. I tried to smile at him, but we were too far away for him to notice.
We walked back to the metro, to return to Paris. I thought back to the homeless tents that had been pitched along the Canal Saint-Martin in 2006-2007. Back then, there had been a noticeboard with requests by homeless people for items such as a pair of pants or size 42 shoes, with a name and instructions on how to find their tent. We saw none of that at Bois de Vincennes. Even though the story hasn’t been making news headlines recently, the homeless are still there. But you’d never know otherwise. There are some things that Google Street View won’t show you.
The housing crisis in France resurfaced in the media towards the end of last year, when temperatures dipped to below freezing levels, snow fell in Paris and some of the homeless people living in the woods died. The French government wanted to ensure that all homeless people were staying in emergency shelters during times of great cold; action groups rejected this measure as a violation of an individual’s right to decide where they wanted to sleep. For them, emergency shelters did not offer a long-term solution.
The story seems to have dropped out of the media recently, but it’s still cold in Paris. The housing crisis remains an issue. I decided to go see Bois de Vincennes for myself, to discover it with my own eyes. If there really were two hundred homeless people living in the woods, where were they exactly?
My friend and I caught a metro to Porte Doree, where Paris “intra muros” ends. The city is surrounded by a freeway which marks the boundary between those living within Paris itself and those outside. It is both a physical and psychological frontier. A couple of years ago, I was working in a high school in a suburb just outside of Paris. Time and time again, my students would tell me, “This isn’t Paris. This is Bobigny.”
From the Porte Doree metro, we walked down a street with golden statues and entered Bois de Vincennes. It was a typical Sunday afternoon in a park: guys were playing soccer, tourists were taking photos, dads and sons alike were navigating remote-control toy boats across the lake.
We kept walking. We found a Buddhist temple. We saw teenage kids knitting. Rough looking dogs with big teeth came up to us, sniffing us. We kept walking.
We came across dull-coloured tents near the cemetery. Some of them were by themselves, but there was also half a dozen tents pitched together. In the middle were weathered couches, a table and some chairs. We walked around the outside of the cemetery, towards a field, and found a couple more tents. We could hear a woman inside, wailing to herself.
We decided to head back the way we came, stopping by the group of tents. It felt like an invasion of privacy being there, and yet, it was in the public domain. We kept our distance, but stood there for a few minutes, taking it in. An old man who had been walking through the cemetery saw us. He stood at the cemetery entrance, watching us. I tried to smile at him, but we were too far away for him to notice.
We walked back to the metro, to return to Paris. I thought back to the homeless tents that had been pitched along the Canal Saint-Martin in 2006-2007. Back then, there had been a noticeboard with requests by homeless people for items such as a pair of pants or size 42 shoes, with a name and instructions on how to find their tent. We saw none of that at Bois de Vincennes. Even though the story hasn’t been making news headlines recently, the homeless are still there. But you’d never know otherwise. There are some things that Google Street View won’t show you.
Friday, January 30, 2009
One semester down, three to go...
So here's the thing: I have just survived the most intense semester of study I've ever undertaken. My severe lack of blogging is a reflection of my workload at the Journalism School. In the beginning I was publishing various bits of reporting I'd done as part of the course. I haven't done so recently, partly because a lot of what I've been writing has been in French, and partly because I didn't ask the people I interviewed whether or not it could be published on the Internet. So although I'd love to tell you about a 23 year-old who started up two Palestinian-leaning organisations in France after a trip to the Middle East in 2004, it's best to acknowledge their right to privacy in this digital age.
I have a dozen other insights and interesting stories to tell though, and there's a fear that if I don't write them down, it will lose its meaning. And yet, I have so little time...
One of the things that has been inspiring recently is the role of journalists in informing people about the world around them. As one of my teachers said recently, it's important because: "If you don't write about it, no one will know."
I don't think my thoughts about the movie Entre les murs (which has been recently nominated for an Oscar in the foreign film section) or my impressions of Bois de Vincennes (some woods found just outside of Paris) is life changing, these little stories are part of my current world. Writing about the fleeting moments make them last a little while longer, and that's what makes life meaningful: not just because these moments happened, but because they continue to hold some sort of resonance in your being and shape who you are.
Many other things to say, but they'll need to wait. Hopefully I can find the time to tell you about Entre les murs, Bois de Vincennes, my encounters with the French legal system and talking to people who lived in Paris in the 1970s...
I have a dozen other insights and interesting stories to tell though, and there's a fear that if I don't write them down, it will lose its meaning. And yet, I have so little time...
One of the things that has been inspiring recently is the role of journalists in informing people about the world around them. As one of my teachers said recently, it's important because: "If you don't write about it, no one will know."
I don't think my thoughts about the movie Entre les murs (which has been recently nominated for an Oscar in the foreign film section) or my impressions of Bois de Vincennes (some woods found just outside of Paris) is life changing, these little stories are part of my current world. Writing about the fleeting moments make them last a little while longer, and that's what makes life meaningful: not just because these moments happened, but because they continue to hold some sort of resonance in your being and shape who you are.
Many other things to say, but they'll need to wait. Hopefully I can find the time to tell you about Entre les murs, Bois de Vincennes, my encounters with the French legal system and talking to people who lived in Paris in the 1970s...
Thursday, January 08, 2009
2009: A Cyberspace Odyssey
Yes! I still exist! I've just been very, very busy. Below is my January column for an independent bookshop located in Melbourne, the Sticky Institute. Enjoy.
The Internet has a lot to answer for.
Despite a surface distance of 16,780 kilometres between Paris and Melbourne, I am still able to keep in touch with what’s happening on the other side of the globe. Thanks to Facebook, I always know when Sticky is sleeping, in the same way that Sticky always knows what I’m making for dinner. Thanks also to Facebook, I was able to catch up with an old high school friend who now lives in Zurich, making Moleskine-type notebooks in her spare time. More recently I met up with Maddy, a zinester from Wollongong, while she was in town over the Christmas holidays. We spent the day eating Tibetan food, walking around Paris and going to the Rodin museum. Maddy left for a 14 hour bus ride to Berlin that night and I suggested that she meet up with my friend Emily, a zinester from Melbourne who now lives in Berlin. Perhaps all of this could have happened without the Internet, but much more coordination and planning would have been required.
The Internet is not always useful, however. I’d been meaning to visit an artist squat in Paris which I’d heard about through the grapevine. Short on time, I relied on Google to find out where it was. Despite the website not being updated since 2003, I remained positive. Apparently the squat was open to the public every day except Mondays, from 1pm to 7pm. Sadly, when we got to 59 rue de Rivoli a few days ago, all we found was an abandoned squat – much more disappointing than an abandoned building which could be turned into a squat.
One of my Facebook friends uploaded photos of his favourite zine front covers. Oddly, I was thankful that none of my zines were among the list. Every now and then there are discussions about digitising zines – but to do so would to lose its meaning. I love reading back on my old zines because it reminds me of who I was at a particular time in my life, and how much I’ve changed (or haven’t changed) since that zine was made. There is an honesty in these early zines, an intimacy between myself and the 50 other people who managed to get a copy. Many things shared in the zines are things that I would not tell an online audience, where strangers from all over the world could find and read it without its original context. Rather than trying to get as many web hits as possible or having an eternal presence on the World Wide Web, I want my personal zines to remain ephemeral. Perhaps the same could be said about squats.
My New Year’s Resolutions for this Sticky column: to find an artist squat; to visit the anarchist bookstore; to learn more about the bookstore Shakespeare & Co; to continue writing.
Happy 2009 from Paris!
The Internet has a lot to answer for.
Despite a surface distance of 16,780 kilometres between Paris and Melbourne, I am still able to keep in touch with what’s happening on the other side of the globe. Thanks to Facebook, I always know when Sticky is sleeping, in the same way that Sticky always knows what I’m making for dinner. Thanks also to Facebook, I was able to catch up with an old high school friend who now lives in Zurich, making Moleskine-type notebooks in her spare time. More recently I met up with Maddy, a zinester from Wollongong, while she was in town over the Christmas holidays. We spent the day eating Tibetan food, walking around Paris and going to the Rodin museum. Maddy left for a 14 hour bus ride to Berlin that night and I suggested that she meet up with my friend Emily, a zinester from Melbourne who now lives in Berlin. Perhaps all of this could have happened without the Internet, but much more coordination and planning would have been required.
The Internet is not always useful, however. I’d been meaning to visit an artist squat in Paris which I’d heard about through the grapevine. Short on time, I relied on Google to find out where it was. Despite the website not being updated since 2003, I remained positive. Apparently the squat was open to the public every day except Mondays, from 1pm to 7pm. Sadly, when we got to 59 rue de Rivoli a few days ago, all we found was an abandoned squat – much more disappointing than an abandoned building which could be turned into a squat.
One of my Facebook friends uploaded photos of his favourite zine front covers. Oddly, I was thankful that none of my zines were among the list. Every now and then there are discussions about digitising zines – but to do so would to lose its meaning. I love reading back on my old zines because it reminds me of who I was at a particular time in my life, and how much I’ve changed (or haven’t changed) since that zine was made. There is an honesty in these early zines, an intimacy between myself and the 50 other people who managed to get a copy. Many things shared in the zines are things that I would not tell an online audience, where strangers from all over the world could find and read it without its original context. Rather than trying to get as many web hits as possible or having an eternal presence on the World Wide Web, I want my personal zines to remain ephemeral. Perhaps the same could be said about squats.
My New Year’s Resolutions for this Sticky column: to find an artist squat; to visit the anarchist bookstore; to learn more about the bookstore Shakespeare & Co; to continue writing.
Happy 2009 from Paris!
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Every Human Has Rights Media Awards
Kofi Annan smiled at me while I was standing next to him, sipping champagne. This brief moment made me feel so privileged, and yet, so insignificant at the same time. What do you say to a man who was the former Secretary-General of the United Nations, as well as a Nobel Peace Prize winner? Saying nothing, I simply smiled back.
On Saturday 6th December, I found myself in the same room as former Irish president Mary Robinson, former American president Jimmy Carter, business entrepreneur Sir Richard Branson, French ambassador for human rights François Zimeray, honorary French ambassador Stéphane Hessel - who was a participant at the drafting of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948 - and a multitude of other Extremely Important People.
We were there for the Every Human Has Rights Media Awards in Paris, organised by Internews Europe and in partnership with the incredibly influential group, The Elders. Journalists and human rights advocates from around the world gathered to celebrate 30 winning reports, with 6 of them receiving a special mention:
One of the winners, a 26 year-old Arabian journalist, was unable to attend the event. Because she was a woman, she needed her father's permission to travel. Her absence was a sombre reminder that despite the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of apartheid, inequality still exists in so many parts of the world.
As long as journalists continue to exercise the right to freedom of expression, they give voice to those who cannot be heard. "All the rights enshrined in the Declaration hinge on the realisation of free expression," said George Papagiannis from UNESCO. "A free and independent press makes governments accountable." Statistics from Reporters Without Borders indicate that 87 journalists died last year, while 43 have been killed so far this year. 128 journalists and 68 cyberdissidents have been imprisoned since 1st January 2008.
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights is the most translated document in the world, born out of the horrors of World War II, Hiroshima and the Holocaust. It offers a vision and hope for a shared humanity, but 60 years on, it still requires action. "C'est le moment où il faut s'engager," warned Stéphane Hessel who received a standing ovation for his speech. We must seize the moment.
Although the United States played a major role in the creation of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, their influence has waned over the past few years. Jimmy Carter told the audience that while 177 countries believed that the right to food was a human right, the United States have not yet signed this agreement. "Obama has a long way to go," said Carter, recognising that times will be tough. Only 29% of Americans are in favour of closing Guantanamo, according to a recent public opinion poll. "Obama is going to need a lot of help from people like me," continued Carter, "and those who have never served in public office." The most important thing was for individuals to realise their obligation "to become deeply and personally involved in the same kind of crusade that existed 60 years ago."
I joined two student groups at my first high school nearly 15 years ago: Amnesty International and St Vincent de Paul. As part of my involvement, I took canned food from my mum's kitchen pantry in order to give them to homeless people. I also made my mum buy aerograms so that I could write letters to governments, asking them to free persecuted individuals. At the time (I was 12), I didn't understand the complexity of social justice and human rights issues. All I knew was that I wanted to help make the world a better place.
While these little actions seem so insignificant when compared to the work of everyone else at the Every Human Has Rights Media Awards, it made a difference to the individuals we were helping. I know more about the world than I did 15 years ago, but the complexity remains. The main thing is to keep believing in humanity and the need to work together.
In the words of Eleanor Roosevelt:
Winning reports from the Every Human Has Rights Media Awards can be viewed here.
On Saturday 6th December, I found myself in the same room as former Irish president Mary Robinson, former American president Jimmy Carter, business entrepreneur Sir Richard Branson, French ambassador for human rights François Zimeray, honorary French ambassador Stéphane Hessel - who was a participant at the drafting of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948 - and a multitude of other Extremely Important People.
We were there for the Every Human Has Rights Media Awards in Paris, organised by Internews Europe and in partnership with the incredibly influential group, The Elders. Journalists and human rights advocates from around the world gathered to celebrate 30 winning reports, with 6 of them receiving a special mention:
- Al Rabih Ould Edum (Mauritania) - The Youngest Mauritanian Divorcee
- Rodrigo Tornero (Argentina) - It's My Body
- Mario Magalhães & Joel Silva (Brazil) - The Anti-Heroes - The Underworld of Sugarcane
- Michael Duffy (Australia) - Nike Human Rights Investigation
- Anas Aremeway Anas & Mary Fianko Akuffo (Ghana) - Human for sale 'Dons' exposed
- Ben Fundis, Clara Long & John Drew (United States of America) - Border Stories
One of the winners, a 26 year-old Arabian journalist, was unable to attend the event. Because she was a woman, she needed her father's permission to travel. Her absence was a sombre reminder that despite the fall of the Berlin Wall and the end of apartheid, inequality still exists in so many parts of the world.
As long as journalists continue to exercise the right to freedom of expression, they give voice to those who cannot be heard. "All the rights enshrined in the Declaration hinge on the realisation of free expression," said George Papagiannis from UNESCO. "A free and independent press makes governments accountable." Statistics from Reporters Without Borders indicate that 87 journalists died last year, while 43 have been killed so far this year. 128 journalists and 68 cyberdissidents have been imprisoned since 1st January 2008.
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights is the most translated document in the world, born out of the horrors of World War II, Hiroshima and the Holocaust. It offers a vision and hope for a shared humanity, but 60 years on, it still requires action. "C'est le moment où il faut s'engager," warned Stéphane Hessel who received a standing ovation for his speech. We must seize the moment.
Although the United States played a major role in the creation of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, their influence has waned over the past few years. Jimmy Carter told the audience that while 177 countries believed that the right to food was a human right, the United States have not yet signed this agreement. "Obama has a long way to go," said Carter, recognising that times will be tough. Only 29% of Americans are in favour of closing Guantanamo, according to a recent public opinion poll. "Obama is going to need a lot of help from people like me," continued Carter, "and those who have never served in public office." The most important thing was for individuals to realise their obligation "to become deeply and personally involved in the same kind of crusade that existed 60 years ago."
I joined two student groups at my first high school nearly 15 years ago: Amnesty International and St Vincent de Paul. As part of my involvement, I took canned food from my mum's kitchen pantry in order to give them to homeless people. I also made my mum buy aerograms so that I could write letters to governments, asking them to free persecuted individuals. At the time (I was 12), I didn't understand the complexity of social justice and human rights issues. All I knew was that I wanted to help make the world a better place.
While these little actions seem so insignificant when compared to the work of everyone else at the Every Human Has Rights Media Awards, it made a difference to the individuals we were helping. I know more about the world than I did 15 years ago, but the complexity remains. The main thing is to keep believing in humanity and the need to work together.
In the words of Eleanor Roosevelt:
Where after all do universal human rights begin? In small places, close to home - so close and so small that they cannot be seen on any map of the world. Yet they are the world of the individual person: The neighborhood he lives in; the school or college he attends; the factory, farm or office where he works. Such are the places where every man, woman, and child seeks equal justice, equal opportunity, equal dignity without discrimination. Unless these rights have meaning there, they have little meaning anywhere. Without concerted citizen action to uphold them close to home, we shall look in vain for progress in the larger world.
Winning reports from the Every Human Has Rights Media Awards can be viewed here.
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