World Vision Report

Child Slavery ... in the Army

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

I had served in the U.S. military for five years, working as a journalist. Most of my time was spent writing stories, taking photos, shooting video, recording audio, and, every so often, standing guard, on-loading supplies, and other such work. (I had it lucky compared to most.)

Half way around the world, it turns out children half my age were doing more physical labor than I was.

Two demobilized child soldiers reporter Zack Baddorf interviewed in Sudan. Zack Baddorf/World Vision Report

I interviewed several child soldiers and asked them both, "What was your best day in the military?" They both told a story about how one day they didn't have to work. Day after day, year after year, these children slaved away carrying other soldiers' bags, collecting firewood, cooking meals, bringing water, and similar tasks.

This isn't something in the far-distant past. These children were forced into the military in 2004 and they're only this year being released. This is the 21st century, and yet children aged 9 are being forced into the military and into combat. It's disturbing. Some 900 children are still in southern Sudan's armed forces today.

Some children do go to the barracks on their own. I met another child whose father killed someone. To escape a revenge killing, he joined the military. Other children join because they are orphans or their parents can't provide for them. Social services in southern Sudan are limited, with the vast amount of the government's budget going toward security in the run-up to the region's independence referendum this January.

So it's not surprising that children turn to the military where they know they can get meals on a regular basis. But UNICEF asserts that the government of southern Sudan can do more, and I agree. UNICEF's Bismarck Swangin says that in some way, all children in the military are hostages, even those who joined voluntarily, because they can't make an informed decision at their age.

Spending time with the ex-combatants over a weekend, I have to agree. These children have a right to education and a right to a life with food and shelter outside of the military. There are many people in Sudan (in the government and out of it) working to ensure they have those rights.

I hope to hear soon that the last child soldier has been demobilized from the south's army.

Please use the comment mechanism on this page to share your own thoughts about the problem of child soldiers that is still so prevalent throughout the world.

Listen to Zack's story about the demobilized child soldiers of southern Sudan.

No photos allowed, deep in the heart of Mafia territory!

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

I walk through the town of San Giuseppe Jato and notice that everyone is staring at me. I'm in heart of Mafia territory, reporting on a hotel and restaurant that is fighting back against the organized criminals.

But I refuse to allow paranoia fueled by silly mob films to influence my perspective. I tell myself that this is like every other dead-end town that no one visits. Locals wonder why you didn't keep going to better place.

Police hauled in the reporter for taking photographs of these signs located in a Silician town where the Mafia rules. Nancy Greenleese/World Vision Report

I approach an intersection where a half-dozen signs point to other towns. One is Corleone. As in Michael Corleone, The Godfather. American listeners know this name but few realize itâs the name of a town, another one where the Mafia rules.

I snap a picture.

"Signora! Signora!" calls out a young police officer. I freeze.

"Why are you taking a picture of people leaving the police station?" he asks, even though we are the only two people on the street.

I respond in Italian, botching up the noun and verb agreements. I'm flustered. Cops make me nervous, even ones that I could've babysat once upon a time.

I tell him that I'm taking a photo of the signs. He demands my documents and escorts me to the police station.

He tells me to make myself comfortable. What is comfortable about being pulled into a police station and having your documents taken from you for taking a picture?

He asks me what I'm doing in Italy. I tell him I'm a reporter. Then I lie and say I'm here on vacation. I'm sure he doesn't believe me. Yet I resist telling him I'm here to do a story about anti-Mafia efforts. In other countries, less corrupt countries, he might thank me and give me a firm hand shake. This is Italy. This is Sicily. While there are many brave and honest police officers, the authorities and the Mafia are often entangled. One palm greases the other.

His assistant writes down my passport number while I show the officer my pictures.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry," he says. He becomes super sweet, like one cannoli too many. I feel slightly sick. He's done what he set out to do: scare me. I'm not welcome.

Have you ever been stopped by the police while traveling in a foreign country? Tell us about your experience below.

Listen to Nancy's stories about anti-Mafia groups fighting back and a grandmother who teaches the Mafia a lesson in Sicily.

Internet Intifada

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

I spent three months reporting this story, on separate trips to the West Bank, Syria and in Lebanon. The entire time was a continuous discovery of the extent of the hip-hop scene among the Palestinian diaspora in the Middle East. I had heard about the bigger groups like DAM from outside Tel Aviv and I-Voice in Bourj el-Barajneh in Beirut, but through traveling to camps in all these places, I discovered that lower down the musical food chain, on the grass roots level, there is an enormous creativity going on.

Members of the popular Palestinian hip-hop group DAM perform.

There are several reasons for this, I think. Some are material and structural â the arrival of the internet to the camps has been key â it enables many young Palestinians to crack audio software off the net, and once they have made their music, to distribute it, worldwide, on music sharing sites like Myspace.com.

But there are other reasons, especially in the West Bank, whereas the first intifada there contained a large contingent of youth, pitting their rocks and slingshots against the might of the Israeli Defense Forces, the second intifada, which started in 2000, was a different affair.

Israel's strict lockdown on Palestinian mobility saw many of the Palestinian youth in the West Bank housebound, under long curfews. It is in this time of inactivity and boredom that many of today's Palestinian hip-hop heavies cut their teeth on music editing programs and honed their craft in song writing.

The internet is also at the core of another exciting development. It is joining and help to web together communities of Palestinians separated since 1948 when many of them were forced or coerced from what is now Israel. Sixty years of separation, often by unfriendly borders, has fractured and inflected the Palestinian identity and much is being done today online, though file-sharing, video casting and chat, to bridge some of those unfortunate divides.

This all means that you can also join the communication. Palestinian hip-hop is readily available to you to explore, if you have access to the internet, which you must have if you are reading this ...

To get started, here are the sites for some of the groups mentioned in the radio piece:

DAM: http://www.dampalestine.com/
I-Voice: http://www.myspace.com/theivoicee
Refugees of Rap: http://www.myspace.com/refugeesofrap

For a great overview of hip-hop in the Middle East, check out Jackson Allers' wonderful blog: "Beats and Breath," and his recent documentary on I-Voice: "Life from the BBC."

What do you think of the role the internet can play not only for Palestinians but for other refugees, or geographically displaced people in the world? Should the internet play a bigger role in post-conflict peace-building? And what other opportunities might it provide for those who may wish to resist oppression in a non-violent manner?

Listen to Don's story on Palestinian hip-hop.

Adults can be so lame ...

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

A few weeks ago I jumped rope for the first time since the fifth grade. I remember how this was absolutely my favorite after-lunch activity on the blacktop with a group of girlfriends. Now, as a young woman, I miss those afternoons. The chances of my grown-up girlfriends pulling out a rope and saying, "Let's jump," after a midday meal are slim to none. Adults can be so lame.

Children jump rope over a dirt road in Juarez, Mexico. MÃ³nica Ortiz Uribe/World Vision Report

It was a Wednesday, warm and sunny. I was in jeans and pink flats. The place: Colonia Primero de Mayo in the Mexican border city of Juarez.

My guide was a social worker with unforgettable green eyes. I picked her up at a corner pharmacy where she was waiting with a portable stereo and a small canvas bag filled with coloring books and crayons. "The neighborhood is a little rough," she told me. I think I just smiled back at her. Like I haven't heard that before.

When Lourdes and I arrived there were only a few children gathered in the front yard of the family who hosts these weekly play dates. The homes here were built by hand by their owners, so the architecture can get pretty, well, creative. This house was actually several small houses on a single plot. The walls were a bright yellow and the front yard â like the roads â was all dirt and pebbles.

Lourdes set up the stereo, a table and a few chairs. Then the children arrived. There was a little more than a dozen of them, some barefoot, some in superhero t-shirts, some in stylish second hand shirts. They played games, danced, and of course jumped rope.

After I'd collected some sound and did a few interviews the kids didn't have to ask me twice to join them in their jumping. I practically threw my gear into my bag and made for the rope.

There is a sad story behind all this, as is typically the case behind so many of my trips to Juarez. These children live with unthinkable violence everyday. Few public policy makers in Juarez take the time to seriously study the effects of such violence on the city's future generation.

A coalition of non-profit organizations recently published a book which is meant to call attention to this important matter. The book is filled with the testimonies of local children and their perception of violence. Please share your thoughts about how best to nurture children who live amongst violence.

Listen to MÃ³nica's story.

Watch a slideshow by MÃ³nica depicting the children featured in this story.

Is Haiti a dumping ground for America's leftovers?

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

It's not often that a story idea crops up within view of my apartment window, but this is how I first started asking questions about the ship to Haiti.

A ship loaded with used cars steams out of Boston harbor, bound for Haiti. Chris Burrell/World Vision Report

I live in a gritty neighborhood called East Boston, which is wedged between a massive airport and Boston Harbor. A small but busy shipyard and marina sit just down the hill from my place, and I noticed a ship would arrive for a few days, load up with old cars and trucks, and then sail away.

When I began asking people in the neighborhood, the story got even better. I was told that the cars were packed full of stuff.

I've now gone to the docks and climbed aboard the ship at least four times in the last couple of years to witness the raucous scene that unfolds under clouds of diesel exhaust.

You hear a lot about the global economy, and you can find tangible evidence of it by looking at the labels on just about anything in your home. But to see this trade up-close and in action makes it feel much more real. The main reason is that I met the people behind all this steel and rubber rolling and sailing off to Haiti â not just the ones who themselves buy and ship used trucks and cars, but the mariners who work aboard the ship and Haitians who see the goods take on a new life in their country.

A minister outside Boston who shipped a Jeep Wrangler to a fellow missionary in Port au Prince (the Jeep was later crushed in the earthquake) would not let a formal interview commence until he gave me an hour-long lesson in Haitian history.

Then there were Rafael and Chico, two Nicaraguan crewmen who worked aboard the Cala Galdana. When they loaded the ship in late fall while a cold Atlantic wind whipped over the deck, they would warm their hands on the hoods of the cars and trucks.

When I asked Ketcia Pierre-Louis about the used goods coming to Haiti â known there as pepe â you could feel the passion in her voice as she described what it feels like to see these mattresses and old vacuum cleaners arrive in her country. "Why are we getting all these shabby things?" she asked.

It was that question that made me think. It went beyond environmental and economic considerations to a place of pride. Maybe in the big picture of global trade, the cars and trucks and cheap goods are a necessity for Haiti, but nobody wants to feel like their country is a dumping ground.

The question that remains is whether industrialized countries like America, Germany and Japan (the biggest exporters of used vehicles to the developing world) should take some responsibility in the matter. What do you think? Should America put more restrictions on the used goods we export, especially to struggling countries like Haiti?

Listen to Chris' story about used cars being shipped from Boston to Haiti.

Nothing we do seems to stack up against the work Indians must do to prepare for the monsoons ...

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

Nearly everywhere you look in India there's a glorious riot of color. I stumbled across these fiery red chilies sun-drying on the ground in the courtyard of a Hindu temple in Savoi Verem, a tiny rural village in the steamy south Indian state of Goa.

Chili peppers drying in the sun in India, in advance of the impending monsoons. Shannon Mullen/World Vision Report

They appeared to have no supervision, and there was no display of ownership, so I asked one of the locals who they might belong to. The dairy farmer explained in broken English that many of village women shared this space, just beyond the shadow of the temple, to dry food for their families.

This time of year, he explained, they're busy drying all sorts of things â black pepper, fish, salt, nuts, mango, apple and other fruit â stockpiles to last through the relentless rains of monsoon season, which can last up to four months.

I asked him what else people do to prepare for monsoon, and he pointed to a group of women walking by, carrying clusters of kindling on their heads; dry firewood is scarce when the rains come. Then he took me to the village center, where locals come from miles around to use the town's grid-powered grinders and coconut press. They grind their own wheat and rice flour, press the oil from coconuts for cooking, and keep the dry coconut meat to feed their livestock.

Over the next few days the village seemed to teem with activity, rainy season preparations of every sort, and all of it done in stifling heat above 100 degrees fahrenheit and the sort of humidity that left me perpetually sweaty, even when sitting still!

As I interviewed Indians in the midst of this work, I tried to think of analogous efforts Americans might compare it to back home. In my native New England I rake fallen autumn leaves, seal drafty windows and doors, spring-clean my home of cobwebs. None of this seems to stack up against the Indiansâ work to patch their roofs to keep the rain out, to dry and store enough food to feed their families and livestock for months, and to do it all in addition to their daily labors.

Some of the villagers I spoke with were amused that I thought their perennial pre-monsoon chores arduous. I am hard-pressed to think of much in my life that would give them the same sort of pause, except, maybe, digging out from under a nor'easter.

How about you? How do you prepare for the "monsoons" in your life?

Listen to Shannon's story on preparing for the monsoons.

Watch Shannon's slideshow depicting monsoon preparations.

All for the pork skins ...

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

As a reporter, I have a soft spot for random curiosities. Things I've never seen before, things that are quirky, things most journalists would never consider covering. So when I moved to Mexico City and saw people eating giant sheets of crunchy fried pork skins, I simply couldn't resist. First I stuffed myself with greasy goodness, then I set out to find where the monstrosities came from.

Stacks of giant fried pork skins, or chicharrones, tempt passersby in Mexico. Grant Fuller/World Vision Report

I immersed myself in the chicharrones factory for a solid three hours. This place was downright disgusting. The entire floor was covered in an inch-thick layer of greasy, slimy pork fat. Slipping and sliding all over the place, I vowed to toss my tennis shoes as soon as I got home.

The smell alone was enough to make you keel over. At first it smells pretty good, in a guilty-pleasure sort of way. But stay in there too long and the odor becomes part of you. It overcomes you.

After the first hour, my healthy curiosity started to wear off and I just wanted out. Usually this change happens later in the editing process, after eight different scripts have been drafted and I'm just plain sick of the story. But something about standing around barrels of pork fat will speed up that process.

I bought my obligatory giant chicharrÃ³n before I left. On the bus ride home, I carefully placed it on the luggage rack above the seats. Every time the maniac driver careened around a corner, my oddly-shaped chicharrÃ³n slid and teetered over the edge of the rack as I held my breath, hoping not to become that stupid gringo who bought a chicharrÃ³n that fell on somebody's head on the bus.

And at that thought, I couldn't help but laugh at myself and think what a ridiculous job I have!

Listen to Grant's story.

Watch Grant's slideshow on the making of chicharrones.

Talking the talk, walking the walk in Palermo

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

On a recent Saturday, I sat with Cosimo Scordato in a scruffy piazza outside the opulent Church of San Francesco Saverio in Palermo.

He was dressed in a pullover and slacks, looking like just another sixty-something Italian gentleman getting some fresh air before the big meal of the day. Nearly everyone who passed through the piazza called out, "Buon giorno, Don!"

Laundry and lives hang in the balance in the Albergheria quarter of Palermo. Even in bella Italia, there's poverty. Nancy Greenleese/World Vision Report

But, wait, isn't he named Cosimo? Yes, he's Don Cosimo Scordato, the don is an informal, friendly way of referring to a parish priest in Italy. Scordato may be a theology scholar. He may deliver mass in vestments from the altar of a fresco-covered baroque wonder. But I see quickly that this man of the cloth is not preaching a sermon from any mount to the rest of us. His feet are planted firmly on the serpentine streets of the Albergheria neighborhood. He's a man among the masses, corralling his fellow residents to work together to clean up the corrupt, poor quarter.

This don's mission started when he dared to take down the other dons: the Mafia crime bosses. About thirty years ago, he began speaking out against organized crime. His mother promptly told him to clam up. At the time, few spoke openly about the Mafia, fearful of repercussions. This silence allows the criminal element to infect every aspect of society. But Scordato would not let his Italian mamma or anyone else stop him. He saw that organized crime's tentacles had poisoned Albergheria, the community where royalty and Norman court officials once lived. He set out to rid it of its many ills: high unemployment, violence, drug trafficking, crumbling houses, pedophilia.

Scordato started a social center in 1986 that is the thriving heart of the community. It's founded on the idea that helping people in need and giving them skills will keep them from falling in with a bad crowd. A simple, straight-forward mission but dangerous in Palermo. Scordato's fellow anti-Mafia fighter, Don Pino Puglisi was murdered in 1993.

Even threats of violence won't stop the padre without pretensions. Scordato has continued working alongside volunteers to help Albergheriaâs residents help themselves. The social center now provides seniors with a place to socialize, school children get academic help, there's even a restaurant where young adults can learn the culinary skills that make this island a foodie's paradise. The Don admits itâs slow work rebuilding a community. But there's hope and signs of progress, thanks to a man who not only speaks of change but rolls up his sleeves and helps make it happen.

Tell us about a religious leader that you've encountered who has not only inspired believers but worked to improve the community.

Listen to Nancy's story about poverty and crime in Palermo's Albergheria neighborhood.

Watch Nancy's slideshow tour of Albergheria, Italy.

Gulf Coast oil spill brings racism bubbling to the surface

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

The pain of the Gulf of Mexico oil spill is on the surface in Alabama's "Seafood Capital," Bayou la Batre, where Asian grocery stores sit next to Dollar General and Hardee's.

Phong 'James' Tran looks out over the Gulf Coast waters beyond his boat 'Little Dragon Two.' Anna Boiko-Weyrauch/World Vision Report

Everyday people start lining up for compensation from BP at 4 a.m. in front of the company's Bayou La Batre office. The queue of patient people reflects the diversity of the town: groups from Laos and Vietnam chat next to black, white and Latino people.

As I approach the line with microphone in hand, most of the Asians don't want to be interviewed. They either giggle and say, "No English!" or tell me to go talk to someone else. Later one community member says they don't trust outsiders because some have been taken advantage by unscrupulous lawyers.

"Don't mind them," says one young white man in a ball cap standing in line with his arms crossed. "They can't understand you anyways." He is frustrated that "they" keep cutting the line and "they" don't even deserve compensation. "The Vietnamese, mostly they just sit all day in the processing factories. We're the ones out there doing the real work." He works on oyster reefs. "I ain't never seen them out there doing that."

The oil spill has hurt everyone on the coast; both people on the water and inside the processing plants. This man can't, or doesn't, want to acknowledge that the person who he says just cut in line is actually the most disadvantaged.

Have you been personally affected by the oil spill in the Gulf Coast, and if so, how?

Listen to Anna's story about the impact of the Gulf Coast oil spill on Vietnamese immigrant workers.

Construction workers enjoy BBQ and value life.

Fri, 03 Sep 2010 00:14:17 PDT

In most of the world, some jobs are tough and not very well paid. If you are a construction worker you will most probably be among the lower class of your society.

Ricardo Alfaro is a construction worker in Ingeniero Maschwitz, a small town 30 miles away from Buenos Aires, Argentina. In Argentina, construction workers enjoy barbecues once a week, and meat is very good. It is a ritual so embeded in culture, that property owners are mandated to pay for a huge barbecue whenever a construction is finished.

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Construction worker Ricardo Roque patiently salts the meat he will soon put on the barbecue. Marcos Federman/World Vision Report

How is it possible that these employees with some of the lowest wages in the country can enjoy weekly barbecues? Well, there are about three cows per person in the land of Tango. Tasty and affordable steaks are a national issue and governments make sure they have national policies to keep meat prices low.

Saturdays are payment day, usually, and that is when most groups of workers get organized, go to the butcher and bring back a little more than two pounds of ribs per worker. One of the group is in charge of broiling the meat and feeding his comrades.

Ricardo Alfaro is the BBQ man at the construction of a family home in a small town. There are about six men working in several last details after six months of hard work. The general mood is happy, and there is also some extra fun because of being interviewed for the radio. âThe radio on, our traditional tea (called 'mate'), and a barbecue are the three things we need to have a perfect week of work.â

Ricardo has been doing this job for more than 20 years, and he is already in his fifties. He is a happy and warm man who says he enjoys the little things of life that are really meaningful: family, good meals with friends, and sharing a positive attitude with those who surround him. At work he is in charge not only of the BBQ, but also of heating the water so everybody has little sips from a tea cup that everyone shares.

This time, and I am sure everytime, the ribs were delicious. Argentine butchers cut the ribs in a special way so that there is plenty of meat on them. Ricardo says patience is the secret for a good barbecue: "The longer it takes, the better it will taste." He broils the ribs for about an hour, and calls for the other workers with a smile when it is time to eat. Hammers, saws, cement machines, everything stops as men approach the fire set in the middle of the back yard. Everyone chooses a bucket and sits and relaxes after hours of hard work.

Ricardo feeds everyone a big piece of meat on some bread, and provides a knife. No plates are used, following a tradition that comes deep from inside Argentine agricultural-extensive lands. Gauchos and farm workers baked their bread and used their fighting knifes to eat.

Ricardo tells jokes, and everybody laughs. "It is important to be humble and happy," he told me before sending me home with a full stomach and the warm feeling of having learned to value simple but essential things that matter and are a key part of being happy.

Ricardo says BBQs are simple but meaningful moments â good people gathered to share a meal. What is your favorite meal for a special moment with good people?

Listen to Marcos' story about Argentinian BBQ.