A journalist in Rwanda before he fled the country, Robert Sebufirira works as a security guard. Photo-Dan Toulgoet
Stop the genocide
By Jessica Werb-contributing writer
Robbie Waisman's eyes become clouded with the memories of horrors he has been unable to erase from his mind. Images of Buchenwald, the concentration camp in which he spent his early teenage years, come flooding back.
"There were writers, poets, intellectuals [in the camp]," the 74-year-old Polish-born Holocaust survivor remembers, quietly relating his story in a busy coffee shop on Oak street, far removed from the chaos and despair of his youth. "These people were philosophizing, saying, anyone who is lucky enough to survive will live in paradise. Wars will be eliminated, nations will not raise any weapons against another nation again.
Once the world had realized what had occurred, such inhumanity could not possibly occur again, was the thinking. But today, Waisman-a former accountant and hotelier-is all too aware the utopia that was to have emerged out of the terrors of the Second World War is nowhere near to becoming a reality. He lost four brothers and both parents during Hitler's reign, and immigrated to Canada at the age of 17, three years after his liberation. He's haunted not only by the memories of those he watched perish in the camp, but also the knowledge that others around the world are now suffering their own extermination.
"They said nothing like this is ever going to happen again. There will be no genocides, there will be no evil. And then, what happens? Again." He sighs.
"So, here we are in a world where we have a Kosovo, where we have a Rwanda, where we have a Darfur, and genocides are occurring all over. And we have to do something about it."
And he is. Waisman has for the past 20 years been telling his story to the public as part of his work with the Vancouver Holocaust Education Centre, which he helped found in 1983. Lately, he's been urging his audiences to take action on the current situation in Darfur, a region of Sudan where government-backed Arab Janjaweed militias have, since 2003, slaughtered approximately 300,000 inhabitants of African descent, and driven an estimated 2.6 million from their homes into refugee camps.
On May 24, Waisman will be addressing the issue head-on, as part of an event at the Jewish Community Centre, to raise money and educate people about the situation in Sudan. It's a remarkable effort. Organized by a group of young Jewish women, it's brought together Jews, Muslims and survivors of some of the worst modern genocides. The title of the event: Never Again: A Call for Action in Sudan.
Speaking alongside Waisman will be Robert Sebufirira a survivor of the genocide in Rwanda, and Nouri Abdalla, secretary general of the Darfur Association of Canada, B.C. Chapter. Senator Mobina Jaffer, Canada's special envoy to the peace process in Sudan, will also speak.
The event was conceived by Tami Michaelson and Sarah Robin, both 27, who found themselves profoundly affected by reports of the atrocities in Sudan. While a February 2005 United Nations report stopped short of calling the situation "genocide," much of the rest of the world, including the U.S., has insisted that a policy of ethnic cleansing is taking place.
"Growing up, we were always told 'never again'," says Robin, who says watching the film Hotel Rwanda was a turning point for her. "We're told that we have to keep learning about the Holocaust, because we can never let it happen again, to anyone. It shouldn't be happening, and yet it happens... Jewish people should take an active role. Any community that's been affected by genocide almost has a duty to do something.
Michaelson adds: "It's our responsibility as Canadians, as Jewish people, to help one another out there in the world. It's so easy to sit at home and do nothing, but that's how these things happen-because people do nothing."
Robert Sebufirira, 25, has experienced first-hand the trauma of ethnic cleansing. Scheduled to speak at the event alongside Waisman, he's a survivor of the infamous genocide in Rwanda. In 1994, between April and June an estimated 800,000 Rwandans were killed in the space of 100 days, in a clash between the Hutu and Tutsi tribal groups. Most of the dead were Tutsis, attacked by Hutus who, says Sebufirira, had lived peacefully with Tutsis like himself for decades. At the age of 14, he witnessed atrocities that, 11 years on, he has difficulty discussing. Recounting his own escape, his speech becomes muddled, and his hands gesticulate wildly.
"I did escape. How? I don't know," he says, in the midst of a noisy caf‚. "Seeing dead bodies on top of me, I don't think that's escaping... They killed most of the people, and you go into shock, and at the end of the day you are lying under how many dead bodies, and you are soaked in blood... I don't think there's anything that I did consciously that I can think of."
He tells stories of Hutu men who, after 30 years of marriage, turned on their Tutsi wives, slaughtering them and the children they had together.
"How can you explain that?" he asks. "What's the cause of that? I don't have an explanation."
He says that most of his immediate family survived, but that his mother, grandparents, aunts and uncles did not.
"One person that did survive is my aunt, but she died in 2000 of AIDS because she was raped during the genocide," he says.
Asked about his mother, he insists he cannot discuss her. "I know how she died, and that's it. It's one thing I never even want to talk about."
Following the Rwandan genocide, Sebufirira became the managing editor of the independent Rwandan newspaper Umuseso, a paper he co-founded. He says he was forced to flee the country after receiving death threats from senior members of the government security services, related to articles in Umuseso that exposed government corruption.
Today, he lives in Burnaby and works as a security guard. And while he wants to get on with enjoying the possibilities of a new life in a new country, he says he has recently begun to feel the psychological effects of what he witnessed as a boy.
"I thought I was passed that. But here I am, 10 years have passed, [and I'm in] a different country. I thought I wouldn't even think about it. But [when I see] stories about Rwanda, I find my life becomes meaningless and I lose hope... The whole weekend I had nightmares of what happened."
His words are eerily echoed by Waisman who, 60 years after his liberation, continues to revisit the horrors of his own youth in his dreams.
"A few months ago, and I pray that I don't have it again, I had a nightmare that I was back in the concentration camp," he says. "Only it was the present time, as today, and I was with my kids. When I woke up, I was devastated. I had to get up, go into the living room, and find reality and realize that hey, my kids are safe. It's 2005. It's not back then."
Historically, Jews and Muslims have had a troubled and, at times, violent relationship. But through events such as the one organized by Michaelson and Robin, bonds are being forged between the two communities.
Nouri Abdalla, a 43-year-old Muslim from Sudan, has lived in Canada for over 10 years working as an independent exporter of pharmaceuticals to Africa. He lost eight members of his family in the ongoing slaughter taking place in Darfur. As part of his advocacy work with the Darfur Association of Canada he has forged ties with many groups to stop the killing, but none of the connections are as strong as those he has made with the Canadian Jewish Congress.
His connection with the Jewish organization began in August 2004, when Abdalla heard Weintraub speak at Simon Fraser University for an event to raise awareness of the situation in Darfur. Abdalla was impressed, and approached Weintraub to suggest they join forces. Together, the two associations have tirelessly lobbied politicians and government ministers to take action.
"[Our membership] is very supportive of the direction we've taken working with the Jewish community," says Abdalla. "They know that the executive community of the Darfur Association of Canada has been working closely with the Canadian Jewish Congress."
Not all Sudanese Muslims have been so quick to jump on board, however. Robin and Michaelson have been working with Lubna Abdelrahman, an immigrant from the northern region of Sudan who arrived in Vancouver in 2002 as a refugee. A family outreach worker with Vancouver Family Services, Abdelrahman says when she first approached her fellow Sudanese to gain support for the May 24 event, she was met with skepticism.
"At first, people were hesitant," she says. "It's difficult to change what happened in our minds [regarding the Jewish-Muslim conflict] ... Even my husband said, 'Think about whether you really want to do this.'"
But Abdelrahman persisted, urged on by the sense that she wanted to provide a model of peace between Jews and Muslims.
"I feel a lot of things happened many years ago between Jewish and Muslim [people]. I feel that in Canada we are in a new land... and we need to build a new relationship. I said that what happened in the past is not our fault. We need to build a new concept between us and Jewish people together."
Eventually, after much prodding and convincing, Abdelrahman secured a list of 10 people from her community to volunteer at the event, including musicians who will be performing during part of the evening.
For Abdalla, working with inter-faith groups has not been an issue, and the support of the Jewish community has been an essential part of his campaign.
"The genocide that's being committed in Darfur is not a Jewish issue, not Islamic, not a Christian issue. It's a human issue," he notes, adding: "The Jewish community's support stems from the fact that the Holocaust was a time when the world pretty much abandoned the Jews... We relate to what they've gone through. Now we know."
Abdalla is in contact with members of his family who are in refugee camps or trying to keep safe in the cities, and the reports they give him are disturbing.
"There's complete civil disorder throughout the region," he says. "Nobody can trust anybody who's wearing a government uniform, whether military or police, because the Janjaweed militias, when they attack a village before they burn it down, they walk into a village wearing government military attire.
"There's complete civil disorder throughout the region," he says. "Nobody can trust anybody who's wearing a government uniform, whether military or police, because the Janjaweed militias, when they attack a village before they burn it down, they walk into a village wearing government military attire.
"There is no safe place, even in the refugee camps. You cannot leave the refugee camp for less than half a kilometre before a woman can be subjected to rape, or a child is abducted, or somebody gets killed... It's happening every single day."
Reports from international organizations back up what Abdalla's relatives are telling him. The "crude mortality rate" usually used to define a humanitarian crisis is one death per 10,000 people per day; the World Health Organization's latest mortality estimates for the internally displaced persons in Sudan are 1.5 per 10,000 per day in North Darfur, and 2.9 per 10,000 per day in West Darfur. On March 14, the United Nations announced a death toll in Darfur of more than 180,000 in the past year and a half-equaling 10,000 people a month for the last 18 months.
The deaths are, in large part, due to the conditions in the refugee camps, where malnutrition and disease are claiming thousands of lives, the majority of which are children's.
While the United Nations has acknowledged the crisis in the region, it has yet to send troops to Darfur, choosing to work through negotiations and ceasefire agreements with the local government. The African Union deployed about 3,000 peacekeeping troops into the area last year, in its inaugural mission. Abdalla notes that "they have a very restricted mandate."
While the United Nations has acknowledged the crisis in the region, it has yet to send troops to Darfur, choosing to work through negotiations and ceasefire agreements with the local government. The African Union deployed about 3,000 peacekeeping troops into the area last year, in its inaugural mission. Abdalla notes that "they have a very restricted mandate."
"Basically the international community is just talking," he says. "They are just saying things but not doing anything... Killing, terrorizing, raping women, abducting children, burning villages, nothing has changed." But the work of people like Abdalla, Weintraub and Waisman appears to be paying off. On May 12, Prime Minister Paul Martin announced a pledge of up to $198 million for humanitarian aid and support for the African Union's effort in Sudan. In addition, 100 Canadian troops will be sent in an advisory role. That may not sound like much but, says Abdalla, it is significant:
"Even though the number [of soldiers] is very small, we really do commend the prime minister. Canada is the only Western government that has decided to send troops of any sort into Darfur. It's the first and only one."
For Weintraub, Martin's announcement-which some see as a move to hold onto his office in the midst of scandal-is an acknowledgement that the public's voice can be heard.
"For the first time in the last nine months that I have been working with my community and my board and my organization on this issue, I feel the beginnings of some sense... that as Canadians we do have the ability to respond to a tragedy of this magnitude," he says.
"For the first time in the last nine months that I have been working with my community and my board and my organization on this issue, I feel the beginnings of some sense... that as Canadians we do have the ability to respond to a tragedy of this magnitude," he says.
For all those involved in the May 24 event, however, there is much more work to be done. The killings will not stop overnight, nor will the suffering end when the fighting does.
"We're not letting up," says Abdalla. "We're going to push as hard as we possibly can... The social fabric in Darfur has been damaged beyond repair. It will take generations and generations to repair it and knit it back together..."
And for Waisman, who wrestles to find some meaning out of all the suffering and violence he has lived through, Darfur offers hope of redemption.
