You can learn about the IRC’s work in the Darfur region and see more photos and video here.

The Indian-built jeep struggles to negotiate the steep and muddy path leading to the village of Dhuseni in eastern Nepal. The track winds though a landscape of majestic hills and terraces lined with tea, the major crop here. Only a few kilometres away, across the border with India, lie the famous tea plantations of Darjeeling. We pass women in colourful saris carrying large baskets with tea leaves across rickety bamboo bridges straddling fast-flowing streams.
 
But the beautiful landscape sits in stark contrast to the realities of life here. Nepal, one of the world’s poorest countries, is only slowly recovering from the civil war which rocked this small Himalayan nation for ten years. Like many other rural parts of country, this area was a hotbed for the communist insurgency that pitted Maoist guerrillas against the Nepalese army.
 
Many of those who fought on both sides were under the age of 18 and after the peace accords, signed in late 2006, the International Rescue Committee came here to support the former child combatants as they began their difficult transition to civilian life. Because most of them had been unable to attend school or get a job, the IRC launched programs here and in other parts of Nepal to provide the former child soldiers with schooling or vocational training.
 
“This is especially important now, since many of them risk being re-recruited into the Maoist army,” says the IRC’s field manager Chandra Nath Sapkota, as our vehicle slowly makes its way higher into the hills. “They also risk being recruited for underpaid and dangerous work in the Gulf states, the Middle East or Southeast Asia.”
 
Chandra says that children served not only as fighters but also as porters, messengers and spies or took part in cultural and indoctrination programmes. They often joined the rebel movement - sometimes as young as nine years old - initially as entertainers and political workers, but later ended up in its armed wing.
 
Although the villagers in Dhuseni have been understanding about the plight of the former child soldiers, some communities have been less welcoming. Chandra tells me that the IRC supports youth groups that perform street plays explaining how many children were pressured or lured into the armed groups. And asking communities to give them a chance to reintegrate.
 
“Many of the former child combatants suffer from trauma and stress and require psychosocial support,” Chandra says. “The message of the street plays is that the children are victims of the war and that the communities must help them get back to normal again.”
 
We pull up in front of Dhuseni’s only store, a small shack selling mainly instant noodles and wash detergent, and a group of villagers quickly gather around the vehicle. The surrounding hills are dotted with women picking tea and goats graze freely in the shrubs. The Maoist party flag, emblazoned with a hammer and sickle, flaps on a bamboo pole marking the village entrance. There are still a lot of Maoist supporters here, according to the store’s owner, Rakesh Basnet.
 
“Others are just too afraid to say that they don’t agree with their politics or methods,” he adds.I sit down with 19-year-old Padam on the lawn outside the village school. He tells me that he joined the Maoists in 2003 when he was only 14 years old.
 
“I was being harassed by the police a lot because they suspected us of sympathising with the Maoists,” he said. “So in the end I thought that I might as well join them.”
 
“It was very hard. We fought a lot but I was brave. One time we were attacking a group of army soldiers over there,” he said, pointing at one of the surrounding hills. “Someone threw a grenade and I got shrapnel in my face. My left eye was destroyed.”
 
Like many other in the Maoist army, Padam stayed with his family throughout the conflict.
 
“When we came down from the mountains after a raid or a patrol, we would send our sentries out first, in civilian clothes. They were checking that the police or the army wasn’t around,” Padam says. “Then we would eat and sleep in our homes.”
 
Store owner Rakesh Basnet shakes his head when I ask him what life was like here during the war.
 
“There was so much fighting,” he says. “One time, a couple of years ago, 15 rebels and two government soldiers died in a clash here.”
 
“The guerrillas forced us to give them transport, lodging and food,” he continues. “They still control a lot of things here. Whenever they have a political rally we are forced to attend, even if we are busy working.”
 
Padam and a dozen other former child soldiers have just graduated from an IRC course in electrical wiring. They are among 1,400 former child soldiers and other vulnerable children across Nepal that the IRC is helping to go back to school or enrol in vocational training programs.
 
“We are confident that most of them will be able to find work, because the government has promised to soon provide electricity to this and other surrounding villages,” says Rabindra Gyawali, the IRC’s child protection officer here. “All the houses in this area need to be wired and hooked up to the main lines.”
 
Padam is positive about his future as a civilian. He shows me his new tool kit and tells me that the training has given him more confidence.
 
“I missed most of my schooling so I was very happy to learn a trade,” he says. “I have swapped my rifle for tools.”

Part 7 - Kailahun, Sierra Leone The girls are way cool.  I ask each one in turn to come sit with me at the computer.  Musu is first.  I put her memory card in the card reader, and soon her photos are flashing fast on the computer screen, visible only to Musu and to me. Auntie Chris and Chris G. have been continuing the discussion with the other girls, but now the room is silent.  I look up to find all the girls gazing intently at Musu who is gazing at the screen.  She has shot 330 photos; she and I see every one of them.  There are a lot  of shots of her pals—girls at school making faces at the camera or peeing in the bush—and some interesting ones snapped in the village.  All the while Musu’s face is a perfect mask.  What is she thinking, this pert little girl, seeing pictures of her own making?  I can’t tell.To me this is strange and disappointing.  I’m also working with two groups of women photographers, one here in Pendembu and another in Kailahun town.  There are twelve women in each group, ranging in age from 20 to 55.  I’ve already shown the women in both groups their first photos, and their reactions were completely different from those of this small enigmatic girl, Musu, who now rises, puts her memory card in her pocket, and saunters back to her seat.  Her sister Mattu comes  next with 176 photos, then Bintu with 431, and later Comfort with 542.  It seems to me you have to enjoy snapping to do it 542 times in a single week, but Comfort is just as enigmatic as the rest.

Girls are smart.  They size up their teachers, and they help one another. Mattu Koroma, age 11

The women, on the other hand, had skyrocketed out of control.  At the Pendembu meeting, Habibatu shook her fist and shouted “Yes!” at every photo.  Fatmata grinned and said “Fine!” 310 times.  At the Kailahun meeting, Mamie Sampha put her arm around me as I downloaded her photos, and as each one of her 248 images flashed by, she squeezed me tighter and tighter and tighter.  I knew the Kailahun women were serious and working hard because I live in Kailahun and I often meet them in the street, snapping like mad.  Sometimes Theresa or Mariama or Aminata shows up at the IRC guesthouse, where Auntie Chris and I live, at 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning, needing a battery change.  But their excitement at seeing their photos is off the charts.  As Sattu’s images flashed by, she shouted “Fine!” to each one, and for emphasis she brought her fist down hard on my left thigh.  Sattu had 310 photos.

So that day in Pendembu, downloading images for the girls’ group, I was a wreck.  My shoulders and ribs ached from being squeezed by substantial women.  My left thigh was black and blue and the muscles ached.  My ears hurt, still reverberating with shouts of “Fine!” and other less intelligible whoops and cries.  But here came these little girls, one by one, apparently as calm and disinterested as could be.

Girls are cool.   Gender Club girls learn about sexual coercion and violence. 
Armed with information and attitude, they have a chance. Photo: Jenifer Manso, age 10

I had to ask Auntie Chris, “Can you tell how they feel?”

“They are happy,” she said.  “Can’t you see?” 

“No,” I said.  “I can’t see how they feel.”  What is it about their lives, I wondered, that makes them have to hide a feeling as simple as joy?

But the older girls had a harder time containing themselves, and Lilian, the last to come forward, broke into a big smile.  “I think my photos are very fine,” she said.

Gratefully I slapped her hand.  “Yes, Lilian,” I said, “Your photos are very fine.”

Girls really are way, way cool.

Part 6 - Kailahun, Sierra Leone The second time we meet the girls’ group, they’re buzzing.  They’re angry with a teacher who found them dancing in a classroom, and said “You’ll all be pregnant before you get to secondary school.”  They told the teacher he was wrong to think they’ll get pregnant just because they have high spirits.  “It’s the quiet girls you should watch,” they told him.  They cite as evidence the unfortunate case of a quiet, introverted classmate impregnated by a man who denies all responsibility.  She’s been taken away to another village to have the baby.

This problem of teenage pregnancy, which effectively ends a girl’s education and her marriage prospects all at once, is the single biggest problem in every community we visit, or so the Women’s Action Groups tell us.  The girl is stigmatized.  Her family is shamed.  Her parents are deprived of the expected return on their investment in the girl’s education—that she will be in a good position to care for them in their old age.
 
Everyone loses, except the man who impregnated the girl.  Abortion is illegal.  It’s also forbidden by Islam and most, if not all, Christian denominations.  Illegal, or “criminal” abortions are performed, but they cost more than any poor village girl could afford.  A pregnant teenager must feel the doors slamming on every option.
 
Now Auntie Chris asks provocatively, “What’s wrong with getting pregnant?”  The girls give her an “Are you crazy?” look and bombard her with answers.  “You cannot continue your education.”   “Even if you could, your attention would be divided between your baby and your school work.  You couldn’t do well.”  “Your body is not developed.  You may have to have surgery.”  “You could even die.”  These medical warnings are no exaggeration for girls who have been subjected to excision (FMG, or female genital mutilation) as these girls almost certainly have been.  Excision greatly increases the incidence of fistula and similar internal injuries during pregnancy and childbirth.

Many girls took photos like this one, showing the fondness they feel for one another,
and the fun of their innocent camaraderie.  Among adult women in the same community, fondness
and fun seem to have been stamped out. Photo: Mary Lansana, age 14

“Your parents will put you out of the home,” says Mattu. “You will face stigmatization,” says Comfort.  “You will have no support for yourself or your child.”

I wait for the next nail in the coffin—that though you have been taught to depend on a husband for support, no man will marry you—but  I don’t hear it.  That may be just too hard to think about.

“And if you do NOT get pregnant as a teenager, what will you do?”  That’s my question, and the girls fire answers at me even before they get a translation.  (In school they’re learning English, the country’s official language.) “We will enjoy our education,” says Lilian.  “We will enjoy encouragement from our parents,” says Lucinda.  “Our parents may even allow us to travel outside of Pendembu,” says adventurous Katumu.  “If we are educated before we have children, we will be able to support them and help our parents too,” says Bintu.  “We will insure that our children also have a good education,” says Lucy.  “We will not hurry to marry,” says 10-year old Jenifer, “and we will plan our families.”

I’m floored.  Who knew that these girls had so much information and such strong opinions?  Did I know about family planning at age 10?  Is this what a Gender Club can do?  Mr. Shariff, their faculty advisor, sits quietly in the back of the room, smiling.

For all their playfulness, girls have serious dreams—to be nurses, lawyers, teachers,
religious sisters, computer specialists, government ministers. The future of the country depends
upon the realization of their dreams.  Their dreams depend upon education. P
hoto: Lucinda Jamiru, age 14

“Can you imagine your future life?” I ask.  “Say, in ten years time.  What would you like to be doing?”    They’re shy about answering this question, maybe reluctant to expose a dream to daylight.  But Lucy, who has been eyeing my computer, says she wants to be a computer specialist.   Musu says she wants to be a nurse to help the people of Pendembu.  Comfort says, “I do too.”  Mary, Lilian, and Katumu want to be nurses as well.  (Becoming a doctor seems beyond imagining.)  Isata wants to be a teacher.  (There are no female teachers in the school.)  Musu’s sister Mattu wants to be a lawyer because Pendembu needs one. (There is only one lawyer, a man, in the whole district.)  Jennifer wants to be a government minister.  Both Lucinda and Ruth say they want to be Catholic sisters.  (Ruth’s brother is already a priest.)   I ask Ruth if she wants to be a teaching sister.  “No,” she says firmly.  “I will be a praying sister.  Pendembu needs prayers.”  Yes, indeed.

Then it’s time to take a look at the girls’ first photos.  I’ve shown you a few already.  There will be more to come.

Part 5 - Kailahun, Sierra Leone In the Global Crescendo project, women often talk about the problems their daughters face and the great importance of keeping them in school.  We thought it was about time we found out what girls themselves think about their lives. So in Sierra Leone, we’re working for the first time with girls.Here in Kailahun District, GBV supports Gender Clubs in a number of primary and secondary schools.   Despite the raging HIV/AIDS epidemic, public schools in Sierra Leone dropped the courses they used to offer in Family Life Education, giving students basic information about sexuality and gender roles.  Most students now get few facts.  They learn about sexuality and “love” from pop songs, a situation that leaves young girls particularly vulnerable to sexual exploitation.  IRC-sponsored Gender Clubs arm both girls and boys with information.To recruit girl photographers, we visited the Roman Catholic Girls’ Primary School in the village of Pendembu, and with the support of headmistress Mary Vandi, we explained our project to the all-girls Gender Club and called for volunteer photographers.  Twelve girls jumped at the chance.  The youngest is 10, the oldest 14. I’m not a parent myself, so that first day I didn’t know quite what to expect.  But neither, I think, did my two co-directors on the project, both mothers—Christiana Massaquoi and Christiana Gbondo.   (I call them Auntie Chris and Chris G.)  One thing we all seriously underestimated was just how quick and smart these girls are.  They’ve been way ahead of us the whole time.

The girls on this team—(left to right) Lilian Brima, age 14, Ruth Moijueh, age 12, and Jenifer Manso,age 10—are very pleased with their first photos.  A friend peaks over their shoulders. Photo: Ann Jones

That first day I asked them to group themselves in teams of three—each team to share a camera.  They did it by age, but their teacher and Gender Club adviser Mr. Shariff quickly shuffled them to put one older girl on every team.   Camera instruction usually takes time and patient repetition with adult women nervous about merely holding a real camera.  The girls got it right away, and their small, dexterous fingers easily manipulated tiny controls that sometimes confound adult women.Nevertheless, I made them practice sitting down together to extract one girl’s memory card from the camera and replace it with the next. I warned them not to run with a camera, for fear of stumbling.  I mentioned over and over the danger of falling with a camera or dropping it.  Auntie Chris and Chris G. went over the warnings again in Mende and Krio.  The girls wiggled and fidgeted and yawned and stretched and put their heads in their hands, overcome with boredom.Soon we set off walking through the village to take their first photographs.  I intended to have an adult accompany each team, but my colleagues had wandered off ahead, leading the way, deep in conversation.  The girls seized the moment to scatter in all directions.  I watched them run screaming over the rough ground, the fragile cameras dangling from waving arms.  What could I do?  I spotted the slowest runners and ran after them.When I finally caught up, they were strolling along the road, casually swapping memory cards as they walked along.  Chris G. belatedly appeared and chastised them loudly in Mende for not following instructions.  The scene drew a crowd of curious villagers.  I nudged Chris G.  “Please don’t yell at them.  Just explain.”  She did, while the girls squirmed and fidgeted, looking bored again.  One of the older girls, Lilian, took the lead, saying in English, “We are sorry, Auntie.  We will do good.”  The others nodded somberly, but they were itching to get going.

All the girls took many photos of their friends and classmates in the place they like best—their school.  Twelve-year-old Ruth Moijueh took this one. Photo: Ruth Moijueh

So we set off again, this time at a brisk walk.  I accompanied Lilian and her younger partners Ruth and Jennifer.  We walked miles and miles, through every neighborhood of the sprawling village, crossing vacant lots and fields, climbing through ruins.  The girls snapped away.  They sat down together in a shady porch to change memory cards, humoring me.  I knew they felt a little sorry for me—a poor old woman who doesn’t even know it’s easy to change a memory card, one-handed, standing up.  Three hours later they’d worn out the batteries meant to last a week.I climbed into the vehicle for the trip home—an hour over rough roads. Auntie Chris and Chris G. fell asleep in the back seat.  We were all worn out.  “What next?” I wondered.  Could we cope?  I’ll tell you next time.