Rosemaling, the decorative folk painting of Norway, began in the low-land areas of eastern Norway about 1750. Persons who rosemaled for their livelihood would not have been land owners but poor, city dwellers. After being trained within a “guild” they would travel from county to county painting churches and/or the homes of the wealthy for a commission of either money or merely room and board. Thus rosemaling was carried over the mountains and toward Norway’s western coast. Once farther away from the influence of the guilds, these artists tried new ideas and motifs.
Soon strong regional styles developed. The Telemark and Hallingdal valleys became especially known for their fine rosemaling.Upon their exposure to rosemaling, rural folk would often imitate this folk art. Not having been taught in an urban guild, the amateur became spontaneous and expressive in his work on smaller objects such as drinking vessels and boxes.
Rosemaling went out of style in about 1860-1870. Rosemaling experienced it’s revival in America in the 20th century when Norwegian-Americans gave attention to the painted trunks and other objects brought to America by their ancestors.
The rosemaling pictured above were painted by Sigmund Aarseth.
They decorate the walls and ceiling of Gimle (the dining hall) at Skogfjorden,Concordia College’s Norwegian Language Village in Minnesota.
These children work long hours for little pay and often suffer physical and other forms of abuse. Because domestic work is “women’s work” in Morocco, the virtually all of these child domestic workers are girls. In Morocco (a country with a French colonial history), these child domestic workers are called petites bonnesor “little maids”.
Young girls are sent to work as live-in domestic servants, often before they reach age 10. Parents sell their daughters or receive payment of wages in exchange for their daughters’ service. These petites bonnes (little maids) often face conditions of involuntary servitude, including long hours without breaks; physical, verbal and sexual abuse; withheld wages and even restrictions on their movement. Frequently, they are sent from rural villages to more urban areas, and find it difficult to make their way home. Most petites bonnes are denied an education, and illiteracy rates are high among this population.
In addition, Morocco ratified the Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC) in 1993 and the ILO Convention No 182 on the Worst Forms of Child Labor. Both international treaties prohibit economic exploitation and employment of children in work that is likely to be hazardous, interfere with their education, or harm their health, safety or development. Unfortunately, neither have been implemented in a way that provides adequate protection to the petites bonnes.
Some Progress
There is some indication that things are starting to change in Morocco. The government and international human rights organizations report that the number of girls working as petites bonnes is declining. This is due in part to the fact that public awareness about the problems faced by petites bonnes has been raised because of increased media attention to the issue and public education campaigns undertaken by the Moroccan government, NGOs, and United Nations agencies. The Moroccan government has also taken steps to increase school enrollment and this has helped reduce the number of children engaged in child labor.
To draw attention to the issue of child labor, the United Nations has recognized June 12 as the World Day Against Child Labour. In 2013, the focus is on child domestic workers like the petites bonnes of Morocco. On the 2013 World Day Against Child Labour, the international community is calling for legislative and policy reforms to ensure the elimination of child labor in domestic work and the provision of decent work conditions and appropriate protection to young workers in domestic work who have reached the legal working age. In Morocco, the government should:
• Strictly enforce the minimum age of 15 for all employment (including domestic work) and ensure that all children (particularly girls) enjoy the right to free and compulsory basic education;
• Adopt a domestic worker law that ensures compliance with the 2011 ILO Convention 189 on decent work for domestic workers
• Create an effective system for identifying, removing and rehabilitating child domestic workers from illegal or abusive employment; and
• Criminally prosecute individuals responsible for violence or other criminal offenses against child domestic workers.
In addition, the World Day Against Child Labour provides the opportunity for all of us to take action to build the worldwide movement against child labor.
Join the 12to12 to End Child Labour community. Learn more about the issue and join the 12to12 Community Portal, which provides a common platform for experience and knowledge sharing on research, activities and events related to the World Day Against Child Labour.
Make a pinwheel with your kids. The pinwheel has become the symbol of the international fight against child labor. The pinwheel campaign to raise awareness about child labor began in Brazil in 2004. The five blades of the pinwheel represent the different continents of the world and the wind that makes the pinwheel spin is the will to act and to pass on the message until all countries take adequate measures to end child labor. Download a kit to make a pinwheel to keep the movement going!
The WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge: The Sign Says this week hit right smack dab on one of my favorite hobbies. Wherever I go in the world, I take pictures of interesting signs that I see. Here is a sampling of my collection:
Some are hilarious signs I have spotted in bathrooms. (And it’s worth noting that I have been accidentally locked in a bathroom on every continent but Australia and Antarctica.)
Question: To flush or not to flush?
To flush or not to flush? That is the question. Kathmandu, Nepal
Answer: DO NOT FLUSH! DO NOT FLUSH! PANTHERS IN THE BATHROOM!
Kathmandu, Nepal
USE THE TRASH CAN FOR ALL PANTHERS! I REPEAT:
Taj Mahal, India (the less glamorous part of the Taj Mahal, that is)
At times, signs can be very clear and direct.
You do want your clothes to be CLEAN, right?
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania
CAUTION! GROWN UPS!
Accra, Ghana
Relax.
Minneapolis, MN USA
Other times? Well, everyone could use a good editor.
What does that even mean? Zanzibar, Tanzania
Monrovia, Liberia
Indira Ghandi Airport Delhi, India
But my favorite signs are those that inspire me.
In the library of a women’s empowerment organization Kathmandu, Nepal
In the pre-kindergarten classroom of a school Yaounde, Cameroon
I spent some time in my daughter’s classroom last week talking to the second graders about human rights. I’ve been a guest speaker in all of my kids’ classrooms and have done this presentation (a kind of human rightsy mash-up of show-and-tell and career day) pretty much every year since my oldest was in second grade. But this time was different. I discovered the night before I was scheduled to speak in her class that my daughter, who just turned 8, was planning to do the presentation on human rights WITH me.
I have a more-or-less standard routine and she knew it well. (I wrote a post called Same and Different about doing this human rights lesson in my sons’ classrooms.) First, I do an activity that I call Same and Different. I have several photos from West Africa that I had blown up and mounted on foamcore. I show the kids a photo and have them point out what they see in the picture that is the same in their lives and what is different. It always generates great discussion and often the kids see things in the photos and make connections that I never did. Hopefully, by showing that all humans have similarities in spite of our differences, it also plants some seeds of respect and tolerance.
When I got to her classroom, my daughter brought her small plastic chair to the front of the class and set it down firmly right next to mine. After introducing me (with the class microphone), she sat down beside me. She had assigned herself the assistant’s job of holding the photos for all to see while I led the discussion. A couple of times I had to remind her to hold the photo out so that all the kids could see, but overall she did a great job.
The next activity I do is to pass around a selection of items that I have picked up on my travels for work. As we pass them around so that everyone gets a chance to touch them, we again discuss what is the same and different in our lives. This time, I didn’t gather a thing for the activity; my daughter collected everything the night before our presentation. A yak wool blanket from Nepal, a wooden statue of a traditional palava hut from Liberia, coins and bills from Cameroon – all went into a bag I had brought her from Ghana. She even added her pink beaded pointy-toed slippers from Morocco. When I reminded her that she would have to share and let everyone touch them and try them on, she hesitated for a moment. In the end, though, her slippers went into the bag.
To close out the presentation, I usually read a children’s book or two about human rights. I have a couple of favorites. For Every Child, A Better World by Kermit the Frog is one that we own two copies of, but of course we couldn’t find either when we needed it. I went to library to check out a copy and discovered shelved right beside it I Have the Right to Be a Child by Alain Serres. This beautifully illustrated book presents the concept of human rights, especially those of children as set out in the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child.
When I brought the books home from the library, I asked my daughter,
“Which do you want me to read to your class?”
“I want to read them both,” she said.
She did a beautiful job of reading both books to the class. I was so proud that I teared up, right there in front of all the second graders and their teacher.
In some ways, it is easier to talk to kids about human rights than adults. Because children generally see things in terms of black and white, right and wrong, it is easy for them to understand that we all have rights – the right to voice our opinions, to go to school, to be free from violence. The right to have food and shelter and clean air and water. The thing about kids is that they have a very strong natural sense of justice (as it applies to them, at least) they understand the inequities of a world where not everyone is able to access those rights.
One girl came up and hugged me after the human rights lesson.
“It makes me sad,” she said, “to think that not all kids have enough to eat.”
“What you are feeling is empathy,” said the teacher. ”And that’s good.”
Knowing about the problem – caring about it and wanting to do something about it – is the first step towards change.
The last thing I heard as I left the classroom was another little girl saying,
“I think I am going to write a letter to President Obama and ask him why we are not part of the Convention on the Rights of the Child.”
There are a lot of things about working in human rights that are not easy, but this was a very good day!
More ideas for human rights activities to do with children:
Looking down at Hydra Port from the Koundouriotis mansion.
One year ago today, I stepped off the ferry from Athens to spend a long weekend on the island of Hydra with my parents, brother and sister-in-law. No kids, no work – it was a true escape! Yδρα, pronounced [ˈiðra] in modern Greek) is one of the Saronic Islands of Greece, located in the Aegean Sea between the Saronic Gulf and the Argolic Gulf. It is separated from the Peloponnese by narrow strip of water. It’s an easy ferry ride, only a couple of hours from Athens. The island has a storied maritime tradition and became a center of power and wealth in the 18th century due to the shipping industry. Hydra played a major role in the Greek Revolution against the Ottoman Empire in 1821.
The flag of Hydra (on the right) reflects the maritime history of the island.
There is one main town, known simply as Hydra Port, with a population just shy of 2,000. Tourists generally arrive by cruise ship, ferry or yacht. Most only come for the day and don’t venture far from the shops and restaurants on the harbor.
Harbor at Hydra Port
Steep stone streets lead up and outwards from the harbor area. Most of the local residences on the island are located on these streets.
Sneaky shot of the priest walking behind me up the street.
I was told that the only motorized vehicle on the island is the town’s garbage truck.Instead of cars, the locals use donkeys. My parents spotted donkeys hauling everything from a refrigerator to a coffin. (This guy was eating his lunch.)
There are many churches and monasteries on Hydra. Unfortunately, I visited a few weeks too late to celebrate the Greek Orthodox Easter. I loved the colors on this little church, which I could see from the window of the house we stayed in.
I thought perhaps that the island was named after the Hydra in Greek myths, the gigantic monster with nine heads that grew back when you cut them off. The destruction of Hydra was one of the 12 Labors of Hercules, but it turns out that it has no relation to the island. In ancient times, the island was known as Hydrea (Υδρέα, derived from the Greek word for “water”), which was a reference to the springs on the island. Ironically, the springs have dried up and water now arrives by ship to supplement the rainfall captured in cisterns.
Hydra is knownfor its windmills.
Hydra is also known for its large population of feral cats.
A point of pride, I presume!
One thing that Hydra is not known for is its beaches. The travel sites all say there is only one decent beach on the island. While it’s true that the beaches are rocky, it also means that the water is crystalline; snorkeling is fantastic on Hydra! Just a few yards from shore, the ground drops away dramatically and you can see amazing fish, sea urchins, and other sea creatures.
Rocky shores mean crystal clear water for snorkeling.
Going to a new place and learning about its history and people – that’s my idea of a great escape!
A couple of days ago, my daughter asked me, “Do you ever have regrets?”
She asked me this in the bathroom, as I was drying my hair. No matter what I am doing, my two youngest kids seem to hover around me, fluttering like moths to a flame. The lack of privacy – not to mention personal space – doesn’t really bother me anymore. And often, as on this spring morning, it provides the opportunity to talk about whatever is bubbling to the surface of their young minds.
I weighed my possible responses. My daughter just turned eight. What could a second-grader possibly know about regret? In the end, I answered that, in general, my regrets were not about things that I had done but rather about things that I had NOT done.
“Do YOU have any regrets?” I asked.
After a pause, she admitted, “Sometimes I’m not so nice to some kids at school.”
“But recognizing that you aren’t always nice means that you can do something about it,” I pointed out. “Right?”
She shrugged and wandered off with her American Girl doll. Maybe the message would sink in.
But for me, a question remained, left hanging in the humid, post-shower bathroom air.
What do you do when you have regrets but you know that there is not a thing in the world that you can do about them?
The truth is that my daughter’s question brought me back to a conversation that I had in a very different context. Several years ago, I spent some time in the Buduburam Refugee Settlement in Ghana. I was with a team taking statements from Liberian refugees for the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Liberia. It was almost exactly six years ago – May 2007 – and it was grueling, emotional work. I interviewed more than 40 people that week and every single one of them had suffered multiple layers of trauma and unimaginably tragic loss. One after another, in family groups and as individuals, they sat before me in a small, cramped office. Sometimes there was power for the ceiling fan to move the hot, heavy air; sometimes there was not. Each one of them was a survivor of horror, a testifier to the nightmare of war. (I’ve written about some of them before in Talking To My Kids About Death.)
Even though they had left their homeland of Liberia, what they had experienced was still very much with them. Even if they could push it down deep during the day, the terrors they witnessed would return to haunt their dreams. Many people I interviewed told me of how the nightmares startled them awake at night, sweating and crying. Many more told me of hearing others screaming in the night, neighbors who were trapped in their own PTSD- induced nightmares. There is no privacy in a refugee camp.
There was one woman who has always stayed with me. She was middle-aged, calm and collected. She told me her story in detail, almost scientifically exact. Clearly, she had relived the events many times over. She told me of her life before the war, the fighting and chaos that separated her from her husband and some of her children, the desperate weeks when she, her youngest children, and their neighbors hid in the bush, the treacherous journey to the border. The years – more than a decade- of limbo in this refugee camp.
At the end of any interview, I always ask, “Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”
This woman told me of that the only true regret that she had, the only regret of her life, was about something that she had not been able to do. What she told me went something like this:
We were hiding in the bush and the rebels passed close by. They attacked a village there. They didn’t see us, but we saw them. They killed a lot of people. We were too afraid to move, so afraid they would hear us. There was a baby crying; they must have killed the mother. The baby kept crying and crying and crying. I wanted to go get that baby, but what could I do? I knew the baby’s crying would give us all away to the rebels. The baby kept crying and crying and crying, all night long. And then it stopped. I knew that the baby had died. In the morning, we saw that the rebels had moved on and we left our hiding place. Now I hear that poor baby crying every night in my dreams.
Most people will never be put in a position like this, this untenable Hobson’s Choice. Most of us will never be faced with having to make the choice between our own life -and that of our children and neighbors – and that of an innocent baby. Many of us would like to assume that we would find a way to not make the choice; that we would find a way to save that baby.
I knew I could not save that baby. I wanted to, so much, but I knew I could not. Even so, I have always felt bad about it. I have never told anyone – not one single person – about this before. Just telling you now – it makes me feel better.
I don’t have any answers here, just as I had nothing to say to this woman other than “I am so sorry.” I can’t change the world. I can’t promise my daughter that she won’t experience pain or sorrow or guilt or regret. I don’t even have an image to go along with this post.
But if there is one thing that I took away from that hot, cramped interview room in that refugee camp in Ghana, it is that there is a value in bearing witness. I had worked with refugees and torture survivors for years, but it took this one woman to bring that point home to me. There is a value in simply listening, and in confirming for someone who suffered injustice that, “It is not right and I’m sorry that this happened to you.”
It may seem insignificant, but it is not. And it is a reminder that when you come in contact with someone who is suffering, in either a big or a small way, there is always something that you can do. You can listen.
