The 13th edition of the jhr Rights Report commemorates the sombre anniversary of the Haiti earthquake, 10 years since the opening of Guantanamo Bay prison, and one year of the Egyptian revolution, which brought down dictator Hosni Mubarak.

The Rights Report speaks to Dr. Wendy Lai from MSF in Haiti and learns about Aid Still Required, a non-profit continually raising funds for victims of the 2010 earthquake.

Listen or download the podcast here.

*reporter’s note: This is the first episode of 2012 and a commemorative special I put together my first week back in Canada.*

For the social media minute, #jhr Rights Report host @adambemma speaks to regular contributor @damianor about apartheid-era laws returning to South Africa in the form of a government secrecy bill.

The last episode of the season features the song We the 99% from the album #OccupyTheAirwaves by Rebel Diaz. The jhr Rights Report will return in January 2012.

Listen or download the podcast here.

*reporter’s note: This was the last report of the 2011 season of the jhr Rights Report. I put this program together before I left for the Middle East last December.*

One year since the Arab Spring uprising and protest that toppled former Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, protesters are still gathering in Cairo’s main square calling for the military to hand over power to a civilian government. Egyptians are preparing to commemorate their January 25 revolution and remnants of the Mubarak regime still cling to power, using the same tactics as before.

To listen to the report, click here.

*reporter’s note: After completing this update on the situation in Cairo’s Tahrir Square, it has aired on Pravda radio 93.5 FM in Accra, Ghana and will air this week on CKUT 90.3 FM in Montreal, Canada. This means my work has now been syndicated and I will be heard on airwaves around the world. Well, almost.*

(Photo credit: Xavier Saer)

Tahrir Square is the last stop on my little Middle East adventure that took me all the way from Istanbul, Turkey to Cairo, Egypt. This city’s main, public square has become synonymous with everything revolution. If you want to be factual, the Arab Spring actually started in Tunisia with the self-immolation of street vendor, Mohamed Bouazizi. But Egypt gave the protests a central plaza where the world’s attention and media focus could continue the story. Also, Egypt is one of the Middle East and North Africa’s most populous nations, and the country is very economically important to the West.

I stepped out of the taxi at Tahrir Square at 4am and there were about a dozen people gathered there braving the cold night. The reason I arrived so late is (here’s what I was alluding to in the first paragraph) because on the bus from Dahab, Egypt, located on the Sinai peninsula, my bus reached a roadblock set up by angry Bedouin Arabs. Now up to that point, I’ve only heard rumours about Egypt’s Sinai Bedouins and how militant they are, so when we reached the burning mounds in the middle of the lane, in front of two semi trucks blocking the entire highway, I exited the bus only to hear that it was only an act of protest.

Quickly, I returned inside the bus after taking a look at the Bedouins carrying what looked to me like AK-47 assault rifles on the other side of the roadblock. An Egyptian man on the bus explained to me in English that they were protesting the election results and win of a candidate they didn’t support. It all sounded very democratic to me. However, I started to doubt this watered-down reason to a tourist (me) for a very militant action, blocking the entire highway access from Sinai into Cairo. The bus was somewhere between Sharm el-Sheikh and Suez, because it was almost 6pm and I left Dahab just before 1pm.

All I could do was guess what the outcome of this incident would be. I tried not to get alarmed, but the minute I tried to relax I heard repeated gun fire. I sprang out of my seat and exited the bus (I admit not a smart thing to do when armed thugs are shooting, but it was my instinct to find out what was happening) to see Egyptians running back toward their vehicles. It seemed to me the Bedouins were firing into the air to disperse the crowds continually gathering around the roadblock.

By this time traffic was piling up. The bus I was in was near the front of the roadblock, so we were close to the hostility. I could sense violence was on the horizon, but there was nothing I could do as someone trapped on a bus in the middle of the desert in Egypt. At midnight, the roadblock came down and the convoy my bus was traveling in began to advance with the aid of Egypt’s notoriously repressive military. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I hear three explosions. BANG! BANG! BANG! A plume of smoke engulfs the vehicles in front of us, then a few seconds pass and I see soldiers running toward the bus shouting.

The driver panics and throws the bus in reverse. All the cars around are trying to do the same, but chaos ensues. My eyes are glued to the windows and I’m trying to make sense of the situation (like any rational person would do?). Another passenger heads to the back of the bus and directs the driver how to maneuver himself to turn around on a two-lane highway. Soldiers continually smack the side of the bus to get us moving, while horns are honking all around us. I sat there watching these events unfold and all I could think of is how uncomfortable I felt knowing the military was all around us. Aren’t Egypt’s military the source of conflict in the post-Hosni Mubarak era?

I knew the only way to find out more about this country’s political situation, after the January 25, 2011 revolution that ousted Mubarak and shined a light on the need for democracy, was to visit Tahrir Square and see for myself. I made it out of the Sinai and into Cairo late at night (or early the next morning, to be exact). To witness, first-hand, a Bedouin Arab attack on Egyptian troops made me fully aware of the implications of visiting a country in the midst of revolution. All I could say to myself was: “This is what democracy looks like. It can, at times, be messy.”

Tahrir was alive.

My first foray into the square and there were dozens of people gathered with tents pitched and hand-written signs posted everywhere. Obviously, I couldn’t understand what they said, but I knew they were messages of condolence to the protesters injured, or even killed, over the last 12 months of pro-democracy and anti-military protests. As I walked the streets leading into Tahrir Square, I started to notice how one-third of the access points to the plaza was completely blocked off to traffic and pedestrians.

This troubled me. I wanted to know why these streets were inaccessible to me and other people walking from Tahrir. It didn’t take me long to figure out that these were the streets that lead to the Egyptian government and military institutions that surround the square. Many of the international hotels and banks situated along the Nile River are also sealed off to everything but the main highway into the city centre.

When I took a night time stroll along the Nile to see its natural beauty, I was bothered by all the security personnel working outside, protecting these buildings from some real, or perceived, threat. I don’t know why this bothered me so much. No matter where in the world I’ve travelled to, which is almost exclusively “developing nations” (some people debate this term, maybe “exploited” or “third world” is a better description to use) I always see military (public) and mercenaries (private) guarding Western interests. It’s something that I notice everywhere I go.

Each day in Cairo, I spent either passing through Tahrir Square, or visiting one of it’s many shops for food or tea. Eventually, I did make it to Alexandria to see the Corniche, and out to Giza for the pyramids, but sight-seeing wasn’t the reason I made Cairo, Egypt the last stop on my Middle East adventure. I came for Tahrir. To catch a glimpse of the on-going revolution. And I wasn’t disappointed. On day four in Cairo, I watched a demonstration and march against the military rulers who refuse to listen to the people and hand over power to a civilian government. Even with Mubarak gone, those who propped up his regime are still in power and don’t want to relinquish it any time soon.

Only time will tell. The fate of Egypt is up to the people!

When I first spotted this towering structure on a bus from Jerusalem to Bethlehem, I thought to myself how prison-like it looked. My very first foray through the wall made me feel criminal, being led to a cell to view prisoners. Those prisoners are Palestinians living in the West Bank, cut-off from Israel and family members living on the other side of this wall.

In Israel, it’s called a security barrier, or fence. But from what I saw, it’s much taller even than the infamous Berlin Wall that separated communist east from capitalist west up until 1990. This wasn’t my first time seeing the wall. Once I crossed the Allenby border into Israel, after a quick security incident involving a Japanese tourist snapping a photo inside the checkpoint, I was on my way to Jericho and Ramallah in the West Bank, where I spotted the wall from a distance.

I met up with two American travelers and we rented a taxi and visited the sights of one of the world’s longest inhabited cities; Jericho. Then we headed to Ramallah, first to see Yassir Arafat’s grave at al-Muqata’ah (PNA HQ) then down to Arafat Square (yes, everything is named after the late Palestinian leader) to drink some tea in front of the symbolic United Nations chair to call attention to Palestine’s bid for full recognition at the international body.

From Ramallah, I made my way into Jerusalem (where I first spotted the wall, separating Palestinian villages from Israeli settlements). My Palestinian taxi driver pointed out all the Orthodox Jewish communities set up in the West Bank, as well as Bedouin Arab villages alongside rubbish dumps at the periphery. My gut wrenched. It was hard for me to see what I did that day. A country with two faces, one for the international community, and the other for those who inhabit this sacred land.

Entering into Jerusalem didn’t get much better when my taxi driver was verbally abused by the IDF (Israel Defence Forces) soldier, who demanded that he get out of the car to take a tongue lashing away from my eyes and the others with me at the time. The driver told us later that the soldier was a Druze, not a Jewish soldier, which he thought would comfort us. Not like that makes it any more acceptable.

I stayed in east Jerusalem and the Old City during my week there, visiting all of the religious sights: Temple Mount, Dome of the Rock (Islam), Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Christianity) and the Western/Wailing Wall (Judaism). To think, one city housing all three major holy sites. I guess that’s why its regarded as the ‘Holy City’ by Jews and Christians alike.

Obviously, religion isn’t my thing. But I appreciate it for all its good qualities (very few). I used Jerusalem as my base, as I explored more of the West Bank. I made my way to Bethlehem (10 minutes by bus) where I finally entered the wall and crossed through the massive security apparatus Israel calls a ‘checkpoint’. It was another experience of this trip that will stay etched in my mind forever. A quick trip to the Church of Nativity, then it was on the road to Hebron, where I could feel the religious tension while I was walking down the street.

Hebron is home to a few Orthodox Jewish Israeli settlements, but here they’re not nestled on a hill in the distance, isolated from the Palestinian Arabs by an electric fence or barrier. They are located right in the middle of town. From what I read, there are only a few hundred settlers (around 500) with thousands of IDF soldiers (around 5,000) protecting them. A complete imbalance of power and misuse of resources if you ask me.

(Hebron street map) Like I said, I could feel the tension and I saw many soldiers standing in the street, peeking into cars as they passed by. I was stunned. This is no way to live, under the constant threat of reprisal. I was told if I was caught talking to Arabs, that the Orthodox Jews might threaten me with physical harm. Thank god that didn’t happen, but it was a distinct possibility. I know that the Orthodox Jews living in the West Bank are extremists, looking to cause problems and, in some cases, fear nothing. Not their own government, nor international condemnation.

In Jerusalem, I spent the Shabbat (Sabbath) with my Jewish friend’s family, eating more food than I could have imagined. It was another culturally-enriching experience that this adventure has given me. From Jerusalem to Tel Aviv, where I spent New Year’s Eve walking along the coast from the port to the old city of Jaffa, watching the waves crashing into the coastline and breathing that clear, Mediterranean Sea air.

I prefer smelling the sea, which gives me clarity and peace of mind, then smelling the burning trash heaps, which I seem to encounter in every city so far in the Middle East. Insh’allah! Now I’m in Egypt’s Sinai peninsula at the small, desert town of Dahab, on the Red Sea. Yallah! Time for Cairo and Tahrir Square.

In all, I found my time in both Israel and Palestine as the most valuable so far on this trip. I was able to understand the complexities of the Middle East a little bit better after having spoken with Israelis and Palestinians. A propaganda war still continues on both sides of the wall, while this religious powder keg is ready to explode at any moment. One side convinced they’re fighting “terrorism” and the other side calling it an “occupation.”

Only history will decide how this issue will be resolved. My naivete tells me a peaceful resolution will happen one day and the conflict will end. Until then, I stay focused on this story, because that’s what a journalist does.

Always the observer, never the participant, forever the journalist. I’m just a man hoping for peace.

In Tripoli, the same Lebanese woman pointed out the Palestinian refugee camp, then I mentioned Sabra and Shatila, the two refugee camps in Beirut, where Christian Phalangist militias massacred Palestinians during the civil war in 1982. Her response was the same one I received from every Lebanese person I met: “I’ve never been there. It’s too dangerous.” As if the Palestinians are animals caged in their refugee camps, fighting amongst each other. At least that’s the impression I got.

In Beirut, I wanted to visit Sabra and Shatila, so I made numerous inquiries. The first was to PHRO, the Palestinian Human Rights Organization, but I didn’t get any response. It’s unfortunate, not only for me, but from what I read, the majority of Palestinians living in Lebanon are treated as second-class citizens, not receiving the benefits most Lebanese do, while most are still stuck living in the refugee camps on the edge of Beirut and Tripoli.

There’s only one word I can think of to describe Beirut, and that is sexy. I love the chaos of Hamra and West Beirut, long walks along the Corniche, the frenzied Christmas shoppers in the souq, as well as the night life in Gemmayzeh, where I stayed during my time there. The American University campus had a great atmosphere and I spent a serious amount of time searching the bookstores for Robert Fisk’s book “Pity the Nation: Lebanon at War” which is the classic account of life during the 15-year civil war that destroyed this small, beautiful Mediterranean nation.

As I walked around Beirut, I saw the battle scars that dot the landscape. From the Beirut Hilton along the waterfront, which is a shell of its former self, riddled with bullet holes, to the highrise, bombed-out, buildings along the former green line (pictured above). This is the line that historically separates Christian east Beirut from Muslim west Beirut. The Lebanese civil war is still a vivid memory for most Beirutis and when I went out for drinks with my Christian Maronite friend (the daughter of the woman on the bus) she described to me the terror she felt during the 2006 Israeli invasion of south Lebanon and parts of Beirut to destroy the militant group, Hezbollah.

Lebanon is a nation under the constant threat of war.

Many neighbourhoods I walked through during my time in Beirut looked to me like Hezbollah strongholds. One day, on my way back from the Beirut National Museum, I strolled through Corniche al-Mazraa and saw many flags with Hezbollah leader Hassan Nazrallah’s likeness. I glanced in front and saw a Lebanese army tank sitting in the middle of the street, facing a row of apartment complexes with crescent moons lining them. Of course, everywhere in Beirut are military bunkers with armed soldiers, especially downtown and around parliament. Lebanon has a long, bitter history of political assassinations that have claimed the lives of many leaders, especially in 2005 when multi-millionaire, former Prime Minister Rafic Hariri was killed by a car bomb.

Beirut is a tragic city, where religion divides and hatred still simmers, ready to explode at any moment.

My stay in Lebanon was quite spectacular and I fell in love with Beirut. But I had to move on, so I caught a quick flight one morning to Amman, Jordan and hopped on a bus to Petra. It was probably the most culturally fulfilling experience of this trip,  seeing Bedouin Arabs living around the ancient, red rose city, and witnessing a brief moment of their lives, while learning the story of each stone carving was unbelievable. These are the moments I live for while travelling. (Photo: Treasury at Petra)

A few days well spent getting to know Petra gave me a great impression of Jordan. The warm, welcoming people wanted to talk and drink tea, but as soon as I got back to Amman everything changed. The Jordanian capital was hectic, to say the least. It didn’t help that there were no clean backpacker hostels to spend the night, nor friendly people to guide the way. Obviously, I didn’t get much of a chance to experience the city or the sights, but I did eat falafel like a Hashemite king at Hashem restaurant in downtown Amman, and that was all I really needed to recoup and continue.

The next morning I caught a taxi to the King Hussein bridge, feeling the warm air of the Dead Sea as I descended into Israel/Palestine and that’s another long story. Stay tuned.

Upon my arrival in Turkey, I glimpsed the horizon on my early morning train into Istanbul and I had no idea what to expect. This is the best way to experience a country, because there’s nothing but good that can come from it. As I mentioned in my post last week, I had to pay $60 for an entrance visa, which put me in a bad mood, but once I reached Istanbul the next morning, I knew it would be worth it.

At the Sergeci train station, I met a few locals who gave me directions to the hostel. Along the way, Turks were stopping to ask if I needed help and I was thankful for their hospitality. Not what I was expecting at all. First thing I did in Sultanahmet, the most historic part of the city, was visit the great blue mosque. It was the first time I’d visited a mosque and I marveled at its majestic domes and minarets.

As I approached the mosque through the courtyard, I heard the call to prayer wailing from the speakers mounted up high. I followed the procession toward the entrance, but was stopped by a guard, telling me I could not enter unless I was going to pray. Out of nowhere, a young Muslim asked me if I’d like to learn more about the blue mosque and others around the world. I agreed and he took me to the Ottoman elementary school, where they teach foreigners about the history and principles of Islam. They served me Turkish tea and gave me Turkish delight and great conversation. I was sold and wanted to ask where to sign up?

All jokes aside, I enjoyed Istanbul. The nightlife near Taksim Square showed me how young Turks live with style. The food was the most memorable. Nothing beats a good kebab with friends! And I was able to spend some time with locals, in an apartment reminiscent of the film “L’auberge espagnole,” which was home to a Turk, Tunsian, French, Pole, Spaniard and Syrian (some were couchsurfers) all living in harmony in the heart of modern Istanbul.

(Hafez al-Assad, former Syrian dictator who ruled with an iron fist for three decades. He’s also the father of Bashar al-Assad, the current Syrian dictator)

The images of both Bashar, and his father, Hafez, are shown throughout the country. On every balcony, bridge, government building and shopfront. The image of these two go hand-in-hand. Not as discreet as the image of Ataturk, this is a cult of personality I’ve never seen before. I understand how Turks adore Ataturk, but I have no idea why Syrians would celebrate the two men who’ve kept their country from advancing like others in the region, becoming a real, thriving democracy.

The Syrian people have fought the regime before (in 1982 an uprising by the Muslim Brotherhood in Hama was quickly suppressed) and will continue their revolution. But to see Hafez and Bashar everywhere just goes to show how weak their rule is getting. The Arab Spring took hold in Damascus, then continued in cities across the country. As Robert Fisk writes in the Independent newspaper, the regime will soon fall. If that happens, Syrians will rejoice. Of course, if you travel through Syria, you may even think it looks like a country at peace. Looks can be deceiving.

As my bus rolled down the highway in Syria, I kept my eyes peeled for any activity whatsoever. I realize that Syrians calling for peaceful, democratic change have to hide in safehouses and keep contact minimal. This regime has used force and will continue this to hold onto power. Before pulling off the highway to the border with Lebanon, I glimpsed the city of Homs, the base of anti-regime activity in Syria. My heart goes out to those hiding out, waiting for the chance to rise up against this brutal dictatorship, one that has been passed from father to son, like some kind of monarchy, ordained to rule with absolute authority until the end of time.

Bob Dylan once sang: “And the times, they are a-changing!”

I always say, the people united, will never be defeated!

But nothing could prepare me for the cult of personality surrounding Syria’s own strongman, Bashar al-Assad (pictured left). I came and I saw Syria for a brief period of time, entering the country through southern Turkey. When I arrived at the border area, known as Hatay (formerly a part of the French protectorate of Syria, until it was given to Turkey) I quickly found out the border crossing into Aleppo-Halab was closed (as were most others) so I asked if there was any chance I could get into Lebanon (where I’m writing this post) and was told about a bus in a few hours, so I waited and felt a sense of confusion when I actually considered what I was about to do.

As my bus approached the Syrian border, panic and fear set in, like I’ve never felt before. The sign hanging above read: “Syrian Arab Republic” but I thought to myself it should read: “Assad’s Syria.” Once I entered into Syrian territory, the customs officer asked me the purpose of my visit to Syria and I wanted to respond, “well, I have a purpose to visit Aleppo and Damascus, but your regime fails to meet fundamental human rights and has killed peaceful protesters.” But, as you can imagine, I said nothing of the sort and told the man I will be going directly to Lebanon.

Above the desk, where I was told to wait while he stamped everyone else’s passports (Lebanese, Syrians and Iraqis) except my little Canadian blue booklet, a photograph of Assad stared down at me. As if to say, “why are you here, foreigner?” I knew I had to remain confident (besides Her Majesty the Queen has got my back, right?) and act like it was the most natural thing in the world for a Westerner to enter a “rogue state” (as determined by former U.S. President George W. Bush. Oh, how I hate to use “Bush-isms” but it’s the only way to express the sentiment felt by the international community toward Syria, as it should be).

Almost every nation in the world has now warned its citizens not to travel to Syria because the security situation is dire and months of pro-democracy demonstrations has lead to bloodshed, with over 5,000 Syrians losing their lives in the Arab Spring uprising sweeping through the Middle East. Syria is a nation on the brink, and that’s the reason I disregarded everyone’s advice, those who told me I was crazy  to want to go into Syria (I received a visa from their embassy in Ottawa over a month ago).

I went. I saw. And all I can say is I will return in the future when the regime falls and one of the world’s oldest nations becomes free and democratic. Ash-shab yurid isqat an-nizam! (the people want to bring down the regime!) – Arab Spring protest chant.

I started this little adventure in Paris, France and spent a few days reacquainting myself with the literary mecca of the world (with Shakespeare and Company bookstore as its hajj, pilgrimmage destination). I ended up by-passing much of Europe (EU countries-Switzerland, Austria and Slovenia) heading toward the Balkans, where I stopped in Zagreb, Croatia and Belgrade, Serbia, two former Yugoslav cities on the way to Istanbul, which I added to the itinerary so I could break up the long train rides (first 20 hours, second 25 hours).

Well worth it, if you ask me. I particularly enjoyed visiting two NATO-bombed buildings in Belgrade. which looked like they had been attacked yesterday (probably left there to stand as a reminder of Serbia’s errors in the past under the notorious war criminal, Milosevic).

However, Istanbul is a visually-stunning city, one that I’ve wanted to visit since my last trip through eastern Europe, when I decided it’d be better to wait until I explore the Middle East (it makes logistical sense, but my timing isn’t great, I admit).

This city is also a great starting point to explore the region and a place where east meets west (a cliche, I know). Once I arrived this morning on the train, I got the sense of how huge the city actually is, because after the conductor woke me up with his call of “Eeeshhtaanbool!” it still took almost an hour to reach the final destination, Serkeci train station.

Luckily, I met a French girl on the train last night when it pulled into Sofia, Bulgaria. She was great to talk to, for awhile, and loaned me a book called Pedagogy of the Oppressed, which I devoured intellectually to pass the time. It’s funny because I was complaining to her how I’d read all my books and needed to find something new, so she handed it to me probably so I could let her sleep. I do tend to talk a lot after not having spoken to anyone for much of the day.

Paulo Freire’s book lays out his theory on critical pedagogy, or teacher-student relations and how education can be used to benefit all in society. It was the only English book she had on her and it was left-wing non-fiction, exactly what I needed to nourish my revolutionary hunger.

A few hours later, when I arrived at the Turkey border, I was frustrated to learn I had to pay 45 euros for an entrance visa (absurd, right?). Of course, being stuck in Bulgaria would’ve been much worse, like being exiled by Stalin to Siberia, or something.

Oh yeah, by the way, today is International Human Rights Day (according to the blog post headline). It’s December 10th and I thought what a perfect time to write a bit about what I’ve experienced, so far. More to follow in the weeks ahead, for sure. Saalam.

The 11th edition of the jhr Rights Report looks at the Bahrain Independent Commission of Inquiry investigation into human rights abuse committed during the Arab Spring protests in the Gulf kingdom.

The Rights Report also examines the case of Naser al-Raas and Maikel Nabil, two men imprisoned for expressing their rights to freedom of expression and speech. Also, the social media minute discusses a proposed bill before the U.S. Congress to stifle these two fundamental rights on the Internet.