Suheil Tarazi finds that the short films in the Palestinian-British film Week, highlight the complex issues that face people in this area of the world and yet still manage to entertain.

‘I am very pleased to report an artistic event that is entirely different from the daily scene I always cover for Gaza over the past years’ said Shuhdi El Kashef, the BBC Arabic correspondent in Gaza, in his short interview with me after of the short film week in Gaza.

Aiming to provide a platform for debate among young filmmakers and audiences in Palestinian Territories and to help revive the artistic and cultural scene in Gaza, the British Council worked with a network of local partners to organise film weeks in the West Bank and Jerusalem in early 2011. The films submitted by British and Palestinian filmmakers addressed three main themes: ‘Identity & Home’, ‘Struggle & Resistance’ and ‘Social Challenges’.

Later on in the year, we decided to explore implementing the project in Gaza. We worked with Al Aqsa University and Gaza Association for Culture and Arts to launch the short Palestinian-British film Week at the end of the year which was very popular and successful among our partners and audiences.

At the beginning I was hesitant to implement the project in Gaza due to the present difficult situation and possible rejection of some films by our local partner organisations. Surprisingly, the opening ceremony and the screening programme were well received by Gazans from across the tiny coastal territory (which though tiny is home to 1.5 million people).

In the four days’ screening programme, and through an extensive outreach programme, we engaged with audiences form different geographical areas across Gaza. The number of people reached exceeded our expectations with 1500 people watching the screenings. The conference rooms at Al Aqsa University in Gaza and Khan Younis cities were almost full with students and lecturers. As for the Said Al Mishal Cultural and Scientific Establishment the audiences were from a diverse back ground: journalists, writers, film makers, producers, and film critics.

Rezq Al Bayyari, a journalist and a poet from Gaza said ‘there is a need to communicate and continue such events particularly those that are suitable for the local culture and kept up with modernity’.

Three 40-minutes discussion sessions were held after the evening screenings organized by Gaza Centre for Culture and Arts to answer the questions raised by the audience particularly the debate about the 20 year-old girl in ‘Majd’ who chose the theatre as a platform for self expression and defended her martyr brother despite her society’s criticism.

‘Transit’, ‘On the run with Abdul’. and ‘Laundry’ also had a special flavour that attracted the public audience. At the same time portraying the innovative work of foreign film makers.

I believe the 18 films presented in the festival have shed light on complex social, political, economic and human issues in simple entertaining language appreciated by all our Gaza audiences.

The following are synopses for the films that were mentioned in the blog:

* Transit: In transit through an airport, a young boy stumbles across the path of a desperate man and discovers a message that he cannot ignore.
*Laundry: Lucia has been living in England since the 1990′s Balkans War. This is the story of her journey home to Croatia, to introduce her English-speaking son to her elderly mother. She finds her eccentric mother living in a rural farmhouse and comedy ensues as Lucia tries to ‘modernise’ her traditional way of living. But Lucia cannot escape the traumatic remnants of the war, particularly when tragedy beckons as she discovers they are surrounded by minefields.
* ‘Majd’: The film tells the story of a 20 year-old Palestinian girl whose brother is an Islamic Jihad martyr. She decides to continue her brother’s journey in defending her land, choosing theatre as her platform for expression. The girl finds herself forced to deal society’s criticism but nevertheless insists on her choice and talent, believing theatre is her means of contributing to society.
* On the run with Abdul: the filmmakers go to Calais to make a film about refugees who are trying to get into Britain, but then they meet 16 year- old Abdul and suddenly things aren’t so simple. This is a film about the plight of refugees, as well as exploring the often delicate balance between subjects and filmmakers.

Tony Calderbank, Country Director South Sudan, blogs about the challenge of teaching a new country to read and write a foreign language, when their native tongue is rarely written down.

I received an email the other day, one of those long chains that, although you weren’t copied in at the start, you now feel obliged to read all the way through just in case you miss something important. It contained 4054 words, a pan-African conversation about arts and development.

So many words! Here in Juba, everybody’s at it. Since I’ve been here I’ve read DfID reports, USAID reports, the EMIS report, the UNMIS report, the comprehensive strategic evaluation of monitoring and development outcomes interim report . . .

So much to read, so few readers – 85% of the population of South Sudan are illiterate.

Huge volumes of wordage are piling up on shelves and in cupboards all over Juba. How much is getting read remains a mystery. One recent study showed that employees in ministries are handing one another documents and reports with oral descriptions of the content because they cannot read the written words themselves.

The other problem is that writing everything in English rather defeats the object of encouraging communication in a country where hardly anybody speaks the language. Juba Arabic, on the other hand, which is the language of almost everyone in the capital, is rarely written down and so is certainly not appropriate for bureaucratic purposes.

Then there’s all the digital content.

In the hotel where I stay the restaurant is filled from dawn to dusk with consultants, journalists and aid workers tapping away on laptops: tweets and blogs and emails and updates full of insightful analysis and informed opinion. Virtual words circling in cybersky like vultures that never land.

When all is said and done though, South Sudan is essentially a pre-literate society.

Words are spoken under trees in village squares across this vast land, in languages that have never been written down and never will be. Over the last fifty years numerous languages whose native speakers numbered in the few thousands have died out. Others are set to follow in their footsteps despite the dedicated efforts of officials at the local languages department and the scholars and educators who support them.

Many of the teachers working in South Sudan today have barely finished primary school themselves. They will be expected to teach children in their mother tongues for the first three years of primary and then begin teaching in English. But, with over a hundred mother tongues and tens of thousands of teachers who don’t speak English yet, it will take some time.

There are other challenges too.

How do you teach everyone to read and write? How do you make sure that the unlettered have their say in the future of the nation?

I’ve met some very strong and inspiring people since I arrived here, who, untouched by the curse of literacy, are making big differences in the lives of marginalised and traumatised people.

It remains to be seen if their words will be heard and if the modernising forces we see working to build this nation will include the illiterate and the oral, and empower them to become masters of their own destinies.

After having to leave Libya for Syria during the turmoil of 2011, Intissar Rajabany reflects on her experiences, the support she had from British Council colleagues and how it felt not knowing if, or when, she would be able to return home.

As the Damascus-bound airplane left Tripoli International Airport in March 2011, I looked through the window at the receding ground and thought of the chaos, fear, death and destruction I was leaving behind.

I did not feel any relief; on the contrary I was heartbroken at leaving my loved ones and at not knowing if this was going to be the last time I saw Libya. I did not realise that I was crying until the passenger sitting next to me remarked: “God willing, you will be back again”.

Not wanting other people to notice, I furtively attempted to wipe the tears away.

The next few hours, as we hung between sky and land, were the only moment of weakness I allowed myself. Once we stepped on Syrian soil I banished this feeling forever and concentrated on surviving in the best way possible until my eventual return home.

Being half Syrian, I felt luckier than many of the wretched souls in the refugee camps on the Libyan–Tunisian border, after all I had somewhere to go and a house to live in.

On arrival, my mum and I were still in shock from the epic airport journey but also because we had forgotten what ‘normal’ felt like. It had been a month since the Libyan uprising had started and we were sure that if the no-fly zone was not implemented soon, the situation was hopeless – the looming slaughter of Benghazi, the spectre of vengeance awaiting anyone and their family who had dared stand up to Gaddafi, and the humanitarian crisis unfolding inside and outside the country’s border.

It was frightening to realise that my country was actually at war, yet it was exciting somehow, to feel that this time we may have a chance at freedom even though the writing was already on the wall that it was going to be a bloody, costly fight.

My arrival in Damascus on March 15 coincided with the ides of the Arab Spring. I was warmly embraced by my native country; its beauty worked its magic on the shocking memories of tanks in Tripoli, the images of military personnel stationed at various intersections in the city and the strangely aloof tall, masked soldiers standing guard at the airport. At times I would have believed that it had been a nightmare if it were not for the fact that the news was bringing disturbing images from home, or that phone calls to relatives and friends were kept very brief for fear of reprisals.

Everywhere I turned I was overwhelmed by the kindness of the Syrian people. Everyone wanted to know how it was in Libya, and I had to use discretion and personal judgement on what to divulge just in case the Gaddafi regime survived this crisis. Everyone I spoke to in Syria understood the limitations on my freedom of speech and accepted it graciously.

The very first person to ask about me when the crisis began in February was my colleague Vanda Hamarneh from the British Council in Syria.

Her email, which I still keep preciously, came almost out of the blue, because I had left the British Council back in September. Yet this should not have come as a surprise, because you never really leave the British Council – not only because your colleagues become more than friends as a result of poring over projects, brainstorming at workshops, reviewing budgets, chatting in hotel lobbies till the wee hours or relaxing over dinner, but also because of the values you have shared and which remain forever wherever you go.

Following Vanda’s message, my Facebook account quickly filled with worried questions, my inbox overflowed with emails and my cell phone never stopped ringing until the day all telecommunications in Libya was abruptly cut off.

And so it is that I knew that I was not alone in Syria, and that in addition to blood relations, and the gallant Syrian people, I had a huge family at the British Council, not only in Damascus but all over the world, and I felt the richer for it.

I was proven right when I picked up the phone to speak to Country Director, Elizabeth White.

When I walked in the office the next day it felt like being home. I did not need to ask a lot of question because I knew how everything worked and could start with my assignment immediately.

As a result of sanctions, I left Tripoli with no cash and few belongings. My goal had been to get Mum to a safe haven for medical treatment. I did not know what would happen to my career or even if I had job back in Libya. I left Libya knowing that as long as the Gaddafi regime was there I would not be able to return; I left knowing that everything I had worked towards for the last 25 years could disappear; I left not knowing when I would see my father again; but most of all I left not knowing if there would even be a Libya in the future.

However, less than two months after I left Libya I had a job, great friends and even a car thanks to Elizabeth’s generosity.

I spent seven and a half months in Syria and though I missed Libya every single day, never once did I feel a stranger, either to the country or to the organisation. I was adopted by the Syria team wholeheartedly, I enjoyed the all staff meetings and the various foods and other goods placed on the ‘fatayer’ desk.

When I started working for the British Council in 2006 Carl Reuter, at that time the British Council Country Director Libya, used to tell me: ‘Think of Cultural Relations as simply people to people diplomacy, Intissar.’

The British Council, always avant-garde in its thinking and values, had adopted the best objective and I witnessed that in practice in the Syria office. There was cultural relations with Syrians, British people, Palestinians, Yemenis and even a Libyan…

My colleagues helped allay my fears and heal the pain, they gave me hope even though Syria too was experiencing disturbing events which resulted in great uncertainty not only for the locals but also for UK-appointed staff. The support never wavered through the darkest hours of the Libyan war and my faith in humanity was restored.

It’s been a month and half since my return to Libya and sometimes I wake up and wonder where 2011 went. The war is over, but the hardest part has just begun.

Despite the country being awash in weapons, I’m still happy at the possibilities for Libya. The only thing marring my happiness now is that I miss Syria and my British Council colleagues every single day. It’s the other way round for me, having forged those relations I know that even if I don’t ask about them every single day they will understand.

I want to take this opportunity to thank all the Syria team without exclusion for healing my heart and my mind when I needed it the most. It is thanks to you that I coped so well and have no traumatic sequel.

Well done for keeping with your work and doing such a tremendous job under immense duress, and I pray that the situation in Syria gets resolved for the best as soon as possible.

Intissar Rajabany was British Council Assistant Director for Projects and Communications in Libya from 2006 to 2010. She now works with the British Council team in Syria as a consultant.

At British Council Afghanistan’s Social Enterprise Challenge, Paul Smith discovers that a country’s prosperity shouldn’t always be measured in economic terms, but rather by the vision and hope of its young people.

Prosperity – it’s a determination that most nations take for granted. But, perhaps because of its interminable strife and political precariousness, it’s rarely assumed that Afghanistan, too, has prosperity as a priority. But the future here has to be about much more than security and survival.

For one thing, Afghanistan has extraordinary depths of natural minerals currently valued at some $3 trillion. Education is the key to realising greater national prosperity from these resources. The country is at square-one in professionalising mining engineering and management but at least it’s a different and productive type of ‘minefield’ that Afghanistan can look forward to in the future.

It was the yearning for prosperity that was in the air as we reached the finale of our Social Enterprise Challenge a few days ago. Seven shortlisted teams of young people presented their proposals for social action and community cohesion projects, to win the British Council awards which would enable them to make their ideas happen. Winning themes included rural horticulture initiatives and website for youth engagement. The teams came from all over Afghanistan.

The happy winning team in the photo had a great idea. They’re going to set up a one-stop social business website for other young entrepreneurs to connect with large organisations. Young Afghans will be able to search for opportunities to put their ideas into action through business partnership and create business and job opportunities for many others. ‘We’re servicing Afghan youth’s dreams’ was how the team leader put it to me himself.

The day reminded us that prosperity comes not from macro-economic policies and fiscal strategies, but from the will of enterprising and visionary people, of young people who form the great majority of Afghans. It’s a will that says that ‘our future will be different and we’re going to take action, starting in our own local communities, to make that difference come about’. May they prosper.

Read other blogs by Paul Smith, British Council Country Director, Afghanistan

Find out more about British Council projects in Afghanistan

Sharmeen Peshimam from British Council Pakistan discovers that, in some areas, nothing comes close to working with people face-to-face when building cultural relations.

Today we can share information and interact with millions of people across the world at the click of a button, and the British Council is continuously improving its digital platform to reach millions more.

While the digital space is high on impact and low on cost, when building cultural relations in developing countries such as Pakistan, there is no replacement for working with people face-to-face.

Internet penetration in Pakistan is one of the highest in the region, yet more than half the population doesn’t have access to any electronic devices. One of our aims is to reach those on the margins of society and in these circumstances, digital doesn’t quite do it.

Last month in Karachi, we trained 25 teachers from the Tharparkur district of Pakistan’s Sindh province, which ranks as one of the poorest in the country. None of them had ever been trained before, despite some having taught for more than 15 years. For most, it was their first time in Karachi (Pakistan’s largest city), their first stay in a hotel and their first interaction with a female instructor.

In the first few sessions, the teachers were shy to speak up and rather formal when they did. Trainer Lubna Punjwani summed up the stilted atmosphere:

‘While I understood their limitations on paper, it was another thing altogether to experience them first-hand. To accommodate the culture shock, I had to ease them through learning basic soft and social skills by conducting myself in a certain way.’

Over the course of the five-day workshop, the teachers slowly began to change. ‘On the last day, there was no noticeable sign of their early unease’, added Lubna with a sense of pride, ‘They were confident and spoke fairly articulately compared to the first day.’

Face-to-face training not only enables participants to learn social skills, but also exposes them to new ideas in an open and stimulating environment. These kinds of personal interactions are particularly important in a region where life can be isolated and lead to a conservative and myopic worldview, and where economic conditions often prevent people from experiencing the wider world.

Fifty-year-old participant Mir Muhammad was one of those visiting Karachi for the first time. He explains how remote his village is: ‘I have to walk through the desert for at least three hours daily to reach the school and, by the time I come back home, it is already dark.’

Of course, digital engagement can provide useful teaching techniques. But a real environment, where the subtleties of body language and tone of voice play a part, allows dialogue to flourish. It helps people to really open up, grow in confidence and learn the soft skills of teaching. These deeply personal skills will have a lasting impact on the teachers and ultimately benefit their students and the community as a whole.

Find out more about our work in Pakistan