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http://www.amnestyusa.org/actioncenter/actions/uaa11607.pdf
Note: Please write on behalf of these persons even though you may not have received the original UA when issued on May 17 2007. Thanks!
8 April 2009
Further Information on 116/07 (17 May 2007) and follow-ups (2 August 2007; 31 March 2008; 8 April 2008; 14 August 2008; 27 November 2008) - Death Penalty/Fear of imminent execution
SAUDI ARABIA
Mohamed Kohail (m), aged 23, Canadian national
Mehanna Sa'd (m), aged 22, Jordanian national
Sultan Kohail (m), aged 17, Canadian national
The Jeddah General Court upheld the death sentences imposed on Canadian national Mohamed Kohail and Jordanian national Mehanna Sa’d on 4 April 2009. Their cases have now been referred back to the Supreme Judicial Council. If the Council approves the death sentences, the two men could be executed at any time.
Sultan Kohail, meanwhile, is still awaiting retrial before a General Court, and therefore remains at risk of being sentenced to death if convicted, despite the fact that he is 17 years old.
Saudi Arabia is a state party to the Convention on the Rights of the Child (CRC), which prohibits the execution of those under 18 at the time of the crime; in the past, however, the Saudi Arabian authorities have executed juvenile offenders who were under 18 at the time of the crime of which they were convicted.
In November 2008, the Court of Cassation confirmed the death sentences against Mohamed Kohail and Mehanna Sa'd and then referred the sentences to the Supreme Judicial Council for approval. In February 2009, the Supreme Judicial Council sent the case back to the original trial court, the Jeddah General Court, for review. This Court has now again upheld their death sentences and referred the death sentences to the Supreme Judicial Council for approval.
BACKGROUND INFORMATION
At least 158 people, including 76 foreign nationals, were executed by the Saudi Arabian authorities in 2007, and at least 102 people, including almost 40 foreign nationals were executed in 2008. Since the beginning of 2009, a further 24 people are known to have been executed.
Saudi Arabia applies the death penalty for a wide range of offenses. Court proceedings fall far short of international standards for fair trial. Defendants are rarely allowed formal representation by a lawyer, and in many cases are not informed of the progress of legal proceedings against them. Prisoners under sentence of death may not be informed of the date of execution until the morning when they are taken out and beheaded. They may be convicted solely on the basis of confessions obtained under duress or deception.
In a recent report on the use of the death penalty in Saudi Arabia, Amnesty International highlighted the extensive use of the death penalty as well as the disproportionately high number of executions of foreign nationals from developing countries. For further information please see Saudi Arabia: Affront to Justice: Death Penalty in Saudi Arabia, issued on 14 October 2008: http://www.amnesty.org/en/news-and-updates/report/saudi-arabia-executions-target-foreign-nationals-20081014
RECOMMENDED ACTION: Please send appeals to arrive as quickly as possible:
- urging the King as the head of the Supreme Judicial Council not to ratify the death sentences against Mohamed Kohail and Mehanna Sa'd and to commute their death sentences;
- reminding the authorities that they are bound by international standards for fair trial in capital cases, in particular the UN Safeguards Guaranteeing the Protection of the Rights of Those Facing the Death Penalty, which guarantee adequate opportunity for defense and appeal, and prohibits the imposition of the death penalty when there is room for alternative interpretation of the evidence;
- highlighting that the execution of child offenders is expressly prohibited by the Convention on the Rights of the Child, to which Saudi Arabia is a state party;
- expressing concern that 17-year-old Sultan Kohail may still be at risk of being sentenced to death and asking the authorities to guarantee that this will not happen, as Saudi Arabia is a state party to the Convention on the Rights of the Child.
APPEALS TO:
His Majesty King 'Abdullah Bin 'Abdul 'Aziz Al-Saud
The Custodian of the two Holy Mosques
Office of His Majesty the King
Royal Court
Riyadh
KINGDOM OF SAUDI ARABIA
Fax: (via Ministry of the Interior) 011 966 1 403 1185 (please keep trying)
Salutation: Your Majesty
His Royal Highness Prince Naif bin 'Abdul 'Aziz Al-Saud
Minister of the Interior
Ministry of the Interior
P.O. Box 2933, Airport Road
Riyadh 11134
KINGDOM OF SAUDI ARABIA
Fax: 011 966 1 403 1185 (please keep trying)
Salutation: Your Royal Highness
His Royal Highness Prince Saud al-Faisal bin 'Abdul 'Aziz Al-Saud
Minister of Foreign Affairs
Ministry of Foreign Affairs
Nasseriya Street
Riyadh 11124
KINGDOM OF SAUDI ARABIA
Fax: 011 966 1 403 0645
Salutation: Your Royal Highness
COPIES TO:
Mr. Bandar Mohammed Abdullah Al Aiban
President
Human Rights Commission
P.O. Box 58889, King Fahad Road, Building No. 373
Riyadh 11515
KINGDOM OF SAUDI ARABIA
Fax: 011 966 1 4612061
Ambassador Adel A. Al-Jubeir
Royal Embassy of Saudi Arabia
601 New Hampshire Ave. NW
Washington DC 20037
Fax: 1 202 944 5983
Email: info@saudiembassy.net
PLEASE SEND APPEALS IMMEDIATELY.
Check with the AIUSA Urgent Action office if sending appeals after 20 May 2009.
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Showing posts with label saudi arabia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label saudi arabia. Show all posts
16 August 2008
Under the Abbaya: Female Producers in Saudi Arabia
After you read the blog, watch the episode below!!
July 15, 2008 4:47 PM
By Amy Teuteberg, Producer
http://no-reservations-crew-blog.travelchannel.com/2008/07/under-the-abbaya-female-produc.html
“Did you have to wear the black thing?”
Just got back from my first “No Reservations” road trip, and the number one question from friends, family and co-workers isn’t about the food, the shoot, or how it was to work with Tony. It’s about what I had to wear.
Of course, the question is less about the garment, than how far I had to go to conform. It’s about what the garment represents, or at least what everyone thinks it represents. It’s about what it was like to be a woman working in Saudi Arabia.
I’m a producer. That means I’m ultimately responsible for everything that happens on a shoot: directing, story, logistics, details, feeding, transporting, lodging, gear, crew happiness, you name it. Big job, but I don’t do it alone. My right arm is known as a Segment Producer, and is an unbelievably crucial member of the team. This position was also held by a woman, Nari Kye. Of course the winner of the contest, ultimately responsible for making it all happen, was Danya Alhamrani, yet another woman.
And yes, we all wore the black thing. It’s called an abbaya, and it’s basically a long-sleeved, floor-length dress that you pull over your head, and wear over your clothes. We also covered our hair with matching black scarves, so three women in abbayas produced an episode of “Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations” in Saudi Arabia. Oh, but I’m leaving out someone else who moved mountains making this episode: Dania Nassief, yep, another woman.
How did a group of women pull off a TV show in a country where women can’t drive, can’t vote, and really aren’t supposed to hang out with non-related males? Well, they have a saying in Danya’s hometown, “Jeddah is different.” And for the record, so is she.
When we stepped off the plane after a brutally long flight from New York, I had no idea what to expect. Would Nari and I be shunned, ignored, treated like a lesser by the men we’d come in contact with? Having spent the last 15 years working as a woman in a male-dominated industry, I didn’t really worry about it, since I’ve been dealing with that crap for years. That said, I’ve never had to do it in a country where the separation of the sexes was so strictly enforced by both law and culture.
One of the first and most obvious signs of that division was the abbaya. You can’t help but notice, since literally every woman is wearing one. Most men wear a thobe, which is a long white cotton tunic, worn over white pants. So it’s women in black, men in white. Needless to say, the contrast is striking. After all, what could be more “black and white” than black and white?
But that wasn’t the only sign. In fact, there were literally signs, signs denoting separate male and female entrances for mosques, the “single” section (for men only) and a “family” section (for men and women) at many restaurants. No women allowed in the hotel pool. At the hotel restaurant, Nari and I were seated behind a screen, which Nari called it our “pen”, separating us from male diners. I found myself wondering, “If even the breakfast buffet is segregated, how are we going to make this work?”
Nari and I had arrived ahead of the crew, to scout, bring over the equipment, and take care of last minute details. For about a week, we worked with Danya and Dania (names pronounced the same) taking care of the gazillion details that go into making a TV show. It took about 15 minutes in their company to realize that the separation of the sexes may dictate seating arrangements in certain restaurants, but it was not going to get in the way of making this show. Although the law may prevent the Danyas from literally taking the driver’s seat, it did not prevent them from taking charge. Together they were an abbaya-clad dynamic duo of problem-solving, refusing to take no as an answer from anyone, male or female, that got in the way - my kind of ladies.
We also worked with a lot of local men: drivers, government officials and a “fixer” helping us out. Nearly every place we shot was male-owned, operated and staffed, and a whole host of male characters lent a hand along the way. And you know how all of them responded to women in charge? Great. Actually, they were a lot more than great. They were about the most warm, wonderful, welcoming group of people that you could possibly imagine. That bunch, with Danya at its center, was an extraordinary collection of people.
Now, before you think I drank the Kool-Aid, there was also plenty of evidence that things aren’t exactly free and equal. Case in point: Danya and Dania operate Saudi Arabia’s first female-owned production company granted permission to work without a male present. The first. And it took them over five years of fighting the system to get that paperwork in place. So they’re not the norm, they’re trailblazers.
And of course, Danya is no ordinary woman. She’s pretty much the definition of extraordinary, and absolutely one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. Having grown up between Jeddah and North Dakota, she’s got a pretty unique perspective on the similarities and differences between our cultures. There are an incredible number of things that I learned from her on this journey, including some unexpected perspective on the practice of wearing abbaya.
I should probably mention that I hate the idea of anyone telling me what to wear. I shun uniforms and conformity, they completely freak me out. So you can imagine how surprised I was to find that I didn’t really mind wearing an abbaya. Ok, forget all the symbolic meaning for a second. For starters, it’s practical. You never have to think about what you’re wearing. You can toss it over a bikini or your jammies, and head out the door. And yes, I did both.
It’s also the best way to blend in that you can imagine. Working on the show, the last thing that you want to do is call attention to yourself, since all eyes belong on Tony and Danya. Producers are there to get the show made, and need to find a way of making that happen, while blending into the woodwork. I can’t imagine a better way of doing that than wearing an abbaya. Accidentally stumble into a shot? No problem. Instead of out-of-place Western eyesore, I look like a local.
Of course it goes without saying that you also want to respect all the local laws, customs, and tradition and in that sense, no problem. Abbaya-me.
But besides all that, I began to realize how the abbaya affects the way you communicate with women, how it shifts your focus. Without all the visual cues that wardrobe, hair, or even subtleties of gesture provide to help you “see” someone, you begin to read them in a different way. The art of conversation and eye contact gain more weight, because that’s all you’ve got. The face, where attention really belongs in the first place, is where it stays. It forces you to work harder to see someone, and to pay deeper attention to the words coming out of their mouth. Certainly the most important abbaya-related thought I had had during the trip. Ironic that I didn’t even notice all this was happening, till the first time I saw Danya take off her abbaya.
Although everyone wears an abbaya in public, it comes off at home. When you are hanging out with friends or family, no abbaya necessary. Underneath, many women dress just like they do in New York: skirts, heels, low cut tops, you name it. One particularly scorching day, after Danya, Nari and I had spent hours scouting locations in the desert sun, we had a meeting in my hotel room. The second the door shut behind us, we tossed our sweat-drenched abbayas and head-scarves to the floor. Danya was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. For the first time, I could see her hair, her arms, her legs. I noticed immediately how different this felt. In some ways, it was like I was seeing her for the first time. Like a layer that was new and more intimate had been revealed. I realized in that moment that that was likely the point of the abbaya, or at least part of it. It’s saving that kind of intimacy for those that are close to you, your friends and family, who have earned the privilege. For the first time, I saw that the abbaya may have a role in protecting women, and not as something simply designed to control them.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating for the abbaya. I don’t want to see them parading down the runways, in a window on 5th Avenue, or on the sale rack over at Old Navy. I don’t want to see rules about women’s or men’s clothing anywhere of any sort. I can’t even get behind the idea of Black Tie. And honestly, in terms of focusing communication, none of us should require an abbaya to make that happen. Still, having that simple “abbaya insight” felt like an incredibly important step toward understanding Danya’s culture. And isn’t that exactly what travel is all about? Taking a walk in someone else’s shoes, or under their abbaya, and trying to find a way of seeing things from their perspective.
I’ve been back in New York for about a week now. Last night as I walked home, I was thinking about how much I missed Danya, her incredible laugh, and the warmth and hospitality of her friends and family. The spell was broken when a stranger approached me, offering a graphic description of something he’d like to do involving his face and my backside. For a second, I couldn’t help but miss my abbaya.
July 15, 2008 4:47 PM
By Amy Teuteberg, Producer
http://no-reservations-crew-blog.travelchannel.com/2008/07/under-the-abbaya-female-produc.html
“Did you have to wear the black thing?”
Just got back from my first “No Reservations” road trip, and the number one question from friends, family and co-workers isn’t about the food, the shoot, or how it was to work with Tony. It’s about what I had to wear.
Of course, the question is less about the garment, than how far I had to go to conform. It’s about what the garment represents, or at least what everyone thinks it represents. It’s about what it was like to be a woman working in Saudi Arabia.
I’m a producer. That means I’m ultimately responsible for everything that happens on a shoot: directing, story, logistics, details, feeding, transporting, lodging, gear, crew happiness, you name it. Big job, but I don’t do it alone. My right arm is known as a Segment Producer, and is an unbelievably crucial member of the team. This position was also held by a woman, Nari Kye. Of course the winner of the contest, ultimately responsible for making it all happen, was Danya Alhamrani, yet another woman.
And yes, we all wore the black thing. It’s called an abbaya, and it’s basically a long-sleeved, floor-length dress that you pull over your head, and wear over your clothes. We also covered our hair with matching black scarves, so three women in abbayas produced an episode of “Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations” in Saudi Arabia. Oh, but I’m leaving out someone else who moved mountains making this episode: Dania Nassief, yep, another woman.
How did a group of women pull off a TV show in a country where women can’t drive, can’t vote, and really aren’t supposed to hang out with non-related males? Well, they have a saying in Danya’s hometown, “Jeddah is different.” And for the record, so is she.
When we stepped off the plane after a brutally long flight from New York, I had no idea what to expect. Would Nari and I be shunned, ignored, treated like a lesser by the men we’d come in contact with? Having spent the last 15 years working as a woman in a male-dominated industry, I didn’t really worry about it, since I’ve been dealing with that crap for years. That said, I’ve never had to do it in a country where the separation of the sexes was so strictly enforced by both law and culture.
One of the first and most obvious signs of that division was the abbaya. You can’t help but notice, since literally every woman is wearing one. Most men wear a thobe, which is a long white cotton tunic, worn over white pants. So it’s women in black, men in white. Needless to say, the contrast is striking. After all, what could be more “black and white” than black and white?
But that wasn’t the only sign. In fact, there were literally signs, signs denoting separate male and female entrances for mosques, the “single” section (for men only) and a “family” section (for men and women) at many restaurants. No women allowed in the hotel pool. At the hotel restaurant, Nari and I were seated behind a screen, which Nari called it our “pen”, separating us from male diners. I found myself wondering, “If even the breakfast buffet is segregated, how are we going to make this work?”
Nari and I had arrived ahead of the crew, to scout, bring over the equipment, and take care of last minute details. For about a week, we worked with Danya and Dania (names pronounced the same) taking care of the gazillion details that go into making a TV show. It took about 15 minutes in their company to realize that the separation of the sexes may dictate seating arrangements in certain restaurants, but it was not going to get in the way of making this show. Although the law may prevent the Danyas from literally taking the driver’s seat, it did not prevent them from taking charge. Together they were an abbaya-clad dynamic duo of problem-solving, refusing to take no as an answer from anyone, male or female, that got in the way - my kind of ladies.
We also worked with a lot of local men: drivers, government officials and a “fixer” helping us out. Nearly every place we shot was male-owned, operated and staffed, and a whole host of male characters lent a hand along the way. And you know how all of them responded to women in charge? Great. Actually, they were a lot more than great. They were about the most warm, wonderful, welcoming group of people that you could possibly imagine. That bunch, with Danya at its center, was an extraordinary collection of people.
Now, before you think I drank the Kool-Aid, there was also plenty of evidence that things aren’t exactly free and equal. Case in point: Danya and Dania operate Saudi Arabia’s first female-owned production company granted permission to work without a male present. The first. And it took them over five years of fighting the system to get that paperwork in place. So they’re not the norm, they’re trailblazers.
And of course, Danya is no ordinary woman. She’s pretty much the definition of extraordinary, and absolutely one of the strongest women I’ve ever met. Having grown up between Jeddah and North Dakota, she’s got a pretty unique perspective on the similarities and differences between our cultures. There are an incredible number of things that I learned from her on this journey, including some unexpected perspective on the practice of wearing abbaya.
I should probably mention that I hate the idea of anyone telling me what to wear. I shun uniforms and conformity, they completely freak me out. So you can imagine how surprised I was to find that I didn’t really mind wearing an abbaya. Ok, forget all the symbolic meaning for a second. For starters, it’s practical. You never have to think about what you’re wearing. You can toss it over a bikini or your jammies, and head out the door. And yes, I did both.
It’s also the best way to blend in that you can imagine. Working on the show, the last thing that you want to do is call attention to yourself, since all eyes belong on Tony and Danya. Producers are there to get the show made, and need to find a way of making that happen, while blending into the woodwork. I can’t imagine a better way of doing that than wearing an abbaya. Accidentally stumble into a shot? No problem. Instead of out-of-place Western eyesore, I look like a local.
Of course it goes without saying that you also want to respect all the local laws, customs, and tradition and in that sense, no problem. Abbaya-me.
But besides all that, I began to realize how the abbaya affects the way you communicate with women, how it shifts your focus. Without all the visual cues that wardrobe, hair, or even subtleties of gesture provide to help you “see” someone, you begin to read them in a different way. The art of conversation and eye contact gain more weight, because that’s all you’ve got. The face, where attention really belongs in the first place, is where it stays. It forces you to work harder to see someone, and to pay deeper attention to the words coming out of their mouth. Certainly the most important abbaya-related thought I had had during the trip. Ironic that I didn’t even notice all this was happening, till the first time I saw Danya take off her abbaya.
Although everyone wears an abbaya in public, it comes off at home. When you are hanging out with friends or family, no abbaya necessary. Underneath, many women dress just like they do in New York: skirts, heels, low cut tops, you name it. One particularly scorching day, after Danya, Nari and I had spent hours scouting locations in the desert sun, we had a meeting in my hotel room. The second the door shut behind us, we tossed our sweat-drenched abbayas and head-scarves to the floor. Danya was wearing a t-shirt and shorts. For the first time, I could see her hair, her arms, her legs. I noticed immediately how different this felt. In some ways, it was like I was seeing her for the first time. Like a layer that was new and more intimate had been revealed. I realized in that moment that that was likely the point of the abbaya, or at least part of it. It’s saving that kind of intimacy for those that are close to you, your friends and family, who have earned the privilege. For the first time, I saw that the abbaya may have a role in protecting women, and not as something simply designed to control them.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating for the abbaya. I don’t want to see them parading down the runways, in a window on 5th Avenue, or on the sale rack over at Old Navy. I don’t want to see rules about women’s or men’s clothing anywhere of any sort. I can’t even get behind the idea of Black Tie. And honestly, in terms of focusing communication, none of us should require an abbaya to make that happen. Still, having that simple “abbaya insight” felt like an incredibly important step toward understanding Danya’s culture. And isn’t that exactly what travel is all about? Taking a walk in someone else’s shoes, or under their abbaya, and trying to find a way of seeing things from their perspective.
I’ve been back in New York for about a week now. Last night as I walked home, I was thinking about how much I missed Danya, her incredible laugh, and the warmth and hospitality of her friends and family. The spell was broken when a stranger approached me, offering a graphic description of something he’d like to do involving his face and my backside. For a second, I couldn’t help but miss my abbaya.
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