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POSITION PAPERS. Model UN Preparation

Position Papers
Model UN Preparation

Committee: Commission on Human Rights
Topic: Violence against Women
Country: The Kingdom of Denmark
Delegate: Spider-man

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights states, “no one shall be subjected to torture or to cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment.” Although this doctrine was adopted in 1948, the world has fallen quite short of this goal. Violence against women pervades all states and it is the duty of the international community to ensure that all persons are afforded equality and respect. Despite cooperative efforts at combating gross human rights abuses, such as the adoption of the Declarationon the Elimination of Violence against Women, the United Nations has not been able to alleviate the injustice women worldwide experience daily.

The Kingdom of Denmark believes that in order to end violence against women, nations must look to empower women in all aspects of society. This includes promoting equal gender roles in government, civil society, education and business. However, Denmark also recognizes the need to combat human rights abuses against women as they occur, and no nation is immune to gender violence.

In 2002, the Danish Government launched an extensive action plan to combat domestic violence against women. The plan includes measures to help treat abused women, identify and prosecute the perpetrators, and incorporate professional medical and psychological staff into the rehabilitation process. The action plan currently reaches out to both governmental and nongovernmental groups on the local level throughout the
nation.

The Danish Centre for Human Rights in Copenhagen, Denmark’s foremost national human rights institution, also promotes and protects human rights. Based on the Centre’s research, Denmark’s parliament can promote human rights-based legislation and education/awareness programs throughout the nation. The Centre also addresses the UN Commission on Human Rights annually regarding human rights developments.

Denmark has no record of committing major human rights violations, most importantly any targeted at women. In its 2003 Annual Report, Amnesty International also found no human rights violations against Danish women.Women are invaluable to Denmark’s society and have achieved significant economic and social gains in the 20th century. Currently, 75 percent of medical students in Denmark are women.

Denmark is confident that this Commission can bring about an end to violence against women without compromising the sovereignty of member states. Education remains perhaps the most useful tool in protecting victims of gender-based violence. Governments, UN agencies, and nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) can plan a coordinated campaign that educates national populations on the various ways women are violently targeted. Similarly, harmful traditions, such as honor killings and female genital mutilation, must be stopped by reforming traditional views of women in
society. Children of both sexes need to be taught at an early age to value the rights of women in order to prevent such violence in their generation.

Another way to stop gender violence would be to reproach member states that consistently violate treaties such as the Convention on Political Rights of Women (1952), the Convention on the Elimination of All Formsof Discrimination against Women (1979), and the Declaration on the Elimination of Violence against Women
(1993). Although this Committee cannot impose sanctions, it can pass resolutions verbally condemning states that commit human rights violations. The UN High Commissioner for Human Rights can also meet with representatives of governments that violate the above treaties to discuss possible solutions.

In order to prevent gender violence, nations must work together to build a culture of support, equality and community. As such, the Kingdom of Denmark looks forward to offering its support, in whatever form possible, to nations firmly committed to ending violence against women in all its forms.

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Eleven by Sandra Cisneros

What they don’t understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you’re eleven, you’re also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don’t. You open your eyes and everything’s just like yesterday, only it’s today. And you don’t feel eleven at all. You feel like you’re still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Like some days you might say something stupid, and that’s the part of you that’s still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama’s lap because you’re scared, and that’s the part of you that’s five. And maybe one day when you’re all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you’re three, and that’s okay. That’s what I tell Mama when she’s sad and needs to cry. Maybe she’s feeling three.
Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That’s how being eleven years old is.

You don’t feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don’t feel smart eleven, not until you’re almost twelve. That’s the way it is.
Only today I wish I didn’t have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I’d have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would’ve known how to tell her it wasn’t mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth.
“Whose is this?” Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. “Whose? It’s been sitting in the coatroom for a month.”

“Not mine,” says everybody. “Not me.”
“It has to belong to somebody,” Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It’s an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It’s maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn’t say so.
Maybe because I’m skinny, maybe because she doesn’t like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, “I think it belongs to Rachel.” An ugly sweater like that, all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs. Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out.
“That’s not, I don’t, you’re not . . . Not mine,” I finally say in a little voice that was maybe me when I was four.

“Of course it’s yours,” Mrs. Price says, “I remember you wearing it once.” Because she’s older and the teacher, she’s right and I’m not.
Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don’t know why but all of a sudden I’m feeling sick inside, like the part of me that’s three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you.

But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater’s still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine.

In my head I’m thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, “Now, Rachel, that’s enough,” because she sees I’ve shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it’s hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don’t care.

“Rachel,” Mrs. Price says. She says it like she’s getting mad. “You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense.”
“But it’s not—“
“Now!” Mrs. Price says.
This is when I wish I wasn’t eleven, because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren’t mine.

That’s when everything I’ve been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I’m crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I’m not. I’m eleven and it’s my birthday today and I’m crying like I’m three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can’t stop the little animal noises from coming out of me, until there aren’t any more tears left in my eyes, and it’s just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.

But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything’s okay.
Today I’m eleven. There’s a cake Mama’s making for tonight, and when Papa comes home from work we’ll eat it. There’ll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it’s too late.

I’m eleven today. I’m eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny-tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
From Woman Hollering Creek Copyright © 1991 by Sandra Cisneros. Reprinted by permission of Susan Bergholtz Literary Services, New York. All rights reserved.