The journey of a human rights lawyer
My job brings great ups, downs, joys and heartbreak. Sometimes I want to quit, but I never will because human rights need to be protected at all costs…
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I am standing in the middle of Gračanica, a Serb enclave in Kosovo, amidst bombed out homes pockmarked from afar by Albanian snipers.
As a Minority Rights Officer with the UN, I am here to celebrate a wine harvest with the local community. The residents of the town are joyous and there is a heady mix of music and dancing. It is a moment to savour and triumph.
I talk to one of the residents about his life here: he tells me that he has no electricity, his freedom of movement is restricted and he has to be escorted to and from work by the UN. The enclave is guarded by the UN Kosovo Force, a constant reminder that the town and its inhabitants are at risk and that a fragile peace hangs heavy in the air.
This was emblematic of the deep divisions that ravaged the region at the time, and was a formative moment in my own journey as an international human rights lawyer in 2004.
Vicki during her trip to Kosovo. Photo: Lacuna Voices
I had gone there wanting to learn about my clients from the source. I’d wanted to work backwards from the trauma to understand their journey. As an immigration and asylum lawyer at a large national charity in London, I had represented many asylum seekers from Kosovo and I felt compelled to learn more about driving forcing bringing my clients to the UK to seek asylum.
And learn I did. My year in Kosovo was insightful, educational and strangely exciting. It equipped me well for the highs and lows of life as a human rights professional.
My vision
I knew from my early days as a law student that working in human rights and pursuing a career ‘of service’ was where my heart lay. In terms of my career plan, I knew the ‘what’ but had to figure out the ‘how’. The shiny corporate world of the ‘suited and booted’ held no allure for me.
I studied law, got a Masters degree in Human Rights and Civil Liberties, and qualified as a solicitor. I hoped that as a lawyer, I could be a change-maker.
But this work is not for everyone. It takes stamina, both emotional and physical, to sustain a career in the human rights field. We bear witness to harrowing testimonies we’d rather not hear: torture, sexual violence, abuse, female genital mutilation. I have heard them all. But we owe it to the survivors to report, document and ultimately hold those responsible to account. We amplify the cracked and broken voices and offer to narrate for them.
Vicki enjoying some down-time from her job. Photo: Lacuna Voices
I have learnt a lot about my own boundaries and thresholds - it comes with the territory. Self-care, burn out and secondary trauma are real risks for those of us working in the sector. It is well documented. It is a fact. We cannot simply switch off and shut the door at the end of the working day.
Replay
My mind continues to replay some of my most difficult and challenging cases. In the quiet moments of the night, I think about the British national in Algeria, who was imprisoned on political grounds and died on hunger strike whilst under my watch as Human Rights Advisor to the consular section of the Foreign Office.
This case remains etched in my mind and troubles me to this day – was there more I should or could have done to save his life? You see, this work lingers.
We need to take good care of ourselves if we want to do our jobs well. I remind myself of the salutary advice given to me at the Foreign Office in terms of practising ‘proper selfishness.’ It is not always easy.
There have equally been times when I have felt a huge sense of frustration, disappointment and outrage in my work.
Stock image. Photo: Tingey Injury Law Firm/Unsplash
I represented a sex trafficking survivor from Albania before the immigration courts in London. She had lived a life I could barely begin to imagine; her vulnerability and fear was palpable. As her lawyer, it fell to me to persuade, argue and convince the court that she was at grave risk on return to Albania.
I made an impassioned plea to the court and presented my evidence. I knew she had a strong case but all my efforts fell on deaf ears and she lost her appeal. I don’t know how her story ended once she was deported – sometimes we never do - but I can only hope she is safe and well.
But, for me, the feelings of deep frustration remain. Eleanor Roosevelt once asked, ‘where do universal human rights begin? In small places, close to home—so close and so small that they cannot be seen on any maps of the world.’
My small place took me to Tochigi Women’s Prison, Tokyo in 2016 to visit a British woman who was serving a prison sentence for drug-related crimes. I met her in a small visiting room with a glass panel. She was frail, suffering from early dementia and in a wheelchair. The prison guard with her seemed benevolent but, as a Human Rights Advisor, I was there to ensure that her rights were being respected. The privations - essential things like food - and challenges of prison life in Japan cannot be underestimated.
Vicki Prais in Japan in 2016. Photo: Lacuna Voices
The prison cells were immaculate and an eery, sterile silence followed me around my tour of the prison estate. There is little by way of meaningful communication: prisoners eat and work in silence. I lobbied the authorities hard to ensure that she received appropriate medical care and could take Japanese classes. Tenacity is needed in our line of work and for our clients, the small incremental wins often mean the world.
Burnout
Would I, or could I, do another line of work? I think deeply about this when I feel overwhelmed or mentally exhausted by my work. I think the answer has to be a resounding no. The desire to help those who really need it is too big for me to ignore.
This work has not broken me. I remain optimistic that we can, and do, make a difference to those we help. Should I look after myself more? Probably. I am learning day by day.
To learn more, visit Vicki Prais’ website here.
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