
He didn't set out to be a human rights statistician. In the 1980s, before studying for his Ph.D. at the University of Michigan, Ball got involved in protests against the Reagan administration's intervention in Central America. He did more than protest -- he headed to Matagalpa, Nicaragua, to pick coffee during the Sandinista years. He hated the work and instead built his coffee cooperative a database to do inventory control.
He first applied statistics to human rights in 1991 in El Salvador. The U.N. Commission on the Truth for El Salvador arose at an auspicious moment -- the new practice of collecting comprehensive information about human rights abuses coincided with advances in computing that allowed people with ordinary personal computers to organize and use the data. Statisticians had long done work on human rights -- people like William Seltzer, the former head of statistics for the United Nations, and Herb Spirer, a professor and mentor to almost everyone in the field today, had helped organizations choose the right unit of analysis, developed ways to rank countries on various indices, and figured out how to measure compliance with international treaties. But the problem of counting and classifying mass testimony was new.
Ball, working for a Salvadoran human rights group, had started producing statistical summaries of the data the group had collected. The truth commission took notice and ended up using Ball's model. One of its analyses plotted killings by time and military unit. Killings could then be compared with a list of commanders, making it possible to identify the military officers responsible for the most brutality.
"El Salvador was a transformational moment, from cases, even lots of them, to mass evidence," Ball says. "The Salvadoran commission was the first one to understand that many, many voices could speak together. After that, every commission had to do something along these lines."
Since the 1984 publication of Nunca Más, the report of Argentina's National Commission on the Disappearance of Persons -- the first modern truth commission -- information about the toll of war and political repression has been routinely collected on a massive scale. Truth commissions from Chile to East Timor have gathered testimonies from tens of thousands of people, a process designed to provide dignity to the victims, identify crimes that require justice or restitution, and write the story of what happened -- to try, as much as possible, to give closure to the past. Today, technology has speeded up and broadened the reporting process: Crowdsourced mapping tools collect and plot thousands of text messages from people who have witnessed violence. Ordinary people with cell phones take pictures and videos of atrocities that are uploaded and seen around the world.
But possessing an ocean of testimony is not the same as knowing the truth. No matter how many cases we learn of, they might not be representative of the whole. A truth commission might be scorned by a particular linguistic or ethnic group, which means its members don't come forward to speak. Fewer media reports of killings might actually mean fewer killings -- or it could mean that journalists were intimidated into silence. Human rights groups might record a decline in violence because budget cuts forced them to fire half their outreach team. Rape might never be disclosed. Video collected by cell phones tells us only what was witnessed by people with cell phones.
"I get a tingle the way everyone does when I see video from a cell phone from the Arab Spring," Ball told me recently. "But let's not forget that most human rights violations are in secret -- no cell phone. It's easy to think the world is totally different because we have cell phones now. It has changed our understanding of public violence -- but most violence isn't public."
For Ball, it's such unknowns that led to his most important early insight: "You can do precise statistics about what's in your database," he says, "and may be completely wrong about the world."
Yet we need to know about the world. Those massive databases and advanced technologies mean we now expect answers, and precise ones at that. Journalists, politicians, activists, and citizens all demand numbers and labels. How many have been killed in Darfur or Libya? How many raped in Congo? Who was more deadly in Peru, the army or the guerrillas? Was it ethnic cleansing in Kosovo? Genocide in Guatemala? The answers can tip the balance between intervention and nonintervention, between justice and forgetting. They shape how those who emerge from catastrophe design new governments. They affirm or explode the stories every culture tells about itself.



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