Catalyst for Peace (formerly Catalyst Peacebuilding)

hard to believe that we arrived here four weeks ago today. . . our flight out isn’t until midnight tonight, but we will have to leave the city around 2 or 3 o’clock, to make sure that we catch the erratic ferry that shuttles people and cars to the airport across the bay (helicopter flights, which took only 8 minutes, have been suspended here in the wake of a fatal helicopter crash at the airport last month). . .

this past weekend saw the election campaign kick into full swing, as the parties trotted out their candidates for next month’s elections. . kirsten and i unwittingly found ourselves in the thick of it on saturday afternoon, when we headed east out of town to find mariam, a girl ex-combatant, we met a few weeks ago, who was eager to have kirsten help her learn how to write a poem. . .we set off under sunny skies. . . and along the way, our journey turned into something of a fellini-esque adventure. . .first, we began encountering crowds of all manner of green-clad people (t-shirts, blazers, fedoras, scarves, you name it); turns out saturday was the day the ruling political party here was officially parading its presidential candidate through town (green is the party color, as you may have guessed). . . as we drove east out of town, the crowds just kept getting bigger, throngs along the streets, yelling, singing, chanting, drinking; cars and vans coming by, loaded with yelling, singing, chanting, driving supporters (using the term “supporters” loosely, however, since this kind of “support” comes from paying people a small sum of money to turn out for the candidate du jour). . .anyways, as the crowds get thicker, we see these oncoming dark, dark rain clouds (it is, after all rainy season). . but suddenly we’re in the middle of the storm, lashing waves of rain, lightning, thunder – and a traffic jam you wouldn’t believe. There were a few hundred vehicles coming into town (as we were heading out), all of them green people. . . it was a bit surreal. I mean, it was pouring down rain – buckets of it – and these people were piled on top of cars, hanging out of windows. . . there were even several trucks in a row that were piled high with people, all soaking wet (and cheering, singing, etc). i turned to look at one particularly overflowing truck and through our rain-wet car windows, it looked like the people who were dangling off the back of the truck were actually dripping off it, in that kind of dali-esque, dripping watch way. . . one of the most highly absurd moments came when a group of young men – dressed in variations of green – came jogging down the middle of the road, past our car, and our driver actually said, “hey, there go some of the guys you interviewed a few weeks ago” – referring to the day that we had actually met 24 ex-combatants (adults who’d signed up for the army before becoming rebels and also young men and women who’d been abducted as children). We were, in fact, near the village where we had met then, but i was astonished at the fact that our driver (mohammed), had actually recognized them in the pouring rain, in green hats, etc. . . while most of this was going on, we were at a dead-stop, about 5 minutes away from mariam’s village, stuck behind a huge truck, which we assumed was sitting behind a line of cars in front of us (due to the fact that oncoming traffic in support of the green candidate was actually coming at us in two lines, turning a two-lane road into a rather crowded three-lane road, which it was never meant to be). . .we sat there for at least a half an hour, until somebody yelled at mohammed and asked why he didn’t go around the truck, which of course he couldn’t do by passing in the normal way, cuz of the circus convoy coming our way. . however, he does eventually manage, barely, to inch the four-wheel drive around the right hand side of the truck in front of us – and we discover that there is no line of traffic on our side of the road. the truck itself is broken down, and we have simply been sitting behind it, forever. . .. yep. . . so, off we go, finally making it to mariam’s house – only to discover that she isn’t there, that she is in fact at her boyfriend’s house. . . which is back in the direction we came. yep. back into the madness, which by this time has subsided a bit, so it only takes us twenty minutes or so to travel a distance that should have taken us about five minutes. . we get to the boyfriend’s house, only to discover that mariam has – yep. . . jumped on the green caravan, and headed into freetown. . . somewhere along the way, we have probably passed whatever crammed-to-the-brim vehicle she was riding in. . . we took it all in stride. . kirsten left a notebook for mariam, with a pen, and a note about it being for poems that she could write in the future. . i was pleased to see mariam’s two daughters, who were at the boyfriend’s house – they ran to me for hugs, and stayed close to me, particularly the oldest girl who is the one who was born to mariamin the bush, during the war (when she was a bush “wife” to one of the commanders, who abducted her at the age of 11). whe’s an incredibly sweet child, and very shy; we hadn’t interacted much the first two times i saw her, so i was really touched that she just wanted me to hug her and hold her close. . . . i was glad we made the effort, because i had promised mariam that i would come back with “the poet” for her. . mariam is working so hard to keep her family together, to deal with the demons from her past that make it hard for her to deal with her oldest daughter. . . the sweetest postscript in this is that last night mariam called the woman who first introduced us to her. she was so sorry that she had missed us, that she is coming into town this morning, to meet kirsten, and to learn to write poem with her. . it will be a lovely ending to the trip. . .

as for thoughts on forgiveness. . .i haven’t written much while i’ve been here – too much to take in, in some ways, too much to think through, a lot of ground to cover. . . i usually need time to understand the images i’ve seen, the words i’ve heard, to begin to have a sense of where the work is leading me. . . in four weeks, we’ve seen and heard so much. . .we’ve been in koidu – the diamond mining district, which was at the heart of some of the bitterest fighting during the war and still is marked by ruins all over town and in the surrounding villages – and in a town called makeni, which, by contrast, was basically untouched during the war . . . because it served as the home base for the rebels. . . we’ve also been in many little villages, where people are still grieved about what happened during the war, while at the same time, former combatants/perpetrators have moved back in their midst – an astonishing thing that life goes on under these circumstances, in settings where no process of apology/repentance has been made by many perpetrators. . . there are many shades of gray here, i’m learning, when it comes to forgiveness and reconciliation and how it takes place, or doesn’t, or hasn’t yet. . . the international community basically came in at the end of the war and insisted on a blanket amnesty (except for a dozen or so of the top leaders from all three warring factions who have been put on trial, at a cost of MILLIONS of dollars – while there has been practically nothing spent on reparations to the victims of the war, including people like tamba ngaujah, the double amputee angie and claire wrote about in their op-ed piece), and holding a truth and reconciliation commission (which basically never reached the village level, where so many atrocities occurred), and on top of that, the government people told people that they had to forgive and move on. all of this in the context of a country which has a huge cultural tradition of forgiveness, of reintegrating perpetrators, a fabric of wholeness and an energy that is fed by community (what one person we interviewed referred to as a “centripedal” force, rather than a “centrifugal” one – a drawing of people in, rather than pushing them out). . . there have been many acts of reconciliation and forgiveness here, at both the community and individual level, yet i can’t help but feel that the country’s fabric of forgiveness has been severely stretched by this war and its aftermath. . . and yet still, the starting point here is that forgiveness is the right thing to do, that perpetrators should be reintegrated, that all sierra leoneans are in fact brothers and sisters. . .i’ve met many sierra leoneans who are discouraged by what they see as a surface kind of forgiveness, and a lack of the deep reconcilation work that is part of the traditions here. . . but i remind them all that they are already a thousand miles ahead of so much of the rest of the world, ahead of my own country, where getting even, or winning at all costs, or punishing others, takes precedence all too often over forgiveness.

i have learned more, and will be still learning in the months ahead, than i ever could have imagined when i wrote my first blog. . .

We had our last interview yesterday with an incredible Muslim woman–the only woman to join the first coalition that met with the RUF in the bush. She said she represented the face of the mothers of Sierra Leone. Those who were a part of that first meeting have said that her presence, as a woman, helped calm down the RUF, enabling them to sit and talk. She had a powerful, compassionate, and humble presence and I felt blessed to sit with such a remarkable woman.

Although we are entering our last few days here, the stories will continue. As we return to the US, we will be posting more of the words and stories of those we have met with, those we have learned so much from, throughout the next few months.

It is hard to say goodbye to this beautiful country–especially the people. The sights, sounds, and voices that have meant so much in this short month will stay with me long after I return to the US:

I will miss…
1. Hearing “How De Body” as a morning greeting—and the feeling of broken krio rolling off my tongue
2. Fresh mangos, papaya (paw-paw) and pineapple for breakfast
3. Black eyed beans, rice, and Peppered guinea fowl
4. Overcrowded streets full of vendors, small refreshment stands, and people
5. Brightly colored fabrics and dresses that decorate the beautiful Sierra Leonean women

6. The powerful downpours that are only found in the African rainy season
7. A Cold Coke in a bottle on hot day
8. The smiles, greetings, and hands of children everywhere we go
9. Bargaining in the market
10. Mohamed, our driver
11. Mohamed’s cell phone ring: a recording of the call to prayer, which we get to hear from his phone about 20 times a day
12. The white sand beach—with the Atlantic Ocean stretching for miles in the distance
13. “Pack-n-Go”—the newest Sierra Leonean hip hop hit single—blaring from the trucks of the All People’s Congress and Sierra Leonean People’s Party as they try to rally support for the upcoming elections
14. The countless futbol matches being played on the beach and throughout the city during the day
15. And the many, many people whose stories, voices and friendships we will carry with us across the Atlantic…

Kirsten, our fourth companion for the trip, joined us in Makeni and we were able to accompany her to poetry lessons with young girl mothers. We met the girls through HANCI, Help the African Needy Child—an organization that began as a result of the need seen to help for young women who were captured and impregnated during the war. These women seem to be some of the most traumatized of the population. Not only were they captured and raped at very young ages (some as young as 9 years old), they also live with the stigmatization of giving birth to children from the rebels. HANCI found many of the girls on the streets, without families to return to, and with no means—besides prostitution—to find food for themselves and their families. Women continue to face a new kind of warfare—long after the signing of the peace accord; they face the war of poverty, of sexism, and of stigmatization. Many women continue to sell their bodies for food and teenage pregnancies are rampant (See Claire’s recent post for more background and information on the many forms of “warfare” still being waged in the post-accord society of Sierra Leone).

Organizations like HANCI, however, have begun giving the women small glimpses of hope—of possibilities for the future. They have found community with one another, and a way out of the cycles of violence that continue long after the war “ends.”

I found that there is an incredible power, ownership and sense of voice that stems from poetry and storytelling. As Kirsten led them in an introduction to poetry, they began to tell their stories, their dreams, and the many challenges they face today. At the end of both sessions (we held one in Binkolo with a group of about 30 women, and another in Makeni with a group of about 30 women), I was left speechless. Each woman had an incredible story: one of devastation—a kind of devastation I have not seen or heard before; one of strength—as they found the capacity to live, to laugh, and to love; one of hope—in their sharing with us and one another, their sense of sisterhood, and in their deep desire to continue finding ways to break free from the shackles of violence. Their dignity and strength to give voice to their stories astounded me. They continue to face severe violence, and unimaginable challenges: many have been rejected by their families, they face societal stigmatization, they struggle to find work and support for themselves and their families, they do not have the means to go to school and everyday brings the challenge of finding food for the table.

I worked with several small groups during the two days and I still continue to struggle to find ways to process and understand the stories told to me. The girls I worked with were all between the ages of 11-14 when they gave birth to their first child. They were all captured during the war and made into sex slaves for the rebels—some were in the bush for as long as 9 years. They were gang raped, defiled, forced to kill—as their childhoods were stripped from them. Today, the face familial and societal exclusion as they continue to find ways to provide for their children.

But it is their voice that continues to echo in my head. Their words, their stories, that make the strongest impact. I will let their words speak for themselves:

In My Dream by: Isatu Sesay

I dream of my mother
I dream of my eleven people
but today,
only two of us
are left.

All were killed
All were killed in the war

In my dream, I see my younger brother—
playing.

And my dream makes me sad
I know they are dead.

And now,
Only two of us
are left.

In My Mind by: Kadiatu Mansaray

In my mind
I see my mother going to the farm
where she worked with rice
and groundnuts

In my mind
I see in the farm a bird—
flying
I see the groundnuts
I see the wood
I see the line of clothes

In my heart
I feel the pain

In my heart
I feel the anger
And the anger makes
my stomache ache.

Because of the War

In my heart
I do not see the farm
I do not see the groundnuts
I do not see the birds—
flying

And I do not see the clouds.

In My Mind: by Kadeyatu Koroma

In my mind, I have no support
In my mind, I have a child
The father of the child is dead
He died in the war

My papa was killed
My mama was killed
by the rebels

And when they killed my mama
they captured me.

I was a young child

Now, I have no one to help me.

In my mind, I am sorry
In my mind, I see many many things
they tied us
they beat us
And they threatened to kill if I don’t agree

In my mind, I see people killed
by the road—
dead people
And we would pass them

There was no food to eat
There was no medicine
And I felt sick

I felt sick when my mama died
when my papa died—
I felt sick

In the bush, the rebel died.

My body is in my heart.

I try to find food for my child
But now, I have no business
And this time,
I just cry.

We have been fortunate: we have not witnessed the amputations, the rape, or the burning and looting of villages. We have not witnessed the game some rebels played — betting over cigarettes on the sex of an expecting mother’s baby, concluded by the slitting of the woman’s womb to determine the winners.

But the violence continues, even after the Lome Peace Agreement in 1999 and the democratic election of President Kabbah in 2002. Sierra Leone’s social fabric depends almost entirely on the family and community structure. Family does not only include the mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle… it includes the greater community. What happens when a war, abundant with heinous acts and rampant killing over an 11-year period, cuts to the heart of the organic support system that every Sierra Leonean had learned to depend on?

Las week in Makeni we worked with Reverend Moses Kanu, a gentle and insightful man who has devoted much time to the plight of the “girl-mothers” of his town and surrounding villages. This is just one of the many examples that illustrate the violence that continues to take place throughout the country. Moses conducted a recent survey that found 40% of the girls in secondary school were also mothers. Although their own family members would help to take care of their children so that they could continue school, the rest of the responsibilities of raising a child were left to them. And these girls are fortunate enough to have mothers or other family members that were alive and willing to continue to accept their pregnant daughters into their lives. Many are not so fortunate. Moses explained that this problem has increased tremendously since the end of the war; thousands of girls were taken by the rebels and turned into mothers before the end of the war and so many others were left parent-less by the war – so they turned to the streets as the only means to get money and food.

I have heard many aid workers pinpoint women’s education as being the single most important factor in fostering development and progress in a country. At a time when there are countless indigenous and international organizations and community groups pushing for girls’ education, this consequence of the war only hinders their work and the future of Sierra Leone. The adolescents have become parents of the next generation, born to absent fathers who were rebels or young men from the streets. What will become of this next generation?

Although the war has ended, the violence continues in so many other ways. Sierra Leone is full of people who want and yearn for peace, but the country is not at peace. Amputees and war victims are tortured by the promise of reparations to help them feed their families. Families have been torn apart by murder and by the abduction of their children; some adults that were taken as children by rebels during the war may still have living family members to go home to, but will not be reunited either for fear of rejection or because they have already been rejected due to their participation in the war. It is important to note that there has been successful reintegration throughout the country. However, five years later, the war is still very present in every day life and struggle, and will continue to be.