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.

We have made it to Makeni—and found an Internet café! It seems like an incredible change from Kono—where the heaviness of the war hangs over the city like a thick fog. The last week has left me with more questions than answers, more uncertainties than insights. Mostly it leaves me feeling like I don’t know what I think or believe about anything—which is usually a good sign of learning.

In Kono, we met Rebecca. Rebecca is 20 years old. She had a beautiful smile and her hair was braided and sticking out across her head. She nursed her baby as she recounted her experience in the war. She has a 7 month old…she also has a 7 year old, from when she was raped in the bush during the war. She began her story by saying how when the rebels first came she was with her mother—her mother cried and cried and was almost killed trying to save her—her mother pleaded with the rebels saying “please, this is my only daughter,” but she could not stop them. Right before she was finally taken, her mother washed her feet and face with water as a way to protect her—as a way to say “god go with you.” I imagine it was the memory of that moment that kept Rebecca going, gave her the strength to get out of the bush, gave her the strength to continue living, gave her the strength to have a child in the bush—a child she took care of and loved and raised—a child that was the result and living memory of the defilement of rape and sexual slavery. Rebecca, too, fought. She burned houses. She was injected with cocaine. She did escape. But, when she finally found her mom, her mother refused her. To this day, her mom and sisters still only call her “rebel.” When she reached this part of the story, she could not continue. She began crying. I, too, shed tears. Where is healing to be found in stories like Rebecca’s? There was nothing I could say or do.

It is important to understand the complexities of the situation in Sierra Leone. I often have a hard time wrapping my mind around the atrocities carried out at the hands of children—but they were, as many have said, “the worst of the killers.” Reintegration is a journey. To accept the person who killed your family, burned your village, raped your grandmother back into your community is a tremendous challenge. And the way Sierra Leoneans are finding ways to live side by side continues to amaze me.

As we walked through a small village, Tombudu, we ran into a humanitarian worker. He explained that he was getting the tour of the village from a former RUF and former CDF. It’s hard to imagine it, but that is the truth found in almost every village across Sierra Leone. I wonder how reconciliation will be sustained—how peace will be cultivated in the hearts of the coming generations. Is it a sustainable peace when the imminence of violence drives people to accept former combatants back into their homes? So many people we have talked with have said, “There is no other option. We must move forward.” It takes remarkable courage and wisdom to begin rebuilding communities, victims and perpetrators side by side, but the journey toward reintegration and reconciliation is a long one.

I wonder how Rebecca will find peace. I wonder, too, how her children—those whose father’s were rebels, will remember the war. What peace is being built in the long-term? There is still a strong stigma around “rebel babies.” I wonder how those children will be raised—how their memories and stories will impact the generations to come.

There is a strong sense of community in Sierra Leone—it is an unbelievable resource for peace. People understand their interconnectedness—they have a tradition of “Palava huts.” Small, circle huts where villages came together to work through a problem, to make decisions as one body. Their dependence on one another for life—the way they recognize the need for each individual has led to spaces where sharing, where harmony, where conflict transformation has been built into the social fabric of their villages. It is easy to see the disparity between cities like Freetown and villages like Myama in the Kono district. The capacity people have to live together is an incredible testament to the human spirit—to the possibility of reconciliation. But it does not diminish the challenge or complexities that are also seen in these villages. For the women who have been rejected by their families, for the children who are stigmatized for having “rebel blood,” for communities that have found ways to live together—yet still struggle, daily, to find peace—reconciliation does not come easily and the question of Sierra Leone’s future remains.  There is much to learn from the people here—from their emphasis on community, from the relational accountability that becomes so strong in places where interconnectedness brings life. They recognize their dependency on one another and strive to work together—even in the most difficult situations—as a way to continue living. I hope I bring the heart, the ears, and the compassion to understand the enormous challenges and enormous steps people are making daily to bring sustainable peace to this country.

Check out today’s Monitor!
Click here to read this story online:
http://www.csmonitor.com/2007/0625/p09s01-coop.html

Headline: Sierra Leone must care for war-crimes victims
Byline: Angela Lederach and Claire Putzeys
Date: 06/25/2007
Freetown, Sierra Leone - When the Special Court of Sierra Leone handed down historic
war-crimes judgments last week, Tamba Finnoh was one of the first to
hear the news.

He is one of the victims of the vicious cruelty used by all sides in
his country’s 11-year civil war: amputation. Mr. Finnoh lost his
right hand and barely escaped with his left in 1997 when rebel forces
caught him in the bush. Today, he is one of the few amputees in the
country fortunate enough to have a job; he serves tea to witnesses
who testify before the court. It is ironic that when defendants are
called to testify during trial, they are treated as witnesses – and
Tamba Finnoh finds himself serving tea to the very men who
masterminded the violence that cost him his hand.

Last week’s convictions of five top commanders from the Civil Defense
Forces and the Armed Forces Revolutionary Council, two of the war’s
three fighting forces on trial, include the world’s first-ever
convictions for solicitation of child soldiers. The judgments have
been rightly hailed as groundbreaking by the international community.
But the fact remains that the rulings will have little bearing on
those most in need of justice – the victims of the war, particularly
those who were brutally amputated. As Finnoh says, “Whether or not
these people are caught or are unpunished, it cannot bring back the
hands.”

Unlike Finnoh, thousands of amputees face the ongoing challenge of
trying to find work to provide food for their families and pay school
fees for their children. Tamba Ngaujah was the first amputee of the
war; both of his hands were cut off by rebel soldiers from the
Revolutionary United Front (RUF) in 1991. Today he lives in a
four-room zinc shack on the side of a steep hill outside Freetown,
with his wife, six children, and two other relatives. He is the sole
provider for his household – no small feat for a man who has no
hands. The RUF trials are still ongoing and judgments are expected in
2008. But even then, Mr. Ngaujah will still be searching for justice.
“Those who have caused these problems, to jail them or do whatever to
them, why can’t [the government] think about the people who suffered
from the war and come to their aid?” he said last week.

In fact, the final report of Sierra Leone’s Truth and Reconciliation
Commission (TRC) issued in 2004 recommended that the government make
reparations to amputee victims, including free medical treatment and
free schooling for their children. Unfortunately, the government has
yet to follow through with the commission’s recommendations – a
source of growing disillusionment here. Sadly, people like Finnoh and
Ngaujah struggle not only with the injustice of the lack of
government benefits, but they also face a daily struggle against
social stigmas: Increasingly, the word “amputee” has become
synonymous with “beggar.”

The government is not bound by the TRC recommendations, and it argues
that it doesn’t have the resources to enact them. Sierra Leone ranks
high on the failed-states index and is notoriously corrupt. But the
government must quell the growing discontent among the war’s victims.
For victims to find peace and a sense of justice, the democratically
elected government must find a way to care for those whose lives were
shattered by the war.

But despite the lack of attention given to war victims, many Sierra
Leoneans we have met believe the current ruling party will emerge
victorious in this August’s elections as the lesser of two evils.

International nongovernmental organizations line the streets of
Freetown, but responsibility ultimately lies with the government. The
international community is not likely to pressure Sierra Leone
through sanctions or other measures. But the issue of reparations is
nonetheless a crucial question that the international community must
consider as it seeks to support stable conditions here and in so many
other troubled areas throughout the African continent.

While the world applauds last week’s historic convictions, Ngaujah
faces a day just like every other day. He will get up, his wife will
dress him in a neatly pressed shirt, and he will climb the steep,
stony slope up to the road. He will make his way into the busy
streets of Freetown. There he will stand patiently, with dignity, for
hours. “Good morning, sir,” or, “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he will say,
hoping a kind heart will drop a few leones in his pocket.

• Angela Lederach and Claire Putzeys are research fellows with the
Voice to Vision project of Catalyst Peacebuilding (
www.catalystpeacebuilding.org ), which is dedicated to gathering and
telling the stories of forgiveness and reconciliation in postconflict
Africa. Voice to Vision field program director Sara Terry contributed
to this piece.

(c) Copyright 2007 The Christian Science Monitor. All rights reserved.

We spent the day with a young female ex-combatant this past weekend. Just as we were about to start our interview, we heard the approaching sounds of singing and clanging on cans. As we looked up, we saw a person wearing a black mask and a black straw outfit, followed by a line of the elder women of the village; They were celebrating. We asked our translator what the occasion was and she replied that they were from the “female society” of the village. We came to realize that this was in fact a village group that practiced female genital mutilation as a means to initiate girls into womanhood.

As we were leaving the village at the end of the interview, we again encountered the celebratory group as they crossed the road from one house to another. Our translator explained further: two young girls had been initiated into the FGM society that morning… when we had initially seen the women, they were celebrating the just-completed initiations. This had taken place while we were there, literally sitting less than 200 meters away.

I have never felt so powerless. Even if I had been standing in the room, what could I have done? These women have nothing but the best of intentions — they believe that without this operation, the girls would not be prepared to marry and  have children. Who am I to say what is right or wrong with a traditional, cultural ritual? But I cannot shake that such violence took place in our presence. But what could I have done? I was a guest in the village, a white woman with a tape recorder…

To learn more about FGM, please visit http://www.unicef.org/protection/index_genitalmutilation.html

Like Sara mentioned, we are currently sitting in the UNDP compound taking advantage of the 4 hours of electricity powered by generators here in Kono.

You could write the story of the war through the daily images of life in Kono: The burned down houses and structures that are now being occupied by families–despite the lack of covering overhead; The devastated infrastructure; The mines–small and large–we pass daily to get from our guest house to the heart of town everyday. It is hard to imagine the violence and suffering that happened on these lands.

As we were passing one of the many burned houses today, I saw corn growing up through the blackened cement structure that remains a memorial of the war–a constant reminder to the people here. There is life growing out of the devastation. In our encounters at the market, in the friendships we are making at the guest house, and in our relationships with those we are interviewing and meeting with, I am constantly astounded by their resiliency and love.

1000 child soldiers were reintegrated into Kono. Reconciliation and healing is still taking place, but the very fact that people have found ways to live together–to move beyond means of violence in what is still a very contentious area is an incredible example of the power of the human spirit.

Today we met with the Paramount Chief and the Chiefs of the Koidu Chiefdom. After we commented on the amount of wisdom and grace he offered to us, Chief Kamanda said, “You people have come here to counsel us out of this war. And now, we also have the wisdom to counsel you.” Indeed, we have much to learn from this land.

today was our first day in the town of Koidu in the district of Kono, after a six hour drive from Freetown yesterday. . . this is the center of Sierra Leone’s diamond mining industry, and it was at the heart of the civil war, a resource-rich area which the rebels finally took over mid-way through the conflict. . . this is the place that made the words “blood diamonds” and “conflict diamonds” infamous. . . as Chief Kabenda, the paramount chief here, told us today: “this war came for kono. It was a senseless war because of diamonds in kono.” I wanted to come here last year, when i was working in sierra leone for international medical corps, but the roads were so bad – it was the middle of rainy season – that it was impossible to get here from where i was, farther east, in towns where the war began.

Angie and Claire wrote an op-ed piece to submit to the Christian Science Monitor and the Boston Globe – it’s about post-conflict justice, based on the news today (Wednesday, june 20) that the special court in sierra leone has handed down the first judgments from the trials of the three groups responsible for the fighting in the eleven-year war here. The judgments today were historic – the world’s first-ever convictions for solicitation of child soldiers. . . angie and claire’s op-ed piece notes the importance of these verdicts – but contrasts these legal results with the ongoing need for reparations for victims of the war. (check back here to read the op-ed piece at a later date. . .)

They wrote a good editorial – and we set off to email it. . . and found ourselves in a classic dilemma in this part of sierra leone. . . the internet server at world vision, one of the ngos working here was. . . down. We quickly set off for irc (the international rescue committee) to see if we could wheedle five minutes on their computer (there are no internet cafes in koidu, i should point out). Their administrator graciously tried to help us – but to no avail. We couldn’t get our com puters to work on their server. . . so we set off for the offices of undp (united nations development program) where we were greeted quite kindly by the security officers, who said we could use the computer, but. . . . the electricity wasn’t on. (there is still no electricity in koidu, five years after the end of the war – if you’re fortunate enough to own a generator, you get power for a few hours a day. . here at the guesthouse where we’re staying, uncle ben’s guest house, we get electricity from 7 pm to midnight). So, here we are at the guesthouse (i’m writing this offline), having dinner – heading back off to the united nations compound, where they promised us that the electricity will be on at 7pm.

If you’re reading this, it’s a good sign – it means we actually found an internet connection that works!

p.s. – for any of you traveling to sierra leone, we heartily recommend uncle ben’s, one of the first places we’ve been able to support a business that is owned by a sierra leonean. The food is amazing, the staff is delightful, and in the morning, we hear birds, the roosters, and children laughing.

pps — yay. electricity is on at the united nations compound, and the internet is working(altho my email server isn’t!). . . when we head back to uncle ben’s, we’re going to sit outside and take in the huge african night sky. . .

The stars are out tonight. The rain has blocked the night sky for the last week—and I had forgotten how breathtaking the African sky is. Today I had time to pause and think. We have seen, heard, experienced so much in the last week—sometimes it flies past and we forget to reflect, decompress, let the experience enter deep in the heart.

From poda-podas and street signs, to sitting—sweat streaming down our backs—in a tight room with a former girl soldier, to walking through the special court with those working on issues of transitional justice, to learning Krio words—the week has indeed been full. I still sit in awe of those we have spoken with. The young girl I met a few days ago who had been taken at the age of 9 into the bush with the RUF. She was made a wife—repeatedly gang raped for 11 years. I have heard stories of women who were raped so brutally that they can no longer control their own bowels—they live, everyday, with the pain of being powerless as their feces drip uncontrollably from their torn bodies. I heard a former child combatant talk about taking a head and placing it on a stick to scare the next villages in order to get food. And other stories—stories that make the hairs on my neck stand up, as the chills ripple through my body.

I have looked into the beautiful faces of the young people we have met with, though they are my peers, their eyes show the age of my great grandparents. Their childhoods were ripped from them.

And somewhere in the midst of all the devastating stories, there are sparks of hope. In bursts of laughter and singing, the life of Sierra Leone is felt. The spirit of so many we have met with continues to astound me. Yesterday, our translator embodied the kind of love and spirit that gives me hope even in the face of unimaginable violence. Her dedication has changed the life of one of the former girl combatants we met with yesterday.

This former combatant was captured as a girl and fought for the RUF in the bush. She, too, became the “wife” of a rebel in order to be raped only by one man, rather than many. She had her first child in the bush—the child also of the commander. She learned how to wrap the cloth around her child so that she could fight and run at the same time. She had an unbelievable mind. Her personality was contagious and I found myself drawn to her spirit, her wit, her strength. Her childhood had also been ripped from her and yet she maintained a spark that gave life to all those around her. The woman translating for us, Monte, had drawn that out, given her hope, shown her compassion and stability. She is loving her back to life.

Monte, too, suffered in the war. When the RUF came to Freetown, they broke into her house. She was with 18 other women and saw all of them defiled, gang-raped and killed–some of the girls were as young as 9. She was spared only because her 3 year old son told the rebels that if his mother was lying, they could kill her. When the rebels could not accuse her of lying, they left. Monte’s eyes shine when she speaks and she moves through the world with grace and dignity. She is re-creating the world, re-newing the world, in the way she loves.

Tomorrow we leave for Kono. In almost all of the stories I have heard, Kono and Makeni are mentioned. Kono was devastated by the war because of the diamond mines—and continues to face a new kind of warfare. Carolyn Nordstrom calls this the “War of the Shadows”—the transnational businesses, the ways borders are blurred in global trade and corruption. There will be more stories there—of violence and degradation. And of hope and rejuvenation.

The moon shone above us tonight as Mohamed, our driver, brought us home. We all looked at the sky together as we drove. “In the U.S. you see that moon. In Guinea you see that moon. In Salone (Sierra Leone) you see that moon. Everywhere there is one moon,” Mohamed said. I hope the stories of the remarkable grace, dignity, and resilience of the Sierra Leoneans we have met will find their way across oceans and borders, where the same moon shines brightly overhead.

We thought it would be helpful to write down some of the little things that we see, hear and smell every day on the street.

1. Poda-podas are the vans that pile in as many people as possible to take them throughout the city. They usually play music, as our driver, Mohammed said “No body goes in the poda-podas if there is no music!” At night, they look like mini party buses as some of them have blue lights on the front or inside.

2. Almost every poda-poda and taxi have sayings painted above the bumper. They all reflect how deeply religion, Christianity or Islam, runs in the lives of Sierra Leoneans. Here is a sampling: “Fear Judgment Day”, “It’s On!”, “Life is Good”, “Who is to blame?”, “God is our Provider”, “In Detail Study of Man and Things”, “Live on Hope”, “Without Struggle There is No Success”. There is also the all-popular “God Bless Islam” and “God Bless”.

3. Traffic is a problem in Freetown. This is mainly exacerbated by the small rotaries throughout the city, the many people that are walk along and across the streets, the frequent stops of the taxis and poda-podas, and the “occasional” car trouble. As a consequence, the exhaust smells are stiffling.

4. Just about every possible space available for advertisement is used up by the cell phone companies: Africel, Celtel, and TiGo. Any other space available is taken by Comium, the communication systems company. Everyone has a cell phone, even those without a physical address…

5. I was so happy to see that there are a few billboards that are not used by the technology companies but by NGOs encouraging caution against HIV/AIDS, corruption, and abuse. Angie’s favorite one states “Hug your child at home, belt them in the car.”

6. Although I have not seen much wildlife here (apparently there is not much in Sierra Leone, even in the National Parks up north), there are quite a few dogs that roam the streets. My only comment is that every dog in Freetown seems to be of the same breed! Short haired, some with black and brown coats, others with white and brown coats. They are beautiful…

7. There is a very strong presence of Lebanese in Freetown, and it seems that they have a good handle on the private sector. We have been to just about every super-market in town, and they are all owned by Lebanese, as are most of the restaurants. Most restaurants also feature Lebanese foods, along with African food.

8. When it rains, most people have umbrellas. Those that don’t tie plastic bags around their heads. We actually got laughed at when at the market yesterday because we were not protecting ourselves from the rain!

At night, the rain drums me to sleep. It is a kind of unmatched power—the rainy season on the West Coast of Mother Africa. I see this same power in the people here—a “resiliency” and “love” as I have heard over and over from the Sierra Leoneans we have talked with. We have only been here one short week and the amount of learning that has happened continues to deeply challenge, overwhelm, and inspire me.

I can still remember clearly the first time I heard about Sierra Leone, the first time a piece of my heart traveled over the Atlantic. I was 10. And like most lessons of peacebuilding, this one happened around the dinner table. I remember laughing heartily throughout the course of the meal with Sam and Emmanuel—two West African practitioners. As a 10 year old, I was drawn to them because they were fun, spontaneous, full of life. And love. We had filled our stomachs on casserole and homemade bread and jam—the gifts of my mother, which seem endless. And then the stories began pouring forth. Like most people I have met who come from oral cultures (I too place my roots with an oral culture—my own heritage)—we wound in circles throughout the meal. I am more comfortable talking in circles–I learn more, I engage more, the nuances are drawn out before me and the space for storytelling emerges. There had been a silence and I felt the gears shift. Sam began explaining his work in Liberia and Sierra Leone. They had worked primarily with ex-combatants—at that time, all children, as young as 8 and 9. All children my age. I heard the stories of brutality—“they were taught to kill people like they killed chickens” was the line I will never forget him saying. I tried to wrap my mind around such a thing. The drugs, the violence, the brainwashing, the nicknames—“Rambo” “Rambo 2.” Words fail me when I remember back to that day. And then I remember Sam, looking over at me, the way his face lit up when he smiled. He also began talking about the work of healing. The first few days of camps that he would run with the children who had gotten out—the ways he and coworkers went into the bush to bring their children home. His own fear, his own capacity to overcome that fear—to find the humanity in these children. “When we left”, he continued, “the kids chased after the vehicle and they were all crying and crying.” I too, cried myself to sleep that night.

I have thought of this place, and these people constantly since that day, almost 13 years ago. It has been a dream to come here, to meet with the children who were my age—my generation. As a 10 year old I would write simple poems about it. As a 15 year old: short essays. As a 20 year old: a thesis. Most importantly, I found relationships across borders with other West Africans and continued to hear the stories—of violence, of suffering and of the long and complex journey toward healing and reconciliation. “You must go to my country,” they would say, “Insh’Allah” I responded to my Muslim counterparts—God Willing. I cannot describe the overwhelming feeling of finally placing my feet on the red clay lands of Sierra Leone. We sat with 24 former youth combatants a few short days a go. They were the voices and the faces of the stories of my childhood. They were my peers. We talked about hip-hop, about food, about children (piken’ as they say in Krio). We talked about the war.

In the West we like boxes. We want a box for victims. We want a box for perpetrators. We want a box for justice. We want a box for peace. We often fail to recognize the layers, the complexities, the way relationships and journeys weave in and out of time and space—braiding together a complex, yet beautiful tapestry of life. As we met with men who had been amputated—a method of torture used specifically in the Sierra Leonean war—I struggled to understand the enormous task of healing, of reconciling. There was profound wisdom in their reflections. I sat, on a steep hillside overlooking a small mountain range—the Atlantic Ocean in the background—with these peacebuilders. As Claire wrote about Edward’s reflection: “Reconciliation and forgiveness is not an event, it is a process” Healing takes a long time and comes in many phases. I sat, thinking on his words. I know very little of the kind of healing and journey he was speaking of—I could only sit in the presence of his voice and spirit, there was no way for me to truly understand the power of his words.

I thought of my peers who we met under two Kum trees—trees that reach high in the sky, and branch out into canopies above. In Ghana, Kum translates as shade, as covering, as a space of safety. I thought of their suffering and victimization. I thought also of the stories of brutality and violence they told—their own perpetration of suffering. I sat with Tamba for a while and then asked how it is that reintegration is even a possibility. He turned from the view of the hillside to face me and smiled. “Well, you know Angie, the thing we have here in Sierra Leone that I think is unique is love. Salone (Sierra Leonean) love is big. The thing about this war is that Sierra Leoneans were killin’ Sierra Leoneans. And at the end of the day, we are not left with victims or perpetrators—because we are all brothers and sisters. We are all Sierra Leonean.”

A dear friend gave me a moleskin journal. She has written quotes throughout the pages and I carry it with me everywhere. It is here that I keep notes from interviews, it is here that I write down musicians, different Krio words, signs I see on the street corners, small reflections. Today, as I turned to write the words of Tamba, I found a quote she had left me: “The first task in approaching another people, another culture, another religion, is to take off our shoes, for the place we are approaching is holy; else we may find ourselves treading on people’s dreams. More serious still, we may forget that God was there before our arrival.” (Bishop Kenneth Craig). I feel the warm, red earth set fire to my feet as I tread these lands. I pray for the humility to tread lightly. I pray for the vulnerability that comes when my naked feet touch this holy place. With the voices of my childhood storytellers always fresh in my mind I begin this journey—the spirit of their stories guiding my heart: walk with love, walk with humility, walk with grace in this beautiful land.