Catalyst for Peace (formerly Catalyst Peacebuilding)

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.