Catalyst for Peace (formerly Catalyst Peacebuilding)

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.