Perspective

I’ve just returned from Sierra Leone, a country that went to hell and back. 11 years of civil war, brutal, at times demonic. Walking the streets of Freetown or Makeni you see the scars. Burnt out buildings, rusted tanks and, in particular, -amputees - it leaves a lasting impression.

When I first arrived in Freetown I was somewhat immune to the pain and suffering I saw around me. Having spent time in Rwanda, Burundi and the DRC I came here thinking that it couldn’t possibly be any different, any worse.

Heck, soaring above the swampy Atlantic on the approach to Freetown you’d be forgiven for thinking you had found paradise. Everything looks so pristine from onboard my brightly painted, though visibly decrepit, Russian military helicopter. Beautiful green mountains weave their way through the city, meeting miles of sandy white beaches along the crystal clear waters of the Atlantic. The beach is busy, local boys playing football outside one of the many bars and restaurants that have opened to cater to the since-departed population of UN soldiers and aid workers that at one time numbered nearly 20,000.

But ten years of brutal civil war have left an indelible imprint on the country’s infrastructure and its people. Freetown, the capital, was left relatively untouched until “Operation No Living Thing” entered the city in January 1999. I could get into the details but, truthfully, much of it is too harsh to recount. Put it this way, a lot of people died.

The rebel attack left bullet riddled facades and the blackened outer shells of charred government offices in its wake, not to mention the traumatic memories of atrocities that are now hidden deep in the minds of thousands of Freetown’s residents.

Upwards of seventy-five thousand rebel soldiers once roamed the hills and valleys of Sierra Leone, the bulk of them, young men, often children, were often drugged and forced to commit the most heinous of atrocities. Rehabilitation is inevitably slow.

It took me ages to get used to Freetown. African capitals are chaotic. Freetown, however, takes it one step further. It’s chaotic yet at the same time frightening. For at every corner groups of young men congregate, jobless, without education, and without much hope of anything more fruitful coming their way.

They ply the streets all hours of the day, selling anything they can get their hands on. No need to go far to shop as with a little patience the shop will come to you. The smell of fried cassava, plantains, chicken and fish permeate what is otherwise a mix of dust, rotting garbage and petrol fumes. Children weave between parked cars and the ubiquitous piles of steel and garbage, selling candies, fruit and bags of cold water to passerby’s. The governments’ policy of universal education has allowed most children to attend school but many more are too poor to afford the required uniforms, books and supplies. Most of the children who do attend school do so in shifts, spending their mornings in class and their afternoons on the dusty streets of Freetown trying to make enough money to fund their educations and more often their survival. Young men and women are largely in a similar situation. With few private sector jobs and few chances to attend post-secondary education, they take to the streets hoping to make a few dollars by joining a thriving informal economy. Life in Freetown is not easy. A large proportion survive on less than a dollar a day, enough to eat but nowhere near enough to escape from the cycle of poverty that grips this beautiful West African nation.

And so amidst the dirt and dust that was my home, I, a 25 year old just a few years out of university tried to make a difference. How exactly? Some days I wonder myself. I can’t build bridges, cannot cure the ill, nor feed the poor. My role within a small NGO and the UN seemed unlikely to save the world, let alone save lives. It’s hard to value your role when death and disease are commonplace and the life expectancy is 34.7 years. To put it all in perspective I would often give one of the neighborhood boys who lived near me the equivalent of $0.75 for doing a small job, perhaps laundry, shining my shoes – I just doubled his daily salary.

Months later I still struggle to see what the biggest contribution I can make really is. On one hand I don’t want to be just another rich white man in Africa, satisfying my own desire to help while being seen as a savior by those in need. But at the same time I can’t escape the fact that the modest monthly stipend I received while in Freetown, let alone my salary today, is worth three annual salaries. A rookie police offer takes home less than $30 a month, staff at one of the luxury hotels maybe $40 or $50, a teacher - just $25.

And so months after the peacekeepers left, months after people started talking about change, and months after the optimism and patience that come with peace started to fade, I left, leaving many friends behind.

Now, a few months later, I’m back in the relatively quiet confines of a friends condo in Toronto. Back at work, with my friends, in a city that offers me what ever I could ever imagine. Yet the experience of living in Freetown is still fresh, almost too fresh, as today, equipped with a perspective on life that few will ever have, I struggle to find peace. As every morning I buy a coffee for the equivalent of feeding a family of four in relative luxury over there. I have a gym membership that would pay for their rent for the year. I have, the vast majority there don’t. It’s pretty simple.

And so it comes every couple of weeks or so. It might be while I’m walking down the street, or perhaps while I’m grabbing my morning coffee. It stalks me. The guilt of having left, of having been able to escape, of having. Or, as I put it not so politely to my friends, the guilt of perspective and the fact that “perspective’s a bitch.”

No matter the signs of progress I saw while I was there, and there were some, I’d even like to think I helped create a few, I can’t help but think that so much more should be already be in place. Money is theoretically pouring in. DFID, CIDA, USAID…. they’re all there. They’re all pouring money into projects. And yet people are still dying from diseases they shouldn’t die from, from water they shouldn’t be forced to drink, from problems they shouldn’t have to face. And yes, I know, measures of wealth and income are all relative. The basic necessities of life, however, are not.

But so goes the reality of life. Some have, some don’t.

I, for one, got lucky, very lucky. And while I may not know the meaning of life, my travels have given me perspective. I’ve seen young men in Rwanda with scars that have left them looking more alien than human, met women so often raped that they’ve lost the ability to care. And so tonight, as I sit in the confines of what is once again home, I can’t help but think of my friends in Sierra Leone, in Rwanda, and in Burundi. And while I know that one man can only do so much, I’m determined to go back and to try to help them build something better. Some might say it’s just another case of a rich westerner wanting to satisfy his own somewhat selfish desire to help. Perhaps, but in the end, does it really matter?

My last night in Sierra Leone was spent outside Mohamed’s roadside shop, engulfed by shadows and watching cars stream by in the darkness. I sat there knowing I was leaving, leaving them behind. Knowing that I could do nothing more than hope against all hope that things would get better, that perhaps I had done something to make things better, and that perhaps they would find a way to build a better future. For without hope, we are but shadows of what we could be.

Courage.

Politics and violence.

How does one get so desperate as to kill his fellow man? I see it here and I saw it before in Rwanda. Former neighbors, former friends turning on each other in the name of some far-fetched ideology that promises to take them away from the poverty that is life in too much of Africa. Yet country after country realizes much too late that the violence does nothing but ruin the country, and does little to address the root causes of the conflict, the hatrid, and the all-too common poverty.

Patience is a virtue.

In the tinderbox that is Freetown, most sit idly by as the clock ticks. Life in this land of abject poverty is simply a matter of survival. Enough money for food, for a taxi, maybe for a bread and butter breakfast. Three years after peace was declared they still have nothing. Young men who were once rebels, sit idly waiting for something that may never come, work, school, anything to get them off the streets. But as everyday passes the threat that someone will drop the match rises, the paper house swaying gently in an Atlantic breeze…. Nothing to lose….

Karoake.

How I’ve ended up in this Karoake bar with a handful of soldiers is beyond me. Nonetheless I’m now watching them take their turns belting out god-awful renditions of Hits from the 80’s. But this isn’t about sounding good. This is about, albeit momentarily, forgetting whats going on outside. Forgetting that beyond the walls of this fortress lies a country in shambles and neck-deep in poverty. So thousands of miles away from home, here they are, a proverbial united nations of peacekeepers – Bangladeshis, Pakistanis, Guatamalans, Nepalis, Nigerians and a few Brits.

Beyond comprehension

What does it feel like to be scared, truly scared? To know that someone is trying to kill you – that you are the hunted? I can’t imagine what the people of Sierra Leone felt like for nearly a decade, knowing that somewhere over the hills were a people that wanted nothing more than to wipe them out. Fear is something very relative. We can only compare that gut wrenching feeling to our own experiences. What scars it must leave behind on its victims, both the perpetrators and those who feared the latters violence.

Dusty Streets and Sweet Smells

I’ve been in Freetown for three weeks now and while the city is still an utterly chaotic place, I’ve really taken to it. Men and women ply the streets all hours of the day, selling anything they get their hands on. The smell of fried cassava, plaintains, chicken and fish permeates what is otherwise a mix of dust, rotting garbage and petrol fumes. Children weave between parked cars and the ubiquitous piles of steel and garbage, selling candies, fruit and bags of cold water to passerbyes. The governments policy of universal education has allowed most children to attend school but many more are too poor to afford the required uniforms, books and supplies. Most of the children who do attend school do so in shifts, spending their mornings in class and their afternoons on the dusty streets of Freetown trying to make enough money to purchase their next meal. Young men and women are largely in a similar situation. With few private sector jobs and few chances to attend post-secondary education, they take to the streets hoping to make a few dollars by selling second hand clothing, towels, etc. Life in Freetown is not easy. A large proportion survive on less than a dollar a day, enough to eat but nowhere near enough to escape from the cycle of poverty that grips this beautiful West African nation.

Woken by the hand of God

The Sani Pass, Lesotho
June 17, 2004

Gus and Betty were retired missionaries touring through Lesotho as they paid a visit to their eldest son who was volunteering in the Peace Corps. They’d spent twenty years working in parishes throughout the Senegal, and their children had each chosen similar paths. While a pair of God fearing retirees isn’t my usual idea of good company, my choices in the mountainous kingdom of Lesotho were undeniably slim.
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I’d been having trouble sleeping that night, must have been dinner or perhaps the altitude I thought. Regardless, it was 2am and I was wide awake in the pitch dark confines of our room. As I stared blankly at the ceiling all I could think of was the searing pain that made its way through my chest and throat every time I took a breath. The cold weather had got to me.
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“Everybody wake up – we have to get out of here.” I’ll never forget Gus’s choppy voice, resonating off the rooms barren walls. Instantly I was alert, trying in vain to focus on something, anything. All I could find, though, was smoke, hot, choking smoke. Gus shone the flashlight from his top bunk and the rays of light barely made their way to me. Between us lay a chasm of smoke, billowing out from the fireplace, turning our cozy chambers into a race against time.

We quickly gathered ourselves and crawled our way towards the door. My throat seared with pain as I tried to catch my breath. As Gus pushed open the door we felt the fierce winter winds whip across our faces as clouds of smoke forced their way out of the building. The cold air snapped me out the haze that had nearly paralyzed me but I still couldn’t muster a word. Looking over at Gus and Betty, our eyes met, each of us knowing that another ten minutes in there would have meant we might never have woken up….

Makes you think

I found this walking through the hills around Ruacana, a small town in Northern Namibia. I was camping on the edge of a massive valley bordering Angola and as I lay in my tent I could hear the faint sound of children coming from the valley. The next day I went for a walk and among the children and livestock was this reminder of the Namibian war of independence.

Humbled in the hills of Africa: Part 1

In the confines of Bujambura you’d be hard pressed to find any signs of the civil war that rages beyond the hills that frame the capital against Lake Tanganyaka. Thrown into chaos along with their Rwandan neighbours in 1994 the civil war that has devastated the pristine forests of this tiny country has rarely made its way into the heart of the capital. Instead, the streets bustle with hawkers, street kids, and well-dressed businessman shuffling through the dusty streets, noisy markets, sweet-smelling pastry shops, all trying to hang on to the optimism that recent peace has brought.

My first night is spent staring through the window of my lonely hotel room, listening to the sounds of a city that, despite a 10pm curfew, is alive and wants to show it. The nightclub across the street is a haze of smoke and lights, pumping out a mix of house and rock music that has the walls in my room shaking. I’d love to go but my heart has yet to regain a normal pace. I’m still nervous, downright scared to be here. The customs officials at the port reassured me that all was calm, as did the Pasteur whom I’ve very quickly begun to trust, but I need a night to acclimatize to these feelings of fear.

The Pasteur brought me to this hotel – an apparent favourite of the foreigners in town. Looking around during dinner I came to the quick and very evident conclusion that I’m the only tourist here – the only non-soldier here, save for a few extremely pretty local ladies. There are small groupings of soldiers scattered around the patio, all separated by nationality, no one seems to mix. Around 10 French speaking African soldiers have taken over the pool table while just in front of me, 5 soldiers from Bahrain are fixed on the television set, yet to say a word to each other since I sat down. I’m not sure if I feel safer surrounded by them or whether it simply provides a bigger target. This isn’t Iraq but I can’t help my thoughts from wandering.

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I arrived in Kigoma around 4pm – accompanied by a friendly German couple – having spent the last three days swaying in the bowels of the MV Liemba. Life on the boat was exactly what I thought it would be - a living, growing mass of people and goods. Though I would be lying to say I wasn’t disappointed to find a fully stocked bar with cable TV, my selfish dreams of being another of the great explorers doesn’t work as well with them on board.

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My first full-day in Buja is made easier by the return of the Pasteur who has volunteered himself as my escort. Despite my confident pleas I know he knows I’m scared to be here alone. Something about him has stripped away all my usual apprehensions – I’m aware of this but don’t seem to mind.

We spend our first day driving between town and the Customs Office at the Port to retrieve our passports. As I learn over the course of my stay, travel in Burundi requires more than the normal level of patience. Thankfully and quite surprisingly the bureaucratic hurdles are not accompanied by any requests for un petit cadeau. The imposing female Customs Officer is much more interested in whether I might know her cousin who escaped to Montreal some years ago. Canada is a big place I explain, though I’ll keep my ears open. She smiles and asks God to keep me safe. It doesn’t seem right though, I should be the one asking God to keep her safe. I should be the one looking up passages in the Book to give her hope. It’s amazing that in a land absolutely raped by war the people have so much hope, so much optimism and such overwhelming goodwill. Leaving the Port feels like leaving the home of a good friend. We just can’t seem to leave. The ladies have found out that my friend is a Pastor and bring the office to a standstill as they interrogate him on the meaning of various passages. A small crowd gathers around us, many are annoyed at the delay while others are mesmerized by the sermon delivered by the Pasteur . His words are like Magic, bringing smiles and tears to our growing group of friends.

With our paperwork accomplished we make our way into the heart of Buja. It’s an amazing town, completely run down but so full of life. At every corner well-dressed money changers walk up beside me and whisper the going rate in my ear hoping that I’m as naïve as I look. We make our way into the cornerstone of life in Buja, the central market. It is quite possibly the biggest market I’ve ever seen, putting St. Lawrence market in Toronto to shame. People run to and from between the mass of goods and produce available. It’s always a shock to see so much food in a place that is supposed to be so poor. The Pasteur's cell phone rings and we part ways with a promise to meet up in the afternoon. For the first time in ages I feel like I have a friend. He’s told me so much about his life in the Congo, his family, the war that I feel like I’ve known him forever. He is so well-spoken, so calm, so friendly. I continue my tour of the market, accosted by smiles and shouts of “Patron”, boss in French. There’s always one or two people whose smiles draw you in and before I know it I’m being given a sales speech by a friendly man, my age, in the brightest pink shirt I’ve ever seen. He calls me boss but I tell him that this is his store so he’s the boss. He laughs and says I’m a good man. Boss or not I’m not buying what he’s selling but he doesn’t seem to mind. I love meeting people like this, curious like me. We talk for a bit before I tell him I need to go. Go where he asks? I smile and shrug my shoulders, the worlds a big place I tell him. Equally satisfied we both walk away with big grins on our faces, both yelling “Au revoir Patron”.

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The soldiers at the Port in Kigoma are positive I can get on the boat tomorrow without any problems. What about a visa? Not to worry, just show up at 6am.

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The hotel is empty when I get back. The soldiers must all be out on their rounds. I swear every third car I see is a UN or MSF car. The others being taxis and the ubiquitous mini-buses. The hotel receptionist is around my age and a student at the only university in the country. He, like many others here, is very critical of the soldiers. They come supposedly to help but do little he claims, using the massacre of 200 refugees a few weeks back as a prime example. There’s a huge gap between the expectations of the local people and the actions of the UN personnel. Despite it he doesn’t want them to leave. Too many people depend on their presence to make a living. Look around he says, I’m the only tourist the hotel has seen in weeks. If it weren’t for the soldiers he would be out of a job, so would the extremely pretty ladies sitting at the bar.

The Pasteur drops by but can’t stay longer than a cup of coffee. His attempts to get a visa to travel to Brussels aren’t going well. In spite of his frustrations he still impresses me.

Before I know it night has fallen and I’m joined at the hotel restaurant by the droves of returning soldiers. I can tell they are curious as to who I am. I say hello to a few but they just mumble and walk by. Eric tells me they probably think I’m a journalist or worse yet, a stupid tourist. We all sit in silence, eating our dinners, watching the soccer highlights. The TV cuts out momentarily and the soldiers scream in protest, urging the barman to fix it. He hits it so hard I can’t believe it’s not in pieces but miraculously the picture jumps back on.

I can’t understand this silence. There are 30, maybe forty people in the courtyard yet no one is talking. I guess their jobs must carry a pretty heavy mental toll. Or maybe they’re all just thinkers like me. Regardless I’m relieved, yet somewhat apprehensive, when a well-dressed man asks to join me. I’m lonely and am dying to talk to someone so we quickly hit it off. He’s the interim Minister of the Environment for the new government and after a day of meetings he needs a beer. Worlds apart, life isn’t so different. We talk well into the night and before I know it he offers to help me extend my visa. This country needs help and he isn’t shy to ask. I’ve often thought of staying here to help but I don’t know what I’d do. I’m not a doctor, a teacher, or anything specific for that matter. I just want to help. He tells me to sleep on it and that he’ll contact me in the morning to fix my visa.

I can’t sleep that night, my brain too busy dissecting the million ways I could stay behind.
Again I’m tempted by the nightclub across the street but decide to enjoy it from my balcony instead. I’ve overcome my initial fears of the city but I don’t feel like venturing out alone. Too bad the Pasteur isn’t younger and up for a night on the town.

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I sat for two hours in the Customs Office at the Military Port in Kigoma before I was told that I wasn’t in the right place. The officer walks me across the base and before I know it my passport is stamped and I’ve taken my seat on the bullet-riddled first-class deck of the MV Mwongozo. Compared to the frenzy of life on the first leg of my trip up Lake Tanganyiaka, the subdued if not downright quiet atmosphere on the boat is somewhat unnerving. I take a walk around the boat and count a total of 15 passengers. For the first time in months I’m doubting one of my decisions. Africa holds enough risks, let alone walking into a civil war. What was I thinking.
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