Charles Taylor: Punishment vs. Justice

The International Criminal Court (ICC) handed down Charles Taylor's sentence today, 50 years in prison. Mr. Taylor was convicted of multiple charges of aiding and abetting fighters in Sierra Leone during the war there. While the prosecution was unable to prove that Charles Taylor gave direct orders for the atrocities committed, nor did he personally commit violent crimes in Sierra Leone, his funding and participation in the leadership structure did contribute to the violence and atrocities committed.

So now Charles Taylor is going to spend the rest of his life in prison in the UK, barring an appeal (said to be forthcoming) and the overturning of his conviction. So imagine it, Charles Taylor suffering through beans and toast for breakfast and bangers and mash for dinner. Okay fine maybe that's not what they give you in prison in the UK. But it just doesn't seem fair. Mind you this is entirely speculative, but I imagine that the prisons in the UK are quite nice compared to those in Sierra Leone. Charles Taylor will probably get more square meals per day while imprisoned than the average citizen of either country. He will have electricity, occasional access to telephone and television, and I imagine he might even be segregated from the general population, sparing him some of the worst things that can happen to a person in prison.

So why, despite the fact that this is a landmark conviction, it is the first time a former head of state has been convicted by the ICC while still living, do I feel so dissatisfied? Charles Taylor has been imprisoned, his physical freedom has been taken away, but where does that leave us? True, it avoids the possibility that he will return to West Africa, run for president of Liberia (as was predicted) and return the nation and region to turmoil. But what else? Charles Taylor sitting in jail munching  on marmite sandwiches doesn't help the people in Sierra Leone who lost limbs or parents or children or homes. It doesn't help the children forcibly associated with fighting forces, some of whom have recovered, many of whom continue to struggle, with few skills other than waging war and using drugs, they are a generation who were most powerful and successful during the war, which is dangerous. Unemployed, angry, psychologically scarred young men with access to former leaders of fighting forces, and potentially to arms, are one of the most volatile groups, with the capacity to return country to conflict when they get tired of driving moto-taxis and being looked down upon. Or how does Charles Taylor in jail help the people who were physically disabled during the war, who lost limbs or were blinded? How does it help the girls and women raped by fighting forced? What about those who got pregnant and now are young mothers with no one to support them and children who are products of war and terror.

Punishment is not the same thing as justice. Charles Taylor has been punished, but other than possibly sparing the people of Sierra Leone and Liberia the consequences of his return, there has been no justice. It is common knowledge in Liberia that all those responsible for crimes during the wars cannot face the judicial system, because there would be no one left in government to run the country. Sierra Leone has felt the satisfaction of the acknowledgement of Charles Taylor's role in the conflict, but this was accompanied by the fact that he wasn't in the country. The people who committed crimes against civilians on a day to day basis were not on trial at the ICC.

To quote a friend of mine, there needs to be restitution, not just punishment. How about we take some of Charles Taylor's millions and create scholarships for those affected by the war? What if he funds prostheses for victims of amputation? Money, even to good causes, doesn't fix what happened, but in addition to condoning and perpetuating violence, Charles Taylor stole millions. Since we're punishing him already, and what's he going to do with all that money while in prison anyway, let's redistribute it to some of the people he hurt. Personally, I'd rather he spent his days doing the work to help those people himself, but since that's not possible, I'll settle for his money.

De anochecer a la alba

It was our last night in the town, where we had been for five days now, getting to know people and collecting data. I came across a boy on the porch of the house where I was staying, he was about 14. During the focus group discussion he had participated in, he emphasized that children living with adults other than their biological parents often are treated unfairly. I sat down on the porch next to him to relax and enjoy the dusk, as the temperature finally started to cool. I asked him what he was doing this evening, and didn't he have any homework? (Encouraging kids to study is pretty much my go-to casual chat.) It was Thursday evening and he said he needed to be back in his hometown by Friday morning. He was walking there with two of his friends.

Me: Is it far? Will it be a long way?

Him: Yes it is about five hours all through the bush.

Me: Ah, for this you have a cutlass? But how will you reach by tomorrow?

Him: We will leave soon when my friends come.

Me: You will walk in the dark? All night?

Him: Yes. I must dig and burn (farming) in the morning, so we walk tonight.

Me: Do you have any food or water to bring with you?

Him: No. 

I go to the room I am sharing with a colleague and find a used plastic water bottle. I fill it with water we have drawn from the hand pump in town. The house I'm staying in drinks water from a nearby creek. I give him the bottle. He smiles and nods. He then asks if I still want to learn some of the local language. He starts naming words, which I struggle to jot down phonetically, along with their definitions. He teaches me the words for animals, body parts, and foods. More children join and help him, laughing at my pronunciation, but encouraging me to continue. 

My female colleague, with whom I am sharing a room, asks if I want dinner. Dinner is leftover lunch, which was dry rice: white rice, oil, onion, chilies, and canned sardines. As we eat, the three teenage boys who will spend the night walking through thick jungle sit and chat, actively not watching us spoon the rice out of one pot into our mouths. It starts to rain. My colleague tells me that she has told the boys (in local language) not to leave until the rain has stopped. The snakes come out when it rains and if one bites them they could die. This is a very real and legitimate fear from what I have heard. During the FGD these boys also told us about men in the bush who can prey on young people or people walking alone, hurting them or killing them to steal body parts for ritual sacrifice. She teases them, asking if they aren't afraid? I ask too, hoping we can scare them into waiting until morning. I stop eating, knowing that these boys will get whatever we don't eat. They take the pot and our used spoons and dig in hungrily, their spoons making loud scraping sounds as they make sure to get every grain of rice and drop of oil.

Two of the boys want to ask me questions, but are shy, worried I won't understand their English, as they often don't understand mine. The boy I was chatting with earlier asks "Why you so light and I so dark?", I don't understand at first, but my colleague repeats in formal English, I shake my head not sure how to answer. "Why you so fine (this just means nice in Liberia) and I so ugly?" I shake my head again, contradicting his assumption. This boy has never left this small region of Liberia. It is likely that I am among the first white people he has ever spoken to; he doesn't have television or access to visual media. So where did he get the idea that being white is good and attractive and black is bad and ugly?

Then this same boy starts to study. I ask him what he is reading and he shows me the book, he is learning about the war here, World Wars 1, 2 and 3 in local speak. I ask him if he will read it to me, so I can learn too. I have forgotten to ask what grade he is in (at 14). He is in third grade, shaking his head, saying he doesn't want to read. Then he asks my colleague to ask me if I will read it. I start, reading slowly and enunciating, there are still many words he doesn't understand. "She must be white! Girl can read!" I read, showing him the book, pausing at words I suspect he may not know (like faction or dissolve), asking if he knows, explaining what they mean. We finish the chapter and start the review questions, he knows none of the answers. I suggest we go back through the chapter, with him reading so he can find them. Rather than skim for key words as I might do, he flips to the beginning of the chapter and begins to read again. He stumbles over words regularly. The vocabulary is far beyond his reading skills, and is not appropriate for his grade, causing him frustration. When he hits a word he doesn't know, he says the letters aloud: fierce - F-I-E-R-C-E. Sometimes he recognizes the sound of the letters in order and identifies the word, but when he doesn't he stops, looking at me. I try to go slowly, covering up parts of words and asking him what sounds the letters make. He and the boys watching are amazed, no one has ever taught them how to sound out words before. I can't imagine learning to read, and only ever being able to read the words someone has taught you, not being able to learn new ones on your own by sounding them out and identifying parts of words you know, can you?

Eventually I go to bed, leaving the boys on their own, laughing among themselves at my reading skills and teasing each other for being dumb. In the morning I hear from my colleagues that the boys left for home late in the night, when the rain let up, but still in the pitch dark. They are all living with relatives in order to attend school, because there is no school where they are from. But, there is no one to plant their fields at home, so they must go home and burn and plant before the season passes. This food goes to feed the family members still in their original villages, and along with their daily labor, pays the families they stay with for their rooms and school supplies.

********

I wasn't sure what to conclude from this. Is it a lesson in the potentially negative aspects of sending children away from home to live with alternative caregivers? Is it the burden placed on the shoulders of children when a parent has died? Is it the consequences of a lack of access to education? Is it that this boy has been taught, and internalized, that he is inferior to others? Is the lack of transportation? Lack of access to clean water or even a bottle to hold dirty water during a walk that will take hours? Is it that this boy, still a child, is fluent in his own language, but is only taught in a language he doesn't understand, so he is teased? Is it that there is a 14 year-old in 3rd grade, or that a third grader can't read? Or that, at 14 and in 3rd grade, the likelihood he will study for more than another year or two is unlikely? Or is it that he is surely more educated than his parents, which is an accomplishment? 

I'm not sure. But what I can say is that there are people who argue that development doesn't work, that we're getting no where and that it's a waste of money. But I think that (among other things) what those people miss is the impact on individual lives. Every step is an accomplishment, from this boy's desire to study, to his insistence on maintaining his family farm, to his being able to safely move about a county that was once the heart of the war. You can look at the story and feel sad, or you can look at it and see potential and progress. Progress towards education (there is a school where there wasn't one ten years ago), clean water (there is a hand pump in the community, although too far to walk to), he is functionally literate, he has access to land and income, and he wants to learn. 

Additionally, when this research went through an ethics review board, I was asked what the benefit for those participating was, weren't we just taking from them and giving nothing in return? I explained that there are people that no one ever asks for their opinion, and no one ever listens to; child protection concerns (abuse, exploitation, violence, and neglect) aren't the issue of the day, and when children experience them, they often bear them in silence, believing it is their lot in life. Sitting together and discussing the things that make them feel unsafe or insecure and hearing that other children face them too, is beneficial, even if it only lasts for an hour or two. This boy was heard, and then later someone encouraged him to change his actions in order to keep himself safe, because he is important, and he did change, even if only a little, even if only for that day.

Why This Matters

Don't you hate when you get scooped by NPR? http://www.npr.org/2012/04/28/151575556/in-his-own-country-charles-taylor-still-has-support

 

Granted I suppose I could have been live tweeting throughout the reading of the Charles Taylor verdict on Thursday, letting you all know exactly what the reactions were around me in Liberia. Maybe next time I'm in a country where the former president is on trial for crimes against humanity.

 

Charles Taylor was on trial for five years, at the Special Court for Sierra Leone. The trial was held at the Hague rather than in Sierra Leone because there was a fear that the trial and verdict could cause instability, among other reasons. After hearing the verdict, a friend and I were discussing the case over lunch, imagining what it would be like if the trial had been held in Freetown, Sierra Leone. And we both decided it would have been chaos. Even with the trial a continent away, people in Monrovia were decorating the road from the airport and getting ready for Taylor's return. Someone I work with told me that that morning, before the verdict, someone was wearing a shirt proclaiming Taylor's guilt, and a crowd chases him until the police had to escort him away for his own safety.

 

I have been doing my own casual research here to get a sense of how people here felt about the coming verdict, before it was handed down. One person told me that there were lots of supporters still, which after being in Nimba county, which didn't surprise me. I asked him why, and he explained that some of the people are too young to really remember what happened during the war. They remember leaving their homes, they remember how chaotic things were, and they remember Taylor coming out victorious. They don't know or remember what he actually did, and still see him as a powerful leader who represents the best of Liberia. Another person told me that he hoped Taylor would come back, because there is no strong authority in Liberia today. He said that if Charles Taylor came back he could say "Everyone stop robbing cars on highways, and if you don't I will find you" and everyone would obey him. There is no one today who can control and lead the Liberian people.

 

From my personal perspective, I think that part of it also has to do with the pace of development, and what people expected versus what has materialized. Democracy is often promoted and pursued as though it is a solution, rather than a path. With democracy people have a voice, if they choose to use it, and are allowed to do so freely. However participatory government doesn't actually speed up the development process from what I can see. People in Monrovia may see roads being built, or Ma Ellen (Sirleaf Johnson) passing down Tubman Blvd on her way home from work, but tangible differences in the lives of most Liberians are small. The war is over, but food is more expensive, most people still don't have access to power, pump their water from wells if they're lucky, use hand dug latrines, and if they send their children to school, it's a gamble as to whether there will be enough books and their teachers will be present. So when looking back on the war, things were unstable, but someone was obviously in charge who was promising to make it better. Now someone says Liberians should work together, pay their taxes to contribute to growing Mama Liberia. No one is promising quick fixes, and if you believe that those exist, maybe Charles Taylor, who was apparently extraordinary charismatic, sounded like he promised a better future. When your leader only promises what the country can actually do or slightly more, the future does not seem quite so bright perhaps, and leaves you longing for the days of big hopes and grand gestures, when the government was changing and drastic improvements seemed like a possibility. Maybe when you've grown up in constant instability, calm seems too boring, and change seems too slow. Or maybe Charles Taylor (papay – what older men are called in Liberia), who won an election with the slogan "I killed your ma, I killed you pa, but you still love me," (or something to that effect), is simply a hero to many Liberians, and a kind of hero whose star doesn't dim simply because another country is try to use his as a scapegoat for the violence they perpetrated against themselves. Or so I've heard.

But I think most important is that Charles Taylor would have come back to Liberia if he hadn't been convicted. His ex-wife is a senator, and I highly doubt he would have been able to stay away from politics; he would have been elected. And from there who can say what would happen, whether he would have reached the presidency (whether the UN Mission In Liberia would have allowed him to). Whether the growing economy would have taken a hit, for fear that conflict would begin again; whether some NGOs would have left for the same reason. Whether old resentments would have felt more fresh with him in the country. It's impossible to know the potentially destabilizing effect his return could have cause. But this verdict matters because it means that even with money and power and the love of your people, another country can hold you accountable for your crimes. This verdict matters because it allows Liberia to stay the course, however slow it may appear to some, towards development. No one has ever been punished for the crimes committed during the war in Liberia, referred to locally as World War 1, World War 2, and World War 3. No one has been punished, because those in charge of punishment are also the ones who would be punished. But this verdict matters because, while the risk of future conflict has not disappeared, at least it will not occur at the hands of Charles Taylor, at least not any time soon.

P.S. I'm home! But have no phone because my luggage got lost.

Stories from the Interior

I spent last week in the interior of Liberia, in Nimba county, which is on the border of Ivory Coast and Guinea. Nimba has a long history, especially associated with the war here, as Charles Taylor entered Liberia from Ivory Coast, into Nimba, and then traveled on to Monrovia. I have lots of stories to tell you all and I'll start moving through them now that I have internet again, but here's one to get us started. This story might be a bit hard to hear, so feel free to skip and if you just follow this because you want to know where I am, I'll be back in the States on Sunday!

It's 6:45 am and I walk out of my hotel after a breakfast of buttered white toast, scrambled eggs with sliced hot dogs, and Nescafe with powdered milk. We have spent the night in one of the cities in Nimba after spending a week in a very rural area. We are driving back in an agency vehicle and the driver asks if we can take someone he knows along with us if she signs the liability waiver. I figure he knows the rules better than me, and say it's fine as long as the Country Director would be okay with it. A woman in her mid-20s climbs into the back of the car, explaining that she needs to get back to Monrovia in order to attend her classes that day.

Our driver was talking about his experiences during the war (no one says conflict here), he drove for everyone from the BBC during the active conflict to a number of organizations during the disarmament process. He mentions a tribunal that was convened by Charles Taylor during the war to try military crimes. The girl says that it was this tribunal that killed her father, it was when she was three years old. The driver asks who her father was, a general in the army, and the driver says he didn't know that was her father, but would she like to hear about what really happened to him?

According to him: her father was the commander of many troops, most of whom were relatively young and poorly trained. These troops massacred villagers in the interior (not in Nimba), and the international community found out about it. Her father stood trial for these crimes, although he was not involved and the troops actually disobeyed his orders by doing what they did. Despite the fact that Charles Taylor really liked her father, and her father was a great man, it was the  pressure of the international community that pushed them to punish someone for the crimes. And so her father was sentenced to death.

Girl: When I graduate from university and get a job, I have always said that with my first paycheck will go to finding where my father is buried, and building him a gravestone.

Driver: I know where your father is buried, not today, but some other time I can take you there, if you want.

Girl: Yes! I have always wanted to see this place where they killed him.

Then later in the conversation (this was a five hour drive after all):

Girl: It makes me feel too bad to see these people I go to school with, they call their father and he can help them pay their school fees and other things. Since I was a young girl I have been selling cold water (in bags) to people to earn enough money to buy notebooks and a uniform. My mother cannot help me and my father was killed. It makes me feel too angry when I see the people who I know participated in that [massacre] or who helped kill my father and now they are there, they are having families and they are happy. My father wanted to help Liberia and he was only killed and I am alone.

Driver: You see, this is a problem here, people are still very angry about the war. Every day you can see someone who you know helped kill your father or your brother or you burned down your house. You see these people and they have big money and big cars and they are very powerful. It makes people angry.

Me: Do you think there will ever be any kind of reconciliation or justice process?

Driver: How can there be? Everyone is guilty. There would be no one left in government. The wife of Charles Taylor is a senator, Prince Johnson [leader of a 2nd faction during the war] is a senator in Nimba, even Ellen [Johnson Sirleaf, the president] is guilty. She has admitted that she gave money to support Charles Taylor during the fighting. She claims it was for humanitarian purposes, but there was a war going on, if you wanted to be a humanitarian, why wouldn't you give the money to an NGO?

Me: So many of the people in power and in government currently were involved in the war?

Driver: Oh yes! And there is no justice because it is the people in power who are the very guilty ones. If we started to prosecute all the people who committed crimes during the war, there would be no one left in government.

And then a large SUV (one of the marks of wealth in Liberia) drives past, the license plate read DD1.

Driver: There. You see? This is Prince Johnson coming. 

Me: Wait, what?! That's Prince Johnson in that car?

Driver: Yes, yes. He is the one who killed Samuel Doe [who killed President William Tolbert to take power of the country]. Have you seen the photos?

Me: Hmm.... oh yes! He is the one who was wearing the hat and drinking the beer?! 

Driver: Yes. Everyone watched Prince Johnson humiliate Samuel Doe, and even though he begged for his life Samuel Doe killed him anyway. Doe would not tell Johnson where all the money he had stolen was hidden outside of the country. Even today no one knows where that money is.

Me: Oh wow, so it is somewhere else and it was never found?

Driver: Yes. And to see these pictures and the video then, everyone in the world could see it because it was videotaped. [Google it!] But the Congos [Americo-Liberians] here, Doe was killing all of them, so it is them who helped finance Johnson to come kill him.

Ah and there is his car of security men. You see it is a ways behind him because if someone attacks him, then this car of men with guns, all paid by Prince Johnson himself, not by the government even though he is a Senator, they will come and kill that person. There must be ten men in that car, youth who fought for him during the war, and they will surely all have guns. 

Me: So people here like Prince Johnson still?

Driver: Yes yes, they believe he defended Nimba, and you know most of the people who fought for him were from here, he is even senior in government. Did you see that license plate? He is on the national defense committee.

**********

If people know a bit about the war here, they know about Charles Taylor, but Samuel Doe and Prince Johnson and two of the other very big participants in it. Here is the video, but be forewarned, it's someone torturing someone else, not exactly fun to watch, but amazing to think about the role of media in politics and persecution. 

http://www.youtube.com/verify_age?next_url=/watch%3Fv%3DyaLSzjfyUiA (they will make you sign in because of the violent content)

And just remember that the man on the right drinking the beer is now a senior Senator. 

Radio Silence

Hi Everyone!

So sorry I haven't been posting, the internet here isn't fast enough to access the blogger website! However after paying too much for some mediocre food at a place with fast internet, I think I've got it set up so that I can email in posts so you all can see them!

I've been back in Liberia for three weeks now and am having a lovely time again. I've got all sorts of posts coming for you, but just wanted to start by saying hello! Easter here in Monrovia start on Friday with church services. I was at a training held in a church so we got to hear the choir and part of the service, since most businesses here are closed on Good Friday. This morning the road near the churches were packed with cars and you could hear the singing down the street. I ate my mandatory chocolate (my family's version of Easter celebration) and then headed to the beach. Not too bad of a day if I do say so myself. This Friday is also a holiday here in Liberia, Fast and Prayer Day. I asked a colleague what we would be fasting and praying for, and apparently it's for the future of Liberia. Chances Americans would not eat for one day in the hopes of uplifting the country?

I'm excited to be able to post again and can't wait to share all of the ideas I've been having with you. 

Hoppy Easter and Passover

gypsy rose

What's in a Name?

I have a very common American last name. It just so happens that a former Liberian president has the same last name as me. He was Americo-Liberian, which means he came to Liberia after being enslaved in America before emancipation.

Liberia has been described as America's only outright foray into colonialism. The initial goal was to create a country in Africa of freed American slaves, and this was accomplished through the purchase of land and conquest of the Africans already living in what is Liberia today. The irony doesn't stop there sadly, Americo-Liberians took control of the country, placing themselves in positions of power and excluding native Liberians from many parts of social, economic, and political life. Somewhere in here there must be a lesson about how people who are the victims of abuses of power will come to abuse power, should they be given the chance, rather than treating others as they wish they had been treated. 

Americo-Liberians were, and are, lighter skinned than native Liberians, due to generations of coupling between slaves and slave-owners, whether by force or by choice. This was used as a means to measure their superiority, as they went about creating a society in West Africa that closely mirrored America, but with themselves as the dominant group. Many buildings in Monrovia are similar in style to those in the American south. There are similar holidays, laws, and elements of culture. The Liberian flag obviously is based on the American flag.

And so what's in a name? In the United States, when I meet someone who is African American and has the same last name as me, the issue is largely ignored. It may cross my mind that somewhere in far off history someone with the same last name as me owned slaves. Hopefully not my actual ancestors because I think we're exclusively Northerners, but it's hard to be sure. Then if I meet someone in Liberia with the same last name as I do, I know this person most likely Americo-Liberian and is a descendent of American slaves. I can't quite put my finger on the difference between the two experiences, but they certainly exist. Perhaps it is because the identity of ex-slaves in Liberia is in fact one that garners privilege, as they are the relatives of people who are viewed by some to be 'more civilized' because of their time in American, than members of tribes who have always lived in West Africa. I get the impression that in America we are more reticent to point out our likely roles as relatives of ex-slaves and ex-slave owners, we most often talk about slavery in the abstract, as something that happened, not as something in which our ancestors participated. Whereas every time anyone mentions any sort of Liberian history, slavery is mentioned. There is a slavery museum and historical anecdotes about Americo-Liberian ex-slaves are shared with a kind of pride.

I'm still digesting this part of the experience and welcome any thoughts you all have. Here are a couple of my reflections:

1. Liberia has been a place of clashing interests and cultures for over a hundred years now. From clans to politicians to rebel groups, conquest and violence have been the name of the game. This was supposed to be a place where former slaves could be free and start over, forgetting that they had to take land and power from someone to do that. So how can people in a place born of violence stop the cycle of aggression and retaliation while still allowing members of diverse histories and backgrounds to interact and participate in decision-making?

2. Historical memory is an interesting thing, and it is the winners who write the history. This has made being descendants of former slaves a matter of pride in Liberia and what appears to me (as someone who has an admittedly limited peripheral perception) a source of shame and hurt for many African Americans and caucasians alike. 

3. Why is people's reaction to being dominated to dominate others in return? It's like paying forward pain and vulnerability in exchange for power. I suppose this is not everyone's reaction, but the people who want to treat others fairly and kindly are rarely the ones pursuing power.

Compounds Part II

So I have a follow-up post for you which is a bit of a reflection on the previous post about the prevalence of compounds in Liberia. I'm home safe and sound in San Francisco, but have a list of topics to blog about and am going to do my best to get through them while everything is still fresh in my mind.

Some of my lovely readers offered interesting insight into the world of compound living, the effects it can have on the psyche of those living both inside and outside its tall walls. They also mentioned other places in the world where such things have happened, where people foreign to the environment arrived and built walls to protect themselves from nature/people/animals/the unknown. It fascinates me that people move away from their homes and across the globe only to wall themselves off into places that keep out everything that is different about the place they live.

HOWEVER, I think I neglected to appropriately explain why all these walls exist in Liberia in particular, but rather simply pointed the finger at the expat community for being paranoid and isolationist. I know many of you know a lot more about the civil wars in Liberia than I do (like did you know Charles Taylor escaped from a Massachusetts prison?!), but I'm learning and I welcome your input here. But during the wars, almost back to back, 1989 - 2003, with a one year reprieve in 1996, Monrovia was often the center of conflict. Unlike in many civil wars where most conflict takes place outside the capitol, Monrovia was often at the heart of the violence and fighting (in addition to border areas, and areas with diamond mines etc). And while I can't think of a civil war that didn't involve unnecessary loss of life, this war was particularly brutal for a variety of reasons. 

There were many factions fighting so, for example, one group of young men with guns arrives in a village and demands shelter and food, which the people have no choice but to provide. Then a rival faction arrives, calling all the people in the village supporters of the first faction. Then they take all the young men and (this is one example I heard), first teach them how to shoot a gun, then tell them they need to know how to shoot it blindfolded, so the men practice firing again blindfolded. Then the blindfolds are removed and the boys find that they have killed their parents and brothers and sisters. Then the entire village is burned to the ground and young boys, and often girls as well, become associated with the fighting forces. Or as various factions would try to enter Monrovia to take over the national mansion and kill whoever was the leader at the time, local people would often take refuge in 'neutral' locations. I was informed that the church near the apartment where I stayed had been one of those places. Until one faction decided not to respect the sanctity of the church, locked the doors, and burned it down with everyone inside.

I apologize for the graphic nature of the stories, but I think that they bear sharing, partially because I think the effect of that sort of indiscriminate violence on the psyche of individuals and a nation is both important to remember, and also impossible to forget. Additionally, many of the young people who were associated with fighting forces are unemployed or underemployed, and spent their youth using violence to get what they want. The vast majority of people I met in Monrovia were incredibly friendly and polite and helpful and kind. But the prevalence of petty crime as well as robbery, assault, and sexual assault is astounding and apparently increasing. So while one could look at living in compounds as a way to isolate oneself from reality and maintain a distance from the local population, it also allows international experts in post-conflict redevelopment to remain in the country and continue working "Lift Liberia" as the UNMIL slogan says.

I think that some crime will always exist, as it does in any city, but I also hope that some day violent crime is low enough to decrease the security focused feeling that exists in many parts of Monrovia due to high walls, razor wire, guards, and barred windows. But on the other hand it's always easier to put up walls than to pull them down.

Compounds

Have you ever lived in a compound? Worked in a compound? I remember when I was a middle school a friend of mine told me that her father's family in Chile lived in a compound. There was a big house surrounded by high walls, topped with coiling razor wire, with security guards out front. At the time it sounded like a castle, and that her family must have been one of the richest and most powerful in the country. Little did I know how much time I'd be spending in compounds in the future.

Compounds in every country I've been to have a number of similar features: the property is surrounded by high walls. These can vary from 8 feet to 12 feet from what I've seen. For instance when I was in Juba, the walls were 8 feet but were being raised to 8 or 10 after a number of robberies had occurred in the area, so the height of the wall matters. Walls are almost always made of cement, and are invariably topped with coiled barbed or razor wire, or with pieces of broken bottles with the sharp edges sticking up. There is almost always only one way to enter a compound, through large metal gates in the front that are locked at all times unless someone is coming or going. Then there are guards, always one, often more, who open and close the gates and generally stand around watching who comes and goes. Depending on where you are the guards may or may not have guns. In Liberia none of them do because firearms are completely banned, but in much of Latin America the guards do have some pretty intimidating weapons.

At first it feels strange to work and live in compounds, when I was in rural S. Sudan I worked and lived inside the same compound, so while the commute was just a few steps, it makes your world incredibly small. In almost every place I've worked you spend your day going in and out of compounds, greeting guards, occasionally showing ID if you're going into a UN compound. But the idea that what's inside the compound needs to be protected from what lays outside it becomes the norm. Here in Liberia most of the people I've met (who can afford it) live in compounds. Imagine if you've ever lived in an apartment or condo complex, now just surround it with walls and barbed wires, replace your doormen with security guards, and you've got the idea.

I remember when I was younger my family went on vacation with friends, and our friends didn't like the idea that the house we were all staying in was inside a gated community, because it implied the exclusion of the locals. Here there are certainly Liberians who work at businesses and organizations that are located behind high walls, but living within a compound seems to be an exclusively ex-patriate thing to do. On one hand, it's understandable, I've heard stories about a number of robberies and home invasions that have occurred in Monrovia. On the other hand a friend of mine lived on the top floor of an apartment building in Harlem and was constantly being robbed as people would hop from building to building and came down from the roof. It's not just here that crime occurs, and the security standards for the UN and other organizations exist for a reason. But what feels strange, is that it doesn't feel strange any more. I expect it, and though I still occasionally stop to wonder what it must be like to live in a place where the international community has come to "help" and "rebuild", but feels the need to wall themselves off and protect themselves from the people they're ostensibly here for. I think about it sometimes, but it's no longer my first thought when I see the razor wire. It doesn't even phase me.

Just another manic Monday

I realize it’s no longer Monday, but I figure I get a coupleof days of wiggle room with the time difference and the holiday and whatnot...right?  Also this is a long onejust giving a recap of my day, the short version is that while I’m having agood time I wish I was home spending Thanksgiving with friends and family. Iwas in Thailand for Thanksgiving last year, and at least this year I’ve gotother Americans around to celebrate with, definitely something to be thankfulfor.

Monday

After a good weekend full of work and sunshine and even alittle BBQ by the pool I was ready for my second week in Monrovia to begin. Iset my alarm, hopped into bed, did a little light reading and called it anight.

I was shocked awake by my phone. It was someone from work,where was I? It was 9:30 and I had overslept by 2.5 hours after getting littlesleep during the night itself! While I hate being late in general, Iparticularly try to avoid it in places where the general trend is to be late.In my mind if I consistently show up to things like meetings on time, maybeeveryone else will start to also? It could happen.

I went into the bathroom, only to find that the lightbulbturned on and promptly went out. Fabulous. Dark cold shower. I headed to worksoon after, speed walking my way through crowds of people on Tubman Blvd tryingto hail taxis. If I could describe the taxis here to you, I’d say to imaginewhat you’ve heard about Japanese elevators; that there are “elevator packers”who push more and more people in to be sure the elevator is at capacity. Alltaxis here are shared, and there is no limit to the number of people you canfit inside. If you find a taxi going your direction (you flag them down withdifferent hand signals depending on which of the major roads you want to godown), it will slow down and you open the back or front door, looking in to seewho can squeeze over. It is common place for there to be 4 or 5 people in theback seat and 2 in the front seat. Needless to say the competition for taxis istough.

I arrived at work at about 10, only to find that there wasno car to take a colleague and me to a meeting. I suggested we head back out tothe main road to find ourselves a taxi, but after a few minutes of watchingpacked taxis crawl through traffic in the 90+ degree heat, we decided to walkinstead. It wasn’t less hot walking, but at least there was a little breeze. Wearrived at the government office dripping and a little out of breath, but righton time after a 30 minute walk.

After the meeting we went on to walk to our next meeting.I’m here helping an umbrella body for public health research organize for it’snext project, and the task begins with a meeting with every member of thesteering committee. Walking into downtown Monrovia, we found our next meetingwhich was at the top of a very rickety, very tall, and very steep set ofstairs. After our meeting our colleague led us out to the front door,commenting that they were thinking of moving because it was difficult for thedisabled children they worked with to make it up the stairs. My eyes openedwide imaging young people on crutches or missing parts of legs (the most commonand visibly evident disabilities I’ve seen) trying to make it up 2-3 flights ofuneven tiled stairs. Yes, a move seems in order.

My colleague then suggested we go to his house for lunchsince it was nearby, and previous people working with this project from my jobhad also joined him at his house for a meal. On we went, walking through smallalleys and across big streets until we reached what looked like a gateddriveway.  But as in slopeddownwards I saw that, like much of the city, it was actually an interconnectednetwork of paths, unnamed, that you essentially can only get around if you knowthe area. Children ran up as we approached the house, they had been playingoutside and helping to wash dishes. The power in the house was out, butregardless eating at the kitchen table in the pitch black was presented as theonly option. My colleague held his cell phone, which has a small flashlight atthe end of it with one hand, gesturing for me to serve myself. I took what Iconsider a good portion of rice, definitely more than a cup, and he actedsurprised “That’s it?! That’s all?! Well I am African and I am going to EAT!”and he proceeded to fill his bowl until it was brimming with white rice. Wetopped this with a spicy mix of dried fish and cassava greens and palm oil. Itold him it was the most delicious food I’d had since arriving, and also myfirst Liberian food, and I meant it.

We walked back out to the main street to wait for someonefrom our organization to pick us up and drive us back to the office. EnriqueIglesias was blaring from a CD shop and as I started to hum along I saw thatevery fourth or fifth Liberian was also singing along, some even out loud. Igot and gave smiles as we sang along together.

After a long wait a driver pulled up, complaining of thetraffic he’d encountered on his way to fetch us. We found out why about a halfmile later. Coming from the other direction was the CDC protest that was slatedfor that day. CDC is a political party that lost the most recent presidentialelection; there have been protests and right before I came a member of the CDCwas killed in one of the protests. Monday was to be his burial. We crawledalong through traffic as the crowd of CDC members, mostly young, many wearingleaves and branches in their hair with faces painted, chanted and sang. Thencame a truck carrying the coffin of the man who had been killed; they wereparading it throughout the city. It was a group of a couple hundred people,many less than I would have expected. Then we continued on, passing thePresident’s office and UN buildings. Outside were international and nationalarmed forced and police in full riot gear every few yards. Fences werereinforced with sandbags and policemen were directing traffic (a true rarity).

We spent the rest of the day at the office trying toschedule more meetings and working to plan and organize a workshop, which tookplace today.  Every day I getdriven home at 5:30 pm, and today when I got home I realized I needed to go tothe grocery store, which is thankfully only a few blocks away. After droppingoff my computer I walked over, darting through traffic into the store. Bigbottles of water for drinking, two lightbulbs to replace the ones that hadburnt out in the apartment where I’m staying, and I tried to buy freshmadehummus but “Is finish, come again”. (Many stores here have Lebanese owners, andI’ve never had such fresh and delicious Lebanese food as in Monrovia!)

As I left the store I was stunned by a huge crowd. The CDCmarch was still going and the number of participants had increased incredibly,as had the number of people gathered along the street to watch. Rush hourtraffic was trying to crawl through, relatively unsuccessfully as peoplewalking, on the backs of trucks and motorbikes passed by, always chanting orsinging. I carefully followed a car across the road to ensure I wasn’t the onecutting in front of the protestors. I then went inside my apartment, and pulledup a seat on my balcony, and sat watching them pass by. They passed inclusters, but there were several thousand people participating without a doubt.From my perch on the second floor I got a couple great pictures as well whichwill have to be shared later.

I then went to install my lightbulbs, the first one didn’twork, the entire socket was burnt out rather than just the bulb. I then wentinto my bathroom to install the second, the bulb was in a regular box but wasred. I sort of threw up my hands and decided to go with it, showering under redlight would be new and exciting. It lit at first, off and on, as I wiggled itaround in the socket, before glowing and going out, leaving me once again inthe dark in the bathroom.

I then went across the street to a restaurant with wifi toeat dinner and get some work done, and the marchers were continuing by, slowernow, less of them, but still going. I sat down and started working, thenordered. But the internet soon went down and as every person behind a computerin the place frantically called the waitress, I gave up, enjoyed my dinner andheaded home to work on the implementation plan for the research.

Certainly not your average day, but definitely one of themost memorable ones I’ve had so far between protests and riot gear and homevisits. If nothing else Monrovia keeps me on my toes.

Welcome to Liberia

Customs Agent: Is this your first time in Liberia?

Me: Yes, it is

Customs Agent: Ah! You are welcome!

I know now, that this is simply a common greeting inLiberia. After the introduction people say “You are welcome!”, whether it is ata restaurant or a government office. It’s quite a nice way to start aninteraction.

I was picked up from the airport and driven into Monrovia,and fields slowly turned into small buildings, which turned into slightlylarger buildings and the streets got busier. We passed the CDC, the oppositionparty headquarters where election violence had occurred days earlier. We passedCharles Taylor’s house, then his wife’s house.  It seemed like almost all the billboards we passed wereplaced by the government, reminding residents to pay their taxes, to sharetheir opinion with the ballot box and not with guns, showing them the changesthat had occurred since the last election, with bridges built and roads paved,promoting women and girls’ participation in decision-making. We pulled into aparking lot of a two storey building,  and two men who had been waiting to show me into myguesthouse took my bags. First on unlocked the large padlock, attached to achain locking a gate at the bottom of the stairs. He explained that I wasalways to lock it whenever I was entering or leaving. He then used the light onhis cellphone (who needs an iPhone when you have a Nokia with a built-inflashlight!) to show me up the stairs, leading to a door with a small balconyin front of it. He then unlocked another padlock, as well as a deadbolt. Heshowed me inside the apartment, but there was no power. With his flashlight heshowed me how to lock the deadbolt on the handle of the door, followed by thesliding deadbolts at the bottom and top of the door. [A post about security ison its way to explain all the locks] He then gave me a tour of the apartment bthe light of his phone: the kitchen, leading into a bathroom, the living room,a random room with an ironing board and a stack of mattress, and a largebedroom, with another bathroom attached. It looked lovely through the beam ofthe light. Before I arrived I was told I’d be staying in a guesthouse, and thatif it wasn’t up to my standards I could move to a hotel. After over 24 hours oftravel, the one bedroom apartment was more than I could have hoped for.

The next morning things weren’t quite so bright, and after avisit to the Stop & Shop (!) down the street I spent the better part of theday sweeping and scrubbing and mopping. But I’m happy here, with a smallkitchen to cook in, a grocery store nearby, a bustling street below, and airconditioners for when the temperature soars. There’s even a café across thestreet with wi-fi if I get the urge to check my email or chat with all of you.

Any of you who have been following my blog for several yearsknow that while I have had several experiences working in Africa before, I havenever felt welcomed in this way before. Once I was taking a picture on one ofmy first days, and didn’t realize it was a sight owned by the government. Amilitary truck rolled up and a man yelled at me, threatened to arrest me, toldme to go back to where I came from. After I convinced him not to throw myentire camera into a field of rubbish, he proceeded to throw only the memorycard. On another trip I was told to lie about where I was from because peopledidn’t take kindly to Americans, and was sat in the middle of the back of UNvehicles whenever possible, so it was harder for people to tell there was awhite person in the car. I had good times on those and other trips as well, butit always felt like a struggle. I fall in love with most of the places I travelto, and always wondered why I had yet to fall in love with Africa like I hadLatin America, Asia, and the Pacific. I get it now. It’s amazing what adifference people being nice to you can make. It almost makes you want to benice to all the tourists in Times Square. Almost.

I regret that the only thing I forgot at home is the cableto transfer pictures form my computer. (Okay not the only thing, but brushingmy hair is overrated anyway). But I promise to show you everything when I getback.

Basta Ya!

Basta Ya! means  something along the lines of "Enough Already" in Spanish. It was one of the slogans used by protesters in Ecuador when they ousted the President in 2005.

 I was studying abroad there at the time and given that the President had essentially replaced the entire Supreme Court with his cronies then proceeded to start to change the constitution among other things, I thought my participation in the protests and eventual coup d'etat was warranted.

 While the University I attended was closed for several days and my parents were a bit nervous, everything turned out fine and the only casualty occurred when someone fell out of the back of a truck.

 I later used this experience as the basis for my personal essay for graduate school, drawing parallels between group action needed to throw out an unjust leader and the collective action needed to improve health in communities and the population at large.

 Not exactly a radical concept but it made the essay more exciting.

So as some of you may (or may not) know, presidential elections have just occurred in Liberia and there has been some protests and violence. Feel free to click on the links to the right to get more information (or go to kwrwandering@blogspot.com if you received this as an email). The election was a run-off between the current president and her opponent and the protests have already turned violent. Supporters of the incumbent's opponent have called the election fraudulent, with many refusing to participate and protesting instead. To be honest I have no information about the basis or legitimacy of these claims. But I did want everyone to know that while I'm still going ahead with my trip, I will be extremely careful. I also already promised my dad I wouldn't join in the protesting and rioting. Aw man! Ruining all the fun :) I'll keep you updated as things progress and it'll be very interesting. One of my favorite things to do is compare the news and situation on the ground to what is presented by major media outlets. We shall see. I'll have a cell phone there and anyone who is interested can ask me for the number if you'd like to be able to check in.

Off to catch my flight to Monrovia via Atlanta and Accra!

Work-Life Balance

So Wikipedia tells me that  "Work–life balance is a broad concept including proper prioritizing between "work" (career and ambition) on the one hand and "life" (Health, pleasure, leisure, family and spiritual development) on the other. "


How's your work-life balance these days? Mine is sort of one or the other, with no balance. It's interesting, sometimes I'm working and sometimes I've got the whole life thing going on. It has its ups and downs, but for the moment it pays the bills. So on that note, I've had a whole lot of life the past couple months, and now I'm off to work again! I'm heading to Liberia next Thursday, just for a couple weeks. But sadly I'll be missing Thanksgiving again; on the other hand I already celebrated real (Canadian) Thanksgiving with the fam in Portland so that's a plus.


I've never been to West Africa before and have never worked in a country where English is the official language, so this should be a whole new experience. I'm going to do recognizance and to set up for a research project that will begin in January, but hopefully I'll have all sorts of fun things to share with you. Everyone keep in touch and I'll let you know when I make it to Monrovia safe and sound.