Blood Diamonds

Someone once told me that Africa doesn’t do hopelessness. That certainly has been my impression since my move here to this continent. Despite and amidst the direst natural and man-made catastrophes: famine, corruption, disease, war and death, people just seem to be plugging along with their lives and making do with the hand that they are dealt with the best way they can. Very inspirational, to say the least. Not only can you be humbled by the African people’s resilience, courage, perseverance, tolerance, patience, and optimism, sometimes you are shaken by it. It happened to me this week.

Madeleine and I just came back from a trip to Sierra Leone. This being one of Guinea’s neighboring countries, a mere 5 hour drive to the Sierra Leone/Guinean border, we set out in our friend Colette’s little white Toyota pickup, well equipped with the necessary supplies in hand for such a road trip...Passports and Pringles. We know quite a few Sierra Leoneans from school as well as a few acquaintances who have been to that country and they all vouched that it was a ‘safe’ and pretty country, and that Freetown, the capital city was also ‘safe’ and pretty. Safe and pretty sounded good to us.

It turned out that the country is not only pretty but spectacularly beautiful. Its endless, deserted white sanded palm lined beaches and its towering splendidly verdant mountains jutting out from its coastline are breathtaking. The lushness and tranquility of the Banana Islands (there’s a hammock on the beach that has my name on it) was nothing short than a pinch-me-is-this-a-dream moment. The country's natural splendor could easily make us forget the challenges of traveling in a under-developed country; unexpected challenges such as traveling down a newly partially completed four lane highway (paid for by the folks at the European Union) and all too abruptly the road becomes a bumpy goat trail that even Colette’s four wheel drive Toyota had trouble handling, or the supposedly 45 minute cross over to the Banana Islands in the fishing boat that turned into a 3 hour adventure stranded on the open choppy ocean, bailing water out of the fishing boat with our hands. A good thing my watch is water proof, time will tell if it is salt water proof.

Since taking up residence in Africa, I have made it a point of reading up on the history of my new homeland, especially the history of the West African countries as well as the other countries that I plan to visit. It would be safe to say that most of Africa has had a ‘difficult’ history. Sierra Leone is by far no exception. Unfortunately, this history haunted me throughout my short time there. It seemed to overshadow everything I saw as well as everyone I met. I could not understand how such a place of awesome beauty could be witness to such despicable atrocities. This uncomfortable, lingering and daunting feeling stayed with me all the time and even, unfortunately followed me back to Conakry as I write this blog.

The recent decade-long civil Sierra Leone war was rife with widespread and unimaginable atrocities committed by rebel soldiers, many of them not yet in their teens. There are reports of armed robbers on the roads, killers in the night, villages burned and children with guns and knives who killed their parents, raped their aunts and cut off hands and feet. Sierra Leone’s young military rulers filled their fighting army ranks by press-ganging street kids from Freetown who had nothing to lose by joining in the fighting. They gave them uniforms and guns, initiating them in horrific ways that prevented them from turning back, to returning to becoming what they were before - kids. These children soldiers were fed drugs - a concoction of cocaine and gunpowder - to expedite their compliance to orders, murder and rape. Their terrorizing tactics included the cutting off of hands. With no hands, you cannot vote in an election, the victims were told. Sometimes, they cut off feet as well.

Unlike most other African countries, Sierra Leone’s conflict was not tribalism in a battle for land. It was a battle for wealth and power, power over the country’s resources and who should benefit from them. The ultimate prize lay in the centre and east of the country, along its rivers: diamonds. Sierra Leone has some of the best diamonds in the world, but, as is the case in all wars over wealth, very little revenue came to the state treasury.

So this was the recently acquired historical baggage that I brought with me to Sierra Leone last week. Although I was told by friends and acquaintances that today, peace and order had returned to Sierra Leone, and that reconstruction was well underway, and that investors were arriving in droves and travelers like myself were trickling in, I still had pretty daunting baggage with me. I was able to appreciate the natural and splendid beauty of the country as well as the welcoming friendliness of the people. However, throughout my visit, the same lingering question came to mind - how could these people, how could anyone for that matter, reconcile so quickly after a decade-long plunge into such a horrific nadir of evil? To this day, mothers see in the market the men who murdered their sons and raped their daughters. Children see senior commanders who slaughtered their parents. Sometimes they see the very people who cut off their hands or feet. Yet there are astoundingly few reports of retribution. I guess Africa has a talent for reconciliation when wars finally end.

This uneasiness that I dragged with me throughout my time in Sierra Leone came to a head the night before our departure. After an early supper, Colette, Madeleine and I decided to take a last walk down the beach, admiring the setting sun behind the hazy harmattan veil, slowly sinking into the ocean. The beach was nearly deserted except for the occasional running ‘white person’ jogging along the white sands as well as a few post card vendors who tried but did not persist in selling us their trinkets.

As we were walking, I suddenly heard someone call out ‘Hey bossman’. Sierra Leone being an english speaking country, everyone called me bossman here, as opposed to patron in Guinée. I did not bother to turn around, thinking that it was just another vendor or beggar wanting to sell me something, as is usually the case everywhere and anywhere we go in Africa. I could tell that the person was not giving up so easily to get my attention as his calls were getting closer and closer. I could also tell that the person was handicapped by the clicking sound of his crutches against the sand. He had still not caught up and I was not inclined to stop and turn to him. I felt strange doing this. He started saying that his country had been through a difficult civil war, and he had lost a leg. I continued walking. I tried ignoring him. He continued calling out Bossman, then added, ‘can you help me out a bit?’ I ignored him. By that time, I was confused by my ignoring him, I didn’t know why I was ignoring him, I just did. I could hear that he was falling behind, not keeping up with my quick stride, and then he was gone. I finally stopped dead in my tracks, turned around, and saw him at a distance, limping away. I was distraught. I was upset.

I laid awake that night, disturbed. My reaction to this poor man was the cause of my distress. This man had suffered through the diabolic trauma of war and had been sent to hell and back for no apparent reason other than being born in the wrong place at the wrong time. This man did not deserve being ignored by me, who had been born in the right place at the right time, who had everything anyone on earth could ever want. What kind of callous and heartless jerk was I? Would it had killed me to stop and given him a few minutes of my time, and what if I had given him a few bucks and sent him off with a hand shake and a bit of dignity? I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I still do.

All I want in life is to become a good person, not a great person, but a good person. That one minute on the beach on that last day in Sierra Leone made me realize that I have some ways to go before becoming that good person.