cultural comparison

The honey tastes distinctly different here, which, like everything that has been different from what I expected, makes perfect sense.

In my first couple weeks I've spent a lot of time comparing Tanzania to Ghana, or more specifically Moshi to Awutu and Buduburam (and to a lesser extent Accra). A lot of the differences seem obvious in retrospect - Moshi is a growing city, not a small village or a refugee camp. It is also a very clean city. There are waste barrels throughout town and they are very serious about littering. Ignorant muzungus have been hauled off to the police station to pay a fine for dropping their cigarette butts on the street. I hear the term "mzungu," meaning "foreigner, white person," much less than I heard "obruni" in Ghana, which is refreshing. I still get it from time to time, but I have yet to encounter a horde of children running up to me yelling "mzungu mzungu what is your name?" Overall the people seem less demanding and confrontational, but they also haven't been recently traumatized by a civil war and dependent on others as the Liberian refugees were. I've already mentioned the luxury of my house, running water, usually electricity... But I think that is part and parcel of living in the city. I work out of an office. My computer is pretty old and we don't have air conditioning but it's easier for me to get online here than any time I went to Equal Exchange in West Bridgewater. I think I already mentioned the availability of milk and cheese and ice cream, though I will note that the bread upon which to put cheese is not as good as in Ghana. Also I haven't been as deprived of fresh fruit and vegetables as I was in Ghana. Almost every dish from a restaurant here is served with some sort of small cucumber and tomato salad. And I've discovered the delicious and intriguing passionfruit. In terms of water, they do not have the lovely half liter bags, so it's either bottled water or boiling and then cooling and then drinking. Though straight from the tap has been fine for brushing my teeth. I kind of miss the bagged water, and I definitely miss Awutu egg sandwiches. All in all, life in Moshi is much more similar to life in Boston than I expected - more like Boston than like Awutu, that's for sure.

adventures in the shadow of kilimanjaro

From the farm the parchment coffee is brought to a curing facility to be de-husked and graded. For KNCU farmers and many others in the region, this curing center is a massive factory in Moshi town with a capacity of 50,000 tons of coffee. If the factory is working efficiently they are processing 8 tons of coffee/hour. When I was there on Thursday it was mostly empty, as the season is over, but there was still some coffee being delivered and sorted and packaged. The machine sorts the coffee by size and density, which determine the different grades, and then it is hand sorted for defects. It is quite an intensive process, and this account fails to do justice to the immensity of the task and the factory.

On Thursday I also observed the coffee auction. The information about each lot of coffee up for sale (seller, size, grade) is projected on a screen and the bidding is silent and electronic. It was kind of boring and I was only slowly getting a sense of what was going on, but it was pretty interesting.

On Friday I accompanied the KNCU organic guy to three primary societies. He was escorting a Dutch woman from Pharm Access, an organization that is looking in to providing health insurance for the farmers utilizing pre-existing community structures like the co-ops. Although the meetings were repetitive and mostly in Swahili, it was good to get out into the country again. It was interesting to learn what Pharm Access is trying to do, and to think about the role of KNCU as a broker between farmers and other services that have nothing to do with coffee farming. The meetings with the primary societies reminded me a lot of the Peace Cells at Buduburam, except much more positive, which shouldn't be surprising but was uplifting for me to see. The highlight of the day was probably getting the phone number of a woman farmer who spoke some English - my hope is to be able to visit her again, and learn more about farming and not just middle-class urban office life in Tanzania.

Saturday I went on a one day safari at Arusha National Park. I saw giraffes and zebras and warthogs and buffalo and monkeys and butterflies and some other animals. The giraffes were the coolest, and very close up. I got a bit of a sunburn and lots and lots of pictures. Now I just need to find the lions and the elephants.

Down on Kahawa Shamba

And I didn't even have to be a biscuit...

Yesterday I went on a day trip to Kahawa Shamba, an eco-tourism project of KNCU to visit a small coffee farm, along with Kara and a delegation from the African Fair Trade Network (AFN). We went to the village of Urumsumi, about 30 minutes outside of Moshi, up in the foothills of Mt. Kilimanjaro where the weather is much nicer. The Kahawa Shamba project benefits three primary societies that are a part of KNCU (which has a total of 67 primary societies). The project is run by local farm families, who serve as tour guides and cooks, and is a bridge between producers and consumers. They get about 1100 tourist visitors in the high season, primarily with groups. Most of these tourists are already the type interested in fair trade, and like to see the impact as well as the origins of their purchases. Unfortunately there is not a way for them to buy coffee after the tour (something the roasting value-addition project should fix), and the farmers don't know much about fair trade. These primary societies certainly benefit more from the tourism project than from the fair trade premiums.

The coffee tour on the farm takes you step by step through the seed-to-cup process. Unfortunately, since the harvest is over, we were not able to pick the ripe red cherries, so the first part of the process had to be explained to us. We tried running some green cherries through the pulper, but they just get crushed, rather than depulped. The crushed green cherries smell like fresh peas. From the parchment (dried, depulped coffee) stage on, we were able to participate. We removed the husks by mashing the beans in a giant mortar and pestle (more about the de-husking process on another day...), then roasted the green beans in a broken piece of clay pot over an open fire, stirring constantly to get as even a roast as possible. After second crack, we removed the beans from the fire and returned them to the mortar, where we ground them. In the meantime we started boiling water over the fire, then added the ground coffee. And then, after boiling the coffee for a while, we drank it! Seed-to-cup!

It was really cool to be on the farm and talking to farmers, hearing their concerns, realities, and aspirations, and especially interesting to be there with the AFN, since they are interested in how to make fair trade better for the farmers. There has been a lot of talk, on the farm and elsewhere, about value-addition, which is what KNCU's roasting project is, and local labelling. These ideas are all still new to me, but I'm gaining many insights.

Arusha: serving coffee and justice

I'm trying to slow down a bit now, adjust to 'Africa time' and the lethargy that comes from this heat. It's hard for me, especially since I'm so used to running about and keeping busy. I am too new here to even know how to keep busy. I need to accept that boredom is a part of this, and that's okay. In the meantime, for the weekend, there is absolutely nothing I have to do, or should be doing, so I'm forcing myself to relax.

I think I'm going to start taking Swahili lessons next week. It will give me something to do and help me understand the world I'm in, or at least some of what people are saying. I'm still getting a hang of the basic greetings - mostly I spend a lot of time saying "ahsante" - thank you.

On Friday Kara and I went to Arusha. I met Mageche, our cafe manager, and we checked out a couple cafes - one had a beautiful La Marzoco that made me a little homesick. We also stopped in at the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, located in the Arusha International Convention Center. We were only able to catch the very end of a session, and it took me awhile to understand what was going on, but it was very interesting. I recently saw a film about the reconciliation process within the country, which provided a lot of contrast. The woman on the stand was a witness whose past testimony about the accused, apparently a man she had worked for an respected, was being questioned. It is crazy how people are held accountable to remembering testimony and events that happened over ten years ago. The lawyer we saw interrogating the witness posed many questions as suggestions: "Might I suggest that you said this because..." The witness defended the nuanced differences between her testimonies, and did not agree to the lawyer's suggestions. And then the court was adjourned and the witness was told she could greet the accused. It was all very formal and civil. I hope to go back and observe more of the proceedings.

Yesterday, when poking about my house, I discovered a folder of information about the ICTR. Most interesting was a little illustrated book about testifying for the ICTR. According to the introduction, the cartoon guide was printed in English, French, and Kinyarwanda, the three official language of the court, and was intended to help people understand the purpose of the court and the process of testifying. I'm not quite sure how this book and information were disseminated (I think through local teachers), but knowing the confusions around the Liberian TRC, such a guide definitely seems like a good idea, and was certainly the most accessible thing I've seen.

soaking it all in

I've spent the morning orienting myself to Moshi. Kara showed me around town, I got a sim card for my phone, bought some peanut butter and bread, and had lunch at The Coffee Shop, one of the more popular cafes in Moshi. This morning they brought us a thermos of coffee in the office. It was delicious, and also pretty powerful to think about how close to the source of that coffee I am. I still have yet to see Mount Kilimanjaro itself, as there were clouds in the way this morning.

The house I am living in is quite luxurious, at least compared to where I lived in Awutu, and right on the edge of town. It has electricity and running water! There's an electric kettle to boil my drinking water! I can keep the cheese I bought in the Amsterdam airport in the fridge! I was kind of looking forward to having to take bucket showers, but I guess I'll stay cleaner this way. There's another girl who lives there, a volunteer for Visions In Action, the NGO that owns the house, but she's in Zanzibar for the week. Settling in would be a little easier if there was someone there, because I have to figure out for myself things like turning on the stove and where to put trash, but she'll be back soon and Kara's nearby so I'll be fine for the next few days. There's a guard at night and a "housegirl" who comes by during the day.

I've been reading over the KNCU cafe business plan to familiarize myself with what's going on here. I think we're going to visit a coffee plantation this week. I'll have more to say once I've experienced more, but in the meantime I'm just going to enjoy the verdant landscape and the fresh coffee and the humidity...

I want to dance a tango with chance

I'm sitting at the airport in Amsterdam enjoying a cappuccino while waiting for my flight to Kilimanjaro. Despite the instantaneousness with which it came out of a machine, it's the perfect size and in a ceramic cup and has the comforting taste of Europe and something I might have liked before I knew better. I didn't sleep much during the flight, even though my TV didn't work, but I read a little and listened to lots of music. I feel like I should be more prepared for what I'm about to do, intellectually at least, but at the same time I feel open and ready, for this, for anything.

What I'm doing, in short, is helping the Kilimanjaro Native Cooperative Union, the oldest coffee coop in Africa, open a cafe in Moshi, at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro. In theory most of what I'll be doing is barista training, though how much of that I"ll actually be able to do is questionable considering renovations of the site haven't started yet. Basically I'll be taking over for Kara, a former barista from Equal Exchange Cafe, who has been in Tanzania working for KNCU since August. I don't really know what she's been doing, so I'll just have to wait and see.

Of course, waiting at the gate makes it all the more real. I'm so much more curious about what brings people on flights to African than on flights to Europe. Who knows what adventures we are all about to embark on. It's exciting as well as terrifying. This is it.

election eve

Tomorrow's the big day. And maybe, by Wednesday, we'll know who the next president of the United States will be. I voted absentee weeks ago, so this is weird. I won't have any first hand experience of the polls, of that energy - and in many places frustration due to long lines - of election day. I plan to listen to a lot of NPR, provided my co-workers don't object, and maybe people will come in to the farmstand wearing "I Voted" stickers. It will be interesting to hear what the customers might have to say.

But this isn't just interesting. This is big. But it's certainly not the end. It may be the end of the political tv watching season, but really, Wednesday is when the real things starts. When we know who the next president is, we can start making plans on how we, the people, are going to bring about the changes we want and need - what is and isn't possible, what strategies to use, what to prioritize. We can't lose our momentum but we need to stay and get organized because despite how big this is, so much of the struggle for a better America is fought and won on the ground. It's the fear of forgetting this, of believing that the president is everything, that has turned me off from the presidential campaign, that has prevented me from jumping on the Obama bandwagon of donating and volunteering. And this coming from someone who, after seeing Obama speak at the Democratic National Convention in 2004, suggested, "Obama for President 2008, anyone?" When I saw Obama in Boston in 2004, he excited me in a way none of the candidates had and I knew he would run for president someday but I never really thought in would be so soon. When I saw him in Iowa after he won the caucus in January and shook his hand, I was still unsure that this day would come. And here it is. If he wins, great, we'll celebrate. But we can't lose our momentum, that doesn't mean the battle is won and that we can stop. It means one door has opened but we've got to keep fighting to open more doors. And if he loses, I know I'll feel angered and frustrated and downtrodden. But that just means we have to try harder, we have to bring about more change from the bottom up. If McCain wins, I'll struggle to understand the meaning of America, the values of this population, the direction of this empire. But (and I say this mostly to my potential future self) we cannot let this beat us. Instead, let whatever the election results are be a starting point, inspiration out of anger and defeat or out of celebration and victory. It may go either way, but as far as I'm concerned, for the rest of us there is only one way to go, and that's forward.

So tomorrow we vote (if we haven't already). I got a phone call from the Northfield DFL the other day, reminding me to vote for all the democratic candidates, Obama, Franken, Sarvi, Bly. Listening to the message I thought to myself, "Well aren't I a good little Democrat, voting down the line like that." But the thing is, I didn't vote for those candidates just because of their party. I've heard each one of them speak, in person, at least once. I've followed Obama's campaign since before it was a campaign. I've talked to Steve Sarvi, donated money, time, even use of my car to his campaign. I didn't blindly vote along party lines - I voted for the candidates I liked best, because of who they were and who they weren't. And tomorrow I'll see if they win.

My Democratic Party

Yesterday's West Virginia primary raises some important questions about race, politics, and the future of the Democratic Party (and subsequently the United States).

I have too much respect for Hillary and many of her supporters and recognize that she has received much undeserved criticism and flak because she is a woman to join the cries for her to drop out. While I think the amount of money put into primary campaigning is somewhat absurd, and I am getting impatient with this drawn out process, that the voters of every state are getting a chance to weigh in is, I believe, a good thing. In November I will enthusiastically vote for whomever the Democratic Party nominee is. However, if at this point Hillary manages to win the nomination for the racial reasons that the press suggests she may likely have won West Virginia, I will be somewhat troubled by the make-up and direction of the Democratic Party.

In the New York Times's coverage of the West Virginia primary, they mentioned that race was "an unusually salient factor." And while a West Virginia victory isn't particularly significant, Obama's loss might raise questions about his appeal to some traditional Democratic voting blocks, such as white workers, the Times contended. My question is, should we care?

I'm reminded of the Democratic Party's desire, in the 1960s, to pander to the Dixiecrats so as to maintain their support. The party was so afraid to lose Southern white Democrats that it accepted the disenfranchisement of black voters! I am in no way suggesting that Hillary supporters or even Hillary supporters in West Virginia are racist whites--and in fact I think that much of this perceived polarization around race but not gender in the primary has been created by the media--but some of them certainly are (even if in no way resembling the infamously violent, racist Mississippi whites of the 1960s). The New York Times clearly suggested that voters who considered race voted for Hillary. Also according to the Times, 1/2 the Democratic voters in WV think that Obama shares Rev. Wright's opinions (I am too outraged over the fiasco around Rev. Wright and the fact that people feel Obama ought to dissociate himself from the pastor to write eloquently on that matter). The Democratic Party cannot afford to listen to racist white voters--in my opinion it is more desirable to alienate such people from the party than to allow them to sway the direction the party is heading. If you don't want to vote for Obama because he's black, if you don't want to vote for Hillary because she's a woman, get out of my party. (If you don't want to vote for Obama because of Rev. Wright, I would also like to ask you to leave.)

so much for "humanizing refugees"

And the future of refugees at Buduburam is even more uncertain...

A few months ago the women of Buduburam went on strike. (Not all of them, certainly, but a significant amount to disrupt life on camp.) Somehow the UNHCR had agreed to extend voluntary repatriation one year and increase the cash attachment to $100 from $5. But these women, these mothers, wanted more—and who wouldn't want more, who wouldn't want to provide the best, ensure the safest future for one's children. Thus they took to the football field with demands for either resettlement or $1000 for repatriation.

A few weeks ago, Ghanaian police came into the camp and arrested hundreds of women and brought them to an undisclosed location. A few days later they came in and arrested some men as well. The UNHCR negotiated the return of many of the arrested refugees to camp, but some were deported back to Liberia without due process.

If this had to happen, I'm glad that it happened while I was in Canada, visiting my fellow volunteers, because it forced the issue to resonate with me, it forced me to care more, it made it so that I couldn't hide from the terrible reality of what has happened.

It's a clash, no, a convergence, of my recent academic studies of protest and (especially) mothering and my experience in Buduburam.

Of course, it's hard to get the facts straight about what happened. It was hard when I was there, and it's even farther from afar. The international news sources, the American news sources, they don't give a damn. While I wouldn't want what's recently happened at Buduburam to be blown out of proportion, the fact that there's not a single mention in even a tiny little hidden corner of the New York Times upsets me. Because this absence makes me realize just how much bad stuff happens all over the world that we would never, could never, know about, even if we tried.

There's a difference between the facts I read on the petition and those cited in the PCO report I was recently emailed. But the truth doesn't depend upon the facts and the details. In both accounts, peaceful protesters (and even non-protesters?) were arrested, and some were even deported despite their legal refugee status.

Liberian/Ghanaian relations around camp are, I would guess, at an all time low. The protesting women said they didn't want to be integrated into Ghanaian society, and I can understand why. They want to preserve their culture and identity, and if they can't they want to give their children what they believe is the best possible opportunity for them.

So chaos may not reign. Life may go back to normal. But according to the PCO report, the camp will close in 2009. Who knows what will happen to the Liberians who remain in Ghana, but it doesn't look good. Regardless, I admire the women of Buduburam, who took action—disruptive action—on an issue that intimately effected them. Their demands may be impossible and unreasonable, but their agency is admirable.

I realize the lack of explanation in this post of the events that recently transpired on camp. But from this distance I feel inadequately prepared to cover them. I can write about what I experienced and discovered when I was there. But for account of what has happened regarding the protests and arrests and deportations, I suggest you read the petition, and I hope you sign it. Its demands are mild but important. This situation must be resolved, and the UNHCR needs to do a better job mediating and meeting needs. In order to effectively resolve the situation (immediately and in the long run), the voices of these women must be heard. Their concerns, needs, and demands must be a part of any proposed solution if it is to work.

a long way gone

I just finishined reading a long way gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier by Ishmael Beah. Beah is from Sierra Leone. I picked it up as a reminder of the emotional reality while writing my article for The Lens, to ensure that I didn't get too tied up in dry politics and facts. The memoir is certainly more heart-wrenching than my article ever could be - it represents an extreme I was not willing or able to write about.

Beah ends the book with a story/riddle he remembers being told frequently as a child. A hunter goes into the woods and is about to kill a monkey when the monkey turns to him and says, if you kill me your mother will die, if you don't kill me your father will die. The children, listening to this story in the presence of both their parents, are asked, what would you do? The children would never answer, but Beah tells us what he never told anyone as a child:

When I was seven I had an answer to this question that made sense to me. I never discussed it with anyone, though, for fear of how my mother would feel. I concluded to myself that if I were the hunter, I would shoot the monkey so that it would no longer have the chance to put other hunters in the same predicament.

The end. I cry. Best book ending ever. What a miserable world we live in.

He's right, of course, as far as I can tell. Beah's willing to take one for the team, but on another level its much bigger than all that. Although it's doubtful that anyone will ever come across a monkey that puts them in that predicament, this folktale accurately depicts the essence of the world. Beah joined the army for food, for security. And he's still probably paying the price of surviving. From a more anthropological perspective, I think it's significant that to kill the monkey is to kill the mother. Removing the monkey from existence removes the source of moral dilemma, of suffering; but to do so also removes the source of life. No more monkey, no more mother. No more mother, no more birth. The end of war, the end of hate, the end of violence - the end of the world. And anyway, who's to say that there won't be anymore monkeys like that?

We who believe in freedom cannot rest

So said Ella Baker. So sang Sweet Honey in the Rock.

But then, we can never rest.

Until the killing of black men, black mothers' sons
Is as important as the killing of white men, white mothers' sons

Even if this day ever came, we still couldn't rest. Because someone, somewhere (actually, many people, many places) will always be denied freedom and justice. For every good deed done by one person, an evil deed is done by another. We may be striving, above all, for balance, so that the bad cannot outweigh the good. But in the end, we must conclude that the badness, the evil, the cruelty, they persist, and always will account for at least as much of the world as goodness and kindness and generosity. Love and hate are intrinsically connected. Self-preservation drives both the oppressor and the liberator.

And yet...we go on. We can acknowledge that evil (though I hesitate to use that word given its Christian connotations) will continue to exist no matter how hard we try to fight it, while still refusing to let it win. The problem comes when we recognize that our fight creates new evil as it destroys old evil. But if we give up, what's the point of anything. I think Phil Ochs said it best:

Can't live proud enough to die when I'm gone
So I guess I'll have to do it while I'm here

"[Ariel] educated the refugees on important issues"

Last week I was interviewed by someone from the Carletonian who was writing an article on fellowships. While I appreciated the opportunity to talk about my experience, I have issues with this one sentence published in the article. To start off with, "important issues"? Did the Carletonian actually publish such imprecise language? I expect more from the writing of Carleton students.

But beyond finding the language choice to be extremely poor, I find the statement to be false. Certainly, my friends who worked at the mothers' center and the school, at the very least, taught the refugees "important stuff." I, on the other hand, wasn't there to teach or educate. I was only there to learn. If I tried to educate anyone on important issues, it was the Ghana Refugee Board and the UNHCR, not the refugees. The refugees were the ones who educated ME on important issues, not the other way around, despite what the Carletonian may say.

Despite my criticisms of the article, I did appreciate my one direct quote published:
"There were amazing moments, and at times, it was miserable. It was trying, both emotionally and physically, but it was all incredibly rewarding. All of it."

remember me

The distance, in space, in time, feels greater than it is. And yet, my watch is still on Ghana time, 4 hours fast, and I no longer have the excuse that keeping it that way will help me remember to take my malaria pills. But why bother changing it anyway? I bought the watch in Ghana; let it remain Ghanaian at least a while longer. That way I can never forget.

Before we left, many people asked me, and all the other departing volunteers, not to forget them. As if that were possible. But I started to think that maybe “forget,” like every other word, means something different to them than it does to us. To me, “forget” means “to not remember, to no longer have memory of.” But for them, I think, “forget” means “to not think on or about.” The “correct” discourse these days on reconciliation is that you cannot forgive and forget, you must forgive but remember, but that’s based on a particular western connotation of “forget.” For Africa, though, maybe it is possible to forgive and forget, to forgive and not dwell on. The past must certainly be remembered: the good things embraced and passed on, the bad things learned from. But little good can be done by dwelling on the particulars of who committed what atrocity against whom. Of course, that is largely what the Truth and Reconciliation Commission aims to do, for heaven forbid the Liberians forgive and forget. Discourse is everything — meaning, nothing. But the TRC has its place and time will tell what good it can do for Liberia – but before it can really do anything it needs to do a better job informing the people of what it is and what it’s doing and why and how that matters. Because there are perpetrators who want to apologize and be forgiven, and there are victims who want to be apologized to so that they can forgive but right now that’s not really happening in any ordered manner.

Enough about what others forget or remember. What do I do, now that I have left? How do I remember? And how can I let the Liberians know that I remember – and not just that I have memories of them stored away inside me, but that I think about them? I have plenty of email addresses (and plenty of them have mine) but there are challenges to keeping in touch. Any maintained relationship, if it’s kept up for more than a couple weeks (which I find doubtful, based partly on my own inability to expediently respond to emails), will undoubtedly become more than I was looking for, with confessions of love and requests for financial support in times of trouble. I can’t continue to deal with the BS that was driving me crazy after 6 weeks. And yet I can’t just leave them there. I can escape, I can forget. I can act like my time in Africa was just a little trip into other people’s lives, and I can just leave with my pictures and memories, as though the people I met and talked to and befriended and cared about were no different from elephants I might have seen had I traveled to northern Ghana. (So much for “Humanizing Refugees.”) I can’t just take what I want from Africa, the lessons, the friends, the experiences, the burdens, without giving back in return. When I was there, I gave, or at least I tried. But even now I’m still benefiting from Africa, yet who knows if Africa is still benefiting from me? (It should be. I told Meredith to finish up my unfinished business. But what about the people, what about the relationships? Those are mine and mine alone, and who am I to desert them?) I’m morally confused right now, because I don’t know that love is any better than hate for this world, but it still seems that to do something is better than to do nothing (though better is a misleading word). It may be for good, it may be for bad, in all likelihood it will be a combination of both – but I cannot disconnect.

Onward and upward, onward and upward
More adventures await, if you (and I) know where to look

phase II and the beginning of the end

In response to tension and confusion on camp regarding the end of voluntary repatriation and the role of the UNHCR on camp, at the advice of the international volunteers, PCO changed the Peace Cell discussion topic for the first half of July from economic growth to the future of refugees at Buduburam. To avoid any accusations of getting political, we informed the UNHCR and the Ghana Refugee Board of what we were doing, and intentionally avoided any mention of either body in our new questions. The questions we asked were, 1) What are your feelings regarding repatriation?, 2) What challenges do you expect to encounter in integrating into the Ghanaian community?, and 3) What can the community do to assist each other at this transitional time? For the first question, discussion focused on the traumas experienced in Liberia, the ongoing problems there, and the desire for resettlement. Most refugees, it seems, despite the fact that they have, formally or informally, learned a great deal in Ghana, claim they want to be resettled in a third, Western, country, if only for a few years, so they can learn a skill they can use to help rebuild Liberia. The second question revealed the degree of tension between Liberians and Ghanaians, much of which is normally not discussed. But there was one Liberian boy murdered a few years ago between camp and the nearby village where I live, and his death is now used as an example as how unfriendly and unwelcoming Ghanaians can be. Interestingly, the attitude of Liberians in Zone 12, who rent their homes from Ghanaians and who have Ghanaian neighbors, is much more positive towards integration - they have a much better opinion of Ghanaians in general, and accept that they must change some to integrate, but that it is certainly a viable option. While questions 1 and 2 were written as ways for PCO to collect information on the opinions of the refugees on camp, question 3 was primarily for the sake of the community members themselves, to think about what they could be doing for themselves, for each other. Unfortunately, a lot of the answers were about what the UNHCR, what the white volunteers, what the western world, et cetera should do for them. As volunteers we started to get defensive, and after hearing meeting after meeting of the same answers we were getting quite tired of our topic. We finally finished meeting with every zone last Wednesday, and have moved on to economic growth. Now, however, we are summarizing the meeting minutes and on Wednesday Kyle, another volunteer, and I will be going into Accra, finding an air-conditioned coffeeshop, and writing a report for the UNHCR and the Ghana Refugee Board tellin them, this is what people on the ground think. Whether the information will be of any use to them, whether they will take it into consideration, who knows? But at least we are doing our part to get their voices heard. Early next week, Tuesday I think, we're trying to get an appointment with the UNHCR and the Ghana Refugee Board to present our report. Wednesday evening I board a plane and head back across the pond.

perspective

I never before thought that helping a friend deal with a broken heart could make me feel so good. But today for me it signified business as usual, trauma I have at least some experience dealing with. It was a moment of humanity, universal humanity, a moment that has put the past week in much needed persective.

Thursday afternoon I was confronted with a confession of horrific crimes and was shown things I would never have believed possible. I've been grappling with the things I saw and heard ever since, because, not to sound melodramatic, I can never look at the world the same way again. Today I realized that for better or worse, human pain and love are much the same, whoever you are, wherever you are, whatever you've done. It may very well be impossible to take away a person's humanity. Perhaps temporarily, but not in the long run. Even a refugee, even an ex-combatant, even an international volunteer - we are all, and always will be, human. But at the same time, we must humanize ourselves, the only person you can truly, ultimately depend upon is yourself.

Maybe this doesn't make any sense because it is certainly vague. But what I've learned, among other things, is that trauma is relative: pretty much everyone here has experienced significant trauma, and yet they experience love and hate, empowerment and frustration, much as anyone else. A broken heart is a broken heart, whether it belongs to a spoiled and protected white person in America or a traumatized black person in Africa. And what that also means is that even when the world is falling apart, when people are starving and sick with malaria and trying to succeed with business and deal with their traumatized pasts and afraid to sleep in their own homes and every other problem you can imagine, people still fall in love, people still get worked up emotionally about boyfriends and girlfriends, there's even space in the mind to think about stupid little crushes. Even in the most extreme of conditions, some things in life go on as normal. And that, that is comforting.

debt repaid

This weekend I returned to Kokrobite, where I spent my first weekend in Ghana. I wasn't too excited about going back because I associate it with feelings of culture shock and confusion and not knowing what my place was in all this. However, pretty much all the PCO volunteers were going there this weekend to have a final goodbye party for some of the volunteers and I didn't get a chance to make more ambitious plans because Thursday afternoon I ended up caught in the most heart-wrenching, gut-churning conversation of my life.

It was good, and necessary, to get away. I enjoyed relaxing on the beach and just hanging out and talking with my friends. They sell a lot of good tourist knick-knacks and clothing and I didn't end up buying as much as I had hoped to but I found some nice stuff and I enjoyed looking at everything. I didn't go swimming but I lay on the beach for a while, reading and writing. Kokrobite is a strange place, filled with rastas and white volunteers who are escaping for a weekend. I feel kind of guilty being there, because it's such an escapist kind of place, such a backpackers' beach resort haven, but at the same time, we don't escape, we mostly talked about camp and Liberians and volunteering and all the issues we deal with on a daily basis but don't really have time to talk about. Guy, a former PCO volunteer now anthropologist, is always interesting to talk to because he knows quite a lot about camp and yet is always learning things from us as well.

What made this weekend excursion feel complete for me was this:
We were walking back to our hotel in the dark with our flashlights. On the path a man stopped us and asked if I could shine my light on my foot. It appeared he had cut his toe on a rock while walking. I still had my purse with me then, and in it Band-Aids. So I shone my light on him and gave him some band-aids. Last time I was at Kokrobite, I cut my foot and some boys helped me. This time, I had an opportunity to do the same for others. I was, for once, able to return a favor, and help someone out in a simple, yet meaningful, way.

there are no cats in america

The myth that the streets are paved with gold in America still persists. Kyle and I were talking to a Liberian friend on Friday who genuinely told us he thought that the average person in America can earn $1000/day. People here know only of the rich celebrities of America, besides the international volunteers whom everyone assumes have money to give, and so believe that most people in America live the way the rich and famous do. They don't realize that a few miles from a celebrity's mansion are starving, homeless people, that most of the wealth in America is held only by a few. America remains the land of opportunity, of wealth and freedom. They think that if they can get there, they can get a job automatically - though Guy did point out that they usually can get jobs pretty easily because they are willing to take the badly paying McDonalds jobs and high paying construction/manual labor jobs that a lot of educated Americans/Australians/Canadians don't want. Still, $1000/day, it's hard to imagine.

Even the Cape Coast Castle museum, which followed the slaves' journey to America and then focused on the diaspora in the United States left a pretty simplistic and positive portrayal of the United States. There was about one sentence on the Civil Rights Movement, the glorification of a couple African-American leaders and performers, and no recognition of the fact that there are still a lot of problems to be addressed.

the times they are a-changin'

and I'm trying to figure out just how.

June 30 marked the official closing of voluntary repatriation to Liberia, worldwide. The UN is marking this significant closure as a success. However, while Liberia may be much safer than Somalia or Sudan, and thus many more refugees have returned, the fact remains that between 23,000 and 34,000 refugees remain at Buduburam. Many don't want to go home, and that is why they did not take advantage of voluntary repatriation. They would like to integrate into the Ghanaian community, or get resettled somewhere like America or Norway or Australia. The chances of resettlement are slim but many refugees still hold out. There is also, however, a significant portion of the population that would like to return home to Liberia - but not yet. They do not think it is safe, for the present peace is fragile. The current government has not brought about all the improvements it promised and has been accused, like every Liberian government before it, of corruption. People are getting angry and antsy, in Liberia and even at Buduburam. Another reason people don't want to return home yet is that the people who have hurt them, who killed family members in front of them, are still in Liberia, not brought to justice and often in positions of power. Prince Johnson, a rebel leader who killed many innocent Liberians, is a Senator. And so thousands of Liberians remain in Ghana, in a perpetual state of limbo.

There were many concerns about what might happen after June 30. In the international volunteer community the fear was that the UNHCR would pull out completely. This has not happened, and will not until around 2009. The limited UNHCR services will remain available, except for voluntary repatriation. The UNHCR claims it will be moving its focus to Liberia, and that its presence here will focus primarily on establishing long-term plans for integration. As Ghana has gotten tired of playing host (though from what I hear about the Geneva convention or some tripartite agreement or something, legally cannot kick the Liberians out), the UNHCR's role in faciliating integration will be significant. The head of the UNHCR was in Accra on Monday, largely because of the African Union conference, but he spoke to Liberian refugee delegates. He told them that voluntary repatriation was over but the refugee contigency appealed for it to be extended for the rest of the year or at least two months. The UNHCR has yet to respond to that appeal, though the leader of the women planned to get many people to register for repatration in the hopes that if enough people did so in the next two months, the UNHCR would help them return. This two months thing caused some rumors on campus, with people believing that after August 31, the camp may be closed and everyone not registered for either repatriation, integration, or resettlement becoming illegal and ending up in jail. There was a rumor that Nigeria gave all the Liberians there 24 hours to get out. The two-month extension was passed around as fact, and it wasn't until going to the Liberian Refugee Welfare Council and reading an article pasted outside that I learned that it was only a wish, an appeal.

So piece by piece we're putting together the situation. Tomorrow there's a press conference/meeting with Mr. Sambola, head of the welfare council, to clear things up. In the mean time, PCO is doing what it can to diffuse tension in the community and provide a forum to discuss their concerns.

bend it like essien

One of the football (soccer) players for the Chelsea team, Michael Essien, is from Awutu. Yesterday I got to play football with his younger brother and some other local boys.

The walk from the tro-tro station in Awutu to the guesthouse passes by a school with a large football field. It's quite picturesque, especially since on the other side of the field are some massive and beautiful trees. Yesterday when I walked by a bunch of boys were playing football. The ball rolled into the road in front of me and so I kicked it back to them. They returned it to me and I kicked it back. This back-and-forth only happened for about a minute but it was so much fun to be playing football with the Awutu boys. A man walking by with a baby, both of whom I almost hit in the head with the football, told me to change into gym clothes and come back. So I stopped in at the house, told Kyle and Linden what happened, and the three of us headed back to the school, accompanied by Stephen, our housekeeper, and a frisbee. While Kyle and Stephen started tossing the frisbee around, attracting some of the boys, Linden and I ran after the football. At first we just tried to get the ball from whoever had it, but eventually we realized they had been playing a game with rules, a soccer version of Monkey-in-the-middle, and so we started playing that. Eventually we got into conversation with them, which is how we learned about their local soccer star. We spent a while trying just to learn names. A boy with two large machetes came by, so Linden and I asked if they could teach us to cut the grass the way they do, with machetes. They said we wouldn't be able to, because our hands are too soft, but they showed us how and let us try anyway. We failed miserably, but it was fun to try anyway. Things got a bit uncomfortable when they briefly asked us for food and CDs and clothes. They really liked my gym shorts, for whatever reason. They quickly forgot about their demands, luckily, and started asking us some really hard questions. Such as, what do you think when you see a person with a dark complexion? I said I feel self-conscience, because my light skin makes me stand out a lot here. Linden added that we always try to make ourselves look darker but it doesn't work. They then asked us, where do twins come from, and an even more awkward question, Why does someone get pregnant? I'm not sure where all their questions came from or if they understood my answers but they were fun to talk to and to play ball with. We're probably going back this afternoon to play with them again.

independence and protection on the river volta

Now that I've been in Ghana for over a week, I finally felt like I earned my weekend. Jeong, Linden, Josie and I headed northeast of Accra to Atimpoku, just south of Akosombo where the dam that created Lake Volta and provides all the energy for the region is. The river itself is quite wide and calm. We rented a canoe for an hour or so from one of the waterside hotels and paddled around, enjoying the beautiful valley and the nicest weather I've experienced so far in Ghana. We were accompanied by Georgie, a former child soldier whom Jeong is pretty good friends with. There were certainly many benefits of having Georgie with us. He understands some Twi, one of the most popular languages in Ghana, which helped with communication. He was able to explain to us many of the food dishes that we were unfamiliar with. When we first got on the bus to Akosombo in Accra, hot and tired, he bought us all oranges and taught us the local way to eat them. He is also a strong canoer, which allowed the rest of us more time to relax on the river. Perhaps the greatest benefit of his presence, however, was that it saved us four white girls from a good amount of the comments we regularly receive from young African men. That alone made me feel a lot safer walking around.

But his presence also had its downsides. He is very charming and gentlemanly but it became too much after a while. He looked out for us and tried to help us a bit too much, thinking that as an African who has been in this country much longer than any of us and as a man, he knew better, he could and should lead us. Truth is, however, he wasn't very good at haggling and often ended up making communication with Ghanaians, who he did not trust, confrontational when such a response was unnecessary. And considering that to be a woman volunteering here you have to be strong and independent, we found him to be a bit smothering and chauvanistic. But then again, based on previous discussions we had had with him, we already knew he had a pretty twisted view on women, but that's a problem with this culture that will take more than the laws that make spousal abuse illegal to change. What I, at least, did get out of his somewhat overbearing presence was the sense that I don't need a guy to safely travel somewhere in Ghana, which is liberating to feel. I wouldn't feel safe traveling more than the distance between camp and Awutu, maybe Awutu and Accra, alone, but I don't need to have a man among my fellow travelers. It's a convenient feeling, considering only one of the other volunteers right now is male. However, we might be getting some more volunteers at the end of the week, which would be great.

Today Linden, Kyle, and I led a workshop for the Peace Cell leaders. I felt kind of awkward, telling them how things should work when I haven't even worked a full week here myself. Although not everyone showed up and most of those who did were late, the workshop went surprisingly well. I think our approach to how to run a workshop, at least the first day, was new and creative and actually worked. We simulated a peace cell meeting, changing the faciliation style a bit, and put the leaders as participants. As a peace cell meeting it went very well and the discussion we had in the second part of the workshop, about what they thought of the meeting, was very constructive. The three of us, at least, remain idealistic about peace cells, despite the cynicism voiced by volunteers who have been here longer and thus are more burnt out and bitter. The workshop will continue Tuesday and Wednesday with a more traditional lecture format, but we're going to try to break it up with some activities to actualize the concepts we'll be discussing. Although there are records kept of past workshops by international volunteers, those records are in a pile somewhere so we can only hope that what we teach is not too redundant of what has been done before.