Notes from

Sierra Leone

Dauda Way Station

18 July 2003

Liberian refugees crossing the border into Sierra Leone are transported, typically in UNHCR convoys, to Way Stations en route to camps in the interior of the country. The eight camps are located away from the borders as a precaution against their being used as staging grounds for rebel army recruitment and attacks, as happened in the Sierra Leone war from camps in the border regions of Liberia.

Refugees are documented at the Way Stations, where they may remain for a couple of weeks while the camp management agencies decide who and how many they will receive. The decision is based not only on available space, but also on the background of the refugees: for instance, it is preferable to split up the former child soldiers so that they are not all concentrated in one camp. These child ex-combatants are particularly vulnerable -- and volatile -- as many of them are unaccompanied by guardians and have been psychosocially traumatized by their experiences. In numerous cases, their parents were murdered in the fighting and the children were kidnapped and conscripted into the rebel forces.

I visited Dauda Way Station with a staff member from our Child Protection Unit, which follows-up on separated children and keeps databases with all their information so that we can reunite them with their families, should any family members show up in one of the camps.

Long structures constructed of vivid green tarpaulin sheets secured to light wooden frames made four sides to a bare dirt courtyard. We passed through a tarpaulin door into the office, distinguished by gray instead of green plastic sheeting. The office was subdivided by more sheets into three rooms. A few children sat around on benches as adults filled out documents at desks in the main room.

David, my colleague, lifted a sheet and we passed into a small room. A little boy in dirty threadbare clothing sat on a red plastic chair. Two Red Cross workers were interviewing him. The boy's arms were locked, hands grasping the sides of the chair, supporting himself as he rocked slightly forwards and backwards and cast darting glances at various spots on the floor. He lifted his eyes to stare at me for a moment as we greeted the Red Cross workers.

We lifted another sheet to pass into a third room where two women sat separating carbon papers containing information about various separated children.

"Any pikin [children] for go today?" asked David in Krio.

"Yes, six pikin for go Jembe [refugee camp] this aftahnoon," responded one woman.

Two of the boys awaiting transport brought a bench into the room to talk with us. David asked them questions about their experiences. I wasn't sure if this was normal procedure or if he was asking these questions for my benefit.

David addressed the older boy, a golden-brown teenager with large intelligent eyes.

"Were you with the rebels? Did they capture you?"

"Yes they captured me," the boy responded.

"Did they do bad things to you?"

The boy paused, then shook his head, "No, they didn't."

"They didn't do bad things to you?"

"No." The boy's eyes lifted from the table to David's face, then fell back to the table, then lifted to my face, watching each of us in turn as he answered the questions. I had the feeling that his mind was turning through a thousand thoughts, but I couldn't begin to guess what they were.

"Did they hurt your family?"

"Both of my grandmothers, they died. The rebels killed them."

"Ahhh," David nodded sympathetically. "And you parents? Where is your father?"

"He died."

"Did the rebels kill him?"

"No, he died by hisself."

"And your mother?"

"She died also."

"Did the rebels kill her?"

"No, she also died by herself."

"Ahh," said David, shaking his head slightly. We all stared at the table, except the younger boy, who fidgeted distractedly on the bench, rearranging himself in different positions, rocking, twisting, then lying back and stretching his arms over his head, which hung back over the edge of the bench so that he was watching the wall-tarp upside down.

"Did you escape from the rebels?" asked David, still addressing the older boy.

"Yes, I was in the bush with them, then I escaped."

"Were you in school when you were captured?"

"Yes, I was in ninth grade." (The Liberian school system is similar to the American one with respect to the chronology of grades).

"What do you want to do now, while you are here?"

"I want to go back to school."

"Good, you should concentrate on school. There will be schools for you in the camps so you can learn, with Liberian teachers--your people, so you can continue right on with school when you return to Liberia. There will be plenty, plenty your people in the camps. Plenty! So you will be comfortable."

The boy smiled slightly and said nothing.

David turned to the other boy and asked similar questions. This boy did not speak English so well, so the two communicated with difficulty in a sort of mixed-up broken English.

"Did the rebels capture you?"

"Yes." The boy had a permanent smile and avoided looking at us, continuing to play and twist around on the bench as he responded. I imagined him playing with a gun-pow! pow!-a real gun in a real war.

"Did they do bad things to you?"

"No."

"Where are your parents?"

"I don't know."

"Ahhh." Pause. The older boy continued moving his thoughtful gaze over us. The little boy continued to fidget. I continued to sit silently, notebook closed.

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

"Were you in school before?"

"Third grade."

"And what do you want to do now?"

"I waaaaaant," he grinned and lay down, "I want to learn to sew."

"To sew... What about school? Do you want to go to school?"

"No, I want to sew!"

"Mmm." David addressed both of them, "When you get to the camps, there will be plenty your people. And food! You like bulgar? Eat bulgar? There is plenty bulgar and other food, they will give you there." Liberians are unaccustomed to eating bulgar wheat, but that is the staple of their rations which are distributed by the World Food Programme.

"Are you good boys?" David continued. They nodded a little. "You are good boys, you stay out of trouble. There are some bad boys in the camp, doing bad things like stealing things. Be good boys; if you are bad you will go to jail. Some boys have been bad and then they go to jail, and then you will be stuck in jail in Sierra Leone and you won't get out.

"When you get to the camps you will see some boys mining for diamonds. Stay away from the diamond mines. It is very good that you want to learn. Go to school is good, very good."

David stopped. The little boy just grinned, not really caring, obviously not interested in school. The older boy quietly asked, "What is the camp name?"

"Jembe-you are going to Jembe."

"Jembe," the boy repeated, softly tasting the name of his new home.

David and I talked for a bit after the boys left the room. He said that they have received many similar ex-combatants who had escaped the rebel forces and did not know where their families were or what had happened to them. The boys are very nice when they talk to you, he said, but they are "troubleshooters." I held back a smile, not correcting him. "They can be troubleshooters, these boys, so we do not like to keep them together. In the camps they have nothing else to do and no one to care for them and some have been fighting in the bush for years, so we try to place them in foster families and keep them in school."

As we got into our Toyota 4-Runner which we had parked at one side of the dirt courtyard, several boys inside the nearest tarpaulin building pulled down the plastic a little to peek out over the tarp wall. The thoughtful eyes watched me, still silent. The eyes next to him were creased in a smile and a hand poked out to wave. I waved back. As the driver gunned the engine, smiling eyes addressed me, "What is your name? Your name?" I laughed and had no time to respond as the driver accelerated. As we drove away from the camp, all I could think about were the many pairs of eyes, friendly and flirtatious in a little boy sort of way, and I wondered about all the things they had gone through which had landed them here, in Dauda Way Station.

Next article: Hiking with Borbor

Disclaimer: Opinions expressed in the personal notes are my own. Facts presented are accurate to the best of my knowledge, but this site should not be taken as an authoritative resource.

Copyright © 2003 Julie Greene