Notes from

Sierra Leone

Gerihun Refugee Camp

21 July 2003

Almost 7,000 Liberians live in the rows and rows of mud-and-stick houses in Gerihun refugee camp. They are restless and frustrated, and I can only imagine that the more than 50,000 refugees living in the other eight camps feel the same way.

The camp management and all camp programs, from education to child protection to youth mobilization to gender-based violence, told me that above all else, the refugees are desperate for education and skills training.

After meeting with camp management staff, I was brought to the closest house to speak with a few refugees. Two women sitting on the ground under the narrow thatch overhang pulled me toward the house so I would be out of the pouring rain. A girl a little younger than me stood in the doorway.

I explained that I came from one of the organizations supporting the camp. “How is the camp? How is Sierra Leone?” I asked.

The girl in the doorway inclined her head slightly in a noncommittal nod. She had a soft, empty expression, looking past me from time to time at the makeshift shelter across the way where refugees were selling small amounts of vegetables and other small goods. Her eyes looked like they might have been friendly at one point, but now they were just tired and held little hope.

“I know, it’s not home…” I said. She again nodded slightly.

“How long have you been here?”

“One year now,” she responded.

A woman dressed in a bright orange and brown patterned dress approached and joined us under the overhang. “This is the elected camp chairlady,” said Andrew, the graveyard monitor who had accompanied me to the house. Andrew records births and deaths in the camp and makes sure that the deceased receive a proper burial.

I asked the “How is the camp?” The camp chairlady launched into a stream of complaints. “Look at these roofs! They are leaking. We need that strong plastic [the ubiquitous UNHCR-donated tarpaulins] for our roofs.” I imagined the clumpy earthen structures melting away as water seeped through the grasses and trickled down the walls.

“And the food, there is not much. They only give this much oil per person each month,” she said, indicating a small plastic bowl.

“And look at us! Look at the people!” She gestured at the people in the market. “We are bored. We need skills training; we need something to do. We sit here for so long and do nothing, learn nothing. Our children have no secondary school.”

I tried to reassure her that we were trying to get funds for more skills training and were trying to improve the schools. Although the students have access to primary schools and junior secondary schools (either in the camp or in the nearby Sierra Leone host community), there are no senior secondary schools in the area. “The senior secondary school is being built right now and will be ready for the school year in September.” At least of that I was certain.

The girl in the doorway seemed to suddenly perk up. “What about university?” she asked hopefully.

I didn’t know what to say, so I told the truth. “I’m sorry, I really don’t know. I don’t think the resources are here.” I doubted we would be able to provide the Liberian refugee students access to university education, particularly when so much of Sierra Leone is also without access to university or even to secondary school. I tried to imagine myself as this girl, forced to flee war, living in poverty without hope of advancement or a way to acquire skills for future use.

Refugees elsewhere might be able to infiltrate into the host society and make a living or go to school, but Sierra Leone is still ravaged by war and unable to provide jobs, education, or social services for its own people, much less to tens of thousands of desperate refugees. At least 5,000 Liberians and maybe many more have indeed made their way to the bigger cities, including Freetown, Kenema, and Bo. But prospects are poor of them making a living among a largely destitute host population with very little buying power, and outside of the camps they are not entitled to the food aid and services provided there.

Recently I had the task of sorting through about three hundred applications for about a dozen jobs. I wanted to cry as I learned people’s lives through their CVs and was forced to throw most of them in the “Reject” pile. Some had been attending secondary school or university in Sierra Leone, but their studies were interrupted during the war in Sierra Leone. Many had lived in refugee camps in Guinea for up to ten years. Some had attended school while in refuge. A few had worked for the camp management teaching in camp primary schools or mobilizing youth groups or helping distribute food. One or two had been elected as camp secretary-general or to similar posts. But I had to discard most of these because they did not have the skills to fulfill the job requirements—they lacked not for lack of ambition, but because they had had limited access to training or employment while in refuge.

As I got in the vehicle to leave the camp, a wrinkled stooped man hobbled over, holding up three small plain purses woven from grasses. His toothless mouth gaped open. I was struck by the desperation in his eyes. I knew I was probably the only person around to whom he stood a chance of selling his wares. But I had brought no money with me.

In this country, hard work is seldom rewarded with profit because there is simply no one with the means to buy.

America, have you forgotten us?

The following day I went to workshop on preventing sexual exploitation at the Pastoral Centre, a relaxing complex built by Catholic missionaries set in a breezy palm oil plantation in the hills above Kenema. I arrived early, so I waited in the open-air gazebo with a scenic view of the hills on the other side of town. A couple of young Liberians who work for the management of Gerihun and Jembe camps waited with me.

Samuel was anxiously praying for the chance to continue his schooling. He was about my age and had been attending university in Liberia on a scholarship, but was forced to flee when the government anti-terrorist unit began sending him death threats. As far as he knew, he was the only person from his family in Sierra Leone. He had been here for some eight months now and he had no idea if his family was okay.

“Every day, I wake up early to listen the radio for news about the war,” said Edwin, a youth mobilizer fighting gender-based violence in Gerihun. He shook his head. “They are very close to my part of town now,” he said, referring to the ongoing battle between the Liberian army and the LURD rebels (Liberians United for Reconciliation and Democracy) in the Liberian capitol Monrovia. “If I could choose a bad man, Charles Taylor is a bad man. He needs to step down.

“We Liberians, we feel like we are Americans. We love America, we love American culture, American people; we speak English,” Edwin said, smiling. “We are connected because of our colonial past. I hope President Bush will send us some help… Britain helped their colonies, and France helped theirs… this war is going on so long, but if America helps us, Charles Taylor will leave. He says he will step down; he will go into exile in Nigeria… I hope America will support us.”

Oh God, if he only knew how little America feels tied to Liberia; how few Americans feel a strong sense of obligation toward Liberia or even realize our colonial links. Long before I became interested in Africa, I remember briefly learning of Liberia in history books in school. It was presented as a land that we generously supplied as a “homeland” for freed American slaves to return to, rather than a previously inhabited region that we colonized and out of which we created an artificial country. We returned the slaves to their homeland and did our best for them, say y the history teachers, and it’s unfortunate that they couldn’t learn to govern themselves and it all fell apart.

In a weak diplomatic gesture intended to show that we are not so cold-hearted as the world has lately found reason to believe, America has pledged to send brief and limited support to the ECOMOG troops, the military arm of the Economic Community of West African States (ECOWAS). Last I heard, all of about 16 Americans had been sent in on reconnaissance mission, with a hundred troops waiting here in Freetown to bail them out should they get into trouble.

Next article: The Women’s Hospital

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