Notes from

Sierra Leone

Helicopter Crash

29 June 2004

I started writing this a few days after it happened. It’s unedited and unfinished.

Tuesday, 29 June 2004 – “Have you heard…?”

Sahr’s eyes were large and startled. I shook my head. “The helicopter that was carrying Allan and Barongo to Kono crashed.”

Shock. Everything stopped, my heart stopped, my breathing stopped, my skin froze.

It’s that instant when you just know that’s it. Not like a car accident, where it seeps in slowly as you think to yourself, “maybe it’ll be ok, maybe they’re just injured, maybe…”

“Helicopter” next to “crash” means no questions, no chance, no hope.

I tried to find my voice. “Oh my god. Oh...”

“I just heard ten minutes ago. Elzein radioed from Kono to say that the helicopter didn’t arrive. We called UNAMSIL and they said that the helicopter went down, and then she said ‘my sympathies.’ She wouldn’t say that they were dead, but what else could it mean if she says ‘my sympathies’? Gerry has gone down to UNAMSIL now to find out more.”

I walked out and up the stairs. Beth was at the top with Judith, talking into her cell phone. “Where is Julie? Did she go to Kono? Oh, so she’s not there yet. Oh, here she is, okay, no problem.” She hung up. Did she know already?

I stopped in front of them. “Did you—do you—?” she was smiling too much; she couldn’t know. The words slowly found their way off my tongue, which I found I had trouble controlling. “The helicopter with Allan and Barongo crashed.”

They looked at me, open mouthed. Judith broke the silence. “Oh my God.”

Beth took both our hands and started pulling us into the building. They sat on the couch in my office; I sat at my desk. I gripped the edge of the table. My arms were shaking.

Beth pulled Michel into the room, saying, “I thought—I think you need to be here.” I told him too. He was suddenly alert. “Ok, we don’t tell no one. I will go find Gerry, we will find out what happened. We don’t tell no one until we know something official.” He left and we shut the door.

Oh my god, oh my god. I held onto the table, I bowed my head against the wall.

“Emergency landing, let’s just pray for emergency landing,” said Beth.

“Maybe they jumped, maybe there are survivors, let’s not lose hope. Let us just pray,” said Judith.

I was still shaking. There was no chance, I knew there could be no hope.

Judith was remembering, “Last night, I was in bed and Barongo came home so late. He brought beers, but we were too tired. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m not getting up.’ He – ‘No, I’m too tired, I’m not getting up.’ And even I heard him this morning and I didn’t see him at all; he left so early to take the helicopter.”

“We don’t know yet, we have to keep hoping,” said Beth.

Michel opened the door. “The helicopter exploded; there was fire from all the fuel. They won’t say nothing yet. They won’t say about survivors.”

Beth and Judith left. I sat at my desk and tried to focus on something. Oh my god, oh my god. And endless trail of ‘oh my god’ through my head. I walked out and crossed the road. My voice was barely a whisper as I asked for a piece of bread. I didn’t really want to eat.

It murmured through the office as the day went on. I heard that it would be announced on radio UNAMSIL. I called Saffea’s phone: “Where is your radio?” “It’s just in my bag. Wait, I’m back, I’m actually outside the window.” I looked out and there he was, laughing. We hung up. I opened the window and he said, “Just open the front pocket, it’s in there. I’m coming right up.”

By the time I found the radio, he was at the door. His face was frozen in horror and shock, mouth open, lips turned down, eyes wide. I had never seen a face change so. “What?!” He rushed in. “What?!”

“It’s true, it’s true.”

“I was just walking up the stairs and Umaru told me that Romeo One and Barongo were in a helicopter crash. I thought it was some sort of a joke, but then I was passing Finance and.” He stopped.

We switched on the radio and tuned to FM103. Some bopping African pop was playing. Damn radio, I was in no mood for cheerful pop. When would they start talking?

Later I saw everyone crowding around Natig’s computer. There was an article up on Itar-TASS, in Russian. It was short. He translated. “It was a Mi-8 helicopter…ok, it went down in Kono… in the area of fighting… could have been shot down…” Huh? There’s no fighting in Sierra Leone; what were they talking about?

There was a photograph in the article of a burning helicopter. “If it was that helicopter, there is no way there were survivors,” said Natig. “Look at it.”

I pulled up the same webpage on my computer. Saffea and I peered at it. No, that could not be the helicopter. That wasn’t Kono District; the trees around it were from a temperate climate, not the tropical bush.

I Googled ‘helicopter crash sierra leone.’ Dozens of pages appeared, but all referred to a previous helicopter crash. November 2001. Helicopter crashes of the coast of Freetown. Seven dead. Three bodies found. The body of one British soldier repatriated.

Hours passed, and ‘24 dead’ started to show up. That was this crash. Helicopter crashes in eastern Sierra Leone. Some said it was on route to Kailahun, in western Sierra Leone—I gritted my teeth. Look at a map, guys, Kailahun is in the east—Twenty-four passengers feared dead. UN chartered flight. BBC reported unconfirmed reports of fighting in the area. Rough terrain, couldn’t land, had to drop a search and rescue party in. All they found were dead bodies. Or pieces of bodies.

Elzein was walking to the site with Noah. Elzein radioed base in Kono and said they could see the plumes of smoke ahead, in the hills. They never reached the site. The bush was too dense, and the area all around was burning. No hope.

Wednesday - I arrived late to the office the next day. I sat at my desk, opened my computer, and opened Outlook Express. I clicked ‘Send/Receive.’ Emails poured in, one after the next.

First was a message from the IRC President to staff worldwide. “It is my painful duty to report…”

Then a flood of responses, “I would like to express my heartfelt sympathies…” “We would like to express our sincere condolences…” “Barongo was full of spirit and enthusiasm…” “Allan came to Sierra Leone with such passion and dedication to serve the Sierra Leone program and those people who had been most affected by years of civil war…” “ ‘Every time I get to see a refugee crisis I feel proud that we are doing this work brother.’ These were Allan's words after having spent a long day recently visiting refugee camps in Pakistan…” “They were all stars at what they did…” “I will miss him, his wisdom and compassion…”

I cried with each condolence.

I started writing lists to myself of work that I should be doing. I wrote a list, then peered at it. I tried to pick out an item and focus on it, but my mind was completely blank. It was as if all the links and references to other tasks and steps and people had been broken; all I knew was contained in the brief descriptions: ‘GA187 budget revision,’ ‘Na Wi Pot contract extensions.’ What was I supposed to do for that budget? Who were the extensions for?

It crossed my mind the next day why the Russian news had reported fighting. Of course! It was a Russian helicopter chartered from a Russian company, so they had to raise the possibility that there was a dramatic shoot-down rather than a craft malfunction or a poor pilot.

Christof returned from Kono in the afternoon. He called a meeting at five for all staff present at the office. We crowded into Allan’s office. I brought my computer, I guess because I always typed up notes at meetings in Allan’s office. In a tight voice, trying to hold back a slight waver, Christof read the announcement sent by the IRC president. I gripped my shaking arms and dried my face, but the moisture kept returning. There were red eyes all around.

Christof said that Allan and Barongo held their lives and their work to the highest standard, and would therefore want us to keep working. Beth carefully explained that some people had expressed a need for time to cope with the tragedy and process the situation. Marionette explained that in Sierra Leone, they might spend some time planning the memorial arrangements, and then would take perhaps a day off. Standing next to me, Christof said we should keep working, but might take it easy for a few days. Looking up from my chair, I protested shakily, ‘Some of us cared about Allan and Barongo personally. It is hard to come back to work, and just to work slowly!”

The meeting ended and Pa Boima told me, “Oh Julie, don’t cry,” but I couldn’t see why not.

Beth, Natig and I ate that night at Chez Nous on the beach. I ordered Becks over my usual Star. Allan was always saying, “One more, just one more!”

“I remember one time I came down to the kitchen and Barongo was trying to cook pasta,” Beth began. “He was so cute trying to cook. He had put the pasta in the water while it was still cold. ‘Barongo, I think we need to do some capacity-building. We need to do some culinary capacity-building!’ I teased him. He was trying so hard since he was away from his wife, and he didn’t like the food that Mohammed was cooking for him…”

“Oh yeah, Mohammed was charging him eighty thousand a week, too, just for the food. Can you imagine that? Eighty thousand!” said Natig.

“And finally he was getting the hang of it, and was even putting a little sauce.”

“I remember he was so proud when he was able to say, ‘I know how to cook pasta!’” I said.

“Monday night, I called Barongo and told him we were going to cook dinner,” said Natig. “Judith and me, we were cooking something. I made some sauce—it was good, too! We called to invite Barongo and he said he’d be home in fifteen minutes, but he didn’t come home until two hours later. He brought six beers with him. It was already ten thirty, and we had already eaten by then and drunk; I had two beers. So we said nah, we were too tired, and Judith was already in bed, so he just put the beers in the fridge. I left the food for him and the next morning when I came down I saw that he had eaten it all and put the dishes in the basin.”

We paused for a few sips of beer. “I can’t believe it. We had lunch together almost every day, at Christof’s,” I said.

“Yeah, I was always teasing him, and he was teasing me back—”

“—‘Next time, we’re leaving without you, Barongo!’ He was always late for the lunch bus—” I said.

“—You two were like brothers, always squabbling!” said Beth.

“Yeah…” said Natig.

“He was so cute that night at Old School.”

“I wish I had gone that night: the infamous Old School night after the grant close-out meeting.”

“It was so much fun! Barongo was there with his blue baseball cap, looking like a little kid, bopping around and having fun.” I danced in my chair a little to demonstrate. “He and Patrick closed out the upstairs dance floor. I couldn’t believe it! It was just me, Dan, Patrick and Barongo left and even Dan and I gave up eventually and collapsed on a couch and then it was just Barongo and Patrick, dancing away. It must have been six in the morning!” I paused.

“Allan and Wivine were there until probably four or five that night. Dan and I looked at them dancing and we said to each other that we’d never seen a long-married couple that looked so in love. You could just see it, they way they were with each other; they had that spark like they were just a fresh couple, that spark of new love."

Allan would joke about Old School. Noah had emailed a suggested topic for the Country Management Meeting, to which Allan and Barongo were heading when the helicopter went down. Allan wrote back: “ ‘Broad-spectrum program analysis’? I should go back to school – the Old School!”

I continued, “It’d just be the worst thing if something like this happens and you have regrets over the way you were with each other or the things you said. I really, really liked and respected both Allan and Barongo. I’ll always remember laughing with them.”

We ordered another round of beer.

Thursday – half day at office. I compiled tributes, then went to Wivine’s house. She was in the back room, surrounded by many others, mostly friends from the east African community. She started crying when she saw me. There were so many people, and more kept coming as the hours passed. Most gathered in the sitting room and talked quietly. Children played video games; two of them were Wivine’s sons. With great effort, Wivine pulled herself together and smiled shakily. “All these boxes that we never unpacked… we brought so many things with us from Uganda!” We helped her pack the rest, putting aside the photographs when we found them.

Wivine’s daughter cooked food and tried to get her mother to eat. Wivine handed me the video camera and asked me to tape it when her mother- and brother-in-law arrived. From time to time, she would collapse on the bed and cover her face with her shawl. She was dressed in a long, regal blue gown with delicate metallic embroidery. When Allan’s mother and brother arrived, she began to wail in anguish, “Mami! Mami!” They held her; I taped. “It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault. It was his time,” said Allan’s mother. “It was just his time.” I felt awkward taping this moment, but I guess it was a time she wanted to preserve.

Everyone except for Wivine gathered in the sitting room around seven o’clock. The head of the Ugandan community in Sierra Leone spoke to announce preparations for a memorial and a donation pot. I wanted to speak to Mom and Kato, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t find anything to say.

I slept poorly that night, tossing and turning with anxiety on my sunken foam mattress.

Allan, I did the tributes and condolences to you and Barongo in Garamond, justified. I know that was your favorite font. I posted the collection, from so many of your friends and colleagues, on our notice boards. Christof agrees that the font is fitting this time.

Friday – I went to the office briefly, then Wivine’s house briefly. I decided to try to go out. Went to a friend’s house and drank Becks. Xavier looked at me sadly and patted my knee. The army guys told me stories about the friends they lost in the service. I went to the casino at Lagoonda’s with Xavier and Achim, then Paddy’s for another drink. Seemed like the right thing to do.

Saturday - The memorial was held at a Catholic church, as both Allan and Barongo were Catholic. Sierra Leonean women came dressed in white lace; the men and the Westerners came in black. I taped the service for Wivine. She entered slowly down the aisle, in black lace, on Kato’s arm, not looking at anyone. The preacher talked excitedly about nothing meaningful. He even talked about ‘our three deceased brothers, Allan, Bahati, and Vedasto,’ until Amie dashed up with a note explaining that Vedasto wasn’t dead (he was on the schedule as a speaker). A few people gave tributes. I was angry; they talked and talked about the crash and the tragic nature of their deaths. Yes, they are dead! And yes, it was sooner than anyone wanted. But let us talk about their lives… Kato echoed my thoughts in his tribute:

“Allan’s life should be defined by his life, not by what happened on Tuesday. That is not the essence of him. And to my nephews and niece, when people ask you about Daddy, I don’t want you to say ‘Daddy died when I was 13’ or ‘when I was 9’ or ‘6.’ I want you to say Daddy was a great man. He was an honorable man who cared about his family, about his work, and about the people of Sierra Leone. I don’t want people to cry about his death. We must remember his life, and all that he worked for. If we want to honor him, it is not by crying in memory of him and of what happened on Tuesday; it is by working hard to make his vision come true.” Kato was looking at me, where I sat in the second row behind his nephews, trying to stop the tears from falling. “Allan had a vision for Sierra Leone and for humanity. Let’s make that vision come true.”

We gathered at Mamba Point after the service for a reception. Many others from the international community came—from the European Commission, Oxfam, UN Development Programme, Special Court for Sierra Leone, and others. Then dinner with Zoe, Sharan, and another person at Alex’s on the water; later a party at Achim’s, then to Old School, then a ‘red party’ at a the house of the departing head of UN OCHA (Organization for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs) – people commented on my black attire and didn’t seem to think that coming from a memorial was a good reason to not be wearing red – then home for a shower. Exhausted. Seemed like if I kept moving, it would get better.

Sunday – There was a lunch for all IRC staff, again at Mamba Point. Again, the big bosses from our New York office talked. A few staff stood to say a few words. Everyone was waiting for an opportunity to share stories openly, but there wasn’t a chance. Wivine, her mother-in-law, and Kato came and were seated at a table facing the rest of us. The atmosphere was strained and unhappy again.

Wivine spoke. She said she just wants to know why. She told us she was home when she heard; that several of the women from the office came to her house and she was so surprised and thought they must have come to see her daughter, just arrived that morning from boarding school in Kenya. She had never thought of the risks, she said. When he got on the helicopter that morning, she didn’t think twice. And when she heard, she just couldn’t believe. She didn’t blame Sierra Leone. They had been all over, in places more dangerous than this. She just wants to know why. But she will never miss Allan, because Allan is there. He is happy now, she said.

I sat with her as people were mingling and getting ready to go. She told me how the previous Sunday, he had suggested walking on the beach – something he would never suggest! He was sweating, she was laughing. The walked all the way to Chez Nous, one of his favorite places, and ate there. We talked about that night at Old School, when everyone was there and they were dancing and Barongo was dancing and we were having so much fun. Old School was a place Allan could relax after a hard week of work. Wivine wished she could go to Old School to dance for him now, she said, smiling. “You go dance for me instead. Dance for me and have a Beck’s; he would like that!”

Next article: Reflections on Balance

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Copyright © 2004 Julie Greene