Day 4

Friday February 23rd

I was brought into another office room, I met Ioli, and she sat me down to teach me of more things. She had a wonderful energy and passion and a great laugh.

I learned about new computer technologies that help count, identify, and give I.D.(laminated cards) to refugees.

It was wonderful to hear of different donations of equipment that have been made and new ideas that will help.

Microsoft donated one hundred I.D. card machines during the crisis in Kosovo. Still, more technicians are always needed to operate them. It is amazing how many things must be thought of. They are now in the process of raising funds for a training program.

You realize how important these I.D. cards are. They are not only for protecting the refugees and proving their safe asylum. Most importantly, is that when they are registered, they are given an individual identity.

You can imagine what it might feel like to not be able to prove who you are - to have no name - proof of country or family or age.

Children with no I.D. can be forced into the army or into performing dangerous labor. They can be taken or withheld from school.

Every child has a right to safety and education.

At lunchtime, I went to a small market to buy some local crafts. While standing in one place too long my ankles began to itch.

In some areas the smell was rancid. I felt sick.

The strength of survival here is amazing to me.

They don't complain. They don't even beg.

Contrary to the image of this country, they are civilized, strong, full of pride, stunning people. Any aggressive feeling is pure survival. There is no time for casual or lazy behavior.

As I wrote that, I just realized I am writing as if I am studying people in a zoo.

I feel stupid and arrogant to think I know anything about these people and their struggles.

I am making observations of the people here in Côte D'Ivoire. This is the first and only place I have been to in Africa. I haven't even seen the refugee camps yet.

There are so many school children. The boys are in beige. They are wearing short sleeve shirts and pants. The girls are wearing white blouses and blue skirts.

In the markets there is so much gold and ivory for sale - even diamonds. Everything is piled on tables in small stacks. The floors are all of dirt.

I met Demu's daughter and friends. They are all fourteen years old and attend an international school. They spoke many languages. They have lived all over the world. They are all funny and each of them a unique individual.

They dream of their futures. They all seem so much older than the teenagers in The United States.

They are all very politically aware. One girl asked me what I thought of our new American president, George W. Bush.

They also seem to know a lot about film. I hope they are seeing the good ones as well as the cool and silly ones. But here it seems just as important to laugh.

Day 5

Saturday February 24th

We are waiting for the plane to fuel and for all of our passports to be checked. Iola is with me, we are getting off in different places but I'm happy to start the trip with someone familiar.

They just weighed my luggage and myself... 8 kilos... 4 kilos... and I weigh 55 kilos (whatever that means I don't know).

I am surrounded by so many nationalities.

A man in broken sandals pulled out a plastic scale, one you would stand on in your bathroom at home. It had two pink bunnies on it, very faded. Our luggage was spilling over it, as we weighed each piece. I can't imagine how they get it accurate.

I see a beautiful African woman in semi-traditional dress.

The plane is ready, but just before we take off, we are warned to use the bathroom. It will be hours before we are near one. Ioli and I go. Everyone else waits in the hot sun. No one boards, I realize why, Ladies first.

"Bon Voyage" and "Good Luck." They all say.

I am sitting in the plane now. I picked a seat with no air vent.

We have not yet taken off. I am already sweating. I lick it off my top lip.

Everyone is smiling at each other, exchanging kind words and curiosities about what they are each doing.

They noticed the tattoo on my arm.

I was told the authorities have recently had the job of cleaning out rebels who are pretending to be refugees. They try to get a part of whatever small support is being handed out.

A woman said she saw many men being held (detained) for days having to prove their identity.

She asked why they were considered suspect.

"Because they have tattoos on their arms!"(a common tribal practice in Guinea and Sierra Leone.)

We laughed about the possibility that I could be considered a rebel by authorities.

Still, it makes you think the symbols we wear do express ourselves. Symbols to some cause fear or are looked down upon.

I think of the choices I have made - the markings I have - the jewelry I wear:

my husband's name

his blood around my neck

my brother's initial

a quote about freedom by my favorite

American writer...

When I was picked up by the bus to the plane, there were two people who I had not yet met - a man in front and a woman sitting near me. They both seemed not to like me, or so I assumed by their distance. We did not introduce ourselves. I was intimidated by the man. I wondered if I was going to be trying to work with him. Later, I was ashamed to realize I had judged them. I should feel lucky to be in their company.

We just landed to pick up one more person. Now there are seven of us.

It got cooler in the air. It is a beautiful day. Most of us got out and stretched for a few minutes.

After a while the man turned to me and explained he was held captive by the rebels in Monrovia, Liberia for six days. They had trouble up to the last minute getting him out. He mentioned hours delayed in this airport.

When he and his wife and I finally spoke, I found them warm and kind. Their silence and the distance I felt was their feeling of horror. We landed on the same ground he had been held captive.

Most people in this country have been through things I could never imagine.

As I stepped outside, I was told this area has no real hope. Almost everything here was burned down or shelled.

When rebels leave on foot sometimes they take hostages simply to carry stolen goods back home.

From the sky everything was so beautiful - the land, the lakes, the forest - all as far as I could see.

Army helicopters are the only aircraft in this airport.

Finally we landed in Sierra Leone, Freetown. As we drove through the streets we spoke of what has been happening here. RUF (Revolutionary United Front) called it "Project No Living Thing."

I notice hundreds of people are walking through the streets holding hands - survivors!

Painted on cars is "God Is Great" and "Love For Everyone - Hate No More."

You would think these would be the last people on earth to believe that, and yet you realize they have a deeper understanding because of all they went through.

Strange Custom:

On the last Saturday of every month everyone must stay home and clean their environment until 10 am. If you leave before then you must have a pass explaining why you have been given permission.

UNHCR Guest House

Saturday Night

Broken glass stuck into the top of the cement walls.

A guard pulls open the wooden gate.

A small off-white building with chipped paint and a few old cars.

I am greeted by smiles by most, stares by a few.

I am in Room #1. That's what the piece of paper says stuck to my door, I think they gave me the best they have.

I could hardly get water out of the shower. The room would be considered poor and run down by the people from the world I live in, but certainly not by the people here. They would consider it a palace.

I am very grateful.

Dinner was at eight. The three of us sat and talked about war - life - survival. They told me many things. I wish I could write every single thing down.

The television downstairs has one channel. If they are lucky, it will get CNN. It didn't tonight.

Time is different here. There is so much focus on survival. You simply live and enjoy the day and the people around you as much as you can.

People share.

I mentioned that this place is lacking in things not because I miss them but because I see the way the people who work here live.

Most of them are not making exceptions for themselves - some may be. I realize there are people in every group that are not good people. A few NGO and UN workers seem to be in a strange competition. They help each other, and yet sometimes criticize each other - trying to hurt.

But I do believe that even the critical ones have to be a certain kind of good person. You can't be a bad person if this is what you choose to do with your life.