I have to confess that I wasn’t really sure that the Chadian rebels exist. Of course I knew they’d been responsible for high profile attacks on Chad many times before, and I’d even seen footage of them riding through the streets of N’Djamena in February 2008. But legend holds that the turbaned warriors just melt like a mirage into the desert from where they came.
The rebels look like ghosts. Each face carries a hunted look as they sit under the gun butts of their Chadian army captors. Few had washed, even to rinse the sand from their faces, wild, dread-locked hair and ear-holes. Layer upon layer of bleached yellow dust on each trembling body makes them appear blurred and indistinct, faded like in an old sepia photograph. Neglected droplets of blood trickle down some faces, mixing with the dirt into a coagulated tarry mess, yet hardly a murmur escapes from the crowd.
The dead rebels, face-down in the sand where they fell, have gone back to the spirit world which so badly let them down. Each wears a traditional gri gri protection amulet. The bodies are just asleep, surrounded by oily, bubbled pools of dark blood. Even the cars are shapes I’ve never seen before – the angel of death passed over the fighting, leaving his mark on their sinister black camouflage.
Deep in the dark night of N’Djamena, where flickering street lamps weakly cut through the settling debris of the day, the rebel convoy is on the move again. The camouflage disguises their slow, shuddering progress. Their headlights are hanging off, doors dented, windscreens smashed. They will be left in the street like giant metal gravestones. Testament to the defeat of the rebels who have once again vanished into the dunes.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Horror Stories from Central African Republic
Haroun Daoud, 25 years old, resident of Zokoumba.
It was 1st February, about 11 in the morning. Suddenly a number of soldiers came by foot into the village. They came up to the school and said good morning to the people. A few minutes later the military vehicles arrived. When the women saw the trucks they started running into the bush with the children. Some of them were caught by soldiers who were gathering behind the houses.
They gathered all the men of the village together under the mango trees. They asked the village chief where the rebels were. He said he hadn’t seen the rebels. He said he knew they had come from Bria and that they had a base somewhere near Akoulsoubak but they never came into Zokoumba.
Then there was a long discussion between the soldiers and the men. The soldiers wanted to know why the women were preparing food in the middle of the village. The women were peeling millet and things like that. The chief said that a child had died and they were preparing for the burial, but the government soldiers thought that the women were making food to give to the rebels.
So they took the men and made them take their clothes off, and they tied them to the mango trees. They asked for the village chief, the teacher and the iman to identify themselves. Eventually they did.
They started by taking the teacher, Mahamat Idriss. They killed him with two shots. After that, Commander Abdoulaye, the leader of the soldiers, took the village chief, Abdelkader Zakaria. He killed him by shooting him through both eyes - the bullets came out of the back of his head. Then he shot Saleh, another leader, and then cut off his head. I don’t know where he took the head. Another elder was killed by being knifed in the stomach.
Then he told the soldiers to kill the rest of the men who were still under the mango trees. They shot them all, they didn’t hesitate. After they all fell down, Commander Abdoulaye went among the bodies, if anyone was moving then he shot them again to make sure they were dead. They killed twenty one people. Two people managed to survive with injuries. I was hiding inside my house the whole time with my child, but I saw it happen. They didn’t find me.
Zara Djibril, 40 years old, mother of 8, resident of Zokoumba
One morning we were in the village and the soldiers arrived. I was with some of my children and as soon as I saw them coming I ran to hide behind my house under some trees. But I could still see everything that happened.
They gathered all the men together and asked for the village chief, the iman and the teacher. Stand up! Stand up! They said. The men presented themselves. Commander Abdoulaye told his men to split all the villagers up, take their clothes off and tie them to the mango trees. He kept asking where are the rebels? Where are the rebels?
The commander Abdoulaye killed the village chief himself, he shot him in the head and he fell down. The gun I think it was what they call an AK. They started killing the other men. Some more soldiers arrived from the other side of the village and they had big, heavy weapons (rocket launcher according to translator). They started firing on the villagers with these. The guns just went boom, boom, boom. I covered my ears. Two more men were killed like that.
I saw it all with my own eyes. I was terrified. I couldn’t move. I thought they were going to come into my house and kill all of us. The children were asking me what was happening. I didn’t know what to say to them. They wanted to run away but there were soldiers everywhere. We had to wait until it was all over.
I don’t know why this happened in our village.
It was 1st February, about 11 in the morning. Suddenly a number of soldiers came by foot into the village. They came up to the school and said good morning to the people. A few minutes later the military vehicles arrived. When the women saw the trucks they started running into the bush with the children. Some of them were caught by soldiers who were gathering behind the houses.
They gathered all the men of the village together under the mango trees. They asked the village chief where the rebels were. He said he hadn’t seen the rebels. He said he knew they had come from Bria and that they had a base somewhere near Akoulsoubak but they never came into Zokoumba.
Then there was a long discussion between the soldiers and the men. The soldiers wanted to know why the women were preparing food in the middle of the village. The women were peeling millet and things like that. The chief said that a child had died and they were preparing for the burial, but the government soldiers thought that the women were making food to give to the rebels.
So they took the men and made them take their clothes off, and they tied them to the mango trees. They asked for the village chief, the teacher and the iman to identify themselves. Eventually they did.
They started by taking the teacher, Mahamat Idriss. They killed him with two shots. After that, Commander Abdoulaye, the leader of the soldiers, took the village chief, Abdelkader Zakaria. He killed him by shooting him through both eyes - the bullets came out of the back of his head. Then he shot Saleh, another leader, and then cut off his head. I don’t know where he took the head. Another elder was killed by being knifed in the stomach.
Then he told the soldiers to kill the rest of the men who were still under the mango trees. They shot them all, they didn’t hesitate. After they all fell down, Commander Abdoulaye went among the bodies, if anyone was moving then he shot them again to make sure they were dead. They killed twenty one people. Two people managed to survive with injuries. I was hiding inside my house the whole time with my child, but I saw it happen. They didn’t find me.
Zara Djibril, 40 years old, mother of 8, resident of Zokoumba
One morning we were in the village and the soldiers arrived. I was with some of my children and as soon as I saw them coming I ran to hide behind my house under some trees. But I could still see everything that happened.
They gathered all the men together and asked for the village chief, the iman and the teacher. Stand up! Stand up! They said. The men presented themselves. Commander Abdoulaye told his men to split all the villagers up, take their clothes off and tie them to the mango trees. He kept asking where are the rebels? Where are the rebels?
The commander Abdoulaye killed the village chief himself, he shot him in the head and he fell down. The gun I think it was what they call an AK. They started killing the other men. Some more soldiers arrived from the other side of the village and they had big, heavy weapons (rocket launcher according to translator). They started firing on the villagers with these. The guns just went boom, boom, boom. I covered my ears. Two more men were killed like that.
I saw it all with my own eyes. I was terrified. I couldn’t move. I thought they were going to come into my house and kill all of us. The children were asking me what was happening. I didn’t know what to say to them. They wanted to run away but there were soldiers everywhere. We had to wait until it was all over.
I don’t know why this happened in our village.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Airports
Am Timan does not have an airport. But it does boast a freshly-carved, brick-red landing strip. There is no fence, and the tarmac is not tarmac, but a piste of rough stones and gravel. Fortunately (or unfortunately?) the South African pilots of the small Cessna don’t seem to mind its uneven surface or the stray mangos littering the ground.
We bank in low over the huts made of reed-matting that scatter the outskirts of the town. After the arid desolation of Abeche, the shimmering mango trees seem somehow un-Chadian.
It looks like the entire village has come out to watch the plane skidding to a bumpy halt. A gang of shoe-less children, wearing Arsenal shirts and oversized trousers hovers nervously beside the single Chadian soldier acting as airport security, check-in clerk and baggage handler. He has a light green scarf wrapped neatly around his head; his fake Ray-Ban sunglasses slipping down his slight nose betray his true age.
Wide-eyed the children lift their hands tentatively to wave at the pilots. Grown men in white and blue boubou robes stand idly by, buying cigarettes from a mobile shop, conspicuously trying not to seem as excited as the children.
The teenage soldier is efficient, and within minutes we’re on our way again. I press my face hard against the glass to watch how the assembled horde reacts as the plane speeds up for take-off. Like locusts rampaging through a cornfield, a long tail of Arsenal supporters is chasing us down the runway, screaming and waving frantically, convinced, as all children are, that they can run faster than the plane.
Suddenly my face is jerked away. We’ve had to stop because a child ran, literally, under the wings of the plane. Sitting high up, the pilots saw him just in time. They barely react. We speed up again. The trail of ragged bodies is squealing and giggling in delight.
We bank in low over the huts made of reed-matting that scatter the outskirts of the town. After the arid desolation of Abeche, the shimmering mango trees seem somehow un-Chadian.
It looks like the entire village has come out to watch the plane skidding to a bumpy halt. A gang of shoe-less children, wearing Arsenal shirts and oversized trousers hovers nervously beside the single Chadian soldier acting as airport security, check-in clerk and baggage handler. He has a light green scarf wrapped neatly around his head; his fake Ray-Ban sunglasses slipping down his slight nose betray his true age.
Wide-eyed the children lift their hands tentatively to wave at the pilots. Grown men in white and blue boubou robes stand idly by, buying cigarettes from a mobile shop, conspicuously trying not to seem as excited as the children.
The teenage soldier is efficient, and within minutes we’re on our way again. I press my face hard against the glass to watch how the assembled horde reacts as the plane speeds up for take-off. Like locusts rampaging through a cornfield, a long tail of Arsenal supporters is chasing us down the runway, screaming and waving frantically, convinced, as all children are, that they can run faster than the plane.
Suddenly my face is jerked away. We’ve had to stop because a child ran, literally, under the wings of the plane. Sitting high up, the pilots saw him just in time. They barely react. We speed up again. The trail of ragged bodies is squealing and giggling in delight.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Cultural Awareness Training
I have been able to establish that it is culturally unacceptable to carry out night-time guerrilla-style tactics (for example throwing shoes at tents, coughing loudly or turning on lights) to gently convince a recalcitrant snoring Chadian to turn over. None of the embarrassed, self-effacing (albeit slightly irritated bafflement that it’s always le ronfleur who’s expected to apologise) joking of the British caught in the act of snoring. Instead, an unfettered dagger-like stare was proof of my faux-pas. Tu n’as jamais entendue quelqu’un qui ronflent?
Ed: I got away with it - they thought I was scared..
Ed: I got away with it - they thought I was scared..
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Better than ice-cream
It’s not strictly correct, as some claim, that you cannot find good ice-cream in N’Djamena. You can, thanks to a small Lebanese/French owned café called Amandine. They even have a Mr Whippy machine, so you can order a sugar cone (I was never allowed these when I was a child), and pile it high with delicious vanilla or chocolate flavoured ripples. Outside, where the heat can only be described as if someone was blowing a hairdryer in your face, the cacophony of phone credit sellers, children with trays of peanuts precariously balanced on their heads, trinket sellers, and pugnacious horn-honking dies away, as the luxurious slurping brings back memories of ’99 flakes, on late-April Sunday afternoon strolls through the park, with teenage girls stripping down to vest tops and miniskirts at the first hint of sunshine.
But I’ve discovered something even more refreshing than sticky ice-cream. The best tonic for this 50C, blood-boiling climate, is to find a young, impassioned Chadian who lets you into their world for a few minutes.
Today I met Dembeye. She studied journalism in Dakar (where all budding journalists from across West and Central Africa aspire to go), and now she’s back in N’Djamena trying to find a job. “I just love talking to people and writing she says”, but she’s aware of the difficulties. On a three month internship at a local newspaper, she knows her chances of finding permanent work outside the strictly-controlled government newspapers are slim.
We went to visit women in the Walia neighbourhood, who’ve taken to buying buckets of blood fresh from the abattoir and frying it up with onions into a liver-like dish (jokingly called ‘vampire’ by aficionados). “People don’t like to talk here” she says, staring at the floor. “When I tried to do this story a woman insulted me and asked me why I was doing a job like journalism”.
I’m a real novelty. We met some men who’d been sipping on local brew since 9am and were belatedly lining their stomachs with this new delicacy of fried blood. They spoke to me with a mixture of awe and ridicule. “Bili bili (the brew) and vampire is an excellent mixture” one man told me, “it’s cheaper than meat now that we Chadians face such an increase in living costs”. A fat pig snorted outside as it wallowed in the mud. “How can you live in Chad as a vegetarian?” another asked, and the room erupted – the laughter smelt so high I could have lit it with a match.
Back in Dembeye’s house, handing me a hand-made fan, she told me even she is ashamed sometimes when she sees how rude Chadians can be. She hasn’t had electricity for the last week, yet she still managed to find me some ice for my coke. I asked her what she was going to do. She looked across at her husband – “If he can find a job abroad then I will do some more study. I want to learn everything I can about journalism”.
But I’ve discovered something even more refreshing than sticky ice-cream. The best tonic for this 50C, blood-boiling climate, is to find a young, impassioned Chadian who lets you into their world for a few minutes.
Today I met Dembeye. She studied journalism in Dakar (where all budding journalists from across West and Central Africa aspire to go), and now she’s back in N’Djamena trying to find a job. “I just love talking to people and writing she says”, but she’s aware of the difficulties. On a three month internship at a local newspaper, she knows her chances of finding permanent work outside the strictly-controlled government newspapers are slim.
We went to visit women in the Walia neighbourhood, who’ve taken to buying buckets of blood fresh from the abattoir and frying it up with onions into a liver-like dish (jokingly called ‘vampire’ by aficionados). “People don’t like to talk here” she says, staring at the floor. “When I tried to do this story a woman insulted me and asked me why I was doing a job like journalism”.
I’m a real novelty. We met some men who’d been sipping on local brew since 9am and were belatedly lining their stomachs with this new delicacy of fried blood. They spoke to me with a mixture of awe and ridicule. “Bili bili (the brew) and vampire is an excellent mixture” one man told me, “it’s cheaper than meat now that we Chadians face such an increase in living costs”. A fat pig snorted outside as it wallowed in the mud. “How can you live in Chad as a vegetarian?” another asked, and the room erupted – the laughter smelt so high I could have lit it with a match.
Back in Dembeye’s house, handing me a hand-made fan, she told me even she is ashamed sometimes when she sees how rude Chadians can be. She hasn’t had electricity for the last week, yet she still managed to find me some ice for my coke. I asked her what she was going to do. She looked across at her husband – “If he can find a job abroad then I will do some more study. I want to learn everything I can about journalism”.
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