Foreword by the

United Nations High

Commissioner for Refugees

 

The Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) was established in 1951 to care for those forced to flee their homes because of persecution or war. Over the past five decades, UNHCR has helped an estimated 50 million men, women, and children to find safety and to restart their lives. 

Our challenges are immense, and they could not be met without the dedicated support of concerned individuals around the world. One such champion of the refugee cause is Angelina Jolie. 

On 27 August 2001, I named Angelina Jolie as a Goodwill Ambassador for UNHCR. Some time before this, she had shown a profound interest in refugee issues, and had visited refugee camps in places like Sierra Leone, Cambodia, and Pakistan. 

In 2002 and 2003, Angelina visited refugees in Namibia, Thailand, Ecuador, Tanzania, Sri Lanka, Kosovo, and Ingushetia, and worked closely with UNHCR field staff. Her impressions are movingly recounted in these vivid personal journals. She will be making more field visits in the years ahead. 

Since her appointment as a Goodwill Ambassador, Angelina has more than fulfilled my expectations. She has proven to be a close partner and a genuine colleague in our efforts to find solutions for the world's refugees. Above all, she has helped to make the tragedy of refugees real to everyone who will listen. Angelina's interest in helping refugees, her personal generosity, and her truly compassionate spirit are an inspiration to us all. 

 

RUUD LUBBERS

U.N. High Commissioner for Refugees 

 

 

Introduction 

 

I was asked to write an introduction to my journals, to explain how my journals came to be, why my life took this direction, and why I decided to start it. 

As I try to find the answers, I am sure of one thing: I am forever changed. I am so grateful I took this path in my life, thankful that I met these amazing people and had this incredible experience. 

I honestly believe that if we were all aware, we would all be compelled to act. 

So the question is not how or why I would do this with my life. The question is, how could I not? 

Many nights I sat awake reading stories and statistics about national and international tragedies. 

 

I read about UNHCR: 

More than twenty million refugees exist today. 

One-sixth of the world's population lives on less than one dollar a day. 

1.1 billion people lack access to safe drinking water. 

One-third of the world has no electricity. 

More than 100 million children are out of school. 

One in six children in Africa dies before the age of five. 

 

I read about different organizations that do humanitarian work. I had been reading about Sierra Leone when I was in England. When I got back to the States it was difficult to follow the stories, so I called USA for UNHCR and asked if they could help me understand the situation there and similar situations elsewhere in the world. Three weeks later I was in Sierra Leone. 

I don't know how this will be as a book, how readers will find it. I am not a writer. These are just my journals. They are just a glimpse into a world that I am just beginning to understand, a world I could never really explain in words.

 

 

Mission to Africa

 

From February 22 through March 9, 2001, I undertook a mission to learn about and assist refugees under the care of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) in Sierra Leone and Tanzania.

 

Tuesday, February 20

 

I am on a plane to Africa. I will have a two-hour layover in the Paris airport, and then on to Abidjan in Cote d'Ivoire (Ivory Coast).

This is the beginning of my trip and this journal. I do not know who I am writing to myself, I guess, or to everyone, whoever you are. I am not writing for the person who may read these pages but for the people I will be writing about. I honestly want to help. I don't believe I am different from other people. I think we all want justice and equality. We all want a chance for a life with meaning. All of us would like

to believe that if we were in a bad situation someone would help us.

I don't know what I will accomplish on this trip. All I do know is that while I was learning more and more every day about the world and about other countries as well as my own, I realized how much I didn't know.

I have done a lot of research and talked with many people in Washington, D.C., at the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), I have read as much as I could. I discovered statistics that shocked me and stories that broke my heart. I also read many things that made me sick. I have had nightmares--not many, but they scared me.

 

I don't understand why some things are talked about and others are not. I don't know why I think I can make any kind of difference. All I know is that I want to. I wasn't sure I should go. I'm still not sure, but--and I know this may sound false to some--I thought of the people who have no choice.

It seems crazy to some of my friends that I want to leave the warmth and safety of my home. They asked, "Why can t you just help from here? Why do you have to see it?" I didn't know how to answer them. And I'm not sure if I'm being crazy or stupid.

My dad attempted to cancel my trip. He called USA for UNHCR, but since I am an adult, he couldn't stop me. I was angry with him, but I told him that I know he loves me and that as my father he was trying to protect me from harm. We embraced and smiled at one another.

My mom looked at me like I was her little girl. She smiled at me through her teary eyes. She is worried. As she hugged me goodbye, she gave me a specific message from my brother, Jamie. "Tell Angie I love her, and to remember that if she is ever scared, sad, or angry--look up at the night sky, find the second star on the right, and follow it straight on till morning." That's from Peter Pan, one of our favorite stories.

I am thinking about those people I have been reading so much about and how they are separated from the families they love. They have no home. They are watching the people they love die. They are dying themselves. And they have no choice.

I don't know what it will be like where I am going, but I am looking forward to meeting these people. My first stop is Paris for a few hours and then to Africa.

 

Wednesday, February 21

 

On the plane from Paris an African man wearing a nice blue suit and a warm smile asked me if I was a journalist. I said, "No, just an American who wants to learn about Africa." He said, "Good!" He seemed to be an important man surrounded by others in suits who greeted him as if to pay respect. As he got off the plane with the group he was traveling with, a few military men--one in front and one in back--led them out and a camera caught him as he greeted a man who must have represented another important group. I write all this because when he asked me on the plane if I was traveling to other parts of Africa, I told him, "Sierra Leone," and he said, "I am scared of that place."After we landed in Cote d'Ivoire, I was met at the plane by a very sweet man from UNHCR. His name is Herve. He spoke French and very little English. I speak very little French. But I realized quickly that smiles and gestures are all you really need sometimes. We stood next to each other in silence, since my bags were the last off the plane. Everyone's bags are opened and checked. I saw more military people than civilians. I then met another man from UNHCR.

 

We talked in the car about how Sierra Leone is going through a civil war. It is not unlike the Americans before they became what they are today. When you think about that you realize how important it is to help and support them as they determine the future of fifty-two countries on this big, powerful continent. If we consider the people of Africa our allies and help them to build, it will only help us. I have discovered that the United States has helped a great deal and that should not go unnoticed. But compared with so many other countries we give less (per capita). With what we have compared with others' ability to give, we give less. Politics aside, on a human level we should all be reminded of what is important and how we are truly equal. We should help in the beginning when people are trying and forming, not when it is too late. During the Cold War, Africa was split. They had gained independence in the '60s, but when the Cold War was over, Africa needed help to strengthen its democracies. It needed help in order to support those people who stood for the same freedoms we all believe in. There was a video I saw on Sierra Leone. They had a march for democracy a few years ago. I can't remember what year, but it was before the worst of the fighting had started. If only we had offered our help back then, perhaps it would not be this way now. We can't forget that our founding fathers were refugees. And then the Native Americans became refugees.

The man who welcomed me spoke about his time in America. We both expressed an awareness of how little is told to the American people and how sheltered they can be. But to their credit, when they do see what is happening around the world (from a special on CNN to occasional stories in the newspapers), most Americans do want to help, and they are very generous. He told me he had been to Kansas City, Missouri, for one Christmas. He also shared other stories of experiences he had in America. I thought about how he had taken the time to travel to the United States, because he "wanted to understand America a little better."Very few of us have been to Mali (a country in Africa where he was born). And that could be why he was so welcoming. He wanted to share his country with me. I checked in to my room in Abidjan on the Ivory Coast. This hotel must have been beautiful once, and it is better than I had expected my accommodations to be. I feel wrong staying in this place, even though it's only for a few nights. I am here in Abidjan to have meetings with UNHCR. On Saturday I will leave for Freetown in Sierra Leone to be with the refugees. I have to admit I do appreciate the proper shower and sleep. I know to enjoy it tonight and I am grateful.

 

Thursday, February 22

 

I am sitting in a chair in a UNHCR office here in Abidjan an. I am having a long morning.

I have come to understand many things, and yet there is so much I don't understand. Most of all I realized how little awareness I had of these people. I am sitting under a sign--a poster for UNHCR. It reads

 

IT DOESN T TAKE MUCH TO BECOME A REFUGEE. 

YOUR RACE OR BELIEF CAN BE ENOUGH.

 

I was allowed to sit in on an interview with "asylum seekers."These "asylum seekers" are here to apply for a chance to live in the borders of a country that is different from their own place of origin. UNHCR will listen to their stories and sometimes check on the information. They will help them if they can. They have to try to determine if they are eligible to be labeled a refugee, and therefore, seek asylum. They must prove their need for protection and support; that is, for whatever protection and support is available, and in many countries that is not much at all. The young couple interviewed today lost contact with their two children. The husband was thirty. The wife was twenty-five (my age). They seemed much older. Their bodies so weary, their eyes so sad, desperate. They both spoke French and a little English and were very intelligent.

They made a kind of attempt to make me feel comfortable. When they were introduced to me, it was explained that I was an American here in Africa to try to understand and to learn in order to help express situations like theirs to my country. I was glad I felt they understood another person was trying to help, but after hearing their story, I felt helpless and yet full of purpose at the same time. These people are strong, smart people. Given the opportunity, and considering all the resources that are now tearing the country apart, they could be a very strong, rich country. It may seem like groups such as UNHCR and others are not successful at times because of all that is still going on. But in learning the history of the refugee situation and understanding all the work that has been done to help them, I realized that all of these dedicated workers have been very generous with their help. We should all be very grateful. I believe without their intervention, the refugees would have no hope at all. Most of these groups of people would be dead and forgotten. Everything would be in rebel hands and under the control of dictators. We must continue to give support to help the countries in Africa that welcome the refugees and give them a home. Our country and other countries will continue to have refugees crossing our borders unless we help strengthen the countries from which they come.

 

Friday, February 23

 

The next day I was brought into another office room where I met Ioli, who sat me down to teach me 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 ID cards to refugees.It was encouraging to hear of the different donations of equipment that have been made and the new ideas that will help. Microsoft donated one hundred ID 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 being here how important these ID cards are. They are not only for protecting the refugees and proving their safe asylum. Their most important benefit is that when refugees come to register, the cards give them an individual identity. You can imagine what it might feel like to not be able to prove who you are--no proof of your name or country or family or age. 

Children with no ID 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. They were being bitten by bugs so small I couldn't even see them. 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 our image of this country, its people are civilized, strong, proud, stunning people. Any aggressive feeling is pure survival. There is no time for casual or lazy behavior. As I wrote that, I 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. But I am simply making observations of the people here in Cote d'lvoire. 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. A woman from UNHCR named Demu offered to show me around. I met her 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 is 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.

 

Saturday, February 24

 

We are waiting for our plane to Sierra Leone to fuel and for all of our passports to be checked. Ioli is with me. Although we are getting off in different places, I'm happy to start the trip with someone familiar. They just weighed my luggage and myself. . . eight kilos four kilos . . . and I weigh fifty-five kilos (whatever that means, I don't know). 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 am surrounded by so many nationalities. I see a beautiful African woman in semitraditional 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. Then 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, but 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 clearing out rebels who are pretending to be refugees. These rebels 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!' (It's 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 that 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 brother's initial 

a quote about freedom by my favorite American writer... 

 

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. When I was picked up by the bus to be taken to the plane, there were two people on board 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 working with him. Later on the plane I was ashamed to realize I had judged them. I should feel lucky to be in their company. 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 where 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 help them 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 Freetown, Sierra Leone. As we drove through the streets we spoke of what has been happening here. Revolutionary United Front (RUF) called it "Project No Living Thing."

I notice hundreds of people 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 10A.M. If you leave before then you must have a pass explaining why you have been given permission.

 

Saturday Night

UNHCR Guest House

 

Broken glass is stuck into the top of the cement walls that surround the house. As our truck pulls up, a guard opens the wooden gate. A small, off-white building with chipped paint and a few old cars stands beyond the gate. I am greeted with smiles by most, stares by a few. I am in room number I. That's what the piece of paper stuck to my door says. 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. Two members of the UNHCR field staff and I 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 mention 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 a few people in every group who are not good people. A few nongovernmental organization (NGO) and U.N. 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.

 

Sunday, February 25

 

I had a strange dream--not entirely bad, but bad enough to call it a nightmare. I was being held at a checkpoint as I stood on a sidewalk with many women. I was trying to understand what was happening. I was having thoughts of being misplaced, remembering all the stories of sudden attacks--forcing people to run--some with bundles, some with nothing--not even family.

I have been trying to get back to sleep for what must be about an hour now. The roosters are screaming. This place seems to echo noises. I can hear footsteps and floors creaking. I can hear the noises of some animal, but I can't identify it, maybe a monkey. I try to close my eyes a little longer. Today is Sunday and not much happens until after prayers. I just came back from a walk. I decided after breakfast I would take some time to see where I am. I was told this area is safe. As soon as I was outside I put away my sunglasses. Even though the sun was blaring, I felt safer if people could see my eyes. They might feel I am not a threat. Also, I did not want to flash anything of value, not because I feared theft, but because I felt bad. I walked around people who were living with so little. Very soon my feet and pants were covered in red dirt. 

 

One of the UNHCR security guards, a Sierra Leonean named William, asked if he could show me the area (the army barracks and the hospital). I immediately agreed. We started up the road and ran into George. For over a year, George has been working at UNHCR cooking breakfast and dinner. It is a good job, but it still doesn't provide enough money to take care of himself, let alone his family. But he was not complaining. The only thing both of these men expressed was how beautiful this place once was. At one time, all of the people were good to everyone. Now everyone suffers. They hope life here will one day be good again, but it's hard to keep up hope or believe that one day it truly will get much better.

 

I asked George about his family. He said his mother just arrived from a refugee camp in Guinea. I asked if she was okay. He said she is better now, but she still gets colds, because where she now lives, she has to sleep on the floor. George was taken by the rebels. He said, "They came at night. We all tried to run. My mother was so worried about me. George has three children. "One I have not met," he said. We walked by the hospital. It is a very old, small building with the paint almost completely removed. There are two Red Cross tents. I would guess about five cots could fit in each tent. Maybe the reason there were no cots at all was more people could fit on the floor. Many people are out walking around today--most in what must be their Sunday best--colorful and clean. I don't know how they manage to have nice clothes, but this Sunday tradition is important to them. It is so beautiful to see. We continued to walk the dirt road passing rocks, water, and streams of what I assume--by the awful smell--to be sewer water. I could hear chanting and drumming. William and George pointed and said, "Church!"

The church was a small cement building with rubble around it. I looked inside and saw so many colorful silhouettes moving to the rhythm of the beating drum. Such beautiful people in prayer!

Since I have been here, this is the first time that I started to cry. I kept it to myself and walked on. Little children walked by me. I smiled at them, and in return they smiled the sweetest, biggest smiles I've ever seen. One little boy asked in a very serious tone--defiantly Who are you?"Angie."He giggled, smiled, and walked away.

 

Saint Michael’s Lodge UNICEF and

Family Home Movement (FHM)

 

A little baby was put into my arms. No words could express how I felt.

Later, a small child put my hand into another woman 5 hand (an NGO American worker).

 

UNHCR is working with FHM to help those returning Sierra Leonean children who have been separated from their families. A young African man was helping to manage the place. He was very nurturing to the others, very much a leader and a caregiver. He had very kind eyes.

 

I asked him questions as one would to get to know somebody. What does he love? Who is his family? I wanted to know who he was. He does have family. Many of his brothers and sisters are at the university in Italy. He likes to travel, but he feels he can do good and is needed there.

He said he does have a few months' leave coming up, and he would like to take courses in counseling trauma victims. Me wants to help orphans, and refugee children, and child soldiers with their traumas. This need is often overlooked.

 

"Maybe they expect them to just bounce back."He explained to me how in other parts of the world--when someone needs help--counseling is available. It is different in Africa. Hopefully, you are helped and supported by entering or joining a community. I met a boy who had just been fitted with a prosthetic leg. He was standing listening to news on a small radio. People tell me he is one of the brightest students. He is already walking well.

A boy of about eleven high-fived the nun showing us around. "Sistah!"

 

UNHCR, along with Saint Michael's, is trying to help register and track families--reuniting them.

 

There is hardly any international news here. You only hear of the horrors nearby. If only the wars and the worst of the people here are being reported, then people hesitate to invest in building up Africa. It is such an overwhelming problem. What do you do? People here become dependent and don't want to leave the refugee camps. I can understand why. Their homeland is still dangerous and empty. There is no food at home. There are no jobs at home. Since it was Sunday and we had a day off, at the end of the day we drove to the water. The beaches here are so white!

What a beautiful sight-white sand, light blue water surrounded by mountains covered in lush green!

This land was named Sierra Leone, because as the first settlers arrived at these shores, it was said to be thundering (like roaring lions).

 

Monday, February 26--7 A.M. Breakfast Talk

 

Everyday it seems I learn more and more. In the countries with no diamonds, the people are not getting their hands on good weapons. Some governments or individuals are getting richer trading with the RUF. The United States and more countries in Europe should help the Sierra Leone Army, just like the British Army and S.A.S. are currently helping by training the Sierra Leoneans to defend themselves against the rebels.

 

FAWE--Forum for African Women Eeducationalists

 

Girls are educated and taught skills. They are being helped to be independent. Most of these young women were abducted and raped. I went into a small room. Two women were looking after about ten babies. Many of the women got pregnant when raped. The babies didn't have toys or soft, colored things. They were on the floor. Beautiful faces. As I approached, one baby started crying, almost screaming. The women apologized and said, "He's scared because of the color of your skin."When I was in the classroom I was introduced as the Good Will Ambassador with UNHCR. Maya, the woman with me, was introduced as the protection officer with UNHCR. All the young women were very welcoming. It was then explained to them that I am also an actress from California. The woman who runs the school told them I was there to learn about them so I can support their programs.

They hardly know any movies. I hadn't wanted it brought up, but it did seem that my being an actress made my visit more fun for them. What I do is a strange job for them to imagine doing. Sometimes being an actress seems strange to me too, but I was happy about it today.

 

After spending some time together we began to communicate even without an interpreter. Creole is a little like very fast, condensed English. They asked me for my address. I thought for a moment about maintaining my privacy as I have been told to do in the States, but they shared with me, and so I will share with them. I want so much for these young girls to succeed. I also want to be a friend. I went to the chalkboard and wrote my name and my private address. One girl held my hand and said slowly, "I would like to be your friend."She wrote her name down so I could recognize her letter.

 

Jui Transit Centre

 

Jui Transit Centre is situated at the mouth of the capital of Sierra Leone, just some seven miles to the heart of the capital city, Free town. Established in 2000, Jui Transit Centre was one of the temporary settlements which were primarily put in place by the UNHCR in Freetown in response to the large-scale repatriation of Sierra Leonean refugees in Guinea. Following alleged Sierra Leonean RUF rebel cross-border attack on Guinea, Guineans swooped on Sierra Leonean refugees, who were accused of harbouring RUF rebels and trying to destabilise Guinea. Many Sierra Leonean refugees were physically manhandled, forcing many to opt for a return to Sierra Leone even though the war in their country of origin was still raging. As a large part of the country then was under rebel occupation, the returnees could not return to their villages. To meet the returnees' need for temporary accommodation, UNHCR established two host communities (Lokomassama and Barri) in the northern and southern provinces. However, as returnees arrived by ship from Guinea, there was need for them to stay overnight not just to recuperate after a long journey but also to make decisions on where they will proceed based on the information they received about other family members. In Jui, like in other transit centres, returnees were provided with such services. In principle, returnees were to stay for no more than five days in the Transit Centre, but in reality, some 2,000 returnees were sheltered at the centre until June 2002. The Transit Centre itself is a neigbour to the Jui Village, which is home to an estimated 6,000 Sierra Leoneans. There is a primary school and a secondary school as well as a Bible Training Institute. Returnees had to send their children to these schools while they were at the centre. The Transit Centre itself had a health post, a huge water bladder with several water collection points. Plastic rents, dirt floors. It feels like nowhere. People walk around. Can't help themselves. Can't go home. A man ran up to UN HCR workers, his hardworking hands begging for them to come quick. They explained that he wanted them to look at a boy. I met the boy. He looked about twelve, but he could have been sixteen. It is hard to tell because of the malnourishment. He was very sick. I didn't want to lean over and look. I kept a distance. I was a woman he didn't know. He was being examined by a doctor. 

He was so young and yet seemed so aware of what was happening to him. His legs had become paralyzed. His stomach and his ribs seemed too wide. Later, I was told it looked as if he had been operated on. His spine was severely damaged. Disease was eating away at his body. It is likely this all began with a gunshot wound and a poor operation. Here he was being released from the hospital. There are no funds and there is no room to care for him past what is considered an emergency (by their standards).

To me, this was an emergency. Now the humanitarian workers will try to look for help--but this boy is one of millions like him. I will never be able to forget his face. I will never forget the way he moved his legs with his hands. UNHCR is in Africa to help these persecuted people, and to continue to support the many needs of these refugees. There is always a concern of running out of funding for all of the necessary programs.

I sat with leaders and chiefs and young women who live in the camps. I asked, "What do you want people to know?" A young woman answered, "We continue to live in fear. We are scared of more girls being abducted and raped. We are scared of our young boys being taken off to war. We need this war to end."A UNHCR worker asked, "Do you think America can help?"The young woman quickly responded, "Yes, they are a superpower! We want to go home. Our children need to go to school. We need proper food."If only America were the place they think it is. It could be. Someone asked the elder chief, "How does it feel in a camp?"

"We are embarrassed."I have been told the funding is decreasing as UNHCR is attempting to expand. Countries of asylum are now having problems--countries like Guinea. UNHCR is now handling internationally displaced persons (IDPs) as well as refugees.

So many other organizations are set for long-term funding. UNHCR is set up only temporarily. They can't count on long-term funding; therefore, it is difficult to create strong and lasting solutions. They really don't know if their programs will continue to be funded in the months to come, and yet there seem to be more people in need than ever. The problem (the need) is not going away. I met a UN HCR man from Jordan. He spoke of building a FAWA--type center for women in refugee camps or settlements in his area.

 

Waterloo (Transit Centre)

 

The children here grab your hands and walk with you, smiling and singing. They have nothing. They are wearing ripped dusty clothes and they are smiling. 

The children came running. They are so happy to have what little they have now. They are no longer alone or in fear for their safety. Most of them had to walk many, many miles for days with no food or water. Their tiny little hands grabbed on to mine. There was a child's hand around every finger of mine. Mote children grabbed on to my wrists--my arms. It was nearly impossible for me to walk. I wanted to take each and every one of them home with me. They saw my tattoos. They found them funny. They asked, "Who stamped you?" A woman told me her story. As she was talking she unwrapped her grandchild from her back and began to breastfeed the baby. Her daughter (the child's mother) had been suspected of being a rebel in Guinea because of her tribal tattoos. She was killed. Suddenly, one of the men I came with stood in front of me with his hand out. "Time to go. Get up, please."I could hear fighting. It was an argument about moving to another camp. A refugee did not want to leave. I've been told some refugees demand that they be sent to a certain camp, because they think they might find their family members there. We made our way past the argument to the car. I noticed a man hitting a wall. My companion shouted, "Lock your door!"

I did not feel frightened. I felt sad for the people in the camps as well as for the UNHCR workers, who are unable to fulfill all the needs of all the refugees. When the refugees are upset, the UNHCR workers sometimes get the blame. These are workers affected by war victims. It is hard to be prepared when the number of refugees and situations are always changing. So many people need help to stay alive. Many children going to school need medical attention--immunizations. There are 22 million refugees. Two months ago I had no idea. We need to help those who have to run to escape to survive.

Problems and numbers will only increase until we stop these wars.

Many of the children in the Waterloo Camp have scabies.

I would rather get infected than to ever think about pulling my hands away from these little children.

The bigger realization is that this is only one of the many things these children are living with. The visible conditions are not good. To be honest, they are awful. I'm sure most of the worst atrocities are not even visible. I just walked back into the room where I sleep. I washed my face and hands. I found myself staring at my hands. Later that day, I went to an amputee camp full of internationally displaced persons supported by other nongovernmental organizations. I have just been holding the pen in that spot for the last few minutes.

I don't know what to write. No--yes, I do. I am angry. I hate the people who did this. I hate that everyone is Suffering--the amputees, the refugees, the displaced persons, the people living in their war-torn community--everyone.

There are so many surviving while loved ones have been maimed or killed. No one is living as they did before the RUF I don't understand how it continues--how my country can claim it comes to the aid of these countries in need when all the people here live every day knowing there has been no justice, no vengeance, and no real peace.

And how do you tell these refugees to start to rebuild their lives when they are sure that the rebels will just take it away again? A man told me the story of how he lost his arm (from the elbow down). "The lucky ones are amputated. We are left alive--but not all of us--many amputees die from loss of blood--or infection," The youngest amputee I met was a little one-year-old girl. She was three months old when they cut off her arm and raped her mother.

So many people.

 

A young man I was sitting with for a while told me his story. He was a businessman. "I sleep on the floor, I don't have enough food. I am grateful I am alive, but I can never go home. How will I ever trade again?" It was the look in his eyes that I can't forget--shaky, desperate, traumatized. 

A man with no hands understood I was there to try to help. (I was introduced as a woman from America who is here to bring information back to the U.S.) I have never wanted to succeed at anything more in my life. The man with no hands put his arm out and smiled at me. I shook his wrist. I felt humbled to be among such brave people.

 

Dinner at the UNHCR House

 

Tonight we had fish and salad. It was a big luxury. I was grateful but I had trouble eating. I felt so hollow. Protection officers joined us. For two and a half hours we talked about problems. Everyone shared different projects they are working on or serious events they have witnessed. So much was discussed--too much for me to write--and everything is always well documented by UNHCR. A man from Jordan said, "With love and tolerance any--thing is possible." It's such a beautiful feeling to sit with different workers from all over the world--different ages, sexes, nationalities--all with different stories of why they are working with UNHCR. Some UNHCR workers were once refugees themselves. They spoke about the boy I saw at the Jui Transit Centre. Another person commented, "The boy with the peaceful face." "Maybe it wasn't a gunshot wound." "Maybe he fell very far." One woman said, "He won't make it." I shouldn't have been surprised by that, but I was. A number of cases in the camps will die without proper hospital care. We need to push for more approval from Geneva (UNHCR). This all takes time. It was explained to me that in the camps there are other victims who are not often discussed. I have never read or heard about what they revealed to me. Many refugees were forced to cut people. A gun is put to their head or a knife is put in their side. They are handed rusted swords or sharp glass. They are forced to cut hands, feet, or complete arms and legs off people they know--quite often family members. These people are going mad. They are no longer able to function. In many cases, it becomes impossible for them to live with the guilt. There is hardly any counseling for them. There are barely enough funds for physical survival, let alone help for their mental and emotional recovery. I can see how the refugees all try very hard to look after each other. I want to write something before I go to bed. But I can't. 

I'm in shock.

 

Tuesday, February 27

 

There was a loud wake-up knock at my door. It is 7 A.M. Today I am tired. I was worried I might have disturbing dreams. So I am glad that I slept so hard. I didn't dream at all.

I sat in the office for about two and a half hours, going over information and having meetings to understand the different organizations.

Today, we are meeting a boat that is bringing refugees back to Sierra Leone. Then we will drive them to a camp near Kenema that will become their new home, The boat was late. Finally, a call came in. "Time to move!" I grabbed my backpack. Another half hour passed. We were handed a small bag of basic camp equipment. "In case you break down...." Our car was in the garage all morning for maintenance. It's not much of a garage. The car is still not ready. Everything here takes very long. The registration of the refugees coming off the boat is taking a while as well. Many government and nongovernmental organizations were there at the dock, three or four people from each group.

International Medical Corps 

Red Cross 

Save the Children 

UNHCR 

World Vision 

International Organization for Migration 

 

Since the time I woke up this morning, the refugees have been waiting at the docks in the hot sun, getting whatever food can be supplied (a small loaf of bread and sardines). I asked how long the boat ride would be for them this morning.

"Eleven hours!"

Even though the sea was calmer than usual, many children were throwing up. Two hundred and two people were counted. A woman walked there today to meet the boat. She is looking for her husband. He was not there. She was told to check at registration. It's a small table in the corner of the dock. The only spot out of the sun.

As we drive through the streets at the start of our five-hour journey, at almost every stop beggars come up to the windows. There were blind and injured children--children severely handicapped for life. I asked if it was all right to give money. 'No, not in this public area. Everyone will come. It sets a bad precedent." There are over 200 people on this journey. Behind us are two small trucks carrying all their belongings. These two small U-Haul-type trucks contain the lifetime possessions of over 200 people. They contain all they have in the world. I don't know how the people in the trucks are coping afterall they have been through just with this journey from Guinea. I can't imagine what it was like when they were running. How did they make it to Guinea in the first place? We picked up more refugees in Waterloo. The count is now 387 people. We are driving back to town to buy what we can. 

These people are coming home. They were refugees in Guinea, but now they are not safe there.

They are coming back to Sierra Leone to live in camps.

Their homes were all destroyed. The areas they used to live in are now held by rebels.

 

They have no real choice but to live in camps with very little, and no real promise that the same people who destroyed their homes and killed and raped and maimed their family and friends will not attack again. But if they are going to die they want to die in their home country. I can't imagine what they must be feeling. They are packed in trucks and driven through the streets where they used to live free and happy. Six trucks full of people. Two smaller trucks with all their belongings. We have been following in our truck for protection and support. We have just moved ahead to lead the way. We are the only protection vehicle so every half hour we check everyone by moving from the front to the back. We have just been informed that there is no water packed for the journey. A woman (a UNHCR officer) is trying to make contact by radio. It is a bad connection. She is asking how to find supplies along the way. We need to figure out the water supply.

We have also been told we will be arriving in the dark, because it has taken longer than expected to leave.

I was asked if I was still sure I wanted to go.

They said there is no reason to worry, but they would prefer if I got off one stop before the final one. They said it would make them more comfortable. I don't want to put myself at unnecessary risk, because I understand UNHCR would feel responsible. We agreed to make a decision when we got there. We would also have to figure out where we can stay. Another protection vehicle just joined the convoy. Our driver signaled for them to take the back. UNHCR is also here to make sure they clear all roadblocks and checkpoints. We are now driving through the area where the British helped to clear out the rebels.

 

The Westside Boys

 

The Westside Boys were a group of ex-soldiers who supported the military coup which ousted President Ahmad Tejan Kabbah in May 1997. They fled to the bush together with other soldiers of the Sierra Leone Army (SLA) when the Economic Community Monitoring Group (ECOMOG) reversed the coup in February 1998 and reinstated President Ahmad Tejan Kabbah. The Westside Boys were part of the invading forces which captured over half of Freetown on 6 January 1999, when at least 5,000 people were killed and houses and properties estimated at millions of dollars were destroyed. The Westside Boys fled again to the bush when ECOMOG forces beat them back from the capital. Then, they stayed around Okra Hills situated about 50 km from Free town. They ambushed a number of civilian and military vehicles, causing a lot of disturbances along the Freetown-Masiaka Highway. The capture of some British military personnel and their Sierra Leonean SLA guide climaxed the activities of the Westside Boys. When all negotiations to secure the release of the captives proved futile, the British launched land-air operations, killing and capturing the Westside Boys in the jungle. Those who were captured, including the jungle leader, self-styled Brig. Foday Kallay, are all behind bars in Freetown. It was these operations which put the existence of the Westside Boys to an end. The Westside Boys named themselves after one of the gangster groups in the United States, the Westside Squad. Now we are on another road, but this road is not good. We need to go east. Our arms are out the windows, signaling the trucks behind us to speed up. I saw a man walking along the road. He was wearing shorts and was very dirty. He was holding a machine gun and he was yelling--talking to himself. Shells of burnt-down houses are everywhere. Cars and trucks must have exploded here as well, leaving only rusty turned-over shells. Beautiful jungle. Occasionally, I see small villages that are half burnt down and half built back up with wood and dirt (clay). The few old schools and churches along this road appear empty and full of bullet holes. If we arrive at the camp after 8 P.M., we won't be able to enter.

Many people were upset at how fast we had to drive. "Sorry. Secure your children. The sooner we get there, the sooner you can eat and rest. We do not want to travel too much in the dark." They understood. Still, there seems to be no end to their difficult journeys. Even after today it is far from over. A little better maybe--still alive. We are now about two and a half hours into our journey. One of the baggage trucks just broke down, Everything in it had to be unloaded and then reloaded into the second baggage truck. I don't see how they are going to fit everything into one truck. It seemed packed before. We continue on while they transfer all the bags. They will try to catch up. I will never be able to express or translate who these people are, what they are going through, or why it is so important that we help them. I suggested that someone should organize a video camera so they can speak for themselves. They want very much to do that. They don't want the press to decide what is important. They want to talk for themselves. I thought when I came here I would be saddened and sickened by all that has happened to these people and how they are living. Instead, I see their survival, their still smiling faces, kids holding hands, people (what seems to be everybody) working. I am in awe of these people. Their will. Their hope.

We stop to unload a few people in one area. The food seems to be in the truck that is far behind us--the baggage truck. We are all sitting together outside. It is about two in the afternoon and the heat is unbearable. I see so many refugees working--carrying wood and other things, trying to settle this new area. I don't know how they do it. Someone explained to me that morning is about getting supplies for breakfast (water, wood), eating, cleaning, and trying to sell or make things if they can. Afternoon is about getting water and wood and making lunch. It's the same at dinner. All day is about survival.UNHCR lost four staff members this year. Every week, one humanitarian worker somewhere in the world is killed. There is a great need for much more safety and protection. The UNHCR agency has one of the highest rates of divorce, suicide, and depression. 

Entering Area 91 a sign reads:

 

PLEASE DO NOT CUT HANDS

LET' S JOIN HAND

 

We had to walk to a market to buy extra sardines and bread. Our supplies were only half the needed amount. We are told a boy on the third truck is very sick. The nurse has very little medical supplies--none, really.

UNHCR needs so much more funding for doctors, nurses, and medicine. Operations are rarely performed smoothly here. I am here with Nyambe, a UNHCR woman who has been accompanying me to my various appointments and activities. This is her first convoy and first visit to a camp not close to a transit center. We went for medical supplies. We saw U.N. soldiers stationed in the area. It turns out they were from Bangladesh. One of the soldiers did not want to help us. He said, "Go find NGOs." We looked back at the dusty roads, the poor townspeople, and the little shacks. "Where?" we asked. Nyambe' explained that we are all brothers and sisters under the U.N. flag. They asked if we were doctors. We explained, "No, just workers." They gave us a small bag with medicine for pain and dehydration. After food is distributed, we check our bags. Heads of families step forward for those not on the registration forms. A yellow paper card will allow a bread roll and a half can of sardines per person. The sun is going down. We are trying to call ahead to get a place in the Bo camp, which is one hour closer, to prepare dry-food rations for 400 people. We will not make it to our final destination. We will have to head out again in the morning. We had a flat tire on the second (of the two) baggage trucks. We have to move on as they change it. The first truck was left behind earlier in the day-mechanical problems. UNHCR may have problems, but they are the only ones here to attempt this convoy. No one is here taking pictures for CNN. It is just another day. It is now 7:40 P.M. It is pitch--black outside. A man is walking toward us. He was from one of the trucks ahead of us. We pulled over. "What's the problem?" we asked. He said, "My truck has no headlights." We are waved down at a checkpoint by young boys. They shine flashlights in our truck and hold the lights on our faces. They let us pass. It is 9:30 P.M. We arrived at Bo. We will spend the night here and move on at 7 A.M. We met with Muhammad, who was working there. He had prepared (with the others) three large bowls of bulgur wheat and three large bowls of beans. We started to give out food with the woman who was clearly a leader of the group. It had already taken a while to unload all the refugees from the trucks, and everyone was very hungry. I can't imagine how they were feeling. I was nauseous. I probably would have thrown up from the ride, but I did not have any liquids and I only ate bread for the last few hours. There was no bathroom along the journey so I drank no water.

I tried to help by handing out cups and spoons, and making sure that the servers had enough plates. There were not enough metal plates to go around, so we tried to organize washing when the first to eat were finished.

The children were fed first, then the women, and finally the men. Some referred to me as "pumwi," which means "white person. Some called me "sistah." They were very kind to me, aware I was there to help. Other people might push and yell and be angry for all the time it had been taking and all they had been through. But they have been through so much for years now and, if anything, I felt they were helping me to understand how it was done because I was new. Nyambe and I were told to sleep in a nearby motel. It doesn't feel right that I am given this privilege, but I am so tired. I am deeply grateful. They gave us rooms with fans, but mine is not working. Out the window I hear people talking and very obscure '8Os American music. I just saw a fat jumping spider. The bed board was once covered in plastic, but now it is mostly ripped off. There are no sheets on the bed, only a mattress cover. I can't help but love this room. The man who took me to it smiled when the door opened and said, "Nice! Good!" Then he showed me the toilet and, with an even bigger smile, he said, "Look!" And then he flushed the toilet. He just returned a moment ago to give me matches and a candle, There is no electricity from 1 A.M. to 4:30 A.M. Nyambe' came into my room, and we split what was left of the loaf of bread. It was too hot to eat so I saved my share for breakfast.