For LIB

These days Liberia is stuck on the brain. It was only a year ago that my daily tour of Monrovia would commence soon after returning to the house sandwiched between Gurley and Randall Streets. The evening would be buzzing with the chatter of the line in front of the hand pump and pots hissing with preparations of palm butter, pepper soup, and potato greens. After stretching my legs I would race along the coast soaking in the sights and sounds of the city.

Passing Miami Beach, I would weave through the congregation of pam-pam drivers with neatly folded red, blue, and green bills tucked between their fingers. A chorus of Colloqua, Krio, French, and Mandingo would ring out through the revving of motorcycle engines. Somewhere unseen the Newport Street masjid would sound the call to prayer. Many of these young Liberians lived through a generation of war. But a whole generation can’t ride bikes forever. Many others came from neighboring Sierra Leone and Guinea – to hustle – taking advantage of a poor country that insists on using the US dollar as one form of currency. Now they say the pam-pams are banned in town.

Ahead would be the city’s prime real estate, where the first settlers began to create Africa’s oldest republic bringing inherent identity hierarchies over from North America. Today, Monrovia’s fanciest hotels occupy Mamba Point catering towards aid workers, ambassadors, and international business people with sushi dinners and all-you-can-eat buffets.

Leaving the hotels and hawkers behind I would climb the hill leading through the fortress that is the US Embassy. Charging downhill, the past splendor of the Ducor Hotel would float somewhere above the city. Along the way my eyes would swallow boutiques displaying the bright greens and oranges of traditional dresses, old cars being fixed by older mechanics, and children chasing after flat soccer balls. My finish line would lie ahead of me in Water Side – the entrance to West Point, the largest slum in Monrovia.

That was a year ago. These days, I run through the tree-lined streets of my suburban Maryland neighborhood. Almost inevitably, I unconsciously begin to compare the driveway basketball hoops and luxury SUVs with my previous home. I cannot shake the feelings of trepidation that follow. The latest news coming out of Liberia only intensifies the anxiety.

Every day now there are reports of growing tensions and apprehensions. There are reports of teargas, a forced quarantine for the next 21 days, and an attack on an Ebola outpatient clinic, all in the same West Point community of 50,000. All outbound flights may soon be ended, as the country could enter a virtual lockdown. These scenes strike nerves too close to home in a society still seeking to rebuild after a decade of civil crisis.

My phone suddenly vibrates, interrupting the music pouring from my headphones. It’s a message from Sis Teta in Monrovia: You guys are running away from Ebola like June passing by July.

In the past week I’ve attended a poetry fundraiser to support Gaza after a month of massacre and war crimes, and a protest in support of the ongoing struggles in Ferguson against the violence and repression of the new-age American Police State. But what does it mean to stand in solidarity with Liberia in the face of a growing epidemic and continued political malpractice?

Friends paint a picture of a government unable to tackle the epidemic with inexperienced doctors and nurses, a lack of supplies, and no proper logistical operations. One that has maintained a lasting peace, but provided what many see as little in terms of basic social services.  A recent editorial from a leading Liberian newspaper demands international support immediately to combat the epidemic, claiming a legacy of corruption has led to mismanagement of the unfolding situation.

So  many of the lessons learned that year were about understanding the psychology of conflict and trauma, the costs of a donor-driven agenda, and the limits of foreign investment, as the country’s land and natural resources are continuously being sold off at a staggering rate. It is estimated today that around half of the country’s land has been promised to foreign companies and investors.

I tried to understand how a country so naturally rich, so inundated with foreign aid, could still struggle with providing electricity, running water, and roads. In that process, I found a society struggling to trust. Chapters of ‘growth without development,’ corruption and nepotism, and violence, have all contributed to a pervasive lack of trust. As a friend reports:

Liberia’s history of bad governance and foreign exploitation explains citizens’ reluctance to trust the intentions of government officials and international health workers. Years of extortion by police, vast and highly visible inequalities in wealth and a sense that even aid workers arrive to enrich themselves have taken their toll.

Perhaps we now know too well to think that the 21^st century will swiftly bring just solutions to the crises of the world, especially those facing black and brown marginalized people at home and abroad. The repeated call from Liberia is one for international support. But for the West, what is the proper response when you can’t simply send airstrikes to eradicate Ebola? It seems that Liberia needs (what Iraq and Afghanistan also needed) an army of doctors, professors, and public health experts who are ready to join hands with local champions for justice.

After leaving, it took months to even begin processing the rawness and realness of everything I experienced. Nearly a year later, I find myself thinking of her every day and my heart shakes at the scenes playing out. Running past the privilege of my neighborhood I can still see the city on its hustle, the women selling butter pear and palm nuts and the pam-pam boys raising their eyebrows ready to give me a lift.

What form can love and compassion take to leave dark days behind and step into a better tomorrow?

What They Tell Me

It’s like I’ve been running a marathon. I know this ground beneath my feet. I know it well. I’ve run and walked and crawled through these forests and villages and hectic city streets. I know where I stand. At least, I think I do.

I can see I’m approaching the end. In front of me is a really steep hill – going down. And I’m running; because either I don’t know how to stop or I don’t want to slow down. My feet are carrying me forward, acting independently – or rather ahead of – my mind.

The finish line looks close. Closer than it actually is. I’m so focused on that finish line that I’m starting to stumble. I can no longer pay attention to the mud and the dust below. I can’t see the setting sun draw orange and purple streaks on the clouds. I can’t see the proud silhouettes of palm trees waving in the wind.  I want to look around, but temptation is winning. My eyes stay glued ahead of me. 

I’m losing my footing. Down the hill I go. I’m scared I’m going to fall. Crash and burn.

***

I’m blessed. I have this amazing team of supporters and soothsayers behind me. They watch and they listen. They counsel and they guide. Their words and arms and prayers prop me up from across continents and oceans. They love me for who I am, and forgive me all the same. Before I ever stepped on Liberian shores, I knew that we all have to walk our own paths. I tried to remember that we never walk alone.

They tell me I can’t run away from here and now.  I’m not that fast. But more importantly they tell me, I shouldn’t want to move so quickly. This time will never come again. The twists and turns that have shaped the road over this past year will inform my future. And the truth is I’ve learned so much: about land, struggle, and injustice. Such things are not meant to be taken for granted. 

They remind me of what I have. They say just look around. They point to Egypt, Syria, and India.  Perspective enriches eyesight like carrots. 

So, while I plan to return from Liberia slightly bruised, somewhat stronger, and hopefully a little wiser, this opportunity will never come again. Despite the ups and down of the day, the people, places, wide-open skies and ocean breeze remain to see that the learning takes place. Each moment is precious and nearly perfect in its own right.  At least that’s what they tell me. 

A Pocket Full of Seashells

With a pocket full of seashells jangling, we tread over sand and surf. With each step, our surroundings come alive. To one side is the Atlantic Ocean – waves crashing – undeterred by human existence. To the other – the world turns with breezy palm groves, busy villages, and new millennium homes. My eyes swallow their share of Liberia’s beauty.

Grinding bare feet into wet sand, I quickly lose myself in thoughts of the future. In a walking daydream, I marvel at the grand structures in front of me. I picture my own home one day: there are rooms with bookshelves, large windows filter the natural light streaming in from outside. Perhaps, I too will boast a balcony towards the sea.  After all, dreams are free to be dreamt by the many. 

Every so often I stop to pick up a glint that catches my eye.  My comrade laughs at me, wondering what I plan on doing with my newfound treasures. Little does he know I haven’t thought this far ahead.

We walk mainly in silence, steadily maneuvering stretches of sand. Soon we come to a giant excavation site with tire tracks leading away. Illegal sand mining: a reminder that despite the luxury of a few, life remains a hustle.

We don’t break stride climbing over sand dunes to higher ground. For the first time since arriving in Liberia, the immediate sense of urgency about my mission is elsewhere. Land grabs, community titles, and unfair agreements take a backseat for a few hours. Right now, the sun beats down on my back, the sound of children plays in my ear, and a feeling of triumph washes over me.

But it all keeps moving. Tomorrow brings a public forum on land rights at the University. And then a return to Rivercess – a place where my dreams can be their most vibrant. Deep in the forest, there are questions of how a country so naturally rich can struggle with providing basic social services? It’s then I remember the lyrics that played non-stop during my youth: “What we don’t know keeps the contract alive and moving.”

The setting sun signals our return. Through neighborhoods of thatch and zinc, we pass the skeletons of unfinished homes. Tall, green grass guards these concrete shells. Outside, big walls separate one reality from another. But dreams of the future don’t know the meaning of such boundaries. Instead, they seep through the cracks, connecting the realities of today with our hopes for tomorrow.

As my pockets hang low with treasures, I return home to see what I’ve collected. Scattering shells, seeds, and stones on my dresser, I try and translate what is front of me. I shift around these un-deciphered hieroglyphics, searching for some message.

Maybe it is as simple as realizing that the natural wealth and beauty of the world belong to everyone. That land – the single most important resource for agrarian societies – should benefit the people.  And those benefits should be distributed to ensure prosperity and dignity for all. 

Deep in the Cut

Deep in the heart of Rivercess County, the mud homes stand completely illuminated by the scorching sun. Their thatch roofs consistently prove match for the daily rains.  Above, the blue sky plays backdrop for the treetops that surround each village. The forests and trees act as a frame, allowing another world to come into focus.

It is in this corner of Liberia where I've been getting my NGO on. Baseline surveys, questions lost in translation, smiles at accents not completely understood. Under the unforgiving afternoon sun, it can be slow and tedious work. But there is something like strength in embracing the unfamiliar, trusting the process, and fighting to win.

The goal: organize local communities to receive formal ownership papers from the State for their customary lands. Land that has no title or deed, simply worked and lived upon for generations. As we seek to build the capacity of communities to manage their land and natural resources, establish community governance structures, and harmonize boundaries with neighboring clans, I realize we are talking about something revolutionary.

The importance of protecting rural land ownership rights rests, in part, on peacebuilding. These efforts are equally tied to sustainable development, social justice, and food security. The larger context is a national and global land rush with community land being sold off to foreign investors, with claims that few benefits are being distributed locally. The added nuance is that communities rightfully want basic social services – roads, schools, clinics, latrines, and employment – and are at times quick to sign agreements with companies.

The journey to the bush is an adventure in itself. Leaving Monrovia behind, the asphalt quickly turns to mud as the countryside extends its open arms. Wrestling the road ensures a constant jostle – back and forth, up and down. Any moment could mean being stuck in six feet of mud for who knows how long. There are times when the bush swallows the dirt path we are passing along, leaving green simply everywhere. After six hours my lower back begins to howl, thankful for our arrival.

The simplicity of life is tough, captured through clichés of young children carrying water along blazing paths. Here your cell phone is of no use. Electricity and sanitation are virtually nonexistent. Such realities demand reflection on the inequalities that persist in our modern age, and the benefits of balanced living.

I can remember the first time entering remote villages in the Himalayas: the sweeping sense of estrangement I felt. This time village life doesn't seem so stark or particularly romantic. This time it’s just life lived daily.  Here there are village elders, town chiefs, and forefathers to consider. At times, the bushmeat can seem excessive, the war stories – jarring. But the constantly candid conversations, strong social commentary, and laughter, ensure that the learning is endless.

The setting sun signals people’s return from their farms. Hearty smiles and handshakes initiate our gathering as we once again re-engage communities on our joint land protection efforts. As our discussions go into the night, I tilt my head all the way back to be assaulted by an unending canopy of stars. Deep in the cut years are added to the spirit. Providing guidance from above, they remind me I am here in Liberia to learn certain life lessons. Lessons I do not understand right now, but will prove invaluable in years to come.

Under the night sky, my thoughts try to keep up with all that has happened in the past few days. The kindness shown from strangers, the impassioned pleas against promises not kept, and the changing face of rural existence. Exhausted, I am given a bed that will be my refuge for the next few hours. I take comfort in knowing there is value in all that has passed, and everything yet to come.

The Movement Continues

The path over the past two years has taught me that there are always unexpected twists and turns along the way. From mountain passes to Sufi shrines, in the classrooms of the elite and protests in the streets, through the jungles of New York. Along dirt roads and crowded concrete. there has been heartache and victory, love, loss, and adventure, and at the end of it all a greater understanding of self. Two years. And on a sunny day in May upon the lawn of the “Ivory Tower,” we were already hailed as the champions of tomorrow.

While graduate school came to an end, the learning will undoubtedly continue. I shall return to my classroom before Columbia – rural villages, thick forests, and dusty trails. It will be on the soil, which for so many, is the single most important facet of daily life. Rural Liberia, the settler colony and nation-state once-carved in the image of the United States, will be where I search for answers.

Across the giants of Africa and Asia, vast tracts of land have been ceded by state governments for agro-industry and resource extraction. The justification is growth, progress, and development through direct investment in aspiring economies. Natural resources lie at the center of these projects from bauxite to timber to platinum. For those who reside in the countrysides, land, which has been passed down for generations, is often the most valuable resource: “the source of their sustenance, the site of their livelihoods, and the locus of history, culture, and community.” 

Land plays no small portion in the on-going struggles for sustainability, self-determination, and survival. It is often a complex, tenuous issue at the heart of conflicts. Yet too often, mainstream development discourse myopically focuses on simple economic expansion without paying due attention to the fibers that bind communities. What does development look like beyond the growth of capital and what do rights mean beyond the declarations of any state?

Beginning in the early 19^th century the American Colonization Society, sought to rid America of its’ blackness. Bolstered by the likes of Monroe and Jefferson, the “Back-to-Africa Project” believed that co-existence would never be peaceful, feared mixture, and were steadfast that a black homeland could not be established on the very land where slaves had shed their own blood and tears. There was also the danger a free black population posed to the institution of slavery. Thus a new civilizing mission to West Africa began, accompanied by the inherent hierarchies of identity that mirrored the superiority complex of white supremacists in the takeover of North America.

The result: a cycle of violence between indigenous and settler, where victim and perpetrator alternated roles over the next 400 years. Fast-forwarding to today, Liberia evokes connotations of civil war, profound loss, and amazing resilience. But alongside history and politics is the question of how can a country rebuild while respecting its rural realities? When land is at the heart of a conflict how can it be surrendered without the input of its inhabitants?

I am preparing for the challenge, the perspective, and the humbling that is sure to come. In anticipation I’m staying on my grind to be mentally sharp and physically fit. I try to picture the open expanses: the bright red of the mud, the black of the night, and the green of the trees. The inevitable tears will fall when frustration and loneliness hit hard. But I pack with me the lessons learned from solitude and service in the Himalayas. I draw strength from the wisdom of family, friends, and comrades, remembering to trust the process and having faith in the script that leads me forward.

And so the movement – for community ownership, against corporate domination – continues. In a handful of weeks my journey will take me to the forests of Liberia. The excitement and fear roll together as a creeping anxiety arises deep down from my core. And while it’s true we all must walk our own path; I continue to remind myself that we never walk alone.