Song of Sorrow

It was pitch-black outside. Aside from the wood-fed fires flickering and the occasional flashlight passing-by, I was alone with the bucket of hot water in front of me. Between two mud houses I stripped down naked, balancing my towel and recently discarded clothes on the low-hanging thatch roof. I squatted low to begin to wash the day from me, once again feeling the clay that makes up this body.

Taking off my glasses the world took on the blurry facade those of us with poor eyesight are accustomed. Feeling around for the soap, I began to hear her wails. Perched atop the wet mud ground I tried to make out what she was saying.  Her sorrowful incantations would rise and fall over and over again. It was clear. Someone had died. Her cries of grief (were they in Bassa or English?) took form as a near-song – hallucinogenic and heavy.

Over and over she was asking a question. It is the same question we all ask, in despair: “Why?” And it kept coming. “Why? Why him? Why me? Why God? Why?” Her frequencies, addressed to this world and maybe another, were stirring the air all around. There was no respite, like she was whipping up a storm.  In demand of an answer, her voice – vibrating – set to shatter the fragile night.

Listening, I couldn’t help but think: isn’t this repetitive cry, this call into the darkness, this sad song, a way to make sense of a world turned upside down? Were her echoes questioning His plan, or trying to understand the profound loss that inevitably strikes us all? Perhaps we are all programmed to think there is some comfort worth looking for in hearing our own reprise. That in our darkest moments we can seek refuge in something like song.

Tracing the clay with my fingertips I bathed in silence, her ululations carrying me into the night. 

Notes from the Cut

The fading light brings relief to another hot day. Four triangles of thatch consistently meet at the tops of homes and outdoor kitchens. A pot sits precariously balanced on two mud-bricks sending up smoke over fire. The glowing wooden sticks burn bright orange before turning to the ash we all eventually become. Children howl as their mothers bathe them under the evening sky with water collected from a nearby creek.  Straight from God to Man the trees are tapped for wine.

Walking through the bush has become a daily observance. Surrounded by forests, echoing many shades of green – bamboo reed, palm tree, cassava leaf – I am reminded of summers at my grandparent’s house in India. It was at the foothills of the Himalayas where I first fully explored dense green hallways and corridors. On these journeys memories come rushing back and I quickly get lost in my own jungle of thoughts.

This is my eighth – and at two weeks, longest – trip to rural Rivercess County. Leaving my insecurities behind in the city, I find myself surprisingly more at ease now for the first time in Liberia. With no electricity, phone signal, or means of communication, being cut off forces a mindset of complete presence. Willingly or not, I am discovering discipline in daily practice – controlling the mind and enjoying the little things.

The days revolve around our mission to organize rural communities to protect, document, and govern their land and natural resources. Calling meetings between clan chiefs, community people and traditional elders we seek to establish local ownership over the process. With large-scale land acquisitions(land grabs) on the rise, rural communities’ abilities to retain control over their customary land is being comprised. Building connections with our collaborators on the ground, I am starting to find my feet by stressing the importance of strong organizing practices, dedicated workplans, and a commitment to the land – and the People.

But operating in the cut means being flexible to the schedule of farmers. Between community meetings there is plenty of time to read, write, and explore. There are also the lively debates that rage between our teammates. Sitting under a magnanimous mango tree or thatch-roofed kitchen the loud, spirited – and sometimes, heated – discussions are endless. We cover nearly everything: competing conceptions of love, the impact of colonialism on Africa (and India), and War.

It helps that I have picked up enough Liberian English to sharpen my arguments. Our banter reflects the diversity of our life experiences. The phrases and colloquialisms roll off the tip of my tongue as I joke with friends and strangers alike with an ease built up over the past six months.

Deep in the cut, the adventure don’t seem to stop either. Like the other day when our jeep’s wheels fell through a bridge, getting stuck for hours. Or the night when a giant scorpion scurried in our midst sending grown men screaming to go home. And the mice that occasionally fall on top of me from the thatch-roofs while I sleep.

Despite my awkward screams in the night, I have grown accustomed to the environment, using the generous spaces of time for self-reflection and self-improvement projects. There is nothing like fresh pineapple or coconut on a blistering day. And while I do not eat everything around, I can devour fried plantains cooked with pepper and ginger, and swallow fufu until my stomach is satisfied.

Making a conscious effort to bond and build relationships with community members has added color and context to the journey. Sometimes I can’t help but smile and shake my head at the scenes and stories playing out in front of me. But as each day passes it lets me know that I am growing with it.

Half-way into my time in Liberia I have found a new sense of comfort. While acknowledging the fragility of this feeling, there is a familiarity between me and the people and the trees. Deep down I understand that each moment I spend in the bush I am building strength.  Strength that will not only see me through the rest of this journey, but will inform everything to come after. The releasing tension in a handshake culminating in a snap of fingers – the ubiquitous Liberian greeting – helps put the pieces together inside of me. Finding their way I can sense they are cementing lessons learned – and in the process forming the foundation of something like  greatness.

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.