Before you get all excited, a quick reminder: I’m using song titles/lyrics to entitle my blog posts. And today I happened to be listening to Them Crooked Vultures, the power trio of bassist John Paul Jones (Led Zeppelin), guitarist and vocalist Josh Homme (Queens of the Stone Age) and drummer Dave Grohl (Foo Fighters & Nirvana). Nevertheless, “Gunman” is indeed a good title for this one.
We’ve all heard stories of violent conflicts in Africa (and every other continent, I might add), and such associations have led some to laugh and say “Peacebuilding? In Africa? Good luck with that…” as they’ve heard of my work here in Tchad. It’s part of the ongoing single story we continue to purport to ourselves; Africa is laden with disease, poverty, chaotic conflict, and corruption.
I have seen examples of all of these, and while they certainly do not encompass all of life here in N’Djamena, they stand as reminders that “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto” (or whatever Dorothy’s line is). So please continue reading. Read my other posts, as they highlight other aspects of life here in the Tchadian capital. But read this too, as you may have your perspective opened a little more to life here.
Let’s talk security. However, perhaps that’s a misnomer. Insecurity might be a little closer to reality. By that I mean the very evident lack of confidence and public safety that has been systematically constructed in N’Djamena’s architecture and law enforcement protocols.
Last weekend I was given a tour of the city along the river to the west, up to the northern boundaries, down along the eastern circumference and just outside the city limits to the south. Without that ever-elusive map I’ve yet to find, it was challenging to keep it all straight in my mind, but I managed.
We circled around a huge compound, where the French have a military base, home to 2000 soldiers. In situations like the Battle(s) of N’Djamena (2006 and 2008), having international military support is… “needed.” We drove past the presidential palace, where my host said to put the camera away and not take any photos of the guards or security systems. We passed the usual black and white truckloads of armed police, wearing thick vests and standing above traffic. We drove past Tchadian military personnel with rifles slung across their backs. We passed embassies with several loops of razor wire coiling like deadly snakes around the twelve-foot concrete barricades that surround their compound.
En route home, we drove through Dembe Market, where we were surrounded by the usual horde of moto drivers, anxious to get to their destination; none of which, wear helmets. And this isn’t because they’re ignorant of the dangers of riding without one, or because they can’t afford them… Helmets are currently forbidden; prohibited by the government.
“WHAT!? WHY?!” was my incredulous response, the first time I heard.
“Because the Boko Haram. Helmets hide faces, and you could be a terrorist,” was the response.
Oh right; Maiduguri, Nigeria. Less than 200km away, although separated from Tchad by Cameroon, lies the city of Maiduguri, known to be home to many Boko Haram. We’ve heard of attacks in recent weeks, that the Boko Haram took over the Nigerian city of Bama, even closer to the Cameroonian border, but the francophones held them off at the frontier.
Arriving home, we pulled up the concrete ramp, through steel doors into the carport; a simple shelter from above, but flanked by heavy concrete walls. Here too, sits a crown of razor wire, encircling the building where my host family sleeps. At one point I stood on the street and looked at the homes on our street. Nearly every compound’s walls are topped with glass bottles, their fragile necks suffocated in cement and the bottoms smashed off, discouraging would-be trespassers from attempting to scale and enter.
The image of a broken bottle brings to memory an experience at Chilliwack Middle School when one day the janitor closed the field. It hadn’t rained in weeks (shocking, I know), so the usual “you kids will ruin the field” couldn’t have been the reason. It soon came out though; someone had overnight gone into the field, buried bottles neck-down in the field, and used the concave bottoms as golf tees. Conveniently, they’d forgotten to bring golf balls. The result was randomly scattered glass across the soccer pitch. It was an unusual day for us, but we shrugged it off and played kick-ball in the basketball court instead.
Broken bottles aren’t so unusual here.
Peace, Paix, Shalom, Salaam 